Old Enough

by Charmaine Pauls

  Outside, perched on the wall in the darkness of the porch, I dial Jane.

  “Brian?”

  Surprise laces her tone, but I suspect it’s not the good kind. It doesn’t matter. It’s heaven to hear her voice. The way she perfectly projects her sounds, a dead giveaway of a private school tuition, ripples through my ear until the fine hairs in my neck stand on end.

  “Am I interrupting something?” I ask.

  “We finished dinner, but I was about to go to bed.”

  “I won’t keep you. I just wanted to know which afternoon this week I can set up your gym.”

  “I’ll be working late every day, and then I have to help my daughter with homework.”

  “How about after homework?”

  “It’s the evening rush–dinner, getting the washing done, and everyone to bed.”

  “How about the weekend?”

  “I have my daughter for the weekend. I prefer to spend time with her.”

  “The weekend after, then.”

  “Brian.” There are objections, and something like fear in her tone, the kind one feels for lacking control. “You don’t have to do this.”

  “I said I would, and I don’t break my word.”

  Her sigh is only a soft sound, but it’s as if the air brushes over me. My cock takes notice, and my balls draw tight. This woman has the ability of touching me without laying a finger on my body.

  “All right, then.” Her voice is uncertain. “Saturday in two weeks.”

  Not giving her time to change her mind, I seal the deal. “I’ll be there.”

  I end the call with a buzz in my veins and a throbbing in my chest. What Jane does to me is no fairy tale. It’s as hard as reality gets. It’s raw, naked, sinful lust. She’s old enough to be my mother, but lust knows no manners or rules.

  What stirs in my body is off-limits.

  It’s taboo.

  If I gave a shit about what’s socially acceptable I won’t go back. The problem is I don’t. If it makes me foolish, so be it. In a perfect world, I’d control my impulses and take a hike. In my shithole of a universe, I’m seeing my Jane Logan hangover for what it is.

  Fixation.

  I’m accepting the path I’m about to take for what it is.

  Inevitable.

  Jane told me to install the gym equipment in two weeks. She didn’t say I couldn’t go back before, and the reason I’ll be heading over there later is for a reason much more important than a squat rack. First, I pop into Tron’s security store after my last Monday class at varsity. The place is in the main street of Harryville’s cranky shopping area. His light is the only one still on at seven. Other businesses close at five.

  Tron looks up from a newspaper as I push open the door. He looks like a bald gorilla with a tractor tire around his waist. His arms are the size of tree trunks. Too much beer and sitting in that chair all day gave him the wobbling three layers that constitute his chin. A tussle of black hair peeks from the collar of his khaki shirt. His arms are covered with the same dark hair. So are his stomach and back. I had the unfortunate experience of witnessing it with my own eyes on our first and last fishing trip together. Appearances aside, he’s mostly a good guy, and he lets me do odd jobs in exchange for equipment.

  He rolls a toothpick from one corner of his mouth to the other. “Whazup? How’s your ma?”

  “Same old.” I scan the second-hand security cameras on the dusty shelf. “Got any motion detectors?”

  He throws a thumb over his shoulder at the storeroom. “Back there. As good as new.”

  Going through the storeroom, I gather what I need and pack it out on the counter.

  Tron scans the goods with a practiced eye. “Thought you already had all of this shit at the house.”

  “It’s for someone else.” I take a used paper bag from the hook on the counter and dump the items inside. “I’m free on Saturday. Need any jobs done?”

  Glancing inside the bag, he scratches his head. “The fence needs fixing. Some idiot cut the barbwire trying to get in. Can you believe it?” His stomach shakes as he laughs. “Trying to break into a security store. Must be a fucking butthead.”

  “Did you catch him?”

  “Al did.”

  Al is a vicious Pit Bull that lives in the back.

  “Did you lay charges?”

  “Are you kidding me? The prisons are overflowing with murderers. Who’s going to come out here to arrest a thief? Nah. Dealt with it myself.”

  Concern makes me go still, the bag dangling from my fingers. “How?”

  “Called the neighborhood watch. We gave him a good hiding. He won’t come back here no more.”

  “If you say so.” I have my doubts. He may come back with his buddies, and then we’ll have a bigger problem.

  He throws his hands in the air. “What else do you want me to do? Give him a medal? A pat on the head? These assholes understand only one language, and that’s their own.”

  Lowering my head, I blow out slowly through my nose. I know what he means better than anyone. Still, Tron’s putting himself in danger. He’s no match for the agile fence cutters trolling our neighborhood.

  “Next time, call me.”

  “Yeah.” He spits out the toothpick. “Join the neighborhood watch, and maybe I will.”

  “Anything else needs fixing?”

  “The toilet is leaking, and the outside drain is blocked.”

  “Got it.” I hold up the bag. “Thanks.”

  The door shuts on his scowl.

  After fixing dinner and washing up, I leave Mom to help Sam with her homework and get Clive to babysit. He’s not happy, but is quickly swayed when I mention there’s leftover apple pie from our Sunday lunch. I bake a mean pie, and Clive knows it.

  At that time, it doesn’t take long to drive to Jane’s house. Peak hour is over, and our neighborhoods aren’t far apart, at least not in geographical distance. As for the rest, worlds apart may not be enough to cut it. A well-maintained, three-bedroom house with an average garden and decent security in Harryville goes for five hundred grand, these days. The same will go for seven million in Groenkloof. Nothing spells out the tracks that separate us better than numbers. I’m not even thinking about the property prices in Cape Town where Jane’s late parents used to live. Add another two zeros to the Groenkloof figure, and the maths will give you Camps Bay.

  Coming down the hill, I have a good view of Jane’s house before the high walls obscures everything beyond. The lights are on. She’s awake. Most people consider the hour late. A doorbell ringing at this time of night is associated with bad news–death, illness, or trouble. So as not to scare her, I send a text to let her know I’m paying her a visit.

  She answers the gate intercom immediately. “Brian!” She sounds tousled and out of breath, as if she ran for the intercom. “What are you doing here?”

  “I brought security equipment.”

  “What?”

  “You can’t stay here without an alarm.”

  “It’s eight o’clock on a Monday night.”

  “Thanks for the update, princess, but I know that.”

  “It’s late.”

  “There’s two ways of doing this. One, you open the gate. Two, I let myself in. Whatever your choice, I’m not leaving until my work here is done.”

  She heaves a labored sigh. “You’re impossible.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I don’t appreciate being blackmailed,” she says on a huff, but the gate clicks open.

  Hauling my toolbox and the bag from Tron’s store from the truck, I make my way to the front door and stop dead when it’s flung open. A child-version of Jane stands in the frame, wearing pajamas with an ice cream print. The resemblance is striking. They share the same midnight blue eyes and curly, moonlight hair.

  Throwing myself back into motion, I resume my stride and hold out a hand. “You must be Jane’s daughter.”

  She catches my fingers in a strong grip. “Who are you?”

&n
bsp; Before I can reply, Jane rounds the corner, her socks slipping on the smoothly polished wooden floor in her haste. I forget what I was going to say. I forget my reason for pitching uninvited at an unreasonable hour. I forget my name and everything I’ve ever believed and wanted. Jane is dressed in shorty pajamas. The shorts are cut so high if she turns around I’ll see the seam of her ass. The tank top isn’t tight, but her nipples are two dark, embossed imprints on the peach-colored fabric. There’s no guesswork to the size and shape of her tits. They’re firm handfuls with a downward slant, topped with those perky nipples. There’s something about that dip in her breasts and how they sway that makes me harder than stone and hotter than crazy. Her toned legs are bare, except for the chunky socks that only Jane can make look sexy. Uncool. Having these thoughts in front of a kid isn’t where I want to go, but Jane’s got me by the balls, and judging from the void in my over-heated brain, she’s the pussycat who caught my tongue.

  “Hey,” Jane exclaims, saving me from speaking. “This is a surprise.”

  Her eyes are chastising me, but she’s too polite to tell me to fuck off in front of her daughter.

  “Um, this is my daughter, Abigail.” Jane presses a palm against the back of her neck. “Abby, this is Brian.”

  “Hi, Abigail. May I call you Abby?” I crouch to put us on eye level. “You must be about the same age as my sister.”

  “I’m twelve.”

  “Sam’s nine, but she’s almost as tall as you.”

  “Go brush your teeth, honey. I’ll be there in a minute to say goodnight.”

  Abby looks between her mother and me. “What’s he doing here?”

  “He’s not staying. He’s just–”

  “Going to install these security tools.” I straighten and jostle the bag.

  Jane gives me a narrowed look. She can’t back out now, unless she makes up excuses to her daughter about why I won’t be securing their house, after all.

  “Are you from the security company?” Abby asks.

  “We met the other day.” Jane places her hands on Abby’s shoulders and wheels her around. “Go on. Off with you.”

  While Jane carts Abby off to the bathroom, I lock the door behind me. Then I set to work. I’m drilling a hole in the kitchen wall when I feel her behind me. Turning my neck an inch, I spot her insanely cute, socked feet. I swivel slowly to face her.

  Jane is standing in the center of the room, her arms crossed. She’s pulled on a sweater. “I didn’t ask you to do this.”

  Biting a screw between my teeth, I turn back to the task at hand. “You didn’t have to.”

  Her legs appear next to me, so close they almost brush the denim of my jeans. Her perfume smells of grapefruit and lemon–fresh, expensive, and edible.

  “I can’t pay for it.”

  The urge to slide my palm up her calf is magnetic. Barely resisting, I bite down hard on the piece of metal between my teeth and will my growing erection down. “I know.”

  “Then why are you doing it?”

  I take my time to position and tighten the screw, fighting the upsurge of heat her proximity unleashes in my chest. It’s a good and bad kind of heat, making me want to cuddle and fuck her simultaneously.

  When the task is done and my voice under control, I dare to look at her again. “You can’t stay here alone with no security. It’s not top-level, but at least you’ll have a visual of who’s at your gate, plus an alarm will warn you if anyone breaches the property, breaks a window, or opens a door.”

  “There’s no point.”

  “There’s no point in your safety?”

  “You’re wasting your time.” She stares at her toes. “My ex is taking back the house.”

  Shit. From the way her voice wavers, this is a sore point.

  “When?”

  “I have to be out in three months.”

  “Then I’ll move the equipment to your new home. I’m not leaving you here without an alarm. End of discussion.”

  She shifts her weight. “The equipment must cost a fortune. It doesn’t feel right not repaying you.”

  “Don’t sweat.” I wave the screwdriver at the bits and pieces unpacked on the floor. “I don’t pay for it. A friend has a store. I do odd jobs in exchange for whatever I need.” I continue working, feeling her gaze on me.

  “What did you have to do for this?”

  “What will I do for this, you mean. This and that.”

  “This and that.”

  “Mm-mm.”

  “Gardening?”

  “Nope.”

  “What then?”

  “Repairing a fence, unblocking a drain, and fixing a leaking toilet. Happy?”

  “Yes and no.”

  I stop to look at her again. “Confused much?”

  “I feel guilty.”

  “Don’t. Your safety has no price.”

  I work in silence for a few minutes before she speaks again.

  “Why?”

  “It’s a dangerous city, Jane.”

  “Why are you doing it for me?”

  “Because I know how easy it is to get in here.”

  “Then I insist on paying it back.”

  I can’t help but grin. “You’ll fix Tron’s toilet, fence, and drain?”

  “No, but I thought–”

  “I don’t want money.”

  “What do you want?”

  “A thank you will do nicely, and maybe a cup of tea.”

  “Of course.”

  She’s about to turn when I catch her wrist. Her skin is white under my darker tone. The contrast is feminine, fragile, and seductive. I want her to know how I’m seeing her–as a woman I want. I want to give her ample warning of what’s to come, that I intend to seduce, fight, and manipulate until I have my way with her. Slowly, I drag my thumb over the soft skin of her wrist. Her pulse is a flutter under the pad of my finger. The tempo speeds up under my stare, and a flush blooms over her cheeks. Awareness creeps into her distant eyes, and for the first time she looks at me like I want her to. She looks at me like I’m a man. She pulls, testing my hold, and I close my fingers tighter.

  “Brian, I–”

  “Mom?”

  We both turn our heads toward Abby who stands in the door.

  “I’m ready for bed.”

  I have no choice but to let her go.

  Jane clears her throat. “I’ll be right there, honey.”

  “Good night, Brian.”

  “Night, Abby. It was nice to meet you.”

  “Likewise.”

  With a glance over her shoulder, Jane hurries from the room.

  She stays away for a long time–on purpose, I suppose–and when she returns my job is done. While she hands me a cup of tea and a plate loaded with chocolate fudge brownies, I give her a remote and run her through the basics of the alarm signals and panic button, which will activate a signal on the security app on my phone–I don’t tell her this part–and speed dial an emergency service from hers.

  “Any problems,” I explain, “and all you have to do is push this button.”

  “Wow.” She pushes the hair from her face. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Thanks for the tea. The brownies were delicious.”

  I’d love to hang around longer, but she needs to be up early for her run, and I can’t expect Clive to wait forever.

  I rinse my cup and pack it in the dishwasher before heading for the door. “Sweet dreams, princess.”

  She doesn’t answer as I see myself out.

  Jane

  Toby is a great boss. I love that man to bits. He’s like a father to me, but he’s also a close friend of Francois’, which is how I got a cushy job in a high-ranking firm without any experience. I proved myself since I started, gradually working my way up to the bigger accounts, thanks to Toby’s mentorship. This weekend, he played golf with Francois and had dinner at Francois and Debbie’s place. His assistant told me. Yet, he greets me with a warm smile as I rush through the boardroom door, just i
n time as usual, and I’m grateful he’s not taking sides.

  “Morning, sugar.” Toby adjusts his safari hat. Paired with a British-cut linen suit, it’s his signature style. “Looking good.”

  I straighten my jacket. “Thanks.”

  Most of the senior crew are already there–Priscilla from Art, Mable from Copy, and Beatrix from Production. The junior guys from Research, Media, and Public Relations trail in after me.

  Toby folds his feet on the desk, showing off crocodile leather. “Show us what you’ve got.”

  I shiver at the sight of the shoes. “Poor crocs, Toby.”

  He shrugs. “You know my motto. I only wear them if I ate them.”

  I make a face. “You ate them?”

  “Well, not these ones specifically,” he wiggles the pointy toes, “but I had crocodile at Carnivores. A bit fatty for my taste.”

  “That’s despicable,” Mable says. “Don’t let our clients find out what a carnivore you are.”

  “Says Miss Vegetarian who only wears leather shoes and jackets that come from cows she doesn’t eat.” Toby winks.

  Alex from Legal enters. “Can we not discuss our ethics at the office? This is a laic company.”

  Bernard from finance follows short on his heels.

  “We’re not talking religion,” Priscilla says.

  Alex takes a seat next to me. “Religion, ethics, veganism… All the same thing–firepower for a discrimination lawsuit.”

  Toby rubs his palms together. “Let’s get the show on the road. I’ve got a ten o’clock scheduled.”

  I open the presentation I emailed to everyone this morning and start going through the points. It’s next year’s advertising and PR plan for the Monroe account, our biggest client. A creative learning program aimed at pre-school children, it’s the oldest and best-known system in the country. It’s a brand our grandparents grew up with. Their program involves flash cards, board games, picture books, and family activities. Their mascot is Freddy, the fish. Everyone knows Freddy. Everyone loves Freddy, but Freddy is losing popularity in the competitive market of electronic games, which means Monroe is losing profit. They want a new approach, a wider reach, and a brand revival. I worked hard on my proposal, but as I talk the team through the roadshow involving readings from Freddy at libraries, toy stores, and bookshops, the corners of Toby’s mouth draw down, and he drops his feet to the floor.