Girl After Dark

by Charlotte Eve

  I was particularly proud of an antique mirror I'd recently salvaged from a pile of trash, stripped back and repainted. Yet Greg was still to notice or remark on it, even though it hung prominently on the wall of the room that served as both our living room and our bedroom.

  But then, noticing things isn’t Greg’s strong suit, is it?

  No point in buying sexy new lingerie to surprise him with, or getting a stylish new haircut, because they'd be invisible to him. Not that I could afford them, anyway.

  But while Greg might not notice some of the little things, he had so many good qualities, too. He was so kind, not just to me but to strangers, animals, even my parents when they were driving me wild. And he seemed to have all the patience in the world, keeping calm and collected whenever I worked myself up into too much of a state over something, like I always seemed to do.

  Not to mention his cooking! I thought, as a delicious smell wafted over from the tiny kitchen.

  I paused in the doorway, watching him put the finishing touches to our meal, the sleeves of his crisp white barman’s shirt rolled up to the elbow, revealing his slim tanned arms beneath, his wild, dusky-blonde mop of hair tamed as much as he was able, his thick brow fixed in concentration as he added a little more spice to the sizzling contents of the large pan on the stove.

  This little routine was something Greg had perfected — his shift at the bar started two hours after mine finished at Marianne’s office, which gave him just enough time to cook supper for us, before he headed out. Working in a bar wasn’t what Greg wanted to do long-term (he’d studied Business Management, but he just didn’t have the connections or savings to take one of those much-needed internships or MBAs just yet).

  But still, he just made the best of it, happy to be picking up some managerial experience along the way and working himself ragged, both at the bar at night and at the library, poring over MBA textbooks, during the day.

  In a lot of ways, Greg was very traditional, way more so than me. It had been his idea that we make the time to sit down and eat together each night before he left for work. He’d even asked my parents for permission for us to move in together, seeing as we weren’t married! And, deep down, I knew that if it was up to Greg we wouldn’t even be here in Brooklyn, renting the only apartment we could afford between our two salaries, this tiny place with paper-thin walls in Ocean Hill.

  No, we’d be back in Glenbrook Falls, settling down, ready to raise a family. He’d be working at my dad’s garage, while I set up a beautiful new home for us. Greg had never had much of a family of his own, you see: brought up by a working mom in Philadelphia, never really knowing much about his dad. And I knew for sure that my own family background — two parents who loved me dearly and who would do anything for me — was something Greg wanted to have so much, too.

  But at the same time, despite all that, I reminded myself, he was here, willing to support me, to work night shifts in order to help me find out what I wanted to do first, to help me pursue my dream of becoming an interior designer, even if that was something I was secretly starting to doubt I’d ever achieve …

  “So?” he asked again, turning to face me from his place by the oven, his face breaking out into a kind, warm smile. “How was the big meeting with Blake Matthews …”

  If anyone knew how much extra work I’d put into that meeting, it was Greg.

  Like last Sunday, for instance? It was his one night off, it was supposed to be our date night, but instead I'd spent it on his ancient laptop, researching Blake until 2 a.m., keeping Greg awake as I formed my picture of Blake Matthews, property developer and billionaire playboy, serial dater of Victoria's Secret models, a guy who'd never done a real day's work in his life.

  But it was a picture I was beginning to doubt.

  Maybe there was more to Blake than Business Insider made out.

  I was desperate to change the subject, but I couldn't stop the flush of blood to my cheeks as I thought about the many times during the meeting when Blake’s eyes had met mine and the sheer electricity of our handshake.

  “Oh, let's not talk about work for once,” I said, turning away so Greg couldn't see my blushes. “Tell me about your day.”

  As Greg told me the minutia of his day, I felt guilt wash over me like a wave.

  Admit it, you felt something when Blake touched you, didn’t you?

  Marianne wasn’t quite so wrong, was she?

  It did get your panties wet.

  And I thought I wasn't that kind of girl.

  §

  “Okay, I’m leaving!” Greg called from the doorway, a little while later.

  I’d been washing the dishes while he got ready for work, and I dropped what I was doing, quickly drying my hands then rushing through the apartment, overwhelmed by a strange urge.

  “Wait a moment …” I called.

  “What...” he began to ask, but I didn’t let him finish his sentence, pressing myself hard against him, kissing him on the lips, pushing my tongue urgently into his mouth, feeling a little shiver of excitement run through me as he responded, taking control, his hands cupping my ass eagerly through my skirt as I ground myself hard against him.

  Still kissing him, I let my hand run down his chest, my fingers finding that hot firm bulge in the smart black pants he wore for his bar-tending job. I began to softly work him through the fabric, enjoying getting him all steamed up, feeling his cock grow harder and bigger. And then, just like that, I stopped, purposefully pulling myself away again, leaving him flushed and gasping, his brow knitted in playful confusion at what had just happened.

  “What was that for?” he said, softly, his mouth curling into a smile.

  “I just wanted you to make sure you thought about me tonight,” I replied, feeling a cheeky little smile of my own curl at the corners of my lips. “Have a good night!”

  And with that, I turned around, feeling Greg’s hungry, lusty eyes on my ass as I sauntered sexily back to the kitchen, making sure to put a cute little swing in my step for good measure.

  I heard the door slam closed, and then I was alone in the apartment, feeling the breath shivering in my throat, feeling my heart still pounding, feeling my pussy softly throbbing, the blood rushing through my veins. It looked like I’d turned myself on just as much as Greg …

  I glanced at the half-finished dishes in the sink, but now my mind was elsewhere.

  I don’t know why, but growing up I’d never really considered myself a particularly ‘sexual’ person. I mean, sure, I enjoyed sex with Greg, but I’d never been particularly adventurous, and apart from some rather innocent fooling around with neighborhood boys when I was a teen, I’d never known anyone but Greg in that way.

  Because of this, I hardly ever masturbated, just focusing my energy and desires into our lovemaking, but that night in the kitchen, I felt a strange new urge take over me.

  Standing by the counter, I felt myself tugging my skirt upwards, the material sliding slowly up my thighs, until I was able to slip my hand beneath the waistband of my sensible cotton panties, registering with a shiver just how damn wet my pussy had become. I closed my eyes as I began to play with myself, toying softly with my swelling clit, my thoughts shifting from the memory of Greg’s hands cupping my buttocks, his eager tongue exploring my mouth, to something else entirely — to a fantasy of Blake, imagining that it was his hot hand between my legs, that it was his fingers working my clit slowly and steadily towards release.

  I gasped, sucking on my lip, knowing I should stop, knowing just how guilty I would feel as soon as this was over.

  But I didn’t stop.

  There in the empty kitchen, I worked myself into a shivering state of pleasure, whimpering as I came, thoughts of Blake not Greg swirling around my head …

  CHAPTER THREE

  Ping ping!

  It was still dark when I was woken by my iPhone text alert. I knew exactly who the message was from before I opened it. Groggy and half asleep, I reached out to lift my cell from the n
ight table, bringing it towards my face and wiping my thumb across the touchscreen.

  Sure enough, it was from Marianne:

  Change of plan: before you come into the office this morning I need you to go back to Roche Bobois and pick up that Galice lamp that we looked at last Weds for the Fredrickson apartment. Also I’m sick of coffee. Can you pick me up something healthy to drink for a change?

  I groaned and sat up in bed, rubbing at my sleepy, half-closed eyes.

  Greg stirred next to me, turning onto his side.

  “Everything okay?”

  “Fine,” I said. “Just the wicked witch as usual.”

  Greg smiled sympathetically, rubbed my back, then flopped over onto his other side and immediately fell back asleep.

  At times like this, I felt like the only person in the world whose working day started so early. But at the same time, I did feel some relief at the thought that if Marianne was bossing me around with menial tasks like normal, then at least my neck wasn’t on the line anymore. I’d made my big mistake and now, hopefully, it was in the past.

  This is a fresh start, Jessica.

  And it was this positive thought that I tried my hardest to focus on, as I turned on the bedside light, then dragged myself out of bed and made my way sleepily towards the bathroom.

  6 a.m.

  Marianne would already be in Central Park by now with her personal trainer, desperately trying to cling onto what was left of her slim, youthful figure.

  I yanked off my baggy old summer camp T-shirt and let my comfy faded pink PJ bottoms drop to the floor.

  Ready for my fresh start – for a new, improved Jessica – I took a long, unflinching look at myself in the bathroom mirror.

  My eyes travelled critically over my pale skin, over my slim, boyish hips, and over my breasts that, while pert and firm, were definitely a little on the small side, my long, slightly unruly, chestnut brown hair falling over my skinny shoulders.

  It still seemed so strange to me sometimes that I’d actually grown into a woman. Because often, I still felt like a little girl: confused, bewildered, and completely out of place in the adult world. It felt like there was some secret club that I was still waiting to be let in on. I’d often find myself looking at all the confident, stylish, successful young women I passed on the sidewalk and wonder if they too were just pretending, if they felt just as lost and helpless as me on the inside?

  But most of all, I knew I should be happy and thankful: I mean, here I was, still only twenty-two years old, and I’d actually made it to the big city, despite my parents constant misgivings. And I was actually finally living with Greg, my college sweetheart, too. Wasn’t that what so many people dreamt of?

  So why was it that a part of me still felt so unfulfilled?

  §

  “Here you go,” I said, placing the gaudy lamp down on Marianne’s desk alongside the ‘something healthy’ (a seaweed, bee pollen and goji berry smoothie) that I’d chosen for her from a nearby health food store.

  “Thanks, Jessica,” she said without taking her eyes from her computer screen. She’d really mastered the art of saying ‘thank you’ without meaning it in the slightest.

  I glanced across her large desk, at the many colorful swatches of fabrics, the copious photos and clippings from magazines, the myriad sketches and notes she had made every day in her meticulous elegant handwriting, and again wondered if I’d ever have what it took to get where she was, and how long it might take.

  I reminded myself Marianne had started this business all by herself, from scratch, many many years ago, and I was only a lowly assistant — the latest in a long line of clueless young girls who desperately wanted to get into this industry.

  You should feel thankful to have a job like this at all; usually they go to people with connections.

  And at least she’s not annoyed with you any more ...

  As I turned to leave her office, I heard her splutter.

  I stopped in my tracks and turned back around again.

  “What the hell is this?” she snapped, thrusting her cup towards me, a look of pure disgust etched on her face.

  “It’s … it’s…” I stammered, feeling that now-familiar sinking feeling.

  Not another mistake.

  “It’s disgusting, is what it is!” Marianne interrupted. “I asked for coffee! What in the hell is this crap?”

  I bit my lip, forcing myself to remain silent, to not screw things up with another interruption. After a good eleven months of Marianne’s frequent temper tantrums, mood swings, and outbursts, I knew by now that there was absolutely no use in arguing with her about anything.

  I know what you’re thinking. Any rational person would just take out their cell and show her her own message, the one asking me for ‘something healthy’. But I knew better than that. She’d simply shake her head and blame me and my stupid, out of date iPhone.

  She was never, ever in the wrong.

  “Well don’t just stand there, go get me my coffee,” she hissed, shaking her head as she threw the $12 smoothie in the trash, then turned impatiently back to her desk.

  “I’m on it,” I mumbled.

  I was about to leave her office when she looked up at me once more, piercing me with her most withering gaze yet.

  “On second thoughts, don’t bother. You’ve probably got work to be catching up on, right?”

  I nodded.

  “And if Matthews Inc calls you’ll patch them straight through to me, got it?”

  “Sure, Marianne,” I said, forcing my face into a polite smile (even though all I really wanted to do was cry), and then turning, finally heading with relief for the safety of the main office and my own little desk in the corner.

  Remember Jessica, I told myself, trying to cling on to that positive thought from this morning, many people would kill to be in your position.

  I sat down at my desk and turned on my computer, and as I waited for it to boot up my eyes strayed across to a framed picture of Greg and I, from our last winter in college, both of us smiling widely, madly in love.

  Remember Jessica, many people would kill to be in your position.

  §

  “Hey, are you coming to my show 2nite :-)?” Fallon asked over Gchat, a little later in the morning. She was my best friend in this city, and our messages kept me sane whenever Marianne got too much.

  Fallon worked in a painfully hip print studio in Bushwick during the daytime, and played drums in Circles, an all-girl indie rock band, at night. Sometimes, I wondered why she even liked someone as square and uncool as me.

  “We’re playing Pianos at 10,” her latest message said, flashing up in its little box on the right-hand corner of my computer screen. “Should be fun. Put you on the list?”

  “Maybe,” I replied, knowing deep down that I’d probably be long asleep by ten — this job and trying to see Greg while he worked nights didn’t exactly leave much time for a social life.

  Also, on top of that, I still felt kind of out-of-kilter since my silly mistake in the meeting with Blake, and I knew I needed to just let myself unwind on my own and forget about it …

  I was about to type my thoughts to Fallon, when something appeared on my screen that caused everything to just stop.

  It was an email.

  An email from Blake Matthews.

  Only I wasn’t looking at my work emails. This was in my private Gmail account.

  What the hell is going on?

  I stared in disbelief at it, reading the title once more to check my eyes weren’t playing tricks on me. Someone moved behind me in the office, and I hastily shut Gmail down, my heart pounding.

  My hand was shaking as I guided my mouse pointer and clicked open the general office inbox, scanning through all the recent emails — customer enquiries and company invoices and so forth — and there was nothing, nothing from Blake Matthews, from Matthews Inc, from his PA, absolutely nothing.

  There’s got to be some kind of mistake.

  He mu
st have tried to email Marianne and found he didn’t have her address so he’s forwarded the email on to me.

  But even as I thought this, another part of me knew, deep down, that the email was entirely intentional. Not only had I seen with my very own eyes that it was, indeed, addressed to me, but also Blake Matthews was not the kind of guy to make mistakes. He was shrewd and decisive; he knew just what he liked — just as I’d seen in our meeting.

  And again I thought about the heat of his skin and the intensity of his gaze, and felt a blush rise to my cheeks as I remembered my little episode in the kitchen, my trembling fingers buried in my panties as I shivered and whimpered …

  “Jessica?” Marianne’s voice came from behind me and I swivelled in my chair with a start. “Anything from Blake’s people yet?”

  I looked up at her, then back to my screen, open on the company inbox, then took a deep breath, swallowing back my nerves.

  “Nothing yet, I’m afraid.”

  That wasn’t a lie, was it?

  §

  I worked hard all day, avoiding opening the email, even though it was playing on my mind almost constantly. And all through lunch, all through the afternoon, I thought about it, wondering just what in the world Blake wanted from me.

  At six, people began leaving the office, but I remained seated at my desk. It wasn’t that unusual a sight for me to stay behind, finishing off any important last-minute admin. By seven, I was the only one left.

  Well, almost ...

  I thought she’d already gone, but just as I was working up the courage to finally open my personal emails, I heard the door to Marianne’s office creak open and then the familiar click of her heels, heading towards me.

  “Still nothing?” she asked briskly.

  “Not yet,” I said, feeling my heart drum hard against my chest, wondering if she could somehow sense that something was up.

  “Damn it,” I heard her mutter beneath her breath.

  “I’m just gonna … finish up some stuff here,” I explained sheepishly.