Stories From The 6 Train

by Alexis Angel

  I mean, I'm now in a hard place. I'm standing here—just moments from being caught, and I have stolen data on a USB drive hidden inside of my thong. I hid it there right when Cheryl came in. This is an act that can land me in jail.

  "This has gotten blown way out of proportion," I say. "I was just searching for an earring. I promise."

  Cheryl doesn't say anything further, and instead gives me one last icy stare before turning on her heels and walking back out the door. I also leave. My heart is pounding, and I need to get as far away from this place as possible.

  "Well that was close," I hear Walter say in my earpiece. He heard that entire conversation, but I nearly forgot he was there.

  I whisper back, in a tone that's barely audible so that no one else can hear me, "Yeah, too fucking close for comfort."

  I find my things—my change of clothes, and my purse. I pull my cell phone from my purse to check and see if I have any messages, and as I'm scrolling through, a new text message chimes in.

  It's from Simon and reads, "DO U HAVE IT YET?"

  First off, I hate it when people type in all caps. Do you know what I mean? It's literally one of my biggest pet peeves—in texts, emails, you name it. It's like they're yelling. I'm not a fucking kid; calm down.

  So reading Simon's text instantly irritates me on one hand, and on the other hand, it reminds of the stakes. If I don't get this data to Simon quickly, I'm jeopardizing my life.

  Just as I'm about to reply, a second text message chimes in. This time, it's from Ethan. It reads: "I'd like to finish what we started in my office. Want to meet up again?"

  I'm instantly torn. If I'm honest, I'd love for nothing more than to be back in Ethan's arms, slowly peeling our clothes off and fucking each other until we can't fuck any more. The minute his text chimed in, my pulse quickened in excitement. It was like getting an extra dose of endorphins.

  Shit. What am I even saying? And what am I going to do? Am I falling for Ethan?

  I've never had these feelings with other men—it was only when Ethan came into my life …

  I look at both texts. Do I tell Simon I have the data he's been looking for? If I tell him, he'll demand the USB right now. And if I hand that data to him, it's over.

  But if I don’t hand this data over now, then the assignment continues.

  This data becomes obsolete in the next few days as they update the software. Whats in my hand becomes junk.

  I’ll never be able to look Ethan in the face again… I think for a moment and click on Simon's text, and I begin typing:

  "I'm still working on it."

  I couldn't do it. I couldn't tell Simon the truth. Not yet.

  I need more time to figure out what's happening. My heart's telling me one thing, and my head's telling me another.

  Ethan

  You ever had those moments when you just look back on shit and know that you’re fucking happy?

  Like you can feel that yes, you are in fact really happy.

  Well, as I leave work, that’s the kind of feeling I'm having. As in even navigating from the heart of Times Square isn’t enough to sour my fucking mood. I mean, you’re talking to the guy who usually has his car come and pick him up so he doesn’t have to walk past the teeming throngs of idiots who think this is some sort of holy fucking shrine to come visit and stand in the middle of the sidewalk as they take pictures of overpriced fucking food carts.

  Yeah, that wasn’t me tonight.

  Tonight I waved to the security guy outside of Illicit Entertainment and walked with a brisk step uptown up 7th Avenue.

  Want to know the really best part about One57? The corner gourmet grocery store that sits right as you walk into the lobby. Seriously, I mean I’m talking fucking grocery store right underneath my apartment.

  I pause and pick up some vegetables and a few steaks.

  What?

  Don’t give me that look. I can cook. Did you really think there was nothing I couldn’t do? I went to fucking UCLA and made myself a billionaire fucking smut lord. I can do any fucking thing I set my mind to.

  It’s true, I usually eat out. Or I have my chef prepare my meals. But given the opportunity to, you’d be surprised what I can whip together.

  Like today. I’m going to grill some steak and then slice them real thin, and maybe sauté some vegetables and some couscous on the side. I ordered a cake for dessert, but it should be a perfect dinner for two.

  That’s right. I said two.

  As in Brittney is coming over for dinner.

  I know, I know. You’re either squealing in delight because you think she’s going to come over and we’re going to have dinner together, and then fucking cuddle, and then make sweet tender love. Or you’re rolling your eyes and wondering how I went from being the baddest motherfucking CEO in the country to some sort of fucking pussy.

  Well, it’s neither.

  Sure, I totally acknowledge that Brittney is coming over, and I’m excited to see her. It’s been a long fucking day. And she’s fucking gorgeous. Those tits. So fucking perky. That cute as a button face. That slender body. Oh my God, that ass. I want to rub my cock between those ass cheeks and then cum all over that tight fucking ass.

  Try it. Have some guy you know cum on the small of your back. I fucking guarantee you that you will love it, babe.

  And don’t look away or wonder who I’m talking to. I’m talking to you. If you have the opportunity to get someone to cum on the small of your back, then do it. Because literally every single girl I’ve ever done that to has cooed and told me the feeling of warm, thick, jizz right there in a sensitive spot has been one of the most pleasurable fucking experiences that they’ve ever felt.

  I get out of the elevator and walk to my door. My apartment is the only one on this floor and as usual, it's fucking immaculate. The building has a maid service that usually comes in and cleans once a day—or more—if I need them.

  Anyways, what was I even talking about? I was so focused on cumming on ass cheeks. Oh, right. Brittney.

  Yeah, she’s coming over for some dinner. Yeah, I’m probably going to fuck the shit out of her. But something about her, I really want to make dinner.

  There’s a ring on the doorbell and I open the door. The attendant from the downstairs gourmet food store has all my groceries and I let him in. He proceeds to the kitchen to unpack my purchases.

  I mean, sure, I rarely invite girls over to cook dinner for them.

  Okay, I don’t think I’ve ever cooked dinner for one girl before. There was one time I invited three girls over and I made some food and fed them while they took turns sucking my cock, individually and then all together. But that was work. We were fucking rehearsing, okay?

  I’ve invited girls for a drink before. One, maybe two glasses of wine before the dress is on the fucking floor and I’m ripping the panties.

  But dinner?

  Fuck.

  This is going to be a first for me.

  The attendant comes out after loading my kitchen up and nods to me. I tip him as he leaves and pour myself a scotch.

  All of a sudden, I’m thinking whether I should just take Brittney to dinner instead. Maybe I’m not ready to cook this girl dinner.

  But then, I think of her wide, innocent but sexy looking eyes. How they look, looking up at me. Shit, everything about her face is fucking beautiful. Even her neck is sexy. I just want to fucking kiss it and nibble on it until she’s squirmy.

  Her body is out of this world.

  Fuck.

  There is something fucking wrong here. But one thing I know is not wrong at all.

  Making her dinner. It feels like the most right thing in the world.

  I start preparing the food. It’s not that hard, really. Chopping vegetables isn’t that big of a deal when you can ask the chef at the store to pre chop it for you so it’s ready. The meat is already marinated and ready to go so I get those ready. The couscous is set to boil.

  I put the vegetables on a pan with some olive oil
and I turn on the stove.

  I have another scotch and think back to how I would have probably fucking kicked myself in the nuts if I ever go back in time and tell myself what I’m doing now.

  But fuck it, I have bigger plans.

  Bigger goals.

  I’d tell you what they are but my doorbell rings again.

  That’s odd. It’s a bit early for Brittney to be coming already.

  I’m still wearing the apron I put on while cooking and I go to the door.

  Yes, I was wearing an apron, okay? I just didn’t fucking tell you because…I mean, it’s not important, is it? I still got the abs underneath. I still got the fucking cock.

  And no, I am not fucking taking off the apron to open the door. Not even if it’s…

  Cheryl.

  She raises her eyebrows at me as she sees me holding a cooking spoon with an apron.

  “Do I even want to know what kind of weird sex game you’ve got going on?” Cheryl asks as she walks in. I turn around to give her room and she looks around as she comes inside.

  She sniffs the air. “What’s that smell?” Cheryl asks me, turning to me and narrowing her eyes.

  I shrug.

  “Are you cooking?” she asks me.

  “So what if I fucking am?” I snap back to her.

  Cheryl smiles. “I’m just asking Ethan, it’s okay,” she tells me and takes a step over. “Expecting guests?”

  I nod as I close the door and head to the kitchen. I need my scotch.

  “Who?” Cheryl asks, as she follows me.

  “Just someone I know,” I reply, not sure how to answer.

  Okay, I’m going to be honest with you, okay?

  It’s not that I don’t know how to say Brittney is coming over.

  It’s that I’m not sure why all of a sudden it’s that I don’t want to say Brittney is coming over. I’m a bit worried about…what?

  But Cheryl must fucking read my mind or something.

  “Is it someone you work with perhaps, hmm?” Cheryl asks, taking a step closer to me. “Someone maybe you hired to be the face for Illicit Entertainment?”

  I look toward Cheryl.

  “You have Brittney coming over, don’t you?” Cheryl asks me, her eyes narrowing. “You’re cooking dinner for that woman.”

  “Does it matter?” I ask with a sigh and turn to face Cheryl. I’m not sure if what I’m doing is the best course of action, but I’m sure as fuck not embarrassed about it. But enough is enough.

  “Do you know anything about that woman, Ethan?” Cheryl asks me sharply. “Do you know anything about what you look like when you’re around her?”

  I stare at Cheryl as she continues.

  “She’s changing you right in front of my eyes,” Cheryl says. “You used to be an asshole, now look at yourself. Cooking dinner.”

  “I can still take care of things that need to be done,” I tell Cheryl and take off my apron and grab my glass of scotch and walk out of the kitchen.

  Fuck, did you just hear what that sounded like? Did I just fucking say take off my apron?

  And I’m supposed to be the bad boy? Jesus fucking Christ.

  “You can’t walk away from this Ethan,” Cheryl says, following me out. “There are thousands of employees who depend on your leadership, and if you’re placing it in danger by falling for that woman it’s my job to look out for you…and them,” Cheryl tells me as she follows me out.

  “I’m not walking away from it, Cheryl,” I tell her coldly as I go toward the door, open it, and turn to her. “I’m showing you out so I can enjoy my evening in peace.”

  Cheryl looks at me and pauses. Finally she sighs.

  “I can only try to keep warning you, Ethan,” she tells me. “You may think you’re following your heart, but you could just as easily be getting played. Don’t forget how you know her in the first place.”

  And with that piece of profound advice, Cheryl turns around and walks into the open elevator as the doors close.

  Fuck.

  I know she’s right. I should probably be a bit more careful.

  If only I could stop thinking about Brittney for a moment, I might have a chance to listen to my fucking brain.

  Brittney

  "I'm not sure that's a good idea, Walter,” I say from the back seat of the limo as Walter drives me towards Illicit Escape.

  We’re weaving our way towards Times Square. It’s been two days since I went over to see Ethan, have dinner at his place, and fuck his brains out.

  "Are you forgetting that we have a job to finish here?" he asks. He's looking me straight in the eyes with a serious gaze.

  Since I stole the data from Ethan’s office, there have been four software upgrades. The data I had was junk literally 24 hours after I had it. I gave the USB device to Simon yesterday who tried to run it on his computer in his office before throwing it against the wall and then getting up and stomping it.

  "I know; I haven't forgotten," I say thinking back to Simon’s frustration yesterday and threats to give Robert a call. "But did you forget the icy tone in Cheryl's voice in his office? She's onto me. She isn't messing around. If she finds out what we've done; I'm in serious trouble. This won't be some little slap on the wrist. I'll do prison time, Walter. I mean, you saw the NDA I signed, right?" I say. By the look in my eyes, he knows I'm serious too, but he then tries to lighten the situation.

  "You're being paranoid," Walter says. "That's all. You're letting the stress get to you, darling. This is a big job. I get it. But buck up. This job is nearly done. You've done tougher things in the past. Are you forgetting all of your past clients? I honestly don't know why you're letting this job get to you … more so than anything else you've done. Let's just finish this now."

  Those words make my mood sink even lower. The job's almost complete. I know what you’re thinking. How can the job be over if the data I stole is now junk?

  I’ll tell you why.

  I’m inside.

  I’ the face of Illicit Escape.

  So what the data I stole has gone bad?

  I can try again. And if I don’t succeed, I can maybe try again. And if I still don’t succeed, I can even at the end steal the physical prototype somehow.

  Yeah, don’t roll your eyes, hun. What I’m trying to say is that there are options.

  I should be happy. Walter's right. I will have made more money than I've made with a single client before, and I'll be safe from Robert. This is just one job of many. You'd think these facts alone would have me finding Simon and throwing the I.E. data straight into the palm of his hand and calling it a day.

  But that's not how I'm feeling. That's not exactly what I want to do. Are you following?

  This is new territory for me. I've always been able to handle any job. But I may have just met my match. Maybe I bit off more than I can handle with this one. But did I have a choice? Simon basically threatened my life if I didn't take this on.

  How can I explain any of this to Walter? He'd just say that I'm overanalyzing things.

  He's known me forever. He'd just keep telling me to relax.

  He'd also say I'm not thinking clearly. That I need to take a deep breath and steady my thoughts. Get my head screwed back on straight. To stop being a 'negative Nancy' in that off English accent of his.

  The car stops outside the Illicit Entertainment offices in Times Square and Walter gets out to open my door.

  "Okay, here you are darling," Walter says. We are both standing outside the Illicit Entertainment headquarters. "While you're in your shoot, I'll make my way to Ethan's office and plant the bugs; I have three—one underneath his desk, one behind a wall socket, and one buried in this potted plant here. I added a nice note from you, for a bit of realism. He'll never suspect a thing."

  I look at the plant in Walter's arm. It's a potted plant with a pink ribbon around its pot and a card that reads simply, "Love Brittney." Shit. That makes me feel awful.

  "Do we really have to plant these bugs?" I ask.r />
  "To get this job done, yes," he says. "I could potentially install a shotgun mic outside of his office window, and it's very good at recording conversations, but given the fact that his office isn't on the ground floor, that wouldn't be practical. In fact, I'm not even sure that's possible."

  I nod to Walter. My insides are in knots. Literal knots that make me want to curl up in a ball, or maybe under a rock. I feel sick. How did I end up in this situation?

  I feel like one of the worst possible people on the planet for what I'm about to do to Ethan. I know he has this bad boy image, but underneath it all, he's a good guy. It's true. He doesn't deserve this. All of these thoughts are going through my mind as I stand here in the Illicit Entertainment lobby and wait for the elevator.

  Can I actually go through with this? Should I tell Ethan what I've been up to? Sure, he may refuse to talk to me ever again after he finds out—I may never see him again, and I wouldn't blame him. And that's the price I'd have to pay. But maybe he wouldn't react that way. Maybe he'd respect me for coming clean. For realizing the whole thing was wrong. Maybe if he knew how I ended up here, he'd understand.

  Suddenly, the elevator opens. I turn my body, facing forward, and I see Cheryl. Her wavy brown hair seems to have a shine to it now; it seems more golden. Is it the lighting down here? She looks over at me and smiles. I smile back.

  What kind of a smile was that? I wonder. One minute, she's giving me an icy stare and is interrogating me in the computer room—her eyes gazing at me like they could burn a hole right through me, and now this? She smiled at me as if she has received some sort of validation. Has she come to some sort of realization? My brain is working in overdrive trying to figure out what exactly that smile was all about.

  Then, she speaks. "See you at tomorrow's shoot."

  It was all so cordial and happy. Where did all of her icy unease disappear to?

  "Wait… actually, can I ask a big favor?" she says, looking at Walter and I.

  We both look at each other and back at her, and I say, "Sure."