Steamy Dorm

by Kristine Robinson

  Driving into town, I spot the Visalia Police Department and park around the corner, out of sight of the entrance. I take a moment to fix my hair and face before striding resolutely into the police station, every inch the lawyer that I am. I am met by a tall, swarthy man in his early sixties. His badge says “Sherriff Gregory Kean.” I extend my hand to introduce myself, deciding at the last minute to use my real name in case he decides to check whether or not I’m really a lawyer.

  “Sherriff Kean, my name is Hannah Jaffe. I am here to meet with my client, Chloe Portman.”

  He nods, shaking my hand. “Of course, Ms. Jaffe, please follow me. As I’m sure you know, Chloe Portman is charged with first degree murder.”

  Without another word, he leads me through a door, down a corridor with bare, white walls, to a short row of cells. I follow close behind him, digesting the fact that Chloe, too, was framed for a murder. I don’t even consider the possibility that Chloe actually killed a man. She would never do that. Two innocent men dead. Both of us framed. Why? It makes no sense!

  The moment I see Chloe behind bars my resolve hardens. My heart is pounding, but I know what I have to do. Before Chloe can see me and do anything to blow my cover, I pull Sherriff Kean’s service revolver out of its holster. Before he can do more than turn to me, startled, I have it pointing right at him.

  “Unlock the cell, Sherriff Kean.”

  He hesitates and I remove the safety with an audible click. He unlocks the cell. Chloe’s eyes are enormous with fear and uncertainty, but she pushes the cell door open and steps out. I gesture for Sherriff Kean to take her place inside the cell. Once he is in, I lock the door behind him.

  “I am truly sorry to have to do this. But we are innocent! Someone out there is trying to frame us and we need to find out who it is and stop them. I don’t expect you to believe me. But that’s exactly my point. Nobody will. That’s why we have to do this ourselves.”

  Chloe

  My mind is skipping and starting like a scratched record as I hurry with Hannah towards the back of the police station. Do police stations have back doors? I’m praying that at least this one does! We certainly can’t stroll out the front. I came in the front only two days ago, charged with murder; they don’t see a lot of murder cases around here. No one will be forgetting my face for quite some time.

  What is Hannah doing here anyway? My ex fiancé just busted me out of jail like some kind of superhero. Hm, I’d like to see her dressed in a skin-tight Wonder Woman costume. If we survive this, maybe…No, stay focused. I have so many questions, I ask none because I can’t choose where to begin. All I know is that everything is changed and Hannah is the one thing I still trust. There’s no going back now to regular lives and respectable behavior. So, we scurry together like a pair of rats through the police station, looking for an exit.

  Yes! There is a back door. We slip through it, easing along the side of the building as we edge towards Hannah’s parked car. I recognize it from a block away and across the street, a white Camry, no frills or bumper stickers, spotless inside and out. But as we approach the car, I notice something new; a blood red envelope stuck under the windshield wipers. Hannah grabs it and viciously tears it open. No, I think to myself, she was never the type to pussyfoot around. If something unpleasant needed to be done, Hannah would do it. She pulls out a scrap of paper. I read it over her shoulder:

  The plot thickens.

  Hannah stuffs the note in her bag. Before her bag closes again, I notice another red envelope already there. That means that whoever tried to blackmail me has also been toying with her. Quickly, we get into the car and start driving, heading away from the police station, the site of our most recent alleged crime, though this one is real. We decide to head up to my cabin where we’ll have access to a change of clothes, a laptop, and a shower. My skin is crawling from being locked inside a dank cell for 2 days. Hannah makes herself comfortable on my bed while I enclose myself in the bathroom with the intention of showering off the fear sweats from 2 nights in jail.

  Unzipping my jeans and sliding them down my hips, I’m hyperaware of Hannah lying on my bed just 5 feet away with only this one door between us. I unbutton my shirt, shifting out of the sleeves, and pull my tee shirt up over my head. I’m small but sinewy. Turning to look at myself in the bathroom mirror, I see a young woman with short hair, light hair who could pass for a pretty, teenage boy in dim light. I cup my breasts, hungry for the feel of another’s hands on me. It’s been months since anyone has touched me. I feel like an un-watered fern. Is Hannah lying out there thinking about me naked in here? I hope so. I hope she’s wondering what I’m doing in here, why I haven’t turned the water on yet. I try to telepathically project my thoughts through the thin barrier between us. I’m taking my sweet time undressing while thinking about your warm, soft hands on me. I turn on the water and wait for it to warm up, thinking about what I would do if I was out there and Hannah was naked in here. There’s no way I’d still be out there.

  The steam feels so good on my tense shoulders. I lather my hands with the almond soap I know Hannah likes. It is incredible that I could be thinking about Hannah’s olfactory preferences at a time like this, with innocent men dying and both of us being framed for murder. Or maybe it’s normal. All of that fear and adrenaline make a person feel alive, revved up even. Who knows what tomorrow will bring: best to enjoy today. It feels so incredibly good to be clean, my skin soft and perfumed with soap and hot water, that I close my eyes and allow my hands to do as they will. When I slide my hands down, they are met with a slick wetness, musky and sweet where the soap trickled down. I widen my stance and commit to the moment, propelled by fear and uncertainty accumulated over the past 2 days. I am not uncertain now. My hands know exactly what to do.

  I close my eyes and imagine I hear the bathroom door swing open. Light footsteps on the tile precede the rustle of the shower curtain as Hannah steps into the steamy alcove with me. In my imagination, it’s her hands on me, not mine. Just the thought of it makes me pant with need. I keep my eyes closed, lest I break the spell, and increase my efforts. In the weeks that I’ve been on my own, I’ve pursued this path several times, but it has never felt like this. Even from several feet away and with a wall between us, Hannah’s relative proximity turns me into a puddle of longing. My body responds to hers through such flimsy barriers. It’s a wonder to me that she’s not singed with the same heat on her side of the wall. Or, maybe she is…

  Stepping out of the shower, I wrap my yellow towel snug around my bosom. Returning to my room to get dressed, I find Hannah stretched out on my bed, staring at the ceiling. Her clothing does look slightly disarrayed, but that might just be from laying on the bed. Her cheeks are a little bit flushed, too. For a moment, I am disoriented, remembering other times very much like this except that the circumstances were completely different. We were engaged, not broken up and afraid for our lives. My instinct is to approach the bed and open my towel, gathering her into the folds and inviting her lovely hands onto my damp almond-scented skin. She would smile and curl herself against me, delicately inhaling the scent, then kissing the places that she liked the best. Shaking myself out of my reverie, I pull my clothes out of the dresser and she politely turns her head as I drop the towel to pull a shirt over my head.

  “I have something to show you,” I tell her once I’m dressed.

  Hannah turns, a question in her eyes, and waits for me to elaborate. Opening my laptop, I pull up my email to show her the message I received 2 days ago. She reads it in silence. When she finishes, she stands up and goes to her bag where she had left it on my desk. She pulls out 2 red envelopes which she hands to me.

  “I received this one first, in my P.O. Box yesterday.” She indicates one of the envelopes. Opening it, I see a photograph of a girl, maybe 18 or 19 years old, doing drugs. I squint at it, not understanding at first. “It’s not like I’m a crack addict. I only experimented for a little while in college. But if this picture were to get out, my pro
fessional career would be over. No one wants a druggie for a lawyer.”

  She watches my face for a reaction. I’m shocked, but not because I think that experimenting with drugs is a moral failing. I just can’t imagine Hannah – sensible, disciplined, always logical Hannah – letting go of control. I love that she did this. I don’t love the circumstances in which we now find ourselves, but I love that I know this truth about her life that she kept buttoned up so well all the time we were lovers.

  “I’m surprised, of course. But I certainly don’t think any less of you. You know, most mortals slip up sometimes.” I give her a sideways smile.

  “Right, well, it wasn’t my proudest moment. But thank you…for your understanding.” She looks almost shy. Hannah is rarely vulnerable. I reach an arm out to lay my hand at the back of her head and, leaning forward, I place a chaste kiss on her forehead.

  “Now,” I murmur quietly, “what should we do. We probably shouldn’t stay here. The police will surely come looking for us here.”

  “How about coming back with me to L.A.? We can figure out where to go from there. At least we have friends there who might help us if needed.”

  “Okay. It’s as good a plan as any.”

  As I pack some clothes, Hannah fills me in on exactly what happened in L.A. with the private investigator who turned up dead in her kitchen 5 hours after she hired him. The fact that, in the space of 42 hours, we were both framed for murder and blackmailed means that somebody out there is merciless and focused on manipulating us for some reason. Aside from our romantic relationship, our lives haven’t overlapped all that much. Professionally, we move in different circles. We don’t have the same friends. We haven’t dated any of the same women. How could anybody hate both of us this much? What’s the connection?

  We head out of the cabin, still filling each other in on recent events. As we approach Hannah’s Camry, we see a red envelope lying on the dashboard. My heart sinks. What now? I pluck it off the dash and open it. The letter inside consists of only a single sentence.

  Stay in the cabin or die.

  Scared, we meet each other’s eyes over the letter. The crazy person threatening us has just escalated the danger; he’s not threatening to expose our secrets if we don’t do as he says. He’s threatening to kill us. And somebody, either him or a messenger, hand delivered that letter to this remote cabin while we were inside. Possibly while I was entertaining myself in the shower, I realize with shock. We return to the cabin, casting fearful glances back over our shoulders at the tranquil foothills as we go. I guide Hannah up the steps in front of me, wanting to put myself between her and whatever, or whoever, is out there.

  As soon as we’re inside, I close the door behind us and lean against it. Somebody is imprisoning us inside the cabin and will kill us if we leave. Judging from the rise in crime over the past 2 days, it’s not an empty threat. How did we end up in this mess? Neither of us hurt anybody, that we know of. We don’t have sinister family backgrounds or evil friends. Or do we?

  Hannah touches my hand lightly with hers, as though afraid to startle me. “We should close the curtains. I can’t stand the thought of some sicko hunkered down for the night watching us cower in our little cabin jail.”

  The thought of it makes me gag. We rush from room to room closing curtains. I lock the front door, drawing the deadbolt as though that would make any difference. Whoever this person is, they’ve gotten past locks before. I have never been so scared in my life. We meet in the bedroom, closing the last of the curtains. Catching sight of myself in the mirror, I’m startled by how big my eyes look in my white face. Hannah looks a little wild eyed too. She takes one look at me and beckons me over. I remember the gesture and go to her without hesitation. She sits on the bed and draws me up to lean against her so that we can comfort each other.

  “I’m scared too, you know,” she confides, “but it makes me feel better to comfort you. It always has.” She draws me close, combing her fingers through my hair.

  She takes my hand in hers and reminds me, and herself, that we must wait here if we wish to remain alive. Her cheeks are flushed and her eyes look almost glassy. The electricity between us has always been instantaneous; it still is. She holds my hand in hers and lets her thumb gently stroke the soft, tender V between my fingers and thumb. The current between us makes even this seemingly innocent touch suggestive and I cannot help thinking of the damp triangle between my legs that so desperately yearns for her touch. Irresistibly, we lean towards each other again. Our heads are close together, cheeks nearly touching. She presses her lips lightly to my bare neck just behind my ear and I feel a spasm run throughout my body in response. She moves to kiss me again, letting her lips linger for a moment above my skin before touching. I can feel her breath moving the delicate hairs on my neck and collarbone.

  The anticipation drives me wild and makes me ache all the more for contact. She shifts on the bed for better reach and, dipping her head, she kisses my throat. Pressing her full lips to me, she sucks the tender flesh of my throat between her teeth. She’s marking me, I think in a haze of longing, after everything she’s put me through. I was hers, completely, and she threw me away. I still love and desire her. But if we’re going down this road, it needs to be on my terms. I let her finish her branding, as turned on by it as she is but ready to shift the conversation.

  When she lifts her mouth from my throat, I stand and, without a word, push her back on the bed. Startled, she falls onto her back and I climb on top of her, straddling her waist. I catch her wrists in my hands, pinning her to the bed, arms outstretched. I keep my expression neutral, leaving her to guess what my intentions towards her are. I can see that I caught her off guard. She bucks against my weight with futile persistence. I may be small, but she isn’t any bigger. This is a fair contest and, right now, I have the upper-hand. I lean down to whisper in her ear.

  “You want something from me? I think you should admit that you were wrong.” She shakes her head, refusing to cooperate and I shift my weight to glide my thigh between her legs. She catches her breath, making her breasts rise irresistibly. Even trying to keep my eyes on her face, I can’t help following the movement. Still pinning her in place, I catch the hem of her blouse in my teeth and lift until her glorious breasts are exposed. She is still wearing a bra; unfortunately, it doesn’t clasp in front. I cannot remove it with my teeth. But her hard nipples raise the fabric of her bra making them easy to locate with my greedy mouth. I suckle her through the fabric and she cries out in pleasure and begins to move against me, rubbing herself against my thigh.

  “I am angry with you.” I confide in her ear as she grinds her pelvis against me, panting and whimpering with need. “And I want you to admit that you were wrong.” She looks at me desperately, trying to flail but unable to move her arms. She is helpless and too far extended to pretend that she doesn’t want this. She shakes her head again and I abruptly lift my pelvis away from hers in response. The human pole between her legs is now gone.

  “I was wrong” she concedes, all dignity lost. “I was wrong. Please, don’t stop. I love you. I always have. You were right. Just please fuck me!”

  Letting go of her arms, I rip her clothes off and, once again, straddle her, only this time, she is naked. I am dressed and she is naked. Enjoying the contrast of her bare skin against the rough denim of my jeans, I devour her with my greedy eyes first, drinking in the decadent swell of her breasts and enticing dips along her collarbone. I don’t wait too long, though. I know that she is ready. Letting her take the weight of my legs and torso while propping myself up with my left arm, I reach my right hand between our bodies and slide 3 fingers inside her. The weight of my own body pushes my hand deeper inside her. She is mine, I think over and over again as I work my hand in and out, slamming her into the bed with each thrust. She is mine. She wraps her legs around my waist and digs her fingernails into my scalp as though chanting the same mantra: She is mine!

  Her pleasure is my pleasure and I take it
gladly. I feel Hannah contract around my hand. She releases her grip on my hair and relaxes into the mattress, seemingly satisfied. But I am not done with her yet. I’ve expressed my anger. Now I need to express my love. Leaving my hand inside her, I kneel between her legs and bend down to drink from her. I carefully circle her with the tip of my tongue, knowing that pleasure that is too intense can feel like pain. Now is the time for pleasure: pure, sweet pleasure. I delicately fondle her with my tongue until I sense her rising excitement. Peering up through wisps of blond hair, I gaze across the prone landscape of her body to where her head is thrown back on the pillow, eyes closed. She is moaning in pleasure. When she snakes a hand down to the back of my head, pressing my mouth more firmly against her, I know that she is ready. I take her into my mouth and gently suck. She lifts her hips off the bed as she drives herself harder into my face. As I suck her, I gently flick the tip with my tongue. She can’t get enough.

  She sits up and gestures for me to move with her. She presses me back into the bed and straddles my face, lowering herself onto my waiting mouth. I grip her thighs with my hands and bury my face in her. As she moves on me, she finds one of my hands and guides it to her. I slide my fingers inside her. I twirl my fingers in circles insider her while simultaneously twirling her with my tongue. Bracing her hands against the headboard of the bed, she rocks and moans until the building pleasure erupts in waves inside her beautiful body.

  Lying down beside me, she kisses me deeply. My mouth tastes like her, sweet and salty. She places a hand on my stomach, underneath my shirt, and glides it up my ribs and down to my navel.

  “Your turn,” she says contentedly as she unbuttons my jeans.

  Gregory

  On midmorning rounds I’m discovered in the jail cell and released. The officer who finds me looks shocked and, though he is quick to hide it, I see his embarrassment on my behalf. It’s all too easy to imagine what he sees when he looks at me: an older sheriff, disarmed and jailed by a pretty girl. As soon as I am released, I replace my missing revolver. The next thing I do is sit down in front of my computer and type the name Hannah Jaffe into the system. Immediately, I see that she was arrested for the murder of a man in Los Angeles and released on bail only the day before. What’s the connection? Hannah arrested for murder a day after Chloe arrested for murder almost 200 miles away? Well, the first step towards getting some answers is to bring in Chloe Portman and Hannah Jaffe for questioning. Which means I need to find them.