Screwing With Perfect

by Louisa Trent

  "Nice," she offered.

  "So you like the bed?"

  "I was talking about your butt. Nice butt," she practically shouted.

  "Shhh!" He sent her a warning scowl. "Someone might hear."

  "If you didn't want me to admire the scenery you shouldn't have flaunted your flanks at me like that." She tilted her head for a better view of his back pockets.

  "I wasn't flaunting my flanks. What am I, a hunk of meat on a butcher's hook? A person's self-worth should not be hung on superficiality."

  She smirked. "Yeah, right. And those snug jeans hug your self-worth to their best advantage. And speaking of hung..."

  "Do not say it, Kesley!"

  She laughed. "I calls 'em as I sees 'em. And in those jeans I sees a substantial package."

  His looks, his substantial package, had always attracted notice. From both sexes. Frankly, more often than not, the attention was a nuisance. Worse, the attention made him feel like a pretty boy. The truth was, he took no pride in what stared back at him from the shaving mirror. And it really pissed him off that Kes thought maybe he did.

  "For your information, Kes, these are the jeans you coerced me into buying when we went shopping two summers back. Today's the first time I've ever worn them. Secondly, I was checking the bedsprings for tension, not shaking my booty. And go light on the character analysis, would you? I'm already riddled with self-doubts."

  "Stop it! You've never suffered an insecure moment in your life."

  He went back to checking bedsprings. "Shows how little you know me."

  "Don't try to convince me you're riddled with feelings of inadequacy, because I'm not buying it."

  "That's okay--we're here to buy a bed."

  She sat on the edge of the mattress and laughed. "If you buy the bed, does this mean that Operation Deflower is ready to roll?"

  He looked over his shoulder. "I need some place to put the bed first. It won't fit in my current bedroom."

  She threw herself backwards on the pillows. "The bed fits pretty good here." She patted the space next to her.

  "Better get up before a customer sees you."

  "No one will see if we pull these fancy curtains. See?" Sitting up, she reached for the drawstring and gave a tug. Like magic, the enclosure started to move around the bed.

  "Stop doing that!"

  Kes flung the drawstring aside. "You don't want me vertical. You don't want me horizontal. How do you want me?"

  "I want you..." Period. He thought, but didn't say.

  He shook his head. "Never mind what I want. Just get up."

  "Not yet. This bed is so comfy." She kicked off her yellow sandals and flopped backwards, her hands thrown over her head. "Join me?"

  "Not here, I said. The customers..."

  "Relax. They're looking for a kitchen table, not bedroom furniture. I overheard their conversation." She wiggled on the coverlet. "By the way, I should tell you on a scale of one-to-ten, you kiss about a nine. I've made out with some of the best in the state and you're right up there with Nick Olsen."

  "And who is Nick Olsen?" he asked, hands on hips.

  She tucked her legs up under her. "Nick played tuba in the NU's band. He was a gifted musician with an outstanding pair of lips." She smiled, sexy as all hell. "But as good as Nick was, I'd have to say that for sheer puckering power, you've got him licked."

  He frowned. "I thought you said you had no experience."

  "I said I was a virgin, and you can back up that assertion. I never said I was dateless. Before we met, I went out. Not a lot, but some. I just never went very far with them, if you get my meaning."

  "I get your meaning." His gaze fell to her mouth. "You give pretty good lip service yourself, by the way."

  She shrugged. "Thank you, sir. When a girl doesn't go to home plate she learns to make the most of first base."

  He cleared his throat. "Didn't any guy try to steal to second?"

  "Sure they tried, but I was firm in my resolve to stay put. Most of my dates didn't push. Those who did got a knee in the family jewels."

  "Good." He bent over the bed, over her, his outstretched arms bracketing her shoulders. "So--you like the bed?"

  "I like the bed, but I still don't understand the necessity of buying it. We can make do."

  "We both have singles, and neither will stand up to any major bouncing."

  She grinned up at him. "Bouncing, huh? I like the sound of that."

  "The bed seems sturdy. I'm taking it."

  Her head popped up off the pillow. "The bed is really ours?"

  Retracting his arms, Drew turned to examine a lamp. "Yep, ours." Now that was something he liked the sound of. "In fact, I'm taking the whole five-piece set."

  With an energetic leap, she was up on her feet and adding numbers on the tags. "At these prices, this bed is sure to impress your future ladies."

  He ran a finger over the lampshade. "I'm not thinking futures. It's all about right now. Remember? Just you and me. No work stories, no talking about other people in our lives. Let's be selfish, agreed?"

  "Agreed. Since you're picking up the cost of the bed, at least let me take care of the bed linens. What shall I get, black satin?"

  "Nope. Plain cotton, the kind most married people use."

  Her eyes went agog. "Really?"

  "Yep." He gestured to the lamp he'd been admiring. "Do you think this goes with the bed?"

  "It's lovely. But I think you should go with the one over there."

  The "one over there" had a red-light district velvet shade with attached dingly-dangly glass prisms. Around the base, brass ladies did a naked ribbon dance.

  Not for him. "If you don't mind, I'll stick with the old-fashioned lamp. Why don't we leave that one for the local bordello?"

  "Your bedroom, your call," she said, smoothing her skirts. "Uh-oh! I forgot. I'm wearing panties. And a bra. You told me no underwear."

  "I was being facetious."

  "No, no. That's all right. I'll take 'em off." Bending forward, her hands disappeared under her full yellow skirt.

  A pulse hammered in his temple, another pulse hammered lower. Kes was taking off her panties! In public! "You can't do that here."

  "Oh yeah?"

  In a mirror behind her, he glimpsed the pale curve of an exposed buttock. "Do not lift those skirts in the middle of this showroom! There are security cameras. Customers. Mirrors," he hissed, snagging an increasingly X-rated view in one.

  "But your woman doesn't wear undergarments. Facetious or not, you told me so yourself." Her hips started rolling in a distinctively female, panties-descending kind of way.

  He clutched his chest. "Stop! Please! I think I'm having a heart attack."

  Her rolling stopped. "Nonsense! You're only thirty."

  "Only thirty," he whined, appealing to her soft heart, playing on her sympathies, willing to do anything to keep her decent. "That's almost middle-aged. How many good erections do I have left? You strip naked in this showroom and fear of arrest will render me impotent. Where will your maidenhead be then?"

  "Right where it is now. Intact."

  Angling her head to an ornamental screen in the corner of the furniture-filled room, she muttered. "I'll change behind that."

  "Don't do it!"

  Her eyes drifted to the bulge in his jeans. "Impotent, huh?"

  "Left over from when I woke up this morning. Every guy gets one."

  "Drew, it's almost 6 p.m."

  "What can I say? I overslept."

  "Well, feel free to watch. Maybe the inspiration will keep it up." With a smile she was off, skipping behind the screen.

  "Kesley!" He ran after her, not even close to smiling. "Wait. Can't you do this later?"

  "This screen is the dope. I've always wanted one. And later, I'm doing outreach with the streetworkers."

  Prickles stabbed the back of his neck. Kesley only went out on serious cases. This meant there was a troubled kid out there she was afraid of losing. And losing a kid to the streets al
ways broke Kesley's heart. "Want to talk about it?"

  "For two weeks, we're not talking about work, just sex. Remember?"

  Yeah, he remembered. But they didn't live in a vacuum, and Kesley needed someone outside of work to talk to.

  "We can make an exception just this one time," he wheedled. "C'mon. Tell me what's going on."

  "Nope. We both need a break from me always talking about work. Do edible panties count as underwear?"

  "W-what?" he stammered, her lightning-quick change of subject throwing him a curve.

  "Edible panties. What flavors do you like? What about peppermint?"

  "Kesley, why don't we talk...?"

  White cotton briefs skidded out from behind the screen, followed soon after by a white cotton bra and a white nylon slip. A pair of laughing eyes poked out next. "Oops!"

  "Don't you oops me. You did that on purpose."

  Drew scooped up the undies on the run and jammed them in his pockets. Giving her a killer look, he walked back towards her. "You done?"

  "Not yet. Actually, I'm stark naked. Wanna peep?"

  "Certain things should be saved for a private moment, stark nakedness being one of them," he said primly, refusing to look, but wanting to look, wanting to do more than look. There were unspeakable things he wanted to do to Kes behind that decorative screen, one involving his palm and her rosy bottom.

  In sex, timing was everything. So was ambience. Everything had to be right. Including him. He was not right, not edgy like this, not lusty like this. For Kes, things had to be respectful and respectable. Doing it in the middle of a furniture storeroom was neither.

  "All set," she said finally, stepping out from behind the screen.

  He knew she had nothing on under that summer dress because her undies were jammed in his pocket for safekeeping. There was only a single layer of yellow fabric between her and him.

  Drew took a giant step backwards so he wouldn't be tempted to reach out a hand to cup those rounded braless breasts.

  One step didn't do it.

  He took another. "I should ... you know ... pay up at the register," he said, backing up, intent on beating a hasty retreat.

  "And I should get back to work." She held out a hand. "My underwear?"

  He tossed over the rolled-up unmentionables from the safety of distance. "I think we should talk about your doing outreach tonight with the streetworkers. How serious is this case? Can I do anything to help?"

  "Thanks for offering, but everything is under control. Not to worry."

  But he was worried. Not only that, he felt like she'd just slammed a door in his face.

  "People who have sex still talk, Kesley."

  "Have you ever had a serious discussion with any of your sexual partners?"

  He snorted.

  Reflex. Those round tits had him coming and going. He wasn't thinking straight.

  "See?" she said triumphantly.

  "But you and I have always talked."

  "I talk, you listen. You joke, you tease, you cheer me up. You tell me funny made-up stories. I don't know anything about your life before you moved downstairs from me. I've never met your parents, while my folks have practically adopted you."

  "I love your parents, Kes. They've got great taste in adopted sons."

  Her eyes narrowed. "Do not expect me to cry on your shoulder any more."

  Yeah, she had good ol' Ted for that now. The prick.

  She checked her watch. "Gotta run. Catch you later." And she was gone.

  Drew didn't know what he'd done, what he'd said, but he could feel Kesley's anger simmering just below the surface. What the hell did she want from him? He was doing everything she asked. What more did she expect him to do?

  Funked-out, he made his way to the register.

  After the bedroom set and lamp were squared away, Ralph Gordon fingered his glasses up to the narrow bridge of his nose. "Will that be all?"

  "Nope. I'll take the screen with the blue peacock too."

  "The lady's changing screen?" Gordon asked with a smirk

  "That's the one."

  "Gift for your maiden aunty?"

  Drew leaned an elbow on the counter. "Nope. The screen is for me. I'm the modest type." He fluttered his lashes.

  Gordon yawned, handed him his receipt. "Funny man."

  Once maybe. Not any more.

  CHAPTER NINE

  John Smith had kept his second appointment with the Med Van, and the good news was he wasn't HIV positive. Fact was, he was in fairly decent shape, health-wise. No drug dependency yet. The volunteer internist on staff thought he was telling the truth about his age too: though small, John was either eighteen or close to it. Young, not yet hardened to a life of a male prostitute, he was salvageable. Kesley knew she could work with him! Tomorrow night, she planned on offering him a whole range of opportunities. With options, he'd quit his street hustling and get back on track. John was on his way to becoming one of The Shelter's success stories! She just knew it!

  After her usual chat with Mrs. Harris on the first floor, Kesley was so happy and relieved about John Smith that she floated on air to the second floor landing.

  That's where she found Drew waiting, slouched elegantly against the doorjamb, totally handsome in the lazy pose. All over again she was bowled over by his careless good looks. Did the man never look a mess?

  "C'mon in," he said with a graceful gesture.

  "Don't mind if I do." She stepped into Drew's apartment, away from the ever-vigilant Mrs. Harris.

  Drew's wide shoulders closed the door. "Might just as well get it over with. Now's as good a time as any."

  Was he talking sex? He wanted to have sex? Now? Right now?

  She could use a shower. Her legs needed shaving. Her hair! God, her baby fine hair. She'd needed a trim for the last two weeks and she hadn't found the time to go, what with John Smith keeping her occupied after work hours. Consequently, her limp bangs kept flopping into her eyes, and not in a good way, not in a sexy way. Not that she ever looked sexy, not even after a trip to the hair salon. Unlike Drew, she had looking a mess down tight.

  Just to make herself feel worse, she glanced over at him.

  Drew always slouched, but now his back was glued to the door, as though he needed its support. Something was wrong...

  Stepping closer, she sniffed the air surrounding him.

  Fumes.

  Her hands went to her hips. "Do I smell beer?"

  "Hell, yeah."

  Slouched as he was, still she had to crane her neck to glare into his blue eyes.

  They were glassy, a little bloodshot. She never would have noticed if not for the fumes. "You've been drinking?"

  "Hell, yeah."

  "Drew, you don't drink anything stronger than coffee."

  "Hell, no. I've been known to drink beer."

  "When?"

  "In my misspent youth." Raising her hand, he placed a kiss in her palm.

  Though her toes curled in her sandals, that didn't stop her from thinking. Did he have a youth, misspent or otherwise? Sometimes she didn't think so. Sometimes she thought he jumped totally gorgeous and carefree off the cover of GQ.

  "Now don't go all worried on me, sweetheart. I can handle my hops." He dragged her closer.

  She didn't fight him. "Your eyes are bloodshot. Now that I'm noticing, your clothes look like you slept in them. And frankly you smell like eau de brewery. Pardon me if I'm a little concerned."

  "Don't be."

  "Oh, okay." She snapped her fingers. "There! My concern is gone."

  One bleary eye slid in her general direction. "Do you ever talk about me in your bitch-and-cry group?"

  "I told you, I made everything up. If you weren't intoxicated, you would remember."

  "I'm not drunk. I only had two beers. For breakfast."

  She folded her arms over her jacket. "I see. Only two beers. For breakfast. This from a man who never drinks. No cause for concern there."

  "None at all. I'm A-okay."

&nbs
p; "Then how do you account for the fumes?"

  "Must've been the four beers I had for lunch."

  "And dinner?"

  "It was a liquid dinner."

  "Not soup, I take it."

  "Nope. Not soup. And not beer either. I changed poisons. Whiskey. Straight. Wanna swill some down with me?"

  "No, I do not to do any swilling! Is something bothering you, Drew?"

  "Who me? Hell no. Listen, do we have to go into this now? I'd rather tell you how pretty you look. As pretty and pure as the snow outside."

  "Drew, get a clue. It's ninety degrees outside."

  "I was going for the imagery."

  She laughed despite herself. "The imagery of snow as something pure and pretty just doesn't compute even in the winter, not in this city with all these cars and negligent dog owners. You know what? Maybe we should wait to have sex. Why don't we go get a cup of coffee and something to eat?"

  He hung his head. "I hate beer. Tastes like piss. And whiskey rots your gut. People say if you drink enough, you forget. Alcohol doesn't do it for me." He looked over at her. "Sex does. I'm sorry, Kes. That's the truth. It's your right to know."

  "I gather you intend to use me tonight to forget?"

  "I thought maybe we could use each other. You need the experience. I need a woman's softness. It's an even exchange. Not real romantic but there it is."

  "All right, Drew. I'm yours for the evening. But are you up for this in your inebriated condition?"

  "I'll manage. Somehow."

  A more enthusiastic lover would have been nice, but what the heck, he'd seen her through some rough emotional times, about time she returned the favor.

  "Let's go for it," she agreed, her hairy legs and limp bangs forgotten.

  "Cool." Drew's unfurled his long lean body. Took a sluggish step. And tottered on his feet. "Look sweetheart, maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all. You deserve better. You should have the world's best lover."

  But she didn't want the world's best lover. She wanted him. Slightly drunk Drew. For the first time, he wasn't being a laugh riot. For the first time, he needed her.

  Well, maybe not her in particular, but a woman.

  "No," she said stoutly, "I'm determined to go through with this."

  He arched a brow, his sense of humor returning. "Determined? Determination will get you through a root canal. Maybe I won't be a stellar stud tonight, but even drunk, I'm better than gum surgery." He fingered her jacket's lapel. "I just wanted this perfect for you."