14
Ally
Bridgeport, Connecticut wasn’t brimming with options for a mate. The city of 150,000 was filled with construction workers, fishermen, and factory workers. The average income of the area was twenty grand a year, which fell well below the national average.
Sifting through the population to find someone that was open-minded enough to accept me wasn’t as easy as one might think. The latter years of my adult life was spent with my dying father. What little time I had left I consumed by looking for a mate, but demographics and my taste in men prevented me from finding anyone suitable.
I was left spending my weekend nights searching in the city’s outskirts. Clinging to the hope that my dick donors wouldn’t encounter me during the normal course of a day, I bounced from one remote seedy bar to another—and from man to man—satisfying my sexual urges, but never landing a single relationship.
I knew Bridgeport, nor its inhabitants, were for me. When my father passed, I moved to where the men—and the money—were aplenty.
Now, my life was much different. My days—and nights—were spent thinking about one man. It seemed my only concern was when I was going to see him again. Organizing those meetings through a dry erase board was nothing short of awesome.
“It doesn’t frustrate you that you can’t just call him?” George asked.
Holding my chilidog mere inches from my mouth, I paused. “Not at all.”
He sat down across from me. “Is there a good reason you don’t have a phone? Before you say you can’t afford it, remember, you spend six hundred a month in here alone.”
“The main reason?” I bit one-third of the hotdog off and ate it. “I think they get in the way of people living life. Everyone’s so concerned with them that they don’t pay attention to each other. It takes away from our ability to be human.”
He seemed satisfied. After a moment of thought, he lifted his chin slightly. “You said main reason. Do you have other reasons?”
I was so hungry I felt faint. I’d been up nearly all night looking at random stuff in the dark with my night vision goggles. “The police can track your movement through you cell phone’s GPS system. I don’t like that.”
I took another bite. And another.
“Why would something like that bother you?”
Still clenching the remnants of the chilidog, I stared at him as if he was nuts. Chili oozed along the backside of my hand, and onto my arm. “That serial killer they caught a few weeks ago? Through DNA? They hoped to prove he was at two or three locations on certain dates, so they could charge him with two recent murders. So, they downloaded his phone data from the satellite. It provided a trail of everywhere he’d been. A highlighted line on a map. They found out he was right where they hoped he’d been on the dates in question. If he didn’t have a phone, they wouldn’t have known where he was. He could have denied it. I don’t like the thought of anyone being able to trace today’s steps six months from now.”
He rubbed his chin. “What have you got to hide?”
I finished my chilidog and contemplated my response. I couldn’t tell him the real reason. The reality of my concern, however, remained the same regardless.
“My life,” I responded. “Everything about it. It’s nobody’s business but mine, and whoever I choose to let in. It’s definitely not the business of the police.”
“I suppose not.”
I wiped the chili from my arm with a napkin. “I wish I was born in 1920 or 1930. Things were so much different then.”
“Life was easy back then,” he agreed.
The chilidog I’d eaten was the same basic chilidog my father ate when he was a boy. His father—my grandfather—loved chilidogs, too. My grandfather’s love for the concoction was passed on to him through his father, who loved them even more. For roughly a hundred years, the chilidog remained unchanged.
My chilidog proved that a century-old way of doing things was adequate, even today.
“All those old movies I watch? I want life to be just like that. No cell phone, no computers. Just people living life. Can you imagine Breakfast at Tiffany’s if Holly Golightly was on her phone all the time, texting or updating her Facebook? If she was Instagramming pictures of her outfits, or her food? Posing for and posting selfies?”
He laughed. “People take pictures of their food in here all the time.”
“In some respects, I guess that’s good,” I said. “I mean, it’s good for your business. People see that crap on Instagram, or whatever, and they come in here. I just think it’s sad that that’s what our world has evolved into.”
He stood. “It’s sad, but it’s true.”
It was true. The world had evolved into a much less meaningful place. I wanted human interaction. To be touched by hands, not by a .GIF or a meme.
As he walked away, I looked at the message board.
Ally,
A wise man once told me, “See with your heart, not your eyes.”
I closed my eyes this morning.
You appeared.
I’ll be back at six o’clock.
Goose.
His words filled me with warmth.
I wondered if he truly saw me when he closed his eyes.
Or.
If he knew my secrets. If that knowledge was drawing him closer. If his feelings were a ploy. If he was trying to protect what he believed was rightfully his.
Time, I guessed, would tell.
15
Goose
My motivation the see Ally was driven by my instinct to survive. In her absence, my heart ached. Being in her presence temporarily fixed what was broken. Having experienced both ends of what the spectrum offered, seeing her on a more frequent basis seemed to be the logical answer. I’d deal with the repercussions of my decision when and if they came.
“Why are you single?” she asked.
I pulled out my wallet and put a fifty-dollar bill under the salt shaker. “Where’d that come from?”
She glanced at the money and then offered me a smile. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” I said.
“It was just a question,” she explained. “You’re nice looking, have a pretty good personality, and you’ve got a nice dick. I want to make sure I didn’t make a grave mistake by riding your dick in the car the other night. Why are you single?”
“Pretty good personality? Pretty good?” I chuckled. “Really?”
“Yeah.” She nodded. “It’s pretty good. You’re a little stand-offish and you’ve got a bit of a temper.”
“What member of the male species doesn’t?”
“I don’t have a lot of experience with your species, personally. I can’t answer that accurately.”
“Why don’t you have much experience? You’re nice looking, have a pretty good personality, and you’ve got a nice pussy,” I said mockingly.
She laughed. “Answering a question with a question is a sign you’re hiding something, Goose. Why don’t you want to answer me?”
I put my wallet in my pocket. “I’ll answer you.” I gave my response some thought, but not much. “I’m single by choice.”
I didn’t know what else to say. It was true, I was single by choice. It certainly wasn’t by design. I was a marketable man and had been presented many opportunities to be in a relationship, most of which were declined. I’d only taken advantage of one of them, and it ended poorly.
“Okay. You’re single by choice. Why do you choose to be single?” she asked. “We’re naturally drawn to the opposite sex. We have an engrained desire to breed, have offspring, and feel wanted. Needed. If these feelings are natural, why don’t you possess them?”
I gestured toward the door. “Maybe I do.”
A look of disappointment formed. “Where are we going?”
“To my place.”
“Oh. You’re going to take me home and stick your pretty dick in my mouth, so I’ll stop asking questions?”
“No. My plan was to take you home,
sit on the roof, and watch the sun set.”
She reached for her purse. “I still want answers.”
“I’ll give them,” I assured her.
“We’re taking the bike?”
“You’re following me. I’m not far from here.”
“I thought you were in La Mesa. Mars, basically.”
I chill ran the length of my spine. I was a private person. I hadn’t told her where I lived. The fact she knew made me a little nervous.
More than a little.
My eyes thinned. “Who told you I was in La Mesa?”
“I don’t know. Somebody. You?”
I hadn’t told her where I lived. I was sure of it. “I didn’t mention it.”
She lifted her purse over her shoulder. “Someone did. I thought it was you.”
“It wasn’t.”
She shrugged. “Maybe it was Porter.”
It made sense. He could have easily slipped and mentioned coming to my house for a barbeque. “Maybe it was.” I brushed it off as immaterial. “But, that’s not where we’re going. We’re going about ten minutes from here.”
“Okay. I’ll follow you.”
Ten minutes later, we were at the beach house. As we walked toward the steps that led to the roof, she gestured toward the rear entrance, which was on the other side of the house.
“This is awesome,” she said. “Are you going to take me on a tour?”
“Maybe later,” I lied. The development of trust took time. Although I was drawn to Ally, I hadn’t known her long enough to trust her. I was working on it, though. “We’re going to sit on the roof.”
She seemed indifferent. “Okay.”
I led the way up the stairs. She followed me onto the roof, pausing as soon as she reached it.
She took a wide-eyed view of the deck. The westerly wind pinned her thin dress to her hips, giving a detailed outline of her perfect little pussy.
My cock twitched in favor of the sight.
“Did you do this?” she asked.
“Huh?” I shifted my eyes away from her twat. “Do what?”
Slack-jawed, she stared. “All the flowers and stuff?”
I gazed at my accomplishment. A newly-constructed wooden deck gave the once flat roof various levels of depth. Other than a seating area and a walk path, the entire roof was taken up by a potted array of reds, oranges, blues, and yellows.
A sense of pride filled me. “I sure did.”
She looked around. “This is obviously a hobby of yours. One you truly enjoy.”
I carefully grazed one of the California Poppies with my palm. “Not really. It’s more like therapy. It calms me. Keeps my head right.”
The occupants of the roof deck, in their entirety, were reliant upon me for survival. In my absence, they would wither and die. With my care, they would flourish and thrive, providing years of pleasure in return.
Caring for them—from seed to maturity—was therapeutic. In the end, they were an oblation for my sins.
Seeing someone else enjoy my work provided a rare sense of accomplishment.
I gestured to a concrete bench that overlooked the beach. “Have a seat. There’s beer, a bottle of wine, and a few other things in the coolers.”
Side by side, we took a seat on the bench.
She peered beyond the roof, toward the ocean. “I could get used to sitting up here. This is awesome. It’s like the ocean’s yours.”
“This was Ghost’s—Porter’s place. He left it to me in the will.” I looked at her. “You know about his fiancé, right?”
“Uhhm. I don’t know. Maybe.” She opened the cooler and looked inside. “What are you meaning?”
“Well, this place was hers. She left it to him when she died, which was only two months before he died. When he died, he left it to me.”
“I didn’t know all that.” She glanced around. “I’m guessing he knew of your love for flowers and such?”
“He did.”
“I’m sure he thought you’d enjoy it. Put your touches on it and stuff.”
I grinned. “I’m sure you’re right.”
“I’m not feeling wine tonight,” she said. “Do you want a beer?”
“I’ll have one.”
She handed me a can of beer. “There’s no bottles in there. I thought you hated cans?”
“They were on sale,” I said, even though they weren’t. “It was simple matter of economics.”
She opened the beer. “I have a few questions.”
“I’ll do my best...”
She took a sip. “Why are you single?”
“You said when we met that you were a thief,” I said. “Are you?”
Her brows went together. “Why would you ask me that? Why now, when I’m trying to ask you about being single? Why change the subject, again?”
I wanted to be able to tell her the truth. How a relationship couldn’t coincide with the secrecy required in the club. How I’d tried it once, and that it—and I—had failed.
It came to me that Baker’s Ol’ Lady, Andy, was present when the cop was killed. Her knowledge of that particular crime could be far more harmful to the club than any other crime we’d committed. I wondered how much Baker told Andy, and promptly decided he told her everything.
I looked at Ally.
I simply didn’t trust her enough to tell he the truth.
Yet.
“I want an answer on that before I answer you,” I said. “I’ll answer, your question, I promise. I’m trying to decide how to word my response.”
She scoffed. “You’re trying to decide whether or not you can trust me.”
“Why would you say that?”
“Because, it’s true.” She nodded toward my waist. “You crossed your legs, one knee over the other. That’s a sign you need privacy. You’ve blinked about ten times since I asked you that question, which means you’re uncomfortable. You can trust me. Tell me whatever it is you’re worried about. I’m an adult who cherishes what we have. I wouldn’t jeopardize this—or my reputation—by being untrustworthy.”
“I cross my legs all the time,” I argued. “I’m sure the pollen in the air is contributing to my eyes—”
She stood. “Take me to my car.”
“Excuse me?”
“My car. The VW? Take me to it. If you can’t trust me enough to tell me the truth, there’s no need on continuing. If you were nothing more than a penis to me, I wouldn’t give a shit. But, you’re more than that. I actually like you. So.” She folded her arms over her chest. “Tell me whatever it is you’re worried about or take me to my car.”
“It’s downstairs, remember? You drove here. Before you stomp off, you didn’t answer me, either,” I said. “Are you a thief?”
She sighed. “I’m sorry I got angry.” Her shoulders slumped. “Give me a hug?”
I stood and opened my arms.
We hugged. She held me as if she never intended to release me. I swayed back and forth on the balls of my feet, savoring her jasmine perfume. Then, she broke our embrace.
She took a few steps away from me, eyeing me as she did so.
With her hands behind her back, she twisted her hips back and forth playfully. She smirked. “Do you carry a wallet?”
I admired her for a moment before responding. “I do. Why?”
She shrugged. “Some guys don’t. They carry money clips, or whatever.”
“Yeah, I guess so. I prefer a wallet. I need it in my back pocket, so I know where everything is at all times. It’s like a wad of reassurance back there.”
“I bet.” She raised her brows in wonder. “Do you wear a watch?”
The line of questioning had sure taken an odd turn. I saw it as a strange change of pace. It didn’t shock me. Ally had a very quirky personality, and was unpredictable, to say the least.
“I’ve got to wear a watch,” I explained. “For some stupid reason, I always need to know what time it is.”
If I didn’t have on a watch, I couldn’t func
tion. I checked the time repeatedly throughout the day. I was surprised she hadn’t noticed.
Still swiveling her hips back and forth, she nodded toward my hand. “Is there a reason why you aren’t wearing a watch now?”
I reached for my wrist. My watch was gone. “Fuck,” I exclaimed, looking around us, frantically. “I wonder where the fucker is. I had it on just a minute ago.”
“Probably the same place your wallet is. I kind of remember you paying for dinner, but I didn’t see it in your pocket after that. I wonder if you left it at the restaurant.”
I reached for my back pocket. My wallet was gone. I went frantic. I knew I had it at the restaurant. I remembered getting it from my back pocket and pulling out a fifty-dollar-bill to pay for our meal.
“C’mon,” I said. “We need to run back there and see if I left—”
She produced her hands. She had my watch pinched between her thumb and forefinger, and my wallet in the other hand. I gawked in amazement, almost feeling as if I was seeing something that simply couldn’t be. I then remembered her saying she was a slight of hand expert. Even so, it was unbelievable.
“Jesus.” I swallowed heavily. “You took that shit from me without me suspecting anything. If you hadn’t said anything, I wouldn’t have noticed until the next time I looked at my watch. Even then, I wouldn’t have suspected you took them. That’s insane.”
“To prove my worth, I’ve also got these,” she said, opening the hand she held the watch with. She nodded toward her open palm. “Have a look.”
My key ring was cupped in her palm.
I carried the keys in the front pocket of my jeans. For her to reach inside and remove my them unnoticed would take much more than a slight of hand trick. It was a fucking miracle.
I gawked at her hand in amazement. “What. The. Fuck.”
“So, to answer your question.” She grinned. “Yes, I’m a thief.”
“Pickpocket,” I argued. “You’re a pickpocket.”
“For what it’s worth,” she explained. “A person could take these keys, press them into a piece of wax, and then return them into your pocket without you noticing. The wax impression could then be used to make a duplicate key, which would allow access to a home without breaking a window or picking a lock. One could walk in, in front of neighbors, without suspicion. Theoretically, of course.”
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