Sex Coach

by M. S. Parker

  A look inside my closet was mostly a dismal one, revealing more gray and black, kind of like the New York streets – although not as messy. I had some color in there, but most of it was tucked off into the back, all the pretty things I'd picked up from end of the season clearance sales and had never worn .

  Those pieces provided a decent start, but I needed more, plus some other basic pieces, like blue jeans that didn't require a belt to stay up .

  I had to stop hiding inside my clothes. Just because I was plump didn't mean I had to dress like I did .

  Bringing up one of my favorite sites on my phone, I studied some of the outfits I was always pinning, but never trying and then did some detective work. I was too organized to just go out and hope for the best. Besides, I hadn't dressed in any sort of recognizable style in years – I wasn't even sure if I'd know how .

  Maybe what I needed was a personal shopper .

  "Hmmm..."

  A couple of phone calls netted me exactly what I needed. A cancellation at Saks had me an appointment, and I had just enough time to shower and dress and make it there – I could even take the subway. I knew how to get there now. I'd been studying subway maps in preparation of my next excursion .

  I just hadn't expected it to be so soon...or to replenish my soon-to-be-depleted wardrobe .

  * * *

  "Y ou have a great figure," the older woman said in a delighted tone. "Oh, there are so many pieces we have that are going to look darling on you ."

  "Okay." I gave her a game smile and returned the iPad, hoping it would serve some purpose. I'd filled out a questionnaire that asked me my color preferences, personal style – did I prefer casual or dressy? – fabrics, and on and on. Hopefully, it would steer the woman to helping me made the right kind of choices .

  I didn't want to leave here looking like my mother had dressed me. Nothing against my mother, but she was a few years older .

  Her sense of style reflected it too .

  My personal shopper's name was Alice, and she beamed at me before offering me a glass of wine. Knowing I might need it, I accepted and a few minutes later, sat there sipping while she went out to do her thing .

  It didn't take me more than five minutes to realize I'd been worrying about nothing. Alice, grandma looks aside, knew her stuff .

  I now possessed boho-styled peasant skirts, jeans that went up high enough up that, when I bent over, my butt wasn't hanging out. There were also poet blouses, sweaters that followed my figure without being tight, and others that were fuller but stopped just a bit lower than my waist line, allowing those curves she was so delighted with to shine, as she'd described it .

  I went into the dressing room with my first armful and came out with eight different pieces I wanted .

  "Excellent!" she said, clapping her hands. "That gives me a direction !"

  That might not have been a good thing, I realized over an hour later. I signed the slip for my purchases, gamely not agonizing over how much I'd spent – after so many years of buying blah – and very little of it – I smiled up at Alice. "You are a wonder," I told her .

  "It has been a pleasure, Michelle." She beamed at me before pulling me in for a hug .

  I delighted in the fact that I was able to tolerate it. Once upon a time, I'd been a hugger myself. Impulsively, I squeezed her back before turning to look at all the stuff I somehow had to transport back to my loft .

  "This is going to be...fun," I said dryly .

  "We can get you a car, if that would make it easier," she offered .

  "A car. An elephant...maybe a couple of them. They could probably carry a lot of this," I replied with a sigh .

  She laughed and picked up her phone. "One elephant coming up ."

  * * *

  I t wasn't an elephant, but the town car was a welcome treat. It was another hour before I reached home and only a quarter of that before I stood in front of the mirror in my bathroom, trying on the outfit that would probably become one of my favorites. It was a little chilly for it still, with the temperature hovering in the twenties, but what the hell...all I planned on doing was taking my laptop and finding some place to eat and write for a little while. I'd wear my coat while I was outside, so what did it matter if the sweater had a cutout design on the sleeves ?

  It was ruby red, a color I never wore, not with my hair color, but Alice had told me if I had it, I should flaunt it and damn it, I was going to do just that. I even bought a red dress I planned on wearing the next time I saw Jake .

  The cutouts revealed my upper arms and my forearms in a whimsical, appealing fashion, while the hemline ended just below the waistband of my jeans. And the jeans were excellent. When a girl had a set of hips and a butt like mine, those hip hugger jeans were one of the worst designs imaginable, sliding too low and gaping at the worst places. But these jeans went up just high enough to avoid that, all without being those ugly old mom -jeans that had been a meme for a while on the internet .

  They skimmed my curves, calling attention to them without being so tight that it made it clear I was...well, very curvy. In other words, plump .

  The ankle booties done in the same shade of red as the sweater topped it all off and left me feeling like I really was the new Michelle my Aunt Blair had teased me about being. With my hair left hanging loose and a pair of gold dangles in my ears, I looked better than I had in...hell, years .

  I almost called Jake up to see if he wanted to join me for dinner. It seemed a shame to waste this on just me, but the second the thought crossed my mind, I decided that was exactly why I should go out, just me. Why was it wasting it to look cute for myself ?

  With that thought in mind, I grabbed one of my coats from the closet and a hat, lingering just long enough to get my laptop before I headed out .

  I was afraid if I lingered too long, I'd change my mind, but actually, as I rode the elevator down, I realized that I was excited .

  It had been forever since I'd felt this confident .

  It was turning out to be one hell of a weekend .

  * * *

  A nd it actually was getting better .

  The little Indian restaurant I'd chosen for dinner was packed, always wall to wall, so close that I turned my screen down to the lowest level of brightness it could be on, just to keep people from reading over my shoulder .

  Not that I was working on an assignment at the moment .

  I was working on one of my pieces, a short story I'd put off way too long .

  I loved my job, but writing for me was a pleasure I didn't engage in often enough .

  As my food came out, I closed the top of my computer and tucked it into my purse to protect it while I ate. As I bit into a piece of naan, a woman settled into the recently vacated table to my right and asked for a glass of wine. As I sipped from mine, she flipped open a magazine – one with a layout that had become very familiar to me .

  She was reading Coterie . Not only that, she was reading one of my articles !

  "Oh, man...you're reading Chasing the O !" I said, trying not to squeal .

  Her cheeks flaming, she whipped her head around to look at me .

  "I'm sorry," I said, clapping a hand over my mouth when I realized how loud – and obnoxious – that had sounded. "I just...I-I've enjoyed that series a lot ."

  In so many ways ...

  "Me, too," she whispered conspiratorially. She leaned over and said, "I've already tried a few things out with my guy. Whoever the writer is, if I ever meet her, I'm gonna kiss her right on the mouth. This stuff is pure gold ."

  "I...um...wow, yeah. Isn't it?" Now my cheeks were flaming, and I hoped the dim light hid it somewhat. I doubted it though. I'd managed to catch her blush .

  "Have you read the whole series?" she asked, apparently unaware of the fact that her last comment had both delighted and discomf
ited me. "There was one online ..."

  "I've read them." Nodding, I reached for my water and took a sip, putting it down and deciding it might be best to stick with it instead of wine for the time being. "She comes up with some...ideas, huh ?"

  "Hot ones, that's for sure. I mean, it's not like I haven't appreciated the other pieces Coterie has written about stuff like this, but this woman, it's like she's got insider knowledge or something." She grinned at me. "Know what I mean ?"

  I grinned back. "Absolutely ."

  The server appeared at that very moment with her glass of wine and she accepted before tipping the glass slightly in my direction. "Cheers! I'm going back to my reading. Enjoy your meal," she said happily after the first sip .

  "Same to you." Feeling a little lightheaded, I reached for my own wine. Wow. That had been my first live reader interaction. Not that I'd even told her I was the author. I wasn't sure my nerves could handle that .

  But still...wow .

  I was so going to have to tell Jake about this .

  And Aunt Blair, of course .

  Twenty-Five

  Jake

  T he cold air burned my lungs as I finished up the last quarter mile of my run .

  I hated running in the cold .

  Hated it with a passion .

  Sometimes, I just plain hated the winters here in New York City period, but this was home now. I'd have to suck it up and deal with it .

  At least until the five miles was done, and I could get my ass somewhere warm and shower and put on some clothes. Maybe a sweater about four inches thick .

  I had to delay the plan for the shower about five minutes though. I'd known I'd have to. I'd planned on hitting the store at some point this weekend, but a winter storm, then the one between Michelle and me, had put an end to those plans and I didn't ever make it out. Since I was down to the dregs as far as food went, I swung north so I could hit the bodega just up from my apartment .

  If I had gone in there two minutes sooner or two minutes later, I wouldn't have heard the newsflash. Maybe I could have carried on my day without knowing a damn thing .

  But life liked to kick me in the teeth, and instead of passing the day in a comfortable haze and thinking about Michelle, I stood there listening to the on-air reporter as she detailed private information about a woman I cared for .

  Standing in line with a gallon of milk and some juice, I clenched my jaw and fought to keep from going nuclear. This was bad. No other way around it, it was fucking bad, in a manner of epic proportions .

  The chyron lit up with her name, and every time I blinked, it seemed to flare and glow on the inside of my eyelids, a brilliant white mockery .

  Whitley McCrane .

  Whitley.

  As the on-air reporter prattled on, I focused on the screen so hard that the guy behind me tapped me on the shoulder. "Hey, it's your turn," he said, the Bronx thick in his voice .

  "Sorry," I said more out of habit than really meaning it, Moving forward, I dumped my stuff on the counter and pulled a ten out of my pocket to pay for everything all without taking my eyes off the screen .

  As soon as I had my change, I moved to the background and kept on watching the TV over the counter

  Shit.

  Shit.

  Shit.

  Had Whitley seen this? Had her husband ?

  This was going to devastate her. She never talked about the attack, her rape. Or what happened after. Just having the cops in the small town where she grew up brush it off as a girl changing her own mind after the fact had been bad enough, but when her parents had practically done the same and gone on to talk about how bad it would be for them politically if they were to pursue charges...it had all devastated her .

  The only way Whitley had been able to cope was to shove it all so deep down inside, it was like it had never happened .

  The reporter's eyes sharpened, and I felt my stomach twist heavily as she continued to speak .

  "What the true story is from all the years ago, we're unlikely to ever find out. Ms. McCrane is unavailable for comment. " The reporter gave the camera a catty grin and continued to speak. My gut twisted as she went on to speculate about reports of a long tern affair that the senator's wife had been reportedly having. "As yet, no concrete details are available, but we'll be sure to update the story as it unfolds . "

  "Good-bye, fucking career," I muttered .

  * * *

  M ind spinning, I headed home, the last block to my apartment passing in a blur. I shoved the milk in the fridge while grabbing a banana and a handful of grapes to throw into the blender along with the juice. I chugged the smoothie while I replayed the newscast over and over in my mind .

  Anonymous sources report that Senator McCrane's second wife is having an affair .

  Fuck. What was this doing to Whitley right now ?

  The same sources report that Ms. McCrane was the victim of a sexual assault while in high school but authorities questioned whether that assault ever happened. Our source has also provided a number of details ...

  Source. What fucking ...

  I froze, then threaded all ten fingers through my hair. "Michelle," I whispered .

  It was the only thing that made sense. I'd just fucking told her everything that had happened to Whitley. And now here it was barely forty-eight hours later and the whole story was live for all the world to see .

  Was that why she'd been in such a hurry to leave yesterday ?

  She said she didn't want to overstay her welcome, blushing as she kissed me before asking about the subway system – so guileless. Asking about the subway . What New Yorker didn't know about the subway ?

  But I'd fallen for it, charmed by her .

  She'd probably done her groundwork on that fucking subway ride back to her sweet little apartment up near Manhattan. It wasn't like it would be that hard, since I'd given her Whitley's name and mentioned that her parents were in politics. That was all somebody needed to know anymore to fill in the dots – or let Google do it .

  "Son of a bitch!" I fumed, hurling my glass into the sink with enough force that it shattered .

  A shard flew out and hit my hand, but I barely noticed .

  I had to talk to Michelle .

  I didn't know what I was going to do or say when I saw her, but I had to talk to her .

  * * *

  M ichelle opened the door on the first knock .

  The sight of her had the questions – calm, rational questions – dying on my lips. She was barefoot, her rich red curls spilling down around her shoulders. Those shoulders were covered in a rich shade of rose, a t-shirt that clung to her excellent tits before skimming down her sides to end a few inches below the waistband of her jeans .

  Jeans.

  Had I ever seen her wearing jeans ?

  If not...shit. Her not wearing blue jeans was a crime against nature. They gloved those amazing hips and clung to long, lush thighs. I wanted to cup her hips, pull her up against me and –

  "Jake!"

  She smiled in delight at me while my brain shut down, and the one part that remained functioning was the part dedicated to sex and fun. It began to thoroughly undress her, while the rest of me fought to regain control .

  She started to reach for me .

  Some select fragment of my brain took note of that, memorized it, catalogued it. But the rest of me was already reacting – and not well .

  "How in the fucking hell could you do it, Michelle?" I demanded .

  Her eyes went wide. "What –?"

  "Did you even think about how many people you'd hurt with that bullshit ?"

  "I...I..." She started and stopped a couple of times before finally managing to say my name. "Jake, I'm not sure what you're talking about ."

  If it wasn't for the fact that I knew it was her,
I might have bought that confused act. But who else could it be? Whitley had told me, point blank, she'd never told anybody else. I was careful to the point of obsession about protecting the privacy of my clients. The only answer that made sense was that somebody I trusted had broken that trust .

  "Don't bother with excuses or lies," I bit off, shaking my head. "I know what you did, Michelle. Anonymous source? Seriously? Who else was going to spill that information? The rest of the world might not figure it out, but I sure as hell did. I just told you. Who else would have said anything ?

  "Jake, I don't know what you're talking about," she said shaking her head. Her loose, soft red curls bounced around her face and she continued to watch me with confusion, but it was an act. All an act. It had to be .

  "You don't know what I'm talking about?" I narrowed my eyes, my teeth grinding together painfully. Pissed off and frustrated and hurt , I shoved the paper I'd bought into her face. "I trusted you. I never should have said a fucking thing about Whitley, but I trusted you. You were hurting, and I wanted you to know that I hadn't doubted you...that ..."

  Not knowing what else to say, I looked at the paper then just threw it down between us so that it lay on the floor, face up .

  Whitley's face stared up at me, a mockery .

  It just made everything that much worse .

  "How could you do it?" I asked again, raw inside. "Are stories really worth that much to reporters ?"

  "I'm not a reporter," she said, her voice choked. "I do freelance writing. There's a fucking difference ."

  She stared at me with wounded eyes .

  How could she stand there and look at me like that? She wasn't the one who'd been stabbed in the back .

  "It's not just me you fucked over, you know," I said, jabbing a finger down at the paper, the one with Whitley's lovely face gazing up at us. How was I supposed to explain this to her? What was I supposed to say? I was stupid, and my dick got the better of me ?

  That was going to sound really good coming from a pro .