Covert art by Jessica www.jessicahildrethdesigns.com
Follow me on Facebook at: www.facebook.com/sd.hildreth
Like me on Facebook at: www.facebook.com/ScottDHildreth
Follow me on Twitter at: @ScottDHildreth
Chapter 1
ERIK. “Two colors? Are you fucking serious, just two?”
The salesman shrugged. “That’s all we’ve got right now. Black and silver.”
“Christ, Darwin. Every car I’ve purchased in the last five years has been black. I’m sick and damned tired of black cars.”
“The silver is too conservative,” he assured me. “The black one fits you.”
I gazed toward the showroom floor and nodded in agreement. “I’ll take the black one, but I’ll give you one-twenty, that’s it. Don’t counter-offer. No bickering. One-twenty. A cent more, and I’ll go get a Benz.”
“Have a seat. I’ll start the paperwork.”
I sat down across from him and let out a light sigh. “Fine.”
“So, is that new?” He pointed to my right arm.
I lifted my arm and admired the colorful tattoo. “It’s not new, but I got it done since I was in the last time.”
“So, how bad does it actually--”
A gorgeous twenty-something year old woman walking past his office door caused me to shift my attention away from the conversation. Her gait expressed confidence. “Holy shit, Darwin, who is that?”
“That’s the owner’s daughter, Kelli. She’s working here for the summer as a receptionist. Hell, she’s twenty-two years old, Erik,” he said. “Definitely too damned young for you.”
My eyes shifted from her to him. “There’s new rules about age,” I said. “Half your age plus seven years. So, half of thirty-six, plus seven. Twenty-five. Twenty-five years old is socially acceptable for someone my age.”
She may have been twenty-two, but her demeanor expressed maturity. She was tall, appeared athletic, and had straight black hair. Her skin was milky white and porcelain-like. Dressed in black slacks, a red top, and conservative two inch heels, she walked as if she was certain of who she was and where she was headed in life. With her chin held high, she took each step with authority.
Her walk had purpose.
I alternated glances between the girl and the salesman. “Does BMW offer a convertible hard top in any of their models?”
“The M3. It’s a retractable hard top, why?”
“Do you have one in black?”
“We’ve got a black one out back. Why?”
“I want it.”
“In addition to the seven series?”
“No, Darwin, I am not going to spend two hundred grand on cars today.” I responded. “How much is it?”
“It’s considerably less than the seven series. Let me look.” He began to shuffle his mouse across the desk and stare intently at his computer monitor. “Seventy-three grand. Fully loaded with the competition package.”
I locked eyes with him. “I will give you sixty-five, Darwin. Same as before, no negotiating, no bullshit, and no fucking counter offer.”
“Will you pay with a check at least?”
I had bought four cars from the dealership since the death of my mother five years prior. Two million dollars, a two-bedroom house, and a ten-year-old Chevrolet Impala; that was my inheritance.
“No, I’ll be paying in cash,” I said in an irritated tone.
“Erik, you know it’s about impossible for us to take that kind of cash. We have to report it--”
“You’ll take the cash, and you’ll figure out a way to make it work. Cash or no deal.”
I got a tremendous amount of satisfaction out of forcing people to do what it was that I wanted. It really didn’t matter if it was convincing the car salesman to take cash for a seventy-thousand-dollar car, or convincing a woman to go down on me in a movie theatre. If their natural response would be “no”, I wanted to make them say “yes”.
“Alright, Erik, we’ll figure out something.” He stood from his seat. “Do you want to see it?”
“Just go get it and bring it up here, I need to go eat lunch pretty quick.”
“It’s out back.” He motioned toward the five-acre car-filled lot. “You want to ride back there with me on the cart?”
I scanned the showroom floor for the owner’s daughter. “No, I sure as fuck don’t. Go get it and bring it up here.”
“Alright.” He turned away. “Give me about ten minutes.”
After he left, I stepped out of his office and walked toward the receptionist’s desk. Standing there, but now wearing glasses, the owner’s daughter was talking to a customer. As I approached her, the customer nodded and walked away.
“Can you tell me where the bathroom is? I need to wash my hands.”
She pointed toward the restroom. “Sure, you passed it as you walked from the other side of the sales floor. It’s half-way back to the east, first door on the left.”
I offered a slight smile. “So do you pay attention to all of the customers walking the sales floor, or were you just watching me for some reason?”
She grinned. “I was admiring your tattoos.”
I studied her as she spoke. Her eyes drifted to my forearm.
“They really stand out,” she said. “I mean, against your white shirt. I really like tattoos and the stories behind them. I don’t have any yet, but I want one, I just need to decide what and where.”
I tossed my head toward the bathroom. “First door on the left?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Erik. I would shake your hand, but.” I raised my hand. “they’re dirty.”
“I’m Kelli. With an ‘I’,” she responded. “Nice to meet you.”
“Kelli, walk with me toward the restroom.”
“Excuse me?” She cocked an eyebrow. Although she fought against it, a slight smile surfaced.
“I want to watch you walk. Come with me, and walk in front of me, please.”
“I’m supposed to stay here and answer the phone. I can’t.”
“Yes, you can. The decision’s yours. I want to watch you walk, Kelli with an “I”. Walk for me.”
Her eyes scanned the area as if to see if there was anyone that may question her walking away from the receptionist desk. She stepped around me and began to walk toward the restroom.
I studied her as she took each meaningful step.
She stopped and pointed toward the door. “It’s right there, Erik.” she said. She barely pronounced the “K”. It was almost as if she ended my name with an “I”.
I stepped to her side and then paused. Her eyes widened as I reached toward her face and swept the air away from her ear. I leaned to the side of her face and spoke softly – but with an exaggerated exhale – so she could feel my breath on her ear.
“It’s Erik with a “K”, Kelli. Enunciate.”
I leaned away, met her gaze, and continued. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”
An involuntary exhale escaped her lungs. “I can’t--”
“You can. Wait for me.”
I washed my hands and quickly returned. Standing nervously in the same spot, she looked beautiful.
I stepped past her. “Follow me to my motorcycle,” I said over my shoulder.
“I can’t. I have to stay--”
I continued walking, knowing eventually she would follow me. I didn’t turn around or look for her reflection in the glass of the office windows. As I reached the door, I stood to the side, opened it, and waited.
Incapable of hiding her excitement entirely, she quickly caught up to me and walked through the door. “So…uhhm…why am I following you?”
Silently, I walked the remaining steps to the motorcycle. I reached to put the key into the ignition and turned toward her. “It interests me that you’re interested in me.”
“I’m interested in you? You asked me to lead the way to the bathroom, and then you told me to follow you out to your motorcycle. I think you’re mixed up.”<
br />
I raised my leg over the motorcycle and relaxed into the seat. “I placed a business card on your desk. Before your head hits the pillow tonight, Kelli, I want you to text me.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What makes you think that I am interested in texting you?”
“The fact that you are, Kelli,” I said. I flipped the ignition switch on and started the engine.
She stood to the side of the motorcycle, alternating glances between me and the machine nestled between my legs.
“So, what exactly is it?” she shouted over the sound of the exhaust.
“It’s a chopper.”
“Not that I would, but can someone ride on the back?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
The salesman shot into the parking stall beside us. “Here’s the car. Where are you going?”
“I’m going for a ride. Just deliver it to my house. Send the paperwork with the driver.”
“I’ll talk to you tonight, Kelli.” I pulled in the clutch lever and placed the gear shifter into gear.
Her mouth curled into a slight smirk, and she turned away. “Yes--”
Over the sound of the exhaust, the audible note of her voice was lost as she turned around. I couldn’t tell for sure, but it almost sounded as if she said, “Yes, Sir.” I released the clutch and hit the throttle, quickly speeding out of the lot onto the street in front of the dealership.
Maybe it was exactly what I wanted to hear her say.
Yes, Sir.
Chapter 2
KELLI. One week earlier…
“Boys are stupid, it’s that easy,” I said.
“At first he acted like he wanted to be my boyfriend.” She shook her head. “He was such a douche. I hope I never see him again. What an asshole.”
I waved my arm toward the waiter. “Get drunk. You’ll feel better when you forget about it.”
Heather flipped her hair over her shoulder with the back of her hand. “Do you like my hair?”
“Trim?” I asked.
She turned away from me and shook her head. “Yeah, I had that Asian chick at Planet Hair do it.”
“It looks great. Your hair always looks good.” I lied.
Heather’s hair was a disaster. She was naturally brunette and spent way too much time and effort attempting to make it the perfect shade of blonde. Her hair was an extension of her life. Like most girls, when she was unhappy with life, she changed her hair.
And her hair was always changing.
She turned to face me. “I like it. It’s perfect.”
Heather was my best friend, and had been since high school. She was very tall – six foot one – and played volleyball in school. She was attractive, and had huge boobs. She blossomed when we were fourteen, and her tits were a magnet for guys, most of which were assholes. No one ever seemed to want to take the time to get to know her. The few that faked it were generally only interested in seeing her massive tits.
I went away to college and she ended up working as a waitress at Hooter’s. The repeated sexual advances from the patrons caused her to quit, and after a week or so of unemployment, she landed a new job.
At Twin Peaks.
The men who patronized the bar were fractionally better than the men at Hooters, and she was making every effort to enjoy her job.
The waiter stepped beside the table and grinned. “What can I get you girls?”
“Bud Lime.”
“Vodka and water with a splash of cranberry.”
He glared at me and cocked an eyebrow. “What?”
“Vodka and water. Add a splash of cranberry juice for color and flavor,” I responded.
He shrugged, then shook his head. “Want to see a menu?”
“No, thank you.”
He glanced at Heather. His eyes fell to her tits.
She grinned.
I cleared my throat.
He shifted his focus to me. I shot him a glare. After another glance at Heather’s tits, he turned away.
A few days prior, Heather met a guy in a bar. Later that night, they had sex, and now he wouldn’t text her back. It was a typical douchebag move from a typical douchebag. Boys in their twenties seemed to be assholes, and all of them were after one thing.
Sex.
There was never any commitment on their part, short of committing to shove their cock inside the first girl that agreed to let them. Men, on the other hand, acted differently.
“What?” she snapped.
“He’s not worth it,” I said. “Just stop thinking about him.”
“That’s fucking hilarious. How many times have you told me that exact same thing?”
She was right, I had given her the same advice each time a guy used her for sex, and it was more times than I could count.
“I don’t know.” I finished what was left of my drink, then shrugged.
“Each time I get drunk and let some guy fuck me, that’s how many. Probably a hundred, huh?”
I coughed out a laugh. The coughing caused a chain of reactions, including the resurfacing of my half-swallowed drink. The vodka came out my nose, and as much as I tried to stop it, it dripped onto my top and pants.
“Shit. Now, look what you did.” I complained. “That burns.”
“Sorry.”
“I’m going to the bathroom, don’t fuck anyone while I’m gone.”
“I’ll try not to,” she said with a laugh.
My trip to the bathroom produced several propositions – in the form of whistling and whispers. Boys, once again acting like boys. Depending on the mood I was in, it could be flattering. Most of the time, however, it was annoying. I differed from most young women in that I was comfortable with who I was, and I knew that I was attractive.
This made random compliments irritating. I wanted someone to notice me, want me, or feel a desire to know me based on who I was inside, and not what I appeared to be on the surface.
As I turned toward the women’s bathroom, a man came out of the men’s bathroom. He was at least six-foot tall, and had an athletic build. His handsome looks and chiseled features commanded my attention.
His right forearm was covered in tattoos down to his wrist. The tattoos – combined with his handsome looks – stopped me in my tracks. Wearing a stark white V-neck tee shirt, jeans, and boots, he looked like trouble.
My kind of trouble.
He seemed preoccupied. With my eyes locked on him, and still attempting to walk toward the bathroom, I ran face-first into the door. The dull thud caused him to look in my direction.
Embarrassed, I pushed the door open and rushed inside.
While I washed the stain from my top, my mind drifted to thoughts of the tattooed stranger. By the time the stain was gone, I was uncomfortably horny in a daydream about the muscular hunk.
Wearing a smile of satisfaction, I walked back to the table, free of my cranberry stain, but filled with desire. I scanned the area for the man from the bathroom, but didn’t see him anywhere. I didn’t see him anywhere. Disappointed, I sat down across from Heather and sighed.
“Ok, so get this. I was going into the bathroom, and this hit guy was walking out of the men’s bathroom. He had short hair, kind of blonde. Well, not really. Maybe it was brown. Brown-ish. Anyway, he was covered in tattoos-all the way to his wrist. He was looking down at his belt when he came out and he didn’t notice me, which was good. I was staring at him, and boom, I ran right into the fucking door.”
“Older guy?” Heather asked.
“I don’t know, not older. Maybe thirty-something.”
“Yeah, Kelli. Older. Not twenty-one.”
“Yeah, he was older than us, why?” I snapped back. “Did you see him?”
“Yeah, I saw him.” She motioned toward the door. “He went outside. I heard a motorcycle start, so I’m guessing he left.”
I fought to hide my excitement. “Do you know him?”
“No. I don’t know him. I know of him. My dad knows him. He used to go to my uncle’s shop to have his motorc
ycle worked on. He’s some weird doctor. He went to college, medical school, graduated, and then his mom died. He bought a shitty motorcycle and travels around the country on it in the summer. He lives in a shitty house over by Bel Aire. I heard them talking about him just the other day.”
I grinned. “A motorcycle-riding tattooed doctor? Yeah, I’m interested.”
She shook her head. “Sometimes I wonder about you. You just need to get a boyfriend. This jumping from guy to guy has got to stop. And he’s old. That’s gross.”
“If you fucked older guys, you’d understand. Boys will always treat you like shit. Men treat you the way they’re going to treat you, but you almost always know what’s going to happen. They don’t make up ridiculous lies just to get in your pants. They tell you from the beginning what they want. And you get to choose if it’s what you want or not.” I motioned toward the door. “Me? I want that guy.”
She laughed. “If your dad knew you were wanting to fuck that guy, he’d be so pissed off.”
When I was a year old, my mother left. My father never remarried. He did have female friends and went on occasional dates, but he never allowed another woman to move into the house. Growing up, I hoped that one day he would find someone that I could call mother. As I got older, I appreciated the fact that he never did.
My father was attractive, wealthy, and owned the local BMW dealership. His lack of interest in having a relationship left me wondering if he still loved my mother after all those years. It was something he never spoke of, so I never brought it up.
“My dad doesn’t need to know,” I said. “But I like older men.”
Heather shook her head. “Fucking old men is gross.”
“Fucking men makes me have multiple orgasms. Fucking boys makes me angry,” I said. “Boys always end up doing everything that they say they won’t ever do. They make promises just to get in your pants. I’ve got to go back to college, so I want sex, not bullshit promises.”
“You’ve always said that you wanted someone to appreciate you for who you are, not what you look like. What about that?” Heather asked dryly.
FEELS LIKE THE FIRST TIME Page 77