Sugar & Salt

by Pavarti K. Tyler

  She studies him, weighing her hesitancy to reveal the truth about herself against her need to be in control. What could it hurt?

  She picks up her wine. “Fine, I’ll play, but only if you answer three yes or no questions.”

  “Meeting conditions with conditions?” He reaches for a sesame rice cake appetizer.

  “I have limits to what I can handle.”

  “All right.” He sets his snack down on the bread plate, and folds his hands on the table. “I’m in.”

  “Have you ever killed anyone?”

  “Purposefully or accidentally?”

  “Either.”

  “No.”

  “Then why did you ask me to specify?” She looks at him with skepticism.

  “Wondering what your limits are, exactly.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Are you currently married or committed in any way to anyone?”

  “No.” His answers come easy, falling like truth.

  “Last one.”

  “Hit me.”

  “Have you ever bought or sold a human being?”

  He recoils and squints his eyes, as if trying to make out a distant shape. “What kind of question is that?”

  “The kind I require an answer to.”

  “Jesus, what the hell is wrong with the men you date?”

  She shrugs. Used to disappointment, she’s ready to walk away. “If you don’t tell me, I’m going to assume the worst.”

  “No, I have never bought or sold a human being. Fuck.”

  “Good, then you get a reprieve on full disclosure until next Thursday.”

  He leans back in his chair and studies her again. “You are an extremely interesting woman.”

  “So you’ve said.” She takes another sip of wine.

  Tempting Mr. Teal

  The front door of The Sugar House slams open. A gust of wind grabs the wood and pushes hard against the hinges, and the door creaks as it fights to retain control, catching Jackson’s attention.

  A man in a soaking wet trench coat struggles to close the door before turning to Portia. His face is pulled tight and a vein bulges in his jaw.

  A shiver runs up Jackson’s spine despite the luxurious temperature of the House.

  “Where is she?” The man shakes droplets of water from his coat as he approaches Portia’s desk.

  She stands, as she does with all clients, but hesitation keeps her in place behind the desk. The room is empty but for her and the agitated man—Dahlia had been pulled into an appointment upstairs with Pearl.

  Jackson watches as her eyes dart toward him, and the glint of fear he sees there pulls him to standing. He remains hidden, but alert.

  “I’m sorry, sir. Do you have an appointment?”

  “Don’t give me that shit. You know perfectly well who I fucking am. I’ve been calling for days and getting nowhere. Now where is Juliette?”

  “Juliette is currently unavailable. If you’d like to leave her a note—”

  “No, I don’t want to leave her a fucking note. Are you an idiot? Now get her for me, or get that cunt bitch boss of yours.”

  “Neither is here at the moment, but if you’d like to tell me what the issue is, I’d be happy to try and help.” Her voice remains stern.

  Jackson knows her well enough to detect the hard tone in her voice, betraying how much she detests confrontations like this. No one would ever guess—she keeps her back straight and her head held high. Sometimes he is struck speechless with awe at the way she conducts herself. Given the circumstances, he would have lost his temper if he was in her place, but she manages it perfectly.

  “Fine.” The man drops his hands to his sides, and bunches them into fists. “I had an appointment with that little whore Juliette last week. I was with her for less than an hour—barely even got to know the bitch—and now no one is returning my calls.”

  “I’m sure there’s a reason for this, sir. Perhaps there’s a note in your file. Why don’t you come in and sit by the fire, warm up, and dry off while I check.”

  “Are you trying to manage me? I’m sure you know perfectly well. Do you people even deliver what you promise, or do you just take money from the idiots you cock tease and then count on them never doing anything about it?” He steps around the desk, close enough to touch her if he decided to.

  Jackson tenses, ready to step out, but Portia’s eyes flick to his and she shakes her head. She’s got this. That’s my girl.

  “Sir, I can assure you nothing like that is happening. If you’d like to sit down, I’ll look into it for you. Now, what’s your name?”

  “Mr. Teal.”

  “Thank you.”

  She reaches for his jacket, shakes off the rain and hangs it on the coat rack as if he were just another client, come to trade his hard-earned wealth for pleasure—any brand he requires. She passes him on the way to Miss Necia’s office.

  Jackson watches as the man sizes up Portia’s assets before wandering the room. One of the best parts about remaining hidden until absolutely needed is the ability to observe clients when they believe they are alone. People are never what they seem—the persona they present to the world rarely proving genuine when social constraints are removed. Even here, in a place where their business is to provide men and a few women with ways in which to fulfill their unfulfilled desires, social norms rule.

  Mr. Teal paces the room, checking over his shoulder to see if Portia’s still out of the room. He approaches her desk and tries a few drawers. All locked. He wiggles the mouse to bring the monitor to life. Password required. He paces from the desk, to the fireplace, to the heavily curtained window, to the back of the room where the door to the kitchen is hidden. He tries the handle. Locked.

  Jackson grins. That’s right, clowndick. This place is locked down.

  He approaches the foyer and eyes the stairs, peering up to the balcony.

  Not a good idea, buddy.

  Before he reaches the bottom step, Portia re-enters the main room.

  She blanches for a moment upon seeing Mr. Teal in the foyer by the stairs, but smiles in Jackson’s direction. “Sir, if you could please come back into the sitting room?”

  Mr. Teal glances up the stairs again, sighs, and returns to Portia. He assumes an expectant posture, as if entirely certain of his vindication.

  “Mr. Whitmore.” She gestures to the couch for him to sit before settling into the high-backed chair across from him with grace and composure. “You’ll notice I am using your real name. The reason for this is you are no longer a client of The Sugar House.”

  “What? This is unacceptable.” He stands, face flushed.

  She simply stares at him until he sits back down.

  “I paid my money. You have no right. I paid and I want to see Juliette.”

  “Sir, when you came to us, you were told we would be conducting a thorough background check. At the time you paid, you were cleared as a client. However, you were also informed of our intention to periodically check on you. Any resulting information could give us cause to remove you from our client list at any moment and your money would be confiscated.”

  “Fucking ridiculous.” He leans back in his chair, his shoulders hunching over—an admission of defeat before Portia even explains the situation.

  “These accounts of you lurking around your daughter’s school during the day are disturbing. Even more disturbing is the fact you’ve been spoken to about this by the school administration, as well as the father of one of your daughter’s friends. Marcie, I believe.”

  “What does this have to do with—”

  “Since your interest in Juliette is based on an age-play scenario, we believe your actions here are not simply re-enacting a fantasy, but a precursor to a crime, and you are likely to ultimately continue on to fulfilling your desires with someone underage. This is not the business we are in. We will not help you practice a crime, nor encourage the exploration of an obsession which could hurt a child.”

  “No, you don’t understand. Comin
g here is to stop myself from....” He sighs and lays his head in his hands. “I don’t want to hurt her.”

  “You see, I do understand. You didn’t display this behavior at the school before you came to see Juliette. And from your phone records, you’ve been calling this girl’s cell phone at least four times a day, which you also had not done previously. We believe allowing a continuing relationship with Juliette will only encourage you. If you’d like to engage the services of another one of our staff, we will consider allowing you to continue as a client, but you will not be allowed to participate in any age-play scenes.”

  “I can’t have Marcie, I can’t see Juliette.” He shook his head, not looking up.

  “Mr. Whitmore, I recommend you look into some kind of therapy. We know a number of discreet professionals who work specifically with sexual deviance and obsession. I can give you a referral if you’d like.”

  “It’s not me, don’t you get it?” He looked up, his face pale and pathetic. “I’m not the one who’s sick. It’s Marcie, always walking around our house with no bra and her little workout shorts. I’m not doing anything. I’m... goddamn it. You’re just like Barbara, fucking criticizing everything I do when I’m just trying to do things right.”

  “Mr. Whitmore—”

  “Listen to me, you little bitch—”

  And there it is—the line Jackson cannot allow to be crossed. No matter how much this guy disgusts him, he trusts Portia and Miss Necia to handle things. Portia never loses her cool; her composure is superhuman. He’s never seen her cry or get angry with a client, but he will not sit by while someone speaks to her like that.

  He’s halfway across the sitting room by the time the pervert stands up. Whitmore looms over Portia aggressively, his hands curled into fists. Jackson strides in, grabs his neck, and barrels forward until he slams the asshole’s body against the wall.

  “That’s just about enough. I think it’s time for you to leave.”

  “I’ll leave when I’m fucking well and ready.”

  Jackson squeezes a little tighter. It would be so easy to let the life ebb out of this little fuck. Everyone in his life would be better off: his daughter safe, her friend free, his wife out from under him.

  Whitmore grabs his forearm, pulling it away and trying to wriggle free.

  Jackson steps closer and lets his body weight rest against the creep, just enough for him to feel the bulk of muscle beneath his clothes. There is a thick smell of coffee on his breath, but Jackson can smell the liquor it’s intended to cover. Desperation and a sick sense of entitlement wraps around this douche bag like a safety blanket, letting him navigate a world that doesn’t want him with impunity. Shits like this succeed and thrive while he struggles to keep himself together with every breath. Men like him are worth less than the shit they flush, but the world is open to them like pussy on a platter.

  The injustice of it makes him squeeze Whitmore’s throat a little tighter.

  Portia steps up, her arm only millimeters from Jackson’s, but he can feel an electric shock running through his body. “I think this evening is quite over now. Mr. Whitmore, if you decide to seek therapy, or would like to speak with Miss Necia, I recommend you call next time instead of stopping by.”

  He drops Whitmore and steps back, leaving only a small space between him and Portia for him to walk through. He watches as the dejected and humiliated man makes his way to the door, trailing him closely so he can slam the door closed on the asshole’s receding figure.

  Portia remains by the fire with her back to him.

  He walks toward her, yearning to wrap her up in his arms. Instead, he stands close behind until she turns around.

  “You all right?”

  “I’m fine.” She offers him a wan smile.

  “You were amazing. Miss Necia couldn’t have handled him better.”

  Portia shrugs, the corners of her lips tugging down.

  “Really, you did great. The only reason I stepped in was because it looked like he might get physical.”

  “I know.”

  “You didn’t need me... I just can’t stand the thought of anyone—”

  “I know, Jackson. It’s good that you stepped in. It was time for him to go.” She wraps her arms around herself and then looks at him, dropping them.

  He hates that she doesn’t want him to think her weak, as if he ever could.

  “I need to write that up before I forget what he said so I can tell Miss Necia.”

  “I’ll get you some tea.”

  “Thank you.” She smiles.

  Their eyes lock for a moment, and his chest swells with emotion, but she turns away.

  He leaves her to work, and wanders back to the kitchen to get a cup of chamomile tea—her favorite.

  On Top of the Town

  “Are you ready to go?” Salt stares across the table at Janice, his posture relaxed.

  “Where will you be taking me?”

  “Wherever you’d like to go.”

  “I believe you owe me a tour of your apartment.”

  He blanches at her forwardness, but recovers in an instant, a lewd smile forming on his lips. “I don’t recall offering you one.”

  “Something about wanting me in one of your shirts?” Janice stands up, wobbling slightly on her heels. The world tilts and rights itself before she begins the trek to the front door of the restaurant. She has no doubt he’ll follow.

  Alcohol knocks down the walls she works so hard to maintain. She shoves tomorrow’s guaranteed tidal wave of guilt to the back of her mind. For now, alcohol is the excuse, life the reason, and Salt the benefit.

  A steady arm wraps around her waist, and she leans into his warmth. Beneath the tailored suit, a hard body waits to be uncovered.

  He leads her out into the cool spring air, and the breeze against her skin offers a titillating juxtaposition to the heat growing beneath it.

  He pushes her up against the wall and descends upon her lips. It’s not the lingering temptation of his earlier kiss—this time he assaults her mouth, pulling on her lips with his teeth, demanding entrance. He grips her hip bones and pushes her into the unyielding wall, her moan caressing his ears.

  She laces her hands through his hair and pulls as he nips at her lips—hard, but not enough to hurt. She yearns for more and clings to him as he pulls her tighter against his body.

  A kiss reveals more about a man than a quick fuck. Does he take his time? Does he know what he wants? Does he give as well as he takes? A quality kiss has flow—it shifts from aggression, to passion, to tenderness with ease. Salt does not let her down. The intoxication from the wine loosens her limbs, but his hands melt away any lingering resistance.

  She opens her eyes to find Henry standing at the curb with the car door open, eyes downcast.

  Salt doesn’t remove his hands from her body as he breaks the kiss and leads her to the vehicle.

  She resumes the kiss before the door shuts behind them, reaching inside his jacket to explore the lines of his taut, muscular chest. His chest tightens as she drags her nails across it, deepening the kiss. She drapes a leg over his and teases his neck with her lips—gentle suction, a soft caress.

  He digs his fingers into her upper arms as she rubs her leg along his hardening erection. The leather seats heat up beneath them. He slides his hand up her leg, massaging her thigh with a powerful grip.

  The car slows, and a knock on the rear window interrupts them. Henry learns fast.

  She wipes her mouth with a giggle and slides away from Salt.

  “Dad caught us.” He chuckles with a wink, and she can’t contain another giggle.

  He readjusts himself before opening the door. After he gets out, he nods to Henry and holds his hand out to Janice.

  She slips her fingers into his and allows him to help her to her feet.

  The glass facade of his building reveals an elegant, vacant lobby. Leather couches sit stiff and proper in the middle of the room.

  She breezes by Henry and the d
oorman, her attention fully focused on the man leading her through the cavernous space. Heat radiates off him, pulling her in.

  At the elevator she releases her hold, leans against the wall and crosses her legs. “Let me guess, the penthouse?”

  “Nope, too big. I just have a place on the 9th floor.”

  “Too big? That’s not a complaint one often hears.”

  “Really? I hear it all the time.” He keeps his face slack.

  Janice barks out a laugh, teetering on her heels. She smacks him on the chest with her purse before falling into his arms, laughing. “You are a ridiculous man.”

  “And you came home with me. What does that make you?”

  He leans down to kiss her as the elevator doors open. They tumble inside and he presses the button for his floor.

  She runs her hands up his back, and traces the lines of his shoulders with a sigh. She closes her eyes and lays her cheek on his shoulder blade, stealing a moment of innocent pleasure. How long had it been since she felt happy? She snakes her arms around his middle and breathes him in.

  The elevator announces they have reached their destination, and the doors slide open without the usual shake and rattle of most New York buildings. The hall is dimly lit, and a line of doors spans out before them. Oriental carpeting softens their footfalls as they make their way down the corridor, rounding a small corner to a single door separated from the others. 9-7A is posted above it.

  He fumbles for his keys and drops them.

  “Excited?” she teases.

  “Aren’t you?” He leans down to pick them up, and traces the line of her inner leg with the tip of the key as he stands. He slides the key into the lock and turns it with a soft click.

  Inside, he turns on the lights and reveals a room with a glass wall looking out over Central Park. He begins to kiss her, reaching his hands out to read her curves before kicking the door shut behind them. With reverence, he traces the hemline of her dress, pulling it up until his hands scoop her ass and lift her to him.