by Sierra Hill
And I’m hard as a fucking rock.
I can’t even jerk off because I’m scared she might hear me and will think I’m a fucking pervert.
If only I could turn back the clock two hours and go back to that scene on the balcony. Instead of her forehead, I would have crashed my mouth to hers, tasting the wine flavor that would have lingered on her tongue. I’d bathe in the softness of her lips, nibbling and nipping at her sweet taste. I’d have sucked at her lower lip, mimicking the way I’d fuck her pussy with my mouth.
I certainly wouldn’t have acted like a hesitant teenager, that’s for fucking sure. Now I’m just a horny loser lying alone in his bed contemplating the missed opportunity of learning what she tastes like.
And just like that, my mouth instinctively waters wondering if Joey tastes like wine and berries we had tonight.
My body yearns to feel Joey underneath me, squirming in frenzied pleasure from my touch. I throw back the covers from my sweat-drenched chest, huffing out a disgruntled breath.
I’m hot and horny and still a little drunk and worked up. Why that woman is still single and not snatched up by some guy is beyond me.
We didn’t delve much into our love lives in conversation tonight, but I did mention that Al and I just recently broke up and that’s why I was in need of a place to say. I didn’t expose the whole sordid truth, of course; she doesn’t need to know the beating my self-worth took and what’s happened to my ego since.
It’s deflated and bankrupt. If I don’t get a win in my corner in the near future, I may just jump off this freaking ledge.
Speaking of which, maybe I need to get some fresh air out on the balcony. Although Pat’s apartment has air conditioning, my amped up body is hot and the room is stuffy. Hopefully getting some air will help me regain control of my run-away R-rated thoughts and unexpected feelings toward Joey.
Swinging my legs off the bed, I slip on the pair of kaki’s I discarded on the floor yesterday, and head out into the darkened hallway. It’s relatively quiet, the only sounds coming from the street noises below, the amplified sirens and the constant thrum of Chicago city streets.
I head into the kitchen looking to douse the heat that’s been building inside me with a cool glass of water when a light shining from the balcony catches my eye.
Huh, we must’ve forgotten to turn out the light when we came in for bed earlier. I fill up my glass before padding across the hardwoods, when I notice the slider open just an inch. Now I’m getting a little weirded out, since I know I didn’t forget to lock the door. My heartrate spikes as I stealthily move toward the open door, scanning the vicinity for any sign of an intruder.
It’s then that I see the silhouetted shape of Joey, sitting in the corner of the balcony, knees drawn up to her chin. She’s holding something in her hand and from the looks of it, she’s reading.
My eyes first graze her bare legs. Before she went to bed, I borrowed her one of my t-shirts, which I knew would be oversized and too big for her petite body.
In the position she’s sitting – feet up on her chair, chin to her knees - the shirt bunches up between her stomach and her thighs, and the back of her legs and ass are clearly exposed.
It’s likely that I stare at her in the shadows for a solid ten minutes, my thoughts clearly not in the friend zone with all that luscious, silky skin on display rekindling the fire inside me. I bring the glass to my lips and take a big gulp, swallowing hard to drench the heat.
The sound must be loud because Joey startles, her head jerking toward me, her eyes spinning with alarm and fear.
I wave my hand out in front of me. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. I saw the light and open door and didn’t realize you were out here.”
I look at her bewildered gaze and then glance down to what’s in her hands. She’s holding my script.
When she realizes that I’ve noticed what she’s holding, she tosses it down on the small patio table as if it’s on fire and burned her hands.
“I, uh…” she stammers, looking guilty over having read my unedited first draft that I’ve just finished writing.
Tilting my head, I take a few steps toward her, picking up the manuscript she last touched.
“Were you reading this out here in the dark?”
The balcony light outside is really just there for ambience and decoration, not at all good for eyesight. It’s barely enough to illuminate the sight of her ducking her chin in what appears to be guilty embarrassment.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to read your work without your permission. I just couldn’t sleep and saw it lying there on the coffee table and I picked it up. I was curious.”
Taking the seat next to her – the one she vacated earlier tonight – I flip through the pages I have dogeared for corrections and edits. I’ve been working on this play for the last three months in hopes of submitting it to the theater workshop for this summer’s showcase.
Every summer this local theater company, Acting OUT, puts on a workshop for beginners. Beginning playwrights and actors and actresses who want to try their hand at live stage theater. They select from entries statewide. They do this to encourage developing talent within the local artist community.
Last year I was a judge and decided this year was the year I’d submit my work. I have no real hope of winning, but it gave me something to pour my heart and soul into after my breakup.
No one else has read any part of this play yet. I’m not sure if I should be upset by the fact that Joey read it without permission or be interested in hearing her critique.
I decide to go with curious. “Well?”
My palms get a little damp at the prospect of her vocalizing her editorial review. While she’s not in the biz and may not know the inside out of the craft, she’s still a potential audience member. And her opinion is valued. In fact, I’m at the edge of my seat wanting to know what she thinks.
“That’s a deep subject.”
I cock my head with confusion. My play isn’t deep, at all. As a matter of fact, it’s supposed to be light-hearted and comedic. If she thinks it’s heavy, then I haven’t done it justice.
I bow my head in despair.
When she laughs and my head pops up to see her grinning.
“Well…as in, a deep well. Get it?”
I laugh at her attempt at humor.
“Har-dee-har-har. Aren’t you just the funny one.”
She shrugs. “What can I say? I’m a pretty funny girl sometimes.”
Joey holds her hand out in silent request for the script. I give it back to her as our fingers briefly touch. She has short cropped nails and the idea that she’d dig them into my ass as I fucked her sends a sharp call to my dick. Which, less face it, was already on high alert from earlier.
Clearing my impure thoughts, I casually take her in as she flips through a few pages. Her strawberry curls have been pulled up into a messy bun, her face make-up free and the smell of apricot lingers around her. My fingers itch to run wild in her hair, tugging it a little while I capture her mouth with mine.
She taps one of those fingers on the page, drawing my attention back to the play.
“This scene,” she comments, verifying the location for me with a point of her finger. “Act One scene three. This is pure gold. Where Silvia dumps the ice bucket over Chester’s head after he ran over her tomatoes with his wheel barrow? So funny. I’d love to see this happen in live action.”
I snort at the recollection of the scene. My play is set in a fictitious small-town in Illinois with vague similarities to my actual hometown. It’s two neighbors who don’t get along in a rom-com ala When Harry Met Sally, but then wind up falling for each other.
“Yeah, I do enjoy these characters. They are pretty funny,” I nod in agreement. “I just don’t know if this will work on stage or not. There’s a lot of nuances to the script that may only work on paper. I guess it’s yet to be seen. And maybe it won’t ever be seen, who knows.”
Joey slaps the bound manusc
ript on the table and stands abruptly, hands on her hips in indignation.
“Are you kidding me? You’re writing is amazing. You’re funny and witty, and the dialogue is fantastic. And the chemistry between the male and female lead characters…well, it’s surprising you can write it so well.”
I’m thrown off balance by her backhanded compliment. What does she mean by that? Why wouldn’t I be able to write the romance very well?
I’m just about to ask her to explain her comment when she slides by me and heads to the door, stopping just at the threshold to look back at me. I’m sure I look like an idiot with my jaw hanging open, a confused expression painted across my face.
“I’ve got to pee and then I’m heading back to bed. But seriously, from what I read tonight, this play could be so great. You need to have a little faith in yourself.”
And with that, she disappears inside and I’m left reeling from her comments. It’s always weird to hear critique about your work. When I was in college, many of my friends would cope with drugs and alcohol, the pressure eating at their self-esteem. There’s a thick outer shell a playwright must develop to remain true to their work and their craft.
Thinking over Joey’s feedback though feels like the most flattering thing I’ve heard in a very long time and a great boost for my ego.
I smile to myself as I shut off the light and lock the sliding door. Her compliments are something good I’ll take with me to bed, along with the image of her shapely legs underneath that borrowed t-shirt. I got a good look when she stood and walked past me.
Who the fuck am I kidding? I might be going to bed, but there’s little sleep in the forecast for me now.
Chapter Seven
Joey
Batter Up
Patrick responded in the middle of the night, our time, with the location of my spare key. By the time I was out of bed this morning, the key had magically appeared on the counter with a note from Theo.
Stumbling into the kitchen, I poured a mug of coffee before picking both up.
The note reads:
Your key, madam. I had to head to an early audition. Woody’s been fed. May need to go outside. Would you mind?
Thanks. Hope to see you later.
Theo
I glance down at the wiggly dog at my feet and sigh.
“Why are all the good one’s either taken or batting for the other team, Woods? It’s so unfair.”
The dog obviously doesn’t care much about my love life and circles around by the door before he plops his butt down and sits, staring up at me with expectant brown eyes, hoping to win me over with his cute puppy dog face.
“Really, dude? I just got out of bed,” I grumble, taking a final swig of the coffee before placing it in the sink. “Let me go get dressed and then we’ll swing by my place first. Then we’ll go to the park. How’s that?”
Woody does another wiggly dance and I can’t help but smile. Damn dog.
We head over to my place where I change into shorts and a t-shirt and my running shoes, and make our way down to the street. The summer heat is fairly tolerable this morning and feels actually cool. Not bad for this time of year. Come July, even Hell will feel like a vacation destination.
Woody and I begin walking through the neighborhood, passing the charming shops and coffee houses, where people mill about. It makes me wonder how Theo is doing with his audition and wonder if it’s with that theater company he was talking about last night.
I didn’t mean to be a snoopy-snooperson when I began reading his play last night, but it was right there on the coffee table taunting me. I couldn’t sleep a wink, and tossed and turned for several hours – both from the heat and knowing I was sleeping next door to a very hot man. I could literally feel the zaps of electricity charging through my amped body after he got me flustering from dinner and wine.
Regardless of his sexuality, he’s still a very sexy man and left me a little breathless at bedtime.
So instead of remaining restless and unable to sleep, I got out of bed and wandered into the living room, in search of something to occupy my brain. And there it was, sitting open for me to pluck off the table and into my greedy hands.
I was sucked in from the very first scene and page. His characters are laugh-out-loud funny and their romantic build up was enough to have my itty-bitty parts tingling. I can’t imagine what it would look like all played out for a live audience.
As I round the street corner, my phone vibrates in my back pocket. The park is in sight and I know Woody is anxious to get there because his whole body flails and wiggles with anticipation.
“I know, buddy. I know. Just hold your horses for a minute,” I mutter, pulling the phone out to check the caller ID.
My legs stop moving and the leash jerks as my arm flies out with the force of Woody’s momentum coming to an abrupt halt.
It’s April calling. While we don’t talk too often outside of school, we have on occasion grabbed coffee or brunch together on the weekends. So it’s not all that surprising to hear from her.
I give Woody a brief look of apology before answering the call. “Hi April. How’s it going?”
It’s then that I hear a sob on the other end of the phone line. My heart rate spikes and my adrenalin pumps into my veins as I jump into panic mode.
“April? Are you okay? What’s the matter?”
She hiccups on the line, takes a breath and then seems to gain her composure.
“I’m sorry to bother you, Joey…but I don’t know who else to talk to.”
Oh God, if she’s calling for relationship advice, she’s called the wrong friend. The last relationship I had was when I was in college and was really only a three-month investment. There was no undying love professed or commitment involved, aside from offering to share our lecture notes.
“What is it, hun? Is everything okay with you and Tanner?”
She pauses with an intake of air. “Tanner? What do you mean? We’re totally fine. It’s nothing like that.”
“Mm-kay.”
Now I’m really confused.
“It’s my bridesmaids’ dresses. They’re hideous. They were supposed to be a nice lavender color and they came out a weird shade of purple! In fact, they look like something Barney puked up.”
I nearly laugh but tamp it down out of respect for April. But what a folly. Aren’t these things part of the whole wedding process? Even best laid plans and all of that.
Maybe I know nothing about wedding planning, but I’ve already been in a few of my high school friends’ weddings. Bridesmaids’ dresses are supposed to be ugly. That’s the point of them so the other women don’t upstage the bride. So unless I’m an idiot, I don’t get the problem.
In fact, last fall I was in my BFF’s wedding on Halloween weekend and she made us wear orange taffeta. There is nothing uglier than that.
“April, I think I’m missing something here. Why can’t you just call the dress shop and have them returned and exchanged? I’d think they’d guarantee your sale and want to ensure the bride is happy.”
Woody is getting anxious and begins to pace frantically in front of me, trying to convince me to get a move on. We’re just at the crosswalk and I look both ways and we head across the street to the small, tree-lined park. Just up around the kids playground there’s a small fenced area that was created as an off-leash doggie play area. I open the gate, bend to let Woody off his leash and feel my smile grow as he runs off chasing another dog.
April’s dilemma seems unfortunate but not unfixable.
“That’s my problem,” she laments. “I ordered them on close-out to save money and they said all sales are final.”
“Oh, that sucks.” Not sure what to say in this situation.
“But I was hoping you’d call the company for me and see if you can get them to exchange them for me.”
My footsteps falter. She wants me to do what, now?
“I’m sorry, come again?”
She heaves a sigh. “Remember last sem
ester where you went up against the school board to fight the dress code for teachers?”
Of course I remember that. It was this old, archaic policy that required female teachers to wear business attire in the classroom and no jeans were allowed. It made absolutely no sense why we weren’t allowed to wear more comfortable clothing. So I took a stand, started a petition and fought for our freedom of dress. It seemed logical and reasonable.
But I would never have considered me to be any type of crusader or someone that raised the rally cry. That’s not my usual MO. I’m typically the one hiding in the back, head down, going with the majority so as not to rock the boat. I think that’s my mother’s doing. She’s always been a force to be reckoned with and not one I could easily go up against to get my way.
But maybe others see me differently because here’s my friend, looking for my assistance because she thinks I am some kind of protesting hero.
“Oh geez. I don’t know, April. That was a one-time thing. I’m not usually that outspoken.”
“Sure you are. You put that student’s parent in their place when they were berating their kid in front of the entire graduating class last spring. You’re badass with your words, Joey. And I would be so grateful if you could at least try for me. Please.”
This gives me pause as I consider the incidents April has reminded me of when I fought for injustice. Those are times I’ll come out of my born-to-be-polite mid-west shell and confront the opposition to get justice served and to give some hell.
Huh. Maybe I am a little badass-y.
I just wish I had a little more of that when it came to getting what I wanted out of a man.
Chapter Eight
Theo
Bridezilla’s and playdates
I float home on cloud nine.
My audition and interview went extremely well and they had me reading for the director of a local commercial shoot with an ad agency. It would require just a day of filming in July and the take home pay I’d receive could easily cover my living expenses for the next six months. Especially since I’m still living rent-free at Patrick’s.