I was mulling over the fact that a true friend would likely go to that meditation snoozefest when raised voices caught my ear. I eased out onto the floor and spotted an older woman having histrionics at the front desk over the big swampy-green stripe down the middle of her head, and that delightful client was none other than Pilar’s beloved racist, Julia.
Red glanced over and said softly, “And here’s a prime example of why you don’t use home color unless you know what you’re doing.”
“I don’t want your goddamn colorist,” she hollered at the receptionist. “I want Pilar.”
The cowering girl looked back to me as if I might offer to step in and save the day like I had with Carolyn. No chance—totally different situation. Maybe both customers were in touch with their true feelings, but Green Stripe’s true feelings weren’t made up of frustration and annoyance. The woman was exuding a noxious cloud of hate. “Totally booked,” I said smugly. “There’s my three-thirty now.”
“I’m the customer. I’m paying, so I should get what I want. Pilar is perfectly capable of dyeing my hair.”
Red approached the desk and said, “Actually, repairing a bad home job is a challenge even for me. I think it’s best to let the owner handle this.” He strode back to Ralph’s office without another word while I escorted my client away from the fray. All the stations were quiet, stylists and clients alike, as everyone strained to hear what would happen next. Pilar met my eyes in the mirror and gave her head a subtle shake. She’d been walking on eggshells since her job interview, and this Julia explosion was a resounding crunch.
I set up my customer as if nothing whatsoever was happening and got down to our consult. Vaguely, I was aware of Ralph handling Julia himself, all arrogant competence that invited zero whining. I also noted that he called Red over periodically for advice. I personally would be leery of upsetting the power balance by offering my opinion to Ralph. Then again, he wasn’t in the habit of asking for it. Thanks to the mirrors, every discussion was another chance for me to gauge the dynamic. Red wasn’t afraid of Ralph…and maybe he needed to be. I pondered a way to tell him so without signing myself up for two hours of nonconsensual meditative torture.
When all was said and done, Julia was in Ralph’s chair for over three and a half hours. I’d turned over four customers by the time he blew her out. She didn’t seem very happy. Her new color was too dark, and it made her look older. But I supposed it was better than green.
Afterward, Ralph took Red into his office and closed the door. Several of the Juniors said, “Ooh….” under their breath. I focused very hard on my current client’s sideburns, and hoped I wasn’t a day late and a dollar short with that warning.
The two of them were sequestered until close. The whole staff was expectant and subdued when they emerged from the office, Ralph with tip envelopes and Red looking…perfectly at ease. Then again, Red was the epitome of calm. Probably from all that meditation. Ralph, then. I knew him well enough to know when his outer aplomb was covering a jugular hit in the making. Maybe he was agitated under his cool veneer. Or maybe I was just seeing tension because I expected to see it.
“Customers need a firm hand,” Ralph announced for everyone’s edification. “That’s just how it is. But it’s important to see when something’s on the verge of escalating and call me in while it’s still salvageable.”
“Absolutely,” one of the Juniors said, and another chimed in, “Good job, Red.”
I was bracing myself for Pilar to be called out for not training her client well enough to begin with when Ralph excused the staff for the day, then turned to me and said, “Mr. Ash, a moment?”
Pilar and I had carpooled. She checked her watch. “Should I wait?”
“Unnecessary,” Ralph said. “I’ll call a cab. Unless…” He nailed me with his shrewdest look. “Was there somewhere you needed to be?”
“Not particularly.”
He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Good.”
Chapter 13
Pilar filed out after Red and the Juniors, but she shot a final “what the hell’s going on?” look to me over her shoulder before she left. I was curious about what Ralph wanted too, since the whole Julia fiasco had nothing to do with me. It was entirely possible that he was already over the incident—every now and then he let terrifying things roll off his back, maybe just to keep us all on our toes—so he might’ve wanted to see me about something else entirely. He ushered me in and I wandered over to an open box of product samples to avoid sitting down, and modulated my tone to a cautiously negligent, “What’s up?”
“You’re sure I’m not keeping you from anything?”
“No. Why?”
“I’m trying to triage the day. I was supposed to have the website updates completely proofed and ready for the webmaster, and instead I got sucked in to that repair job. Since you’ve got most of an English degree….” He trailed off and gestured to a bunch of printouts scattered across his desktop waiting for the red pen.
There’d been something weird in his body language, something that was clearly not a Vibe despite the enticement in his tone, and I was relieved to realize it was just the awkwardness of him asking me for real help with an actual project. “Sure, no problem. Where do you want me to start?”
He frowned. Disappointed. He’d expected me to have a prior engagement, and when I didn’t, he was stumped. I realized Red must’ve mentioned inviting me to the meditation, which Ralph then construed as a date. And not in the way I’d playfully—and unsuccessfully—tried to turn it into one.
Ralph Maldonado, jealous. Will wonders never cease? I was slightly flattered, but decided it was best to sweep the whole thing under the rug. Trysting with Ralph was one thing. Encouraging him to develop a sense of ownership was another. I kept my expression affable, mildly disinterested, and businesslike while he handed me a stack of pages.
His possessiveness ebbed. He gave me instructions to cut the verbiage by 40-50% to make it more mobile-friendly, plus a list of keywords to leave untouched. I moved the samples that cluttered the tabletop, parked myself there and got down to business.
Persuasive speaking doesn’t necessarily translate into catchy writing. Ralph’s prose was pretty stilted. Luckily, I could zap a lot of his extraneous words and blame it on the need to simplify and condense. While he ordered Thai from a little restaurant at the edge of the Square, I whipped the who we are, what we do page into shape. Ralph poured us each a glass of wine. Not the shop wine, I noted. A Chenin Blanc from his private reserve. I took a small sip to wet my whistle. Wine. Meh.
“See what you think of that.” I handed him the marked up copy and moved on to the services page, which was focused on getting bridal parties in the door. Pilar was the master of the updo. If she left, Ralph would definitely suffer. Or maybe it wasn’t a question of if, but when.
Once I finished blending in the paragraph about what it meant to be a Certified Color Specialist, which had obviously been cut and pasted from the official ACI site, I felt a little prickle. The type of twang you get at the nape of your neck when you’re being watched. Ralph sat at his desk, fingertips steepled, eyes on me. I quirked an eyebrow in response.
“I’m glad you could stay,” he purred. It was half past nine and the windows were pitch dark. Overhead lights were off, and the desk lamp threw harsh shadows across his features. I was surprised it was already so late. My Pad Thai was cold and my wine was warm. I’d never thought I had it in me to own a salon, but working on the site, taking a long view of the business structure and marketing, I’d been deep in the zone.
“No biggie.”
“Not hungry?” Ralph asked.
“Just focused, I guess.”
He uncoiled from his desk, and nailed me with a look. “Maybe you’re hungry for something…else.”
Oh great, I hadn’t successfully deflected his proprietary interest after all. And here I’d been enjoying myself. It’s a sorry state of affairs when you’d rather write than screw,
but there you go. I made myself shift gears. For someone whose ego has its own gravitational pull, Ralph can take offense too damn easily. Rebuffing his persistent advances would only land me in the doghouse, so I pitched my voice semi-playful and said, “Depends what’s on the menu.”
He strolled around the desk and unhitched his belt. “Picture this: me, a naive and trusting soul, trapped and at your mercy. And you, a predator who’s schemed his way into the situation, salivating to gorge himself on my innocence.”
The mobile-friendly version being, Suck my dick, Mr. Ash. Good thing I was fluent in verbosity. I adjusted my body language and stood. Aggressive, feet planted and eyes narrowed. “I’ve seen you looking at me,” I said, low, with an undertone of threat. “You think you’re being inconspicuous, but it’s obvious you can’t keep your eyes off me.”
Ralph backed into his desk, and crossed his arms. “That doesn’t mean anything.”
“No? Then why are you always checking out my package?” I gave myself a thuggish squeeze. “I think you’re hot for me.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Oh yeah?” I glanced down at his crotch. The desk lamp threw the contour of his bulging hard-on into stark relief. The thing cast a shadow halfway to his hip. “Then why are you stiff enough to bust your zipper, huh? Show me that dick, and then try and tell me you’re not dying for me to handle it.”
He didn’t meet my eye as he eased open his jeans. As if he was demure.
“Let’s drop the act here,” I said. Ralph’s gaze flicked briefly to mine, and I realized I’d picked an uncomfortably ambiguous turn of phrase. For damage control, I sank deeper into my role. “I’m the one in charge, and I will do whatever I damn well please. And you? You’re not just gonna like it—you’re gonna beg.”
Ralph’s shoulders relaxed. I grabbed him by the dick and started stroking him off. It felt…mechanical. Because what I really wanted was to work on the website. Or to be at home listing my empty fish tank on Craigslist. Or, hell, even sitting around at that lame meditation gathering. Now the only thing to do was get the sex over with and get on with my night, so I sank to my knees and said, “Go ahead. Beg me to suck you dry.”
“I can’t….”
“You’d better.” I jacked him hard, watching the ruddy tip sprout from the tunnel of my fingers, then recede. Over and over. “Or else I’ll leave you hanging in the breeze, aching to feel my mouth on you, with nothing left for company but your own prissy hand.” That threat rolled out easily enough, since it actually seemed like a pretty good idea. But I didn’t bother waiting for him to come up with some good begging. I wet my mouth and took my medicine in hopes of finishing him as quickly as possible.
The key to a good blowjob is to act like you’re into it. Like the busboy, for instance. He would’ve been content to suck me off half a dozen times if I’d had the juice. As it was, I think we hit round four before I got too chafed to keep going. He was dick-obsessed—that much was obvious even before he started assailing my cell phone with pics. Me, I’m not into dick for dick’s sake. While I enjoy a good hard handful as much as the next guy, what really interests me is the brain behind the boner. Although, by that logic, Ralph Maldonado should’ve been my ideal fuck-buddy, since the guy’s always thinking. And here, I was hoping to get him off and get the hell out of there.
Ralph shoved in hard and nearly gagged me. “Taking what you want…just like you always do.” That’s right, pal. Run with it. I set a steady rhythm. “You’ve got the world by the balls and it’s still not enough. You have everything, you greedy pig: looks, brains, youth. And you’re still not satisfied—you want more.”
I took him by the balls and squeezed, just enough to amp up the mood. He grunted, and his thighs clenched.
“You want my hard cock up your ass.”
Actually, in that particular moment, getting plugged was the last thing I wanted. I played my tongue stud over the base of his cock in hopes that he’d change his mind, reminding him how amazing it would feel if I flicked the metal ball over the head once he came, in that uber-sensitive moment where it’s so good it practically hurts. But no. While he pulled out and started rummaging through his desk drawers for a condom, I did my best to rub myself into a convincing hard-on while he wasn’t looking so my lack of interest wouldn’t be so apparent.
He opened the wrapper, but kept his eyes on me. It felt like I was the one being peeled and exposed, not the slimy latex. I’d hoped to steer the fantasy into different territory. Make him jerk off for my pleasure, or hell, bend him over the desk and treat him to a few surprisingly heartfelt slaps. But he was tugging on the raincoat, and I had nowhere to backpedal.
“Tell me how much you want it.”
What I wanted was to go home. And, damn it, I was drawing a blank. “Enough with all the talk, show me the action.”
I kicked out of my combat boots, shucked off my jeans and held out my hand for the lube. He tossed me the bottle. Neutral silicone, no smell, which was good. Scent is a potent trigger for memory, and once I managed to sate Ralph’s appetite and head home, I wouldn’t want random wafts of fragrance reminding me, whenever I shifted position, how I’d misspent my evening.
The leather couch would be the easiest on my knees. I positioned myself with my ass in the air, realized he hadn’t yet joined me, and finally broke down and said, “Get over here and satisfy me.”
And so the fucking ensued.
Back when I was a restless tween, my parents sent me to all kinds of summer enrichment programs to keep me occupied. Maxine claims I was hyperactive, and if I was left to my own devices, I’d eat all the baking chocolate, set fire to the curtains, and let the dog run away. One of the camps was a pioneer day program. Scintillating activities like making cornhusk dolls and lurching around the grounds in a makeshift covered wagon. But churning butter—now that was one hell of an event. All us kids took turns plunging away at the butter churn, worked our skinny arms to the bone driving the stick in and out, in and out. We labored away at it for nearly an hour, which seems like an eternity at that age. And in the end, all we had to show for it was a bunch of waxy globs floating in a thin milky broth.
What an image. Good thing tonight’s results would be contained by the condom, otherwise I might lose my Pad Thai.
I couldn’t see a clock from my position, elbows dug into the armrest and one foot braced on the floor. But judging by the amount of variations of “yeah, fuck me harder” I had to come up with, we’d been at it nearly as long as the kids at the day camp. Not only was it ridiculously late—Red was probably even finished with his meditation and was home with his tablet and his herbal tea—but the thrusts had gone well past the point of discomfort and were starting to register as pain. And not in a titillating way.
I pushed myself up, dislodged Ralph from my posterior, turned onto my back and wedged a pillow under my ass. “Come on, you worthless fucktoy,” I growled. “Bring it on home.”
He slung my knees over his shoulders and assumed the position. I watched his expression as he sank in, hoping to find he was as bored with the proceedings as I was. But no. Sweat had deflated his carefully-mussed hair, and the fringe clung to his moist forehead. His neck was flushed. And there was such a delighted gleam in his eye, it was obvious he was enjoying himself.
I started whacking off in time with his thrusts. Hopefully once I shot, we could call it a night. I wished I could close my eyes, but then it would be too obvious I was pretending Ralph was someone else. Besides, I couldn’t actually imagine Red banging me to the point of tedium.
“How good is it?” Ralph panted.
“We’re close,” I said. Hopefully speaking the words would make it so.
“Tell me.” His balls whapped me in the rump with every stroke. “Tell me how good.”
So good I wanted to fucking hurl. “Shut up and finish.”
“Tell me.” Whap. Whap. Whap. “Say it.”
The rational part of me understood that I was supposed to dredge up mo
re praise for his prowess, but the next thing out of my mouth had nothing to do with stroking his ego. Without thinking, I’d reached for him. Not to draw him down for a kiss, either. Instead, I’d grabbed him by the sweaty neck with my thumb dug deep. “Listen, you sick sonofabitch, either you come right now or I tear off your balls and cram them down your throat.”
I let go of his neck so fast, you’d think I accidentally grabbed a hot flat iron by the wrong end. Even so, the strike tipped Ralph over the edge he’d been riding the past solid hour. His mouth dropped open and his eyelids fluttered half shut, eyes rolled back to show only whites. He arched and gasped, and plunged in hard as he spent himself deep in my sore ass.
Once he was finally through, I tried to extricate myself from beneath him, but he had me pinned. His eyes opened, and he gazed down on me with immense self-satisfaction while neither of us made a move to stop my grudging erection from dying. Maybe I should’ve been miffed we’d dropped the pretense that I was enjoying myself, but mostly I wanted to get the hell out of there.
Ralph Maldonado is not a cuddler. So it irked me when he lingered there in his afterglow. He folded himself across my body, tongued my lower lip, then spoke against the wetness. “I didn’t think you had the rough stuff in you, Mr. Ash, but you wear it well. Make sure you read up on the technique before you try it again. You could have crushed my trachea.”
Again? Delusional fuckhead. There would be no next time. Not that I could come out and say it, not with him clinging to me, all sweaty and sated. It was when I was schooling my features into the blandest neutrality I could muster that I noticed something even more disturbing: a scent. Earthy and lemony. And nothing at all like the subtle, trendy fragrances Ralph usually layered, sparingly, with the delicacy of a surgeon.
Skin After Skin - PsyCop 8 Page 10