by Jake Irons
“But then I’d have to set a new life goal for myself.”
“Would it be that hard?”
He shrugs. “It’d have to be ambitious.”
“How ambitious?”
“Hmmmm…” He takes a drink of his wine, sets it on the counter. “I’d say something equal to or greater than becoming Batman.”
“That is ambitious.”
He nods.
“And is there anything greater than become Batman?”
He shakes his head. “No. Well, maybe. Batman with a healing factor.” He snaps. “That’s what I’d be.”
I laugh. “You and every other guy in America.”
He acts offended. “Are you saying my idea isn’t original?”
I snort and take a drink. This is fun. Everyone who worked for him said Eli was fun. “I’m saying throw in Wolverine’s claws and it’s already been done.”
He turns around to face me, clearly impressed. “You know Dark Claw?”
“Who doesn’t?”
He narrows his eyes.
“I dated nerds in high school,” I confess.
“Did you now?”
“Yep.” I nod.
“Would you believe I was one of the nerds in my high school?”
“I would find that difficult to believe.” He was captain of the baseball team.
“It’s true.”
“You seem more like a jock to me.”
“I was. But I had other interests.”
“Were you known as a nerd?”
“Hmmmm…not exactly.”
I cross my arms, not buying it. “Explain ‘not exactly.’”
“I was never called a nerd, but—”
“Then you weren’t a nerd.”
“Maybe I was a geek then,” he tries.
“What kind of geek?”
“Sci-fi.”
I smile. “Were you a Trekkie?”
“Yup. But not exclusively. I was really into Dune, and comic books, and pretty much anything space related.”
“That’s not super geeky.”
“Well, I was a ‘believer’, you know. Like, I was really into aliens and Area 51 and time-travel and conspiracy theories and all that. I thought Y2K was going to end the world.”
I laugh. “Did you really?”
“I was a freshman in high school.”
“And?”
“And yeah, I thought it was the end of civilization.”
I laugh. “So that’s the real reason you live out here all alone, huh?”
“You got me.”
He gives me a wink and turns back to the food. I squirm, because Pinocchio’s stupid sidekick is chirping in my ear again. I’m interviewing Eli right now. Not just about where he is, but about where he’s been. Childhood stuff. Stuff none of the Murphites (that’s what his super fans call themselves) Frankie talks to online could ever hope to know. And all without his consent. I’m gonna burn for this. I’m gonna—
“What about you?” Eli asks suddenly, and I almost jump out of my chair.
“What about me what?”
“You talked a big game.”
Gulp. “Oh?”
He nods. “It’s time for you to prove your geek cred.”
“It is?”
“Yep.”
I smirk. Letting boys know I know comics has always been one of my tricks. “Okay, shoot.”
Eli turns to face me and holds his left hand in the shape of a gun. “I’d rather ask you a question.”
I roll my eyes. “Har har.”
He narrows his into an exaggerated squint. “You said you dated ‘nerds.’ But you didn’t describe yourself as one.”
“Girls can’t really be nerds, can they?”
He considers this. “Not Saved-by-the-Bell nerds, but like, math nerds and stuff.”
I nod. “True. I wasn’t a math nerd though.”
“Girls can be geeks.”
“There weren’t any geeks in John’s Mill. There were only nerds.”
“Okay. But if ‘geek’ had been in the lexicon, would you have been a geek?”
I consider this for a moment. “I don’t know. Maybe, maybe not.”
“That’s not an answer.”
Most guys are satisfied/impressed/turned on that I show any interest at all in superheroes. Eli is the first to try to get to the heart of the issue, which is funny to me.
“Geek implies intense, exclusive interest, which I didn’t have,” I tell him.” I can explain the DC Multiverse for example—”
“That’s hot.”
I snort. “A lot of the dorky guys at my school thought so. But I never really read the comics. I just absorbed all the info from listening to the real geeks talk.”
“I’m sure they didn’t care about the difference.”
I puff up my chest proudly. “Once word got out, I was the trophy date to every comic con within a one-hundred-mile radius.”
“I bet.” He turns back to the counter, opens a jar of artichoke hearts, and asks, “How did you end up with the geeks in the first place? You look like a popular girl.”
“I grew up kind of poor,” I say, seeing no reason to lie. Actually, this honesty makes me feel slightly better about all the other lies. “Not like, destitute, but in on-sale Walmart clothes.”
“Ah.”
“What about you? You seem like…a politician’s son.” Both his parents were lawyers.
“Lawyers’ son.”
“Did you ever consider becoming a legal eagle?”
“Nah. Both my parents were, so it kind of seemed…lame?”
“One of my friends in New York has this dad who’s some world-famous orthopedic surgeon. He works with a bunch of big-name athletes and stuff. She is the smartest person I know, and she got into Columbia’s med school after acing the M-Cat, but she totally freaked out and went through this whole ‘I can’t be my father’ thing.”
“I definitely know the feeling. What did she do?”
“She went into IT.”
Eli snorts. “That’s ironic.”
“Is it?”
“Isn’t it?” he asks.
I shrug. Nicki definitely got shit about it from her dad, but that’s lame, not ironic.
“Don’t doctors hate technology?” Eli elaborates. “The tablet-toting they do now, from room to room?”
“I don’t know. Do they?”
“Hmmmmm.” He dumps something I can’t see into the salad bowl. “Maybe just the ones I visit.”
“What kind of doctors do you visit?”
“Old ones.”
“Old ones?” I ask, frowning.
“Yep.”
“Why?”
“Experience,” he says. “That’s one of the few pieces of good advice my dad gave me: always hire someone old, unless the job requires lifting or climbing.”
“Hmmm… It’s kind of sad, though, because young doctors have to start somewhere,” I muse.
“They can start somewhere with someone else.”
I smile at his back. He’s funny. Charming. He’s also hot as hell. We practically humped each other a little while ago, and here I am, looking like road kill. But with a nice shower, a few minutes to do my hair, and some eye-shadow…
I drain the rest of my glass. “So, how long until the food is ready?”
“Still probably half an hour. Sorry it’s taking so long.”
“No, it’s fine, I was just thinking about getting a shower. If that’s cool.”
He glances over his shoulder. “It’s cool. You aren’t worried about slipping?”
“Nope.” I stand. I feel a small sting of pain, but nothing I can’t handle. “I think my twist wasn’t that bad. It actually feels fine.”
He rinses his hands and wipes them on his jeans. “I’ll show you to the bathroom.”
I hobble to get my bag, which is still hanging by the door, and Eli leads me to the door immediately to the right of the staircase.
It opens to a spacious bathroom. The floor
is a sort of pinkish, brownish stone. The walls are cedar. There’s a double vanity with cabinets on either side. The tub/shower combo seems basic, but upon further inspection: “Ooooooo, jets.”
“It’s pretty straightforward,” Eli says. “Press that button to turn them on, and again to turn them off. Adjust the speed there.” He hangs my bag on a hook on the small wall-space between the bath and the door. “Let me know if you need anything.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
He leaves, and I turn on the water and undress slowly, like I’m peeling off a layer of skin. There aren’t many things I like better than taking off clothes after a long day. Also, I sort of want Eli to come back in. But mostly I don’t. But I do.
It’s been waaaaaaay too long.
After the break-up with Cory, I wanted nothing to do with guys. That was six months ago.
I’m obviously over that now.
Chapter 5
Eli
I hear the pipes whine, and a moment later, I hear the thumping splash as the water hits the tub. Minutes later I hear Chelsea sigh as she eases herself into what I imagine is a tub full of steaming water.
I hear these things because there’s a vent at the top of the wall next to the tub, near the ceiling. Or what looks like a vent. It’s actually just a hole with a vent cover. There’s another hole pretending to be a vent on the other side of the wall—this side—above the staircase. It’s a little quirk I added because I wanted the bathroom to breathe, but I didn’t want to let anyone in to install a fan. I didn’t intend it for spying purposes; I didn’t think there would ever be anyone in that bathroom but me.
I tell myself I’m standing here just to make sure she’s okay. Her ankle is definitely still swollen. If she slips, I could be liable. I need a lawsuit like I need a hole in my head.
I’m definitely creeping, though. Spending too much time imagining what she looks like naked in my tub, and now that I’ve acknowledged that, it’s time to stop. I rip myself away from the sounds of her bath and walk back into the kitchen. I was supposed to take her down the mountain. Instead I offered to make her dinner. Why? Because I’m the thirstiest motherfucker in Colorado.
God, I’ve got to be the stupidest, too. Even if Chelsea is exactly who she says she is, I’m risking exposure. And exposing her. I can’t do that. She has no idea what she’s getting into.
I’ve already started dinner, so we’ll eat. When we’re done, I’ll drive her into town. It’s time to man up. Have some self control. Be reasonable.
I survey the meal. I still need to sear the venison, then finish cooking it in the oven, but that will only take about fifteen minutes. I think I’ll wrap it in bacon, so that’s five more. I was going to make my own dressing, but instead I’ll go with some store-bought vinaigrette. I fetch it and some feta cheese out of the fridge. I forgot the Kalamata olives, so I go back to the fridge, and, well, I’m already close to the stairs, so I walk to them, just to make sure everything seems okay.
I hear the jets, and I imagine what all that water looks like swirling around Chelsea’s body, and fuck me, all I want to do is fuck her.
Chelsea. Chelsea. Chelsea. I still don’t know her last name. Chelsea who could be anyone. Chelsea who sets off alarms in my head, but makes my dick hurt so good. Chelsea Chelsea Chelsea…who seems just a little too cool to be true. Too funny. Too attractive. Too clever. Ass too big. Too acquainted with comic books. If I had met her back in New York…
But I didn’t. I’m not in New York. I’m here. For a reason.
I’m not famous, but before I left New York I wrote a book. It was actually the book that got me in trouble. But it also got me some fans. And disappearing like I did got me notoriety. Last I checked, there are still hundreds of people who regularly post “leads” about my location in Facebook groups and on message boards. Chelsea could be one of those loons.
It’s harder for me to think of her as an assassin, but my life is so fucking ridiculous, she could be.
It’s also possible she really is who she says she is: a girl down on her luck. Any weirdness I sense from her could be for a dozen reasons. Maybe she’s weird because she had a near-death experience. Maybe she’s nervous about being in a house with me, a stranger. Maybe she’s freaked out about her future, or maybe she misses her ex-boyfriend, or maybe she’s pregnant, or maybe any number of things that don’t have anything to do with me.
But that doesn’t mean I’m not running a risk having her here.
When I first moved up this mountain, I didn’t even make it a week before I drove into Boulder to find some pussy. I left the next morning before the girl woke up, and spent the next two days locked in my house in a cold sweat. But by the third night I was back down the mountain. For the whole first year I lived here, I went looking for sex every few nights, and it was never hard to find. I rationalized no one would recognize me, until someone finally did.
I don’t remember her name. She was a redhead, and a grad student. I think history. I woke up the next morning, and she was holding her phone beside my face, comparing me to a picture of myself taken just after Mikey’s Boys came out.
I played it off, but it was still too close a call. I couldn’t lie to myself anymore about the risk I was taking. And I don’t need to lie to myself about the risk I’m taking now.
I need to get Chelsea out of here. For her sake and for mine.
I rip myself away from the stairs and walk back to the kitchen, but some boners are harder to ignore than others. I need to jerk off. The meal can wait. I need to clear my head.
I step quietly downstairs, pausing on my way to listen. I only hear the jets.
There are two large rooms on the bottom floor. One is ostensibly a guest room, but as I never have guests, I put a decent home gym in it. I use the other room as an office.
There’s a bathroom in between, and that’s where I go. It’s smaller than the upstairs bathroom—one sink and a standing shower instead of a double vanity and a tub.
I stand in front of the counter, my dick throbbing. I unbutton my jeans, and I’m so hard they get caught as I try to pull them off. I jerk them down, then my underwear, groaning as I pop free.
I thump my dick against my stomach, loving the way my head hurts. I grab myself at my base and stroke up and down, up and down, stopping to squeeze my head before stroking again, down and up, down and up. I squeeze my balls with my right hand, and my legs shake. I moan and close my eyes. I try to focus on drawing out the pleasure. Torturing myself with slow strokes. I’m jacking off at a snail’s pace but I’m still about to cum. I think of Chelsea, in my bath, and pump harder. No, not in the bath, she’s on my bed, on her stomach, head propped up on her hands, so I can see her beautiful ass and legs and back and hair and eyes. Her pretty lips part, and my aching balls draw up tight. Chelsea smiles and opens her mouth wider. She sticks out her tongue—oh fuck. I spread my legs. Take a step back and try to aim for the toilet, but my dick’s too hard.
“Fuuuuuck.” I explode like a geyser, shooting cum all over the wall. I keep stroking, up and down for another minute before I heave a satisfied sigh, and…fuck. I’m still hard.
Fucking fuck!
I clean up quickly—myself and the wall and toilet. I flush, check my reflection—my forehead is slightly damp with perspiration, but the main problem is the bulge in my pants. I adjust it so it’s less conspicuous, turn off the light and hurry upstairs.
Chapter 6
Tara
I stay in the tub until the last of the water has drained out—something I’ve done since childhood, when the tub was my refuge. Well, the entire bathroom. It was the only door I could lock.
I thought the bath would relax me. But the warm water, the jets, and the knowledge that Eli is just a wall away have made me even more hot and bothered than before I took my clothes off.
I’m thinking about taking care of myself, but I haven’t been able to use just my hand since my sophomore year of college, when a friend took me to a sex store for the first
time. I bought a magic bullet then; now I’m a LELO girl.
Unfortunately, I don’t have Le with me, but there might be another alternative.
Maybe Eli has had a live-in lover, or maybe he bought this house and didn’t build it, or maybe the Universe knew that one day I’d be in this bathtub at this exact moment and decided to throw me a bone (ha ha). I’m happy to report that the showerhead is detachable, and the cord is loooong. Like, long enough to stretch all the way to the back of this tub.
I turn on the shower, adjust the water till it feels just right, and stand under the stream. Do I really want to do this?
Yes.
Am I really going to do this?
Yes.
I should check the door to make sure Eli locked it on his way out, but part of the fun is thinking he could come in at any moment. That’s why I leave the curtain open, too.
I decide to warm up with my hand, so I leave the showerhead on the floor in the front of the tub and lie back.
I close my eyes and pretend that Eli is in the shower with me. Laying in the bath behind me, and I can feel his big dick pressed against my backside. My hands are his hands, and they cup my breasts before teasing my nipples. I gasp, and his hands follow my curves, down my body, in with my waist, then out with my hips. My pussy throbs as he tickles his way up my inner thighs. I’m ready for him. So ready.
He parts my lips and glides a finger up my slit, flicking it across my clit before sliding back down.
He plays with me this way, teasing my clit before working his way deeper—and I moan, so loudly my eyes open.
I’m loud during sex—loud enough I’ve gotten more than one noise complaint. But the water’s on. The walls are thick. I just need to be a little quieter.
I close my eyes, and in half a minute I’m struggling again to keep the volume down, because the two fingers playing at my entrance aren’t my fingers: they’re his thick, plump head rubbing in circles, and my clit is throbbing as my body tightens, wanting him inside. My pussy is gushing as he glides through my wetness, stroking down toward my core. He slides in and out, in and out—just the head—before shifting so I’m filled up.
I moan. This feels so good, and—
The bathroom door opens. I know because I hear it, and I see the top of it swing inward, and I see Eli appear around the corner. “Are you…”