Man Cuffed

by Sarina Bowen

  “I didn’t forget.” This is the other thing we have in common—a pressing need for better male company. We’re both coming off of romantic disasters. So last night—over a pitcher of margaritas—we made a deal to only date decent men.

  “But you just said you need a man to have a whiff of danger!”

  “A whiff,” I emphasize. “Not a stench. It’s different. There are some very decent bad boys in the world. Good men who like to have a fun time. There have to be.”

  Cassidy does not look convinced. “How can a man be both good and bad at the same time?”

  “Oh, honey. There’s this thing called sex...”

  She throws a wad of packing tape at me. “Don’t talk to me like I’m a child. Everyone does that.”

  “Sorry,” I say quickly. Cassidy is some kind of statistics genius. But she’s also sheltered, and a little sensitive about it. “I was just making a dumb joke. But our needs are not funny. There have to be men in the world with good hearts and dirty minds. There just have to be.”

  “I hope so. I asked someone out today. On a date.”

  My hands freeze on the box I’m folding up. “What? Already?”

  “Yup. I told you we can’t waste time. So I just went for it in the dentist’s office.”

  “The...really?” God, I hope she didn’t proposition the dentist. If he’s a bad kisser she’ll have to switch dentists. That sounds really inconvenient.

  “He was waiting to see the hygienist at the same time I was. His name is Greg.”

  “Greg,” I repeat slowly. “He sounds very clean.”

  Cassidy laughs suddenly. “He was very clean, now that you mention it. Silly me, I took that as a good sign. And maybe it is. Maybe he has straight teeth and tidy hair and a wonderfully dirty mind.” Her eyes are sparkling. “You’re going to be so jealous.”

  I laugh because it’s true. “When’s the big event?”

  “Well, we’re going out on Friday.”

  “Wear the nice lingerie on Friday!” I chirp.

  But Cassidy looks scandalized. “No way! That’s the first date. He doesn’t get to see my undies until at least the third.”

  “The third?” I don’t know if I’m cut out for dating like a responsible adult.

  “The third,” she repeats firmly. “If he won’t even wait a couple weeks for the main event, then how could he possibly be relationship material?”

  “I suppose you have a point. Although this process is going to take longer than I thought.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If responsible dating means three dates before nookie, how are we going to weed out the losers? The two-pump chumps? The sixty-eights?”

  “The—what?”

  “Can’t quite be bothered with sixty-nine?”

  Cassidy blushes furiously. “It’s not a perfect system,” she admits. “But impatience hasn’t worked for us. So I think we have to try a little restraint.”

  She’s making plenty of sense. It’s just that restraint isn’t my strongest attribute. “Hey, speaking of restraint?” I drop my voice and point at the living room wall. “My new neighbor tied up his girlfriend last night. With handcuffs.”

  “What?” Cassidy whispers back. “How do you know?”

  “Thin walls.” I move closer to her and sit down on the floor, so we can’t be overheard. “I had some music playing, so I didn’t hear them getting started. But when the playlist ended, I heard moaning.”

  “No way.” My friend’s eyes are as wide as dinner plates.

  “Way. And after a while she said, ‘Go get the cuffs, tough guy.’ And I guess he did, because she sounded very satisfied with the results.”

  “H-how satisfied?” Cassidy squeaks.

  “She’s a screamer,” I whisper. “If I ever meet them in the elevator, eye contact is going to be a challenge.”

  Cassidy giggles. “Is he a screamer, too?”

  “No, but…” I pause, wondering if I can even do him justice. “He has this deep, growly voice, Cass. He was ordering her around. I couldn’t hear the words, but…” I shiver. There’s no way to describe the effect that voice had on me. It was so masculine and commanding.

  Not to mention the deep, agonized groan at the end. I get another shiver just remembering it.

  “Who lives there?” Cassidy asks.

  “No idea,” I admit. “But he sounds hot.” There was something a little familiar in his voice that I just couldn’t place. But that was probably only wishful thinking.

  “Now watch,” Cassidy says. “They’re both, like, seventy-five years old.”

  I howl. “God, I hope they are. Because that means I have another forty-five years to find a guy like that.” And speaking of time. “Don’t you have to go?” Cassidy is supposed to have dinner at the Evergreen Club with her family.

  “Yeah,” she sighs. “Good times.”

  “Free food,” I point out. Then I swat her on the butt. “Go. You’ve been a huge help to me. Thank you for giving me your Saturday.”

  “Anytime! You know I don’t exactly have a packed social calendar.”

  “Except for Greg from the dentist’s office. I expect a full report.”

  “Don’t worry.”

  I walk her to the door. “Give my love to Liam and my sister!”

  “Will do.” She turns around after pressing the elevator button. “You could come, you know. There will be room at the table.”

  “Maybe another time. I have to...shampoo my cat.”

  She rolls her eyes because I don’t have a cat. Then she gives me a friendly wave and leaves.

  I head back inside, congratulating myself for dodging that invitation. The McAllister parents aren’t exactly party animals. But that’s not really the issue. My sister and her husband will be there. And I just can’t deal with them today.

  Don’t get the wrong idea. I love them both. But—like Cassidy—I’m a member of the Lonely Siblings Club. My sister Sadie just married Cassidy’s brother Liam. They also just welcomed my sister’s third child into the world—a little boy. Alfred. They named him after Hitchcock, their favorite filmmaker.

  They are happy in that exuberant way that seems unfair to single people. And they don’t even have the good sense to be smug about it. Which makes it hard to hate them. I shouldn’t be so irritated with them finding love and happily-ever-after and all. That’s what I want, too.

  But there are days when I don’t think it’s going to happen for me. Especially after my last relationship. That was my last really optimistic moment with a man. I’d begun imagining an alternate future for me. Instead of Meg The Famous Actress, for a brief moment I thought I’d be Meg Who Is Famously Married To A Podiatrist.

  Unfortunately he was already married. A fact he’d failed to mention.

  That’s when I knew I had to get out of Atlanta. He was the last bead on a long string of disappointing relationships and even more disappointing acting gigs. I wanted a different life. One more like my sister’s life, honestly. Even if it kills me to say it. I want a little hit off the happiness and contentment pipe she’s smoking. Hell, she even has a great job, and the respect of her peers.

  I’ve got a tiny rental apartment I can barely afford, a waitressing job, and a string of unsuccessful auditions.

  With these irritable thoughts, I walk all the way through my apartment, my footsteps echoing because I can’t afford adequate rugs. When I get a little money, though, the first room I furnish won’t be a room at all. Cleanliness aside, what really drew me to this place is the deck.

  In my kitchen, I open the back door and step outside.

  Like the apartment, the deck is small. My outdoor space is maybe twelve feet by twelve feet square. But it looks out onto a neatly trimmed lawn, and then to a line of trees concealing the neighborhood bike path. I can see in two directions. The third is obscured by a six-foot fence that divides the space between my next-door neighbor and me.

  Mr. Deep Voice. I haven’t met him yet. I’ve been dreaming
about him, though. I hope he has a fascinating accent. I love accents. I can make myself a cocktail and sit out on the deck, eavesdropping and improving my Scottish brogue. Something like: Hello, laddie, I’m ah-bout to sit on yer face. Or maybe my neighbor is Australian! That would be great to practice because Aussie accents are hard.

  On second thought, maybe I don’t really need any more accent training. I might give up acting altogether. I think. Maybe. We’ll see.

  It’s June, so I take a deep breath of fragrant spring air, just to clear my brain. Ahhhhh. There’s enough space out here for a small dining table and two chairs. And a chaise lounge—the sturdy kind, with a cushion and a cup holder.

  It’s not a seat at the Academy Awards. But it still sounds great.

  All I’ve got at the moment is a folding chair. So I sit down on it anyway. A cold beer would be really nice, too. But I haven’t been shopping yet. My new (and very clean) fridge is empty. So I sit on my folding chair and mentally compose a shopping list.

  I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting there when I hear someone step out onto my neighbor’s half of the patio. I glance up in spite of the fence. But of course I can’t see who’s there.

  “Bring the wine, hot stuff,” a woman’s voice says. “It’s hot out here. I hope there aren’t bugs.”

  I roll my eyes. Who steps out onto a deck on a lovely spring day and immediately finds two things to complain about?

  Then I hear the deck boards creak as heavier footsteps emerge, too. “Move over, sugar,” says a gruff voice.

  Ooh! I sit up a little straighter. Now things are getting interesting. He doesn’t have a Scottish accent, sadly. But now I can hear him properly. His voice is still glorious—deep and raspy. This will be fun. Also, eavesdropping is a professional necessity. The more voices I can absorb into my soul, the better my repertoire will be.

  “You like white wine?” the woman asks.

  Whoa! A clue! They don’t know each other well, then! It’s not something a wife asks a husband.

  “It’s okay.”

  Riiiight. He’s just being nice. “It’s okay” probably means “white wine is vile, but I still want to get under your skirt.” But, God, that voice. There’s something about the timbre that gives me a tingling sensation in my chest.

  “Let me guess, you’re a beer man.”

  “Sure. Usually.”

  Usually. I never knew that word was sexy until right this moment. But he draws it out nice and slow.

  “What else—” the woman makes her voice sound impossibly breathless—“do you usually like?”

  He chuckles, and that sound turns me inside out, too. “You want a demonstration? I thought we went over this. Last night.”

  “You’d better show me again,” she breathes.

  Whoa! I lean forward in my chair. But all is quiet, until I hear a little gasp and then a whimper. And then the snick of a kiss. Times four or five.

  Then that voice, pitched so low that I feel it in my breastbone. “Is this what you were looking for when you asked to come to my place today?”

  “Y-yes,” she sighs.

  “Better hand me that glass.” He chuckles. “I don’t think you can hold it upright while I—”

  She whimpers.

  “That’s right, sugar. You don’t need these.”

  When I hear the quick but telling sound of panties being ripped, I nearly whimper, too. This man works fast! I eye my apartment door, knowing that I should go back inside. On the other hand, they’ll hear my door open and shut.

  And I was here first!

  “Oooh!” she cries. “Oooh!”

  He growls. A true growl. And I feel it in my nipples.

  But then she starts up again, with more “oohs” and “aahs” than a doo-wop group on tour. “Yes! Yes!”

  He growls again, and I feel it in my toes.

  Okay, maybe it is hot out here. Whew.

  “Need you,” he grunts.

  I sigh inwardly. When is the last time anyone needed me like that? Never, basically. Not with that hungry rasp, anyway. The last man who said he needed me was a podiatrist and a philanderer. He didn’t need me specifically. He just needed a distraction from his life.

  It was a low point, I’m telling you.

  But the guy next door...he doesn’t sound distracted at all. He sounds very focused. Very.

  She lets out a little shriek, and then they’re on the move. His screen door opens and shuts with a bang.

  And I’m a hundred percent sure it won’t be the only thing getting banged. I’m so, so jealous. With a lonely sigh, I rise from my chair and head inside, taking care not to slam the screen door. As if those two can hear me.

  Alas, the only sound I can hear in my living room is my own ragged pulse. I need a distraction. So I walk into my bedroom to put away some of the clothes Cassidy helped me carry in.

  I’ve just put my nicest sweater on a hanger when I hear that growl again. And—good lord—I practically jump. Because it sounds so close. If I close my eyes, I can almost pretend he’s growling at me.

  “Baby,” he grunts. “Yes.”

  Instantly, my nipples are back to full power. Like headlights on the high-beam setting.

  So I guess the walls of this apartment are paper thin. They’d have to be. For the next five minutes, I can hear every grunt and thrust and whimper they’re making next door.

  And, wow. There are a lot of thrusts and whimpers. I’m rooted in place, a cashmere sweater in one hand, a hanger in the other, while a lucky woman on the other side of the door makes sounds like a hyena in heat.

  I want to be a hyena in heat.

  When she quiets down, I assume it’s over. I take a steadying breath and hang the sweater in the closet with a long exhalation.

  That’s when I hear the finale begin. First a low, masculine groan. And then another. There’s a thump—the sound of a piece of furniture hitting the wall. It repeats and grows faster. I stop breathing as it builds to a crescendo. My eyes fall closed and my mouth goes dry as he roars his approval.

  And then silence.

  I force myself to take a breath. With a shaky hand, I pick up my phone to try to distract myself, or at least remember my own name.

  Hey, how’s the new place? my sister has texted.

  It’s breathtaking, I reply immediately.

  Later that week, I finish unpacking all my possessions and arranging them in my new apartment. And I’ve made some strides in decorating. The sofa slipcover is done. But I need better lamps, and those aren’t cheap. So I’ve strung up some fairy lights in the meantime. Instant ambiance!

  I’ve moved the furniture around a few times looking for the best flow. Besides, there’s feng shui to consider. If you want to prosper in a new home, you can’t just ignore feng shui.

  For example, I know I need to have something living and green in my space with me. Wherever I place that living, growing thing will essentially bring more life into that area. So, if I need more money, I should put a houseplant in the money corner. If I need more peace, I should put a potted cactus in the peace corner. And if I need a good banging like I’ve heard at my next-door neighbor’s three days this week, I should just ditch the plant and go knock on his door.

  But no. I am more sensible than that. He could turn me down, and then I’d have to pack up everything and move, just to avoid the humiliation.

  Also? I don’t even know if he’s attractive because I haven’t seen his face.

  But someone finds the man attractive. Moaning, biting, screamingly attractive. Last night I swear the wall was in danger of caving in. That’s how hard the headboard shook. There goes my security deposit, I thought.

  Why not me was my next thought.

  Since I can’t have sexual satisfaction right now, I go to the garden store instead. I gaze at the outdoor furniture I can’t afford and then buy a bushy plant.

  It’s only when I get home that I realize how big the plant is. I can barely hold onto it. It’s taking all my stre
ngth—carefully cultivated over the years by pursuing camera-ready muscles—just to wrestle the plant into the lobby. I poke the elevator button with my elbow, and I am immediately rewarded by the doors opening.

  Hallelujah.

  “Hey, hold that?” a deep voice says before the doors close.

  “Well…” If I had my hands free, I’d be happy to. But all I can manage is to balance on one foot and thrust the other one out to stop the halt of the elevator doors.

  “Ouch! Fuck,” rumbles that voice as my foot collides with something hard.

  I experience a strange little shimmy in my chest before it dawns on me that I just hurt someone. “Sorry! I’m trying. Couldn’t see you.”

  My arms are starting to shake. And the plant’s green fronds are so dense that I can’t see a thing in front of me. Basically, I’ve become a plant with feet.

  As I tuck myself into the corner of the elevator, I realize two things. One, there’s a heady scent of masculine aftershave in the elevator. Like leather and strength. I sense the dude’s attractiveness the way that characters in movies sense dead people: I just know. And two, I can’t push the elevator button.

  “Could you punch five for me?” I murmur. I hope he can hear me through the pounding of my heart and the rustling of fronds.

  “I’m on five too,” he rumbles. And I mean rumbles. I feel his voice in my loins and that’s when I suddenly understand. Holy shit—I’m sharing the elevator with my neighbor. The one who has loud sex with great frequency on the other side of my wall.

  “Five,” I breathe, as if it’s something sexy. Because right now it is.

  “You must be my new neighbor,” he says.

  How does he know that? Has he been listening to me too? I do a quick inventory of the week’s activities. I ate a lot of Greek yogurt and watched some TV. It could be worse, I suppose. There was also that reenactment of a fight scene from Star Wars. Hopefully he didn’t misinterpret the grunting.

  “How’d you know?” I ask.

  “There’s only one other apartment on our floor, and that one belongs to Miss Havisham.”

  Ohhhhh. He’s literary. “Miss Havisham?” I ask.