After Hours

by Melinda Di Lorenzo

  Why? I replied. You miss me already?

  Or maybe I thought I’d swing by before I headed out.

  Where u headed?

  U jealous?

  I narrowed my eyes at the phone. I wasn’t jealous. Until she made the comment. I swiped my fingers across the screen quickly.

  Nope. Not jealous. I’ve got ur phone. I can find out pretty much anything I want, remember?

  Oh, good. My exes are listed under a sub-folder called DOUCHEBAGS. U wanna put ur number in there?

  Ouch, I typed.

  That’s what u get for wanting to go thru my phone.

  I won’t, I promised. And no, I’m not home. I’m lost.

  What?

  I’m on a weird, dead-end street that’s stuck somewhere between an outlet mall and a bunch of stores owned by hippies.

  Denton Avenue.

  What?

  Ur on Denton Avenue. They were going to tear it down a few years ago but the residents protested and had it declared a heritage site. Something about a tree.

  Oh-kay.

  Not my idea. There’s a shortcut out, tho. Walk between the blue house with the fountain and the gray one with the yellow door. U won’t feel like ur on a path, but u r. It’ll take u out to an alley beside a soap shop.

  Thx.

  NP. I’ll text u when I’m home so we can trade phones?

  Yep. I hit send, then quickly added another message. U still not telling me where ur going?

  Mom’s house for dinner.

  Send me a pic.

  Why? U think I’m lying? :P

  Nope. I just wanna see how hot ur gonna be when ur older.

  U. R. Disturbed.

  :D

  BTW…don’t u DARE answer my phone today. Or read my messages.

  I’ll do my best to refrain.

  Do better than ur best.

  Without bothering to point out that BEST is a superlative. Okay, I pinky swear.

  Weird. TTYL Marc.

  Bye honey.

  I tucked the phone away again, grinning like an idiot and not caring who noticed as I followed her instructions for the shortcut. She was right. For about five steps, I felt like a trespasser. Then the space widened into a paved path that led exactly where she said it would. The scent of fragrant soap filled the air, and on whim, I stepped inside the shop.

  Immediately, a tall, blond woman with smiling eyes stepped out to greet me. “Welcome to Joyful Jo’s. I’m Joanna. Owner. Proprietress. All that jazz. Shopping for something specific today?”

  “A gift,” I said, not realizing it was true until the words were out of my mouth.

  “Mother or girlfriend?”

  I smiled. “Don’t men come in for themselves?”

  “Nope.” She had a matter-of-fact way of speaking that put me at ease.

  “How do you know I’m not shopping for my wife? Or boyfriend?”

  “No ring. And ha. The gay population should be so lucky.”

  My smile widened. “Well. In that case…it’s not for my mother.”

  “Aha. Then you must know what kind of fragrance she likes already?”

  “Uh…”

  Joanna made a little tsk-tsk, then shook her finger at me. “Fragrance is very personal. Most men think they can just pick something they like and hand it over. But scents change when they’re on a person. And if you don’t believe that, then just remember…you never know if you’re buying something her ex’s mother wore.”

  I laughed. “Okay. Point taken. What do you suggest then?”

  “Well. Normally I’d say go home and get her so she can pick, but I get the feeling this is a spontaneous thing?”

  “Afraid so.”

  “I’ve got the perfect thing.”

  She stepped back behind the counter and dragged a cream-colored card and envelope from a drawer, then set them on the counter and wrote something in light strokes. When she was done, she sealed it up, tucked it into a black gift bag, which she stuffed with some silver paper before handing it to me.

  “It’s not a gift card, per se,” she said. “It’s more of an invitation. Your girl can come back anytime and redeem this for a fully personalized set. Soap, lotion, body wash, and massage oil. But you should come with her. That way you know what to buy next time.”

  I tugged out my credit card and handed it over. I didn’t care what the cost was—the gift was perfect.

  With a sincere thank you and a promise that I’d bring “my” girl back, I slipped out of the store and back to the street. The sky had darkened again, but my mood was once again light enough that I didn’t care. Thoughts of Carl and his video were far from my mind. I was going to see Aysia again. Soon. And for some reason, not much else mattered.

  * * * *

  Aysia

  “Aysia?”

  “Mmph.”

  “You could try chewing your food.”

  “Sorry, Mom.”

  I slowed down my chomping and looked down at my plate guiltily. She’d made my favorite dinner—lasagna with Caesar salad—but I really hadn’t been taking the time to enjoy it. After a few hours of shopping with Liv, I was tired. And if I was being honest…I was anxious about seeing Marc, too. Not in a worried way. In an excited way that made me squirm a bit in my chair.

  “Aysia,” my mom said again. “You haven’t had this many ants in your pants since you were in second grade.”

  “Sorry.”

  “And your phone’s rung about four times.”

  “They’re just texts,” I mumbled, shoving another forkful into my mouth.

  My mother raised an eyebrow—the same gesture I always made when I wanted to call out the ridiculousness of someone’s comment or action. I sighed. I chewed. Then I met her curious gaze. And I lied.

  “It’s nothing.”

  Her eyebrow went higher. “So it’s a boy.”

  “I’m twenty-five years old. It wouldn’t be a boy. It would be a man.”

  “Aha!”

  “What?”

  “It is a boy.”

  “Mom.”

  “I know you, daughter dearest, and the only time in your life that you ever lie to me is when it involves a boy.”

  I winced and took another bite. It was kind of true. My mom and I were close, and I thought we probably had an above average parent-child relationship. I’d even say it extended to friendship now that I was an adult. But my dad left when I was thirteen, and she’d never remarried. Or brought home anyone else. And though she never said it bothered her, I always felt awkward talking about my own love life with her. I hadn’t ever mentioned Carl to her. Nor any of the few guys I’d seen casually before that. Maybe I brought up the occasional date, but definitely nothing else. And I guess I never thought about whether or not she noticed the deliberate avoidance.

  But I sure as hell wasn’t going to start by trying to explain that I’d taken home a guy from the bar and spent the night with my mouth on varying parts of his body.

  “It’s nothing,” I said.

  From my purse, Marc’s phone buzzed again.

  “It’s something,” my mom said. “At least look at it. The noise is driving me crazy.”

  With a warm face, I dragged out the oversized case and peered down at the screen. The first message was from over an hour earlier.

  So I’m curious, it read. Why didn’t u ask for my number?

  There was a fifteen-minute break before the next text.

  Okay, wrong question, apparently, it said. How about…what’re u wearing?

  Five minutes had gone by before the third one came in.

  Fine. I guess we’re in a fight.

  I couldn’t help but laugh. Especially when I saw the next three texts, which had all come more recently. The first was a collage created using my photo app,
featuring a vaguely phallic carving in a half a dozen spots throughout an undecorated condo. On top of a gas fireplace. In the middle of a bubble wrapped coffee table. Upside down in empty plant pot, then in the same pot, but outside on a little balcony. Then balanced on the top shelf of a bookcase, and finally in the center of a bright white mattress.

  Under the collage, Marc had typed, Where do u like it best?

  Then immediately after that . . . Shit. I just realized all of those are basically wooden dick pics. Why the hell didn’t I realize I was buying dildo art?

  I looked up from the phone to find my mom watching me. She was clearly amused by my reaction. And curious, too.

  “You like him,” she said.

  “I just met him,” I admitted.

  She lifted her fork and studied me thoughtfully. “You going to answer?”

  “I can wait.”

  “Don’t.” Her voice was firm enough to make me blink. “He’s making you smile. I appreciate seeing you happy.”

  “I’m always happy.”

  “You’re always self-sufficient. And content. But you never laugh like a fool like that.”

  “Um. Thanks?”

  “Answer him.” She stood up. “I’m going to go open a bottle of wine anyway.”

  As she stepped out of the room, I moved my thumb over the screen and typed a reply. I didn’t ask for your number because you ran out of my apartment like your ass was on fire.

  His answer came right away. I had to leave before ur bodyguard beat me up.

  Liv?

  Yep.

  She just wants to protect me from weirdos.

  Hmm. Maybe I should send HER some pics?

  DO NOT.

  Okay. No need to yell.

  I did tell u I was having dinner at my mom’s, right?

  Yeah. But u never sent the pic, so...

  My mom doesn’t selfie.

  Because the camera eats her soul?

  Ha ha. Because she read an article that said selfies are narcissistic.

  In response, he sent his own selfie. He was lying on the same mattress from the previous picture, the phone obviously extended above him as high as he could hold it, giving a genuinely swoon-worthy view of his bare chest and sexy smile. Or at least, it was swoon-worthy. Until I realized he had the wooden carving tucked into the crook of his arm.

  Seriously? I typed. Now a cuddling dick pic? Definitely narcissistic.

  I was just assuming u liked it best in my bed.

  Uh-huh. Let me know when u buy some sheets and I’ll get back to u about that.

  How about u let me sleep over again, and u can take me shopping for some in the morning?

  My body heated a little at the thought of getting Marc back into my bed. And I couldn’t exactly say that the thought of picking out his sheets was a turnoff, either.

  Not sure when I’ll be home, I told him.

  I can wait.

  My heart did a funny little jump, and as I set the phone back in my purse, I couldn’t wipe the smile from my face.

  “I take it the text went well?” my mom asked, setting down a fresh bottle of Merlot.

  I shrugged as casually as I could. “He wants to see me again.”

  “Is that all I’m going to get from you?”

  “Yep.”

  “Hmm. Let’s see what you have to say after a few glasses.”

  “My lips are sealed.”

  Even though we did split the bottle over the next couple of hours, I managed to steer the conversation away from anything that came close to dating, or Marc, or wooden dick pics. Instead, we talked about work—mine and hers—and the latest political scandals. We did the dishes by hand and played a few rounds of rummy. And by the time the evening was over, I was pretty sure she’d forgotten about the whole thing. That is, until my cab pulled up and she pulled me in for a hug.

  “Make sure he knows your worth as well as you do, okay?” she said into my ear.

  “All right, mom.”

  Her words stuck with me on the short ride home. I did know my own worth. Smart and capable. Every report card, every performance review, every bit of self-affirmation told me on repeat that I was both those things. It was part of what made me me. And I didn’t think there was anything wrong with owning my sexuality as an extension of that.

  I thought it was funny that Liv—who was practically a goddess where all things man were concerned—and my mom—who was as prim and proper as they came—both seemed so concerned about my love life at the moment. I fiddled with the hem of my T-shirt, wondering if they saw something that I didn’t. Liv had barely batted and eye when I went out with Carl. And my mom never asked me about men.

  Until now. Why?

  “Miss?”

  I looked up and realized we were already in front of my building. I thanked the cabbie a little absently, handed over my fare, then made my way inside. A quick glance at Marc’s phone told me it was past midnight already.

  Too late to call and invite him over, probably.

  I couldn’t fight a stab of disappointment as I stepped into the elevator. I’d never considered myself as the kind of girl who needed a man. Though more than occasionally, I wanted one. And right that second, the want was pretty damned specific. It involved strong hands and brown eyes and a cocky chuckle.

  I sighed as the elevator doors slid open. My feet even dragged a little as I made my way to my door. But when I actually reached it, and I looked down and saw the gift bag, my mouth tipped up. I knew it was from Marc.

  I let myself into my condo, eagerly tearing out the paper as I closed the door. I recognized the logo on the little, ivory-hued card right away.

  Joyful Jo’s.

  He’d obviously taken the shortcut I suggested. It made me smile. And before I could stop to think better of it, I grabbed the phone and typed up a message.

  Thank u!

  He didn’t answer right away, but after I’d tidied up a bit, slipped into my pajamas, then climbed into bed, the phone finally beeped. U like it?

  Love it, I admitted.

  The owner claims that scents are very personal.

  Joanna is never wrong.

  Ah. So. U know her well?

  What can I say? She makes good soap. A VanCity secret.

  Hmm. R there a lot of those?

  VanCity secrets? Maybe. I’ve lived here my whole life, so I’m sure I can tell u a few more.

  I smiled as he told me he’d like that, then asked me a few more questions about the city and about my life. It felt strangely natural to talk with him like this. Back and forth queries and answers, punctuated with an extra helping of sideways wink-y faces and a heavy dose of innuendo. As the minutes ticked by, the ebb and flow slowed, and I knew he was probably feeling as tired as I was. I was just about to suggest we sign off when he sent a message that woke me right up.

  Ever had phone sex, Aysia?

  No.

  Ever wanted to?

  Not until right this second.

  LOL.

  Don’t LOL @ me. Have u ever had phone sex?

  No.

  His reply made me a little bit too happy. Ever WANTED to?

  What makes u think I’m not doing it right now?

  Pervert. But the thought of him touching himself while he talked to me made my breath quicken.

  A little perversion is called for, I think. Tell me what ur wearing, Aysia.

  I could practically hear his bossy tone.

  Lie? I answered. Or the truth?

  The truth.

  I lifted my sheet and looked down before typing, Kinda boring. Little black shorts and matching tank top.

  Not boring on u. And not as boring as what I have on.

  Which is?

  Nothing.

  My responding groan echoed thro
ugh my empty room. And I didn’t get a chance to say anything back before the phone came to life again, this time with a ring. My own number was on the call display, so I pressed the answer button, then lifted it and waited for his voice to fill my ear.

  “Hi, honey.”

  “Hi, Marc.”

  “Red sheets still on the bed?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Pillow smell like me?”

  I inhaled, dragging in just a hint of his lightly spiced scent. “A bit.”

  “Makes me a little envious,” he said with a chuckle.

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t have anything here that smells like you.”

  “Sorry. I guess I should’ve offered you a souvenir.”

  “You’d really reduce me to one of those creepy panty snatchers?”

  I smiled. “I didn’t say panties. You did.”

  He laughed again, low and sexy. “Yeah. But now that’s what I’m thinking about.”

  “That’s a shame. Because right this second, I’m not wearing any.”

  He paused, his deep breath carrying through the speaker. “Christ, do I want to be there.”

  “You’ll probably want to be here even more when I tell you where my hands are.” I balanced the phone against my shoulder and ran them up my thighs as I spoke.

  “Put me on speaker.” Now his voice was rough. “I want to hear you.”

  I fumbled for a second before finding the right buttons. “You there?”

  His reply came out a little fuzzy, but still audible. “I’m here. Where’d you put me?”

  “On my pillow.”

  “Good. I’ve got you on mine, too.”

  I closed my eyes, picturing it. “Okay.”

  “Are you imagining me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good,” he said again, a little thicker this time. “Think about my hands being on your knees.”

  The mental picture filled my mind immediately.

  “Got it?” he wanted to know.

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “Now they’re moving up, hitting the bottom of your shorts.”

  My own fingers followed his guided tour of my body. I was already alight, already slick with desire.

  “They start to slip under the shorts, then pause and go up farther instead,” he said. “They slide back and forth across the soft, sweet spot at the bend of your leg.”