by Kim Karr
Words tumble from her lips. Her mouth falls open. Her face contorts into pleasure. And I can tell she’s coming.
I am too.
Hot wetness spatters. It pumps out of me in two hard spurts. The rest surges over my hand as I cup the head of my cock and stroke a few last times.
My eyes never leave hers, she watches every single move I make, and as the water washes away my evidence of desire for her, I reach for her. Bring her trembling body to my chest. Press her face to my skin. Stroke her hair. And the entire time the words I love you sit on my tongue.
When both of our beating hearts calm, we wash, and then I pull the lever, shutting off the water.
“See, that didn’t take that much time,” I joke, grabbing some towels.
She smiles at me. “Maybe next time we’re in a hurry we could just do it in the shower.”
With a raised brow, I wrap a towel around my waist. “Is that your way of telling me masturbation is off the table?”
“Maybe. I like your hands on me more than I like my own,” she admits, “but I really liked watching you.”
Laughing at her honesty, my response is simple. “Anytime you want to watch me, just let me know.”
Wrapping a towel around her, I want to dry her, pat the water away, and lick the excess drops, but we both have to start our day. She needs to head upstairs and I have an auction to get to.
It’s a big day.
By eight twenty she’s kissing me quickly. “You sure you don’t mind if I don’t go with you today?”
“I’m sure. It will be over quick and we could really use you here to post the announcement as soon as it happens.”
“I’ll be watching the news.” She smiles with a lift on her toes and another peck to my cheek. “Good luck,” she says and then heads up the stairs. “Oh, and Jasper,” she calls.
I look up.
“I’m so proud of you,” she says blowing me kiss.
I shoot her a wink. Pride swells within me and I think I might be turning a little pink. Talk about being a sissy. After I watch her disappear into the loft, I’m grabbing my keys and cellphone to head out the door. Just as I’m about to open it, I hear someone put a key in the lock. I pull the door open to see Will standing in front of me looking like shit. “What are you doing here?” I ask. “We said we’d meet downtown.”
Walking by me, he heads for the stairs. “I left you a message earlier that I was coming by first. I need to grab some papers off my desk.”
Not looking me in the eye doesn’t get past me and an uneasy feeling moves through me. “What’s going on?”
The click of his dress shoes on the spiral staircase leading to the loft is my only response.
Upstairs, I hear voices—him and Charlotte speaking—and then he’s coming back down the stairs with a folder in his hand.
Breezing by me, he raises his arm. “See you there.”
No way I’m letting it go this easy. I’m on his heels. “Hold on, I’ll ride over with you.”
Scoffing, he tries to dissuade me. “I have some calls to make.”
“Then I’ll drive and you can do whatever it is you have to do.”
He sighs. “Whatever, your choice.”
I already made it.
NO PARKING
Charlotte
FOR A LOT of people, owning a bed-and-breakfast is a dream come true. Living in a beautiful old house on the beach that is off the beaten path. Meeting new and interesting people all the time. Being the social hub of a small community. The food. The wine. The stories. And, of course, getting paid for all of it.
When I sold the Butterfly House to the Underwoods, I knew they couldn’t be more thrilled. Katy and David are in their mid-forties. Both had retired from Wallstreet. They have no kids. And they were dying to get out of New York City.
As I stare at the email from Katy Underwood, I’m almost afraid to open it. What if they don’t like life on the beach? The sand. The corrosion. The sea air. Living in an old house that needs a lot of repairs. Roof shingles. Leaky windows. Steps that are in constant need of new planks. In a place where you can never get out of the kitchen. Dishes. Dishes. And more dishes.
With the television on, I click open the email with the subject, ‘The B&B.’ To conquer my nerves, I quickly scan the body of the letter for words like regret, remorse, and unhappy. Thankfully, I don’t find any.
I take the fact that it starts with, ‘My dearest Charlotte,’ to mean that the lengthy letter contains nothing negative. Slowly, I start to read it. Katy loves the people. She’s upgraded the kitchen appliances. Bought some new bedding. Hosted a few of the Detroit Tigers and their wives.
I wonder if any of them were at Jobbie Nooner yesterday?
Thinking of Jobbie Nooner makes me grin.
Katy goes on to tell me David has really gotten the place in shape. Most of the repairs at the main house are made and he is working on the boathouse. I pause and reread the next passage. ‘David was tearing down some of the walls to expand the boathouse when he stumbled across a closet that had been hidden by one of the boats that no longer runs. Inside it he found a box of papers with Laneworth Automotive written across it. He hasn’t opened it. Let us know what you’d like us to do with it?’ she writes.
The burn in my chest won’t dissipate. I have to really struggle to hold back the urge to cry. Instead, I continue reading, thirsty for more. I don’t find any more though. Not on the box. Katy tells me how much they love the water. That summer has been good to them and they hate for it to end. In the closing she writes, ‘Please come to visit before the summer’s end, we’d love to have you.’
My fingers hover over the keypad.
I’ve put my father’s concerns to rest.
Tom Worth did something despicable. I don’t know what exactly and I may never know.
I’ve accepted that.
I’m ignoring what my mother told me—that it wasn’t him. Of course she’d think that.
Tomorrow, I will be arranging for movers to move my things from my apartment to my storage unit. When I do, I’m going to have them destroy the boxes inside it.
It’s time to close that chapter of my life. With that, I type the following message to Katy, ‘I’m so thrilled you and David are happy at the Butterfly House. I really appreciate you reaching out to me, and I hope to be able to make it to Mackinac Island soon.’”
I pause, contemplating what to tell her to do with the box, and then I decide. I type what I know is right. ‘I have no use for the Laneworth documents. I am sorry to trouble you, but feel free to dispose of the box.’
Once I hit send, I say out loud, “The end.”
And I mean it.
SHOTGUN
Jasper
RIDING SHOTGUN.
It used to be a privilege.
Earning the right to ride in the front passenger seat was always the goal when the four of us guys were tooling around in my piece-of-shit neon-green Nissan.
Let’s face it though, of all the seats in the car, no one wanted to be the guy who was riding bitch. In the center backseat, sandwiched between either two dudes, or a dude and a chick, was very unappealing. Especially when the chick beside you wasn’t yours, because if she was, you wouldn’t be riding bitch.
But hey, even I wasn’t always the driver. And once or twice I was even the one riding bitch. But you can bet your ass if I wasn’t driving that I was doing whatever it took to ride shotgun.
Kiss ass.
Suck the waitress at Bedrocks tits.
Ride my bike naked to the drive-in.
I didn’t care.
Whatever stupid task was put out there, I did it. Then again, I would do just about anything to win that spot.
Back then, being shotgun meant something. The role was crucial. It meant windows up or down, changing the radio stations or sliding in a CD, calling out landmarks, and yes, flagging down hot girls.
Looking over at the guy who is about to ride shotgun in my car, I can’t help but thin
k how things have changed.
We’re no longer those crazy, wild kids who couldn’t shut up.
The walk to the car is made without any exchange of words. Getting in, there are no calls about anything. Not an, “I’m shotgun.” And not even a, “Let me drive.” Something is going on. That fact is driven home when the drive out of the garage is also made in silence, and then the first quarter mile to Park Avenue is driven in utter silence.
I can’t fucking take it.
So as soon as I turn onto Washington Blvd and floor the gas, I break it. “You better go ahead and make your calls. We’ll be at the courthouse in less than ten minutes.”
He rubs his hands on his slacks, a sure sign of sweaty palms and nerves. “I’ll make the calls later.”
Hmmm . . .
Sure he will.
What he forgets is how well I know him. Shit, eighteen years is a long time. He was the geeky kid who needed a friend, just as much as I did. We were two boys who lived in the crappiest of apartment buildings, in the even crappier of areas in Detroit, with mothers who couldn’t control us. Well, mine couldn’t control me, and his was never around to control him, so we raised each other. Me the wild one, him the tempered one; when mixed together we turned out okay. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”
“Not really,” he says looking out the window.
Slamming on my brakes and jerking into a loading zone, I jam the car in park.
He levels me with the brooding gaze that he should know I mastered. “What the fuck?”
Some might call me a hothead because I am one, and no one triggers that hot button more than my best friends. “No, not what the fuck! Tell me what the fuck is going on!”
“Drop it, Jasper.”
Not going to happen. “I won’t. I’m not moving from this spot until you talk to me.”
A glance at his watch doesn’t change anything. “We’re going to be late.”
I cock my head to the side. “We won’t be late if you tell me what’s going on. What? Are you a girl? Are you mad that we went without you yesterday?”
He snorts. “Fuck you.”
It’s a start. “Does that make you feel better? What else you got? I can take it. In fact, I can sit here all day and listen to you curse me to hell and back, but that isn’t going to change the fact I’m your best friend and I know you obviously have something going on.”
He lets out a weary sigh. “I didn’t want to do this now.”
“Well we are.”
“Fine then. It’s Bunny. She’s out.”
Shocked, I repeat what he said. “Your mother is out?”
He nods. “Right after I left you guys yesterday, she called me to go pick her up at the women’s penitentiary.”
Trying to contain my shock, I put both hands on the wheel and squeeze. “But she was in for ten years.”
“Early parole,” he says matter-of-factly.
I rub my smooth-shaven jaw. “Early parole? How?”
Will’s mother had been a prostitute from the day I met him. At nine, we didn’t really understand what a John was or that her pimp wasn’t really her friend. But as the years went by, all that shit explained itself.
In the summers, she spent her nights out on street corners, hopping into cars and meeting in dark alleys to conduct business. In the winters though, she used her bedroom. I hated that time of year for Will. As if hearing your mother sucking off a guy isn’t bad enough, having to clean her up after a John got a little too rough was torture for him.
And then there was the same asshole who would stop by with a bagful of drugs and looking to take whatever cash Will hadn’t managed to sneak out of her drawer. Her pimp would beat on her too. Leave her bruised and so doped up sometimes she wouldn’t get out of bed for days. Will always took care of her, though. Cleaned her up. Fed her. Whatever she needed.
When Will was old enough, he tried to get her to stop. But she wouldn’t. I don’t think she could. She was an addict. Heroine. We’d find the needles stuck in the garbage in the kitchen. Eventually, she stopped trying to hide anything. In fact, she used to ask Will to help her shoot up. And selling her body was the only way she could keep up her addiction.
After Will went away to college, she lied and told him she was going to rehab. Six months later he found out she’d been accused of second-degree murder. She claimed self-defense. She’d stabbed her pimp to death over a drug squabble. The jury must have felt sorry for her because they gave her a reduced sentence of ten years.
Still in some state of shock himself, Will says, “She has no idea how she got out.”
“She had to have applied for it. Don’t you think?”
He shakes his head no. “She knew nothing about it. Someone petitioned for it and someone else granted it.”
“Did you ask Whitney to look into it for you?”
Solemnly, he shakes his head. “I broke it off with her this morning.”
My head darts in his direction. “Why would you do that?” I snap, but I already know why.
His mother.
That dark hair of his couldn’t get any more rumpled, but it’s not from lack of trying because he runs a hand through it anyway. “You want to hear how my first night went with Bunny back in my life? And then you’ll know why I had to break it off with Whitney.”
That familiar burn of discomfort in my chest flares. “You brought your mother back to your place?”
“What was I supposed to do with her? Leave her on the street?”
“Fuck, Will, you have to let her find her own way. You can’t keep taking care of her.”
The pain on his face kills me. “She has no one but me, Jasper. You know that.”
My stomach is sick. I do know that. That’s why Bunny behind bars was the best place for her. She couldn’t continue to ruin Will’s life from there. “What happened?” I ask softly.
His hands run down his face and I can see whatever happened isn’t good. “She insisted she stay on the sofa; I should have known she was up to something, right?”
I shrug. Uncertain.
“Well, I didn’t. I went to bed, and around four this morning I heard it.”
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
He’s not going to tell me what I think he is. Please?
“I froze Jasper. I’m twenty-eight fucking years old and I froze. It took me over five minutes to make myself go out there. Sure enough, she had some guy’s dick in her mouth while he sat at my kitchen table doing a line of coke with a hundred dollar bill that she’d obviously used first.”
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
“What did you do?”
“I hauled him up by the back of his shirt and threw him out into my hallway with his pants at his ankles.”
“And your mother?”
He shakes his head.
For a minute, I sit here contemplating the best way to tell him he needs to let her go. Kick her out. Send her on her merry way. Goodbye. Adios. Ciao.
Before I can muster the courage and figure out how to say it though, he opens his door and gets out. “I need some air. I’m going to walk the rest of the way,” he tells me, closing the door.
Killing the engine, I hustle out of the Storm and around to the sidewalk where I find him walking toward the corner. I stride up beside him. “You have to force her out of your life, Will, or she’s going to destroy it.”
Stopping at the corner, he puts his hands behind his neck. “I can’t do that, brother. I can’t.”
“You have to, Will or she’ll never stop.”
He takes a deep breath. “I have to give her a chance. I owe her that.”
I put my hands on his shoulders and look him right in the eye. “You don’t owe her anything. You took care of her your whole life, but I understand where you’re coming from. What if we find a place for her?”
“Like a shelter? No way, I’m not doing that to her.”
“No, one of the work readiness
rehabilitation centers where they can work with her on how to succeed in the world by getting her a real job, budgeting her money, and helping her stay clean.”
“Places like that would never take her in. She’s a felon.”
Instead of agreeing with him, I shake my head. “I think we could ask. Explain the situation. Pull some strings if we have to. Alex is over most of the city programs. I’m sure he could get her in one.”
The breath goes out of his lungs with his nod. “Let’s go buy that piece of property and then if you don’t mind, maybe you could help me look for a place for her?”
Saying yes isn’t needed. He knows I’d give my life for him. So instead, I stare back at him with the same intensity he’s looking at me with.
Bunny Fleming is going to turn her life around if I have anything to say about it, because there is no way I’m going to let her turn Will’s life upside down.
Fifteen minutes later, Will and I are walking down Lafayette Boulevard. The Detroit Courthouse is in our sights. The building is classic Art Deco. Built in 1934, the exterior hasn’t changed much since. Having spent too much time here already, I’m very aware of the interior changes. Its domed ceilings, intricate hand painting, marble floors, and bronze accents are all original, but its security is not. It is state of the art, straight up White House.
Today though, the mayor of Detroit, Alex Harper, has moved the auction to the courthouse steps, so I won’t be going inside.
Shame.
Ever the showman, Alex wants everyone in Detroit to witness the first step toward Detroit’s renewed future.
Speak of the devil. Alex is standing at the bottom of the steps with Whitney beside him. Looking dapper in his custom-made suit, Italian leather shoes, and cuff links, he’s only two years older than me, but has been looking much older lately. Maybe it’s because his dark hair is slicked back or it could be the circles under his eyes.
I look around for Hank, but don’t see him anywhere. To my surprise though, my mother is standing behind the roped-off section.
There’s a tiny crack in my cool façade that I can’t prevent.