The Origin

by Youkey, Wilette

  The silver phone in her palm began to vibrate and she answered it with trepidation. “Hello?”

  “It’s just that, I’ve been alone for a long time,” Daniel said, his words slow and reluctant. “The way things are right now, by myself, it’s simple and uncomplicated.”

  “Uncomplicated?” She sighed with impatience. “I don’t know why you keep saying that word. I’m just trying to get to know you. But I’m not about to beg you to date me. If you’re not into me, just say so and let’s get on with our separate lives.”

  She felt free once she was done talking. She had released the words to the universe, hoping that by doing the complete opposite of what she had learned in the dating world, she had somehow triggered a cosmic change in her life.

  “And for the record, dating me will not signal the end of your life as you know it,” she said wryly. “I’m a dancer, not the harbinger of doom.”

  * * * * *

  Daniel looked at himself in the mirror and felt his stomach muscles clenching from nerves. Olivia had been blunt, had told him exactly what she expected. He liked knowing what she wanted from him (even if he himself didn’t know), for as much as he wished they had never crossed paths, he inexplicably couldn’t stay away.

  “She’ll be the death of me,” he muttered as he patted on a small amount of cologne on his jaw, then pulled on the grey v-neck sweater that showed off his muscles. He supposed he’d been lucky, as he hadn’t had to work out since his football days in high school. Somehow, despite how much he ate and how little he actually lifted weights, his muscles had remained firm. His pectorals were still well defined, and his six-pack was cut as though he regularly trained to be a Spartan. The Perma-Muscles that women (and men) lusted after was one of the few side effects of his abnormality that he could definitely live with.

  It was seven-thirty by the time Daniel rose from the bar stool and canceled his table reservation with the hostess of Morton’s Steakhouse. After an hour of waiting, he finally came to terms with the fact that Olivia was a no-show, a move that he would be the first to admit he deserved. Now he, too, knew what it felt like to be jerked around.

  As he walked out of the restaurant, the cold wind slapped his face, reminding him that winter had definitely taken up residence in New York City. Pretty soon the snow would follow and, along with the twinkling lights and the incessant holiday songs, would serve as a constant reminder that he had nobody to spend the holiday season with yet again. Not that he cared or anything.

  It’s better this way, he thought bitterly, stuffing his hands into his pockets. I would have had to buy her a gift otherwise. And no power in the world can help me in that department.

  Once, in seventh grade, he’d bought his girlfriend a birthday gift consisting of a gardening magazine and a card, which he’d signed quickly in front of her, using the girl’s own pen. She had not been too impressed. Unfortunately, the years had not refined his gift-giving skills. If anything, he might have gotten worse.

  “Daniel!”

  He spun around, searching for a familiar face among the crowd of pedestrians. A moment later, he was startled to find Olivia standing in front of him, panting and out of breath. “I’m so sorry!” she said, her breath coming out in rapid, foggy wisps. “Opening night’s in four days, so rehearsals ran late. I couldn’t get out.”

  He glanced down at the black leggings sticking out of her fuzzy boots, then up at her hair, which was still up in a bun, and realized that she hadn’t even changed out of her dance clothes. She looked less put together than her pristine normal self, which served to help her case.

  “You could have called.”

  “I couldn’t. Maggie makes us leave our phones off during rehearsals.” She looked at him in earnest and touched his arm. “I really am sorry.”

  “Who’s Maggie now?”

  “She’s the Ballet Master.”

  Daniel sighed. “Come on, I’ll take you home.” He placed a hand on the curve of her back and urged her to walk. “What are you rehearsing anyway?”

  “Swan Lake,” she said, her face lighting up. “I’ll be dancing as Odette.”

  “Oh, who’s dancing as the swan then?”

  “Odette is a swan,” she said, trying to suppress a grin.

  He was about to confess that he knew nothing of ballet aside from the tutus and the pink slippers, when his stomach chose that very moment to rumble loudly above the New York din.

  “You didn’t eat?” Olivia said in surprise. When he shook his head, she grasped his hand and pulled him to the hot dog stand at the corner, mumbling something about a ruined diet. “Three, please.”

  “What’ll it be?” the vendor said, waving his large tongs around.

  “One plain and…” She turned to Daniel, who said, “Everything on the rest.”

  A few minutes later, they were back on their way with steaming hotdogs in their possession.

  “I wouldn’t have pictured you for a sidewalk hot dog kind of girl,” Daniel said, polishing off his first hotdog in three bites. “Sidewalk caviar and truffles maybe, but not a mystery-meat sandwich.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He shrugged and swallowed. “Just that you can afford whatever you want and, here you are, eating dollar hotdogs.”

  “How do you know?” Her almond eyes narrowed in suspicion.

  “The bank manager might have mentioned something…” he said, hoping Stephen would not get in trouble from his admission. “About you being one of the richest people in the country.”

  She sighed. “That would be my father, not me. Besides, I live off of my own money. I pulled that silver spoon out of my ass a long time ago.”

  Daniel grinned at the visual, suddenly unable to think of anything but her ass.

  “Does that change things?” she said, breaking through his x-rated thoughts. “Is that why you thought I’d be complicated?”

  “Huh? Oh, no. No. I didn’t say you were complicated, I just said I like my life uncomplicated.”

  “That sounds very close to the same thing.”

  He grinned. “But it isn’t.”

  “That is what my therapist would call splitting hairs, my friend.”

  “You have a therapist?” He hoped his voice didn’t betray his shock. She had always seemed so composed and rational, that the very idea of her needing any type of mental help struck him as ludicrous. If anyone needed a shrink from this odd pairing, it most definitely was not Olivia King.

  She laughed. “Of course. Every sane New Yorker has one.”

  “What’s wrong… I mean, why do you need one?”

  Olivia sobered, regretting the decision to mention her therapist. Most everyone she knew had seen a psychiatrist at least once in his or her life, but she’d almost forgotten that Daniel was relatively new to the frenzy of New York City.

  Fantastic, now he thinks I’m unbalanced.

  She sighed, realizing the truth was the only option of avoiding looking like a psycho. “I started seeing one after my mother’s… death. And I kept going because it’s beneficial for my career to be as healthy as possible, mentally and physically,” she said, and added quickly, “I see a physical therapist and masseuse too, once a week. Seeing Dr. Vogele is more of a tune-up now, rather than an engine overhaul.”

  His lips twitched, and she knew he appreciated the analogy. “When was the last time you saw her, er, him?” he said.

  “Her. Doctor Kara Vogele. And last week.” She looked up at Daniel and knew what he was itching to ask but couldn’t bring himself to say. “And yes, I have talked about you.”

  He waited all of ten seconds before saying, “And?”

  “I can’t tell you that. I have to honor the doctor/patient confidentiality,” she said, flashing him a toothy smile. “But I did tell her I think you’re complicated.”

  Daniel readily accepted the invitation to come up to her apartment, almost as if he’d been anticipating it, which came as a relief to Olivia. And maybe this time, he would stay and kis
s her.

  “Here,” she said, handing him a remote control as he settled on the suede couch. “If you’d rather watch a movie, they’re all in that apothecary cabinet. I’ll just be ten minutes.”

  “You know, you don’t smell like you need a shower,” Daniel said, stretching his arms out on the back of the sofa.

  Olivia smiled, wishing she didn’t have to worry about trivial things like personal hygiene at all. Oh, to smell fresh and clean all the time! “I’ve been sweating for most of the day. Even if body odor doesn’t bother you, it sure bothers me.”

  “I’d rather not think of you with body odor at all,” Daniel called as she made her way to the bathroom. As she stood under the warm spray of water, she imagined Daniel losing all sense of propriety and stealing into the shower with her. He could lather her up and run his soapy palms over her breasts, down her stomach and around to the ticklish curve of her back, and she, of course, could return the favor with much enthusiasm. But she had a feeling that she’d come across as a bit of a lady, and Daniel, ever the gentleman, would never take advantage of one.

  But one can dream.

  Several minutes later, she emerged from the bathroom wearing an oversized sweater and black leggings, her damp hair loose down her back.

  “That was quick,” Daniel said, his eyes following her around the room. “I’m not an expert or anything, but aren’t women supposed to take a long time to get ready?”

  “You’re right,” she said, handing him a beer from the kitchen. “You’re no expert.” She sat beside him with a bottle of water, and took careful note of what he had worn to their unsuccessful date. Clearly he had made an effort, ditching the hobo couture and instead was wearing a gray sweater that molded to his muscled body and allowed a little chest hair to peek through the v-shaped collar. And he had actually put on cologne – a cool scent that brought about images of an ocean storm – which made her want to nestle into the crook of his neck, close her eyes, and just breathe.

  She wondered if she would have the same reaction had he been any other Joe Schmoe on the street instead of the object of her teen obsession. He was certainly handsome enough to catch her attention on any given day – with his expressive grey eyes, square jaw, those lips that were always set in a grim line, and that hint of a cleft on his chin – but was it enough to give her erotic dreams for the past three nights? What power did he possess that made her skin tingle every time he came near?

  Daniel felt the tension as soon as Olivia took a seat beside him on the couch. She extended her long legs onto the coffee table, her toes pointed, and bent over in a stretch. The sight of her leaning down, hugging her slender legs to her chest, made his crotch stir unexpectedly. The fact that he had desired her since the first moment he’d laid eyes upon her shapely behind did not help matters much either. He might have superhuman powers, but his body still responded to this tantalizing form of stimulus like a normal red-blooded male.

  Silently, he thanked the inventor of throw pillows as he placed one on his lap, concealing the explicit direction that his thoughts had veered toward.

  As she sat back and relaxed to watch the movie, he found himself leaning closer, and closer still, until he had no other choice but to wrap his arm around her; denying that urge would have been an exercise in futility.

  The moment their bodies connected, Olivia let out an almost imperceptible sigh and it was all he could do not to rip her clothes off.

  He whispered against her ear, “Are you comfortable?”

  She smiled up at him and bit her lip. The electricity arced as soon as their eyes met and, as they leaned closer into each other, a voice cried out from the recesses of his brain to stop before it was too late, a voice he so badly wanted to ignore…

  It took all of his will power to turn away from her lips and say, “I’d better go.”

  “Again?”

  He stared at the disappointment on her face, torn between desire and duty. It had been a while since anyone had looked at him in that manner. “I can’t. I’m already…”

  With a swiftness that took him by surprise, she swung her legs over and straddled his lap, holding his face between her hands. “Do I turn you off, Daniel?” she said, her eyes glinting with spirit.

  He shook his head and gulped, his entire body a stick of dynamite whose wick was burning dangerously close to the end.

  “Are you afraid of me?”

  He chuckled. “You have no idea.”

  “Is that why you keep leaving when we’re about to kiss? Because you’re afraid of little ol’ me?” She batted her dark eyelashes and smiled in a show of innocence.

  “Olivia, I can’t get close to anyone right now,” he said between his teeth, keenly aware of the heat of her crotch pressing into his. He could feel himself getting aroused further and, from the wicked smile on her face, clearly she felt it too.

  “Can I get this close at least?” she said, her face moving closer to his.

  He held his breath as he drove the back of his head into the couch.

  She edged even closer, their faces a mere hair’s breadth apart. “How about this close?”

  “If you don’t stop that I’ll have to – ”

  She smiled mischievously. “You’ll have to what?” Without warning, her tongue darted out and licked the length of his top lip.

  The dynamite went off.

  With the need of a deprived man, he took her lips, plunging his tongue into her eager mouth, relenting to his body’s basic impulses. He groaned, unable to remember why he’d avoided physical contact with a woman for so long when it was clearly what his body had been designed to do. He needed her. Now.

  She moaned into his mouth and ground herself into him. Her hands were clutching his face while his own were roaming all over her back, pulling her closer. He could feel his control evaporating; if he didn’t stop now, he would end up screwing her and, inevitably, screw himself over in the process.

  Amidst all his worries, the thought of losing his sense of decency and accidentally hurting her weighed heavy on his mind. The last time he had had sex was with a girl in college, when he’d discovered bruises on her wrists afterward. He was not an abusive guy, hated the very thought of anyone considering him violent, so he’d vowed to never risk it again.

  With all of his remaining resolve, he managed to pull away and say, “No. Stop.” He gripped her hip and forced the grinding to a halt.

  Olivia, to his surprise, dismounted his lap without further argument, apparently mollified by the passionate kiss. “I knew it,” she said, her face flushed pink as she breathed heavily.

  “Knew what?” His voice was strained as his balls howled the pain of a thousand water balloons filled to bursting capacity. Only a shower worthy of hypothermia could help him now. Or maybe Rosy Palms and her sisters.

  “I knew there was something more between us.” Olivia’s voice was soft and thoughtful, a far cry from her passionate moans a moment earlier.

  Daniel nodded dumbly in agreement. He forced himself to think of unappealing things – of toilet scum, dragon breath, telemarketers – to get his mind off the sexy woman ready to jump his bones. But try as he might, he couldn’t avoid thinking of her lips on his, the wet heat of her tongue as it slid along his own…

  “Olivia, I have to–”

  “I know, you have to go,” she said in resignation, tucking her hair behind her ears.

  He sat up and touched her chin, angling her head up to his. “I have to, Liv. I can’t sit here and pretend that I don’t want to be inside you.”

  Her cheeks turned a deeper pink as she took a full, settling breath. “Fine. Go.”

  He stood up, wiping his sweaty palms on his pants. “I’m sorry,” he said quickly, hoping he hadn’t embarrassed her. “I shouldn’t have said that, about, you know, me being inside you…” He scratched the back of his head. “And I’m sorry for saying it again.”

  She laughed. “No, it’s fine. I’m no shrinking wallflower. And I like that you call me Liv.
It makes me feel full of life.”

  “You are,” he said and bent down to plant a lingering kiss on her forehead, struggling against the gravitational pull of her lips. “But I really should go.”

  “Daniel?” she said before he reached the door.

  “Yes?”

  She raised one delicate eyebrow. “Please don’t make me be the one to call you again.”

  5 | A MARKED VILLAIN

  John Mathers was a proud man of Maori warrior descent. Born Hukarere Matera, he had changed his name once he’d entered the business world in the big city. He had heard his name butchered enough times to finally resort to legally changing it to one that sounded more professional, Caucasian even, on paper. Once in person, he knew that he was enigmatic enough to convince even the crustiest CEO to give him a job. And a job he had acquired, at King Industries, working his way from a mailroom boy up to the cream of the crop, the account liaisons. It was a position that required much time and commitment, and a lot of schmoozing and negotiating with heads of companies, until deals of the multi-million dollar kind were struck.

  The problem was John had been too good at his job. He had landed so many accounts that he had become cocksure of his position in the company – had even hoped of someday becoming Richard King’s successor – but that had all come crashing down around him when he’d been abruptly let go. Two weeks ago he had had a dynamic job, a huge commission on the way, and all the promise of a protégé. One short week later, he was but an unemployed minority, swindled out of what he’d justly achieved.

  And Richard King himself, whom he’d idolized and emulated, was the very man who’d carried it all out.

  He’d been accused of duplicity, of trying to lure away clients for Lockwood Inc., the only company standing in the way of Richard King’s complete domination in the pharmaceuticals business. The most bitter part was that John had never even entertained the idea of leaving King Industries as he had always felt a strong sense of allegiance to the company that helped forge him from the insecure youth he had been into the self-assured man he was today. King Industries was his home, as far as he was concerned. At least, it used to be.