When the waiter got to us, I ordered the Jackie Treehorn Porter, going for a slightly lighter beer, plus an order of their famous pretzels. I couldn’t help myself. I was starving and they sounded delicious.
“The pretzels are one of my favorite things about this place,” David said, like-minded in his love of soft pretzels and gooey brewery cheese. He tore them apart and dunked a piece into the condiment saucer.
“I love the ones at Widmer more,” I said, tearing off a bite. “But these come in a close second,” I added, hoping the comment wasn’t off-putting.
He nodded with indifference.
The meal went well, just as it had with Andre, which said little about where the night was heading. Our conversation never lagged, and David was engaging to talk with, even more so than Andre. He wasn’t wealthy like Andre, but he possessed a certain charm that intrigued me, and I found it hard to take my eyes off him. He had scorching brown eyes, short styled hair, and a rugged face that pulled me in.
“Would you mind giving me a lift home?” he asked, apologetically.
“Sure,” I answered, putting on a seductive smile, hoping he’d catch on. I was ready to move past Ryan, and David had won me over. “My car is down below.”
He lived close enough that Eddie’s heater never kicked in, which could take 25 minutes sometimes. The apartment complex was large with assigned parking, but he directed me to a guest spot. We sat in the cold as Eddie idled. “So, would you like to come in and watch a movie?” he asked, his eyes twinkling under the parking lamps, his voice heady.
“I’d love to.” I killed Eddie and locked him manually. David’s one-bedroom apartment was small, crowded with stained furniture. A stench accompanied the dingy setup—a musty, choking funk that had me thinking twice about what I was about to do. I chose to brave it out. I needed this. I needed to move on.
“I’ve a sad selection, but you can browse through them in that cabinet and pick one.” He pointed with his nose at a tall, out-of-place cabinet beside the TV. It looked as though it had once been a part of an entertainment center, but had since been dismantled and pawned for parts. He walked into the kitchen, out of sight.
“Nice place you have,” I said, poorly hiding my actual opinion of it. I opened the cabinet and scanned the titles.
“Thanks. It’s not much, but I make do,” he shouted from the kitchen. The creak of a fridge opening caught my attention. “You want a beer? I have some Black Butte Porter.”
“Yeah, thanks.”
He entered the living room carrying two open bottles and set one on the flimsy plastic coffee table. “Find one?”
I nodded, holding up No Reservations. “One of my favorites.”
He furrowed his brow, squinting at the title. “Uh—that’s not mine. Must’ve been left behind by an ex.”
“Ah,” I said, turning on the DVD player and slipping the disc into the slot. “Well, it’s worth watching at least once.” At the main menu, I pressed play, then sat down beside him, grabbing the cold bottle designated for me. Silence overwhelmed the room for the first five minutes. “So, I see you watch a lot of comedies.” He wasn’t even making an effort to get my clothes off.
He took a sip. “Yeah. I’m a big Rob Schneider fan. Loved The Benchwarmers, if you’ve seen it. It’s insanely funny.” He put his beer down. “You want to make out?” he asked before I could reply to his first question.
Stunned by the sudden course change, I appraised his features one more time before making a final, no-turning-back decision. He reminded me of a tanner Josh Duhamel, and the scruffy look really worked for him, and for me, at the time. “Pretty forward,” I said, with a hint of admiration at his confidence. Yeah, what the hell? “Sure,” was all I said, as I plunked my bottle down on the coffee table.
We leaned into each other and he pushed his lips hard against mine. He reached for my thigh, quickly sliding up under my shirt and squeezing my breast. His touch was rough and rapid as he roamed my body. He probed my mouth awkwardly, sliding his tongue against my teeth.
I fell onto my back, pulling him down with me. He reduced the force and speed of his kisses, as if realizing we weren’t in a race. The softer touch sent shivers down my back and my skin flushed with excitement. I could feel his erection stiffening against my leg, and I remembered how good it could feel to be so close to another person, the blood swirling in my body, reaching my groin.
Our breathing escalated, both shallow and fast. Suddenly his hand dove between my legs, rubbing in circles. Startling at first, I relaxed, letting the sensation overwhelm me. I groaned quietly. I had never been a screamer.
His fingers rushed for the button that held up my jeans, then unzipped them in a hurry. I lifted my butt up and struggled to slide the tight material down my legs. He backed up on his knees, using his strength to tug them down. Freed, he threw them across the room. He returned to his work, palming my clit. I could feel the wetness dripping out of me as he continued his circles. He shifted my panties aside and stroked. “Nice and wet.”
I ignored the off-putting way he said it.
Abruptly, he launched off the couch and pulled down his pants in zero seconds flat. His erection looked as though it was about to burst through his underwear. He paused for a moment, as though he were compelling me to stare at him in anticipation, then stripped off his briefs, sending them flying. His erection bounced in the movement, stiff and ready. He climbed on top of me, spreading my legs apart. He paused again, this time hesitant. “You’re on birth control, right?”
“Yeah,” I said, drawing him into a kiss. “I have an IUD.”
He gave me a funny look but shrugged off whatever deterrent made him form that face. Wasting no time, he clumsily poked at my entrance. Finally, he slipped in, and a surge of sweet sensation erupted between my legs, running up my back, tingling the back of my head. Is this it, an orgasm? No, this is normal. I’ve felt this before. It was warm and thrilling, but there had to be more.
He began thrusting hard, pounding and pounding, forgoing kissing as he concentrated on the motion while holding himself up, one arm on the couch’s back, the other on the cushion by my shoulder.
I groaned, throwing my hands behind my head.
“Yeah, you like that, huh?” he said unexpectedly. I had never been one for dirty talk. “Yeah,” he continued. “Yeah, baby. Say you’re my dirty little girl. Say it. Yeah, say it.”
What the hell? Did he just ask me to call him his little girl? I shoved his commentary aside, pretending I misheard him.
He went into turbo mode and forgot all about me. “Yeah, say you’re my dirty little girl.” He came, less than two minutes after he’d started.
What the fuck just happened? I asked myself as he pulled out. I shuddered from the abrupt change.
Semen leaked onto the couch. He looked lazily ahead for a few moments, spent, and then tumbled back and collapsed into a beanbag chair. “Where’s your bathroom?” I asked, my voice meek and disturbed.
Distant, he pointed to a hallway. I grabbed my clutch and rushed for the door with yellow-white sperm dribbling down my leg. I wiped it off and squatted above the filthy toilet, waiting to rid myself of the rest. Mulling over the incident, I felt so dirty and strange and unsatisfied. After changing into the spare thong in my clutch, I checked my phone. 1:23 a.m. Goddammit. 23 again—why did that number haunt me so? I didn’t have to work until nine tomorrow, but I was too tipsy to drive home. Decision time.
When I entered the living room, I found it empty, the movie still playing. I nudged open David’s bedroom door and saw him passed out on his bed, ass up. Well, at least there will be no cuddling with the weirdo. The consolation was bittersweet. It hadn’t been magical or even that stimulating, and left me more miserable than before, with an unpleasant aftertaste in my mouth.
I turned up the heater before I sat down on the couch. Watching the movie, I drained what remained in my bottle. Lying down, I drifted off, my thoughts centered on Vince. I bet with him it would have happe
ned. He actually made my heart skip a beat in his presence. No one had done that before, not in the same way.
Within minutes, I was out as Vince consumed my dreams.
I WOKE UP, GASPING. I scanned the apartment as a million images from the night before flooded my mind. I checked my phone. 8:11. If David was awake, he was being curiously silent. Heading for the bathroom, I glanced inside his room and spotted him sprawled out, half his sheets hanging off the bed.
What a disappointment.
I got in and out of the bathroom as fast as possible, finding Eddie in the morning light. I didn’t even linger to do a second search for misplaced things. If I’d left something there, it was gone forever, since there was no way in hell I would be returning.
Without a shower, I opted to stay out of sight of the customers for most of the day. The computer system was still in development. I gave up after a dismal hour. I chose to get creative and mix it up in the kitchen, producing limited specials for the day. The variation proved a great distraction.
Bridgett found my story stupendously entertaining and bizarre. “So, let me get this right,” she said, sitting in her office chair after four, our closing time. “He wanted you to call him his dirty little girl?”
“Yes, his dirty little girl,” I replied, rolling the gym marble from hand to hand across my desk. “Weird, right?”
“Not necessarily.” She leaned back and kicked up her feet so that they rested on her desk. “Dirty talk can be very arousing.”
“He wanted me to be his little girl,” I emphasized again. “‘Little,’ as in he’s a pedophile and wants little girls.” I shivered at the thought. “Not ‘dirty girl,’ not ‘his nasty girl,’ or any variation like that, but his ‘dirty little girl.’”
“Well, when you say it like that, sure, it sounds pretty bad.” She shifted her weight, switching her feet around. “But maybe that’s not what he meant.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I snapped. “It was a turn off.”
“But you slept there,” she remarked.
“He doesn’t know that,” I said. “I was too tired and too intoxicated to drive home. The night couldn’t have gotten worse.”
She chuckled, finding the tale too humorous. “Well, I’m sorry it didn’t work out. Does that mean you’re done with the pursuit of Mr. Right?”
“It means I’m taking an indefinite break, yeah.”
“Do you want to get drinks?”
“What, now?” I glanced at the wall clock. It was only a quarter past four.
“No, silly, not now. In an hour or so? I’ve gotta go home and change, and by the looks of it, so do you.”
“Oh I most definitely need to change … and shower … and completely disinfect myself from the whole nightmare that has been the last few weeks.” I stopped the marble and placed it in a special compartment in the main drawer. I didn’t understand what my fascination was with the object that nearly broke my neck, but every time I saw and touched it, I felt a peculiar tingle deep inside me. “Anyway, I think I’ll pass.”
“Oh come on, I could use a wingwoman.”
“Don’t you have Clara for that?” Clara was Bridgett’s older sister, still single, and still as hyper as a four-year-old on a sugar rush.
“No,” Bridgett said, shaking her head in grief. “She found a boyfriend last week and is completely smitten. She’s saying he’s the one.”
“Ah, sorry you lost her,” I said half-heartedly. “Maybe I’ll come out next time.”
“I’m going to hold you to that.” She rocked herself to her feet. “You going to be here much longer?”
“I don’t know,” I answered.
“All right, well, lock everything up. I did the upstairs.”
“Will do,” I said by way of parting. She left me alone in the office, staring out the window. A knock on the doorframe stirred me from my idleness.
“All done, Ms. Goodwin,” Marcella said, one of the servers who regularly worked the closing shift. She was only a couple of years younger than I was.
I nodded at her. “Thanks, Marcella. And you don’t have to call me Ms. Goodwin,” I told her. “You can just call me Maci—it’s fine. You can call Ms. Greenfield ‘Bridgett,’ too. We don’t care.”
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll remember that. See ya later.” She waved nervously, as if I were some big-shot executive.
I gave her a warm smile. “Have a good night.” I went from room to room and turned off the main lights, locked up, then decided to walk over to Powell’s to see what Danielle was up to. I had texted her in the early afternoon, but she never replied, which was odd since only rare circumstances kept Danielle from her phone. The walk was cold, the overcast dreary. It reflected my feelings well.
If Danielle worked on Sundays, she usually worked at the Hawthorne branch. I was hoping today wasn’t one of those strange schedules. To my luck, she was in the back, at the desk she used when she worked there. “Knock, knock,” I said, tapping on the door with my knuckles.
“Maci, hey,” she said in an exhausted, strained voice.
“You all right? You look dead.” I walked in and sat in a vacant chair.
“Yeah, just tired … didn’t sleep much last night.”
“Why? What happened?”
“Ashley and I got in a stupid fight about how many layers the cake should have.” She hung her head. “I know, I know …”
“Layers, really?” I grinned at her.
“Don’t worry, I’ve learned my lesson,” she muttered. She yawned, a great, powerful yawn. “What about you? How’d your date go?”
I relived the night and the excruciating finale, supplying all the details. “You know what you need?” Danielle started after I finished.
Oh, God. Another lecture. I tilted my head, preparing myself. “I’m sure I’m about to find out.”
“You need to find out what you like,” she advised, “sexually, I mean. You should go browse the Human Sexuality section and find something on women’s sexuality and exploration, or something like that.”
I sighed and rubbed my face with both hands. “Why is everyone telling me to change my sexuality—gah! It’s getting ridiculous.”
“All right, don’t. It was just a suggestion.” She turned her attention back to the papers before her. “You want to get dinner at U-Brew? I should be done in about an hour.” It was clear she was also fed up with hearing me complain about her counsel.
“Sure, I’ll see you at home,” I said, shutting the door as I left. In front of the office, I passed the sign that pointed out the small Human Sexuality section and paused. Maybe she was right. Maybe they were all right. Maybe I needed to open up more, try new things, see what I liked and didn’t like, and maybe a book would help with that. It would be private. No one would have to know.
I whirled around and gazed at the titles on the shelf. For Yourself: The Fulfillment of Female Sexuality stood out, along with Secrets of the Sexually Satisfied Woman, and I compared the two with a diligent eye. After heavy consideration, I was leaning toward Secrets, then—
“Maci?” someone said behind me.
Startled, I dropped the books, flushing. I jumped around and saw Vince standing there with his warm brown eyes reading my reaction.
“Oh, sorry,” he said, bending down to retrieve the fallen books.
I panicked and shot down to get there first. Our heads clashed as I fought to collect the books. Too late, he was already holding one in his hands as his butt hit the floor. Oh, God! How can I get out of this alive?
He groaned from the encounter but launched to his feet before I could gather my senses, offering me a steady hand. I gazed up at him, my cheeks on fire. “You all right?” he asked, pulling me up.
I smiled, but it was faint and uncomfortable. “I’m—yeah, I’m okay. Sorry about your head.” I rubbed my stinging forehead where it felt like a bruise was forming.
He ran his long, sexy fingers through his curls and smiled. “Oh, it’s nothing.” His eyes concent
rated on the book for the first time and his cheeks went crimson. “Here’s your reading material.” His voice turned hoarse and shy.
I practically tore the book from his grip, despite my mother always chiding me as a child to be polite. I thought politeness didn’t apply in this circumstance. My face felt like a furnace, and I noticed the first beads of sweat sliding down my unwashed forehead. I quickly wiped them away, acting as if the collision had caused them instead of my embarrassment. “Thanks,” I said, my voice cracking.
We stood there, falling into a lethally awkward pause. “So,” he said, in an attempt to get the conversation moving again. “How come you had to rush out of the gym the other day?”
“Trouble at work,” I lied, not knowing what to make up. Work trouble seemed a real enough answer.
“Ah,” he said, sounding as though he could relate. “And where do you work?”
“Just down the street at Friends Bakery and Brunch House. I co-own the place with a friend.”
“Oh, I’ve never been.” He shuffled from foot to foot. Was it me or something else causing his nervousness? I couldn’t tell …
“You should stop by some time,” I blurted. Shit! Why did I just say that? Sweat coated my body as if I were in a sauna and I had no towel to pat myself dry.
“I might just do that,” he said, showing off his pearly whites. “Hey, did I see you at the Fox Ten Wednesday night?” His words rushed out like they just came to him and he didn’t want to forget them.
“Uh—” The question caught me completely off-guard and my mind fumbled for what to say. “Yeah, I thought I saw you,” I finally managed, my tongue entangling my words. “I was going to say hi, but you looked busy with your date.”
He bent over and retrieved the dropped book he’d been holding before we bumped heads. By the cover, it looked like a fantasy or sci-fi book. “Who, Alma? No, she wasn’t my date,” he said, defending his availability. “She’s just a good friend and colleague.”
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