HOT as F*CK

by Scott Hildreth

  “I wear it well. I have a lot of practice.”

  “Maybe you should refrain.”

  “Maybe I should.” She lowered her arms to her side and twisted her hips back and forth. “Can we start over?”

  I extended my hand. “Pleasure to meet you, my name is Marc.”

  She shook my hand and smiled. “Taryn.”

  A high-top table behind the bar was empty. Although not a place I would typically choose to sit alone, it was suitable for the two of us. I motioned toward it. “Care to sit?”

  “I’d love to.”

  We sat across from one another.

  “I’m really sorry,” she said.

  “Don’t be. My apologies for not realizing you were drunk. I would have never invited you over if I had known.”

  “It’s not your fault.” She set her purse in the chair beside her. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Go right ahead.”

  “Why didn’t you drink the other drink?”

  I could see where my reluctance to drink the drink may have alarmed her, especially in her state of mind. My motives, however, were innocent.

  “You didn’t take a drink of yours, did you?” I asked. “The one you took from me, not the one I offered.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

  “I don’t drink alcohol. Yours had alcohol in it. Mine did not. You took mine, leaving me with no choice but to fix another.”

  Her eyes searched the table. Upon seeing my ‘mixed drink’, she nodded toward it. “What’s that?”

  “Tonic and lime.”

  “Oh.” Her brow wrinkled. “I feel like an idiot.”

  “For asking what it was?”

  “No. For thinking you were a serial killer.”

  “Nothing wrong with following one’s instinct.”

  “I suppose not.” Her gaze fell to the table. After a short pause, she looked up. “What’s your instinct tell you?”

  “About?”

  “Me?”

  “You told me the truth earlier,” I said flatly.

  “No,” she said, her tone thick with sass. “Big picture. Why did you invite me into a home you’re in the middle of redecorating? What did your instinct tell you about me? What were you after?”

  It was the second time I’d been asked the same question is as many days. My response to Charlee was simple when compared to what I could tell Taryn.

  “I’m done decorating. My days are filled with clutter, I prefer that my home isn’t. In respect to what I’m after? I hoped to get to know you better.”

  “We could have talked here.” She waved her arms over the top of the table. “Just like this.”

  She was right. We could have. It would have been far less effective, though.

  “I prefer privacy. I’m more comfortable with fewer distractions.”

  “I’m the opposite,” she said.

  It didn’t surprise me. When she had the opportunity to think, her mind obviously went astray.

  Both her eyebrows raised. “You still didn’t answer the question.”

  “Maybe you weren’t listening. To get to know you better.”

  She chuckled. “I was listening. What did your instincts tell you about me? Tell me who you think I am. Out of all the women in the bar, why did you invite me to your sparsely decorated mansion on the beach?”

  I slid my drink to the side, rested my forearms on the edge of the table, and met her inquisitive gaze.

  Instinctively, she leaned away.

  Her eyes were blue, but describing them as such would be an injustice. The iris was flecked with translucent silver, leaving the color a mystery until one took the time to study them. A closer inspection revealed the smallest specks of a curious green. The colors merged together and formed a sea of trepidation.

  Her body language told me she was apprehensive.

  The eyes confirmed it.

  She was exactly who I hoped she’d be.

  “You want to know who I think you are?” I fixed my eyes on hers and relaxed against the back of my chair. “You dance. Or you’ve studied it. I make you nervous, and you joke around in hope of hiding it. In fact, you hide a lot with your laughter. At least you try to. You don’t have children, and I doubt you’ve ever been married. I suspect you moved here from the South. My guess? Oklahoma or northern Texas. You work as a hairstylist, but came here with dreams of being an actress.”

  A bewildered look washed over her. She crossed her legs, and then quickly uncrossed them. “How…I don’t…”

  “Right now, you’re uncomfortable,” I said. “Not enough to get up and leave. You’re curious. Intrigued.”

  “But…how,” she stammered.

  I locked eyes with her and leaned toward the center of the table. “Come here,” I said, my tone low, yet demanding.

  She blinked owlishly.

  I curled my index finger into my palm. “Come. Here.”

  She inched her way toward me. With her nose a foot from mine, she paused.

  Using my index finger, I draped her hair over her left ear. A trembling breath shuddered past her lips.

  I pressed my lips to her ear and breathed into it lightly. “How’d I do?”

  “Uhhm. Good,” she murmured.

  “Good?” I whispered. “Or great?”

  “Great,” she squeaked.

  Emotionally, she was right where I wanted her. I leaned away, but only enough to see her eyes. As I gazed into them, I traced my finger around the outline of her ear, tucking a few loose strands of hair against the others.

  “Would you like to continue this conversation here, or at my place?” I asked.

  She rubbed her palm against her bicep feverishly. “Tell me how you know what you know about me, and then I’ll answer.”

  “I’m very attentive,” I said. “I pay attention to details. You’re not very good at hiding the past. Or the present, for that matter.”

  “Oh really?” she asked, her tone thick with sarcasm. “What details?”

  “A wedding ring causes a callous to form beneath it, on the upper portion of the palm,” I pressed my thumb against my palm at the base of my ring finger. “You don’t have one. Your skin is smooth. You don’t wear a watch, and you rarely check your phone. If you had children, you would constantly be checking for text messages from the sitter, or at least checking the time.”

  I cocked an eyebrow. “Shall I continue?”

  “Please,” she muttered.

  “Your voice has a hint of a southern drawl, but not much. Too much to be from the Midwest, but not enough to be from the deep south. Oklahoma or northern Texas are all that’s left.”

  Glassy-eyed, she stared back at me. Her mouth was slightly open. When I paused, her lips touched, and she swallowed heavily.

  “Your manner of walking is visceral,” I said. “I suspect it is a result of a life of dance lessons. The creases in the skin of your hands is often stained from the hair color you’ve used. If it were once, it could easily be dismissed as a home experiment. But it’s every time I see you. It leads me to believe you’re a hairstylist. One that isn’t quite making enough money to be comfortable.”

  Her eyes shifted from distant to focused. “Why do you say that? The money part?”

  “You don’t wear gloves. In your eyes, it takes too much time, and it’s an added cost. One that isn’t necessary. You tell yourself you’ll simply scrub your hands at the end of the day. If you were a hairstylist in Beverly Hills, you’d take the time to wear them. Not because it was expected of you. Because you’d be making considerably more money, and deep down inside, the discoloration of your hands bothers you. In fact.” I nodded toward her hands. “You’re trying to hide it now.”

  “What about the actress part?”

  I chuckled. “The easiest one of them all. Every twenty-something that comes here comes with the hope of being an actress.”

  “Jesus.” She stopped wringing her hands and lowered them to her lap. “You’re good.”r />
  “I’ll ask again,” I said. “Shall we continue this conversation here, or go to my place?

  “I uhhm.” She reached for her purse, and then stood. “I think we should go to your place.”

  Chapter Two Hundred Forty-Five

  Taryn

  I didn’t find the home as creepy as the first time I’d seen it. It seemed nothing was the same when I was sober. When drunk, McDonald’s served a gourmet meal. Sober, I couldn’t choke it down if forced.

  Convinced I needed to take his advice and refrain from getting drunk, I sat down on the end of the armless loveseat. “It seems less creepy in here.”

  He looked around the room. “I’ve never seen it as creepy. I find it calming.”

  “Grow some ovaries, start producing estrogen, and get shit-faced. I bet you’d see it differently.”

  He chuckled and then sat across from me. “You’re probably right.”

  “It’s just.” I glanced into the kitchen, scanned the length of the windowed wall, and then met his gaze. “It’s really minimalistic. I mean, as far as decorating goes. It’s not creepy, it’s just really tidy.”

  “There are many things in life I’m incapable of changing. Therefore, I’m forced to accept them. It isn’t always easy, believe me. Your hair for instance. I liked it blonde. Now, it’s wine-colored. I must accept it, and I will. As soon as I do, you’ll no doubt change it to some other color. The things in life I cannot control used to cause me tremendous grief. A tree not centered in a yard. Vehicles parked crookedly. Placement of items in the grocery store where they clearly don’t belong. A picture hanging on a wall that’s tilted ever so slightly. Life’s clutter, if you will. When I was younger, it drove me crazy that I couldn’t fix everything. I can, however, control this.” He waved his hands toward the open room. “I keep it neat, and without clutter, because as much as I want to do that with the world, I can’t. I find this place therapeutic.”

  After his explanation, the clutter free home made perfect sense. I took one last look at my surroundings, and realized just how vast the interior space of the home was.

  “That makes sense. The crooked car thing drives me crazy, too.”

  He smiled.

  By my best estimate, he was in his mid-thirties. I wasn’t a real estate agent, but I knew enough about beachfront property to know his home had to be worth millions. I couldn’t help but wonder what he did to afford such a nice piece of real estate.

  “So, what do you do?” I asked.

  “That’s an open-ended question. I do a lot of things.”

  He was one of those guys. I was going to have to be more specific with my questions. I crossed my legs and folded my hands into my lap. “How do you afford this place?”

  “Oh. That.” He scanned the room, and then looked at me. “I was in the military. After six years of service, I decided to remain in Iraq, but work as a private contractor. It paid extremely well.”

  I should have known he was in the military. His chiseled physique, mechanized manner of walking, and the weird tattoo were dead giveaways. Oceanside was filled with Marines, all of which I normally tried to avoid.

  “You were a Marine?”

  He tensed. His eyes burned through me for a moment, then he responded. “I was not.”

  It seemed that I’d hit a nerve, so I explained my thought process. “Oh. I thought you were probably from Camp Pendleton.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you,” he said dryly.

  I was far from disappointed. Being lied to or cheated on by another Marine wasn’t on my current to-do list. “Actually, I’m relieved.”

  He studied me for a moment, and then crossed one of his ankles over the other. “Can I get you a drink?”

  The last time I was drunk in his house, I screamed and ran like a teen being chased by a knife-wielding clown in a horror movie. I decided I’d go sans alcohol for the evening and see if I could coerce him into tying me to his bedposts and spanking me with something soft.

  “For now, I’m going to take your advice, and refrain.”

  He grinned ever so slightly. “Water?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Coffee?”

  “Uhhm. No,” I said, my tone making clear that coffee was on the list of vile substances that didn’t pass my lips.

  Sitting calmly in the center of the sectional, he looked me up one side and down the other, making no effort to hide his satisfaction as he did so. As I watched him watching me, my mind drifted to thoughts of nipple clamps, pseudo chokings, and having him tug on my hair like a boss.

  I found the thought of him being a sado-macho-whatever intriguing. I had no idea what he had planned, but hoped we could discuss the intricacies of bondage, butt plugs, and studded bras that were fashioned of black leather. I had countless questions for him, most of which revolved around me having multiple orgasms as a result of his handiwork.

  “Tonight, did you come to the bar to find me? Was that your intention?” he asked.

  I wanted to tell him I simply stumbled upon him by accident, but I suspected he watched me the entire time. If he had, he would have known that I walked through the door and right to him.

  “Yes.”

  “Why did you come back?”

  “To apologize.”

  “After you did so, why didn’t you leave?”

  “I didn’t want to.”

  “You wanted to start over where we left off. Correct?”

  “Yes.”

  He interlaced his fingers and locked eyes with me. “Where exactly did we leave off? If you hadn’t convinced yourself that I was a mass murderer, and if the night had gone as you’d hoped, explain what would have happened?”

  The tee shirt he wore clung to his wide chest and draped loosely over his flat stomach. I tried to imagine what he’d look like if it were on the floor beside him. In no time, I was uncomfortably aroused.

  I decided to roll the sexual dice. “We would have had sex.”

  Both his eyebrows raised ever so slightly. “That was your hope?”

  My throat went tight, making a verbal response difficult. I wished I could change my response, but decided to own it.

  I crossed my legs and gave a nod. “Yes.”

  “I’d like to explain some things to you,” he said.

  “Okay.”

  “When it comes to sex, I’m fairly certain I stand alone.”

  I liked that he was getting right to the crux of the matter, and not beating around the sexual bush. Certain that I was one short story away from having a ball gag in my mouth for the first time, I wiped the back of my hand against my mouth and fought not to grin like the Cheshire Cat.

  Intrigued, and still recovering from my visions of him sitting shirtless, I exhaled into my cupped hands, and then met his gaze.

  “You stand alone?” I asked. “How?”

  “If we reach the point that we become sexual, it will immediately become clear. Until then, I’m afraid an explanation would simply complicate matters.”

  Complicate matters? I wanted him to complicate matters. I decided to throw him a bone. “When it comes to sex, I’m very open-minded,” I said, my voice thick with pride. “And my sexual appetite is insatiable.”

  “If I thought for one moment that you weren’t, and that it wasn’t, you wouldn’t be here.”

  I’d all but forgotten his assessment of me. Hell, he knew more about me than my friends did, and we had yet to have a meaningful conversation. As I fidgeted in my seat, he cleared his throat. My attention shifted to him.

  “Although I experimented when I was young,” he said. “I’ve been in only one sexual relationship as an adult. There’s a reason for it, and I’d like to explain.”

  “I’d like to hear it.”

  Wait. What? One?

  It dawned on me what he’d said. I’d heard the word sex, and jumped at the chance to hear more. If he’d been in one relationship, I doubted he’d come close to understanding my sexual past. Knowing what questions were bound to
be asked, I struggled to count the amount of men I’d slept with.

  When I got to thirteen, he leaned forward and locked eyes with me.

  “As far as I’m concerned, attempting to make something work with someone I’m not convinced is suitable for me is ridiculous,” he said flatly. “So, when I find someone who I believe to be a good fit, I give the relationship thirty days to develop. At the end of thirty days, I make a decision. I’ll either see potential in the person, or I won’t. If I see – or feel – nothing, there’s no value in continuing. It wouldn’t be fair to either parties. However, if at the end of thirty days there’s interest from both people, the relationship is worth continuing. As fate would have it, I’ve only found one person who showed promise.”

  I found his monotone voice and calm demeanor comforting. He looked at me when he spoke to me, and although it made me nervous at first, I was now growing fond of it. It felt like I was being interrogated, but he was doing it in a manner that made me feel as if we were simply having a conversation.

  I wanted to make sure I wasn’t jumping to any sexual conclusions. He hadn’t said I was suitable, but he’d sure led me to believe I was. He had my full interest, that was for sure. I simply needed to know more. I couldn’t help but wonder if my responses to his questions were going to determine my fate.

  “So, you’ve only continued with one?”

  He straightened his posture. “That is correct.”

  “You’ve never had sex with the others?”

  “Also correct. Having sex to solidify – or to start – a relationship isn’t fair to either person or to their emotions. That’s my opinion, anyway.”

  I rearranged his words in my mind, trying to make sure I understood what he had said. If he gave a relationship thirty days to develop, and only had sex with one person, he would have had to abstain for the thirty-day period with anyone else he’d had any interest in.

  Stefanie’s description of Kate’s experience with him began to make sense.

  If I was correct, his self-restraint was remarkable. I didn’t even know him, and I was already developing respect for him and his system of beliefs. But. If I was attracted to someone, waiting thirty minutes to have sex was a stretch.

  Thirty days would be nothing short of impossible.