HOT as F*CK

by Scott Hildreth

  It was Monday, and as I hadn’t seen her since Saturday at noon. I considered telling her about the coffee I’d attempted to drink. Instead, I chose to tell her about the great oyster feed. “No, not really. We went to some nice restaurant, and I ate oysters. That was weird.”

  “You ate an oyster?”

  I held six fingers in the air. “Six of them.”

  She raised her clenched fist to her mouth. “Oh. My God.”

  “It wasn’t that bad.”

  “How can you say that? They’re alive. You know that, right?”

  “No. They bust ‘em open with a knife, and it kills them. But they’re dangerously close to alive. Freshly slaughtered.”

  She heaved into her hand, acting like she was barfing. After a moment, she lowered her fist and shot me a look of disgust. “Cum is the grossest thing in the whole world. I don’t care what anyone says, nobody likes cum in their mouth. Nobody. We do it because guys think it’s cool. I’ll let a guy come in my mouth, but I’d die before I eat an oyster. An oyster is like a little sack of baked cum.”

  “Raw oysters are nastier than cum. Times ten. Oysters Rockefeller are better.”

  With her mouth partially open, she stared back at me, blinking.

  “Actually,” I said. “They’re a lot better. I’d eat them again.”

  “What? Did you guys have an oyster sampler platter? Seriously, if you did, I don’t want to hear about it.”

  “No. Just two. Raw, and Rockefeller.”

  She covered her mouth with her palm. “What’s a Rockefeller?”

  “Cooked oysters with spinach and cheese. It was pretty good as far as I could tell. Hard to say for sure with my tongue all jacked up.”

  “What was wrong with your tongue?”

  “It had perfume on it.”

  She lowered her hand. Her forehead creased slightly. “How did that happen? You’re not supposed to spray it on your face, dork.”

  “We just had this long discussion about relationships in Pakistan. He was telling me about twelve-year-old girls getting swapped for debt, and--”

  “Wait. What? Twelve years old? Oh my God, he’s a disgusting creep--”

  “Seriously? He is not.” I shot her a shitty glare. “And, you didn’t let me finish.”

  “If he was talking about--”

  “Let. Me. Finish.”

  Her eyebrows raised comically. “Finish.”

  “We were talking about arranged marriages in different countries. He wanted to know whether I thought they could actually be in love, or if they just cohabitated, living angry but doing it out of respect for tradition and family.”

  “You mean like when the parents pick your husband for you? Bring some dude to the house and say, here’s your husband?”

  “That’s it.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Tell me what you think,” I responded. “Then I’ll tell you what I said.”

  “I think they can fall in love. If they have to be together, they probably decide falling in love is what’s best, so they do it.”

  Her belief was interesting. It was similar to mine, and I wondered how many other people felt the same way.

  “So, you think it’s something you just decide to do? I’m going to love this guy?”

  She gave a half-assed shrug. “I think it can be.”

  “That’s kind of what I said. Okay, so we had that discussion, and he ends it by saying, to survive, a relationship requires sacrifice from both sides. In the absence of sacrifice, ‘the relationship’ will be sacrificed. I was digesting what he said, and these freaking oysters showed up. So, I decided it was time for me to make a sacrifice.”

  “That doesn’t tell me how you got perfume in your mouth.”

  “Oh. Sorry.” I giggled. “When the oysters showed up, I went to the bathroom and sprayed my tongue like ten times with Bombshell. That way I wouldn’t be able to taste them.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Did it work?”

  “My tongue was burning, my mouth tasted like perfume, and for some reason, it made me really dizzy. But, other than the raw ones being gross, they didn’t taste like anything.”

  “That’s insane. I’m surprised you didn’t get sick.”

  “I did. Kind of.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I crapped like ten times after we left. I’m guessing from the perfume. I was up all night. It was terrible.”

  She laughed. “Probably those raw oysters.”

  “I doubt anyone would eat them if they made you crap like a goose every time you ate them. He said he loves the things. I’m guessing he’s not the type that likes to stay up crapping all night.”

  “Was he sick, too?”

  “Didn’t seem like it.”

  “Was he running to the bathroom?”

  “I only stayed at his house for a short time, But, he wasn’t when I was there.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “I can’t poop at someone else’s house.”

  “I can’t really, either.”

  “You did at his place, though.”

  “No. I waited.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean I waited. Until I got home.”

  “If you could wait, it wasn’t the oysters. It was the perfume. Bad oysters wouldn’t let you wait. You would have pooped in the car on the way home. I ate bad sushi once when I was dating Jerry, and I pooped a little bit while we were driving home.”

  “Oh, my God,” I gasped. “That’s gross.”

  Her gaze dropped to the floor. “Yeah, it was.”

  The waitress handed Stefanie her beer. “One Corona with lime. Anything else?”

  She looked up, scrunching her nose in the process. “I don’t think so.”

  I shook my head. “I’m good.”

  She took a sip of her beer. “What are you going to do when the thirty days are up, and he says it just didn’t work out?”

  “It is working out.”

  “You think it is. You never know with those guys. They’re weird, and they do shady shit.”

  “He’s not one of those guys. He’s not a Dom, I asked.”

  “Kate said he was.”

  “Kate was wrong,” I said. “He’s sexually demanding, not a Dom.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  I shrugged. “I have no idea. That’s just what he said.”

  “I’m happy for you. Really. I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

  “How am I going to get hurt? He’s the first guy I’ve ever met that is interested in something other than just having sex with me. I was just thinking how nice that was when we were sitting down.”

  “I’m just saying.” She took a drink of beer. “How’d he afford that huge house? Did he tell you that?”

  “He was in the military, and he stayed in Iraq as a private contractor. He said it paid well.”

  “Jerry was in the Marines, remember? Do you know what a contractor is?”

  “I don’t know. Builds stuff? Rebuilds the country?”

  She spit out a laugh. “Contractors are paid by their contracts. They’re hit men. Mercenaries. They kill people for a living.”

  “You’re nuts.”

  She took a drink of beer with her eyebrows raised, looking right at me the entire time. As she lowered the bottle, she coughed. “Ask him.”

  “I will.”

  “Where does he work now?”

  I didn’t even have to think about it. I had no idea. I felt like making something up, but didn’t dare. Her mouth twisted into a shitty little smirk.

  “You don’t know, do you?”

  She must have sensed my uncertainty.

  I let out a sigh. “No.”

  “Bet it’s shady.”

  “It’s not shady,” I said adamantly. “And, he’s not shady.”

  Despite my claim, my stomach began to feel like I’d just eaten oysters.

  Or swallowed perfume.

>   Either way, I didn’t like it.

  Chapter Two Hundred Fifty-Two

  Marc – Day ten

  Light bled through the perimeter of one window at the rear of the small ranch home. Apart from that lone spot, the residence was completely dark. The panes of glass had been covered with something on the inside that not only eliminated the transmission of light, but prevented me – or anyone else – from peering inside.

  I checked the laces of my boots.

  Secured.

  My pockets.

  Empty.

  I pulled the magazine from my pistol.

  Full.

  I carefully pulled the slide back and glanced at the weapon’s breech.

  Loaded.

  Spare magazine number one.

  Secure.

  Spare magazine number two.

  Secure.

  I exited the vehicle. In a crouched position, I crept through the neighbor’s yard, behind Linda’s sparse landscaping, and onto her front porch. Dressed in a black long-sleeved Under Armour shirt, black utility pants, and wearing a black spandex headcover, being seen – or identified – was near impossible.

  The most critical element of the night’s equation was that she never learn who I truly was. Failure to protect my identity, entirely, would end in certain death.

  I drew a shallow breath, placed my index finger against the weapon’s trigger guard, and lowered my head.

  Please, Lord. Don’t make me kill another.

  I leaned back, raised my right foot, and slammed it against the edge of the door. The frame shattered into a mass of splinters.

  The door flew open, hitting the adjacent wall with a bang!

  High on adrenaline and filled with hope, I rushed through the poorly lit home and toward the back room, praying the entire time that Linda was alone.

  Chapter Two Hundred Fifty-Three

  Taryn – Day eleven

  I pressed the doorbell button. The muffled ding-dong from the chime was barely audible from the porch. I rocked back and forth on the balls of my feet as I gazed blankly at the well-manicured lawn and perfectly-pruned landscaping. I wondered if he did it himself or hired it done, and then decided he did it himself out of fear that no one else could do it to his liking.

  Growing up in Oklahoma didn’t provide me opportunities to see homes such as Marc’s. It seemed Southern California was filled with contemporary mansions similar to his, many of which overlooked the beach. I hadn’t become immune to seeing them, but completely understanding the wealth that was required to own and maintain such a piece of property wasn’t something that was easy for me to do.

  His voice came from a small speaker beneath the alarm pad. “Come in.”

  I stepped inside, peered into the empty living room, and paused.

  “I’m in the kitchen,” he said. “I’ll be a minute. Come join me.”

  I walked toward his voice. As I entered the kitchen, it dawned on me that it was the first time I’d seen it. White cabinets, stainless steel appliances, and Carrara marble countertops gave the space a very sterile appearance. In the center of the room, a large island with barstools positioned along one side added a little complexity to the otherwise simple space.

  The smell of butter and herbs was faint, but it caused me to salivate, nonetheless. Leaning over the stove with his time and attention divided between three skillets and a small saucepan, Marc peered over his shoulder.

  He was wearing gray sweats and a stark white tee shirt, which I thought was cute. Upon seeing him, I wanted to ditch my plan to air all my dirty laundry and see if he’d consider doing something fun instead.

  But. If I expected him to be truthful about being a contractor, I first needed to be truthful with him about some things.

  “How was your day?” he asked.

  I smiled at the thought of him taking the time to ask me about my day. I pulled out one of the stools and sat. “Another basic Tuesday. Tuesday’s are Monday for me. I had a full day of demanding clients.” I held up my hands for him to see the stains, and realized his attention was back to his meal. “How was yours?”

  “Same. A basic Tuesday.”

  “Can we have a talk?” I asked.

  He glanced over his shoulder. “Absolutely. As soon as I’m done.”

  It was reassuring to have him respond with such authority, and to do so without questioning my motives or the proposed topic of conversation.

  He placed the large skillet on a hot pad, then grabbed one of the others and lifted it from the stove. A quick flick of his wrist later, and the vegetables flipped into the air and then came to rest right back down in the pan.

  It was a trick I loved watching, but knew better than to try myself. My ability to cook was limited to pre-prepared meals and other simple items. Flipping vegetables through the air would result in eating my dinner off the floor.

  “What are you cooking?”

  “Pacific Halibut, vegetables, and wontons. Low-cal, and high in flavor. The wontons might seem out of place, but they taste great. Hope you like it.”

  “You can go ahead, I don’t need--”

  “I started cooking ten minutes after I got your text,” he said. “I planned on both of us eating,”

  I smiled. “Okay.”

  He set the third skillet aside. “It’s not Crab Crusted Icelandic Cod, but it’s fresh.”

  “It sounds good. How do you cook all of this without stinking up the kitchen?”

  “There’s a huge exhaust fan attached to the hood that sits over the stove. When the stove is on, it runs. All the smell is sent outside, so the neighbors can enjoy it.”

  “You don’t really have any neighbors.” I chuckled. “But, most serial killers don’t.”

  “We prefer seclusion,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone.

  I knew he wasn’t a serial killer, but it troubled me that I had no idea what it was he did for a living. I felt foolish for not knowing, and equally as foolish for not taking the time to ask. It wasn’t that I didn’t care, it was simply something that didn’t really matter.

  At least it hadn’t yet.

  My focus was more directed to paying attention to who he was, how he handled himself in my presence, and what he liked to do with his time. So far, he’d proven to be a very interesting man. I doubted what he did for a living was going to have any bearing on my decision making.

  After Googling the word contractor, I did wonder about the mercenary thing, though.

  He divided the food on two plates and carried them to the island. Wearing a cute grin, he set one of the plates directly in front of me. A fish filet covered in red sauce, a colorful mixture of vegetables, and several pan-fried wontons looked – and smelled – terrific.

  “Wow. It looks great. What’s the red stuff?”

  “Tomato cream sauce,” he said. “What would you like to drink?”

  “Water, please.”

  He poured two glasses of water and turned to face me. “Side by side is cozier than at the table. Is that okay with you?”

  “Sure.”

  I was thrilled that he cooked a meal for me. Sitting at the island elbow-to-elbow with him made me feel that we’d made a little more progress than the eleven days the dash-mounted calendar in my car indicated.

  He set the glass of water, a napkin, and silverware beside me and then sat down. “Eat it before it gets cold. Cold fish is awful.”

  We both began to eat at the same time, almost matching each other fork for fork. Halfway through the fish, I took a drink of water, and then looked at him. “Holy crap. You can cook, dude.”

  “Thanks. I’ve got plenty of practice.”

  I poked a wonton. “I figured you for eating out. Salads and stuff.”

  “I eat breakfast every morning at a little restaurant. Other than that, I rarely eat out. The breakfast thing is an odd tradition that I can’t seem to shake. I cook quite frequently.”

  He was becoming more interesting as time went on. I hoped our little talk didn’t wreak h
avoc on our relationship. Regardless, it was time we had a discussion. The discussion. The big reveal. I poked the wonton in my mouth and then decided I’d spill the beans after the meal.

  “I like your hair,” he said. “It looks nice.”

  I was wearing a curly updo, but not for any reason. Having him compliment me made me feel warm inside.

  “Thank you.”

  “I like it that you change it up. It gives me something to look forward to.”

  I liked it that he noticed the changes in my hairstyle, but I liked it more that he mentioned it. It was something that took very little effort on his part, but meant the world to me. I couldn’t remember the last time a man complimented me on anything, other than my father.

  Halfway through the meal, I noticed him watching me. With his mouth curled into a shallow grin, he sat with a piece of fish balanced on his fork. His eyes followed the movement of my hands.

  I wasn’t versed on the proper procedures of eating fish, and wondered if I was doing something wrong.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Am I doing something wrong?”

  “Not at all.” His grin turned to a smile. “I like watching you eat.”

  It was an odd response, but I found it adorable. “Thank you. That’s cute.” I looked him over and then met his gaze. “I just like watching you. You’re sexy.”

  “Sexy?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “I’m not trying to be.”

  “That’s kind of what I’ve figured out. You’re different, that’s for sure. I thought at first that you were arrogant, but you’re not. I think it’s confidence. I like your hands. And, the way you walk.”

  He swallowed the fish and then coughed out a light laugh. “My hands?”

  “You’ve got sexy hands.”

  “I didn’t know hands could be sexy.”

  “They aren’t always,” I said. “But they can be. Just look at yours and you’ll know what sexy hands look like. They’re hand perfection.”

  His gaze dropped to my stool. “You’ve got ass perfection wrapped up pretty nicely.”

  I worked hard to keep my butt in shape. It wasn’t easy at thirty-four years old, and required more hours of hip lifts and leg raises than I care to admit. I was flattered by the comment, and fought not to smile from ear to ear.