Rhythm

by Gem Sivad

Despite the clunky ending to the night, it had been fun. Unrepentant sinner that I’d apparently become, I laughed more than a couple of times as I remembered my dance with Marty.

  On Friday, Humble Homes called. I had an interview, aced that, and ended up with a job stacking boxes in the warehouse. Not bad. I had the night shift three times a week. It came with an employee discount, and after the interview, I spent my extra time, wandering the aisles of the sales floor, mentally marking future must-haves.

  I didn’t think about Marty Jones at all. Well, not much. Not in the daytime, anyway. Night dreams I couldn’t control, but each time I woke from a mind-blowing orgasm, I paid penance by sanding the cupboards in the kitchen and watched the project progress.

  I returned Roger’s dress and let Megan know I’d survived. I didn’t tell either one of them about the end of the night.

  “You want to meet at Maxine’s and get your money?” Megan asked when I got around to calling her.

  “No rush. Come over and bring it with you when you have time.” No way was I going back to the building soon.

  A week later, Megan stopped by to drop off my money from the dance gig.

  “Wow. You’ve been busy.” She ran her hands over the once painted, now stripped and sanded, wood. “What color will it be when you’re done?”

  “Like this, I hope.” I handed her the pale reddish-brown chip I’d used to gauge my progress. “These are solid maple cabinets. Can you believe some ass painted them?” I patted the kitchen door, proud of my own success. “It took me hours to get all the white off.”

  “I like painted wood,” Megan confided. When I glowered at her she hastily changed the subject. “I’ll bring wine and candles for the table.” She stood in the center of chaos, and I’m pleased to say, recognized the unfolding of my dream.

  The house had once belonged to my grandfather, albeit mortgaged. Myriad tragedies and three bank sales later, I’d re-acquired it. I couldn’t replace everything as it had once been, but when it had gone on the market as a short sale last year, I’d scraped together enough for five percent down and with Maxine’s co-signature, bought it.

  Megan’s aunt had been helping me since I’d ventured out on my own and she’d always have a place at the table.

  Because the kitchen had once been the heart of the house, as soon as I owned the place, remodeling began there. The previous tenant had apparently had a temper. Holes marked the walls where he’d lost it.

  Putting up the new wallboard had been a challenge, calling for both Roger and Megan’s assistance in lifting and nailing. But we’d done it.

  I looked forward to finishing the huge room in time for a family dinner I’d cook for Thanksgiving. Feast versus my pride. I gazed at the envelope wistfully. The dance-a-thon payment would have really helped.

  Tell Maxine to bill me. I’d choke on turkey fixed in a kitchen paid for with Marty’s escort money.

  It was with deep regret that I peeled one bill from the thirteen hundred dollars and put it in an envelope I’d already prepared.

  “Please deliver that to Mr. Jones. Or better yet, give it to your aunt. Maxine can handle the money.”

  “Why?” She waved the envelope in the air, waiting expectantly for my answer.

  “Because I borrowed cab fare.”

  “You owe Marty a hundred dollars for cab fare?”

  “He didn’t have change.” I didn’t volunteer more. I figured I’d danced with the devil to return a lot of Maxine’s favors and I was now paid up. At least for a while.

  I concentrated on the door I’d been sanding, resuming my work and turning the interrogation back on her. “Since when is he Marty, to you? I thought you barely knew him.”

  Megan shrugged and changed the subject to her real reason for the visit.

  “Aunt Maxine said because of you, everyone made a ton of money for the dance-a-thon including Baby Dolls. And guess what? Marty Jones wants you for another gig.”

  “Good God, no.”

  Megan winced at my response. “Aunt Maxine said she’s known Marty Jones for years. He’s never asked to be set-up with anyone. But now he has. He wants you.”

  “No.”

  “It’s for my aunt—come on Holly. This time it’s at a fancy country club, billed as a Night of Swing. He requested you.”

  “I’ll just bet he did. Grunted and pointed. Does Maxine have me on the menu, now?”

  “You know this is special. You can dance. Besides, he’s her landlord.”

  “Sorry. Not even for you would I consider an encore performance. I’m not going there, again.”

  “Going where?”

  I focused on the cupboard, continued sanding, and tried to look nonchalant. But I couldn’t control the blush rushing up my neck, flooding my face with heat, and burning a path across my scalp.

  “Oh my God, Holly. You are neon red. You did IT. Why didn’t you tell me?” It kind of surprised me that she thought it was such a big deal. I mean, hey, I hadn’t had all that many offers and none of the prospects could dance.

  When I didn’t say anything more, she lost the big grin, took the sandpaper from my white-knuckled grip, and led me to the table.

  “Did he force you? I’ll kill that sonofabitch.” Megan was so angry it was almost funny. I let her squirm in guilt and rage for a nanosecond before I relented.

  “It was a mutual decision. Stupid, but not a big deal.” I shrugged, trying to look nonchalant.

  “How not a big deal?” Her fury changed to curiosity. “Not a big deal as in, he had a tiny dick?”

  “No,” I snapped. “Would you stop?”

  “Not in this lifetime, girlfriend.” Megan pounced on the information like a terrier after a rat. “Did you tell Roger? Of course, you didn’t tell Roger, because Roger would have told me. You’ve been keeping this to yourself? After all we’ve shared? What was it like? Did he make it good for you? Was he sweet?”

  “Enough.” I held up my hands, warding off the barrage of words with a prudently censored answer. “He’s big, rough, bossy; the sex was awesome, I had some orgasms, and then he, you know, did his thing, and passed out.” I shivered remembering it.

  “Happens.” Megan rolled her eyes. “Guys just can’t hang afterward. Some orgasms? As in more than one?”

  “Yeah, kind of continuous once we got started on the way up in the elevator.”

  “You had elevator sex?”

  “Sort of.”

  “And now Marty wants another dance. Holly do you know what this means?”

  “Yes. He woke up long enough to tell me to have Maxine bill him.” I could still feel the wash of humiliation. I had no justification. He thought I was a paid escort and sex went with the deal. I hadn’t said no.

  “Oh shit.” Megan crossed her eyes at me.

  Yeah, shit. It was just stupid dumb luck my first time would be with a sexy guy who could dance and who thought I sold sex for a living. I couldn’t go out with him, again. Just thinking about the final part of the night made me crazy with embarrassment.

  “I’m so sorry, Holly. I never thought he’d be like that. Aunt Maxine says he’s a nice guy. Quiet.”

  Quiet? He never stopped mumbling the whole time we… Nice? Now that you understand that I’m the boss… You sellin’ fucks? Bill me… I reined in my thoughts to deal with Megan.

  “Really, it’s no big deal. It was good. Like you’ve been saying, it was time.” I’d been listening to her recount her torrid affairs for fourteen years, and she’d been waiting for me to have one. Unfortunately, mine would be a one-episode show.

  “Well obviously it was good for him, too. And now he’s hassling Maxine. His company owns the building where Baby Dolls leases space. It’s not that easy for an escort service to get respectable digs.”

  I detected more than a little wheedle in her voice.

  “No.” I’d discovered long ago, a firm one-word answer always worked best.

  “Please.”

  “No.” Not in a million years. “Megan.
I’m not seeing him again. He can hire a different escort.”

  “But, no one else can dance.” Megan’s eyes filled with tears. “Aunt Maxine may have to move.”

  Yes, Megan’s aunt had done big favors for me in the past, but… “If there was any real danger of her losing her business, she’d be sitting in my kitchen right now, not you.”

  I stared back at Megan, determined to withstand the pressure. Marty Jones did not force me to have sex with him. Marty Jones would not evict Maxine because I would not have sex with him, again. I firmed my resolve. “She needs to get out of that business, anyway.”

  “How can you say things like that? You know how hard it is for a woman to make it on her own.”

  I’d heard this before, especially regarding favors for Maxine. “Don’t even try that one. I am not, not, going out with Marty Jones again.” I shoved the hundred at her and added snidely, “Have whoever goes to see him, hand him that envelope. He can use the hundred inside to tip his next escort.”

  “But…”

  “I’m out of this fiasco. Maxine’s a savvy business woman; she’ll figure out something. Just make sure he gets his frigging money back.”

  “Shit. I feel responsible. You’re first time shouldn’t have been crap.”

  “It wasn’t bad. It was…” I shrugged, pointing at the stack of newspapers I’d collected, each with a different pose. “The man can dance like nobody else.”

  Megan nodded as if that made sense and hugged me before she left.

  And as far as I was concerned, that was the end of the discussion. But after Megan left, I found my envelope back in my pocket, her way of refusing to be my courier.

  I had no plans to ever dance with Marty Jones, again. Humiliation warred with astonishment every time I remembered how my bones had melted in his embrace. Shit. I’d been crazed in nympho mode.

  I’d had enough dance partners to know he was the best. I’d have to sample several more lovers before I could grade that skill. Escorting Marty again, anywhere for anything wasn’t an option. Returning his hundred dollars was an imperative.

  After Megan’s visit, I thought my head would explode. First, I still had the cab fare to return. Also, Maxine’s payment should have made my piggybank smile. But I’d decided not to keep the money. But oh my, the temptation. The things I could do for my kitchen with that amount. Sigh.

  I kept moving the envelope filled with hundred-dollar bills. First, I put it in the nightstand drawer next to my bed, then I moved it from there to the kitchen, and from there to the pocket of my coat, where it waited to be delivered to a new home.

  Tuesday night was filled with erotic dreams centered around Marty. They were again interrupted by the psycho calling with threats for Marilyn.

  “Give it a rest, asshole,” I finally yelled at three in the morning. Damn. Money I couldn’t afford would have to be spent. I needed a new number.

  Which was why on Wednesday, when school was cancelled leaving me without a job for the day, instead of varnishing my kitchen cabinets as I should have, I decided it was too cold for shellac to dry correctly. Following that verdict, I also decided I needed to finalize my involvement in the dance-a-thon.

  Accordingly, I decided to take care of business first and return the taxi fare to my dance partner. I’d drop off the donation to the burn victim’s fund as well, and then, the dance-a-thon event could be marked closed in the file in my brain.

  Before I could procrastinate further, I went to the Smoke, Inc. building and rode the elevator to the twentieth floor. Since it was cold outside, temperatures in the low teens, I didn’t look particularly sneaky in my jeans, sneakers, heavy jacket, sunglasses, and ball cap pulled low. Nevertheless, I wore my unisex outfit in full stealth mode, determined that in no way could I be recognized.

  I’d decided to deliver the hundred-dollar bill myself. For some reason, it seemed important. Like I was getting the last word. Yes, it was childish. Petty though it was, I wouldn’t be able to lay that evening to rest until I returned the loan.

  I’d visited Maxine’s place the day she’d moved into her new suite in the building. Her previous location had burned to the ground at the end of the year. Her landlord then, also Marty Jones, had wasted no time finding a new headquarters for his company. He’d bought the building, occupied the top three floors, and leased the rest.

  According to Maxine, she’d lucked out when he offered her space on the lower floors. I’d not seen much on the trip up the first time having been sucking the tongue of the Smoke Inc. head honcho.

  I took the opportunity during this visit to remedy that oversight, stopping the elevator on several floors, just to check out the new digs. Or it might have been to work up my nerve.

  I knew from my illicit visit to Smoke, Inc. that Marty’s office was in the back. A reception desk guarded the outer door, and that was as far as I intended to go. The place really was ten steps higher on the nice scale. The elevator glided silently, didn’t smell of mold, and never lurched once on its trip to the top floors.

  I arrived and stepped into the fancy lobby, intending to hand the envelope to the person at the outer reception desk. It was empty. I couldn’t decide. Would it be safe to leave the envelope containing a hundred-dollar bill on the desk? Common sense said no.

  I stepped past and into the business suite of Smoke, Inc.

  “May I help you?” An older woman wearing a purple tweed suit caught me before I got much further than through the door.

  “Delivery for Martin Jones,” I mumbled and shoved the envelope at her hand. She didn’t take it.

  “Wait here.” She turned away from the dangling envelope and disappeared into the room she’d come out of.

  That didn’t bode well. Survival senses born in the wild, reared their head. Flee. I left the envelope lying in the middle of the desk I bumped into on the way out. I wasn’t running, but my breathing had escalated into panic mode, and my steps quickened to a trot as I ducked out of the main office to the lobby.

  Behind me, I sensed danger. As in Marty Jones. I knew he was there. I could feel his presence without turning around. Confirming my instincts, I recognized the gravelly growl that had ordered me around all one night. He roared a one-word command. “Stop.”

  Fat chance. I ignored the order, jumped the last three feet into the elevator, and punched the first-floor button, closing the door and beginning my descent. I opted to skip my planned visit with Maxine on the fourth floor before I left.

  I reached ground floor and joined the rest of the people exiting the building. Given the fear of terrorism in the country and the nature of the company’s work, I realized I might have screwed up. My abrupt departure and mysterious package might be considered suspicious.

  Shit. I should have worn a hoodie. I ducked my head lower and tried to blend in with everyone else on the street. As soon as Jones opens the envelope and gets his money, the building will settle down.

  Still. The incident left me feeling like a fool. Again. I walked across town to the building that housed the local fire station. It wasn’t exactly where donations were usually made, but a dispatcher took my donation—Maxine’s payment—and said he’d make certain it found its way to the right place.

  Instead of feeling noble, I left feeling considerably poorer, especially after I shelled out cash for a new phone number. At this rate I’d never be able to finish my kitchen project. Feeling despondent instead of proud, I hustled to Balls & Bones to make sure the manager had me on the waitress list for Friday night. If I was lucky, I’d be serving ribs and beer this weekend at the sports bar.

  Marty

  Per security protocol, and because of my recent equipment failure and subsequent Hummer break-in, we emptied the building, and I called a Smoke, Inc. consultant to inspect the threat. I really didn’t expect him to find an explosive device, but Elaine was insistent, and I gave into her.

  Church lifted the envelope to his nose and sniffed. “It’s not a bomb.” He sniffed again. “Smells like gr
een apples to me.” Before he owned the bar, he’d named after himself, Church had been a demolition expert.

  I pulled out my pocket knife and slit the end of the apple-scented envelope. A hundred-dollar bill fell out and the green apple aroma intensified. My cock got hard.

  “Fuck.” And I meant that on so many levels. Marilyn had paid me back. My smirk turned to a grimace when I remembered I’d passed out. And in spite of all my plans to make it up to her, I hadn’t seen her or been able to contact her since that night. But, she’d been on my mind every waking minute.

  The scent of green apples pulled me back to the envelope’s contents. The hundred-dollar bill reminded me all over again of my dance partner which brought me to the end of the evening. I was only going to get a shot at next time if I could locate her.

  I had Elaine keep tabs on the progress of the evacuation and re-entry. As soon as the building settled back into work mode, I took the stairs to the fourth floor, walked past the receptionist, and entered Maxine’s office.

  “Marty. So good to see—”

  “Everything all right down here?” I gazed around, half-expecting to see my dance partner lurking in the shadows. “Did you set up my escort for Night of Swing?”

  “Of course,” she answered quickly.

  “Same woman as for the dance-a-thon. I believe her name is Holly.”

  “Well,” she paused to clear her throat. “Holly’s not available.”

  “Maxine, I’d like you to make her available. Rearrange her schedule.” I felt possessively outraged at the idea of Holly escorting anyone else.

  “You don’t understand.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “She quit.” Maxine’s panic came through loud and clear.

  “I’ll need her address.”

  “What?”

  “Give me her address.”

  “I can’t do that. I guarantee…”

  “Maxine, we just had a bomb threat, upstairs. Your escort girl is a person of interest in the investigation. Should it turn out that you or your personnel were involved…” I let my voice deepen into menacing and watched Maxine squirm.

  “I don’t know her home address, and I wouldn’t give it to you if I did.” Maxine opened a desk drawer, pulled out a card, and shoved it at me. “She’ll be working there Friday night.”