Burn

by Dawn Steele

  He steps in, always a little apprehensive at the start of any date. She turns and walks down the hallway to a magnificently lit lounge. Here, the high ceiling is vaulted and bedecked with frescoes of lotus flowers. The woman is clad in an apple green terrycloth robe, and her hair is damp, as if she has just stepped out of the shower.

  She goes to her Chanel purse, nestled by a large vase of flowers on a Welsh dresser. She fishes out five hundred dollars and hands it to him.

  “Here,” she says.

  “I wish you wouldn’t do that,” he says. It does sting a little – the callous way she still treats him despite the fact they have known each other for well over a year.

  “You were the one who established the boundaries, Devon,” she reminds him.

  He flinches. Yes, he remembers that all too well. He accepts the money, folds the bills and pockets them.

  “Take it off,” she orders, eyeing him as though he is a piece of horseflesh. “Take it all off.”

  He does this slowly, knowing that she enjoys the show. Off comes his leather jacket, dropped in a careless heap upon the white marble floor. Off comes his black shirt with the snaps, and off comes his jeans. He knows he looks sexy and he revels in his effect on her.

  He wears only his briefs as he goes to her in a dance they know so intimately. He is far taller than she is, and he has always admired her petite brunette beauty.

  “Take me,” she whispers, her dark eyes flashing.

  He bends his head for a voracious kiss, grabbing her body against his in a bout of passion that she craves and would never get from her rich lawyer husband. His hands roam over her waist and hips and breasts, undoing the sash of the terrycloth robe so that it opens to reveal a generous expanse of cleavage and stomach.

  He drops her robe, crushing his mouth to hers and running his tongue and lips down her jawline and neck, nipping her well-scrubbed and satiny skin very lightly with his teeth. Then he scoops her up in his strong arms – the very arms with which he has carried the girl up three flights of stairs to his apartment earlier. His cock is rock hard and ready as he carries his writhing burden to her bedroom.

  Once there, he throws her onto the flouncy, four-posted bed. Her red lips smile up at him as she reaches for his well-formed cock. He slashes away her groping hands. It’s a game they like to play, this push and pull. He would be the dominant aggressor and ravisher, and she would be his willing slave.

  He falls onto her with wanton abandonment – kissing and sucking her flesh in a riot of need and desire. He suckles her dry breasts, reveling in the smell of her sweetly soaped skin, and traverses his tongue downwards to lick her velvety core.

  Then he slips on a condom in a practiced way and takes her hard – the way she likes to be taken. He bends her legs until she is almost folded in half, and ruts against her in this manner, all the while lowering his head to devour her lips.

  He loses himself in the passion of fucking. For it is fucking – nothing but the pure, pristine slap, slap, slap of sex organ cleaving into fleshy sex organ walls, because he does not allow this transaction to be anything but monetary.

  He makes sure she climaxes before he does so that he would have a satisfied customer. Then he rolls himself off her and tears off the sodden condom. He ties it up with an expert loop and throws it into the bin beneath the dressing table.

  He flops himself onto the bed beside her and stares at the ceiling.

  “Turn off the lights,” she says.

  He gets up to obey without question. He climbs into bed beside her again and draws the covers over both their naked bodies. This is the part that he likes best of all – cuddling. And she only allows him to do it because she’s all climaxed and sated with sex.

  “Where’s your husband?” he asks.

  “London.”

  He relaxes and holds her in his arms, stroking her hair absently while he thinks of the girl he left back in his apartment.

  Abby.

  He wonders if that is her real name. She is pretty in an elfin way, but far too skinny. He remembers how large her eyes are in her thin face, and how frightened she was when she gazed at him for the first time. He doesn’t get that look often from girls. They look at him with desire, perhaps. Lust. Longing. But never fear.

  It makes him feel like a predator.

  He wonders if she is running away from something. No, scratch that. She is definitely running away from something. Or more likely, someone. He is sure that she is a victim of abuse. He is not equipped to deal with abuse victims, but she does not seem to be psychologically damaged on the surface.

  Who abused her then? A father? Stepfather? Boyfriend? She appears rather young, and he wouldn’t put her age past eighteen.

  When she’s ready to talk, he reckons she will talk. When she’s ready to disappear, he reckons she will disappear too – in a puff of smoke. But she’s no ordinary victim. There’s something about her that isn’t right. Something in her demeanor that hints at layers between layers of conflict.

  Meanwhile, Claire is drifting off to sleep in his arms. She is warm and compact and nice to hold.

  “Don’t forget about Rachel tomorrow,” she murmurs.

  “How can I?”

  “You don’t like her.” Claire fingers his chest lightly, tracing a nail in the depression between his pectorals.

  “She can be cruel.” He cringes when he thinks of the things Rachel makes him do.

  “She pays well.”

  That she does, he concedes.

  And he will take every red cent he can get.

  MORNING

  When he gets back to his apartment, Abby is up and frying something in the small kitchen. The aroma of pancakes permeates the entire lounge.

  “I found some old pancake flour in your cupboards,” she says, turning around to greet him as he enters.

  “It’s probably expired by now.”

  “By three months,” she agrees. “But it smells OK.”

  “I’ve bought some bread.” He holds up a paper bag. “And peanut butter. And plenty of crisps.”

  “Did you get any more eggs?”

  He shakes his head, feeling deficient. He isn’t aware he is out of eggs.

  “It’s OK. We can go grocery shopping later. Sit down and have some breakfast.”

  He sits down at the table while she flips a pancake onto a plate and sets it before him. He feels ill at ease, as if she’s the host and he the guest in his own apartment.

  “Did you get butter?” she asks, rifling in his bag.

  “Margarine.”

  “Good.” She takes it out and sets the tub on the table.

  He smiles at her. She has certainly made herself at home in a short period of time. She is looking so much better today. There is more color in her cheeks and her face does not appear to be so gaunt. Her short dark hair is neatly combed. She wears his T-shirt and shorts from last night, and they hang from her small frame like oversized cloth bags.

  “You don’t have a TV,” she observes as he forks a cut piece of pancake into his mouth.

  “I don’t watch TV.”

  She does not appear disappointed. Perhaps she is planning to leave today.

  He says, “Do you need to go anywhere? A doctor perhaps . . . ”

  “You’re still trying to fob that doctor off to me. Why? Do you get a commission for referrals?” she teases.

  “I just thought – ” He motions to her scratched and bruised arms.

  “They’ll heal,” she says dismissively.

  “Where are your parents?”

  “At home.”

  “They know you’re here?”

  She shrugs. “They don’t care.”

  “You sure about that?”

  She makes a warding off gesture.

  He tries a different tack. “You have someplace to stay in New York? You know anyone?”

  “I know you,” she says softly, her eyes bright in her face. His breath catches a little in his throat. When her expression is wistful, sh
e’s almost beautiful.

  “I’m someone you just met last night.”

  She shrugs again.

  Then she says shyly, “You were kind to me.”

  He doesn’t say anything as he eats the rest of his pancake. When he finishes, she asks, “Would you like another one?”

  He nods, and she puts another on his plate.

  “Funny,” he remarks. “I was figuring I’d come back here and you’d be gone with all my furniture by now.”

  “Well, yeah, I get that a lot from people.”

  “How old are you really?”

  “Old enough. Where did you really go last night?”

  They lock eyes. He’s the first to grin.

  “OK,” he concedes. “You have your secrets and I have mine. I get it.”

  Of course, the problem now is what he would do with her. She can’t live with him indefinitely.

  “Listen,” he says, “you can’t stay here. You need to decide what to do. You won’t let me call your parents. You won’t let me you call a doctor. Should I be calling social services?”

  “No,” she says quickly. “I have decided what I’m going to do.”

  He waits as she flips a pancake for herself. She puts it on a plate and sits down at the table across from him. She slathers her pancake with butter. She looks up, her dark eyes beguiling. They are a coal black color, swirling with infinite mysteries. He can’t help thinking that with a little makeup and the right clothes, she would be a beauty.

  In fact, he can’t help thinking what a great subject she would be to paint.

  She says, “I’m going to get a job. Then I’ll find a place for myself. You know of any good apartments around here?”

  He thinks for a while. “It may be difficult for you to afford one of your own right now. This is New York, after all. The best you can do is to find a roommate. There are student newspapers going around in which people advertise for roommates.”

  He pauses. He is thinking that it would be nice if she stayed a little longer.

  “You can stay here until you get back on your feet,” he adds, hoping she would say yes.

  “Where would I sleep?” She flashes him a sudden coy smile.

  He laughs. “Don’t worry. I won’t compromise your virtue. You can sleep on the couch. It converts into a sofa bed and it’s quite comfortable. I have some spare pillows. But I do expect you to pay part of my rent. This is not a free ride.”

  “Of course. Wouldn’t have it another way.” She cocks her head thoughtfully. “I need to borrow money for some clothes. I’ll pay you back, of course. Do you know of any jobs I can do?”

  “I can think of something.”

  He tells her what he has in mind.

  POSE

  Abby sprawls sideways on the leather couch as Devon sets up his easel, palette, canvas and paints. The atmosphere is rich with the smell of oils and turpentine. The light in the room is indeed very revealing. She is self-conscious as he eyes her pose critically.

  “You’re too tense,” he says. “Tilt your head a little backwards. Not like that. I’m going for innocent, not sexy.”

  “So I guess you don’t want me to take my clothes off.”

  She enjoys teasing him because he actually blushes.

  “Not yet. I want to do a series called ‘Phases’. In it, I’m going to capture you as you metamorphose into different phases of yourself against different backdrops.”

  “How do you mean? You’re going to paint me against snow-capped mountains and cherry blossoms some day?”

  “I haven’t thought that far. I’ll just let inspiration guide me.”

  He starts to rigorously sketch something on his canvas, glancing at her now and again. His strokes are quick and purposeful. She wonders how he sees her. She has never thought of herself as pretty, let alone beautiful, so she is pleased that he sees something in her that no one else does.

  She finds herself studying him as he studies her. How the light settles on his rich chestnut hair, giving it body and nuance. How his eyes sparkle as he executes his craft with dexterity. One of his eyes is more golden than the other, but both are equally beautiful. He is almost like an otherworldly creature floating in this plane of existence.

  She wonders where he went last night. She is sure that he has a lover outside, perhaps an older one. Perhaps he is someone’s kept boy.

  How salacious!

  “Can I go pee?” she asks him after two hours of sprawling like this. Her elbow is starting to ache.

  “OK. That’s enough for today anyway. Come on, I’ll take you shopping.”

  She gets up. “I want to see what you painted.”

  “No.” He quickly drapes a cloth over the unfinished canvas. “You can’t see it until I’ve finished. It’s one of the rules.”

  “You do realize I’m staying here, right? When you are out on one of your nightly excursions, I can take a peek.”

  “But you won’t.”

  “How so?”

  “Because you have integrity.”

  “Why do you say that?” Integrity isn’t something she thinks she’s saddled with. Not with what happened back home.

  “Because underneath it all, you’re a good person. You don’t think you are, and that’s why you won’t tell me what or who you’re running from. But you really are a good person. You have an aura about you.”

  “You can look at mystical auras?” She laughs.

  “I have my ways. Once I’ve cleaned my brushes, we can go.” He picks up his palette and smiles at her.

  Her heart leaps a little despite her trying to control it. She will have to watch out for herself where Devon is concerned. She can’t afford to have any ties here lest she has to run again.

  *

  He takes her shopping in Greenwich Village, because he is sure she would like the more arty styles there.

  “How much did that posing session buy me?” she asks, picking up a ripped pair of vintage jeans.

  “Not enough for what you’re spending.”

  “Oh, should I limit myself? I will have to pose every day then to make up my new wardrobe. Or else, you can just give me your credit card.”

  “You wish.” He laughs.

  She realizes how much she enjoys shopping with him. He is not impatient, like some of the boys she knows. She enjoys trying on a garment and parading it in front of him. Because he has an artist’s eye, he can fully embrace how it looks on her. He is always thinking two steps ahead, visualizing her attire to see if it looks good on canvas.

  She enjoys the way women of all ages give him the elevator look – checking him out from head to toe. He seems to be oblivious to it. Or perhaps he is so used to people admiring his beauty that he doesn’t notice it anymore.

  When they have finished shopping, she has a bagful of clothes and a hefty tab to repay him.

  “That will be worth ten sittings at least,” he pronounces.

  She doesn’t want to tell him that she would have posed for him for free.

  They seal off the day by having dinner at Little Italy. He takes her to a place where they serve scrumptious ravioli, basked in the light of a single candle at their table. She feels her tension snaking away from her in droves. She can almost forget all her problems.

  As she spoons the ravioli into her mouth, he suddenly grabs hold of her free hand, resting on the table. She snatches it back, but not before he sees the burns on her palm.

  “Who did that to you?” he says accusingly.

  “No one. Accident. Touched a boiling kettle.”

  “You can tell me.” His beautiful eyes are soft, but challenging.

  She shakes her head.

  He sighs, but lets her be.

  When they finish and he pays the bill, he says. “I have to go out. I’ll accompany you back to the apartment.”

  “Who’s this secret girlfriend of yours?” she asks.

  “What makes you think I have a girlfriend?”

  “Because you are so secretive about it.”
She snatches the bill from him. “Wow, at the rate I owe you, I would have to be posing nude well into the New Year.”

  He laughs heartily.

  They take the subway back to his apartment. Once again in the bedroom, she watches him as he changes into something black and sexy that shows off his shoulders and arms to magnificent effect.

  “Will you be OK?” he asks.

  “Sure. Will you be coming back tonight?”

  He hesitates, and then says, “No. I don’t think so. You can use the bed.”

  I intend to, she thinks.

  She watches his back wistfully as he leaves the apartment.

  PAIN

  Devon is wary as enters the well-kept apartment building in Soho. The doorman who wears livery and the nametag of ‘Horsch’ eyes him up and down with an air of distaste.

  “Good evening,” Devon says to him, always polite. Horsch knows exactly why Devon is here and what he does for a living.

  Horsch does not deign to return the greeting. He merely sneers. “I s’pose you’d be wanting to go up to Ms. Krieg.”

  “Yes, please.”

  Horsch assumes a bored expression as he picks up the phone and stabs a series of numbers. “Ms. Krieg? Fella here to see you.” Pause. “What’s his name, you ask?” He swings to Devon. “What’s your name?”

  He does this every time, Devon knows, even though they have been through this at least thirty times over the past year.

  “Devon Fisher,” he says politely.

  “He says he’s a Devon Fisher. He ain’t bring no pizza, Ms.”

  Devon clenches his jaw, but refuses to let Horsch rile him. It will be much worse later.

  “OK, you’ve got it, Ms. Krieg.” Horsch puts down the phone and reluctantly leads Devon to the elevator. He swipes a card from his pocket on a sensor and punches Floor 22 on a silver console beside the deck of elevator cars.

  As Devon sidesteps him to go into the waiting car, Horsch says, “The likes of you disgust me. Good-looking woman like Ms. Krieg should be dating a real man. They should be payin’ her for the privilege, you know what I mean?”