Duncan: Across the Aisle

by Turner, Xyla

  Damn.

  He was quoting penal codes, and I didn’t have to google it to know he was accurate.

  “That is not necessary,” I assured him. “She will receive enough consequences from the organization, and once I share the other information, it will only cause more issues for her.”

  He did not seem satisfied, but luckily, the manager decided to show up, approaching our table with a bottle of wine in his arm.

  “Good evening, I am Senor Alonso, the manager of Seis. How may I help you, sir?”

  I thought he was about to go in about that hostess, but to my surprise, he began to scold the manager.

  “Is it not your job to ensure all of your employees are aware of the policies of this establishment?” This was a rhetorical question because he forged through and continued speaking. “It is unprofessional why I, as a consumer, should have to educate a hostess about the policies because she is ill-equipped and unprepared.”

  Senor Alonso’s face turned a nice shade of red. He tried to respond, but twice closed his mouth before he pushed the wine forward and eventually said, “My apologies, sir. Here is a complimentary bottle of wine.”

  “I don’t want your complimentary anything. I want your reassurance that you will educate and train your employees.” Duncan added and turned toward his menu.

  The manager looked from him to me. I said, “Thank you, sir.”

  He bowed quickly, backed away from the table, before he turned around and left.

  I was about to tell Duncan how harsh he just was until I saw his eyes on me. Then he said, “Our reservation was for six o’clock and this wouldn’t have happened if you were on time. Your lateness is not acceptable.”

  “Excuse me?” I scoffed.

  “Your tardiness was the catalyst for this discrepancy. You were expected to be here at six o’clock, but you failed to meet that standard.”

  One of my eyebrows rose on its own, and the hair began to prickle on the back of my neck and arms.

  “What would you like to eat?” he asked as he eyed the menu again, as if the subject of scolding me for being late was closed.

  “I would like to discuss how you were speaking to me, as if you were my father, about being late.” I ignored the last question.

  His eyes met mine, then he blinked. “I am not your father.”

  “This is correct,” I agreed. “He was a kind man who did not scold his dates, his wife, or managers of stores for the actions of an employee.”

  “What did he do?” Duncan shocked me by asking without any sarcasm or mock humor.

  This made me feel warm inside, but I answered and took the bite out of my voice.

  “He was supportive and loving. He cared about me and my mom, to the point of death. He always put us first, and he was taken advantage of by those closest to him. I loved him deeply and miss him every day.”

  Emotion gripped me and a first date was not the place for such a deep conversation. So I stopped talking and looked at the menu.

  “I am sorry for the death of your father,” Duncan said. “Who took advantage of him?”

  “My mother,” I answered quickly.

  “What did she do?” he asked, but I held up my hand.

  “I don’t want to talk about them anymore,” I stated.

  “What would you like to eat?” he asked again. “The salmon, steak, and shrimp are excellent. The chef is a perfectionist.”

  He had effectively changed the subject. I nodded and said, “I’ll take the salmon, then.”

  There was silence for a solid five minutes until the waitress came over to provide water and bread. After Duncan quickly told her we did not want appetizers or drinks, he gave her our orders: two orders of salmon.

  Once she walked away, I decided to test this theory of Bernie’s. She seemed to be so sure that I would like the man, but thus far…I wasn’t wowed, or even remotely happy about his performance.

  “What made you get into politics?” I asked.

  Duncan was sitting straight as an arrow and looking intently at me, which unsettled me slightly. It was not one that showed desire, only that he was focused on me.

  “I did not,” he stated. “I expressed my discontent over a matter that I did not believe was political in nature. My plea was heard and resolved, then some people thought I should run and overthrow the current administration. This is not something I wanted, but after hearing much of their rhetoric, I found myself behind a podium with a trusted team of people that put me here.”

  “I see.” My head nodded as I thought of another question. “Republican, huh?”

  “Yes,” he replied.

  This was not going to be good.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “It makes the most logical sense,” he replied. “Democrats are more emotional and care about social issues, while some of the practical and realistic threats are often overlooked. Things like war, killings, drug trafficking and security.”

  All of my antennas went up because I was about to show my emotional Democratic side. I leaned forward and said, “Are you kidding me? Republicans are practical when they just put a rapist on the Supreme Court?” I scoffed. “There is nothing practical about that. A buffoon is in office, right now. Like, a real life show monkey.”

  “Alleged,” he stated simply.

  “What!” I hissed.

  “He’s an alleged rapist,” Duncan repeated again. “He was never taken to court, found guilty, or indicted. The motto of the law is that he is innocent until proven guilty.”

  “Right. So the credible victim that spoke on her behalf...” I entered my evidence in the conversation.

  “Alleged victim.” He nodded. “He was not proven guilty because there was no trial.”

  Gah!

  “You are one of those people that thinks everyone is innocent before proven guilty. Is that it?” I was still hissing at him. “So, if I smack you right now, unless there is a witness or cameras, I am innocent, even though you know you have been hit.”

  Duncan, for once, looked semi-flustered. “Portia, you are upset,” he stated as a fact. “I mean no harm, but all we have is evidence and facts. If we do not have data to validate and corroborate what we say and feel, it is emotional and, therefore, irrational. A country cannot run on feelings and emotions. It must run on facts and figures, actual untainted data, and our lives must do the same, or we will continue to have chaos like we do now.”

  “I disagree.” I sat back and shook my head. “Feelings should play a part in our lives. We are not robots, Duncan. We are human. If you hurt us, we hurt. If I cut you, you are going to bleed, and it will be painful.”

  His eyes averted mine for a moment, then in a lower voice he stated, “I do not feel the way you do. I will not be hurt.”

  “But you will bleed, unless you are telling me you are not human,” I countered almost immediately.

  Duncan’s eyes met mine, and for some crazy reason, I think they almost softened as he said, “I do bleed.”

  “Okay, then.” I nodded. “Everything isn’t facts and figures. We are still people.”

  “But we are not the same,” he countered, back to his argument.

  I sighed and thought this clearly couldn’t be the same man Bernie thought I would hit it off with.

  “Take abortion,” he started, and I immediately lifted my hand to stop him, but he didn’t take heed. “Society would have you believe that if a woman does not feel like having a child, she can simply kill the baby, but that makes no logical sense. A woman is killing a defenseless fetus, and pro-choice advocates feel that it is justified.”

  This was the worst date that I had ever been on. He was not only pulling out the bonus card but the most controversial.

  “Duncan, that’s the most arrogant display of mansplaining I have ever heard. You are going to sit here and say that women need to have babies, despite their choice. Men don’t have babies. Men don’t have anything. Their lives are not disrupted at ALL! As a matter of fact, the majority o
f men being searched, sued, and mandated to pay child support are opting out of helping raise their children. So, Mr. Man, you sit here and say that we need to have a baby because you say so. Because it’s logical.” I was absolutely done. “Also, until eight weeks, it is called an embryo.”

  “No, I am stating that the logical thing for a woman to do is give the child up for adoption if she does not want to have the baby. She should not slaughter the embryo, fetus or baby,” he replied, unbothered by my emotional self.

  “Slaughter?” I gasped. “Adoption! She has to stop nine months of her life, while a whole being grows in her body, and then be expected to give it up. That is just cruel.”

  “Those are thoughts that should have been decided before lying down with another person, knowing that sperm and eggs can be fertilized and will result in reproduction,” he replied.

  “What about rape victims?” I nearly yelled.

  Thank God we were far away from others because this entire conversation was about to turn into a fight.

  “Adoption agencies would be grateful to have a newborn baby,” he said with not one ounce of emotion.

  “You have got to be fucking kidding me,” I blurted, as my mouth dropped open.

  “I assure you, I am not,” he answered in a nonchalant manner, then took a dignified sip of water.

  My blood was actually boiling beneath my skin. I was ready to not only smack him, but actively scream as everything he said absolutely infuriated me. I nearly pulled out my phone to text Bernie and cussed her ass out. This was a fucking joke. It had to be.

  “Let’s change the subject,” I suggested as I had nothing else to say on the subjects that had come up.

  My only goal was to leave and never think about this again.

  “You are unable to discuss any topic that you are emotional about?” he asked.

  “Exactly,” I snapped.

  “What makes you a good manager?” he asked, almost as if that was in his pocket.

  At that point, I didn’t really want to talk to him at all, but I was an adult. A mature one, too.

  Sometimes.

  “I started working in retail when I was sixteen. This continued through college, and once I obtained my degree, I was promoted. I went from lead cashier to assistant manager, to store manager and now a district manager.” I exhaled as I let my prior anger with the conversation go. “Being a manager is hard since I am younger. Even with over fifteen years’ experience, I am questioned, criticized, and still have to hold people twice my age accountable. I think what makes me a good manager is that I started from the bottom, so I understand the various positions. I have literally had every job, so I can speak to each of these things. I am also empathetic and work for my people.”

  His eyes bored into mine, then he cleared his throat and said, “I understand this.”

  Well, okay.

  Our food arrived and just like he said, the salmon was excellent. The combination of tangy spices and a side sauce of chopped mangos, onions, and shallots was a bonus. Accompanied with our salmon were asparagus and a side of potatoes. Needless to say, I ate my food with gusto, and there was no talking between the two of us. He was done quickly, which caused me to laugh at how hungry we were and how good the meal was.

  “What is funny?” Duncan asked.

  “Just laughing at how we crushed our meals.” I volleyed my forefingers between our two empty plates.

  He looked down and nodded.

  “Yes, the food is great here,” he agreed. “Should we get on with the rest of the evening?”

  “Dessert?” I smiled while grabbing my stomach.

  “No, intercourse,” Duncan said with a straight face.

  I nearly choked when the words registered in my head. Just to be sure, I leaned in and asked, “What?”

  “Intercourse,” he repeated.

  I was speechless.

  Literally, no words came to me at that moment.

  “You shared that you wanted to have intercourse with me.” Duncan followed up his first statement. “I am rather pleased with this and would like to move forward.”

  What the actual fuck?

  “Duncan,” I exclaimed. “I said that to Bernie, but it was as a defense of me not wanting to get married. You know? My saying that I wanted a fuck was not literal.”

  In some ways, I felt bad for him. I also could not imagine getting naked with him. The man was just so proper and logical, he might just come and roll off. Yeah, I’d pass on that.

  “That’s a pity,” Duncan replied, with his mouth turned upside down. “I was looking forward to seeing your response to my type of intercourse.”

  Wait, now. What?

  “What do you mean, your type?” My head reared back. “Sex is sex, Duncan.”

  It was his turn for one of those brows to go up in a question. He said, “Surely you know that’s not accurate.”

  “I know sex between a man and woman involves his penis going into her vagina.” Damn, the man was drop-dead gorgeous, but the imagery just wasn’t there.

  Duncan reached into his breast pocket, retrieved his smartphone and tapped on the glass screen a few times. Then he placed it on the table right side up, so I could see. My eyes blinked because I couldn’t believe what my eyes were registering, but once I looked at him, he nodded for me to get the phone.

  “That’s the first thing I’d like to do,” he shared.

  Holy. Fucking. Shit.

  My hand reached out to nab the phone off the table for fear someone would walk past and see the offending image or, more importantly, that he would take the phone back before I was able to get the image embedded in my brain.

  It was a woman with long dark hair. Her coloring or complexion was not visible with the lighting of the image. The man was clear as day, but not his features. It was what he was doing to the woman. His fist was at the top of her head with her long hair bunched under his fingers. A viewer could see the veins in his hands, revealing the force behind the grab. He was not kissing her, but biting her bottom lip, and there was a drop of blood on the side of her mouth. I am sure there was a similar image on a paranormal book cover of some sort. He possessed her, and she was not struggling but submitting to him, even in the bite. It was hot as hell, and my panties were almost instantly wet, which was funny as hell, because that one image changed the way I looked at Duncan.

  Fuck.

  Chapter Six

  Portia

  One image, and the asexual thoughts I had about him revealed how judgmental I really was. I hadn’t even imagined him being able to satisfy me sexually. I just assumed he was a virgin or incapable of giving me what I needed based off his present demeanor.

  Damn.

  “Slide to the right,” he ordered.

  Yup, that was not a suggestion and despite my independent mantra, I obeyed. My nipples grew hard at the next image, and every part of my body grew aware that I was turned way the fuck on.

  “Duncan,” his name came out in a whisper.

  This time, the man is on his knees with his entire mouth wrapped around her breast, almost consuming it with his hands gripping her ass. It’s so tight, you can see the imprints of the pressure above his fingertips.

  “Keep scrolling,” he orders again, and I swear, I might come.

  The next image is of him biting her stomach with her back arched and hair hanging off the bed. His fingers are still gripping her hips for dear life.

  My fingers kept scrolling, and the man in the picture story moved further down until he was biting her thigh, pulling on her clit with his lips while squeezing the woman’s breast. The images turn into the couple standing with the woman facing the wall. The man is still gripping her breast while grabbing her ass and lining it up with his dick. The woman’s mouth is wide open. I can feel her anticipation. I had to see where this would lead, so I kept scrolling. She is then impaled on him, and her ass and throat are being gripped possessively in his hands. My own throat felt like it was being squeezed, as I not only im
agined, but for once in my damn life, craved the scene. Wished it was me. Prayed it was me.

  I kept going until the man finally had the woman sagged against him and his teeth dug into her shoulder.

  Fuck me.

  I put his phone back down on the table as if it had stung me. Without one word, he pocketed the smartphone and waved for the waitress to bring over the check. All of this sort of happened in a haze, and before it caught up, I saw Duncan standing, waiting for me to do the same.

  “Oh.” I blinked twice and grabbed my purse.

  “Was the dinner to your liking?” he asked.

  “Yes, thank you,” I replied, then cleared my throat.

  One picture changed my whole view of Mr. Straight and Narrow.

  As we left the restaurant, I tried to gather my wits about me.

  “Duncan, do you know that couple?” I asked him in a low voice.

  “No,” he replied and said nothing else.

  Once we were outside, he said, “I can have my driver, Peter, take you home.”

  “Duncan,” I said, causing him to look at me and not for the car.

  The man was very tall, even though I was wearing four-inch heels.

  “Yes, Portia,” he replied.

  “I don’t want to go home,” I shared with him.

  “Where would you like to go?” he asked, completely missing the hint as he stared at me, waiting for the answer.

  “Your place,” I uttered in a small voice.

  Come on, Portia, get your shit together. I was fussing with my own internal self.

  “My apartment?” he asked with a lifted eyebrow.

  “Yes.” I sighed because I would have to spell this out for him. “To…you know, do what the couple in the pictures was doing. My interest is peaked.”

  He nodded, just as plainly and said, “That’s good.”

  Okay.

  A few moments later, his car drove up, and he opened the door. I got in, and he walked around the front of the car. I stared at him, well… more at his crotch, looking for any sign of life. It was a nice, full view. I found myself licking my lips. Duncan slid into the car, smoothly, and we pulled away from the restaurant. I squirmed in my seat as we silently rode through the city. His vehicle stopped in in front of an antique apartment complex that almost resembled one of the embassies.