by Kira Blakely
“Oh, yeah, I noticed,” Chet assured me. “You’re a real naturalist under all the... wrapping.” His eyes trailed thoughtfully over my olive green slacks and heather gray t-shirt. I didn’t realize that this outfit was too revealing until Chet’s eyes crawled over my curves, and I felt the distinct urge to cover myself or get behind something.
“Sometimes I even leave it open at night,” I informed him sternly. I loved the chirp of the insects and the sense that the outside world was within reach, that I could pass onto the porch and be immersed in the country with one breath.
“Are you hinting at something?” Chet asked, grinning.
“You never checked before. So, why did you check last night?”
Chet opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. “There was always the closed screen,” he answered in a sudden rush. “But this time, the screen was wide open with the door.”
“Huh.” That made even less sense. Why would someone just go into my house like that? Prop open the screen and then not move out any of these bulky, expensive electronics? Were they in the process when Chet interrupted them? Would they be back?
Just then, a deputy returned to the line and distracted me from the conversation with Chet. He told me that the dash-cam footage would be sent on a secure line through the county work server to my work email.
I pressed the button to end the call and my eyes tipped up to Chet, still lingering. In my foyer. Staring at me expectantly. “Well, I’m, uh, glad you’re watching my house so closely, Deputy Brown—”
“Chet,” he corrected me quickly. “Call me Chet.”
“Chet, right,” I repeated, shaking my head. “It’s such a coincidence that you would come over here right now. I just called in a request for some evidence from the night you arrested Andrew—Mr. Bogart.”
“Yeah, Ace,” Chet said. His demeanor shifted into a more macho posture. “Yeah, he’s a good guy. Well, he tries to be, anyway. Sure was sorry that I had to take him in, but I had a job to do that night, too.”
“He told me that you got into a fight about his daughter.”
“No, no, that’s not exactly true,” Chet said. “We technically got into a fight when I mentioned, incidentally, that his ex-girlfriend, Lola, cheated on him when they first got together. Sore spot. He turned into an animal on me. He’s just so jealous, so obsessed with Lola. They’re not together right now, but the poor son of a bitch can’t get over her. It’s just a matter of time.”
Chet kept rambling about this other woman, but the floor folded out from under my feet at his words. Andrew was in love with someone. No girlfriend, he’d said. But what did that really mean?
I fell into a series of new, dark realities.
In one, some poor, unknowing woman waited for him to come home on the night that he brought me to orgasm on his office desk. And I was guilty, too. I hadn’t asked if there was anyone else. I’d just... let him in. Of course there was someone else. Men who looked like Andrew Bogart weren’t just single. Oh, my god, and he was a dad... He was a dad the whole time.
In another scenario, Lola waited for him to come home and tell her about the random customer he’d fucked. She masturbated and then he climbed on top of her and I watched in horror from the corner. I was the unknowing woman here. I was the third player, the fool.
In another, he planted himself into me, then pulled away and wondered why he still felt the sting of longing for Lola. He wandered beneath the full moon and thought only of her and if she texted him at any time, he’d look at me, swallow, and bail.
“—date him, that’s all,” Chet said, and my eyes flicked over to him.
“What?”
“A business relationship is understandable,” Chet repeated. “But I would never date a man like Ace. This isn’t the first time he’s had a run-in with the law—been to jail for theft himself, you know, he’s too good at cracking systems and has no moral compass at all—and he’s got that daughter, too. Connie. Hey, though, that’s none of my business. I just thought I might let you know, since you were here with him last night. I don’t know if you normally bring clients by your house or what.”
“No, I don’t,” I said, cheeks flowering with heat. Chet must have thought I was such a floozy. “My car broke down. It’s a long story.”
“Always is with that kid.” Chet winked at me and suddenly grinned. “I’m gonna get out of your hair, Michelle. It would just break my heart if I didn’t say anything, and then you got hurt because of it. You seem like a nice girl.”
“I am,” I agreed. I braced my hand on the screen door and imperceptibly ushered him forward by crowding his space. “Thanks again, Chet.”
“Any time.” Chet turned and crowded into my space in return. I recoiled subconsciously. He loomed over me, smelling strongly of some laboratory-brewed pheromone concoction, something he must have sprayed liberally all over himself. “Glad I finally had an excuse to introduce myself to you, darling.”
I shuddered as I watched Chet saunter back to his own house. My mother calls me darling all the time. I’ve always hated it.
* * *
I shoved every thought of Andrew to the back of my mind, deep into an incinerator specifically crafted for unhealthy desires. Each time a flash of his eyes or a snatch of his smile would come to me—always unbidden—I cast it away with a twinge, letting it burst into flame. And I descended into a mild depression without even meaning to. A tiny, stupid part of me had actually been excited to see Andrew again. There was an innocent, hopeful girl in me—the same girl who ached at the end of love poems—and she had wanted to stretch up on her tiptoes and kiss him in that darkened bedroom the other night.
I shimmied out of my olive pants and gray t-shirt. Even those cotton garments took too much energy to wear around the house. I changed into flimsy, mint-colored boxers and a sheer, white tank top before the sun had even set. I collected a stack of ‘80s feel-good movies to spend the night tearing through. I put a pizza in the oven. I didn’t want to look good. I didn’t want to feel sexy. I wanted to wallow in full-blown self-loathing.
Maybe Andrew was a gorgeous tease, but John Hughes never was.
John Hughes was over all his ex-girlfriends.
John Hughes would never lead someone on and try to have as many side chicks as possible.
I sank deep into my couch cushions and curled around Bubba, a well-worn teddy bear from my childhood. I dragged a blanket over to the couch and cloaked my bare legs. I tossed my bra onto the floor. Fuck it.
The credits for Breakfast Club were still rolling when a pair of bright lights washed over my living room wall, bleaching out the television set. I sat up straighter and scowled out the window.
Those massive Dodge truck headlights were filling my living room like a UFO.
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. I sprang up from the couch and stormed over to the front door. He’s here?
In spite of my disgust with Andrew right now, I still brushed my fingers through my hair, adjusting its kinks and wisps, then tugged my tank top a little higher over my cleavage.
The doorbell chimed neatly, and I glared at the front door.
How dare he be polite?
Taking a deep, cleansing breath, I gripped the doorknob and pulled it open.
I’m going to take the bill from him and then slam the door in his face. He’s not going to cross this threshold.
Andrew stood there in blue denim pants and a dirty white t-shirt, splattered with oil, dirt, and grass smudges. The shirt he’d worn to our appointment had been clean and soft; but this one came straight from work. He reeked of solid effort and the sweat it would bring. A worn leather belt pinned the loose jeans to his muscular hips. He smelled like he did the first time we were together.
When our eyes met, he grinned down at me and swept his hand to the side in a deep bow, displaying for me the Volvo attached to the tow hook on the back of his truck. “Your carriage awaits, my lady,” he announced as he came to a full stand again. His grin was so
self-satisfied, I boiled at the sight of it.
His eyes traveled down to my taut nipples and he quipped, “Are those Tic-Tacs under your shirt, or are you just happy to see me?” as he moved to swagger into the living room.
I dodged into his path and scowled up at him. “I thought you promised you were going to forget the way,” I seethed.
Andrew blinked. “I thought we both realized that I was lying. Is there a problem here?”
“You can’t just come to my house,” I informed him. “I don’t know you like that. We aren’t— This isn’t—”
Andrew stood for a few seconds without speaking. He shook his head like he needed to clear it, scoffed softly, and then nodded. He took a step back onto the porch. “My mistake,” he allowed.
“Where’s my bill?” I wondered politely.
“That’s another mistake I made,” he informed me, biting down on his lower lip and skinning it beneath his teeth. His gaze was boyish and repentant and I longed for his mouth. I forced my eyes away and let the screen door drift shut.
“Bring me a bill, Mr. Bogart.” The door shuttered and clicked into place between us.
“I will.” Andrew’s eyes tracked me, their light slowly dying into a flatness, a darkness. “Did something happen?”
“I know about Lola, and I don’t want to play these games with a third player involved. I don’t want to play games where I don’t even know the rules or my odds of winning.” My fingertips raced over my scalp and massaged, jamming deep into my hair. I strode from the front door and Andrew pushed open the screen door, following me across the living room, letting himself in. “I didn’t know that you were still in the middle of something else when we had sex! I didn’t know that you had a kid! If I’d known—”
“It was a one-night stand!” Andrew reminded me. “By nature, we knew nothing about each other. But... Lola? If you’re looking for someone to be jealous of, Grant O’Connell is probably my actual soulmate.” Then Andrew settled into a more dangerous-looking anger. A calm anger. “Chet came by, didn’t he?”
“And he told me what you didn’t,” I instinctively defended Chet, since he’d been the one looking out for me.
Andrew threw his hands up and then let them come slowly down. They hung in my space without touching me. “There was nothing to tell,” he promised in a soft, smooth voice. “Don’t you have a past?”
I thought of Daniel Fletcher, my former fiancé. “Yes, I have a past,” I told him in a grave voice. “And in that past, I was the loser in a game I didn’t even know I was playing with another woman. I’m not going to play that game again. I don’t want to win or lose that game against the mother of your children.”
Andrew’s hands encroached on my body and I weakened. “Lola and I haven’t been together in years,” he assured me, his voice soft and tender, almost doting. He stepped so close that his body pressed to mine, and my chin needed to tilt upward in order to keep my eyes on his. My skin was immersed in a widespread, low-grade tingling. “I thought sex was boring until you walked into my garage.” His thumb grated over my lower lip and cracked my mouth open. “You woke me up,” he murmured, tracing over them with his own. “And I’ve been living through that memory ever since.”
His mouth captured mine and I crackled with electricity, eagerly returning the pressure of his body on mine. His fingers skirted up beneath my tank top and tugged it over my head and I stuck my arms up and felt it go and did nothing. I wanted him to see my breasts. I wanted him to take his dick out. I wanted all of it, even though I knew it was a bad idea for at least three decent reasons. I still scrabbled to help Andrew pull his t-shirt over his head and expose the washboard abs beneath. My fingers went to stroke over him, and I distinctly heard his belt tinkle open and come slithering through its belt loops.
He backed me up against a wall. I didn’t know it was even happening until my heels struck against it and I yelped in surprise. Adrenaline prickled at my lips and my toes and I wanted to feel him inside me. The anticipation had to break.
Andrew’s face was serious as he gathered my wrists in his hands and stretched them up the wall.
He paused and lovingly caressed my tits with his gaze. I could see on his face that he wanted to take each nipple into his mouth, that he wanted to bite their round bottoms and rake his fingernails down my torso. His dick was so hard that his pants were pulling open for it.
“I can show you the truth,” he whispered into my ear.
Andrew wrapped his belt around my wrists and secured them to a metal prong sticking out of the wall. Normally, coats were supposed to hang on it, but this time, it was me.
“I can show you how I feel.”
His hand slid into my boxers and skated between my slick labia, fondling my button knowingly. Like he still remembered every detail of my body since last time.
I wilted around his pumping fingers, eyes rolling into the back of my head.
His teeth teased over my hard nipple, and I called out his name. He pumped me harder in response. He gave up the teasing and committed to sucking hard at each nipple. I bucked my hips against him, begging for attention. I didn’t care about the other woman. Fuck her. I believed him. I wanted him inside me. Damn it, I couldn’t think straight. My mother was right about me.
He pulled away. My breasts tingled all over. My pussy felt like it was going to explode by his toying fingers, and then they disappeared, too, leaving my body famished for his touch.
His zipper peeled open. The broad, smooth head of his cock nuzzled at my lips, hot to the touch. His prick was thick enough to separate my labia with its hardness, and when he rubbed into me, he touched every ridge of my pussy with the top side of his cock. Jesus, he was such a tease. I wanted him to fill me and unleash an orgasm deep inside me, simultaneously slamming himself against my clit hard enough to trigger an orgasm from that part of my pussy, too. I wanted him to set me off like a fault line.
And then I felt him drape my shirt over my eyes and secure it at the back of my head, blindfolding me.
My stomach squelched at being immediately vulnerable in the house. What if he just left me here, half-naked, dangling from a goddamn coat hook, blindfolded? The cop next door would find me like this. Chet’s words from this afternoon echoed back to me: Been to jail for theft himself, you know.
“Hey,” I whispered. “Could you not—?”
Andrew pulled out of my space. His prick must have been soaked by my juices during that brief dance. “What?” he panted down at me.
“Could you not tie me up? And blindfold me?”
“Oh... yeah,” Andrew said, swiftly removing the blindfold from my eyes first.
“It’s just—I just got robbed, you know,” I explained, like an idiot. “And it makes me feel so vulnerable...”
Andrew’s brow furrowed. “We can close the door,” he said, half-laughing to himself. He untied the knot of leather around my wrists and gestured to the front door that was, indeed, still open. “But you don’t have to feel vulnerable. I’m here. Anybody coming through that door is going to have to go through me.”
I stared up at Andrew and felt an ice-cold guilt swell through my system—and Andrew must have seen the way my face changed. His face changed, too. His eyes fractured, like something in him fell and broke.
“You think I might take something,” he realized aloud. “It’s not... them you don’t trust.” He pointed vaguely at the front door. His finger dropped. “It’s me.”
I swallowed. I had to say something.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I don’t know what I’m saying.”
“You were about to have my dick in you, no trace of latex in sight,” Andrew reminded me hotly. Then he pointed to the center of his chest. “But you don’t trust me.”
“I don’t really know you,” I said, my hands coming up to cup my own breasts and hide them from his view. “Chet—”
“Chet again?” Andrew threaded his belt back through the loops in his jeans. “You’ve got to be fucki
ng kidding me, Michelle.”
“He told me that you’ve been to jail for theft, Andrew!”
He fastened his belt and scoffed, running his fingers through his hair. “This isn’t about my history,” he explained to me. He leaned down and snatched his rumpled ball of t-shirt off the floor. “This is about my character.” He shook his head and the shirt fell back over his face, his shoulders, covering his body again. “What, did you think me giving you that coil for free was an indication of my greed?” he demanded, and I winced at how good of a point that was. “That I told you to get out of there because I wanted to find a way to use you up?”
Andrew shook his head and pivoted, marching across the living room floor. “You’re right,” he growled, blowing through the screen door. “You don’t really know me.” And he thundered across the porch, back out of my life again.
* * *
The following morning, I downloaded the dash-cam footage from Chet’s cruiser onto my work PC and pressed play. I steeled myself for sexual banter regarding Andrew’s ex, Lola, causing him to bristle into hostility and violence.
But instead, I watched as Chet swaggered up to the parked Dodge truck and shined his flashlight directly into Andrew’s face. To his credit, Andrew only seemed bored and exhausted during the conversation—until Connie came into it. It was 2:37 a.m. on the tape, and I heard every word of the audio crystal clear. Chet needlessly antagonized a respectfully irritated, law-abiding citizen. The focus of the altercation was Connie, Andrew’s daughter, not Lola, his ex. Chet called Andrew “grease monkey” and “asswipe” multiple times, and the obstruction of justice charge was ridiculous. It was a delay of a handful of minutes caused solely by Chet Browntooth himself, who never requested any documentation from Andrew to begin with. Andrew didn’t even need me on this case. He could win blindfolded with one arm tied behind his back.
My heart sank at the thought.
I witnessed Chet drag Andrew out of the truck by his shirt, swiftly elbow him in the face two times, and then slam him down on the hood of his truck, clapping handcuffs over him with sadistic relish. The entire time, Andrew seemed nothing more than perplexed and aggravated, the way absolutely anyone would be. He didn’t fight back at any point, though he had a few opportunities and Chet was significantly smaller than he was.