by JA Huss
“Ah, no ATM? Not even in a fantasy?”
“Nope. So listen, this is what just happened. You were in my ass. And you leaned forward. The whole weight of that massive body of yours pressing down on me. Pinning me beneath you. I squirmed. Gasping for breath. But you didn’t relent. You just kept going. And then your hand reached around, under my belly, and your fingers started playing with my clit.”
Fuuuuuck, yeah. I miss that move.
“Oh, God, Lonnie. It drove me wild. I tried to make it last, but I couldn’t. I came all over your hand. And then you brought your fingers up to my mouth and I sucked on them like they were your cock. But then I wiggled free and your dick slipped out of my ass.”
“What!”
She laughs. “Stick with me. I promise. This is a good one.”
“It better be. I’m giving up ass sex. And that ass of yours was fucking tight.”
“Don’t be a baby. Or a caveman. This is the romantic part.”
“Go on.”
“I get out of bed. But it’s slow. I do it in a sexy way.”
I laugh. I can’t help it.
“Be serious now. I was serious for you.”
“Yeah, but when I talk dirty, I’m all alpha male and shit. You’re just… kind of adorable.”
“What’s up with that new alpha male act, anyway?”
“What act? That’s just who I am.”
“I know… but…” She raises her eyebrows at me. “Today was pret-ty next level, Lons.”
“What did you just say?”
“What? What did I say? Next level?”
“No. What did you call me?”
“Lons?”
“Why are you calling me Lonz?”
“Um…” Her face gets all crinkly. “It’s like a cute nickname for Lonnie?”
“Oh. Lons. Not… never mind. Go on. You were saying? I’m so next level?”
She sucks in a deep breath and lets it out. “Yeah. Wow. I’m really into you today. Not that I haven’t been into you the whole past two years, but… something’s different.”
I agree. And I feel it too. But I’m not ready to tell her about all my lies just yet. “So you got out of bed. And you did it in this slow and sexy way. I couldn’t take my eyes off you, Tara. That’s how sexy your bed exit was.”
She tsks her tongue. “Now you’re just making fun of me.”
“I’m not, I swear. I’m just dying to hear what happens next.”
“Well… since your fantasy involved ass sex, now we have to take a shower.”
I groan.
She snaps her fingers at her phone camera. “Eyes on me, buddy. And have some faith. I’m not a sexy FaceTime amateur. I got you, babe.”
“OK. I’m in your capable hands.”
“Not yet you’re not.” She winks. “But you will be. So I take you into my shower and lead you over to the marble bench in the corner.”
“You have a marble bathroom? Is it white or black?”
“Lonnie.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s white. I lead you over to the bench and sit you down. And then I get the fancy liquid soap, the kind that smells like gardenia. And I squirt it onto your legs and start rubbing it up and down your thighs. Then I kneel down in front of you and take your cock in my hands and slide my slippery palms up and down your shaft.”
Oh, fuck yeah. She’s never done this one before. A soapy hand job that smells like a garden of fresh flowers. I’m into it.
“I want to lick you, Lonnie. I want to stuff that massive, hard, fat, cock into my mouth and choke myself with it.”
“Fuuuck.”
“But since we’re two thousand miles away from each other, I can’t. So I’m going to need you to do that for me. Understand?”
“I’m way ahead of you, babe.”
“Good.” She raises one finger up in the air. “Now, hold please.”
“Hold?”
But she’s already off screen. There’s some fumbling noises. A giggle. A snicker. Then more fumbling noises. Then she’s back.
Holding a massive, anatomically correct dildo.
And with a huge smile on her face.
She takes a deep breath. “OK. Sorry for the interruption. Let me reset the scene.”
“We’re in the white marble shower, I’m on the bench. You’re on your knees in front of me. You’ve got my massive cock in your soapy hands—”
“Oh, I washed the soap off.”
“Correction. You’ve got my sparkling clean dick in your hands and the whole place smells like gardenia.”
“You must be taking notes.”
“Keep going, babe. I’m fuckin’ ready.”
She smiles. And for a moment I’m in that shower with her. I see her hair all wet and sticking to her cheek. I see her hands wrapped around my shaft.
But reality is almost as good. She scrambles out of bed and drops to the floor. The phone gets propped up against a pillow or the covers, and now it really looks like she’s on her knees in front of me. Add in the giant dildo stand-in she’s holding in both hands and yup. I’m convinced.
“No more talking, Lonnie. Now… you just have to watch.”
She opens her mouth and slides the tip of the dildo past her lips. She closes her eyes and moves her head a little. Like she’s really here. Really sucking my cock in front of me. She slides in a little deeper, her lips sealing along the shaft. And then she starts bobbing her head. Up and down. Up and down. I’m so caught up in watching this fantasy, I almost forget to jerk my real dick.
Almost.
Then she starts going to town, opening her mouth as wide as she can so I can actually see inside it. Actually see the thing going down her throat. She gags, but keeps going.
I’m jerking hard. The sound of my hand slapping my dick fills the room.
Tara moans. She leans back and the dildo starts coming out of her mouth. Not all the way, though. She keeps the head inside. Sucking on it and moving her face like she’s got a delicious popsicle in her mouth.
She starts kissing the tip. Little fluttery kisses as she stares at me from two thousand miles away.
I want her here. Right now. I want her next to me. I want my real dick in her mouth. I want her hot, ragged breath flowing on the inside of my thighs. I want to feel her tongue swirling along the tip of my cock. Relish the pressure of her hands as they slide up and down my shaft.
I want to be in the shower with her. I want to take her diving. And fishing. I want to introduce her to my parents, and my brothers, and my amazing sister.
But mostly I want to hold her. I want to sleep with her. Wake up with her. Eat meals with her. I want her.
I fucking want her. With me. Right here. This life. No more lies. No more glasses, or hats, or white shirts with ties.
I want to love her. And marry her. And put babies in her belly. I want to buy her romantic presents for Valentine’s Day, and make Easter baskets for our kids with her in the spring. I want to buy a new fishing boat just so I can name it The Tara. I want to be her best friend, and her lover, and her husband. I want her to call me Lonz, not Lons.
I want to be me. And I want her to be her. And I want us to be something else. Something new. Something better together than we are alone.
I come in my own hand and the fantasy fades away in the same instant.
“Oh, God. Lonnie.” She’s still looking at me, her eyes locked on mine. And how is that even possible? We’re separated by two thousand miles and yet… we’re not. She’s here with me, and I’m there with her, and we’re together, even though we’re not.
I can’t do this anymore. I want—
“I’m coming. Oh, shit, Lonnie. I’m coming. Oh, my God. Holy fuck.”
Once again I’m jerked back to reality.
I watch her pant and sink back on her butt, her hand in the shot now. She’s still playing with herself, her legs wide open, her pussy glistening with her desire, and her release, and her satisfaction.
And I want to say… I did that. I d
o that to her.
But it’s not true.
Because I’m not there.
We’re both silent for a while. She lies back on the floor, mostly out of view. And I’m still in bed, looking up at the ceiling. Trying to figure out how I can turn this fantasy into reality.
Would she pack up her life and move down to Key West with me?
Why would she do that? She has a job, and friends, and an apartment.
God, this whole thing is hopeless.
“Lonnie? Are you there?”
I pick up the phone and aim it at my face. “I’m here.”
She smiles as she climbs back into bed and gets under the covers. “That was fun.”
“So fun, babe.”
“Are you tired now?”
“Little bit.”
“I’m tired.” Her eyes are closed. She looks exhausted. And for a moment I want to ask her why. It’s not the sex. Sex makes you look a different kind of tired. A satiated kind of tired.
She looks… beat.
“I lied about something, Lonnie.”
“Yeah?” I almost laugh. I almost blurt out, I’ve been lying about everything, Tara. But I don’t. Still, I’m curious about her lie. Maybe even hopeful. I wish she was lying to me. It would be a lot easier to justify mine if that were the case.
But she’s not. I’ve done the background checks. She’s real.
I’m the only fake thing in this relationship.
“What did you lie about?”
“The marble.” She mumbles it, the words nearly incoherent. “It’s black. Not white.” Then she opens her eyes. Smiles at me. “Good night, Lonnie.”
And presses end.
I click off the light and lie there in the dark for a long time after that. Just staring up at the emptiness above me.
Desperate to find a way out of my lies.
Desperate to find a way around my secrets.
Desperate for her.
CHAPTER SIX - TARA
I’m standing in front of my closet the next morning looking at my clothes and glancing over my shoulder at my bedroom. I’m having a slight come-to-Jesus moment about two things I never really thought about before, but now that I’ve noticed these things, I can no longer pretend they’re not meaningful.
One. I own a lot of freaking pencil skirts. I have them in all colors, all lengths, all fabrics, some very sexy and some very serious. I didn’t even know what a pencil skirt was before I moved here to Fort Collins. I mean, I’d seen them in like… old movies. So I knew such a thing existed. I just never had a desire to actually own one. A pencil skirt means business. That business could be sex symbol, powerful CEO, or, as in my case, wannabe librarian. But make no mistake. When a pencil skirt walks into a room, everyone takes notice.
Two. My apartment is the pencil-skirt version of décor. I have a lot of classic things in this place. A beige chesterfield sofa dotted with tufted buttons. A dark oak coffee table with corners so sharp, a mother with small children wouldn’t be able to walk past that thing without imagining her offspring falling eyeball-first into the edge. Vintage end tables with those straight tapered legs that make you think of your cool great-grandma. My bed matches the couch, my nightstands match the end tables, and my Formica dinette set is in a class all its own.
I do not hate either of these observations. I’m rather fond of my pencil skirts and I love my child-unfriendly coffee table. At the very least, this is the first time in my life when I was actually able to pick things out from a store that fit a theme.
My new theme is retro, smart, sexy.
Before I was relocated to Fort Collins, I had a place of my own. I had furniture in it. I had a closet filled with clothes. But these things were not shopped for. They were acquired.
There’s a big difference.
When I landed here in town the FBI relocation program gave me two thousand dollars in cash, paid my rent up for two months, told me to show up at the library for my new job the next day, handed me a bus pass, and said, “Good luck, Miss Tanner.”
And then they left.
The apartment wasn’t furnished. But I had two grand to get started and two months’ rent paid up front. So I shopped for furniture. Not at the fancy place in downtown where everything is overpriced. I shopped in the newspaper. Estate sales. Garage sales. The end tables actually came from a local carpenter who makes replicas.
I bought my first pencil skirt while walking through downtown. It was on a blank-faced white mannequin in a window. The fake model looked so fabulous I went inside, pointed to the window, and took all the pieces into the dressing room.
And when I got all those clothing components—the skirt, the boots, the blouse, the scarf, the bag—when I got them all on I looked into the mirror and didn’t recognize myself. I didn’t have a wig on, I hadn’t dyed my hair, even though the FBI told me I should. But these clothes changed me.
I bought it all. It set me back almost four hundred dollars. I felt sick handing that money over. But when I stepped into the library the next day wearing my ensemble it was worth it.
I was someone else. Someone new. And even though I never wanted to be anyone else but me—I’m not the type of girl who longs for things she isn’t, or can’t have, or will never get—I felt this sudden rush of hope.
Hope was a luxury I couldn’t afford before this moment. Just like the clothes I was wearing. It was like a diamond ring. They’re pretty. Also useless. Unless you’re selling them. That’s how I felt about hope.
My point is this—I love the pencil skirts. I like the way they make me feel and I like the way people look at me when I’m wearing them.
But that girl wearing the pencil skirts isn’t me. She’s her.
I glance back at my closet. It’s a small closet. Two-sided slider, but the left-hand door is always off the track, so in order to get to the clothes hanging in the deepest depths of the shadows I have to squeeze myself in, push the hangers on the rod to make room, and then identify things by touch.
It’s pretty easy to find a leather jacket by touch. So I grab it, slide back out, and hold it up in front of me.
This is all I have left of Phoebe Covington, orphaned at the age of six, rest of her childhood in foster care, private detective from Los Angeles. This amazing, vintage, black, leather motorcycle jacket with studs on the cuffs and more zippers than could ever possibly be necessary is the only reminder of Phoebe I have.
Last night with Lonnie triggered something inside me. I’m not sure if it was the sex, or the words, or his missing hat and glasses. It could just be that we’re there. That point in a relationship where you realize it’s either got to end or move forward. Or it could just be that I’m tired of living this lie. I’m tired of pretending to be bookish, and stylish, and reserved.
I just want to be me.
So I do not wear my classy shawl-collared wrap coat with a belt to work today.
I put on my badass, stud-cuffed, black leather jacket.
No one notices.
Not a single person realizes I’m old me when I walk into work because once I take off the jacket, I’m just same old Tara in her severe bun, and crisp white button-down blouse, and beige, hip-hugging pencil skirt.
I ponder that as I push the cart up and down aisles re-shelving books. And when lunchtime rolls around I decide that if I want to reclaim my old self, I have to go all in. Ditch the skirts, and the blouses, and the bun.
So I text Belinda, tell her I’m skipping out of our usual lunch date to run errands, and hit up the thrift store down the street from Sick Boyz instead.
The minute I walk in—when that scent of old used-up crap hits me—I’m home.
I almost came here to shop for furniture that first day in town. Old me would buy thrift-store furniture. Old me would enjoy buying thrift-store furniture. Maybe not a couch. I mean, I have bought thrift-store couches but that was out of necessity back when I was eighteen.
But when I got to the front of the thrift store that first day in Fort
Collins and wrapped my fingers around the handle on the door, ready to pull it open—I hesitated.
That hesitation was actually more of a decision. Because I turned around, walked back into the trendy part of downtown where I bought my new outfit, and headed right into that over-priced furniture shop.
Well, I was not paying two thousand dollars for a chesterfield couch. That was for certain. But it gave me ideas. Just like the mannequin gave me the idea for the skirts. I bought that one outfit in the trendy store, but all my other stuff came from the On-Trend Exchange—a little gently-worn, second-hand boutique near the university.
Shopping for furniture and clothes in the thrift store felt like going backwards. I was a gently-worn boutique girl now. An estate-sale girl now. The kind of girl who has a theme to her look, and her apartment, and a plan for her life.
I wanted to be a forward thinker. Even if I couldn’t afford a brand-new couch, I could at least find a second-hand one that came with a better story. And no, I could not fill my closet with brand-new four-hundred-dollar outfits, but the thrift store was my new last resort.
I was making some good money back in Long Beach before everything went to shit three years ago. Of course, turns out that money was pretty dirty since all my clients were dodgy criminal types. But it was never quite enough to graduate into gently-used boutique girl. There was always someone from my past showing up asking for the money I owed them. Or I’d have some new fee to pay. Or some car emergency to take care of. And living in Long Beach is so expensive.
This librarian job doesn’t pay much. It’s very entry level since I don’t really have a master’s degree in library science, only a fake one supplied by the FBI. But it, along with my stipend, pays enough to slip into the life of a girl who shops at estate sales instead of thrift stores.
And that’s how I furnished my apartment.
And now, Tara? Phoebe? Whoever you are? What do you think you’re going to find here in the thrift store today?
I don’t know.
The only thing I do know—it’s definitely going to be something from my past.