Perpetuate

by K. C. Ale

  By seven o’clock I’m ready to climb the blemished wall.

  Brad isn’t home yet. Not that I’m staring at the clock waiting for him to walk through the door while anxiously wringing my hands, but come on. Shouldn’t he have left the office by now? It’s Friday. Even the contractor and his team hustled out of here hours ago. Carlson, in his delicate me-giant-you-shut-up manner, took off without saying anything to me, presumably to pick up his boss. Does he have a home, I wonder, or is he true to his heritage by tunneling the dirt with his paws?

  And when did I start thinking of Brad Hawkes as Brad instead of Hawkes?

  Ugh!

  I’d call him, but I don’t want him to get the wrong idea. Or the right idea… that I am, in fact, sitting here on the half-covered sofa with an ice pack on my neck, peevishly tapping my foot.

  You’d think he remembered he had a houseguest.

  It’s in the middle of a reality show where high end realtors negotiate the hell out of several million dollars in cash for their fabulously wealthy clients – who are these people?? – that Bull abruptly bounds down from his spot next to me and purposefully hurries out of the room. Moments later I hear footsteps pound their way closer and closer. Too irritated with the jerkoff for leaving me alone in his house for hours and hours, I don’t even bother to sit up. Curled comfortably on my side with a throw over my legs, I studiously keep my gaze on the blaring television.

  The show cuts to commercial just when the best and final is about to be presented. Still my eyes are stubbornly glued to the flickering screen in the otherwise dark room, refusing to acknowledge the man hovering at the foot of the sofa, his eyes burning into the prone figure sprawled on his sofa.

  A long-suffering male sigh, then he’s perched on the coffee table in front of me, deliberately blocking my view of the television with his silver shirt over killer abs.

  What was he expecting? A hot meal spread out on the dining room table, happily warm and inviting? Please. Carlson is the housewife here. Not me.

  “Gemmy.”

  “Do you mind? I’d like to see how amazingly white that dude’s teeth got after using that brand of toothpaste.”

  “Not toothpaste. Airbrushed,” he points out.

  I don’t look up. “How do you know?”

  “Everyone knows.”

  “Guess I’ll never see for myself, since you refuse to move your jerkoff ass out of the way.”

  “I’m still a jerkoff?”

  “It’s a lifetime commitment.”

  He’s quiet for a heartbeat. “You’re upset.”

  It wasn’t a question, but I give the universal female response, “I’m fine.”

  “I see.” Shifting briefly, he glimpses over his shoulder at the screen before turning back. “What are you watching?”

  “Apparently, your atrocious, wrinkled shirt.”

  “Atrocious, huh? Tell me, Gemmy, on a scale of one to ten, ten being you want to rip your clothes off and straddle my lap and one being I can go fuck myself, how would you rate the fine with me?”

  That’s easy. “Negative ten.”

  “Hm… that’s not a fine.”

  I don’t respond to that. Just as well, because he’s pushing to his feet and shuffling out of the room with a terse stay with Gemmy to Bull when the furry traitor makes to follow with a wagging tail.

  My show comes back on and I don’t move from my spot.

  Not when excited hands pump over a fifteen-mil sale, all cash, ten-day close.

  Not when Bull’s nose nudges my hand left dangling over the edge of the cushion.

  Certainly not when an old rerun of Sex and the City takes over the screen. Despite the constant gripes to the contrary, those ladies sure had an active love life.

  Maybe Brad went to sleep. It’s what? After nine? I’m pretty sure he went upstairs and not to the kitchen. I would’ve heard something. Besides, he’s been gone for twenty minutes. He probably gave up on conversation with me and decided to let me stew.

  Fine. I don’t need him.

  Bull’s ears perk up just as Brad returns. Without warning my latent muscles go on high alert, tightening beneath the throw. Determinedly, I train my eyes on the cynical red head carping about men with her mouth full of salad.

  He doesn’t say anything. Lifting my ankles – throw and all – he slides underneath and carefully arranges them on his lap. The clean scent of soap and shampoo are a clue as to what he was doing. The soft cotton against my bare feet lets me know he’s now as cozy as me.

  Warm hands rest on my ankles. They’re just there, not doing anything. Like they belong there. He observes the bright screen without a word.

  “What is this?” he says of the show, breaking our silence after all.

  I hesitate, not because I’m embarrassed at having been caught watching it, but because I’m not sure I want to hold on to my irritation. “Sex and the City.”

  He makes a hum sound. “I only see the city.”

  “It’s network television. I’m sure they did a hell of an editing job before airing it.”

  “That’s a shame.”

  I nudge him in his killer abs with my foot. “Perv.”

  He chuckles, imprisoning my foot against the slab that’s his stomach and rubbing a thumb over my alerted skin. “Just saying. That’s false advertisement.” The hand skids higher. “How’s your throat?”

  “Better, I think.”

  Sliding his hand over, he explores my lower calf with gentle fingers. “Have you eaten?”

  “Yeah.” I shiver. I can’t help it. I had no idea my lower limbs were so crazy sensitive. “Carlson made some mashed potatoes and scrambled eggs for me. He also pureed some fruits and veggies with milk. It was really good.” I can’t take it anymore. Despite the fact I want him to rub my leg and foot all night, I’m about to combust in my own skin. Swinging my legs down, I get to a sitting position. “I’m going to bed.”

  He looks taken aback. “So early?”

  “It’s ten o’clock, Hawkes. Not all of us can wander about half the night away.”

  He cants his head, wordlessly studying my profile. I fidget on the sofa, not loving the way he appears to be scrutinizing me with laser-sharp focus.

  “I knew this girl once,” he recalls in a whisper-soft voice. “A long time ago. When we were kids. She used to get upset with me if she didn’t know where I was. Drove me nuts, because, hey, I didn’t owe her an explanation. Then when I got older, she would get jealous.”

  Who is this girl to him? Is she still in his life? Is he trying to tell me he was with her tonight?

  I swallow back the sickness in my throat. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “I had a board meeting. It ran late.”

  It’s not relief that slams into me. It’s confusion… with a healthy dose of panic mixed in. Was I jealous when he didn’t come home? He seems to think so.

  Eighteen

  Brad

  She’s avoiding me. She’s not rude or overt about it, but I know my Gemma. Know when she’s upset or hurt like she was Friday night, or the flash of alarm and even dread that crept out of nowhere when I explained why I was so late. Boldly faking a ridiculous yawn, she muttered something about healing bruises needing to recover by resting and ran so fast to her room even Bull wasn’t prepared.

  Saturday was spent with multiple excuses to be alone or dodging my dismal attempts to be in the same room with her. She had finals, she claimed, and she couldn’t afford to fail and had a full-time gig waiting for her upon graduating to boot. When I offered to help her study, she shot me a crossed look like I was some annoying pet who refused to settle down.

  I admire her resolve and dedication, but my gut tells me that’s not why I haven’t really seen her since Friday night.

  Fuck that.

  The quick rap at her bedroom door is more out of habit than courtesy, then I’m barging into her room without waiting for her response.

  She’s on the chaise by the window where I tried to snoo
ze the other night, one bare foot propped up on the ledge, a small bottle of nail polish in one hand and the tainted brush on the other.

  Her gaze flies up with a jolt and rams into mine. “What in the world are you doing?”

  I look pointedly at her exposed and half-painted toes and hike a brow. “Did you change your major?”

  Not even with fake contrition, she shrugs a shoulder and goes back to sweeping the smelly stuff on her nails. “Just taking a break. I’ll get back to studying in a bit.”

  To her credit, there are multiple textbooks scattered on the unmade bed. They look like they’ve seen better days. Lifting one, I skim through the contents, noting the bright highlights on the pages. “Business Ethics.” Tossing it back on the bed, I swap it for another. “Business Analytics: Data Metrics and Analysis.”

  Yeah, I’d rather paint my nails too.

  A small, ancient looking laptop, flipped closed to display the roughly scratched and dented exterior, is left on the nightstand. The pathetic device would be right at home at one of HC’s rigorous and cluttered jobsites.

  Gemma is wiggling her toes and admiring her artwork, no doubt high from the fumes. Her hair is piled loosely in a bun-looking thing on top of her head. It bobbles cheerfully every time her pretty head moves. A pale shoulder peeks out from the wide collar of the oversized yellow t-shirt. Her shapely legs are covered in cozy house pants – or whatever they’re called.

  “Gemmy.”

  Her gaze remains on her handiwork. “Hawkes.”

  “Get dressed. We’re going out.”

  “I have to study,” she counters readily, setting aside the nail polish. “Finals are this week.”

  I don’t bother arguing. There’s no reasoning with Gemma, so I don’t.

  Instead, I’m in the walk-in closet, rummaging through the small suitcase left open on the floor. She didn’t even bother hanging up her clothes, so sure she was that she’d be out of here within days.

  “What are you doing?” she demands from the room.

  Sturdy jeans, a casual shirt, and thick socks. They’re not ideal for what I have in mind, but they’ll have to do for now. I bring them out and dump them on the bed before going back for shoes.

  “Hawkes?”

  “Get dressed, Gemma,” I order a second time. “Unless you want to go out with what you got on. Makes no difference to me, but you might want to at least put on a bra.”

  “Perv! How do you know I don’t have a bra on?”

  Her worn shirt is baggy enough to conceal most of her, but there’s no strap on that bare shoulder. There was a fleeting second where I had to fight back the urge to pull that shabby shirt down the rest of the way and find out exactly how braless she was.

  “I know everything, Gemmy,” I call out, spying a pair of laced boots lined up with sneakers, flipflops, and those flat shoes next to the suitcase. They look like hiking boots, but like the clothes, they’ll have to do. I snag those and bring them out to set by the foot of the bed and glance at her. “You’re not dressed.”

  Legs extended out in front of her, she’s exactly where I left her, only now she’s waving a notebook back and forth to fan her toes. “I told you. I need to study.”

  “Alright. We’ll do it your way.” Returning to the closet, I dig through the pocket of her luggage. “I’m sure I’ll find a clean bra and panties in here somewhere.” My hand encounters a clasp and I seize it with triumph. “They don’t even have to match.”

  A high-pitched squeak. Hasty thumps beat across the floor.

  “Brad Hawkes, you keep your filthy hands off my underwear!” Gemma’s irate voice clobbers me before she appears next to me, all ten pink toes curled up at the ceiling, and snatches the black bra dangling off my finger. “Pervert!”

  I nearly laugh.

  Shaking my head, I crouch in search of panties, just in case she forgot about those this morning as well. “I know I saw some earlier,” I mutter to myself.

  Gemma shoves at my shoulder. “Get out of here, Hawkes. Or I’ll… I’ll call the cops!”

  I laugh then. I can’t help it. She’s fucking delightful with her face flushed and her little fists clenched at her sides, the bra scrunched in her fingers. Her blistering gaze tracks me as I straighten, murdering me on the spot. Her unbound tits jiggle beneath the simple cotton.

  I tap her nose. “You’re so cute, Gemmy.”

  Guessing by the look on her face, it was the wrong thing to say. Her eyes positively blaze - I mean someone sound the alarm and evacuate.

  “Get out of my room!”

  Those dainty fists come at me with all their might, pushing and heaving me towards the doorway. She’s a little pistol when she’s mad, but I find it strangely endearing.

  I snatch her wrists and hold them against me. “We’re going out, Gemma Warton,” I insist over her struggling. “You got ten minutes.”

  “Bully!” I hear over my own snickers as I see myself out of the room.

  *****

  I pull the truck to a stop just outside of the gritty chain link fence, glancing around as I cut the engine. As expected, the site is deserted on a Sunday. Dusty plastic and plywood screen most of the exposed beams and naked concrete but not the abandoned cranes towering over the structure. A large banner hangs near the locked gate.

  HC, Inc.

  A surge of immense pride assails me. It never gets old. Whether it’s a small commercial building or a looming high rise, every project is in my blood, fueling me.

  Gemma, too, is peering around at the barrenness, but curiosity has replaced the mute seething she graced me with the entire ride over.

  Straightening from her examination of the view outside the windshield, she asks, “Where are we?”

  “This is real, Gemmy. It might not be business ethics or analytics in a textbook, but it’s no less critical. Come on,” I urge and climb out of the vehicle.

  She doesn’t wait for me to come around for her but elbows the heavy door aside. The more practical clothes I selected for her were ignored in favor of a denim skirt and nondescript blouse, just to be perverse, I’m sure. The whole ensemble screams that she might’ve been forced to get out of the house, but she didn’t have to like it.

  There’s a step rail on the truck, but there’s no way Gemma can scoot out of the interior gracefully without flashing me. She frowns down at the ground a good two feet from the rail, then at the skirt that’s ridden halfway up her silky thighs.

  “Um… Hawkes?

  Smirking, I hover by the gapping door, arms folded on my chest. “Yes, Gemmy?”

  “I don’t think I can get out.”

  I shake my head. Dramatically. “I tried to tell you.”

  The scowl is impatient. “You didn’t tell me anything. All you kept saying was get dressed.” She gestures down at her ridiculous ensemble. “I got dressed.”

  Can’t say I disagree with her. She got dressed, alright. Complete with flipflops to show off her recent pedicure.

  “Don’t move,” I order.

  From the bed of the truck, I retrieve a box I keep for visits to project sites. In it are heavy-duty steel-toe boots, a hard hat, gloves, a reflective vest, goggles, and wool socks.

  Like the good girl I want her to be, Gemma is perched in the passenger seat, eying the items in my hands with suspicion as I set them on the dirt. “You want me to wear those?” she asks incredulously. “They’re like, what, men’s size thirteen? There’s no way they would fit. And they’re hideous,” she adds with disgust.

  “They’re work boots,” I remind her sardonically. “They’re protective, not fashionable. Or maybe you’d rather risk getting a tetanus shot instead?”

  She makes a face but turns her delicious body out, her smooth legs dangling out of the door. “How are they going to stay on? They’re like twice the size of my feet.”

  “You let me figure it out.”

  “Fine.” A leg jerks up towards me parallel to the ground. “You figure it out.”

  It’s a good t
hing I’m standing right in front of her, preventing any curious and depraved from getting a delectable eyeful.

  No one gets to drool over those frilly polka-dot panties but me.

  “Gemmy,” I groan, stepping close until I’m between her knees. “You’re killing me here. Is that your goal?”

  The little tease actually scoots out even more. At the elevated height, my fast-bursting zipper is at the perfect level to polka her dot.

  She bats her long lashes with mock innocence. “Why, Mr. Hawkes, whatever do you mean?”

  “You know exactly what I mean.” My hands, this side of rough, a whole lot calloused, skim up the sides of her velvety thighs and have the gratification of feeling her shiver. “And you relish every second of torture you’re inflicting on me.”

  Her eyes, those gorgeous hazel orbs, gaze right into me and holds me hostage. “I’m just a girl whose father worked for you.” Though her words were matter of fact, her voice had gone soft, her knees tightening around my hips. “You brought me here for business. I’m just your employee.”

  Sometime during the last minute we’ve gotten closer, a tantalizing breath away, though I can’t say when that happened or how. Her every exhale is a gentle caress on my waiting mouth.

  “You’ll never be just my employee.” I know she can feel the certainty of my words against her skin. “That’s asking for the impossible.”

  “Then what am I?”

  I wouldn’t have heard her whispered question if not for being nearly on top of her. “You’re my Gemmy.”

  She’s ready for my lips when they slant over hers, sipping at her. I want to reach in and touch her soul, stolen away from me all those forlorn years.

  God, she’s sweet. And zesty. And mouthwatering. And I can’t get enough.

  I don’t want to get enough. A feminine moan pulsates from her into me. She tilts her head for more when I drag my lips up her jaw, lingering behind her ear.