The Lady Smut Book of Dark Desires (An Anthology) Page 14

  The night Brett came to see her she'd told him while rolling her eyes that she was busy. Maybe she'd see him later. He'd accepted that with a nod, and the next morning she'd woken up next to him in his bed. He'd told her where she'd parked the car and then threw an arm across his face, but before he did she'd seen the same raw pink stains around his eyes, the beginning of long blue-purple shadows.

  That was when something had clicked. She knew this would be a regular thing. She didn't bother trying to explain it to Brett because, as she explained to Nadia, he was shallow and didn't seem overly concerned with explanations. Like why she had to be told where she parked her car the night before, or why she had to ask him what neighborhood they were in.

  "Wait," Nadia said. "You're driving? In your sleep?" Jenny could hear the mad scramble on the other end of the phone line and the tapping of the iPad.

  Jenny explained that she'd gotten rid of her car, but then sometimes Jennifer drove someone else's car, so rather than get arrested for auto theft, she bought another one.

  "So what happened with Brett?"

  She told him he should stop seeing her.

  He asked why.

  "I'm bad for your health," she said. He ignored her advice. The last time she saw him, she told Nadia, she woke up in a hospital bed. It was the middle of the night. He told her to leave before nurses came through on their rounds.

  "He was a sick, sick man," she told Nadia. He wasn't able to look her in the face.

  A few hours later she got a call from his parents. It was a Sunday morning. He'd told them that he wanted to see her one last time. They clearly hated her, the mother's tone was dripping icicles, but they called because their son was dying and they would do anything he wanted.

  She turned up with flowers. It wasn't even visiting hours, but he was so sick they let her in. They all stood around Bret's bed. She and Bret had nothing to say to each other. Bret fretted about his looks. She leaned over and ruffled her hand over his hair. She lied and said he looked like one of those soap actors in a hospital scene. You know, totally attractive, ready to seduce someone.

  "Was that true?" Nadia asked.

  "Not true at all. He looked hideous, like someone sucked the life out of him, and left nothing but scraps." Scraps of ego and rage. Perhaps because he was dying young.

  "What happened?" Nadia asked.

  "I read in the paper that he died in August." She hadn't been invited to the funeral.

  But it had seriously motivated her. She didn't know why, she didn't know how, but she became convinced Jennifer had fucked Brett to death. And at that point she also decided it wasn't just about her. It was about protecting others. Innocent others. Brett might have been dumb like a box of rocks, but he hadn't deserved to die.

  "But I'm thinking back on things and I have no idea what happened to Johannes, but I think Turner would have gotten sick too if we'd kept going."

  She worked like crazy on perfecting the computer lock mechanism. Now she had a system. The computer lock on the front door kept the beast inside.

  But for how long? And what happened if there was a break in? The lock did nothing to keep people outside. Others in SF worried about robbery – she worried about fire—more specifically Jennifer setting the apartment on fire to get out. Don't think about it, don't think about it, don't picture it. Jennifer had already caused some damage in her frustration…

  Nadia asked about the doctor. What did he have to say? Jenny told her that he'd asked if she was enjoying SF.

  "And?"

  "I told him I was," she said. It was true. She loved the city. Also her classroom, and her students. They loved her back. In fact, the work she did with them was intense, bittersweet, and poignant. If she hadn't been so shy, she would have taken a friend with her to Thailand, wouldn't have been so lonely, and wouldn't be in this mess.

  She saw so much of herself in her students. Some were even worse than her—shy to the point of selective mutism. They talked to their parents when alone and to no one else.

  Finally she said she had to get off the phone. "Things could always be worse," Nadia reminded her.

  "Oh yeah? How?"

  "You're not bed wetting. You're not having seizures. You could have narcolepsy. They can't drive." Nadia said. "And there's no cure."

  Was there a cure for possession? Perhaps should she fly to Morocco? The idea was starting to sound better every day.

  Meanwhile, Jennifer was restless. There were some sexy photos that showed up on her phone last night. Jennifer had taken them of herself—in a bra and undies, thank god, but very provocative. This was new. The last few weeks when she woke up in the morning she could tell Jennifer was itching to get out – her fingernails were often broken down to the quick. There were gouge marks on window sills and on the computer lock—thank goodness the windows were all painted shut.

  "She wants out," Jenny told Nadia. Dents started appearing in the floor, and there were complaints from neighbors about stereo noise at night. (She gave away her speaker system—and set the volume level of her iPod at a permanent safe setting. She didn't want Jennifer to blow out her eardrums in revenge.)

  Jenny made sure not to live in an apartment above the second floor. Even if Jennifer broke the glass and jumped, she probably wouldn't die. But you could be maimed. Don't think about being mangled for life, don't imagine it…

  "Look on the bright side," Nadia said. "It's been fun catching up, but I still think you're crazy," Nadia said. "Show me some evidence—"

  "I told you about Brett."

  "Some underfed model dying is not evidence. You hooked up with him—big deal."

  "When Jennifer learns the violin, I'll give you a call," Jenny said and hung up.

  She sat on the couch, picking at the furry cover. She hadn't told Nadia that Sandra had ended the interview at the clinic with a brief talk about the doctor's recommendation.

  "Just try it," Sandra had said. "It's cheaper than drugs and there aren't any bad side effects," she added with a little laugh.

  Except soreness, Jenny thought. Jennifer, locked up in the house with no one to fuck, was masturbating up a storm each night. Jenny was the one who got to walk around the next day with a tender clit.

  ***

  The red rays of the sun struggled to burn through the fog, succeeding just before the light began to fail. The warmth of the day started to fall, like the leaves from the trees. She decided to just be the pathetic lonely spinster and changed into her jammies and got out a microwave dinner. It was from a health food store, but still. Cooking was not her forte. She spent a little fb time with her students as it grew dark. The school took their pound of flesh for the decent pay by expecting her to give a lot of extra TLC to the students during non-school hours over social media. It was massive time suckage but being the pathetic lonely spinster dork type, she didn't mind. She needed some extra TLC too.

  When her meal was ready she'd eat it and all she had planned for the rest of the night was bed and some needed sleep. She lay there on the couch, lit only by her computer screen, waiting for the timer to go off.

  She missed her cat, but worried Jennifer would harm him and had given him away before she'd moved. She was sick of watching TV. As for movies…she could die. Reading was okay, sure. But she itched to read research papers again.

  However, searching out current issues of her old favorite economics journals made her twitch. She saw the faces of those men on that strange, sweaty, compulsive night. The flashback always ended with Bonifellow like the last card in a shuffled deck.

  Blerg!

  To distract herself, she remembered that orthodox Jewish couple she'd woken up with. How calm they were as they rushed her out of their bed and downstairs. The mother making breakfast, still in her nightgown, and the father getting out his keys to drive her home. He'd said he was sorry to rush her with an apologetic smile, but the children had Sunday school and they'd overslept. The mother was calling them downstairs even as the husband had ushered her out the door
and towards his Mercedes.

  Jenny shook her head, and began braiding her hair. She'd modeled her behavior after the Jewish couple from that point on. The hurry to leave, the smile, the matter of fact calm. You were in control of a situation simply by acting like you were. So far it had worked, and no one had locked her up, or killed her.

  She took a deep relaxing breath. Could she masturbate and remember Brett? He had an excellent body. Now that dratted doctor's voice was buried in her head. What did her body want?

  If she was honest her body wanted Turner.

  Put aside Jennifer for now. What does your heart want?

  With a grimace she realized her heart wanted Turner too. Not the has-sex-with-unconscious-women Turner, not the makes-video-tapes-of-you-and-doesn't-tell-you guy, but the guy she thought he really was when he sat down with her to 'be honest'. That guy. She wanted him. Well, you can't have him, she told herself. She wanted to hear his voice. It was a heavy silk glove laid over rough bark. Deep and soothing, but not too smooth. She had a sudden memory of how it felt to be skin to skin with Turner. To touch him exactly the way she wanted to, with…with confidence.

  Okay… She stretched out across the couch and dug one hand down into her pjs.

  The front room was painted a deep, dark graphite blue. The couch had a striped grey faux chinchilla blanket that covered most of it. It was the kind of room you could cuddle up and take a nap in. Like a womb. No sharp edges anywhere. Her fingers found her slightly tender clit and began a gentle exploration. Dry.

  One time back in the summer before Brett died, before he started looking really bad, she'd woken up and wanted Turner badly. Distraught and unbearably lonely, she'd just wanted to be held by Turner one more time. Hating herself, she'd nudged Brett and asked if he would hold her. He had, without any snarky asides, for which she was grateful.

  The momentary sympathy between them had turned into something intimate, and then something sexual. They'd ended up fucking and she'd held on to him during that mini-nova explosion inside her. He'd slid out of bed as soon as they were done and she'd showered a little longer than usual that morning, lingering. She'd heard Bret walking up and down the different levels of his home. He'd been talking to someone on his phone.

  "I don't know," she'd heard him say. "Yeah, some pity fuck. Yeah, she's still here…" He'd wandered away again, and she'd been out the door in two minutes.

  Her fingers stilled, then came out to rest on her chest. She wasn't in the mood at all now. She got up, began pacing the apartment.

  Jennifer was caged…but for how much longer? She was raging. Who was she talking with? Sending pictures to? How? Was it someone she would try to bring into the apartment—someone in SF?

  Jenny was used to waking up next to tattooed bikers with a sore neck, next to middle-aged metrosexuals with a sore ass. She found her way around the city by remembering that this was the neighborhood with the guy who had the two pit bulls and told her to 'stay sweet'. Something was going to happen, she could feel it. She just didn't know exactly what and she didn't know exactly when. Soon. Her finger traced the screwdriver marks that scarred the computer lock on the door.

  Finally the microwave timer went off. The main door to the apartment buzzed down below. She shuffled into the micro-kitchen and got her plate, bringing it back into the living room and turning on one light.

  Someone wanted the neighbors. Or more likely, since it was a Friday night, a delivery man was bringing the people below a more tasty and fattening version of the dinner she was apathetically swishing around on her plate.

  They knocked on her door. Happened all the time. She put her food on the floor and wandered over to the peephole, again wishing it wasn't so dark in the hallway. Sure they saved on electric bills, but—

  "Jenny?"

  She froze in place, though it felt like her guts splattered all over the floor.

  The voice spoke again. "It's me, Turner."

  Chapter 7

  Words failed her. Talk about the devil. She swallowed once. Twice.

  "How did you find me?" Her voice sounded guttural and harsh. Her whole body broke out into a sweat.

  "You've been sending me photos."

  Photos? On her phone. Oh shit.

  "I think…I think I'm going to call the police."

  "Don't do that. Please."

  His voice. It enfolded her, all warm and aching.

  She hated the silly naïve part of her that already wanted to forgive and forget the past, fling open the door and let him have whatever he wanted. As long as what he wanted was her.

  But the hard lessons she'd learned over the last year made her a little tougher.

  "You're stalking me." Her words were quiet, diffident, factual. It was an accusation. He was silent, yet she could feel the force of his presence behind the steel barrier. "I think I should call the police," she repeated.

  "Please don't, Jenny." His voice was split open, a vulnerable throb resting in the center. She simply couldn't resist that voice. "I really don't mean to scare you. Honestly."

  She hesitated, her hand hovering over the mini screen asking her for the answer to a simple puzzle before the door would open. She answered it.

  The computer asked her if she wanted to open the door. Her finger hovered over 'yes'.

  "How did you find me?" she asked. "What do you want?"

  "I want to make sure you're okay."

  Shit. Now it was her turn to be silent. She bit her fingertip.

  "I've been worried about you." His voice dropped. "So here I am."

  "What photo did I send you?" Please don't let it be a photo of someone having sex with me. Please, please.

  "Of you. Her. Jennifer."

  The magic words. She let him in. He had a backpack with him, and a waterproof winter jacket. He looked straight out of the frozen tundra, a little scruffy beard going on. It was only with great self-restraint that she stepped back to let him in instead of wrapping her entire body around his. She ushered his big, reassuring presence through her door, pinching the coat at the back, where he couldn't tell, since she couldn't hug him.

  He took his jacket off but held it in his hand, as if he wasn't sure if she was going to let him stay awhile.

  "Sit down."

  She walked over to the sofa, and he came and sat down at the other end, facing her, eyebrows knit with worry.

  "Where's your phone, let me show you," he said. He put his backpack down in the center of the floor.

  Obligingly she got her phone, handing it over to him. He passed the photo from his phone to hers. "Look, I'm deleting mine," he said.

  She plunked down on the couch and studied the photo.

  "It's a selfie," she said. Jennifer, in her best panties, was leaning topless out the window, giving him a half lidded stare. You know you want some was the best way to describe the look in her eye. Her hair was slicked down and over to the side. She wore heavy eye make-up smeared across her lids. It looked like something from the ever-popular "How to put on make-up drunk" YouTube video her students loved. More arresting still was the composition of the shot. She was out the window from her knees up, not holding onto anything. Jenny automatically twisted around and looked behind her. Turner followed her gaze. He was up off the couch.

  "Is that the window?" he asked.

  "It's painted shut," she said, even as he raised the window sash smoothly upward. Agitated, she went and leaned out with him. The second floor looked a long way down on the sloped street outside.

  "That's how I found you," he said, nodding. She looked across at the lights from the local public library. Looking down in her hand she saw the familiar neighborhood landmark building in the background of the photo.

  The sneering yet stoned look on Jennifer's face made her skin crawl.

  "We don't have to get involved again," he said. "We don't have to do one single thing you don't want to. I just wanted to make sure you're all right. You could really hurt yourself if Jennifer is hanging out windows like this. I'm ju
st worried about you is all."

  Her heart was beating loudly, so loudly in her ears. She had one hand on the phone, and her voice was cut off, choking inside.

  "If you need someone to talk to, I'm here."

  She put her face up against his faded red thermal underwear top. She stayed there, while he was frozen, and let her forehead rest against his amazing pecs. A tingling sensation came up from the bottom of her ribs and spread to her nipples.

  "Just talk," she said, snuggling up into his chest. "Keep talking."

  "Nice place," he said, looking around. His fingers barely touched her shoulders, like she was going to shatter. "Kinda dark though."

  "Thanks. It's a sublet." She talked like she wasn't standing there so desperate to be held by him.

  "I came out here thinking I could stay with my college buddy and his wife, but I hadn't been in touch with them for a while. And I forgot it's Halloween. They've got twelve kids at their place running around screaming, so I was kind of uninvited to spend the night."

  "Oh," she said, not caring, savoring the bliss of human body contact.

  "You want to stay here." She said it factually.

  "On the couch? Sure," he said. He didn't seem sure. His hands fluttered around behind her back.

  "Swear there will be no touching, no pressure, no videos—" she demanded.

  "That was not my idea," he said.

  “No, nothing. Swear it.”

  His hands lifted up, uncertain. "Though we are touching, you know."

  She probably seemed so crazy to him. "You know what I mean," she said, her face smooshed against his pecs. They were great pecs.

  She hesitated. What about when she went to sleep? She looked up at him. No raw pink. No shadows. He looked well rested compared to the end of their time together. That frowny look was gone from his face. She had actually kind of gotten off on the frowny look, but still…He seemed to read her mind, or at least the dubious look in her eyes.

  "Even if you're sleepwalking…or whatever. Nothing. Not with Jennifer—not with you. Promise. Hope to die. I swear."

  She thought about it. She gave him a pass on sleeping with her. Everyone else did it, she thought, and didn't seem to think sleeping with someone who couldn't talk very coherently was a big deal. Why not him? Videotaping her…that was a horse of a different color. Now he had come all this way because he was worried she was hanging out a window. It made her want to cry.