by Amber Burns
The pine flooring is broken by a mismatch of carpeting. A vintage end table just behind the door’s opening span is holding a wide book. I can’t make out what it’s for, just like I can’t make out anything past the opening.
I make one last note of a long staircase leading to the second floor of the two-storey building. I peer up naturally and note the curtains covering floor two’s windows. An apartment?
I’m moving to my original space.
Covert Cutie isn’t alone anymore. She’s answering the same bearded dude who’d sorta just accosted me in one breath and in another invited me to continue my optical fuck of my girl building the display case.
He’s standing in front of her, her back facing me. Whatever he’s saying he ends it off with a hug, and over her shoulder he gives me a wink.
My drink almost kisses the toes of my boots. Wouldn’t that be perfect to add to my misery?
I squeeze my cup a little harder to compensate, enjoying the de-stressor of the paper caving in and the reassurance that it wouldn’t be slipping out of my hand.
Hands off, bub.
I thought I was jealous before. First the beard, now my salesgirl: who is this guy, what game is he playing and how the fuck do I get in for a winning chance?
It took a while, but I finally consider tapping the glass under the arched store label.
STERLING OUTFITS, it reads in shout-y caps.
Never heard of it. Then again, judging by the display window, I wouldn’t figure they have anything I want.
Yet.
I smile at the thought; my grin must have been wider than I thought because the salesgirl takes that moment to look at me. Instead of feigning dumb, I stand taller – all six feet baby – and make sure she can see the smirk.
Her eyes widen and then she tilts her head, obviously curious as to why I’m not looking away. She actually does a full turn around, giving me her back again, and that ass of hers.
Fine with me. I’ll take what I can get. Besides she now knows of my existence, and she’s got a taste of my persistence.
I have no plans to walk away, and I’m not ready to enter and talk to her yet. This peekaboo game she’s started is proving to be fun.
Just as I know there’s a taste of rain in the air, and I’ll always be a Marine at heart, I expect her sneaky look.
It comes over her shoulder, a peek backwards; the tease that she is, she snaps her head away again and I can almost see her quivering with confusion, maybe fear of the unknown.
It’s not that kind of other fear.
My pride can’t have that. And I caught her flushed cheeks before she turned away the second time.
Shy, wallflower type: That’s what I’m going to deal with from here on out.
She’s back to looking at me again. This time she slowly rounds to give me the first full view – or second. I barely noticed the first time in my amusement.
The sweater dress, fuck-ugly as it is, still looks good on her and it’s because she’s wearing it.
A burgundy color, it reminds me of the posh wine I skip over in the booze aisle. The knit material is stretching to its point around her hips compared to her smaller breasts. There’s loop holes on either side of her waist for a belt that she disposed of, and the dress itself, coming to about her mid-thigh, is overtaken – not by a length of nude legs unfortunately – by black skin-tight jeans.
She’s red in the face, standing still with a measuring tape in her hands and the closest description to defiance pooching her pretty mouth. It only makes me want her.
I’m painfully and deliciously hard. Just how I like it.
No pain, no gain.
Well worth it, too, with the ultimate gain being buried balls deep inside her, under her, my hands tracing, measuring the distance from her fleshy hips to her jiggling tits; I can hear her screaming my name, sending me to the same paradise with a final thrust, her tight, hot cunt milking me of my seed, leaving me with the image of skimming her stretching belly months later, feeling the kick of our first brat.
It’s a kind of look that says, ‘why are you looking at me like that’ or better, ‘won’t you go away, let me win this game’.
Don’t bet your sweet cheeks on it.
“I’m in it to win it, baby.” I say at normal pitch. No one’s around to hear my proclamation and it gives the deserved effect. At my moving mouth, she tilts her head, nose wrinkling with her bewilderment and it’s the cutest damned thing I’ve seen all day.
And I’m ready to meet her.
I’m not sure who I scare more, Covert Cutie or the little girl reaching for the book on the vintage table. She hadn’t been standing there when I got the teaser of the store, but she now jumps back, running a safe distance to stare.
Reminds me of someone else.
I glance at my salesgirl. She hasn’t moved from the display window, and I’m playing my cards slowly, too slowly to saunter over, grab her hand and go Casanova on her.
I linger by the vintage desk and the book.
Standing close enough to read the gold lettering on the front black cover, and now I know it’s a comment book, I lift it up and flip through it, thumbing across the names, studying the dates and reading a handful of comments to paint a picture of Sterling Outfits.
The pages are filled to the middle and they date back to the start of this year. I guess that means business is good for the owner. Which means Covert Cutie won’t be leaving during a surprise shutdown.
See. Marines training at work.
“Good morning. I thought I heard the bell go off,” he smiles, getting close and personal, but I’m polite enough to accept his handshake. “How can I help you?”
Any of the ‘tude I got outside as a window-shopper doesn’t apparently apply to clientele who make it past the doorway.
Okay, maybe I was more staring-at-window less shopper, but I was within the limits of the city’s zoning by-law to stand on that damn sidewalk and gawp at whoever the fuck I wanted to.
“I’m looking around,” I’m pretty loud on purpose, and I do make it a point to look over my shoulder to answer the squeak from my girl.
Haloed by the grey light from the window, she’s an odd mix of pale and fleshy red, probably describing her internal state perfectly then. She’s not sure what to make of me, and I can see it in her eyes, feel it weighing her shoulders and taste it breaching her pores in the beginnings of nervous sweat.
“Are you shopping for yourself?”
“No. My sister’s getting married and she’s looking at doing something different for her wedding album.” I say.
“And she’s in the market for a stylist?”
“Stylist?” I mask my ineptitude with a cough. “Uh, yeah. Stylist. That’s what she wants. It’s a late engagement photo shoot, and she’ll need someone to, err, style her.”
I don’t know what he’s talking about. I thought they sold clothes; wardrobe styling? I’m not sure what I’m getting myself into, but an umpteenth look behind reminds me of the stakes.
Following his lead, we’re standing in front of the sales desk, a round central piece in the small foyer. While he’s browsing through the computer, I glance down the hall, get a taste for the space.
I spy racks of clothing and come to the conclusion the items and dressing rooms are stored away in the back of the more homey business.
It is a business though. Hipster Guy in front of me is a professional in no different sense of the term than the baristas at the café down the street serving their coffee boner-deflating hot.
“All right, we have room for tomorrow morning. I’m scratching you down for nine-thirty.” He blinks up. “We are by appointment only. Sorry, I should have mentioned that earlier. Haven’t had my coffee yet.” That’s right. He had carried in a tray for three drinks.
One for him, one for my girl – that thought irks me a bit, and one for who?
I look at the little girl who shyly backs away when she notices she has my attention once more.
&
nbsp; Her short flyaway blond strands frame chubby, baby cheeks and two, wide blue eyes: she’s a picture of innocence and a remainder of what I could have had if I hadn’t decided to join the Marines nearly a decade ago and serve my mistress with my body and heart…
“I just need your name.” I tune into what the guy behind the counter is saying.
“Amos Fuller’s just fine. We don’t need to stand on ceremony.”
“O-kay, Amos Fuller it is then.” He clicks away at the keyboard again, presumably signing me up for an appointment.
It elicits me to add, “Shouldn’t you be taking my sister’s name?”
“Not really, no. You’re making the appointment for her. Unless you’d like to wait a little longer while I delete your information and replace it with your sister’s?” He strokes that beard of his, and I could swear there’s a twinkle in his eye. “And you’re going to be coming along with her anyways, is that correct?”
He knows what I’m up to. It’s the only way I can explain why he’s looking at me that way.
Well, fuck.
I wait for him to kick me out on my ass, or at the very least call me out for using my sister’s wedding as an excuse to see more of my salesgirl. Maybe he’s saving his words until he can get the little girl out of the room.
“I guess it’s all right then.” I say.
“Here.” He’s passing me a business card from a set on the desk by his computer.
“Wesley Sterling,” I read the card, noting that name and another, ‘Violet Sterling’ as the co-partners of Sterling Outfits.
“Drat. I gave you an old card.” He grabs a handful of business cards and flips through them, asking my salesgirl, “Hey, did you change these again? Wait. Don’t answer that.” He doesn’t give her any chance to answers as he thumps his hands down on the counter, cards and all. “It reeks of Violet.”
Turning back to me, he smiles wryly. “Sorry you had to see that. I don’t do well with people touching my things.”
He grabs a pen with a fuzzy purple feather end from a pen holder and scratches at the card, notes something and passes it back.
I accept the modified card. “Wes?”
“That’d be me.”
“And Violet is?” Instinct has me looking over at Covert Cutie. She’s rummaging through a basket of clothes, glancing up every so often it seems, her hands stilling when our eyes meet again.
“Violet’s in the back, helping a customer at the moment, otherwise she’d introduce herself. She can do any modifications and personal touches to purchased outfits. We do take half a deposit for those.”
I hide my disappointment. There’s no other name on the card, so I guess this girl’s not a partner in the business, but the hired help.
So they’re going to make this difficult.
I’m up for the challenge.
With a smile, I thank him, pull my wallet out and slip the card in for safe-keeping until I can present it to baby sis.
“Let me guess, by the sound of it you’re older.”
Wes is dropping into his seat, his hands re-arranging the business cards he’d left scattered. “What gave me away?” He’s sarcastic.
“My sister’s younger, too.” I shrug. “Has to be a big brother vibe I’m catching.”
“Well, she’s not the only one I have to deal with.” Wes switches his widening grin to my nameless salesgirl. “Sorry, Vanna, love you bunches but you can drive a guy loco sometimes.”
Vanna.
She’s his fucking sister, go figure.
That hug before: totally platonic, and I thought I had a challenger straight-away. Not that I expected her to be single. With that ass, body and face she had to have some lucky bastard somewhere.
Too bad his luck is about to run out.
I want Vanna, and I’m going to have her.
You, Vanna darling, can drive me loco anytime.
“Oh, one more thing,” Wes breaks through my thoughts, his lucid stare and the new knowledge that he’s Vanna’s older brother acting as good as a cold shower just then.
“We normally don’t cancel without a charge after twenty-four hours, but since I booked you in for tomorrow and the bride might change her mind, I’ll accept any last-minute cancellation so as long as you keep it within two hours of the appointment.”
Rules, rules, rules.
I like to draw outside of the lines, always have, and probably always will to some extent.
But I’d be on time for tomorrow’s morning appointment; there was no doubt about that.
I catch Vanna’s gaze and my smile is slow, easy.
She tenses, shoulders coming up to her ears, and as if the wire mannequin she’s holding can protect her from big bad Amos she hugs it tighter to her chest.
Oh, baby, you don’t know the half of it.
2
“That one looks great. You’ll match the dog.”
The words are out of my mouth before I think them entirely through. In my defense, I earn a couple giggles from the bridesmaids. No doubt they’re humoring me; they’ve been eyeing me all day and I’ve been warned I’m a hot commodity of debate for who’ll be paired with me on wedding day.
The bride has her own opinion, naturally.
Very slowly my sister spins on her heels and pins me with a tight smile.
“Amos Jackson Fuller.”
Really? We’re busting out full names.
I grin. “Iris Gracie Fuller?” I make it sound like a question.
Iris, dear that she is, doesn’t miss a beat. If there’s anyone that can go toe-to-toe with me, it’s the other half of the Fuller sibling duo.
“What a brilliant idea.” She lifts the tatters, or tassels, of her dress’ skirt up, running her fingers through and giving the room a full twirl. Bringing her heels together then, she bends over and claps her hands at the pooch sitting in her dog bed.
“You think so too, Honey?”
The Yorkie barks and runs to heel at her master’s feet, a wriggling ball even when she’s pressed to Iris’ chest.
“Iris?” One of her friends, the brunette who giggled earlier at my joke – she’s not laughing now, steps up. “You’re not really going to wear that. Are you?”
“Why? What’s wrong with it?” Iris takes the platform in front of the one-eighty mirrors again, the ugly dress uglier in the spot-lighting above the mirrors. “Hey, we do match.” Iris’ laughter causes a titter among her party of five.
“What’s up with you guys? Relax. I’ve got it under control.” Iris jiggles Honey. On her owner’s side, the pooch yips in a sort of affirmation. Looking up at me, Iris winks. “Thanks for the idea, bro.”
The other girls alternate between glaring and pouting at me in unison, the backlash of my joke coming at me from five pairs of eyes frightening me into a decision: And that’s my cue to go.
Standing from the vintage armchair, I bask in a good stretch and then point to the doorway leading to the front room. “Anyone want more coffee? Muffins?”
I get a few offers and take down the orders in my head.
On the way out I step aside to make room for Wes and Violet. The former barely glances at me over the half-dozen or so dresses piled in his arms.
Violet stops. “Wait, are you leaving already?” She sounds disappointed.
When I first met Violet earlier during our appointment, I thought I was looking at a spitting image of Vanna – minus the extra curves on the younger girl and a head of ash-y blonde waves. From what I learned, she’s a new graduate from some prestigious fashion school in Tokyo, and somehow landed herself in the family business, carrying the design work to Wes’ styling eye.
I’m impressed every time I remember.
Iris and I both moved out from our grandparents’ at eighteen for schooling in NYC. It was hard enough shifting states and taking on adult responsibilities all at once, but moving to a foreign country and dealing with a language barrier is something else entirely.
Violet doesn’t look it, but she’s a
tough nut.
It makes me wonder what her sister is hiding.
“No. The way they’re going in there, I’ll be around until noon. But right now I think I’ve overstayed my welcome with these ladies, that and I’m craving a coffee and playing errand boy for it.” I catch a hanger that slips out of her arms mid-way. Like her older brother, Violet is carrying more dresses in for Iris and her bridal party to try.
Afraid of making another comment that goes awry, I pass back the hanger and make for the door, throwing over my shoulder, “Do you like your coffee black?”
