by L.H. Cosway
Oh, for crying out loud. I rubbed at the back of my neck in frustration. It was difficult to remain cordial at this stage, but I tried to be reasonable. “And I told you I wasn't interested. It's not my fault you refused to listen.”
Dorotea’s mouth twisted, and an ugly expression marked her usually attractive face.
“Why do you want her? She's fat.”
What she said angered me a great deal, but before I could defend Fred, Nora was stepping in and doing it for me.
“Don't fucking talk about Fred like that,” she said, pointing her finger at Dorotea, who sneered in return.
“I say what I like, brutta.”
Fred moved by me then. “Leave it, Nora. She's just drunk.”
“Did you hear what she said? She called me a bitch in Italian. Who does she think she is?”
“I don't know, a hybrid of John Travolta and Tony Soprano maybe?” Fred joked, and Nora started to laugh.
“John Travolta! Because of the suit, right?”
I suppose I should mention that Dorotea was wearing an all-white suit that was tailored to fit her very snugly. I could tell Fred had been dying to make a joke about it all night but was holding back. Since Dorotea had verbally attacked her, she had no cause to restrain herself any longer.
“What did you say about me?” Dorotea slurred, and I wondered if she would normally behave like this if she weren’t so drunk. Of course, I was in no position to judge. I’d done far worse when inebriated. When I looked to Fred again, I saw she was leading Nora toward the door, so I went to her.
“We're going to leave. Things are getting a little hairy in here,” she told me, not meeting my eyes. She was pretending to be fine, but I could tell that Dorotea’s insult had hurt her feelings.
I brought my hand to her cheek and stroked down toward her neck, pleading, “Don't go. If anyone should be leaving, it's her.”
She glanced up at me and swallowed, her voice quiet as she said, “I'm wrecked anyway. I want to go to bed. We'll talk soon, though, okay?”
My eyes flickered back and forth between hers. I wanted to convince her to stay, but I could tell she’d made up her mind. Still, I needed her to understand that Dorotea’s insults were untrue, that they were the product of jealousy and nothing more. I needed her to know that to me she was beautiful in every way.
“We will,” I finally told her, brushing my lips over hers. “And you're not fat. You're perfect.”
She gazed at me, but there was a wall behind her eyes, so I couldn’t tell whether or not my words had penetrated. And then she and Nora left. I sighed and turned back to the others. Dorotea was still standing with her arms folded, and Phil was hovering by the karaoke machine, a guilty look on his face. He had, after all, been the one to instigate all this. Looking around the apartment, I noticed the place was a mess, but I was in no mood to start cleaning yet. Instead, I abruptly announced that I was going to bed and closed myself inside my room.
July 24th, 2012.
Soundtrack: “Growing on Me” by The Darkness
In the days following my party, things went back to normal between me and Fred, yet at the same time our relationship had irrevocably changed. Where once there was distance, now there was none. Don’t get me wrong — it wasn’t because we were shagging like rabbits or anything. I wouldn’t dream of depriving you pretty little perverts of all the details in that department. Something had shifted, though. A closeness had developed, a gap had been bridged between our souls, a link solidified.
Whenever I was home, Fred would call in, and we’d hang out. Or I’d call into her place. We’d go for coffee together, have lunch, shop. A comfortable companionship was being formed; however, the sexual tension was constantly there, forever lingering beneath the surface.
Today she had a special order of cupcakes to make for a children’s birthday party and had roped me into helping her. I was more than happy to do it, because I loved watching her when she was focused. Women were often at their most beautiful when they were unaware of being observed, and when Fred baked, she was too concentrated on the task to be conscious of the fact that I was staring at her like a loon. And yes, I might have surreptitiously pulled out my phone and snapped a picture. She was utterly beautiful, a flush to her cheeks as she worked, tendrils of hair falling from the bun she wore. My fingers itched to pull it loose.
We’d had a couple of long conversations since my party that had opened my eyes to some things. One was the reason why she was so antsy and reluctant to give in to my advances. She’d had a boyfriend in the past named Aaron who’d made her wary of relationships, because after they broke up, he’d started stalking her. This guy had also recently shown up in her life again. In fact, we’d bumped into him while out shopping the other day, and Fred had been fretting over whether or not he was up to his old tricks.
His presence concerned me, and I was seriously considering finding out where the fucker lived so I could warn him off for good. While they were together, he’d been controlling and unpredictable with Fred, and it had taken her a long time to cut him out of her life. In essence, she was scarred and mistrustful when it came to men.
Suddenly, I felt like I was seeing her clearly for the very first time. I could now understand why she acted the way she did with me. It also made me feel fiercely protective. I didn’t want her to have to go through anything like that again, and I’d go out of my way to make sure the prick didn’t ever get to her.
I was careful not to bring him up in conversation, because whenever I did, she got anxious. Her reaction to just the mention of him made me feel like something needed to be done, and I’d be damned if I wasn’t going to be the one to do it.
I was sitting on a stool in her kitchen as she mixed orange cupcake frosting; she’d set me to work placing paper cake holders into oven trays. Fred was wearing a royal blue top with a sweetheart neckline that framed her tits to perfection. Needless to say, I was quite happy with the scenery. She was too flustered trying to get everything ready on time to notice my ogling, which was an added bonus.
“This is hazardous work,” I said playfully. “A boy could give himself a paper cut. Am I going to get danger pay?”
She raised one eyebrow as she used a big spoon to stir. “You’re getting no pay, Viv. This is my reward for going shopping with you the other day. I’ve never known a straight man who enjoyed fashion as much as you. I’ve got blisters on my feet and everything.”
I chuckled and reached out to dip two fingers in the frosting she was stirring. Then I deviously brought them to my mouth as she watched, forming a “V” as I licked it away, my eyes levelled on her all the while. Her breath hitched, and I saw a tiny hint of red colour her cheeks as she studiously avoided my gaze. She knew exactly what I was imitating, and I hoped it made her think naughty thoughts.
I wanted her to imagine my lips and tongue between her legs, licking her just like I was licking the frosting, the scratch of my stubble on her inner thigh.
Loudly, she cleared her throat and gave me a reprimanding look. “Stop eating that. I’ve got to make thirty cupcakes before lunchtime, and I don’t want to run out.”
“I can’t help it, Freda. Your frosting is delicious. I could eat it all day long.”
She shook her head at me. “Mm-hmm.”
Giving her a dark, challenging smirk, I brazenly reached out and dipped my fingers into the bowl again. This time when I licked it away, I made sure to add an unmistakably sexual groan of appreciation.
Her chest began to rise and fall swiftly as she breathed, and I knew my behaviour was having the desired effect.
“You’re such a fucking tease,” she muttered under her breath.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
My smirk deepened. “Did you just call me a tease?”
She sighed and put down the bowl, walking to the fridge and pulling out a cold bottle of water. She held it to her cheek for a second before unscrewing the cap and taking a long, hard gulp, then w
iped her mouth clean with the back of her hand.
“You know you are, so quit being coy,” she finally answered quietly.
“Coy? Moi? I think you need to explain yourself, Miss Wilson.”
“I don’t need to explain anything, Nicholas. You’re well aware of what you’re doing.” She fanned herself with her top.
I grinned. “Hot in here, isn’t it?”
“It’s the oven.”
“Is it now?”
She swallowed and went to check on the cupcakes “Yes, it is. Now, can we get back to work? I don’t have time for this.”
I nodded and silently went back to helping her. A couple of hours later we were done, and I drove her to deliver the cakes in the car I’d recently purchased. I needed a little run-around, but Fred had told me a car was pointless since we lived close to everything. I didn’t make her eat her words, since I’d been using it to chauffeur her about more than anything else. In all honesty, though, I liked it when she needed me for things. It gave me a strange sense of male pride that I’m sure was ingrained in every man’s genetic makeup. We all liked to be needed by the women we adored. And it couldn’t be denied that I adored Fred. Everything about her made me happy, even her grumpiness.
I was sitting in the driver’s seat as she brought the cupcakes inside. The radio was on, streaming “Sarah” by Thin Lizzy. I had the window rolled down, drumming my hands on my knees. When I saw Fred making her way back out, I began singing to her loudly, inserting “Freda” into the lyrics where normally there’d be a “Sarah.”
She gave me a cynical eye roll and slid into the passenger seat, but I knew she liked it when I sang to her. There was no disguising the way her skin prickled on her arms when I leaned over and crooned into her ear about how she changed my world when she came into my life.
I was being jokey, but really, deep down I meant every word of what I was singing. Every morning I woke up looking forward to the day because I knew she was going to be in it. I didn’t dwell on the past so much anymore; now I found myself constantly looking to the future. And I didn’t mind being alone with my thoughts so much, either, because my thoughts were often about her.
“Stop acting like a clown,” she said, a reluctant smile tugging on her lips.
I started the car and pulled away from the house, getting back on the road. “You love me singing to you. Admit it,” I said, resting my hand casually on her thigh. Neither one of us found the move casual, though. I could see she was burning up to have my hand on her, and the placement was bordering on intimate.
Her expression softened, her eyes focused on the passing scenery. “You’ve got a gorgeous voice, Viv. I just don’t like it when people sing to me. It’s weird. I think everyone finds it a little awkward. Like when you’re watching a TV show where a musician is being interviewed, and at the end they whip out a guitar for an acoustic number. The interviewer always looks so uncomfortable, but has to pretend to be all thoughtful and into it. It’s kind of funny, actually.”
“Yeah, but that’s a stranger singing for another stranger. It’s not the same. You know me, and when I sing for you, it has meaning.” I squeezed her thigh before letting go, because if I didn’t, I might be tempted to run my hand up under her skirt, which wasn’t a good thought. It filled my head with the image of me fingering her as I drove, her coming on my hand. I practically white-knuckled the steering wheel just to keep myself from actually doing it.
She glanced at me then, her golden eyes wide and full of emotion. She knew what I was trying to say, but she remained silent. Despite this, I was starting to think that my feelings for her were reciprocated. Now that I was aware of her history, I believed she might be far more into me than she showed. She was simply worried about where it would lead.
There was quiet for a while, but then I broke it, asking nonchalantly, “Have you ever fucked in a car before?”
I often liked to ask her inappropriately personal questions, not only because of the embarrassed way in which she responded, but also because her answers always gave me so much insight into who she was as a person. Her eyes got all big as she turned to stare at me. “Don’t be nosy, Viv!”
I laughed. “You’re so easy to shock sometimes. Come on, this will be a fun discussion, and we’ve got another twenty minutes left of our journey.”
Sighing, she answered, “Well, considering I haven’t had much action in the bedroom thus far, it seems fairly obvious that I haven’t graduated to the level of car sex yet.”
“So you’re saying you haven’t fucked in a car?” My question was superfluous; I simply enjoyed the way her breathing got all choppy whenever I used the F-word in the carnal sense.
“No, Nicholas. I haven’t. Have you?”
I shrugged. “A few times, yeah. Though I haven’t broken this baby in yet. I could pull over and we could christen her. What do you say?”
“I say you’re a pervert,” she replied quick as a whip, laughter in her tone. “And anyway, I always imagined that kind of thing isn’t as raunchy as the movies would lead you to believe. First of all, if you’re any taller than four foot, you’re not going to be able to lie down fully. That means there’ll be lots of manoeuvring required to find a comfortable position, negating the sexiness. Also, I imagine the woman’s head would be constantly knocking off something, which wouldn’t be pleasant. Then you have to worry about someone seeing you, perhaps even getting caught by the police. Then you just end up being arrested for public indecency. So not worth the hassle.”
She folded her arms, looking happy with her argument.
“There are ways to remedy every point you’ve just made,” I said, shooting her a heated look. “One, you recline the seat and do it in the front with the woman on top. Two, you park somewhere secluded and off the beaten track so there’s less of a chance of being seen. Simple.”
Pursing her lips, she gave me an annoyed look. “Well, touché, Mr I Have Sex in Cars. You should get yourself a badge or something.”
Ignoring her remark, I went on, “And then there’s the advantage of more depth when the woman gets on top, though my personal favourite is doggy style.” I added that last bit just for kicks.
“You and that dirty mouth, Viv. Something needs to be done about it.” She sighed, trying not to give me a reaction, but I saw her squeeze her thighs together and wondered if she was imagining me taking her from behind. I hardened a little at the idea.
“You’re right. You should let me put it to work on you,” I said, nodding at her lap. “Tire it out.”
She closed her eyes then and took deep breaths. “I don’t know why I bother sometimes,” she mumbled to her herself, and I grinned, not pushing her further. When we arrived back at the apartments, I left my car in the underground garage, and we went up to her place. We’d been late finishing the cupcakes, which was probably my fault, so the kitchen was still a mess.
Fred looked tired as she rolled her neck and went to make a start on the clean-up. I grabbed her hand, stopping her, and twirled her around. “You’re tired. Let me take care of this,” I murmured, soothingly running a hand down her spine.
She trembled just slightly as she gave me a surprised expression, taken aback by the offer. “Seriously?”
“Yeah, you go lie down. I’ll order pizza for dinner,” I said, pulling her in for a quick hug. She seemed to melt into my embrace and I wanted to hold her for longer, but she drew away.
“Thank you,” she said, giving me a meaningful glance from beneath her lashes, then retreated into her room.
July 25th, 2012.
Soundtrack: “Every Breath You Take” by The Police
The next night I mixed things up a bit by starting my show from the back of the club. I was doing “Don’t Tell Mama” as I walked through the audience, a spotlight following me, declaring that Mama thinks I’m living in a secluded little convent in the southern part of France. Stopping by a table full of men, I stood in front of a skinny, tanned guy and ran a hand over his hair and down the s
ide of his face to rest at the end of his chin.
“Mama doesn’t even have an inkling,” I told him, leaning forward coyly, “that I’m working in a nightclub in a pair of lacy pants.”
The guy seemed thoroughly delighted with the attention. I was wearing a silky corset, hold-up stockings, heels, and frilly knickers.
I was in a playful mood; nobody could deny it. As I worked my way through my set, I donned a dark red dress, some silky black gloves, fake diamond earrings, and a brunette wig. I was having a whale of a time until I saw the last person I expected to see in the audience. Fred’s ex, Aaron, sat on a stool by the bar. He was tall, very blond, and wore the clothes of a straight-laced IT guy.
Aaron looked about as comfortable as a priest at a strip joint, so I knew he wasn’t there for the ambiance. He was there to see Fred, which meant his stalking habits were kicking up again, and I planned on putting a stop to them ASAP. He was watching me with a clear look of disdain, so I decided to make the experience as uncomfortable for him as I possibly could. Giving him a pointed stare, I changed up the set list so that I was singing “Every Breath You Take” by The Police, the anthem of stalkers everywhere. I hoped the prick wasn’t too dim to get the jibe. I also wanted Fred to get it. Perhaps it would make her laugh, see the funny side of the situation, because I knew his being there was going to ramp her anxiety up to the max.
Just past the first chorus, I saw his attention go to the side of the stage, and I could tell he’d spotted Fred. I glanced at her and noticed how her posture was suddenly strung tight. She knew he was there, and I didn’t like seeing her so distressed.
My temper rose when he stood up and began walking through the club, headed directly for Fred. I didn’t take my eyes off him, wondering angrily what the fucker thought he was doing. I was ready to draw blood when he casually hopped up onto the stage and walked behind the curtain to where Fred was standing.
Even though I was only midway through my set, I made a funny joke to the audience about having to take care of some lady business, and followed heavy on Aaron’s heels. I reached them just in time to hear Fred lose it.
