Anyone But You

by Brien Michaels

  But no one came. There were no running footsteps. No shouts of “What are you doing to her!” No flashlights being shined in their face. Nothing but Jack fucking her brains out all over that wall.

  “Stop . . . it . . . please . . .” She could barely get the words out, and he definitely wasn’t slowing down. In fact, with every protest, he got more passionate, more aggressive. Suddenly his hand was wrapped around her throat, bending her toward him as he nailed her. He grabbed a fistful of hair and wrenched her head to the side, exposing her neck, then he sunk his teeth into the flesh there. White-hot pain exploded, and the myriad of sensations was too much. She blew her load against the front of her skirt. Her body seized as stars exploded behind her eyelids and she tried to keep her eyes from rolling all the way back. Her skin was hot and her legs had turned to Jell-O. She was glad she had the wall to support her. She wanted to ride the wave as long as she possibly could. She must have gripped him extra tight, because he grunted and said, “Oh here it comes, bitch. I’m about to come all in that ass.” Her own jizz was sticking her skirt to her leg at this point, but she did as much as she could to help him along. Squeezed a little tighter, twerked as much as his death grip on her waist would allow. “Oh . . . my . . . gaaah!”

  His entire body went rigid, but he didn’t stop thrusting. It felt awkward. She wouldn’t complain, though, because she’d never been fucked like that before. He collapsed against her back, panting. She wasn’t sure how long they stayed that way before he pulled out.

  After a few seconds, Sheila mustered enough strength to turn around and look him in the eye. His face was that of a wild man. Eyes crazed, hair matted to his skin with sweat, face red and blotchy. Great. A job well done. Already she found herself wishing they didn’t have to separate. That she could take him back to her house with her and they could fuck like horny teenagers all night. But then how would she keep him from discovering who she really was?

  Reality set in. She couldn’t let him know. Firstly, because she couldn’t be a named partner in a law firm fucking an associate. Secondly, because what proof did she have that he wouldn’t spill her secret to everyone else? If that happened, her career would be over. So no. This couldn’t ever happen again. No matter how badly she wanted it to.

  “I . . . I have to go.”

  She tried to get around him, but he stopped her. “Hold on a sec.” He kissed her again. Slower this time. He seemed to put more of himself into the kiss, and it was all she could do not to pledge her undying devotion. But that wasn’t her thinking. That was her hormones and the dark part of herself that craved pain and degradation. The part she had to keep under control. So she did what any other self-respecting woman would do, copped a feel and broke the kiss.

  “Thanks for a great time, big guy.” And she left before he could say anything else.

  She headed for the street as quickly as she could, adjusting her skirt on the way. Part of her wanted to make it out onto the sidewalk this time without him snatching her back, and wasn’t sure if she was grateful or disappointed when she did. It didn’t matter. When she got home, she’d delete his number, maybe even block him so she wasn’t tempted to go there a third time.

  She knew herself, though. None of that would work once her body started talking to her again. She’d cave. And she’d call him. Or he’d text her. She was a sucker for a pretty face, and now that they’d fucked—she didn’t dare think of what they’d done being graceful enough to be called sleeping together—she was hooked. That was how she’d ended up in that alley. Once she got a taste of anything she wanted, she could be strong until opportunity presented itself, and then she might as well be an addict. Relapse, party of one. But maybe they’d be able to keep it casual. They could keep it professional in the workplace and filthy in the bedroom. How often did that work?

  And was she ready to take that chance yet?

  I stood in the shadows, ball cap pulled low over my eyes, and watched. There was a club across the street with a large Neon Trees sign above the door. Men and women came and went, most of them greeting each other like old friends. Cars zoomed up and down the street, creating a convenient buffer. Perhaps it was a gay club; a lot of the guys that came out of there had more than a little sissy in their walks. I could see that from here.

  The cars slowed to a halt as the light at the end of the block went from yellow to red. I shrank back against the wall, praying that I was hidden. The majority of people most likely wouldn’t be able to see me, but all I needed was one, and then I’d be answering a million questions I wasn’t in the mood for. I pulled my coat a little higher on my shoulders.

  Traffic started moving again and I got a nose-full of exhaust. I shook my head, resisting the urge to cough.

  Didn’t look like there was anyone here. Not anyone who really called to me, anyway. But finding someone shouldn’t have been so . . . time-consuming. With a sigh, I waited for the light to turn once more, and started across the road. If there was one thing I liked about Sapphire Bay, it was the robust nightlife. People always out and about meant the night was always rife with potential victims.

  I stepped onto the sidewalk, and the music from inside the club drifted out at me as the door snapped shut while the bouncer inspected the next person. I walked right past. I didn’t know where I was heading, but damn it, I needed to figure it out fast or I’d be getting on the train back home empty-handed.

  But right at that moment, a suspiciously large woman brushed past me and stepped into the alley a few yards ahead. I paused for half a second before following her into the darkness.

  I had to let her know how dangerous that was.

  Jack found himself in front of the mirror, running his fingers through his hair. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cared how he looked for someone, but Sheila was obviously putting so much energy into her appearance, it would be disrespectful to meet her like he just rolled out of bed.

  He had seen Sheila every night for nearly two weeks. Most nights they fucked, but every once in a while, they managed actual conversation. Nothing too deep, but they were getting to know each other.

  The clock on his nightstand told him he had about half an hour before Sheila got there, so he let his towel drop and went straight for the closet.

  He pulled a mint-green button-up on along with a pair of designer underwear and jeans. He debated ordering food, but he never knew where the night would take them. They’d probably stay in the whole time, but there was always that air of unpredictability with her. She was a woman—man!—who liked to have fun. The other night had consisted of going out to the wharf and making fun of the guys with muscles bigger than their heads.

  “There’s sexy,” she’d said, caressing Jack’s biceps, “and then there’s ’roid rage waiting to happen.”

  Well, they’d need to eat, whatever they did, right? So he’d order in and they’d go from there. Now he wondered if he should change into a tighter shirt. Give her something to look at. Five minutes later he hung up with the China Hut and plopped down on the couch. He glanced at his watch. She’d be arriving any minute, and fuck if his heart wasn’t running a marathon now. He needed to calm himself down. Everything was fine.

  He flipped on the television.

  The woman on screen had her blonde hair tied up in a bun and a thick-framed pair of glasses sitting high on her nose.

  “Details of the grizzly slaying are still rolling in,” the newswoman said. She shifted, plucking briefly at the buttons of her blazer. “The victim’s identity is being withheld by police, but a source has revealed that he went by the stage name Valentine Heartbreak, a drag performer at the Neon Trees nightclub.”

  What the hell? Jack sat a little straighter, turned the volume higher, but it felt wrong, somehow. She reminded him of those librarians he’d always see in TV shows that patrolled the stacks, silencing anyone who spoke above a thought.

  “The performer was found in a dumpster behind his apartment building, stripped naked with his throat slashed
. Police do not believe robbery was a motive. More on this story as it develops.” Jack saw a hint of disgust on her face. But he wasn’t sure if it was because of the murder or because the victim was a drag queen. What she thought of it didn’t matter.

  Did Sheila know the slain queen? Were they friends? Did she even know?

  A knock on the door snapped Jack back to reality. He got up, smoothed his shirt down, and let Sheila inside. She greeted him with a kiss that he only returned halfheartedly.

  “Is everything okay?” she asked, concern and maybe a trace of fear marring her features.

  “Um, yeah,” Jack said. “Kinda. I think. Here, come sit down with me.” He jerked his head in the direction of the sofa and Sheila followed. When they were both sitting, he took a moment to collect himself. He wasn’t sure why this had shaken him so much. He didn’t even know this Valentine person. But he knew Sheila. And he actually cared for her. So maybe this one hit a little too close to home.

  He took a deep breath. “How many of the other girls did you know at the club?”

  Sheila shrugged. “All of them, for the most part, except this one little Barbie girl who started a few weeks ago.” She smiled warmly. “We’re all a pretty tight-knit family. Us girls gotta stick together, you know?”

  Shit. That made this that much harder. Jack’s stomach churned. He focused on a patch of cracked paint on the wall across the room that he’d been meaning to get fixed for months. He couldn’t look Sheila in the eye right now. Hell, he didn’t even really know how to tell her.

  “Hey,” she said, touching his chin gently and catching his gaze. “What’s wrong?”

  “Um . . .” He swallowed the lump in his throat. “There was a news report just before you got here. They, uh, they said that police found a man’s body in a dumpster a little while ago. And they wouldn’t release the man’s name, but the anchor said that a source had confirmed that he was one of the girls at Neon Trees.”

  Sheila’s eyes went wide, glassy. Her mouth hung slightly open. “Which one?” she whispered. Her bottom lip trembled as though she was already expecting the worst.

  “. . . Valentine Heartbreak.”

  Sheila’s expression crumbled. “No,” she said, voice breaking. Tears streamed from her eyes. She shook her head slowly. “No. That can’t be true. They—they made a mistake. Valentine isn’t d— She’s not de— Oh God!” She threw her arms around him and buried her face in his shoulder. She bawled as though she’d lost her best friend, and Jack wanted to cry too. It hurt him that she hurt. He hugged her as tight as he could, because there was nothing else he could do, nothing he could say to relieve the pain that she must be feeling.

  He couldn’t say how long they sat there. It could have been minutes—it could have been hours—but after a while Sheila stood up. “Excuse me,” she sobbed, and made a beeline for the bathroom.

  Jack touched the wet spot on his shoulder; he hadn’t even noticed it when she’d been there, but now it was obvious, and growing colder. He went to his room and changed into a fresh shirt and, by the time he got back, Sheila was sitting on the couch again, dabbing at the sides of her eyes with a balled-up tissue. Jack sat down next to her, put an arm around her.

  “We started at the same time. At that same club. We learned together. Grew together, you know?” She sniffled. “I just . . . I don’t want to believe she’s gone.” She took a deep, shaky breath. “His real name was Tim. Tim Branch. He was one of my best friends. One of the greatest men I ever knew.” She broke into another fit of sobbing. Jack held her, trying to keep himself from losing it too. He felt useless. Didn’t know what to say. What to do. No one close to him had ever been killed.

  His parents had tried to sell him that shit about better places and finally being out of pain when his grandmother had died and he’d hated it then, so he wasn’t about to shovel a helping of the same thing in Sheila’s direction.

  After a few minutes she seemed to regain herself. She cleared her hair—it was brunette, tonight—out of her face. Some of her makeup had smudged; Jack could see a sliver of skin under the layer of foundation, and his heart skipped a beat.

  He wasn’t sure he was ready to see the person under the persona. It scared—no, terrified him that there was a man under all that makeup. If he saw him, that might be the end of their sexual relationship. Jack had a hard enough time keeping his erection with her sometimes as it was. Actually knowing the real man, while ideal in most relationships, could ruin this one.

  Jack shook the thoughts away. Maybe all of that was true, but if it was, he would deal with it later. This wasn’t the time or the place. Now, the only thing that mattered was consoling Sheila.

  “I’m sorry.” She blew her nose. “I shouldn’t be crying all over you like this. I should go.”

  “No. Stay. Please.” He wiped another tear away with his thumb. “I don’t want you out there by yourself.” Especially if this isn’t just a random murder, he didn’t add.

  “That would be a seriously bad idea,” she said, shaking her head.

  “Why?”

  She stared him dead in the eye. “Because you’re not ready to see me without makeup on. And I’m not about to sleep in all this.”

  “It’s fine.” No it’s not. “I can deal.” No, you can’t. “I’ve been thinking that I want to know what you really look like, anyway.” Stop fucking lying, you fucking liar!

  “Even so . . .” Sheila dropped her gaze and stared off into the distance. “I’m not ready for you to see me.”

  “Why? What could be so different in and out of drag?”

  Sheila chuckled. “Everything, darling. Everything.” She got up and headed toward the door.

  “Please. I don’t want you to go,” Jack said. She kept walking. “Sheila, please.” She was almost there now and his pulse was racing. “Damn it, Sheila, I said no!”

  That stopped her. She turned around, a sad smile on her face. “That only works during sex, sweetheart.” And she began to leave again.

  Jack was up and across the room before he even knew what he was doing. He snagged her hand and spun her around, ready to press her against the wall. Fuck, that had been the wrong move. Did desperation make people dumb?

  He loosened his hold and hovered as nonthreateningly as he could, because the second she changed her mind (if she changed her mind), he was going to pull her into the tightest hug he’d ever given anyone. “Then I will fuck you until the sun comes up and both of us have to miss work.” Even he didn’t believe what he was saying. There was no force in his voice. Just undisguised pleading. He didn’t know what else to do. What else to say. If she still resisted, he would let her leave without any more restriction. But he had to try one last time.

  Sheila made no effort to move, she simply stood there, watching him and seemingly weighing her options. Jack moved in hesitantly. A soft brush of the lips he wasn’t sure was more to calm her nerves or his own. She didn’t resist or pull away. Maybe she’d stay, after all.

  A knock on the door and he took a step back. Her eyes flitted toward the peephole.

  “Who is it?” he asked, crestfallen. She was really going to go. And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to stop it.

  “China Hut.”

  Fuck. He’d completely forgotten he’d ordered for them. “Just a second,” he said, putting more distance between them and letting Sheila straighten her dress and hair. He opened the door. “Hey, Tony.”

  The familiar delivery man greeted him warmly. Jack expected Sheila to squeeze between them and disappear, but she stayed put while he paid, and when he closed the door she was looking down. Jack swallowed. “You’re going to stay?”

  She glanced up at him, tears standing in her eyes once again. “Promise me you won’t think any differently of me if I do.”

  “Why would I—”

  “Just promise me, Jack.”

  “Fine. I promise.” What could be so bad? Was she an extraterrestrial underneath all those cosmetics?

  “O
kay. Then I’m going to go wash all this off.”

  She cast one final, almost pleading stare at him and, when he didn’t say anything, shuffled off toward the bathroom.

  He put the food down on the coffee table in front of the TV and grabbed some plates and glasses from the kitchen. The faucet in the bathroom turned on. He really wasn’t ready for this, but it was the only way to keep her from leaving. And he’d made such a big deal of it that it was impossible to back out now. Besides, they couldn’t keep this up forever. Sure, their relationship was mostly sex for now, but Jack could easily see it blossoming into something more. Maybe it was the lust talking, but he really cared for her. And you couldn’t have a relationship, hell even a friendship, with someone if it was built on lies. It was time to shit or get off the pot.

  Jack had almost finished loading the plates with their dinner—a combination of General Tso’s chicken, steamed broccoli, fried rice, and a new sampler platter that he’d never tried before—when the water turned off. He straightened up, heart pounding. He was ready for this. He could do it. He was a grown man. He could handle seeing the guy (even though the thought made him a little dizzy) out of drag. As he was.

  He felt the floor rumble before he heard the footsteps. He swallowed hard and closed his eyes before he turned around. Everything would be fine. He could do this.

  Jack opened his eyes, and holy shit there was a naked man standing in his living room. A naked man with strong calves and thick thighs. A decent-sized dick. Flat stomach. It didn’t look like he ever worked out, but drag was supposed to be female illusion, so he had no reason to be a muscle-bound jock. But what froze Jack was the face. That gorgeous, naked face that he’d seen five days a week for the last three years. God, all of the similarities were there now that he’d seen the truth. How had he not seen it before?