“Come lie down,” she says.
He gets up with difficulty, and she gives him a hand. They go into the bedroom where he flops onto the bed, flat on his stomach. She turns on the lights so that she can have a good look at his marks. He buries his face in the pillow.
“I think you need to take off your pants,” she says soberly. There is no innuendo in her statement. When he hesitates, she adds, “You’re not shy, are you?”
No, he reckons he isn’t. He reluctantly half-turns and unbuttons his jeans. Then he slides them off his buttocks, leaving the top of his jeans to cover his thighs. He isn’t wearing any underwear.
She is shocked to see that his well-shaped ass is even more striped with red lashes than his back. One of the red welts is oozing slight blood. There is no uncertainty now. She is sure he has been beaten severely, and he appears to have been a willing participant. But why would he allow someone to do this to him?
No questions. That was the agreement.
She bites back her remarks and retrieves the jar of cream from the bathroom. She digs her fingers into the white concoction and takes out a generous dollop. She smears this on his back, and continues to do this until all his lash marks are covered with a soothing layer of cream. His skin is like satin otherwise, and it pains her to see his beauty being marred like this.
He winces slightly when she dabs the cream onto the welt that is bleeding.
“Does it hurt?” she asks, concerned.
“No,” he mumbles into his pillow.
She is extremely aware of the intimacy of this act she is performing on him. Touching him, rubbing the salve onto his golden skin, admiring the way his small back muscles tense and relax as she applies her tender care onto him. Prodding the soft shoal of his buttocks so that his flesh sinks in deeply. All the while feasting her eyes on his beauty, the graceful curvature of his swanlike neck, the way the lamp highlights his chestnut hair into a rich golden brown.
The angry striations extend to the backs of his upper thighs as well.
“Pull down your pants further,” she says.
“Ah, so you’d have your wicked way with me,” he says with amusement.
“You wish.”
He curls, facing away from her, and tugs at his jeans, pulling it way off his legs. He drops them on the floor. She catches a glimpse of his darker pub hair, and then he flops back onto his belly and hugs the pillow to his face. He is now completely naked.
A frisson of desire traverses her loins. But she refuses to be bowled over by it as she resumes her ministrations on his flesh.
When she has finished, she says, “Do you want to change into something more comfortable?”
He turns his head. “Maybe a pair of shorts. Don’t forget, it’s my turn to do you now.”
He gets up from the bed, his long body an object of perfection in the soft yellow light. He shields the front part of his body from her as he swings his legs over and walks to the bathroom. He is out of sight for a moment. When he comes back, he is wearing a pair of baggy grey shorts. He carries a couple of plastic tubs in his large hands.
“Hold out your arms,” he says, getting on the bed again.
She crosses her legs and does so. Her arms are very thin and discolored.
“These are antibiotic creams,” he explains.
“Whatever infection I was supposed to get would have festered by now and be done with,” she tells him wryly.
“You never know. There might be secondary infection going on.”
He gently massages the creams into her arms and palms. She gazes upon his face as he does so, thrilled by the attention she is getting from this beautiful boy.
“You take the bed tonight, as promised,” he says. “I did tell you that you could. I’ll sleep on the couch.”
“No, you’re hurt. We can sleep together on the same bed. It’s only sleep. I’m not going to jump you.”
He gives her a quizzical look. “Just how old are you really anyway?”
“Why?”
“I want to know.”
“Are you planning to jump me?” She says this half hopefully.
He seems to hesitate. “No.”
“Then it wouldn’t matter.”
She gets up to turn the lights off as he puts away the creams. Once the room is dark, they snuggle together under the covers. Their bodies do not touch, but she can still feel his warmth under the expanse of the quilt. He is like a furnace.
She listens to his breathing, which acquires a gentle rhythm. It’s very peaceful here, and very still. She can see his silhouette in the dark. He is lying on his side, possibly to avoid compressing his injured skin. His face is turned towards hers.
“Just for your information, I’m over the age of consent,” she whispers.
He doesn’t reply. From the gradual slowing of his breathing, she can tell that he is fast asleep.
She drifts slowly to sleep herself, thinking how nice this arrangement is.
ENTRY
“There’s a vacancy at Padriag’s,” Devon announces as he puts down his paintbrush.
It has been one week since she has come to stay here. And every day, she has posed for him, earning her keep as his model. Not once has he asked her to pose naked, much to her conflicting emotions of chagrin, relief and disappointment.
“Can I see it?” she asks.
“The vacancy?”
“No, silly. The painting.”
“Not yet. I’m almost finished. But I need some touches on the backdrop.”
Abby takes in the nondescript lounge which has been converted into a studio. “What can be so difficult about painting this?” She waves her hand over her backdrop.
For answer, he merely smiles. “An artist can’t reveal his vision until he’s good and truly ready. So do you want to come with me to Padriag’s or not?”
“For what?”
“For the job, of course.”
She rolls her eyes theatrically. “Why can’t I just pose naked for you and charge you twice the fee?”
“It doesn’t work that way. Come on, lazybones. It’s time you got off that couch and get yourself a proper job.”
“Says the pot to the kettle,” she retorts.
He laughs. “Get up, or I’ll pull that couch from under you.”
It’s amazing how well they are getting along with each other. She has certainly never thought her little sojourn to New York would turn out this way.
He still hasn’t tried to put any moves on her. He is too much of a gentleman for that, she thinks, despite her attempts to drop hints that she isn’t a virgin by any account. They have resorted to sleeping with each other in his bed but keeping a goodly distance between their bodies, as though they are brother and sister in a forced and cramped environment.
Perhaps he isn’t interested in her. Perhaps that woman who has been capitalizing his time and body holds him in thrall.
How disappointing.
But she refuses to be defeated by it. She has time on her side now that she has decided she will not go to college.
Abby is curious about that woman, of course. Any attempt to ferret it out of him draws a blank wall. He is deft at deflecting questions, hurling back her own curiosity at her with a few barbed remarks about her own lack of transparency. But she doesn’t mind not knowing. It keeps him mysterious and interesting.
They walk down several blocks to Padraig’s, which is an Irish pub that doubles as an eatery during the day. The décor of the pub is shamrock green. A sign at the window displays: WAITRESS WANTED. GOOD TIPS.
“Good tips?” she says. “Does that mean the actual pay isn’t good?”
“Don’t be such a smart mouth. Billy Dee owns this place. I know him. Let me talk to him on your behalf and he’ll give you the job.”
She is not sure she wants a waitressing job. There are plenty of more interesting things she can do. But she humors Devon anyway by going in through the green door after him. A little bell tinkles somewhere above the doorway and s
he steps into the relative gloom.
Since it is three in the afternoon, there are only a few customers at the bar. A bartender wipes the inside of a large beer mug in a corner.
“Hey, Sam,” Devon calls out to him. “Billy around?”
“He’s in his office.” The bartender jerks his head towards a door marked ‘Staff Only’. “You still owe him that paint job, Devon.”
“I’m on to it.”
Devon strides towards the door.
“What paint job?” Abby asks.
“Walls need a little color other than green.”
“But green an Irish thing.”
“You reckon?”
He taps once on the door. “Billy?”
“Go the fuck away,” says a disembodied voice.
Still grinning, Devon opens the door. After a moment’s hesitation, Abby follows suit.
The man behind the desk of the cramped little office is not what she is expecting. He is tall, but balding, with swarthy Italian features instead of ruddy Irish ones. But maybe she is anticipating a stereotype of an Irish pub owner.
“Devon Fisher, to what do I owe this pleasure?” he rasps sarcastically. “Whatever happened to that commission I gave you the down payment for?”
Devon plunks himself in a chair in front of the desk and gestures at Abby to do the same.
“Sorry, Billy. Something came up.”
“Sure, something always comes up.” Billy shoots her a fierce glare. “This your boyfriend? Well, let me tell you, he’s a no good son of a bitch. Fella comes here begging me for a job nine months back, so I take pity on him since his mother’s from the old country. I tell him I want a mural type of artwork on my walls. You know, like that Sistic Chapel back in Italy – ”
“The Sistine Chapel’s in the Vatican, Billy,” Devon drawls. “You should know, since your mother is Catholic.”
“ – I wanted leprechauns, banshees, faerie folk, the Seelie and Unseelie courts and the like. He tells me he can paint them, no problem. And at the first sight of a well-turned woman who’s willing to bankroll him, he runs.”
Abby pricks up her ears. “A woman?”
“Billy,” Devon says uncomfortably, “that isn’t how it happened.”
Billy fixes his black eyes on Abby. “That is exactly how it happened. He saunters out of this very office, whistling with my money in his wallet, and he bumps into this woman at the bar. That very bar outside. They get to talking and they leave together, and the next I hear, he’s a kept man. Like one of them concubines in a harem.”
“Billy, shut up. It isn’t true and you know it.” Devon’s fair face flushes slightly. “I just haven’t found the inspiration to do your murals, but I will . . . once I get back the muse. Abby is here to ask about that waitressing job you posted out there. Is it still available or not?”
Billy flickers his dismissive gaze up and down the part of Abby’s body revealed above the desk. “You ever been a waitress before?”
She decides to tell the truth. “No.”
“It isn’t hard. Just requires balancing a tray and being on your feet eight hours straight. The pay is not much, but you can make a nice profit on the tips.”
Devon beams at her. “So what do you say, Abby? You want it?”
“Hey, I’m the boss here. I decide who I want to hire.” Billy shifts his gaze to her. “You work eight hour shifts. Eleven to seven or seven to three. That’s three a.m. in the morning, just in case you think it’s a walk in the park. You get Tuesdays off, but I’ll require you to work through the weekends.”
Waitressing sounds tough, Abby thinks with dread.
“Um, can I think about it?” she says timidly.
Billy frowns. He favors Devon with another burning glare. “You wasting my time again, Fisher?”
“Uh, no, Billy. If you’d just give me a moment with my friend.”
Devon ushers her outside the room and closes the door behind them.
“Why are you stalling?” he hisses. “This is a good a job as any. And I know Billy. He’s a good paymaster and he won’t give you a hard time like some of the other joints.”
“I know what you’re saying, Devon, but waitressing is not something I want to do. I need to look around on my own and decide what I want.”
He pauses, his face a mask. “OK, so what do you want to do?”
“I don’t know yet.”
What can she tell him? That she is a straight A student who is supposed to go to Princeton? That she ran away before any part of that life could be fulfilled?
“Devon, I really appreciate what you’re trying to do for me, but I’ve got to find my own way, you know? You of all people should understand that because that’s what you’re doing, and I admire you for it.”
“Don’t admire me. You don’t know the half of it. So what do I tell Billy?”
“I’ll tell Billy myself. Wait here.”
She goes in again and firmly shuts the door on Devon. Billy looks up expectantly.
“Answer’s no, right?” he says with a shrewd grin.
She nods. “It isn’t for me, but I’m really grateful you even considered me.”
His eyes narrow. “You know, you look really familiar. I’m sure I have seen you someplace.”
Her stomach does a double flip. “I don’t think we have met before, Mr. Dee.”
“I didn’t say we’ve met. I just said I have seen you someplace.” He taps the side of his nose. “I can’t remember right now, but I’ve got a memory for faces and names. It will come back to me.”
She’s starting to get nervous.
“Well, I’ve got to be going, Mr. Dee. It was nice to meet you.”
He gives her a look as if to say ‘I’ll be watching you’. She turns, a flush coming to her cheeks, and bolts out of the office before he can say anything else.
Once outside, Devon says, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
She grabs his arm and propels him to the exit. He glances back at the closed office door and wisely decides not to say anything else.
*
“I’ve got an appointment,” Devon announces that night. He takes off the white T-shirt he is wearing and rifles in his drawers for a black wife beater. He pulls this on.
Abby sits cross-legged on the bed. She would never get tired of watching him undress and dress. After one week of sleeping in the same bed together and sharing his body warmth, he has shed most of his inhibitions he has in her presence, except for one. He still will not show her his cock at full frontal, though she has gotten glimpses of it, like a teaser to an R-rated movie.
She supposes her reaction is justified. He is a staggeringly beautiful young man, and she has eyes like any other female. She can’t help but be attracted to him. So would anyone else breathing the same air space. But it doesn’t mean she is going to do anything about it, or that he is attracted to her. Guys like him don’t get attracted to girls like her.
He has been kind to her, granted, and very helpful in every way. But she is not foolish enough to equate niceness to attraction. Besides, she is very sure that he is a kept man. Billy Dee all but confirmed it.
“Will you be back tonight?” she asks casually.
“Probably not.”
“And you aren’t going to tell me about this girl you’ve been seeing?” She doesn’t want to sound like a jealous admirer, but she can’t help it.
“No.” In his black wife beater and ripped jeans, he looks carelessly marvelous. “Billy tells me he’s seen you somewhere before.”
“I’ve got one of those faces,” she says with a diffident wave of her hand.
He cocks his head. “That’s not what he says. He says he has seen you somewhere before. But not in the flesh. He thinks it’s in a newspaper of some sort. Or maybe even on TV.”
Her heart stops.
“Are you famous, Abby?” he asks her. His expression betrays nothing. His entire posture is tense however.
“No,” she says quickly.
<
br /> “Are you in trouble of any sort? Look, you can level with me. I’m not going to give you up.”
He moves towards the bed and sits down at the edge. His eyes are open and shining. He takes her hands in his large ones and turns them so that her palms face upward. She flinches as her healed burn marks are revealed.
“I have seen them before,” he says softly. “I smeared them with antibiotic creams until four nights ago, remember?”
She pulls back her hands.
“I’m not ready, Devon.”
He gazes at her for a long time.
“OK. When you’re ready, you can tell me.” He gets up. “I have to go. I’ll catch you tomorrow.”
She watches his leanly muscled back as he exits the bedroom. He pauses to grab his leather jacket off the back of a chair, and then he leaves.
She waits till he closes the front door. She counts till ten, and then she sprints from the bed. Grabbing her own jacket, she lets herself out of his apartment and locks the door. She peers down at the stairway to see his bobbing head as he walks jauntily down.
She makes sure he doesn’t see her as she follows him.
She continues to trail him on the street, keeping a good distance away. Good thing he is so tall so that she can see his dark head above the crowd. He descends into the nearest subway station, and she has to sidestep a gaggle of chattering teenagers coming up the stairs to keep pace with him.
Feeling like a private detective, she weaves her way through the throngs of commuters as he descends further into the bowels of the earth. The speeding escalators are so fast that a push from someone behind you can send you tumbling to your death. Coming from a far smaller city, she is not used to subways.
As he boards a train, she does the same, only in a carriage behind his. At this time of night, the commuters have thinned out considerably. There are even vacant seats, but she remains standing so that she can glimpse him on the other side.
She watches him carefully from the doorway in between the carriages. He has taken a seat beside an elderly African American gentleman in a rainbow scarf. He does not look at anyone around him. He takes out his cellphone and starts texting to someone.
The Alpha's Touch Boxed Set (14 Book Bundle) Page 123
