by Sunniva Dee
Since it’s Halloween, I brought supplies in case I felt like this: paranoid. The so-so-real lashes are already on as is a thorough layer of makeup. Stage-red lips make my mouth explode on my face while my pale cheeks blush discretely with pink rouge. A vibrant, black eyeliner and a charcoal eye shadow enhance the green of my irises and make them pop into cat eyes.
It’s not enough though. Tonight, I’ve brought the mask I couldn’t wear at the mayor’s ball. It’s the female version of a devil’s half-mask, Venetian-style.
I’m not changing my outfit. I’m sticking to my brightly colored, seductive shirt-and-skirt combo with a deep cleavage and tall stiletto boots beneath a fitted coat. But the dark jewels surrounding the mask’s eyeholes cause my pupils to merge with the green of my irises.
Self-confidence is such a bizarre thing. Sometimes I think I’ve been dealt a corrupted strain of it. I stare at my reflection as my perfectly shaped, perfectly sized lips spread in a slow smile. Hair that’s dark with a tint of red resembles mahogany wood in this light, and it moves like silk sheets over my shoulders. One lock partly disguises a boob that looks softer than it is. Heck, I would fuck me too if I were a guy.
And that’s what I am, a plaything. I’m not dumb. Deep down, I know everyone’s worthy of more than being someone’s toy. But I have friends, non-platonic ones, who loop through my sphere and help me forget my thoughts, the past, the future. I accept my life the way it is, and I am fine with who I am.
I, Paislee Marie Cain, have a good life.
Now though, I need newness, and the laptop geek should hit the spot.
I purse my mouth and blow out air. Adjust the mask so my eyes glitter, competing with the fake diamonds surrounding them.
The anonymity of Halloween is my reprieve. I’m safe here on the opposite side of town and in an area I never frequent. I click my heels against the marble floor, loud enough for computer man to raise his eyes. His hands drop into his lap as his stare meets mine, and when our gazes remain connected, my pulse skyrockets with the hunt and the impending catch.
Geek boy won’t know what hit him. I’ll have him go down on me first. Oddly, I find myself hoping he has limited experience. My preference in a man varies, but even so, tonight’s wish is rare; I want him horny as hell and so inexperienced he’ll accept detailed instructions.
I scan the small room on my way to his seat. Locate the freshly arrived mother with a small Batman and an even smaller Cinderella. She’s dividing candy into two plastic bags and sipping coffee, and I’m thinking she’s taking a much-needed break from trick-or-treating.
I saunter back to the geek. Make sure to sway my hips in my most alluring way. I don’t give a crap about anyone watching, which is why my index finger hooks into my cleavage and pulls down a bit as soon as I’ve gotten his attention.
Did he gasp? Goodness, this is going to be nice. I might tell him to not move a muscle, just lie still on his back while I ride him to climax. Maybe I’ll make it unbearable for him, bring him to the brink and back, until he’s on the verge of crying. I nod to myself; for such a plan, all I need is for him to be alive, warm, and—hard.
My heart’s scampering out of my chest. As I fasten my heel over the bar at the bottom of his stool, the bell over the door jangles again. Calmer now, I slide a hand up geek boy’s thigh and smirk out a “Hey there, I’m back,” before I shoot a glance at the door. It opens.
And in walks a stud of a vampire.
My brain sets off bright-red warning alarms, screaming for me to take off. The vampire’s irises shimmer, a golden coffee accentuated by eyebrows arched in surprise.
He studies me while he lifts a hand and rubs his mouth with the crook of a finger. I can’t help it. I study him back, the white shirt that’s open at the neck, revealing bronzed skin and toned muscle. The makeup that causes him to look undead-pirate-hot.
“Rubina. So this is where you’ve been hiding,” he murmurs and prowls—prowls!—up to us. Clearly, he was first in line when they handed out self-confidence, because not once does he acknowledge my “date.”
“Excuse me?” My hand drops from the geek’s spine, while Keyon gets comfortable on what used to be my seat.
“So… what’s shakin’?” he says, and it’s so old-fashioned and uncool I snort.
“Nothing much,” I say. “You all right, sir?” I’m doing a damn good job of acting as if I don’t know him.
“You have beer here?” he asks the barista in a tone that makes me interpret “in this joint” in place of “here.” I cover my mouth because I don’t need to feed the beast with more unwarranted mirth.
The barista answers his question. “Sure do,” she says. “But no draft, just bottled European beers.”
Between the beers in a coffee shop and Keyon showing up out of nowhere, this is the strangest setup ever. Actually, it probably is a setup; if anyone I know happens to watch a fight in Vegas any time soon, I’ll have my answer.
Mom and Mack are the only ones who know where I am though, and they wouldn’t rat me out. Would they?
“Are we having a beer, or you want to leave right away, Roobs?”
Nuh-uh. He did not say that.
“Not sure about your plans, Mister,” I purr so softly I’m part cat, “but I’m with my sweetheart here, and I can’t just up and leave.” I slink an arm around super-awkward geek boy, who flinches in his seat. He’s so not acting like my quote-unquote sweetheart. Maybe he’s afraid of vampires?
“My apologies,” the vampire murmurs—again. What’s with the sexy murmuring? “I didn’t realize Ruby was off the market.”
“What the hell? ‘Market?’ You think people buy me like a wh—” I suck in air fast before I pronounce the word I’ve hated since Isa’s father visited me in their guest room.
That’s where my limit goes. I’ll never let anyone pay me for sex. To be the town slut is one thing. It’s a bed I’ve made myself, pun intended. But I’ll never become a whore, no matter what the townsfolk believe.
Everything happens in quick succession: Keyon rips me off Geek’s chair, my legs flailing; Geek makes his stool hop a foot away, and suddenly he’s so deep into his work it’s like he has become one with the laptop.
Gee, thanks for the support.
Keyon swings me around, and there’s no objecting. Steely arms ensure that I do what he wants. He’s not just invading my space—his stare seems to laser my mind too.
“Don’t you ever buy into people’s judgment of you.” His eyes burn as if the thought itself is an insult.
“What are you talking about?” Why is he defensive when I’m the one who should be insulted? He said “market” and my fake name in the same sentence!
Keyon has had me like a prostitute. I did what he wanted despite my urge to run away. He’s owned me to the deepest recesses of my flesh, grating against tissue and tendons and muscle in ways where the only thing separating whore from slut is money.
Thoughts, mind, nerves, blood, oxygen. That’s all I want to be. Screw this body, my aching, needy, absorbent skin. Screw my vagina that craves pleasure. She always wins, and yet I can’t complain. I am sane because of her.
When he says, “How much? Never mind. Here,” to the barista, his voice has calmed again. His flash-anger has receded, and I am abnormally relieved.
I want to curl in over myself.
Keyon sets a stack of bills on the counter, takes my hand, and walks me toward the door. I pipe up, protesting without actual words. The barista specifies ten dollars, not fifty, but Keyon tugs on our connection, and then we’re outside.
The snow flurries, hitting my face with icy honesty, but it doesn’t diminish the warmth brewing in my abdomen. This man. This man.
I remember him as a boy with the clarity of film clips. Ah there’s so much to lose—love, respect, an unpolluted past. I’m not used to having something to lose. What would he think if he knew the me of now?
Apprehension plummets in me like guilt. I hunch to the sidewalk. Clutch my stomach
, the snow creaking like potato starch beneath my boots.
As I breathe in air from an ocean that wants to freeze over, he pulls me up with a whoops, believing I merely slipped.
“You should tell me your real name,” he says, hand lifting my chin. And for the first time, I wish that I’d led a respectable life.
KEYON
She looks at me, eyes the greenest malachite through her black mask. Rubina stirs memories from my childhood. I knew a person once with that stare, the same untamed color that brimmed with emotion.
Paislee’s eyes didn’t lie. When she watched the bullies dig into me, the green shone glossy with fear. When I let out unmanly whimpers, the color dulled with compassion.
“You remind me of someone,” I tell this woman I haven’t stopped thinking of for days. “I hope your, um, ‘sweetheart’ in there isn’t too upset with you leaving. What’s your name?”
She straightens in front of me, small body proud in her pretty but slutty outfit. She ignores my jab about the nonexistent boyfriend when she replies, “It actually is Rubina. Not Hood but Green.” Her eyes fire a challenge at me. Take it or leave it. It’s all you get.
I feel my mouth crook a smile. “And they call you Ruby? You don’t have red hair,” I say, looking her over and realizing it’s sort of red. Definitely not blond like the wig she wore at Ma’s party.
She breathes in like she’s gathering courage. “They call me whatever they want to call me,” she hums, and then I see what she’s doing. For a moment when she slipped and fell, there was something else in her eyes. Now she’s backing herself into a comfort zone, the one that first drew me to her. Rubina’s reverting to the Sexy Vixen.
“Rubina,” I whisper, cupping her cheek and tilting her head back so she has to meet my stare. “I’ve been looking for you.”
“I know.”
“Why didn’t you leave me a number?”
“You’re scary.”
Hmm, fast. And honest. I know I scare girls. One chick called me “a dominant prick.” Hell, she had no problem coming, which said more about her than me. I told her as much.
“I’m not dangerous to women.”
“You could be.”
I inhale the sharp fall night. “Of course not. I know what I’m doing—”
“Yeah?” She starts walking, soles slipping into small, fast steps as she hurries forward. “So you knew what you were doing when you crushed me so hard into the mattress that I forgot to breathe. What about when you twisted my head to the side and held it in a vise grip so you could devour my throat in giant, hungry bites?” She mutters the words out, and my dick jumps at her description.
Ruby’s pace accelerates. “Take it easy. Don’t hurt yourself,” I say.
“Pfff, I can walk fine. I’ve lived in this freezing place all my life.” And she’s angry about that. Her spine is straight and unforgiving, fists digging into her coat pockets.
“Oh cut the drama,” I finally say, turn her, and flip her mask off.
“Who the fuck do you think you are?” she bursts out. “Give me the mask.” There’s panic in her voice. Why? I’d almost expected a marred face, but she’s absolutely flawless in her beauty. The shape of her lips though… I have seen those lips before.
Well, duh. I’ve tasted them—hard too.
I hold the mask high while I study her. Her eyes are still disguised, artfully covered with stage-like makeup. She hops on high heels, trying to reach her mask, but she doesn’t have a chance. She flails, fingertips grasping empty air.
She’s so mad, I can’t help but crowd her against the building and kiss her. I shove her into it, needing her to accept.
At first, she struggles, which makes it even hotter when she settles in, hands raking into my hair and pulling me down. Short puffs of lingering anger shoot from her mouth to mine. I let go of her body to angle her face up for better access to coffee, caramel, and cream.
My cock is hard against her stomach, and I rock, reminding her.
“Stop,” she pants. “You need to stop.”
I halt with her in my arms and stare. Her lips are no longer a painted red—they’re swollen, natural, and glistening. “Why?” I husk, unable to speak clearly. With a thumb, I rub my own lip, finding the lipstick that’s not on her anymore.
“Because I say so.”
“But you like what I do to you.” I know she does. Her pulse is going crazy in my palm. I’ve got it covering her throat, warming her. Feeling her jugular butting into my grasp.
“No. Yeah. It’s complicated.”
Rubina’s agreed to come with me to the Coral Mansion. She’s been quiet on the way over here.
It’s late, and she doesn’t want to see my parents, which is fine by me. I show her in through the service entrance, we sneak upstairs, and she offers a tight smile when I say we resemble teenagers.
Once the door is shut, I invade her mouth with my tongue, pushing as far in as I can and loving the feel of her around me. I’m conquering her, this small piece at first. I’ll take more soon, because the Vixen isn’t far away.
Such a beautiful, sexy person.
She makes a worried sound in her throat and pushes small hands against my chest.
“What?” I ask, hoping our agendas aren’t different. I need to be inside of her. This time, I won’t let her leave early either. Rubina’s sleeping over.
I gather her hands in one of mine on her back. It makes pretty breasts jut out, bending her midsection while the rest of her goes off balance toward the bed. I walk her there while she squirms. Ruby’s breath picks up, eyes widening gorgeously below me.
Thud.
There she is, thick hair spread over the pillow like it should.
I kiss her hard again, feeling a moan against my lips, and my dick’s fucking granite in my pants. I can’t be close enough to her, my entire body heavy on top of her, rubbing us together, making sure she knows she’s about to be owned, and she says, she says—
“Keyon, stop.”
There’s no force behind the plea, but it triggers an alarm in my brain. My hands fist her waist beneath the shirt and grope a taut path up until they reach her bra. I want to rip it open hard, so hard.
I need to hear that I’m breaking it, that I bow dainty hooks and pull fabric apart at the seams. It’d make the rush massive—I groan and dig my hands in under her back.
The pop of a button hits my ears like music. I rip, drag, and hear myself grunt with pleasure as soft hips meet my palms.
“FUCKING STOP, ASSHOLE!”
Shit! Shit, shit, shit.
I drop her, sit up on my knees, arms hanging at my side. My stomach muscles still twitch, urging me to cover her with my body and continue her journey into submission. No tap-out, no, no tap-out. But that voice, those words—
“FUCKING STOP, ASSHOLES!”
I’m years back, in a small forest at the back of our house. Aaron has caught up with me. I’m so close to home. I ran faster than the wind. I really thought I’d make it this time. Tiny and wiry compared to his burly additional six months of age, my joints crumble beneath him.
The mud from the afternoon rainfall hits my face. He rubs me in it, laughing and calling out for Tyler.
“Pull his jeans off. Let’s see what a fag ass looks like. Dude’s probably been giving it up to old Mr. Olson already.” He laughs like nothing is funny to him ever, and then Tyler’s there, pulling on my pants.
I’m dying. Life cannot get worse than this; the fear of what they could do unravels me. I know what they’ll do. I’ve read about it on the Internet. It’s not at all good what people can do to other people, and I’d rather be punched in the face, get my fucking pretty-face ruined once and for all.
Destroy my face. Just please don’t—
It’s private down there.
I don’t say it. They’re evil, cruel, merciless, so I don’t.
They guffaw together. Dunk my face in the mud like it’s the toilet bowl at school. The toilet is clean though, while the
mud is not. It hurts my eyes, and suddenly I am blind.
I fight. I think I do. Only gasps for air escape me while I work to survive. My thoughts race because thoughts never stop, and why do we work to survive when it’s easier to give up?
My pants are stronger than my mind, resisting Tyler’s tug and the laughter he hurls my way. “Fag ass! Let’s check it out. Pretty girl ass, I’m sure.” And then the shout comes, the shout that’s so loud it saves my dignity and my self-respect. I don’t know who I’d be today if that shout hadn’t come.
“FUCKING STOP, ASSHOLES or I’m calling his house!”
“Paislee?” I murmur her name now, here, in the Coral Mansion. I say it so quietly it doesn’t overpower her erratic breaths. “Is that you?” I cradle her face with my hands. How did I not notice?
My thick fingers frame the fine bone structure of her features. She nods, wordless. With her lids closed against me, painted lashes color the tears at the corners of her eyes. I kiss them and lick salt off my lips.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I whisper, staring, staring at my past, at all that made my young adulthood worth living.
I’ve scared her. Rattling other girls a little bit is one thing. It makes the sex better. But Paislee? “I’ve been thinking about you.”
She lets out a sound that’s half a laugh. “You’ve been thinking of assaulting me? Do you assault all of your lady friends?”
“No.” Fighter groupies pull tricks on us to be special. I get that—hell, I appreciate it. “They don’t react like you.”
They’re overwhelmed when I unleash my lust, and I get those fun gasps of incredulity as I alpha-male the fuck out of them. But Paislee isn’t just saying that she’s scared. She is scared. Shitless.
“Why did you agree to come with me again?”
She shakes her head slowly against the pillow. I can’t help myself. I kiss her lips gently, the way I did on her back porch ages ago, and she lets me. “I don’t know, Keyon. You’re insistent.”
“The other day,” I start. I need to find out what’s going on in her head. Why would she do this? A whole night we were together, and she never told me who she was. Something grows tight in my chest at the thought. “I wouldn’t have treated you the way I did if I knew.”
