by Adriana Law
My hands slid up under the loose fabric of the boxers, over the sweet curves of her ass, cupping and directing her slow movement against my throbbing dick. Feeling the warmth of her flesh under my hand… I put up no resistance and lifted my head to greet and devour the mouth she was offering up so freely. One of my hands left her ass to cradle the back of her head as my tongue explored places it had been dying to go ever since I first laid eyes on the hot tempered vixen. She tasted like warm, melted chocolate. Deceivingly sweet. Everything single thing about her was exotic and new and exciting. It was a dangerous mix. A concoction that made me dizzy and heady with lust, unable to think with anything other than my dick.
The way she moved without shame. The way she took whatever she wanted without an apology. The sounds that came out of her from merely kissing. I was dying to know what other sounds she would make once I was deep inside her. I had never wanted to bury myself inside a woman so bad in my entire life. She was warm and soft and…delicate—in her own way.
Growing impatient I flipped us over so I was on top and she was on bottom and quickly flew into undressing her. “Help me get it off,” I think I said. Help me get this crap out of the way so I can feel all of you! Graciously she helped with the urgent untangling of clothing. It was clumsy and I knew I would probably look back on it and think: Man, you completely blew the built up by going there too fast.
But I couldn’t wait. The buildup started long before that room: The flirting. The bickering back-and-forth. The love/hate quality to our relationship. The shape of her lips when she frowned at something idiotic that I said. The explosion of color in her cheeks at something idiotic that I said. And her erratic quickened breaths at something idiotic that I said.
I loved getting a rise out of her and it had been building. So yeah, I wanted to get the girl stripped naked as quickly as possible. If I had kept going without pausing then the rest as they say: would have been history.
But I paused.
I paused in the moment that I settled between her legs to do the deed and looked down at her. What I saw made me nauseated. I believe Starr loved the chase. I really do. She loved seeing if she could have what she wanted, but really, she didn’t want it. It was there. In her face. The truth: she looked like she thought it was… expected. She was breathing heavy, sure. But her body was slack and her expression said: just go on and get it over with.
I wasn’t that guy. I didn’t take what I wanted with no regard for tomorrow. I was a pussy. A big ass, sappy pussy that liked to cuddle. I liked going slow while staring into each other eyes. My dick had gone slack and I rolled off of her, dressed and collapsed onto my side of the bed.
I should hold her, I thought. But something told me Starr wouldn’t be comfortable with being held. She laid there for a second with her hands up like they were still on me, or waiting for me to come back. Why the hell hadn’t she went ahead and pushed me off her? I knew she’d considered it. Why hell had she even went there?
“What just happened?” she asked, finally dropping her hands to the mattress. She pulled back on my T-shirt while looking directly over at me.
“I came to my senses and realized we were about to make a huge mistake,” I said, getting comfortable on my pillow. “Let’s get some sleep. It’s going to be a long ride tomorrow.”
Starr didn’t argue. I knew she wouldn’t. It would have taken no effort on her part to convince me that I was wrong. I still wanted her. Badly. She laid facing me; her cheek resting on her folded hands. Her ocean blue eyes stared right at me. I would have given a left nut to know what she was thinking at that moment. “You going to be able to sleep,” she asked.
“I doubt it. You?”
“I don’t think I’ll have any trouble. I’m exhausted.” She shut her eyes. “Goodnight.”
“Night.” I laid there for hours, unable to sleep. My eyes moved over the briar tattoo around her wrist. Then my fingertip followed the lines. Reason enough to not touch her since the tattoo was similar to the one my brother had around his wrist.
Matching tattoos. How nice. I was jealous as shit.
My eyes moved up; to her face, her lashes seated against her ivory skin, the child-like way she slept—somebody’s daughter. She almost didn’t look real. Like an exotic doll behind thick glass. I knew there were more tattoos along her shoulder blade and an outline of a star behind her left ear. She was completely different than any girl I had ever dated which made her taboo. Starr was the kind of girl that you admired from afar but never came too close to. I’d been hurt one time too many which was exactly why I rolled over, no longer wanting to be tempted.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Redbox
Every Sunday morning, regardless of how busy I was, I took time to attend Cannon Baptist church. It was a small brick church. The people there were friendly and real. The kind of people that no matter what you were wearing they would come up, shake your hand firmly saying how happy they were to see you. And I believed them. Honestly, I looked forward to Sundays.
“Turn please to page 152 in your hymnals.”
Balancing the hymnal on one hand I gripped the back of the pew in front of me and sang along with the congregation. Afterwards, before dismissing us the pastor asked for everyone to bow their head in prayer. I prayed for Sterling, that his demons would have no power over him. I prayed my father would loosens up with old age. That my guys would stay safe out there protecting. And that God would cut me some slack for all the fucked up shit that I’ve done. I asked forgiveness for that too, for using the word fuck more times than I should.
As everyone gathered their bibles and shook hands, I stood and stretched. With my hands grasped behind my head it was a long, lazy yawn. It was several moments before I noticed bare skin was showing where my dress shirt rode up from the stretch. I pulled the shirt down. I was afraid to look, but I already knew she was there. Glancing across the aisle I saw that she was indeed looking me up and down like I was a piece of dried beef jerky she could gnaw on. It wasn’t the first time she’d made me uncomfortable, I suspected it wouldn’t be the last. Every Sunday I got the distinct the feeling she was undressing me with her gray eyes during the church service. I was reluctant to go talk to her, but then it hit me that I too would one day be in her situation.
Sliding out of the pew I smiled and waved. I stopped by her pew and offered my arm, asking, “Can I walk you to your car?”
When I said her situation: I meant old. Ms. Macintosh was an eighty year old lady that was about a hundred pounds overweight and completely harmless. She always wore bright colored dresses that gathered at her waistline, somewhere underneath her sagging breast. Word was she’d never been married, but then again there was gossip circulating that her first husband, a fireman, died in his late thirties while trying to save a small girl from a burning building.
Her round cheeks rose under her wire reading glasses. She grabbed hold of my arm, squeezing it as if she were testing its strength. Same as every other Sunday. She said, “I thought maybe you’d grown tired of walking an old lady to her car.” She struggled to pick herself up from the pew.
I wasn’t good at it, but I tried to assist as best I could.
“What are you talking about,” I told her on a chuckle, “this is the highlight of my week.” Nothing like being groped after church.
“If that’s true,” her gaze slid down, “then what a waste.”
She was feisty. She loved finding an excuse to stroke the muscles in my arms. She would pet me and wiggle her penciled-on brows. We walked slowly up the center aisle. Ms. Macintosh had a hip replacement years ago and hadn’t fully bounced back. One leg was shorter than the other. She filled me in on all the latest gossip while we took our time.
Her friend that drove her to church every Sunday waited in the car. I lead Ms. Macintosh around to the passenger side and opened the door for her.
“Still single?” she asked turning to face me.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She raised a hand a
nd patted my cheek, smiling warmly. “You are such a cute fellow. What is wrong with the girls in this city? Do they have rocks in their heads?”
My face heated. I buried my hands in the pockets of my slacks and laughed off the embarrassment, telling her, “I don’t really have time—”
“I already know. You have your work. You have accomplished a lot I hear.” Damn gossips! She raised a brow. “Work’s not everything. You can’t snuggle up with it at night.” Her voice lowered, “My advice…find some special lady to help relieve some of that built up sexual tension. It oozes off of you. A strong guy like you has an excess of—”
“Ok,” I interrupt. I’m pretty sure Ms. Macintosh used to have a profession that involved sex. I told her, “Maybe you’re the one that needs to find a special man.”
“All the men I know are dead.” Ms. Macintosh cackled. “Oh, stop now, don’t pity an old woman. I bet I am nowhere near as lonely as you are. I have lived my life, son. There are only a few things I would change.” She reached and held onto my arm, her other hand she ran down over my eyes. “Close your eyes,” she said.
I was cautious. Ms. Macintosh’s outspoken charm, frankly, it made me uneasy. I was certain in her day…she was a real handful. But I knew I wasn’t going anywhere until I followed her command. I shut my eyes. “Now what?”
“I want you to think of a girl.”
“Ok,” I drew out, humoring her.
“Who do you see?” she asked.
My eyes snapped open immediately.
“You saw her, didn’t you?” She patted my face again. “Take advice from an old lady,” she said. “Whatever is keeping you from going after her and making her yours? Move that damn obstacle aside. Nobody wants to be alone.” She went someplace else, someplace far away; moments of regret in her own life maybe. She shook her head and smiled. “I promise you…the sex will be well worth it. You will wonder why you waited so long.” She wobbled closer to vehicle and collapsed into the passenger seat, adding, “Yea, you can’t snuggle up with work.”
I helped move her swollen ankles from the outside to the floor board. It was always an ordeal: getting her in and out of the car.
“Close that damn door, Margret Ann,” the woman driving spat. “Leave the poor guy alone and stop drooling all over him! He ain’t interested in your crusty shit.”
“Would you hold your horses a second? I’m visi-tat-ing.”
“You’re not visiting anything. You are nosey. That’s what you are. A nosey old woman with a Rated-R way of thinkin’.”
“Ah. Bite my left titty, Maureen.”
“I would if it hadn’t already slid down the mountain and got lost. You are wastin’ my gas.”
“Well, you’re wastin’ my life! Now hush it.” Ms. Macintosh held out a hand to keep me from shutting the door. She stared up at me while unclasping the cross necklace she wore every Sunday. “Hold out your hand,” she told me. She curled the Sterling silver chain in the palm of my hand. “You take this and keep it.”
“No. I can’t.” I tried to give it back.
“That job you do... it’s dangerous.” Closing my fingers around the cross she squeezed my hand and said, “It will keep you safe. You find this woman and you show her what kind of man you really are.”
Ms. Macintosh died nine weeks later.
She had already been dead for two days…when Maureen showed up on Sunday to take her to church.
***
Hands on my hips, I shook my head in disgust at the most worthless St. Bernard ever sprawled out on top of my bed. He didn’t seem to care that the covers were unmade from last night. Hell, who was I kidding, I never made my bed. There was no point to it when you were just going to get right back in it. “Comfy?” I asked him.
His eyes slowly met mine. He didn’t bother with lifting his head or wagging his tail.
“Dumb dog. I should have left you at the shelter. You’d be in doggie heaven by now…instead of slobbering and shedding all over where I sleep.” Crouching I screwed the lid off the bottled water and filled up the metal bowl by the door. “Don’t bother getting up.”
Just so you know, I googled Saint Bernard’s. Turns out they do best in a large fenced in yard or on some land—not in an apartment overlooking the city. Yeah, I should have googled them before I brought his lazy ass home. I had no idea he was going to rebel since he doesn’t have any furry little squirrels to chase.
The Gentle Giant: He slept. He shit. He drooled. He farted. The dog was absolutely no company. I had to lean in just to check to see if the bastard was still breathing. His brown eyes were trained on me and I swear he hadn’t blinked for the past five minutes.
His name was City Slicker. I felt it was appropriate although he never came when I called. “Slick,” I said in a commanding voice. “Time to go potty.” I jabbed a finger in the direction of the open French doors leading to the main part of the apartment. Slick let out an exasperated sigh while I went into a coughing fit. “I do not feel up to your shit,” I told him. “Now, come on.” I waved his leash.” No movement. “I should’ve brought home a German Shepherd.”
Finally, I brought Slick back to life and took him out to pee.
Then I went to rent a movie out of Redbox…
CHAPTER TWELVE
Abandonment
“I want you to find my daughter,” Mr. Cruz told me. The man had called my cell phone, which was weird. I asked him, “How did you get my number?”
“More soda?” Mr. Cruz gestured at the glass in my hand while pushing up out of his recliner. If I had to guess I would say he was mid-fifties. He was an average height man with a headful of dark hair that was beginning to show his age; silver hairs sneaking in. I imagined him plucking each and every gray hair hoping he could stay ahead of it. He seemed like a vain man; his young wife pretty fluttering about, offering me freshly baked cake and a smile.
“I’m fine,” I told him, holding up a hand. “Thank you.”
Mr. Cruz lowered back into the recliner and noticed where my eyes were: on the black telescope setting over by a double window. “I’m an Astrobiologist,” he explained. “It’s a professional one. A real beauty. Would you like to take a look?”
I shook my head at his eagerness and checked the time on my cell phone. “It’s okay. I have to be at work by five. You didn’t say how you got my number?”
“A mutual acquaintance passed your number along to me. He knows how desperate I am. I’d rather not give his name. He went out on a limb for me. He said he doubted you would have the time, but maybe—you understand I had to try?”
I set the empty glass on the end table and leaned forward, elbows on my knees, my hands clasped. “I’m sorry, Mr. Cruz, but this is not what I do. I don’t track people down.” The young wife snuck in clearing away my empty glass. I half expected her to fluff the pillow behind my back too. It was distracting, the way she stared and smile. I kept my eyes focused on Mr. Cruz, adding, “That’s not my job description.”
“I’m going to be honest with you,” he said, slowly rubbing the arms of his chair, his blue-gray eyes locked with mine. “I have not been the best father in the world,” he said.
“Still—”
“It’s taken me many years and two marriages to come even close to working my shit out.”
“That’s good. That you’ve worked it all out, but still, I’m sorry I can’t help you. I’m right in the middle of—.”
He interrupted, “You want to be a professional Diver. I was told. It takes up most of your time. That, and work. I do understand, but I had to try.” He leaned forward, staring hard into my eyes, “What’s the job description of a Diver, Mr. Bentley? Will the job description not include diving for missing people thought to have drowned? Presumed dead? Searches? Would this not be great experience for that such a thing?”
The man was persistent. I had to give him that. I felt sorry for him. It had to crush a man; the loss of a daughter. But my plate was full. “I’m sorry,” I told him standing.
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“If you happen to change your mind…,” he stood and handed me his business card, “…will you call that bottom number? Day or night it doesn’t matter. I just want her back.”
Shit. The man’s eyes held tears. It was a real struggle to make my way selfishly toward the front door. I threw up a hand to his overly-polite wife as she padded through. “Thank you for the soda, Mrs. Cruz.”
“Come back.”
“I will,” I lied.
I had almost made it safely out to the door, my hand was already on the knob when I made the mistake of pausing. A piano set cater-cornered to the left. A beautiful cherry one. On it set a cluster of at least twenty framed 5 by 10’s: I went to the piano and picked one of the photos up and stared at the young girl. Mr. Cruz’s daughter. The photograph gave the girl a face. She had inquisitive green eyes and straight, dirty-blond hair.
“Cute girl,” I said and then cringed. Was that proper? Telling a man that believed his daughter has been drawn into the world of sex trafficking that his daughter was cute. “I’m sorry.” I laid a hand over my heart. “I feel your pain.” I meant it. If I ever had a daughter I would do anything to protect her.
“This is her last dance recital…it’s the most recent,” he told me, swapping the photo in my hand for another. His face was lit with admiration and pride. It was obvious he loved his daughter very much. It would be great if all fathers were more like him. It would be great if mine was more like him.
I gave Mr. Cruz a sideways glance, asking, “How old is she?”
“Thirteen.”
My gut tightened. I set the frame back in its place. Pinched the spot on the bridge of my nose where the headaches always began. “I’ll ask around,” I told him. “I can’t promise anything, but I will try to find someone to help you.”
He clamped a stern hand on my shoulder and squeezed. “Thank you.”
The front door swung open and the girl in the photographs ran to her father, wrapping her arms around his mid-section. “I made an A on the test.”
