The Stories We Whisper at Night

by Sky Corgan

  Tuesday is my day off this week, and I decide to stop by Delilah's apartment unannounced that afternoon. Maybe if Marcy isn't there, I'll be able to get more out of her. When I visited last time, she seemed rigid, like she was being watched.

  When I knock on the door though, it's Marcy who answers. This time she's dressed down in a pair of jeans and a white turtleneck. Her makeup is natural tones. She's transformed from the goddess I saw the other night into a normal girl. It's amazing what makeup and tight clothing can do for a woman. Not that she's ugly without them. Just different.

  “Where's Delilah?” I peek around her, scanning the small apartment for any sign of my sister.

  “Nice to see you too, stud.” She arches an eyebrow at me. “Are you always this rude?”

  Her comment catches me off guard. I'm admittedly a bit rough around the edges. Always have been, given how I grew up. “I'm straightforward, not rude,” I correct her, brushing past her to let myself in.

  “She's not here.” Marcy turns to me and puts her hands on her hips. Her tone is clipped, as if I've interrupted her in the middle of something.

  “Then it looks like I wasted my gas.” I give the apartment a quick once-over. It's meagerly decorated. Most of the furniture is from a second-hand store I worked at a few years ago. I furnished both of our apartments because of the discount my boss gave me. That seems like a lifetime ago, when we were both setting out on our own. Leaving the nest, they call it.

  “It doesn't have to be a waste of gas,” Marcy purrs. How she got so close to me, I'll never know. One minute she was by the door, and the next she's right beside me. Quiet as a cat, this one is. And just as dangerous, it would seem. The way she looks at me…

  “Tell me about this job you got my sister.” I take a seat on the sofa, staring blankly at the little television set propped up on a box on the opposite side of the room. The rabbit ears are bent in all different directions. I wonder if it even works anymore.

  She slides onto the sofa next to me and reclines back, stretching her body out as if to put it on display. “What do you want to know?”

  “What kind of work is it?”

  “It's in the entertainment industry.” She grins facetiously. My eyes zero in on her lips. They're perfect. Soft and pink and made for kissing.

  “The entertainment industry,” I repeat. The first thing that comes to mind is stripper. That makes more sense. It doesn't explain why they were all dressed up though.

  “Mm-hmm.” She pulls herself up until she's sitting right beside me. I can feel her thigh pressing against mine.

  “So you're strippers.”

  “Something like that. And what does a big muscular man like you do for a living?” She traces my biceps with a slender finger. Her nail drags across the sleeve of my shirt. “I bet you work with your hands.”

  “I'm a bouncer.” It's not something I'm especially proud of, but I suppose that it does sound impressive. Women like powerful men.

  “Oh, a bouncer.” She sounds genuinely pleased. Every word out of her mouth feeds my ego… and something else.

  “What time does Delilah get off work?” I try to redirect her attention, and mine. Delilah already said that Marcy is off-limits to me. She'd get pissed if I slept with her new roommate. That might complicate things between them.

  “I don't know. You're more than welcome to stay and keep me company until she does though.” Marcy withdraws with a pout, leaning back against the sofa again. I silently thank God that she's not touching me anymore. Staying is a very bad idea.

  “I best not.” I stand, knowing if I don't leave soon, I won't be able to stop myself. Her body language is screaming for it, and the longer I look at her, the more my resistance breaks down.

  “Are you sure you can't stay?” She lazily gazes up at me. The seductive spell is broken. Our bodies are no longer touching. I'm still aroused beyond belief, but it's controllable.

  “Nah. I have stuff to do.” I always have stuff to do. Between work and the gym, there never seems to be enough time to get everything done. Fitting in these visits puts a strain on things, but I feel like it's necessary until I'm sure that Delilah is okay.

  I stand and head for the door. Marcy doesn't even move. Her eyes follow me though. I cast a glance over my shoulder. “You should lock the door when I leave. This isn't the best neighborhood.”

  “Thanks for telling me, stud.” There's a hint of genuine gratitude in her voice. I don't know how to take it, so I just walk out.

  A woman is sobbing down below. It's not uncommon to hear something like that in an apartment complex, so I ignore it until I start heading down the stairs and meet the woman coming up them. It's Delilah, dolled up in another expensive-looking dress. Makeup is running down her face. Her hair has a strange unkempt look to it. The pieces are starting to fit together. Whatever she's doing probably does involve sex. There's no other explanation for why she looks so nice but also so disheveled at the same time.

  When our eyes meet, she seems absolutely mortified. She didn't expect to see me here. She doesn't want to see me; that's plain in her expression. She tries to brush past me, wrapping her arms around herself protectively as if I'm the villain who made her cry.

  “Delilah.” I turn to follow her.

  “Not now, Knox.” She holds her hand out to me as she continues up the stairs, telling me to stay back.

  When we reach the top, I grab her wrist, so she can't disappear inside her apartment. This is the same Delilah who called me the other night. The one who is devastated. And I want to know what's making her act this way.

  “What happened?” My voice is full of concern and demand. She's not all right. No amount of lying will make me believe otherwise.

  “It was just a hard day.” She tries to pull away from me, but I won't let go.

  “This looks like more than a hard day to me.”

  “Please, Knox.” She pivots on six-inch stilettos and loses her balance. Her shoulder slams against the wall to her apartment. I don't have time to catch her, but as soon as her arm makes impact, I pull her to me, holding onto both of her shoulders to keep her balanced.

  “I come here and find you like this, and you just expect me to let it go?” It's taking everything in me to keep my frustration at bay. I need to know what's going on so I can help her fix it. She's obviously gotten herself into a mess.

  “I can't tonight.” She shakes her head, her tears falling freely. She's crumbling to pieces in my grasp, and there's nothing I can do about it.

  “Tomorrow then. I'll come over and take you out to breakfast, and we're going to talk about what's going on. Do you understand?” I give her a gentle shake to draw her eyes up to mine.

  The sobs die down. For a moment, she just stands there, collecting herself. I let her go, and she wipes away the tears with the back of her arm. Then she nods. “Okay. Tomorrow. Breakfast. We'll talk then.”

  “No more lies.” I point my finger at her, showing her I'm serious.

  “No more lies,” she replies weakly.

  Sometimes the truth is so much worse though.

  ***

  I pick her up at eight o'clock in the morning. It won't kill me to miss the gym for one day. This is more important. Whatever has her so upset has to be bad, and I want to know what it is.

  “Where's Marcy?” I ask when Delilah opens the door to her apartment and the blonde bombshell isn't there.

  “She's at work,” Delilah replies timidly, closing the door behind herself.

  “I thought you girls only worked at night.” I lead the way downstairs to my truck and open the door for her to get inside.

  “She went in late last night and pulled an all-nighter.” Delilah gazes absentmindedly at the complex for a moment before climbing up into my truck. It's obvious this conversation has been weighing on her. The silence that plagues us all the way to the diner is another sign of that.

  When we get to the diner, Delilah has the waitress seat us away from everyone. You'd think she was
about to tell me some federal secret, by the way that she's acting. Like her life will be in danger.

  I wait until the waitress has taken our drink order before I start talking. “So, are you finally going to tell me what's going on?”

  Delilah's eyes fall to the red and white checkered pattern on the table. She traces one of the squares with a manicured fingernail, but she doesn't seem to be looking at it. It's like she's looking through it. “I really don't know how to say it. You're going to get angry.”

  “Is that why you haven't told me yet, because you were afraid I'd get angry?” If anything, I'm angry because she's dragged this on for so long. How hard is it to say a few words?

  “That and more. You won't understand.” She shakes her head slowly.

  “Well, I definitely won't understand if you never tell me.” I lean back in the booth, trying my best to be patient. She really tries my nerves sometimes. The frustrated part of me wants to yell at her to get on with it already. That will only cause her to recoil though. I need to treat this delicately.

  She takes a deep breath, and on the exhale, finally says what she's been hiding from me for over a week now. “I'm a call girl.”

  I press my lips together as I nod. I had expected something of the sort. I'm even a little surprised at myself that I'm not ticked off. Perhaps it's because I know what it's like to be so desperate to get ahead that I'd do unsavory things. “You're a hooker,” I repeat, letting the words sink in.

  “No. Not a hooker. A call girl,” she corrects me.

  “What's the difference?” They both sell their bodies for sex. They both have pimps.

  “Hookers sleep with anyone. Call girls only have high-end clients. We get paid better.”

  “So you're an expensive hooker.” My lips quirk into a smirk. She doesn't find it funny though. I was hoping my lighthearted mood would make her loosen up a bit. Not the case.

  “It's not easy.” She looks away from me, keeping a serious tone.

  “No. I don't imagine it would be.” I straighten myself in my seat as the waitress comes to bring us our coffees. She slides them in front of us, takes our order, and promptly retreats to the kitchen. I turn my mug in my hand, trying to wrap my head around the idea of my sister as a hooker. It just doesn't compute. “Are you in some kind of financial trouble?” I ask finally. It's a sensitive question. When you're poor, you're always in some kind of financial trouble.

  “No. I just want a better life, and this is my ticket to get it.” She pours some cream into her coffee and then fills it so full of sugar that the mug is almost overflowing.

  “At what cost?” Everything has a price. And this seems to be costing her what little bit of happiness she once had.

  She stares across the table at me blankly. “Do you know how hard it is for a woman without a college education to get anywhere in this world?”

  “Probably just as hard as it is for a man without a college education.” I shrug before taking a sip of coffee. The tantalizing aroma fills my nostrils and the liquid warms my insides.

  “It's a man's world out there, Knox. I don't have a whole lot of options. Not if I want a better life than what I have. And I do.” She picks up her cup and blows the steam off the top.

  “Listen.” I lean across the table, trying to get her attention. She looks at me finally. At me, not through me. “I understand that you gotta do what you gotta do. I'm not judging you. Okay? This is a dog-eat-dog world. The weak fail. The strong survive. We've all done stuff we haven't wanted to do in an attempt to get ahead. If this is what you think it's going to take, then who am I to say anything? It's your life. Your body. All I care about is that you're safe.

  “You're my sister. You're closer to me than anyone. I want you to be happy. And if you think that this will eventually lead to that, then I'll support you. I may not approve of it, but I'll still support you. All I want to know is that you're safe.”

  Her eyes are watering by the time I finish. I can't tell if that's what she wanted to hear or if she's still overwhelmed from whatever happened last night. She sets down her coffee and reaches across the table to take my hands in hers. Her fingers are shaking on top of mine. “Thank you, Knox. Thank you.”

  I gently pull away from her, breaking the sentimental moment. These kinds of things have always made me feel awkward. Thankfully, I can see the waitress approaching us from my peripheral vision. “Now quit your crying and let’s eat.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I resume my normal routine, a lot less worried about Delilah than I was before. She knows what she can handle and what she can't. If it gets to be too much for her, she'll step away. I have faith in her judgment.

  I still don't want to lose contact with her like we did before, so I do my best to fit in a phone call whenever I can. And I make it a point to come visit her on my days off.

  We both have this upcoming Wednesday off, so I drive to her apartment. The entire way there, I end up thinking about Marcy more than Delilah. She's so damn beautiful. If I had met her somewhere else, maybe something could have happened between us. That's unlikely though. She's a call girl. She gets paid to tease men and make them want her. I doubt she'd give out a freebie, and I definitely can't afford her. Wishful thinking, the same as always.

  I pull up in front of the complex and take my time climbing the steps. There's no urgency this time. It's just a visit. I'm not trying to pry any information out of Delilah. We'll hang out for about thirty minutes, and then I'll come back home and pick up on the chores I left behind.

  I knock on the door and am greeted by Marcy's beautiful face. She smiles sweetly at me, relaxing against the door frame like a painting of one of those exotic French models. She's definitely exotic, though she's not French. At least, I don't think she is. Hell if I know. All I know is that she's gorgeous, and as soon as I lay my eyes on her, I feel things that need to be stifled—quickly.

  She's in full makeup today. Blood-red lips. Smoky, sultry eyes. Her skin is like porcelain. I want so badly to touch it. She's dressed in a corset and a short skirt. It looks more like lingerie than something you'd wear on a date. The waist is slender and black. The bust is made of pink satin that matches the skirt. There must be some rule that half the girl's breasts have to be exposed at all times. My gaze dips down to her cleavage as if it's metal and my eyes are magnets. I can't help but look.

  “Hey, stud.” Her voice is heavily sensual. It does little to help me shake my body's need to be between her thighs.

  “Delilah.” All I can mutter is my sister's name. I'm too lost in the vision in front of me to think of anything beyond that.

  “She got called in at the last minute.” Marcy steps away from the door, allowing me inside. “She tried to call you, but I guess you'd already left.”

  I follow Marcy, my eyes falling to her ass. The dress hugs it perfectly. I can see the soft curve of her hip and the way it clings to her legs. It takes everything I have to draw my eyes back up to her face when she turns and takes a seat on the sofa. “I guess you're working tonight too, then.”

  “No.” She shakes her head. “My guy called and canceled. Go figure.”

  I close the door behind myself, wondering if it's all right for us to be alone like this. My urges are already starting to get the better of me, but I know I can't touch. I should probably not linger long. “Why didn't you take Delilah's guy then?”

  “He wanted a brunette. Not a blonde.” She twists a strand of hair between her fingers, tugging on it before allowing it to bounce back into place. Then she pats the spot on the sofa next to her. “Sit.”

  I do as I'm told, my blood heating up. I'm almost scared to look at her. The air is filled with silence and sexual tension. My mind is going wild, wondering if she's purposely teasing me or if it would be all right to advance on her.

  “So what do you have planned for the rest of the night?” I ask, struggling to make conversation.

  “Just sitting here alone, unless you want to keep me company.” Her perfect
lips dip into a pout, anticipating my rejection.

  I want to stay, but I know that I have to go. If I don't leave… My eyes focus on her lips, and I hunger to kiss them. What would she do if I tried?

  “You're a call girl too?” It's a dumb question. I know the answer.

  “Mm-hmm.” She's not ashamed at all. “Does that bother you?” She moves closer to me on the sofa. Our thighs are touching now, the same as last time. The stirring inside of me is growing stronger. We're crossing into dangerous territory. It's only a matter of time before I lose control. Still, I can't force myself to leave her.

  “No. It doesn't bother me.” I shake my head, trying to clear away all the fantasies playing through it. “So, what do you do as a call girl?” There's a hint of flirtatiousness to my tone. I want to know. I want to hear about all the dirty things she does to make money. I want to imagine myself doing them to her. If I can't have her, then at least I can think about it when I'm pleasuring myself later.

  “I could show you.” She places her hand on my leg and slides it up to my crotch. It's all the invitation I need.

  “I'd like that,” I whisper as I lean in to kiss her. My hand caresses her cheek before our lips meet. Her mouth moves with mine in heated fervor. Our tongues lap at each other, tasting and feeling.

  She leans into my touch as I cup her full breasts, and a soft moan reverberates from her throat to mine. I give her chest a gentle squeeze, and her hand moves from my thigh to the thickness of my pants. My cock throbs, yearning to be released from its confinement.

  “Someone wants to come out and play,” she purrs as she pulls away from my mouth. Part of me wants to lean back and let her have at me, another part of me can't stop touching her.

  “You're breathtaking.” My eyes roam up and down her body. It's taking everything in me to hold back my sexual aggression. But a woman like this is meant to be savored. Every part of her was made for my enjoyment, and I plan to enjoy her fully.