The Matchmaker's Medium

by Laurel King

  “What do we do now, Chris?” I asked him.

  He looked over at me like I was just invented. “Huh?”

  “We have to tell somebody,” I said.

  “Okay. Who?” he asked, looking at me with dead eyes. “Who’s gonna believe we just saw a dead kid in my scout leader’s shed?”

  “I—I dunno, Chris, but we have to tell somebody. We can’t just let the kid stay there.”

  “Was that—did the dead kid look like your invisible kid?”

  I didn’t answer. Just nodded my head.

  He thought about that for a second, then tilted his head down, chin touching his chest.

  “Okay,” he said, “let’s call Chief Bennett.”

  My eyes got really big, when I thought about the last time I saw Chief Bennett. “No way, Chris! He’ll never believe me! Mom told him I was a liar back in Kindergarten when I saw Isabella in the bathroom!”

  “Crap, I forgot all about that,” he said. Then he lifted his head and looked at me really funny, like he just saw me for the first time in his life. “Can you see ghosts, Stinky?”

  I lowered my head and nodded, tears filling my eyes.

  “No way,” he whispered, shocked. We sat like that for a while, him quiet, me crying. Then, “Okay, we’ll call Chief Bennett, but we won’t say who it is.”

  He reached his hand out to me, tilted his head a little, and cracked a half-smile. “C’mon, Stinky, stop bein’ such a cry baby.”

  I took his hand and he pulled me to my feet, real quick, like he always did. He pulled the door open, and led me down the stairs, out the front door, and into the garage, where dad’s “private line” was.

  He pulled the grease-stained phone off its wall cradle, pushed “0” for operator, and waited.

  “Don’t worry, Amber, I’ll keep your secret,” he said, then asked the operator for the number to the police station.

  Chapter Eight

  “Wow, that’s some story, Amber,” Esteban said.

  “I know, it’s insane, right?” I asked, feeling more self-conscious than I wanted to admit.

  “No, not insane, just—unreal, I guess. I mean, you really must have some kind of serious connection with ghosts, to keep seeing all these dead kids.”

  “Well, I think I saw them because they were around my age. I don’t know for sure, but now that I’m a grown woman, I get the sense that older ghosts wouldn’t come to me when I was that young because there wasn’t really much I could do for them. You know, to fix whatever situation they had going on at the time.”

  “I guess that makes sense,” he said, rising slowly from the couch. I was still sitting in the recliner, tilted back a ways, trying to look comfortable but not quite pulling it off, somehow.

  “Can I get you anything?” he asked, standing just in front of my feet, kicked up on the foot rest.

  “Um, I guess some sweet tea, if you have any.”

  He laughed, “We’re in the south; of course I have sweet tea. That’s like being in Puerto Rico and asking if someone has rum in the cupboard.” He laughed again, a rich, full-sounding ha-ha-ha! She hated to admit it, but she was really starting to like the sound of his laugh.

  I decided to sit up, instead of half-laying there on the recliner like some awkward couch potato in the middle of his living room. Hearing him clink, clank and bang in the kitchen, I figured it was safe to move. Struggling to sit up, I flopped and squirmed, but ended up doing nothing more than flailing my arms and legs, trying to grab for the handle at the side of the chair, finding nothing.

  “It’s on the inside,” he said, his deep voice rumbling just behind me, as he slid his hand down the outside of my thigh. I thought my heart would literally explode when his hand met my skin, electric shockwaves of desire shooting up and down my body, my groin throbbing in anticipation.

  He pulled his hand upwards, the chair righting itself as I heard a metallic clunk!

  “There you go; good as new.”

  I turned to look up at him, this tall, shining, golden drink of sexual maleness, as he met me with his own lustful gaze, the glasses of sweet tea in his hands suddenly forgotten. He leaned down, hands with tea glasses out to the sides like he was doing a very fancy curtsy for the queen, and kissed me. His breath was sweet, tasting of sugar and lemon-flavored tea, his lips slightly cold from the ice. I shivered with pleasure as he ran his tongue over my bottom lip, then softly plunged his tongue in to find mine. I responded with a quiet moan, powerless to keep it from escaping, my body moving closer to feel his touch.

  He fumbled the glasses onto the coffee table, refusing to break the connection, some ice tinkling onto the floor as it sloshed out. Finally freed of the glasses, he gently pulled me out of the chair, taking me in his arms as he explored my face, neck, and collarbone with his lips. I could hear his breath quicken, smell his cologne and soap on freshly-shaved skin, as he pulled me over to the couch. Slowly, he lowered me onto the soft fabric, his powerful arms and hands stopping her just above the surface, pressing his body onto mine as I sank into the cushions.

  He pushed his hands under me until his arms were encircling my body, as I reached up and touched his shoulders, chest, back, pulling at his clothes, trying to free him from the material. He obliged, slipping his head down, so the shirt would slide free of his head. I tossed the shirt to the floor, and stared at his body: a newly-exposed, soft layer of dark, curly chest hair over powerfully-toned muscles, earned during thousands of hours working with wrenches and heavy engine parts.

  “You’re beautiful,” I said, my amber eyes wide and shining. He responded with a deep, passionate kiss, cupping my face in one hand as he slid the other one under my blouse. I felt my heart skip, felt a pleasant pounding in my neck, as blood rushed to more sensitive spots. He ran his fingers through my hair, then unbuttoned my blouse with his free hand, still kissing and licking me, dipping his head to my cleavage and lightly darting his tongue in and out.

  I sat up slightly, reaching behind me with one hand, popping my bra strap apart in one liquid movement, releasing my breasts for him. He gasped, an automatic response, his lips moist as he bent to take my nipples in his mouth, one by one. I moaned, pulling his head closer, as he ran his tongue over the sensitive skin, teasing with his teeth.

  Finally, he reached for my pants, and I scrambled to undo his belt. Suddenly, he was picking me up—like I weighed nothing—carrying me down the hall, as he quickly tore at a condom wrapper with his teeth, pulled out the slippery rubber circle and put it on, before we even made it to the bedroom. Just before he gently slid me to the bed, he slid himself inside of me, rock hard to my warm softness, and I felt the comforting memory of thoughtless physical ecstasy envelope me in its forgiving embrace.

  * * * *

  “Okay, confess, where did you learn that nifty trick with the condom wrapper?” I asked, trailing a finger down the middle of his soft-fur chest hairs.

  “Hmm?” he asked, in fake-confusion.

  I smacked him lightly on his chest, “You know what I mean, you big faker. Which saucy coed taught you that in college?”

  “Ha. No college, mechanics’ school. And the sauciest classmate there was this big, fat hairy guy who always had Big Mac sauce stuck on his beard.”

  “Eww,” I said, scrunching my nose in disgust, “thanks for the terrifying visual.”

  “Trust me, seeing it is much worse.”

  “Okay, so where, then?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  “Try me.”

  He looked at me in mock disappointment, shaking his head. “All right. You asked for it. I learned it from my cousin, Raul.”

  I pushed back from him in shock, pulling the sheet over my naked breasts on the way.

  “What the hell?” I said, trying to swim backwards on the mattress.

  Laughing, he said, “I told you—and it’s not what you think.”

  “Well, thank God for that!” I said, still a little freaked out by the thought of Esteban and h
is cousin doing…oh, never mind, for God’s sake.

  “He told me his trick for getting a condom on without the chick having a chance to stop it. He learned it from his dad, my uncle. We’re pretty damn fertile, the men in our family. So, it’s a good trick to know to protect against any women with, let’s say, ‘other motives’ in mind.”

  “Hmm. Good to know. So, note to self: remember to take my birth control pill and don’t be offended by male cousins teaching my lover superfast, sneaky ways to put on condoms.”

  Chuckling again, he slid his feet off the bed, completely naked and unconcerned about it. Well, look at him for Christ’s sake, no wonder—he’s gorgeous with clothes and without. Hell, he makes clothes seem like a ridiculous luxury for fat losers.

  “I guess that means you’re ready to take off running out of the house, as soon as I got to the bathroom?”

  It was my turn to chuckle. “Not if that means I have to run out of here naked. Unlike some people—no names mentioned—I feel a little self-conscious when I’m in the buff.”

  “Why do they call it that?”

  “What?”

  “Why do they say ‘in the buff’? I mean, that doesn’t even make sense, does it?”

  I started searching the floor for my clothes. What is it with sex and throwing clothes all over the place? Ah! There we go…

  Pulling my pants and underwear off the floor—I hated even thinking the word ‘panties’, it always seemed so weird, like ‘5-year-old girl dressed like a princess’ kind of weird—I was already regretting taking the top half of my clothes off in the living room. Great, now I just get to parade around here like some cocky lifeguard dude?

  “In the buff? Uh, I really don’t know why the hell they call it that. For some reason, I think it’s a color or something.”

  “Well, that makes sense. Maybe we should Google it.”

  “Ha-ha, very funny. Google it. Five years ago if someone said that to me, I’d be accusing them of sexual harassment.”

  “It does sound kind of nasty, doesn’t it?” he shook his head, chuckling. And, thank goodness, he was finally pulling clothes on, a pair of basketball shorts and a tank top. Yum, I thought, he even makes the nickname ‘wife beater’ seem like it’s almost okay, with his golden skin and soft, curly chest hair against that white cotton.

  Trying to distract myself, I crouched on the floor, like I was looking for a sock, hoping he would just go in the other room, already. When I heard the toilet flush, I breathed easier, clutching my clothes and scurrying back out to the living room.

  “So, are you gonna tell me about this Marcus guy, or what?” he called to me from the bathroom.

  Scrambling to refasten my bra before he came back out, I yelled, “Yeah, sure!” Finally managing to hook it, I turned the bra around on my chest, slid my arms in and repositioned my ‘girls’ back in the cups, moving my arms to make sure it felt right. Satisfied, I reached for my shirt, and heard, “Need some help?”

  Shit. How’d he get out here so fast?

  He slowly pulled the shirt from my hand, helping me ease my arms back into it, one at a time. Then he pulled the panels together, sliding each button into its respective hole, with his strong hands working just under my chin.

  “Thank you,” I said, feeling my pulse quicken again.

  “You’re very welcome,” he murmured, kissing me again. I felt my body go from barely-warm embers to raging inferno in just a few seconds. My skin was tingling, mind racing, as I remembered the feel of his muscled back under my hands, as he moved on top of me, in me. Finally, a few agonizingly sensual minutes later, he pulled back again, smoothing my shirt until it was flat.

  I cleared my throat, raked my fingers through my hair, and tucked my blouse into my pants as he picked up the tea glasses.

  “Whoops,” he said, looking at the little puddle on the floor. “I’ll get a towel. You still thirsty?”

  “Yeah,” I said, snatching one shoe off the floor, while visually searching for the other one. There! Under the recliner, where it all started…

  Chapter Nine

  It was a punishingly cold December in northern Virginia, almost a year since I met Jamal in that club on K Street, and six months since my divorce from Don was final. At first, he had acted like he was ready for some big, messy showdown—the new lawyer trying out his litigation skills, maybe—but in the end, he just signed the papers and gave me what I asked for.

  Not that I had asked for much, anyway. All I really wanted was the furniture, the paid-off car, and my name back. The rest he took with him: the overpriced electronics I didn’t want or even know how to work, the artwork I hated, the real china dish set he had inherited from his grandmother, and his life-size John Wayne dummy.

  That thing always creeped me out, standing in the living room with its fake hands planted on its fake hips, a fake smile under a big cowboy hat. I always hated westerns, and he thought they were the greatest thing to hit the silver screen. No wonder our marriage never worked. Some opposites just shouldn’t attract, I thought, slamming the door to my car as I rushed through the frigid air and hard-packed snow.

  It hadn’t dropped fresh powder in a week, so the snow I was crunching through in my huge mukluk boots was that gross kind of snow: dirty, ugly, and concrete-like, with all the moisture sucked out of it. Nothing uglier than dirty, old snow in the middle of the city.

  I unlocked my door, fumbling the keys a little and almost dropping them, when Jamal said, “Somebody’s here, foxy lady.” He had appeared out of nowhere, with no warning, yet again, nearly scaring me to death.

  “I told you to knock that off!” I whisper-yelled, looking around to see who was there. The parking lot of my crappy apartment complex was empty, as always. Some days I swore I was the only one who lived there, and all the other cars and porch junk of the 100-plus apartments around me was just part of some elaborate movie set, tended by hundreds of invisible people, who changed things just a little now and then so it would be more realistic.

  “He ain’t right here, but he’s here.”

  “Ugh. Like that’s not cryptic, Jamal.” I growled a little, as I pushed against the door and forced it open. It tended to stick in the winter, with the difference between the warmth inside her apartment and the almost-zero temperature outside. Yet one more annoying thing to call the maintenance line about, leaving a message on some ancient machine that—based upon the arrival of exactly no one to fix any of my stuff—was checked all of never.

  “Whatever. Just gimme a break, would ya? I need to get out of these clothes, I feel like I’m suffocating in all this wool—“

  “Excuse me?”

  I snapped around, startled by the sound of the not-Jamal voice. It came from a very young-looking black guy, his ebony skin shining with moisture, under a ridiculous-looking ski hat with multi-colored points all over it, like a jester’s hat. Completing the ensemble was a poufy navy down-feather winter coat, a Georgetown bull dog emblazoned on it, which made him look like he was about 6 foot 70 and weighed at least 1,100 pounds.

  “Uh, yes? Can I help you with—“

  “One of my friends gave me your number, but I left a bunch of messages and you never called back. So I asked him for your address, and he finally coughed it up, so here I am.”

  “I see. Here you are.”

  Jamal walked around in front of the guy, checking him out and sizing him up, like he either wanted fight him or try on his clothes. I waved my hand at him, like I was telling the leader of the band, That’s enough music! Stop playing!

  “Look, lady, I’m not gonna try anything funny, I need your help. My little brother’s missing.”

  Aw, crap. Not another one.

  “Come in, sorry about my manners, it’s been a crappy day.”

  “Well, no offense, but I don’t think your day could be worse than mine.”

  I shuffled him in, shoved the warped door closed behind him, and started peeling my own layers off. “You’re right, I’m sorry. Again.”

>   “Okay.”

  I yanked my scarf, gloves, hat, and coat off, then plopped down on the couch for my daily struggle with the mukluks. I had bought them in Alaska one summer, when Don and I went on one of our ‘discover the world’ trips. What a sad, pathetic joke that turned out to be.

  Finally freed of the boots, I dumped them over by the front door, turning on a small space heater I kept nearby, so the boots and winter gear would actually dry instead of just stink up the place.

  “Can I take your stuff?” I asked, motioning to his hat and coat.

  “Oh, yeah,” he said, removing his coat to reveal the truth: it wasn’t the coat that made him look like a small giant. It was him.

  “Do you play football or something?” I asked absentmindedly, as I tried to figure out where to hang his Shaquille-O’Neal-worthy monstrosity.

  “Yeah. Offensive line. Who’s your team?”

  “Oh, um, the bulldogs, like you,” I said, feeling rather proud of myself for figuring out who his favorite team was.

  He laughed, a booming thunderous sound, and clutched his stomach. In my peripheral vision, I could see Jamal literally rolling on the floor, barely making any sounds because he was laughing so hard.

  “What?” I looked back and forth from Jamal to this gigantic kid, completely confused.

  “You really—you really don’t know?” still laughing so hard that tears were shining in his eyes.

  “Know what?”

  After a few minutes, the kid wiped his face and took a few deep breaths, reigning the laughter in so it was just a few hiccups and snorts.

  “They’re the Georgetown Hoyas not the bulldogs. And their football team sucks. Just so ya know.” He pulled his hat off, handing it to me, with a little smirk on his face.

  “Oh, whatever,” I said, smiling in spite of myself. At least I got the giant kid-man to laugh. Maybe now he won’t break me in half and throw me around like a puppet. Ha-ha.