One And Done

by Cynthia Sax

  “True.” She tosses the ends of her red hair flirtatiously back and that’s when I know.

  Smoke has been inside her.

  They’ve had sex.

  I study this woman, one of my many predecessors. She isn’t classically beautiful. She’s tall, with broad swimmer shoulders, an athletic build, freckled skin, a tiny chip in one of her front teeth. But she has a sensual appeal to her, an eye-catching confidence. She’s also thin.

  And, judging by where she works, she’s more sexually experienced than I am.

  “This is Jenella.” Smoke places his right palm on the small of my back, this possessive act comforting me. She now knows I’m with him.

  Neither the saleswoman nor I say anything. An awkward silence falls between us. Smoke doesn’t complete the introductions, doesn’t tell me her name.

  Seconds pass and I realize why.

  He doesn’t know it.

  This woman was a nameless fast fuck. She was a warm body he once found comfort in. I doubt she’s seen his scars or knows the story behind them or has ever touched his heart, his soul.

  My confidence and happiness returns.

  “Hi.” I wave at the saleswoman. “I have no idea what I need.”

  “You’re with Smoke.” She abandons her cash-register island and moves toward us. “What more is required?”

  “True.” I laugh. “He’s good, isn’t he?” I directly address their past.

  “Yes, he is.” The woman’s smile widens. “I like you, Jenella, and I’m happy for Smoke. He deserves love.”

  Smoke takes a step backward. “Fuck no. I’m not in love with—”

  “He does deserve love and I hope one day he finds it. With someone else.” I stop my player’s impending meltdown. “He’s helping me with a problem, which is why we’re here.” This is a sex shop. She’ll know what type of problem I have.

  “Smoke helped me through a rough time also,” the saleswoman confides, concentrating on me, and not on the man hyperventilating by my side. “My boyfriend dumped me for a coworker, a male coworker.”

  Yikes. I thought my breakup with Edward was harsh.

  ***

  Many minutes later, I know a lot about the saleswoman, about her relationships, her favorite sex toys and positions, her homeopathic cure for menstrual cramps.

  “I still don’t know her name,” I whisper to Smoke.

  “Does it matter?” He shrugs, unconcerned. “She’s clearly delusional. I don’t do love. I fuck it and chuck it.” He remains hung up on this point.

  “Good because I’m in love with Edward.” This isn’t the truth. I was in love with the old Edward, with my Steady Eddy, not with the ethically challenged, lying, cheating Edward I’ve recently been introduced to. But this lie seems to set the spooked man by my side at ease. “And her name matters because I like her.”

  She’s helping a giggling trio of women plan a bachelorette party. We’re hiding in a corner of the store, surrounded by shelves.

  “Not many women would befriend a man’s previous fuck.” Smoke gazes at me, as though he’s trying to figure me out.

  “Those women must not be with a man who has slept with most of the city.” I enlisted his help because of his sexual experience. I won’t judge him for it. “You did a good thing, cheering her up, restoring her confidence the way you did.”

  “I fucked her. That’s all I did.” He hands me a long slim dildo. “This is for your ass.”

  “We already have four butt plugs.” I place it into my basket. It’s loaded down with sex toys. “How many more things are we putting in my ass?”

  “You need training to take my cock.”

  “This would do the trick.” I lift the biggest vibrator I’ve ever seen in my life. “I could take an elephant after this.”

  His lips twitch, the first hint of a real smile he’s given me since the scarred-back incident. “Put that back.”

  I do as he says, my attention caught by the wall of porno covers. “Hmmm…” One well-equipped man has booster cables attached to his balls. “Is this what happened to you?” I’m only half teasing.

  “No.” Smoke selects a book from a nearby shelf and places it in my basket. “We’ll use this book for random challenges. You’ll pick a page number blindly and we’ll do it.”

  “One thousand days of sex,” I read the title. “That can’t be one thousand days of different sex. There aren’t that many combinations.”

  He looks at me, his expression one of disbelief. “There are three more books in the series.”

  I glance at the shelf. Shit. He’s right. There’s an expert edition, a BDSM edition, and a multiple partner edition. There are thousands of variations to try and I’ve been having sex the same way over and over.

  This is why Edward became bored with me.

  Not that he said anything during our twice-a-week encounters. Or suggested anything different. He allowed me, a woman with little experience, to drive our sex life.

  Now, I’m thirty and starting from zero, learning this important relationship skill from Smoke. “I’ll never master everything.”

  “Mastering everything is impossible and unnecessary.” Smoke tosses a gray silk blindfold into the basket. “A little variety in a relationship is good. Too much variety is tiring. Or so I hear.”

  “You don’t know because you’ve never had a relationship. You’ve never had sex with the same woman twice.” Doesn’t he find that exhausting?

  “Yeah.”

  ***

  Shopping for sex toys builds a hunger. After purchasing half the store and loading our loot into the car, we head to a nearby food truck and munch on overcooked and slightly crunchy hot dogs.

  The sun shines on our shoulders. Women say ‘hi’ to Smoke. He calls them gorgeous, makes them giggle and blush with his outrageous comments. They walk away happier than they were.

  Smoke’s attention always returns to me.

  “Does it ever become awkward being a man whore?” I tease.

  “Does it ever become awkward having such magnificent tits?” He piles more pickles on his already condiment-loaded hot dog. “It’s who I am.”

  “It’s part of who you are.” I correct. He’s much more than his vast sexual history. “And yes, magnificent tits can be a burden. It’s difficult to find clothes that fit. I have wardrobe malfunctions weekly, usually when my prissy boss is nearby. Men see my fantastic rack and assume I’m a bims.”

  “You can be a bims at times.” Smoke grins.

  “Thanks.” I laugh.

  We eat our not-so-healthy dinner, standing the width of another person apart.

  Cars and other vehicles creep slowly past us. The occupants look out the windows, gawking at the trendy little shops and the unusual characters.

  A group of tattooed, heavily pierced teenagers walk around the food cart. A bearded yet bald artist displays brightly colored paintings completed in mere minutes with his paint gun, his works spread out on the sidewalk.

  “It can be lonely.” Smoke’s words are barely audible over the rumble of traffic. “Being a player.”

  I step closer to him and brush my shoulder against his, silently communicating that I’m here. He isn’t alone any longer. “Can it be?”

  “Yeah.”

  He doesn’t say anything more and I resist the urge to push. He’ll talk to me, tell me everything in time.

  Though I really want to know right now about the scars on his back.

  We finish our hot dogs. Smoke overtips the man. I slide my palm into his as we walk back to the car.

  Smoke folds his fingers over mine.

  Warmth spreads across my body. This is progress, a small win for me, for us.

  He helps me into his gorgeous car. We drive, heading in the direction of his club. I don’t know why we’re going there and I don’t ask. I look at him, at the creases around his eyes, the upward curl of his lips.

  I could gaze at him forever.

  Smoke brakes at a red light. A shiny apple-red Po
rsche rolls to a stop beside the Lambo. Azure calls these penis cars, due to their phallic shapes.

  It’s appropriate. The driver is a dick, revving his engine, challenging us to a race.

  Smoke ignores him.

  The light turns green. The Porsche shoots forward, almost colliding with a vehicle making a left-hand turn.

  “Oh my God.” I shake. “He’ll cause an accident.”

  “He’ll kill someone.” Smoke tightens his fingers around the steering wheel. “Fuck.” His face darkens. “You could be that someone.”

  His past emergencies weren’t people being hurt. Loved ones were killed.

  “It won’t be me, player,” I assure him. “I’m not dying anytime soon.”

  “You don’t know that. Fuck.” Smoke’s knuckles turn white. “What the hell am I doing?” He makes a u-turn at the next intersection. Tires squeal on pavement.

  He’s taking me home. “What the hell are you doing? There’s no need to end our date. I don’t have any plans.”

  “This isn’t a date. I don’t care about your lack of plans. And I don’t care about you.”

  Woofer uses that exact tone when he means the opposite—when he does care. I eye Smoke. Could he have feelings for me? Is this why he’s freaking out?

  He freaked out now, after seeing a near accident. He freaked out in the store, when the saleswoman mentioned love.

  Love and Smoke?

  I place my fingers over his.

  “Don’t.” He moves his hand.

  “Talk to me, Smoke.”

  “No.” He turns the Lambo onto my street.

  “Then don’t talk,” I relent. “Come inside. We can try out some of the sex toys.” I don’t wish to leave him, not yet, not like this.

  “I have to work.” Smoke parks in front of a fire hydrant, the illegal parking spot telling me he won’t be walking me to my door. “We’ll schedule an hour tomorrow.”

  We’ll schedule. That’s cold. “Only an hour?”

  “That should be sufficient time for a good fuck.” His voice is curt, businesslike, as though being with me is a task to complete, a chore.

  “Why are you being like this? What did I do wrong?” If I don’t figure out my mistakes, I’ll never have a relationship that lasts. “Is this about your scars? Because I won’t ask again.”

  “You’ll ask again.” Smoke’s lips twist. “And you won’t let up until you get an answer. You think this is something that it isn’t.”

  “What is it?” What is he talking about? I’m lost.

  “I don’t do relationships. I told you that from the start.” He stares straight ahead. “Yet you keep pushing, prodding, holding my hand, asking me personal questions.”

  Ahhh…this is about the scars. “You don’t answer those questions.”

  “You won’t like the answers.”

  “Maybe I will.” I forget sometimes that we haven’t known each other for very long. “I watch shows about serial killers, for entertainment. You have no idea what I will or won’t like.”

  Silence stretches.

  “Tell me.” I know he wants to. I feel this in my gut.

  “Fine.” The way Smoke says this tells me it isn’t fine at all. “You want to know about my scars? I’ll fuckin’ tell you.” His face grows scarily hard. “My parents died in a car accident when I was ten.”

  “That was the emergency.” He lost his parents, both of them.

  “Yeah, that was the fuckin’ emergency, the first of many. I was placed in a foster home. I wasn’t a good fuckin’ kid. Red, the foster dad, lost his temper and—”

  He swallows. Hard.

  Oh God. “He beat you.” That bastard beat a child.

  “With his belt. I ended up in the hospital. He went to jail. I spent time in the system, was placed again.”

  “Those parents didn’t whip you.” Please tell me I’m right.

  “They didn’t whip me but I couldn’t behave, and in the back of their minds, they were thinking exactly what you are.”

  “That the first foster dad should have been shot?” Who hurts a child?

  “No.” Lines appear between Smoke’s eyebrows. “They were thinking ‘What did I do to deserve the beating?’”

  “You were a child. There’s nothing you could do to deserve a beating.” I’m disgusted that anyone would think he was to blame.

  “That’s where you’re wrong.” Smoke’s expression turns even more grim. “I was a fuckin’ terror, Jenella. I broke windows, kicked in walls. Red wasn’t happy but he tolerated all of that shit.”

  “He should have. You were grieving for your parents.” I want to hold him but his pain is too raw for caresses. “What didn’t he tolerate?”

  “His wife, a sweet, soft-spoken lady, had a collection of rare Lladro figurines. It was her pride and joy, her one indulgence. They were locked in a room. One day, I broke the lock and smashed each one. One by one. It gave me pleasure to hear them break.”

  As he was breaking inside. I glance at the jagged pieces tattooed on his neck and my heart twists. “Which figurine did you break first?”

  He blinks once, twice, as though trying to decipher this question. “It doesn’t matter. I broke all of them.”

  “Which one was first, Smoke?” It matters to me.

  He glares out the window.

  I wait, wanting, needing to know the answer.

  “I broke the angel first, okay? Fuck.” He turns his head and glowers at me, his eyes bright with emotion. “She was wearing a blue dress and carried a pink heart and she looked so fuckin’ serene as though all of her troubles had disappeared. She didn’t care that she left her boy behind, that he had no one to love him.”

  I blink back tears. “So you smashed her.”

  “I threw that fuckin’ angel to the hardwood floor with everything I had, shattering her, and I stomped on the pieces, grinding them under the soles of my shoes until they turned to powder and it felt good. It felt damn good.”

  “Because she was hurting like you were.” I lay my head on Smoke’s arm. “You were no longer alone.”

  He shrugs me away from him. “Because I liked breaking things. I was a pint-sized psychopath.”

  He was a little boy, unable to contain his pain. “Were you sorry?”

  “That’s not the point.” Smoke is becoming frustrated with me, with my alternate, kinder, less judgmental interpretation of his past.

  “It’s important.” This I know, having watched the TV shows. “Psychopaths don’t feel remorse. You sound like you were more of a human equivalent of the Tasmanian Devil, that character from the cartoon, spinning around, destroying everything in your path.”

  “This is serious.”

  “I know.”

  “You don’t know.” Smoke releases a ragged breath. “I had to be stopped.”

  “With hugs and time and love, not with a beating.” I grasp his hand. He tries to pull away from me. I hold on tighter. “It wasn’t your fault.”

  He exhales again. “You don’t understand.”

  “I don’t understand the foster dad and what he did,” I admit. “But I understand your actions. You were grieving.”

  “If that’s the truth, then the grieving never stopped.” His voice raises, slicing through the quiet. “I grew worse with each placement, was returned to foster care faster.”

  “Adding to your pain.” Teaching him that relationships don’t last. I try to straighten, to look strong for him, but I can’t. My ass is stuck to the seat. “Those foster parents didn’t know what they were doing.”

  “Don’t ridicule my past, Jenella.” He’s angry now, really, really angry.

  I gaze at him, hurt by his accusation. “I would never do that.”

  “You are.” A tic pulses in his cheek. “It wasn’t the foster parents’ fault. They raised dozens of kids successfully before they got me. I’m damaged goods.”

  I’m damaged goods, not I was damaged goods. He still sees himself as that unwanted, misunderstood little bo
y. “Smoke, we’re all damaged goods.”

  “Do you smash everything you can get your hands on?”

  “I grieve in different ways.” Louder ways, ways that others think is as crazy.

  “You grieve?” He snorts. “Over what? Did you lose both of your parents?”

  “No, but—”

  “You didn’t. Don’t sit there and act like you know pain, like you know what I went through. I don’t need you to judge me.”

  “I’m not judging you. I understand—”

  “You don’t understand,” Smoke yells. “Fuck. I can’t talk about this with you.” He presses a button and my door opens. “You’re not fuckin’ listening to me.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “No, you’re not. Go and leave me in peace.” He waves his hand at the sidewalk. “Find another man to teach you about sex, for you to poke and prod at. I don’t have time for this shit.”

  “I can’t leave.” I won’t leave.

  “You can. I’ll give you names of other players, anything you need. Just go.”

  He’s that eager to get rid of me, to avoid dealing with his past. “I can’t leave because my huge ass is wedged into the seat.”

  “Your ass isn’t huge.” Smoke exits the vehicle and stomps to the passenger door. “It’s fucking perfect.”

  I sling my tote over my left shoulder and clasp his hands. It takes significant effort from both of us to extract me from his sports car.

  “I don’t need names of other players.” I gaze up at this tortured man I’ve aligned myself with. Permanently. “I’m seeing you tonight.” I’m not letting him go.

  “No, you’re not.” He shuts the door. “I won’t have another conversation with you like this one, where I share my private thoughts and you mock me.”

  “I’m not mocking you.” How did he get that impression? Because I sympathized with him? Has no one ever told him that his grief was understandable, that what the foster dad did wrong?

  Oh God. I become deathly still.

  Am I the first person Smoke has told? Has he kept this bottled up inside him for decades? Has he dealt with this alone all of this time?

  Something inside me tells me he has.

  “If you knew me at all.” I make my voice as soft and as calm as possible. “You’d realize that I’d never mock another person’s pain.”