by Natalie Wrye
I nod. “Tell me about it. Thanks for taking the stairs. It’s going to make for an awesome exercise while I’m here. Who needs a stair-climber when you’ve got your own built in?” I shrug, listening as Kayla fusses over the end of the phone with some soup she’s making for Pierre, one she’s clearly burning. I slide my cell phone farther down my shoulder.
The tall mover continues speaking. “Beats the hell out of a gym. This your first time living in New York?”
I nod.
He crosses his huge arms, an affable look on his face. “Well, welcome to our side of town.” He motions to the window. “This city is tough.”
I think of Violet Keats, the redhead from the pub. “So I’ve heard.”
“But you look even tougher.” He sends a wink my way. “Good luck, Goldie.”
I touch my hair without thinking. "Thanks... I guess.” I watch him go out the front door, his words still resonating somewhere deep inside me. I head for the tiny empty bathroom, eager to wash the long day off me. I strip and step into the shower, shocked by the searing hot water that blasts out of the tiny spout, and before I can burn too much skin, I scrub and scramble, slapping a small towel around my chest as I flounce out of the bathtub, my bare feet sore and aching as I drip my way back into the living room, shoulders slumped, my tired eyes still stuck on the lone box in the center of my living room. The only one left. The last of the life I’ve led.
I bend over towards the box, clutching my towel, using my free hand to tear at the parcel’s silver tape. My fingers shake as I flip open the frayed flaps.
I forget about my earlier conversation with Kayla, the cold apartment, the "tough" city outside my window. I forget that I barely have two pennies to rub together, that I’m living off my little savings. Hell, I forget all of it.
As soon as my fingers find the edges of the stuffed dolls stashed inside, a drop of cold water falls from the sky. It takes several seconds to realize that that drop is coming from me. I place a finger under my eyelid feeling the water pooling there. I squeeze my eyes shut when suddenly a loud shuffle reaches my ears, and I look over to my open front door to find one of my boxes sliding out of it, sandwiched between a pair of strong hands.
I rise to my feet when I realize someone is picking up my belongings. I call out.
"Hey! Are you fucking... Come back here!"
But the box keeps going. As do the hands. Footsteps follow soon after, and after dropping the phone still in my head, I rush towards the open door to find Brett Jackson strolling through it, my box in his hands—the same pair of strong hands I’d seen just seconds before. He’s the person picking up one of my few prized possessions. And at the exact same time he walks in, I lose what’s left of the towel in my hand, the terry cloth fabric falling to the floor, taking my heart with it.
I’m now completely naked. In front of the man I hate. And not a goddamned thing is alright.
Chapter 5
BRETT
Her tiny towel falls to the floor. And I can’t help but to look when it does.
The box in my hands is heavy, the edges lightly frayed. My clothes are still soaked from the torrential downpour outside, and as rainwater continues to drip down my face, past my shoulders and to the floor, I don’t even notice it. Can’t.
Not with Elsie Carpenter in front of me. Without a stitch of clothing on. My heart slams in my chest. I can’t fucking help it.
I’m like a fourteen-fucking-year old, gazing at his first nudie. The naked skin in front of me is smoother than I’d imagined, and through a dimly lit living room, I watch as the curvaceous woman in front of me reaches down for her towel. Her hair drips wet, splaying over her tiny shoulders. Her legs are surprisingly long, and as she dips at the waist to grab at the ground, I notice the tiny marks at her knees, scars reminiscent of a rough and fun childhood. I remember how they felt underneath my kiss.
Long ago, I had kissed those taut legs, and a piece of me is standing here, dying for a repeat, my heart drumming against the box pressed against my chest as Elsie’s fingers scramble for a grip, clutching at a square of cloth too tiny to even fit over my fucking coffee table.
A blush hits her cheeks. Her tear-drop shaped tits press against the fabric, fighting to stay beneath, and it is all I can do not to drop the big ass box in my hold… and sink to my knees. To remove the disruptive towel with my mouth and press my tongue at the meeting of her wet thighs, which clench tightly in front of me, as Elsie squirms, fumbling to wrap the soft material around her impossibly tiny waist. She bites her lower lip that trembles, and I grin. A stubborn line forms across her forehead. She sighs.
“Seriously?” she almost shouts. “Have you forgotten how to knock?”
I glance over my shoulder. “The door was open.”
“Do you walk into every doorway that’s open or is that only reserved for me? God,” she exhales, her hand flying to her forehead as she rolls her eyes, “you didn’t even help me with my towel when it freaking fell.”
I glare. “And I assume I was supposed to use my third hand to do that?” I set her box on the floor. “As you can see, my hands were a little bit full.”
Elsie’s stare slants at me, her tiny chin set in absolute anger. “Nobody asked you to pick up my things. Nobody asked you to help me at all. In fact, nobody asked you to be here.” Her voice rises. “So why don’t you just go, okay?” she throws, tightening the ends of her towel around her body. “You’re not wanted.”
“Really?” I step forward. “Because there’s a lot of shit that you’ve accused me of, Elsie. But being ‘unwanted’ is the biggest lie of all them.” I keep on walking towards her. “Don’t you think?”
She raises her chin in defiance at me. Her brown eyes blaze into my own, and for a few infuriating seconds, we stare at each other, searing one another with heated gazes, unable to say anything—both too mad to even talk. But that doesn’t mean our bodies aren’t communicating just fine.
I hover over Elsie, looking down at the beautiful blonde, and my errant cock grows hard. Fuck the little bastard for being so brazen. He pushes me towards her and I obey. And as mad as she looks right now, as furious as my formerly sweet Elsie seems, it doesn’t stop me from reaching out towards her, sweeping my fingers under her blonde curls and pulling their silky length. I swing a curtain of golden strands down over her shoulder, and without thinking, I step farther into Elsie’s still wet body, my breath blowing in hurried puffs out of my quivering nostrils as I lower my face to the skin I just exposed, settle my mouth there…and kiss. My pulse picks up a thousand more notches as Elsie sighs again, this time softer than the last, her dampened body still rigid under my own as her fingers fly to my biceps… and squeeze. My mouth presses harder.
Elsie and I stand in front of each other, almost unmoving. Several inches of space separate me from feeling the sexy woman in front of me fully, and as I close the space, ready to press the rest of my length against hers and meet her body-to-body, a shuffle from behind me breaks my single concentration.
I lift my head towards the open door only to find Elsie’s box, disappearing out of it, sandwiched between a pair of unfamiliar hands that tug at the slightly torn edges. The package vanishes before my eyes.
I realize what’s going on before Elsie does, but before I can shout at the stranger in front of me to stop, he bolts, twisting out of the doorway with Elsie’s belongings in his hands… and me behind him. My body shifts directions in the span of a second, and within two steps, I turn the corner out of Elsie’s apartment, sliding into the hallway, my sneakers barely making a sound as my legs kick into double-time, moving fast. My heart beats hard, my sore fingers sweating. I fly down the dingy passageway of the building’s seventh floor and as I do, a pair of legs—long and fast—vanish into the stairwell stuck in the side of the wall.
I shout at the stupidly thieving bastard. But to no avail. And before I can think twice, I chase the magically disappearing burglar into the small dark corridor, my fingers forming tight fists. Bu
t the smell of the small stairwell overwhelms me. The stench of cigarette smoke and something else indiscernible hits me like a bag of bricks and instinctively I hold my breath, barreling down the steps after the sounds of the frantic running, my pulse thudding loudly between my ears, my stomach squeezing with every single inhale. The beat of my body thunders louder until there's nothing else. Just the noise of my own adrenaline. My legs and feet fall into a hurried rhythm, one that matches each huff and puff expelled from my drying mouth.
My fingers reach for the rail, steadying myself. And with every floor I descend, my knees buckle, the brunt of each landing putting a beating on my already sore legs. I suck the arid air into my lungs, feeling a flame grow inside my chest. Every exhale hurts. And I drop down the seven terrible levels to the street, bursting through the rusted door leading outside. My tired feet meet the sidewalk, slapping against the concrete, my head on a swivel as I search for the missing box. Scratch that. Stolen box.
The rain showers that started ten minutes ago won't relent, and in the midst of splashing water and sludge, I run like I've never run before, heading down the street, my wet squeaking feet taking me in the only direction that makes sense...
The subway.
In the midst of a summer tourist crowd, I squeeze and slam my way into semi-shocked bystanders who stand and gawk at the soaking wet asshole scrambling up the street. God, why won't they fucking move? I see Elsie’s brown box bobbling up and down the street, wrapped inside a strange man's hands. Fury overrides my fear and I haul ass after him, my lungs on the edge of exploding, my tested thighs ready to give out.
Come on. Come on. Come on.
I'm almost to him. The man isn't as large as he once seemed. And now he's within my sights. If only I could…
And then it happens. I stumble, falling headfirst into a man wearing a suit. With luck, I catch myself before the cement does, my arms outstretching to break my forward dive onto the floor. The “suit” stares at me as if I’m insane, and with an angry line imprinted across the wrinkle on his furrowed forehead, he snatches away his umbrella, making sure I haven't left a mark on his expensive suede.
I wish I had. I ignore him anyway, heavy rainwater falling into my eyes as I stare across the street, past his shoulder, my eyes squinting into the distance over the street’s shoddy and rain-soaked pavement. But the box is gone. Poofed into thin air along with the man who stole it. I sigh, nearly collapsing on the street, as a fully-clothed Elsie stumbles over, breathing hard, her hands over her heart as she stares at me, her brown eyes open wide. She gapes, blinking fast.
“Is he gone?”
I nod toward the empty look in her eyes. She bends at the knee, seemingly sapped of all energy. As soon as I reach her side, she collapses, her head of curls hung in my hands, my arms suddenly her only source of strength.
A guttural “Fuck!” surfaces inside my throat, and I let it out, the realization of my fucked-up situation suddenly sinking all in. Elsie is alone. In a city that's sent stronger men and women packing, a place that may have broken more dreams than made them.
Was I fool to come here to her place? Abso-fucking-lutely.
The rain reflects my mood, drumming down incessantly like the lyrics of a sad love song.
I admit: I came here looking for an answer, for a reason to soothe my interested soul. And I got one. Elsie Carpenter is more than a fly-by-night; she’s the kind of woman who changes you, who fucks up everything before.
I thought I could stomach it—could handle seeing her again, when in fact, it wasn’t just her who was in danger of being swallowed. It was me. I was in danger of being engulfed by something stronger than me, a feeling, a fucking sensation that I hadn’t discovered in seven long fucking years. City life was threatening to consume Elsie, but it was me who’s ultimately in danger of being eaten alive by a beautiful innocent blonde... and nothing was alright.
Chapter 6
BRETT
“Stop skulking and smile a little a bit.”
“Are you going to tell me to hike up my skirt next, maybe show a little leg?” I ask Marilyn.
The brunette smiles back. “If that’s what it takes.”
Her smile is short-lived. My own is non-existent. I hate this sort of office. Hate it with every fiber of my fucking being. See, it’s places like this that are more ego temples than anything, more self-serving shrines to the person who sits in it than to any sort of work or endeavor in the first place.
TV production must pay well. The plaques on the expensive walls tell me so.
Reed Hutton has made a name for himself, that’s for sure. And it’s clear that he wants every office visitor to know it, to be so inundated with his success that you choke on it. A wrist-slitting good time. I look at Marilyn, at us, at the office surrounding our seats, wanting to do just that.
I should have never come here.
But six weeks ago, Marilyn called me, said she knew about a great opportunity for my shop, and I came to see the offer… I only wish I’d thought to ask who was giving it. I didn’t know about Reed Hutton until I said “yes”—had no idea the opportunity would include a Hollywood power producer, and I’m already regretting the decision to show up as I sit in Reed’s swanky suite, my stomach souring at the sunken look on Marilyn’s face that tells me that Reed’s little “bathroom break” just minutes before has more to do with powder going up his nose than on it, the botox-injected mega-producer’s erratic antics reminding me that the City That Never Sleeps is also the City That Never Sobers.
I should be with Elsie. Every fiber of my being tells me so. But several unanswered calls over the past five hours tells me a different story, and as I try to text her for the ten millionth time, I think about the look in her round eyes when she pushed me away, kicking me out of her apartment just as the police sirens closed in after her frantic call to 911 about the thief that disappeared down the street.
I should have stayed, despite her anger. I should be at her side. My resolve to return to the last place on earth where I’m wanted—her apartment—grows resolute, and I’m just about to stand when Mister Tight Face himself comes walking through a door, a strained smile on his face, an awkward pep in his step.
He sits behind his massive desk, staring at me and Marilyn. He sighs heavily, swinging his feet onto his desk.
“Now,” he exhales loudly. “Where were we?”
I inhale, my shoulders lifting. “You were telling me how I’d make millions of women around the world want to suck my dick once they see my show.”
The man in front of me with the orange tan slaps his knee. The sound is sharp. He laughs out loud. “Holy shit,” he chuckles, his normally smooth voice choking. “You’re funny. No one ever told me you were funny.” He looks at Marilyn. “Isn’t he funny, Mare?”
Her eyes stay blank. She cuts a glare at me. “Hilarious.”
“No, really. I love it.” He looks me up and down, seemingly taking me in. “The irreverence. The attitude. The quintessential bad boy James Dean look with dark tattoos. And the eyes? Phew. Those eyes.” He leans closer, lowering his feet to the floor. “One blue. One green.” He nods his graying head. “The girls aren’t just going to want to suck your dick, Chief. They’re going to want to swallow it.” He points a finger at me. “You’re exactly what I’ve been looking for.”
I don’t smile. “I find that hard to believe.”
“No, seriously. My new reality show ‘Tattoo Gods’ needs a guy like you. Authentic. Fuck-less. Real.” Reed Hutton clasps his large hands together. “Do you want something real… Brett?”
I glance around his inauthentic office, the leather-like skin on his wrinkle-free face. If this shit was real, then I was in trouble. Shit. The whole world was. I was a tattoo artist, an entrepreneur. Not a puppet. And in that moment, I can’t sit another minute in this puppeteer’s face, watching him pull at my strings, just waiting for one to snap. I won’t do that for anyone. Not even someone as cool as Marilyn. I clutch my leather bomber jacket, stand
ing—my head held high.
“I am looking for something real, Mr. Hutton. I really am… Unfortunately, that something is not here in this room.” I turn, putting my back to Marilyn’s gaping mouth. “‘I’ll see myself out.”
I walk towards the closed door, slipping into my coat, when a statement from the other side of the room makes me stop. The voice is more hiss than anything.
“Half a million dollars.”
I look over my shoulder. “What?”
“You heard me.” The richest man on TV looks at me. “Half a million dollars. And that’s just to start.” He stands, kick-standing his fingers on the desk. “I understand that your tattoo shop is the toast of the town in Brooklyn. Very impressive.” He nods. “But not nearly as impressive as becoming the toast of all of New York.” He pauses, his blue-steel eyes darkening a shade. “Don’t you want to begin something new? Start the franchise you were always talking about?”
I glance down at Marilyn. “You told this prick about that?”
Reed smiles. “She didn’t have to.” He winks. “You don’t have a knack for this business without having some very good instincts. And mine…” He rounds his large oak desk, looking at me. “Are the best. No need to be subtle.”
I stare at the elder prick, a thousand alarms going off in my head, knowing if something’s too good to be true… it probably is. I shove my hands into my pants, glaring at his unnaturally smooth face. “And what’s in it for you, Mr. Hutton? Other than some money to fund your next trip to the surgeon to stay a youthful forty-one years old?”
The corners of his smile twitch. “In short, Mr. Jackson? You.” He smiles grows wider. “You and the millions of dick-licking women that come with it. You’re a stud…” he states plainly. “And a star.” He crosses his arms. “You want a half a million dollars?”
“If you’re handing them out.”
“Then fine, a half of million dollars, you’ll get.” He raises one stubby finger. “There’s just one stipulation to go with it.”
