Dirty Whispers: A Dark Bad Boy Romance

by Paula Cox

  I nod. Why do I care? I ask myself. But not just about the money. I ask myself this question countless times every time we meet. Why. Do. I. Care?

  We go to the movies to see some blockbuster and I notice that Darla’s trying to stretch her legs out in the tiny space between her seat and the seat in front of her. None of my business. What do I care if her leg is aching or cramped? And yet I find myself swapping seats with her, giving her my aisle seat, so that she can stretch her leg out. Or when I’m at her place and we’re in bed together and it’s late at night, pitch-dark outside, and she’s fast asleep. I’ve only done it once, but still, once is enough . . . Sitting up, propped on one elbow, looking down at her sleeping face and just watching.

  It’s like this woman, with her charm and her sex appeal and her independence and her no-bullshit attitude is changing something inside of me.

  Don’t be a fool, I tell myself. A woman can’t change you in eleven days.

  Maybe not, not completely, but I can’t deny that I’m starting to care about her. And more than her body, more than the sex.

  We go to a ball game and as we’re walking to our seats some guy says something about Darla, about her ass, about what he’d like to do it. He turns to his friends and starts laughing. I face him, arms wide, fists clenched, and stare the bastard down until he mutters, “Sorry,” in a terrified voice.

  Darla tells me not to start a scene. “I don’t need a knight in shining armor,” she says. “I can take care of myself.”

  I just nod. I’m sure she can take care of herself. But she should tell that to her face. When I stare the guy down, she has a small smile on her lips, and her cheeks are red and flushed just like they are before we have sex. Despite what she says, she likes it. It makes her horny, makes her feel protected, makes her want me even more.

  And if there’s one thing I’ve learnt about myself this past week and a half, it’s that I want Darla to want me even more.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Darla

  I sit cross-legged on my bed, my mirror in one hand and my foundation pad in the other.

  Brody is due to arrive any minute and I want to make sure I look good. I think about how I stood in the reflection of the coffee machine a couple of weeks ago, doing the exact same thing, and wonder at everything that’s changed.

  Then, I had a job I loved, a life I was content in, and I had never talked to Brody for longer than thirty seconds. Now, I prepare my face for him, wanting to make sure I look beautiful. I know that the makeup will come away later and that he’ll see me without it, as he has seen me without it a few times now. But still, it’s nice to make the effort. And it’s good to know that I’m making the effort because I want to, not because I’m being criticized. After that first surprise date, Brody hasn’t said a thing about my appearance, other than to tell me I look hot, beautiful, or sexy.

  I think of the dates we’ve been on, the sex we’ve had, the moments we’ve shared over this past week and a half. An odd feeling comes over me, a feeling unlike anything I experienced with Charley. It’s a potent mixture of affection and lust, as though I want Brody to hold me in his arms by candlelight, but not before we fuck like animals. I don’t know what’s happening to me. All I know for certain is that when I think about seeing Brody, my body gets warm and butterflies flutter around my belly, doing flips and ducking and diving, causing me to grit my teeth in anticipation.

  Once the makeup is applied, I jump from bed and place the mirror on my bedside table. Then I hurry around the apartment, picking up discarded clothes. Before the fire, the clothes were sigils of my time spent coming to and from the Coffee Joint. Now, they represent my time spent coming to and from the streets, roaming them with my résumé in one hand and a paper cup of coffee in the other. No luck yet, but at least when I’m turned away I can get a supportive dose of caffeine.

  I just finish tidying the apartment when the buzzer sounds.

  I press the intercom button. “Hello.”

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” Brody says, doing his best Southern Sheriff impression. “This is fireman Brody Ellison. I am sorry to disturb you at this time of evening, but we’ve had complaints of heat coming from your apartment. Apparently there’s some hot as hell woman up there, making the whole block burn up. Do you know anything about this? If you like, I can take out my hose and dowse the flames.”

  “You, sir, are disgusting,” I reply, doing my best Outraged Aristocrat impression.

  Brody chuckles, but I’m sure there’s something behind the laughter. “Are you letting me up or not?”

  “Once you stop being a jerk, yeah.”

  He laughs again, and again there’s an undertone I can’t identify. “You should know by now that that isn’t going to happen.”

  “Hmm, maybe I won’t let you up then.”

  “Maybe I’ll have to leave then.”

  He’s joking—I think—but I press the button anyway.

  “See you in a sec,” he says.

  I unlock the door and go to the couch. After around thirty seconds, the door opens and Brody marches in wearing his fireman’s uniform and holding a duffle bag. I turn to him, expecting to see his usual cocky smile, but his face is marked with spots of black soot and his eyes look tired. He yawns and drops next to me on the couch. Now, I think, he’ll lean across and ravage me. But when he leans across, it’s just to plant a kiss on my cheek.

  “Evening,” he says, rubbing his hands together. The knuckles of one hand is cut and grazed.

  “What happened?” I say. He smells like the Coffee Joint did after the fire, embers and charred wood and acidic air.

  “A fire,” he says. “A bad one. Downtown. A veterinary office. Lots of . . . well, there were animals in cages and a fire, so you can guess the rest.”

  I swallow. He doesn’t look vulnerable—I don’t think Brody could ever look vulnerable—but he looks more vulnerable than he ever has before. He stares down at his knuckles but it’s like he doesn’t see them. It’s like he looks through his hands, his legs, the floor, the entire building, and sees whatever happened at the veterinary office.

  He needs someone to take care of him, I think.

  “Right,” I say, standing up. “First, you need a shower. Are there spare clothes in the bag?” He nods. “Right, so number one. Shower. Number two. Change. Number three. Relax and forget about the whole nasty day.”

  He turns to me, the shadow of a smile on his face. “Are you babying me, Darla?” he says.

  “You’re damn right I’m babying you,” I say. “Take off your clothes. I’ll run the water.”

  “Miss Castle,” he says, when I’m almost at the bathroom door.

  I turn to him. “Yeah?”

  He winces, as though what he’s about to say is a struggle. But then his face relaxes and he mutters: “Thank you.”

  I turn on the shower and by the time Brody comes into the bathroom, naked and covered in grime, the room is steamy. He walks past me and straight into the shower, stands beneath the blasting water and lets it drip down his naked body, over his muscles. He looks wounded. I try to imagine the horrors he’s seen today, but my mind revolts against them. Animals in cages . . . fire . . . It couldn’t have been pretty.

  I return to the living room.

  He comes out ten minutes later, the soot and the grime cleaned from his body, a towel around his waist. He towels himself off, reaches into his bag, and takes out a t-shirt and some pajama pants.

  “You’re tired,” I note.

  He nods slowly. “I am,” he admits.

  The prospect of us having sex is more than an elephant in the room; it’s a gargantuan mammoth, huge-tusked and waving its trunk around like a weapon. I stand up, go to him, and place my hand on his shoulder. “How about bed and a movie?” I say. “I’m tired, too.”

  “Are you?” I can tell he’s relieved.

  “Yes. Come on. You can wrap me in your arms and we’ll lose ourselves for a little while.”

  “Sounds good.�
��

  Brody slumps onto the bed and stares up at the ceiling. I get the sense that he’s still not taking in his surroundings. His hazel eyes have a faraway look about them, as though the apartment is mist and true reality exists somewhere behind it. I imagine him hearing the screams of dogs and the frantic screeching of cats. I swallow, kneel down, and start sorting through my DVDs.

  “What are you in the mood for?” I ask.

  “Anything,” he says. “Just get over here quickly or I might go to a bar. That’s what we usually do, you know, after a day like today. Go to a bar and get so shitfaced we end up fighting each other. Chipped Marco’s tooth, once. But I told the guys—told them straight up—that I was coming here. Got an ear full for it, but I don’t care. I’m glad I’m here.” His voice is filled with exhaustion. He talks in the same tone of voice as a person talking in his sleep. His tiredness has let his defenses slip, I realize. I’m seeing the man beneath the armor.

  I grab a DVD at random—The Reader—shove it in the player, and return to Brody.

  I climb into bed and as the affair begins on screen, the pain and the heartache, I roll into him. He wraps his arms around me and holds me close. He holds onto me tightly and it’s like I can feel the pain of the day through his arms. I grab his forearm and hug into him. I kiss his grazed hand. Then I roll over so that we’re face to face. He watches me with half-closed eyes, barely seeing.

  “I’m glad you came here instead of getting drunk,” I whisper.

  “Me, too,” Brody says, voice quiet as sleep tugs him toward unconsciousness. “Don’t think this makes me a pussy, though. I’ll fuck you until you can’t breathe next time.”

  “Is that a promise?”

  He trails his hand through my hair, tendrils of warmth, tingly and causing me to shiver, moving through my body. “It’s a promise,” he says. “But now, I need to sleep.”

  “Sleep, then.” I kiss him on the forehead. “And dream that we’re somewhere exotic, me and you, somewhere safe and warm.”

  With a smile, he closes his eyes.

  We are, both of us, letting our guard down. Something is happening here. Something is beginning.

  I close my eyes and fall asleep in his arms.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Brody

  When I wake up, I am alone in bed. I sit up and listen. From the living-kitchen room, I hear somebody bustling around. I glance at the clock. Forty-five minutes until my shift begins, which means I need to haul ass in the next ten minutes if I don’t want to be late.

  I go into the living room and watch for a few moments as Darla walks around, picking up clothes. She stops and turns to me, a bundle in her hands. “I don’t know how it happens,” she says. “When you came over, the place was clean. I swear there’s a fairy or something which comes by just to drop clothes on the floor.”

  I grin. More and more, I’m grinning genuinely with Darla, not arrogantly. And last night . . . It was like no other night with a woman. We didn’t have sex. Maybe with some guys that isn’t such a big deal. But usually when I go to a woman’s house, we’re having sex. But last night I didn’t even want to. More than that, I came over here with the knowledge that I wouldn’t want to. So why did I come over here? The answer shocks me. I came over just because I wanted to be close to somebody.

  Darla tilts her head at me. “You okay, Brody?” she says.

  I force out a laugh and swagger over to her. “I’m fine, gorgeous,” I say. “Fine and dandy.”

  “Fine and dandy?” she giggles. “Since when did you start talking like that?”

  “I’ve always talked like this. You just never noticed.”

  She shakes her head, goes into the bathroom, and drops the clothes. I hear the thmph sound the bundle makes. When she returns, she’s holding my fireman’s uniform. “Washed and dried,” she says. “Don’t ever say I’m not a good girl—” She stops, face stricken. She was about to say girlfriend, I think, panic gripping my chest. Girlfriend! She giggles, but it’s forced, just like my laugh was forced. “Don’t say I’m not good to you,” she finishes, and then hands the clothes to me.

  I take the bundle and strip down to my briefs. “Thank you,” I say.

  She turns her back to me and goes to the kitchen, leans down into the refrigerator, takes out a carton of OJ.

  “Thirsty?” she asks.

  I nod. “Sure.”

  Girlfriend! Is that what’s happening? Damn, how can I handle that? After Julia? After all these years?

  I swallow, forcing the thought deep down inside of me. Darla’s pouring a glass of OJ when two sharp raps come from the door.

  “Strange, I didn’t hear the buzzer go.”

  Darla shrugs. “Might be the landlord. Hang on.”

  I pull on my pants as Darla answers the door. I’ve just fastened the button when Tracey, Darla’s pixie-cut friend, skips into the room. “Halllooooo—” She cuts short when she sees me, shirtless, on the other side of the room. “Oh, Darling Darla, I didn’t know you had company.”

  “I’m going now anyway,” I say. I pull on my t-shirt, find my bag, and pack my clothes into it. Then, the ladies watching me, I go to the kitchen and drain the OJ. Darla watches me with affection and a silent message: Thank for you last night. I hope my reply is clear on my face: I should be thanking you.

  Then I kiss Darla on top of the head and leave the apartment. When I close the door behind me, I hear Tracey say, in a too-loud voice: “I didn’t know he would be here, you lucky girl!”

  Shaking my head, I make my way down the stairs.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Darla

  “How did you get up here?” I say, annoyed that my time with Brody was cut short by Tracey’s entrance.

  She’s dressed like a character from a post-apocalyptic movie, jeans with one leg cut at the knee, high, pink socks, a vest with little skulls on which clearly shows her bra, and multicolored paint smeared down her neck. Like she’s going to a festival, I think. Who dresses like that on a normal day? I realize I’m being rude and unfair. She made the effort to come here, I tell myself. The least I can do is be polite. Then another voice counters: or you can kick her ass outta here!

  “Someone let me in,” Tracey says. “I hope I’m not being a nuisance.”

  She says it in her usual, semi-sarcastic tone of voice, but she seems more genuine that she does most of the time. “No,” I say. “No, come in. Want something to drink?”

  A minute later, we’re sitting side by side on the couch, two glasses of orange juice placed upon the coffee table. The Californian morning sun slants in through the windows, motes of dust dancing in the air. Tracey smells potently of perfume, as though she bathed in it this morning. She’s so kooky and alternative and cool I can imagine her doing something like that.

  “So,” she says, nodding at the door, “you had yourself a dish last night, didn’t you, you naughty girl? I came here expecting to see you getting résumés ready, but it seems you were working on something else! Bad girl! Meow!”

  Sometimes, entering into a conversation with Tracey is like running the gauntlet. No sooner have you found your footing than another strike comes. And as you’re recovering from the second—a third. Her speech rushes on as though it has a mind of its own, her words overriding each other. She’s as pixie as her hair, flying here and there but rarely settling.

  “What was it like? You have to tell me all the juicy details!”

  “You seem surprised,” I say, dodging the question. “But it was you who gave him my address in the first place, wasn’t it?”

  “Oh! Don’t ask me what I have and have not done!” she cries, waving her arms dramatically. In her mind, Tracey is a theater star. “How am I supposed to remember what I did two weeks ago when I can’t even remember what I did yesterday? Search for jobs, I’m sure, but if you were to ask me where I went and when I went there and what I did when I got there I wouldn’t have the faintest clue. I just dance from coffee shop to coffee shop, hurling my résumé a
t them and dancing away. No jobs, no jobs, no jobs. That’s all I hear!”

  “It is frustrating,” I nod. I sip my orange juice. “I’ve been turned down a lot, too.”

  Tracey waves a hand. “Yes, yes, yes, but tell me about Brody. Is he everything you dreamed? Is he the Hunk of the Month? Is he the Man who Can? Is he the . . . oh, I can’t think of anything clever to say.” Her forehead creases. “Well!” she blurts. “Is he?”

  “Well, I have to admit, I don’t know what’s come over me these past couple of weeks. I feel different, changed, somehow. It’s . . . I don’t know . . . it’s like we’re getting closer. Sometimes, anyway. And then other times it’s like we’re strangers who just enjoy being with each other.”