Muscle Memory

by Stylo Fantome

  “That's true, but honestly, they must not be looking too hard,” he laughed. “I was in the hospital for almost a month, newspapers ran stories on me, I was on TV once, but nothing.”

  “Their loss, son. So Kitty tells me you're having some legal issues?”

  Jon explained about his identity situation, how he couldn't get a new social security number issued, and how at every turn, he and Mrs. Sloan were told there was nothing they could do. Most lawyers wouldn't go near the issue because of how complicated it all was, not to mention the fact that Jon couldn't afford to pay them. He didn't tell Frank how in the early days of living at the halfway house, Jon had considered trying to buy an identity. A fake I.D., fake social security card. Would solve all his problems. But between Gary Tupper's rules and Kitty's faith in him, he hadn't gone through with it. He would see it out the good and honest way, as long as he could.

  “So I'm kind of stuck,” he sighed. “I have some money, but it won't last forever. One newspaper guy said I should write a book about my amnesia, said there's lots of interest in that kind of stuff, but I don't even hardly like reading all, how am I supposed to write a book? I mean, I'll figure it all out, I'm sure. Sloany, er, Mrs. Sloan, my social worker, she's rabid about helping me, she'll make it happen.”

  He didn't want to sound like he pitied himself, or like his life was hard. He didn't want Frank, or any of the Beaumonts, pitying him.

  “Well now, I don't want to make any promises, but Kitty told you what I do for a living, right?” Mr. Beaumont asked. Jon nodded.

  “Yeah, she said you were a judge of some kind, downtown.”

  “I am, and I know a lot of very important people, and I think some of them would be able to help you.”

  “I'm not sure how they could, the Social Security office is really strict.”

  “They give new identities to people in the Witness Protection Program, don't they? You don't think those come with shiny new social security numbers? Like I said, I'm not promising anything, it may be the same proceedings can't be applied to your case at all, but I can look into it for you,” he offered.

  Jon was blown away. He couldn't even think of how to respond for a couple moments, he just gaped while Frank finally pulled the cork free from the wine bottle. A maid started pulling down wine glasses.

  “That would be ... thank you, sir. That's amazing. I ... appreciate it. You don't have to do all that, you barely know me,” he finally managed to stammer. Frank chuckled and slid a full wine glass to him, then picked up one of his own.

  “Tell you what – stop calling me sir, and we'll consider it even,” he replied, then toasted his glass.

  Dessert went by in a blur. His mind was reeling over the idea Frank might possibly be able to help him. He barely even noticed Kitty mothering him, pestering him about putting a napkin in his lap, or using the correct silverware, or straightening his hair. And all her smothering was completely forgotten when they all sat down to open one present each – she sat in his lap. Just like that, as if it was the most natural thing for them to do. Then to round the night out into almost-perfection, she handed him a small gift wrapped present.

  “For you, Mr. Doherty.”

  He waited till he was alone in the guest room before he opened it. He chuckled as he pulled a silver bracelet out of a small white box. There was a flat, shiny metal piece in the center of the chain, and he looked it over in his hands. One side read: Jon Doherty. Harlem, New York. The other side: Just in case you forget again.

  An I.D. bracelet. It was so perfect, and so hilariously off color, he was almost surprised it had come from Kitty. He wrapped the chain around his wrist and locked it together, then held it out in front of him. Then he chuckled again and looked out his window.

  He'd originally planned on going home right after dinner. It had taken him almost two hours to get there that afternoon, and the way the snow had started coming down, he knew it would take even longer getting back. But Kitty had laughed at him and informed he wasn't going anywhere. They'd made up the spare room before he'd even gotten there. He would be staying at the Beaumont's all night. So he'd called the Benson House and told them he wouldn't be back till tomorrow.

  He was placed in a corner of the main house, in a not often used guest room that over looked the free standing garage and large back yard. Kitty technically still lived at home, but she stayed in a small apartment built onto the top of the garage. He'd glanced at it when he looked out his window, then he did a double take.

  One of her windows faced his, and she had all the lights on in her place. She was perfectly visible, the window almost glowing in the dark night. She was moving slowly toward the window, her head bent down, looking off to her right. She'd already removed the heavy knit Christmas sweater she'd had on earlier, and as he watched, she slowly started to peel off her tank top, exposing inch after inch of bare flesh.

  Stop looking. Stop looking right now. You're not a pervert. Shit, what if I am!? What if this is like my thing!? Oh god, I'm a fucking peeping tom, I know I mus–, holy shit, her breasts are amazing.

  The tank top was gone. She was wearing a pale pink bra that pushed her surprisingly large breasts up high and tight. She always wore nice clothing, but nothing tight, and he hadn't realized exactly how impressive her figure was – she was easily a C-cup, if not more.

  Then she started unbuttoning her pants and he forgot to breathe, let alone remind himself to look away. How could he? Her movements were slow, almost deliberate, as she slid the denim over her hips and then pushed it down, down, down, all the way to her feet. She bent at the waist, her hands touching the floor, her ass sticking up high. Jon started to sweat.

  I wonder when the last time I had sex was? I wonder if I'm good at it?

  He didn't bother wondering if he was virgin. Like some things, he just knew he wasn't one. It was pointless, anyway. He wasn't getting laid that night, or any night soon. No, what he was going to do was get up and close his blinds and then jerk off his uncomfortable thoughts.

  When he got up to do just that, though, Kitty lifted her head. She stared straight at him, freezing him in place. He was standing in front of his window, his hands on the blind. His room was dark, she couldn't possibly see him. Could she? He watched as she slowly smiled, then she carefully pulled her curtains shut. They were white and made of a thin, gauzy material. He couldn't see through them, but he could see her silhouette and outline easily. His pulse raced as her shadow took off her bra and threw it to the side. Then, while she was reaching for her underwear, she stepped out of view.

  What the fuck was that!?

  Jon shut his blinds, then laid down on his bed. Stared at the ceiling. He wanted to do something, go somewhere. His blood was screaming through his veins at a million miles a minute and he almost thought of calling Gary Tupper. It was one of the things about Benson House – anyone could call Gary at any time, night or day, and he would help them with any problem they had, no matter how weird or bad or illegal it may be.

  How could he help with his? “Hey, Gary, my dick is so hard I could cut a diamond with it. Oh, and I'm pretty sure I'm a pervert.”

  In the middle of berating himself, he became aware of his cell phone vibrating near him. He looked at the night stand, then reached over to pick it up. Who could be texting him? Only like four people on the planet had his phone number, and it was after midnight.

  What are you doing?

  Oh god. Kitty. What were the chances? He licked his lips and took a deep breath, then banged out a response.

  Laying down. I opened your present. Thank you.

  That bracelet was from my family. You haven't opened your present from me, yet.

  He stared at his phone, as if the messages might disappear if he blinked.

  What do you mean?

  You can come over and get it if you want.

  It's late, we're both tired, I don't want to bother you.

  I'm not bothered, and you didn't seem tired a minute ago when you were staring at
me.

  Shit. She had seen him. He clenched his teeth together and slammed his head back against his pillows a couple times. Then he took a deep breath and went back to his phone.

  I didn't mean to. Your light was on. I'm really sorry.

  The minute it took her to respond felt like a life time.

  I left my light on on purpose. I'm not sorry. Come over.

  Jon was downstairs and out the door so fast, he forgot to put shoes on. The snow was past his ankles and he practically hopped through it, almost slipping and falling on his ass when he reached her stairs. He raced up them, then took a moment when he reached the top landing, catching his breath and running his hand through his hair. Then he softly scratched at the door.

  “That was fast,” she giggled when she opened it.

  She wasn't naked, like he'd been hoping, but she looked pretty damn good. She was wearing a man's old dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up. The hem reached the tops of her thighs and he tried not to stare at her.

  I wonder if she actually took her underwear off ...

  “Nice place,” he managed to say something normal, stamping his frozen feet on her carpet as she shut the door behind them.

  “It's okay. Jon! You didn't even put on shoes?” she laughed, moving around him.

  He didn't pay attention to her, too busy taking in his surrounding. It was a loft style apartment, no real walls. A cozy kitchenette was tucked against one wall, and a comfy queen bed was in the corner, right next to the window he'd been looking through ten minutes ago. It was decorated in a quaint, country style, and a string of mini-paper lanterns hung above the stove. Those, and a small Christmas tree on the table, were the only lights left on in the apartment. She'd turned them all off during his mad dash across the driveway.

  “This place is so ... you,” he finally commented.

  “What's that supposed to mean?” she asked, grabbing his hand and leading him to her bed. Once he sat down, she went about pulling off his wet socks. She had an incredibly nurturing nature, he'd noticed. She just liked to take care of people, it's what fulfilled her.

  “I don't know. Homey, warm. Nice,” he described.

  “Thanks. It was originally for stable hands, there were bunk beds up here. But Dad sold all the horses off a couple years ago, except for Virginia and Clarice's horses. When I left school, I thought about living downtown, but I liked being home so much, I asked if I could renovate this old place. I've been here for a year now,” she told him.

  “What about you?” he asked. “You don't get your own horse?”

  “I had one for a while, but she got sick and died. Broke my heart, I don't have it in me to get another one yet. If you want, though, we can take out the girls' horses tomorrow and go for a ride in the snow,” she offered. He went to happily accept the invitation, then stopped himself.

  “I ... I doubt I know how to ride. At the hospital, they said their guess was I had been born and raised in the city. Doubt there was much opportunity for horse riding,” he said. She shrugged.

  “Who knows? Maybe we'll get down there and you'll be a natural in the seat,” she pointed out. “Maybe you're a great horse rider and you come from a family of horse farmers.”

  He laughed at the idea.

  “Yeah, I'm not gonna put any money on that.”

  “Forget about horses, that's not why I invited you over,” she said, waving her hand at him. The entire mood in the room changed and he took a deep breath.

  “Why did you invite me over? Is your dad going to kill me if he finds me in here?” he asked.

  “Probably, but we'll be careful. I wanted to ask you a few questions,” she continued, and she grabbed his hand and held it between both of hers, then rested them on her lap.

  On top of her bare thighs.

  “I'll try to answer.”

  “So, you really don't remember anything?” she asked.

  “No. Trust me, I wouldn't lie about this stuff. It's not fun,” he replied. She nodded.

  “So you don't know if you've got a family out there? Brothers, sisters, mom, dad?”

  “Well, I assume I've got a mom and dad somewhere, unless I just spontaneously came into being.”

  She laughed and let go of his hand so she could playfully slap him in the chest.

  “You know what I mean! I mean, gosh, who knows who's out there waiting for you. Maybe a girlfriend. Maybe a wife,” she said slowly. He smiled at her.

  “Would you be upset?”

  “Extremely.”

  “Well,” he sighed, looking down at his hands. “When I was admitted, they kept all my clothing and personal items for me. I got back a hemp necklace, two earrings with anarchy stars on them, and a mood ring that fits my right index finger. But no wedding ring, so I'm pretty sure I'm not married. I mean, c'mon, who would marry a dude who wears a mood ring?”

  “Oh, I don't know, mood rings can be kinda sexy,” she replied, looking down at his lap. He had his fingers splayed on the tops of his thighs, and she started running her index finger across the back of his hand.

  “Sexy, huh?” he managed to grunt.

  “Sure. Someone can be acting one way, all normal and easy going, but the mood ring can tell you how they're really feeling. Like maybe black for sad or yellow for happy or ...” her voice trailed off.

  “Or turned on?” he blurted out.

  Real smooth, asshole.

  “Mmmm, I bet they can show that, too. Maybe they turn red to show when someone's really excited,” she breathed out, her head still bent.

  “What color would your mood ring be right now?” he asked.

  She finally looked up at him, and he realized just how close she was – he could see how sharp her cupid's bow was, how gold her hair looked in the soft lighting. She was breathing shallowly and she leaned close enough so the tips of their noses brushed against each other.

  “Bright, hot, cherry red,” she whispered.

  Amnesia or no, he was positive he'd never heard anything hotter, and Jon didn't waste another second. He closed the gap between them and kissed her hard. She gave a soft little moan, then her hand was in his hair. Her touch was gentle, but his scar was still sensitive, and when her fingernails brushed against it, he let out a surprised hiss.

  “Oh, I'm sorry,” she said quickly, yanking back. He shook his head and pulled her close again.

  “Don't be, I liked it,” he breathed, kissing along the side of her jaw.

  “But I hurt you. You like that?” she asked.

  “Yes. No? I don't know, you make it hard to think straight,” he replied.

  That seemed to satisfy her and her hands went to wandering along his broad shoulders. He wanted to get lost in the feel and scent and taste of her, but the moment stuck in his mind for a minute. Did he like pain? Not a lot, of course – the pain from his arm and head healing had been awful. But her fingernails against his skin, he was shocked to realize he wanted her to press harder, to really dig in and rake across his skin, leave some marks behind.

  And even more shocking, he kind of wanted to do the same back to her.

  Just take it easy, buddy. This is basically like your first time, just go with the flow. Don't freak her out. Your brain is going haywire right now, don't pay attention to it. You've got more important things to focus on.

  The top three buttons on her top were undone, just inviting someone to come inside. He gladly accepted and slipped his hand under the material, finding soft warm breasts and hard nipples.

  “You feel so ... incredible ...” he breathed, licking a path down to her collarbone.

  “Do you think you've done this before? Had sex?” she asked, letting her head fall back.

  “Yes.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Same way I knew I was left handed. It's just ... there. It's in my skin, it's in my muscles,” he explained as best he could. Then a thought occurred to him and he pulled away. “Are you a virgin?”

  “No,” she replied, looking up at him. A rosy bl
ush tinted her already tan skin. “But I'm not the kind of girl who sleeps with just anybody. I ... I've always wanted you. I remember seeing you on the news and thinking you were so handsome. And then when you walked into the community center, it was like someone was giving me a gift. But I swear, I don't do this with just anybody, I'm not like that. And I don't know what you're like, either. And neither do you.”

  “True,” he said, pulling his hand away from her chest. Her mouth twitched, like it wanted to frown. “But I know who I am now. I'm the kind of man who would very much like to make you feel good. It doesn't have to be right now if you don't want it to be, but maybe some day in the future.”

  The frown disappeared and she practically fell against him, forcing him back onto the mattress.

  “I want it to be now. Right now, Jon.”

  He unbuttoned her shirt, kissing the pathway of skin as it opened up to him. As he pulled the material apart, he rolled her onto her back before taking a nipple between his teeth. He wanted to make her moan and hiss, wanted to teasingly bite down, but he resisted.

  Get to know each other first.

  “You're so fucking beautiful,” he breathed, and she surprised him by giggling.

  “You have a dirty mouth, Mr. Doherty,” she teased.

  “You make me want to be dirty. Filthy,” he responded, then abruptly sucked hard on the same nipple. She gasped.

  “Oh, god, more. So much more, Jon,” she urged.

  He complied, moving so he was on top of her. He pulled his own shirt off and let it drop to the floor. Her eyes went wide for a second, then he felt her fingertips against his rib cage.

  “What does this mean?” she asked. He glanced down at what she was touching, then remembered he had tattoos.

  “I have no idea,” he was honest, tilting his head to the side.

  It was script, maybe an inch tall, traveling along a rib – maybe four inches in length, total. It was in Latin, and a doctor had told him it read “In Love We Trust”. He explained all that to Kitty.

  “See? You must have been a good man to get something so romantic,” she sighed sitting up and kissing along the tattoo. He frowned and looked away.