“You forgot Julius.”
“Lou avoids Julius.”
“But likes him.”
“I’d call it respect mixed with intimidation.”
“Same as me.”
“Stop joking,” Boots shook her head. “You’ve been Lou’s world since Martha died and the man needs more. It’s not Lauren’s New Age talk or her ex-husband that’s bothering you, your feelings are hurt.”
They were, though I wasn’t sure why. “Maybe you’re right,” I said, twisting toward the table, finally giving in to the weed. My nerves thanked me for the first-toke rush. “I guess I have to let it play out,” I said after slowly releasing my breath.
Boots rolled over, reached down next to her side of the king-size, and came up with a sweating gin and tonic. “Live and let live,” she toasted. “It’s always been your motto.”
“Right,” I replied before taking another large lung-full.
Boots took a long swallow. “Doesn’t it make you happy for him, even a little?”
I treated the joint like we were down to strikes instead of innings and chopped off its orange head with my fingernails. After a long pause I exhaled, satisfied to see very little smoke. “It should, but I smell trouble. And guilty for feeling this way.” I suddenly felt embarrassed and vulnerable.
My admission satisfied her because in one of Boots’s patented one-eighties, she leaned her head back exposing her long neck and smooth breast. “Do I smell like trouble?”
Her invitation didn’t make everything else disappear, but did push it farther back. I aided and abetted by relighting the bone and taking another two quick tokes. “You are trouble,” I answered, shrugging when I realized I meant it. Only right then I didn’t know what kind; and right then didn’t want to know.
If Boots noticed my shrug she ignored it. Instead, she wedged her head under my outstretched arm and reached down to my fly. “Enough talk, it’s time to get that thing back out into the open.”
I shook everything out of my mind as Boots turned and followed her hand with her head. She pulled on my cock and placed her lips around the top, her mouth overcoming any lingering thoughts. I grew hard, pushing past the cotton, startled by my degree of desire. I held myself in check but when Boots’s teeth scraped lightly across my crown, I reached down, lifting and shifting her body. When her legs faced my head I opened her knees, and lightly rubbed my palm over her cloth covered mound.
I stroked skimpy material while she pulled off my shorts. We stayed that way for a time, gently touching each other, letting our heat build, catching a hint of something special. Boots was running her tongue up the underside of my hard when I tugged lightly on her panties. She shuddered, lifted her head, and looked back in my direction. “Put your tongue inside.”
I grasped her sides, shifted her onto her knees, and slipped off her damp underwear. Her buttocks curved in front of me and I explored her feet, legs, and ass with my hands. Boots turned her head and leaned forward on her elbows, her mouth open, tongue touching her lips. I licked my hand to add to her moisture and reached between her thighs.
Moments passed before I lifted her up while I slid onto my back, lowering her knees to each side of my head.
I stayed mouth to moist for a long time, gently exploring both lips with my teeth, occasionally slipping my tongue inside. Each time, Boots would flatten her entire body, blacking out everything but her taste and smell and her excited mouth between my legs.
Boots moaned and slid her body lower, away from my lips. She nipped and sucked and scraped her teeth against me while I cupped her ass with both hands. She motioned for me to raise my knees and, when I did, she wriggled lower.
As I leaned forward and licked between her cheeks, Boots squirmed toward my ass. She was shuddering, both holes open, and I could feel her darting tongue replicate my motion. This was something new between us, and I could feel our passion overwhelm everything else.
In unspoken synchronization, we twisted to provide easier access. The room shattered and disappeared as we joined through the forbidden—a surrender to each other. All that existed was another abandoned barrier and the discovery of the unexplored.
Maybe it was the evening’s earlier anxious vulnerability, or perhaps the vulnerability of newly crossed boundaries, but I clung to her, losing myself in our Mobius strip across the king size bed. Clinging until the fire in my mouth finally demanded thirst quenching lips. I broke our kinetic weave and reversed direction. Eyes open, our mouths melded as I entered her, both of us moving in hungry harmony until our bodies exploded.
Later that night, much later, long after Boots fell asleep, I retreated to the living room. Her spectacular living room. I quietly turned the lone low easy chair toward the glass wall and sat staring down at the Charles.
The first time Boots invited me up, the view took my breath away. Despite believing, wrongly, that Hal had paid for it. The slow, handsome river, tree-lined park, bustling Storrow Drive, the sparkling nighttime city lights. The illusion of presiding over undulating motion or eerie quiet still delivered a jolt. From my perch in Boots’s living room, I could watch a soundless urban mambo as distinct as New England’s four seasons. This wasn’t the Big Apple where the core of the city might slow but never sleep. Boston kept hours.
And now Boston was asleep. Now there was nothing twinkling except my nerves and the city’s iconic CITGO sign, so I smoked more dope, sipped a small ‘Turkey neat, and unsuccessfully tried to sync my insides with the calm before my eyes.
Boots’s talk of television hadn’t washed away. Hell, I hadn’t felt like running from her apartment since dirt. At the same time, our lovemaking had blown a hole in the plastic bag I’d pictured covering my head. Now I had no idea what I felt.
“You look bummed.”
Boots’s voice surprised me and I turned to see her in the doorway wearing a gray silk robe. Her hair, free of the top-knot, covered one of her sleepy eyes but there was no mistaking the worry. She looked frightened and frail. I had no desire to talk about my fears, hopefully enough heart to assuage hers.
Boots walked behind my chair and stood looking over my head, her hands on my shoulders. “It’s very quiet out there, isn’t it?” she asked. “Even The Big Dig.”
I kept my eyes on all that quiet.
“When I woke up I got scared you went home.”
“Without my pants?”
“I wasn’t looking for your pants, I was reaching for you.”
“Well, you found me. My running days are over.” The second I said it my skin felt like tightly stretched tarp. “Especially when all I’m wearing is underwear,” I forced.
Boots sat down on the floor and leaned her head on my thigh. She started to speak, changed her mind, and wrapped an arm around my leg. I couldn’t tap my toe, much less run. I leaned over the low coffee table and lit two cigarettes. We sat silently smoking, the only noise in the sparse, Japanese accented room was the rustle when I’d pass the ashtray or run my free hand through her disheveled hair.
Maybe it was the time, the stillness, or the warmth of Boots’s tight fingers on my calf, but my nerves slowly quieted. I wanted to wipe the worry from her face, lessen the fear from her grip. “The problem with Lou is more than hurt feelings, Boots. If I’m wrong about Lauren it changes things between him and me. If I’m right, then I’m gonna watch him take a beating.”
A little of the tightness left her hand and Boots sighed as if making up her mind to say more about us. But I relaxed when she followed my lead.
“It doesn’t have to change anything between the two of you.”
“How am I supposed to act if he’s serious about her?”
“The way you always act. Like family.”
“I don’t want more family.”
“Does that include me?”
“You’re different.” I groped for words. “We’re different.”
“Maybe, maybe not, eh?”
I wasn’t going to allow her to leave town, even for a couple of
days, worrying about whether I’d be here when she returned. “No maybes about it, Boots,” I said, hoping it was true. “Whatever is going on with Lou has nothing to do with us.”
I didn’t know if it was true when I said it and, a couple of days into Boots’s troubleshooting trip for Verizon, it was still too close to call. Boots’s television talk had raised the stakes and our lovemaking called and doubled. When I got depressed, I generally stayed home, stayed stoned. This time I did stay home, but mostly straight, though my goddamn confusion drowned more than one good line from the movies I kept watching. The continual chitching almost seemed worse than completely surrendering. Still, I managed to nail a little luck during my mini-shutdown; Julius didn’t deliver any new treats.
It would have been difficult to juggle consumption with appetite if he had. Julie had come with the buildings and years ago, after feeling me out, offered to pay his rent with dope. He’d made it clear that dealing was not his main bag, though I’d never been able to pin down exactly what his “main bag” was. Then or now. No matter, at the time and throughout the succeeding years, I believed his offer one of my few gifts from the gods. These days, I was a little less certain the gift came from heaven—but not all that much.
By the time Lou called I was actually feeling better. I figured the tension in his tone reflected annoyance with my less than enthusiastic response toward Lauren. But once he pounded into my apartment, jacket in hand, I knew better.
“There’s no time for sitting,” he grunted at my gesture toward the enamel top kitchen table.
“What’s the matter?”
“I need a ride to pick up Lauren,” he replied curtly.
“No sweat.” I started to gather my carry-ons but he grabbed my arm.
“More tsouris,” he said taking a deep breath.
I shot him a sharp look.
“Nothing like the other night. Lauren’s car was broken into and she can’t drive it.”
“Where is she?”
“Here, in the city.”
I pocketed my cigarettes and grabbed my keys.
“Better wear a raincoat,” Lou said. “It’s pouring and supposed to get worse.”
Once he pointed it out, I heard the rain drumming against the house. I hadn’t noticed it earlier. I suppose I’d been more shut down than ‘mini.’
I pulled on my black and red baseball jacket, Boston cap, and led us out the alley door. We b-lined through the heavy rain to the B.M.W. and onto the street before I asked where we were headed. When he told me, I almost hit the brakes.
“What the fuck is she doing there this time of night?” There was a warehouse/gay nightclub/loft neighborhood, a short bridge from downtown. Although the area was “city” safe, non-cruising suburbanites usually stayed on the downtown side of the span.
“I didn’t ask,” Lou’s voice a mixture of anxiety and anger. “I was never convinced that just looking for ‘patterns’ made any sense,” he snapped.
“What are you talking about?” The rain was burgeoning into a late summer version of a Nor’easter, forcing me to keep my eyes on the road.
“What you told her to do about the stalking, dammit.”
“Whoa, Lou, Lauren said she felt watched. What makes you think this has any connection?”
“The woman feels followed then someone breaks into her car. What should I think?”
For a second I shared some of his fear then tossed it aside. “Attempted auto theft?”
Lou used his annoyance toward me as a carry for his anxiety. “What else would you say? You didn’t want to be bothered so you found an easy way to put her off.”
I resisted an impulse to jam the accelerator to the floor. “You’re overreacting. I’ve been less than gracious about Lauren and you’re right to be angry, but don’t let it affect your judgment. You’ve been to this neighborhood. We’re not talking a straight white man’s world.” I had my own questions about what Lauren was doing in that section of town, but wasn’t willing to add to his wrath.
My comment cooled him down and he squirmed into a more comfortable position. The wind rocked the car; the small wipers no match for the gusting rainfall. Magnificent lightning bolts streaked across the sky illuminating Boston’s storybook skyline as thunder crashed overhead.
I detoured twice to avoid street floods caused by overflowing sewers—the price paid for ancient systems held together with insufficient funds. Very few of our “no new taxers” lived in threatened neighborhoods.
Lou’s impatience jumped as we approached the bridge. “Lauren said it’s a couple blocks past The Wharf.”
“I know the place.” During my social work days I’d counseled a guy who desperately wanted to cross-dress. He could sing and dance so I hustled hard and scored an audition with a local act. Turned out he was terrific and landed a steady gig at The Wharf, a transvestite nightclub. My man assured me the absolute high point of his life was stripping off construction clothes and lip-synching Sinatra’s My Way until he got to his bra and panties. The Wharf was happy, the act went national, and I got real alcohol instead of tan water. Might have been the salad days of my social work career.
I turned onto A Street and spotted Lauren’s car. Couldn’t miss it. Hers was the one severely beaten about the head and legs. I heard Lou stifle a groan and saw Lauren emerge from a dark double doorway as I splashed toward the rear of her wreck. She was dressed in a pair of pleated chinos, blue work shirt, and a light khaki blazer. Her clothes were no protection against the hard wind and driving rain.
Lou squeezed out of the Bimmer before it rolled to a stop. He ran to Lauren’s side and pulled her toward my car. She resisted, shaking her head emphatically. I took my cigarettes and lighter from my pocket, placed them on the dash, and waded over. “How about the doorway?” I asked ending their disagreement.
The three of us leaned into the wet wind and sloshed to the semi-protected enclosure. Though the lightning and thunder had stopped, the storm continued to howl down the deserted street.
“I came for it and this is what I found,” Lauren said pointing at her car and shivering. Her full hair was reduced to sopping, twisted strings. Her face was shiny wet, streaks of makeup blotching her cheeks. And she still looked pretty.
I pushed the rain dripping from my cap away from my eyes, turned, and stared. So much for my guess about a Volvo. The ancient Toyota’s glass was shattered, the doors and fenders dented as if someone had used a metal baseball bat or lead pipe. The tires had been slashed so the car rested on its ankles. It looked like an interrupted torching, only torching had been out of fashion for a long, long while. These days destructors preferred bullets. As much I wanted to hold onto my skepticism, what I saw disturbed me.
“Wait here,” I commanded. I ran to the Toyota and dragged open the door. The seats had also been slashed and the dashboard ripped apart leaving the wire harness exposed. The cheap am/fm dangled close to the floor hanging by a fistful of colored tangled wires. I opened the glove compartment, saw it had been left undisturbed, and stood thinking, momentarily oblivious to the pelting rain.
I stood there too long because when I looked up Lou and Lauren were next to me.
“What is it, Matty?” Lou asked.
“It’s rain,” I smart-assed. “Let’s get into my car. This box isn’t going anywhere.”
While they both trotted toward the Bimmer I reached back inside Lauren’s wreck and grabbed everything from the glove compartment.
“Here,” I said. Lauren and Lou were crammed into the back seat and the inside of the B.M.W. felt humid and close. I cracked a window and lit a smoke from the pack on the dash.
“I’ve messed up your car again, haven’t I?” Lauren said. “This has been a hell of a way to get to know one and other.”
I turned to look at them and shrugged. “I hope you have insurance.”
Lauren waved it off. “It’s not worth the trouble. They’ll give me enough money to buy a roller skate.”
“Why didn’t you wait from
where you called?” Lou asked, still trying to shake excess water.
“I couldn’t let the car sit there all by itself.” She smiled wryly, “Sounds nuts, doesn’t it?”
“Of course not,” Lou reassured.
“Well, it wasn’t on order, I said. “Nobody wanted it for parts.”
“Just what I said on the way over,” Lou scowled. “Maybe now you’ll take Lauren seriously about being followed.”
“I said it wasn’t done for a chop-shop, Lou. It looks like the start of an old fashioned torching. Or the work of bashers who thought the owner was gay.” But underneath my blasé` I was bothered by the viciousness of the beating.
“Matty, the radio is still there,” Lou said, “and I saw you empty the glove compartment.”
Lauren watched me carefully as I stubbornly shook my head. “Someone might have interrupted the party.”
“Take it easy, honey,” Lauren said, turning to Lou. “This is Matt’s line of work. If he thinks it was gay bashers, it probably was. Anyway, since we talked about feeling followed, the feeling hasn’t returned. It was like going to the dentist.” Lauren’s laugh sounded natural, but her eyes were opaque.
Which goosed my professional conscience. “Maybe Lou’s right, Lauren. It doesn’t make sense to take chances. When we call the cops about the car we might as well tell them about what’s been going on.”
“No!” Lauren shook her head vehemently. “We’re not talking to the police about any of this.”
I leaned against the door and lit another cigarette. “Why not? You’ll need them for whatever couple of dollars you have coming.”
“To hell with the insurance. The car was dying on its own, and I need a new one anyway,” she sidetracked.
“Shainele, this may not be the best time for you to buy a new car,” Lou said surprised by her outburst.
“I’ll find the money, Lou.”
“Whatever you do about the car, Lauren,” I said, “why not tell the cops what you’ve been feeling?”
“Because it’s gone away,” Lauren retorted sharply. “There’s no reason to embarrass myself in front of people who will just think I’m crazy.”
The Complete Matt Jacob Series Page 88
