For A Good Time, Call...

by Gadziala, Jessica

  “Oh, god,” I ground out as I felt my muscles grab him once before spasming with my orgasm, falling forward on his chest.

  His hands went to my hips, holding me still as he slammed into me a few more times, his fingertips bruising into my skin as he came.

  I took a deep breath that broke off on a fit of giggles. “Well that gives a new meaning to mixing business with pleasure,” I said against his neck.

  His hands patted my ass, then squeezed. “You job leaves a lot of room for office nookie,” he murmured.

  “Nookie?” I asked, pushing up to look down at his face, my hair falling forward to curtain us. “Did you just say... nookie?”

  “Hey not everyone has a filthy mouth like yours.”

  “You like my filthy mouth,” I said, leaning down and biting his lower lip.

  “Fuck yeah I do,” he agreed. “As soon as I have some strength back, I am going to bury my cock in there again.”

  “Mmm,” I said, slowly licking my lips.

  Hunter cursed and half-laughed. “You're killing me, woman.”

  “Hey, you initiated it this time,” I said, sitting up and looking down at him. I was never going to get used to the sight of him. Flawless. He was truly a flawless male specimen.

  “What?” he asked, his hands moving up and down the sides of my thighs.

  “Nothin',” I said coyly, leaning back on his thighs as he brought them up behind me.

  “Tell me,” he said, squinting his eyes at me.

  I shrugged a shoulder. “You're pretty,” I said, smiling.

  “Pretty?” he asked, rolling his eyes.

  “Yes, very. Like... it's unfair.”

  He shrugged. “You're prettier. Stunning actually.”

  “Oh, stop,” I said. But I didn't mean it. I would never get enough of hearing it. From him.

  He rose up toward me, planting a kiss between my breasts and wrapping his arms around my back. “Never,” he said, with feeling.

  I slid upward, off of him, putting my weak legs on the floor.

  “Get back here,” he said reaching for me.

  I dodged away from his arms. “Nuh uh,” I said, finding the t-shirt and pants I had discarded three days ago. “I need to go and shower and change...”

  “I can help you soap up,” he suggested, putting his feet on the floor as he watched me.

  “You told me that you have work later today,” I reminded him.

  “I'll cancel,” he said immediately.

  “No, don't,” I said, laughing. He meant it. He would have canceled his client for me without thought. “You go to work. I will catch up on some... work...”

  “You mean filling panty sniffer orders,” he smiled. “That business is going to suffer.”

  “Why?” I asked, my brows drawing together.

  “Because I plan to keep you naked pretty much all the time,” he said nonchalantly.

  I pulled my shirt down, stooping to grab my bra and panties, then walked over, kissing the top of his head. He smelt like him. Sawdust. Soap. Even though he hadn't been near either all day. His arms went around the back of my legs, pulling me against him. His face planted in my chest as I stroked his hair.

  It was silly, but it almost felt like goodbye. I was irrationally scared that if I walked out of that room, out of his apartment, that we would lose what we had found. That it could never be the same again. So I leaned forward into him, letting my arms encircle his body. Trying to hold on just a moment longer.

  I took a deep breath, stepping away. “You get some work done,” I said. “and I'll get some work done. And then...”

  “And then,” he agreed.

  “My apartment?” I asked.

  “Chinese,” he added.

  “Sounds good,” I agreed, leaning down for a quick kiss before turning and walking away. Before I could think better of it and run back into his arms.

  I felt different. Which was a total teenager thing to say. But that was how I felt. Different. Like myself, but improved. Happier. Lighter. I closed his front door behind me, leaning against it for a moment.

  Hours, I reminded myself, it would only be a few hours before I saw him again.

  I was being ridiculous. I was a strong, independent woman. It was unacceptable to bemoan a few hours on my own. I took a deep breath and moved the couple feet toward my own door, slipping my keys into the locks.

  I closed the door behind me, kicking out of my shoes and walking into my living room.

  “You really do bring shame to our family,” a voice said, making me move back a step, a hand flying to my chest. But it wasn't him. It wasn't my father. My eyes shot up, finding eyes as green as mine.

  “Isaiah,” I hissed out his name like a curse. “How the hell did you get in here?”

  He looked older than I remembered him. Two years older than me only, but hardened. His blonde hair was short but choppy from cutting it with the edge of a knife. His skin was darker than mine, a bit ruddy in the cheeks. There were lines next to his eyes, etching deep from hours spent squinting in the sun, squinting at bible verses.

  “I picked the locks,” he shrugged.

  “What a regular criminal you have turned out to be,” I said, holding my phone tight in my hand. I could call the police if it got messy. But they would take too long. Better to scream. Hunter would charge over in a heartbeat. I took comfort at that.

  “At least I'm not a harlot,” he seethed, his eyes dropping down to my hand.

  “What's the matter,” I started, holding up my hand. “never seen a bra or panties before? Still not married? Cant find someone to put up with your particular kind of perversion? Or,” I said, feeling downright empowered around him for the first time in my entire life. “are you and your father sharing a more than familial bond out there all alone in the woods?”

  “Don't be disgusting,” he said, looking like he was going to spring off of the couch and throttle me. But he knew he no longer had that power.

  I dropped my bra and panties on the floor, leaning back against the wall. “Never could get out from under his thumb, could you Isaiah?”

  There was a flash of something in his face, something that was gone too soon for me to analyze. “Not everyone is as ungrateful as you, Fiona Mary.”

  I felt myself smile, shaking my head. “It's hard to be grateful for beatings and mutilation.”

  “Discipline,” he countered.

  “Child abuse,” I shot back.

  “Where did you get ideas like this?” he asked.

  “From the real world, Isaiah,” I said, almost feeling sorry for him, waving a hand out. “not some isolated shack in the woods so cut-off from everything else that we couldn't even know how we were being abused. It is sick what we accepted as normal.”

  “Godly,” he objected.

  “God, or more accurately, the counsel men who decided what to put in the Bible,” I said, rolling my eyes. “said a lot of things father skimmed over. Did you ever notice that? We didn't keep slaves. He didn't insist Mom be silent at all times or else he would put her to death. He didn't go out on the town and kill the homosexuals.”

  “Because it's illegal,” he said.

  “It's illegal for a reason. Because its wrong to have slaves. It's wrong to kill your wife. It's wrong to kill gay people. And it is just as fucking wrong to carve up your daughter. It's just as wrong to deny me an education.”

  “You seemed to manage well enough,” he said, ignoring everything else I said.

  “Yeah,” I said, raising my chin. “I have my mother to thank for that.”

  “Mother?” he asked, sitting forward, looking suddenly interested. “Mother taught you to read?” He said it with almost wonder. Like maybe he had never even considered that our meek, submissive mother would be able to defy our father.

  “Every day when you went out into the woods we would sit on the floor and work on letters and, later, basic math. Because she knew I was going to g
et out of there one day... like she always wanted to, and that I would need to be prepared.”

  “Mother was happy with Father,” Isaiah insisted, but it didn't have the edge to it that it usually did.

  “Mom cried every single night after our father went to sleep. And then she killed herself, Isaiah.”

  “That was because you...”

  “No,” I said, shaking my head sadly. Because it was useless to be angry with someone when they were so brainwashed. “Mom didn't kill herself because she was ashamed of me. Mom killed herself because she no longer needed to protect me. I was free. So then she got free.”

  “She's in hell for it,” Isaiah said firmly. Some sins couldn't be forgiven.

  “Yeah, well, maybe she prefers it there,” I said and his face shot to mine like I had struck him. I took a breath. “Why are you here, Isaiah? You obviously didn't want to come here to have an argument with me about religion and our shitty upbringing.”

  “No,” he agreed, scrubbing his hands over his face. “Father is sick.”

  Good. That was the first thought that came to my mind and I felt like an awful human being for it. It was petty an vengeful to wish someone unwell. But I couldn't ever bring myself, allow myself, to feel bad for him. “And?”

  “No, Fiona Mary... he's in the hospital, looking more and more frail by the minute. It's cancer.”

  I hated that word. Everyone hated that word. It was ugly and cruel and unforgiving. Three words that also described my father. “How long does he have?”

  “Days, weeks maybe,” he said. “they say it is advanced bone cancer. It must have went undetected for years.”

  “Yeah because he refused to see a doctor,” I said. Because you didn't mess with God's will. “Is he refusing treatment now?”

  “Yes. He's half delirious with pain all the time.”

  “Okay,” I said, setting my phone and keys down. “Thanks for telling me. You don't have to come again when he dies... just send me a letter.”

  Isaiah looked up like I had struck him. “You cant be that cold.”

  “I can,” I said. “I am. Maybe it's from not knowing my mother, the only person I ever loved... the only person that ever loved me, died. Split to pieces in the woods while I fought over food to stay alive. That might have something to do with me not needing to fall into nineteen-fifites dramatics over this.”

  “He wants to see you,” Isaiah tried again.

  “To see how many more insults he can hurl at me before he finally croaks?”

  “For goodness sakes, Fiona Mary, it is his dying wish,” he said, getting to his feet. “Would it kill you to take a day our of your busy little life in this godforsaken place to just... come for five minutes and say goodbye?”

  More like: I hope you rot in hell you evil fucking bastard.

  “He's at Saint Mary's hospital. Room three-fifteen.”

  “Ironic isn't that?” I asked as he reached for my door.

  “What?” he asked, looking over his shoulder at me.

  “For someone who hates women so much to be put in three-fifteen?” At his confused look, I smiled. “ 'She is more precious than rubies, and all the things thou canst desire are not to be compared to her.' ”

  “Proverbs?” he asked, like maybe he had thought all of those words had just been cleared from my mind like an etch-a-sketch.

  “I'm sure that didn't escape his notice.”

  “No,” Isaiah said, shaking his head. “I think it might be why he wanted to see you,” he said, opening the door and jumping back a step.

  Because there standing in the hallway was my big, scary, hulking, sexy, dangerous neighbor. He was staring at Isaiah for a long minute, his eyes landing on Isaiah's with a look of realization on his face. He glanced over my brother's shoulder at me. “You alright, Sixteen?” he asked.

  “Hunter,” I said, trying to keep my calm. “this is my brother Isaiah. Isaiah this is Hunter.” Hunter inclined his head at my brother, typical macho man type greeting, then looked back over at me. After a second, Isaiah's eyes followed. Both of them looking at me like I had all the answers. “Isaiah was just leaving,” I said and saw a look of relief on my brother's face. Hunter paused for a minute then moved out of the way and I heard Isaiah shuffle quickly down the hall.

  “What the fuck, Fee?” Hunter asked, stepping inside my apartment and closing the door. “I didn't think you were in contact.”

  I walked into the kitchen, suddenly in dire need of some coffee. Or maybe just something to do to settle my nerves. “We're not,” I said, moving around the room. “When I got this place, my grandmother somehow got mail sent to her about it. So I got a letter from here that pretty much just blackmailed me into calling her every Sunday.”

  “Or what?” Hunter asked, sounding angrier than I probably ever was about it.

  “Or she would give my father and brother my address.”

  “Well I guess you aren't making any more Sunday phone calls,” he said, watching me like I was about to burst into a million pieces.

  That was true. I hadn't even thought of that. No more slinking down dark alleys. No more paying people to interrupt my call early. No more nights trying to drown myself into oblivion. That part of my life was over. My father would be dead soon. My brother wasn't the threat I had feared he would be. So she had nothing on me.

  “My father is dying,” I said, watching the fist drops of coffee drip into the pot.

  “Good riddance to bad rubbish,” he said, his tone cold. I actually felt cold hearing it. I turned to him, my brows drawn low, my arms crossed under my chest. “I'm sorry. Was that not true?” he asked, shaking his head. “He's a miserable piece of shit who should have spent the last thirteen years rotting in a cell for what he did to you. I'm glad he's dying. And I hope it hurts like hell.”

  “Hunter...” I said, at war with myself. Part of me felt almost offended though I knew he was right. He was absolutely right. But the other part felt nothing but warmth. Warmth at the fact that he cared enough to be mad for me, be spiteful for me. “You don't need to be angry for me,” I said, walking over to him and wrapping my arms around his middle, resting my face against his shirt.

  There was a long exhale of breath on the top of my head before his arms went around me, pulling me close, and crushing me to his chest. “Okay,” he said, kissing the top of my head. “So how was the reunion? I think I heard some yelling.”

  “Oh we discussed religion and our mother's suicide and the difference between discipline and child abuse.”

  “I'm assuming that didn't go over well.”

  “You know... it was weird. He didn't fight me like I expected him to. Like my father would have done. And he was always my father's little protege.”

  “Maybe he's just worked up about your father being... sick? I assume he's sick.”

  “Cancer,” I agreed. “they said he maybe has days.”

  Hunter took a deep breath and I felt him tense, like he was going to say something and he needed strength to do it. “Fee... maybe you should go.”

  “What?” I said, pulling against his arms, but they only held me tighter. “You think it would be what? Kind? To fulfill his final wishes?” I struggled harder to no avail. His arms were like weights around me. “Fucking let me go, Hunter.”

  “No, listen,” he said, his tone infuriatingly reasonable. “This isn't about him. Fuck him. This is about you.”

  “What about me?” I asked, not quite believing that this was the same guy who had just told me he hopes my father dies in agony a few minutes ago. I had never met someone so all over the place in my whole life.

  “It's just... you're doing better, Fee,” he said, letting me go enough so that I could look up at him. One of his hands reached up briefly to touch my cheek. “You're doing so much better. You're not cutting. You haven't been drunk in days. You're sleeping. At night. Like the rest of the world. You're doing so much better and I think it's because you are dealing
with your past, facing it, sharing it... instead of bottling it up and taking it out on yourself in private.”

  I didn't want to tell him that the only reason I was doing better was because of him. Because he was there to accept all my damage. Because he was there to keep me safe from myself. Because he was there, when all other things had failed, to fuck me into an exhausted sleep.

  I couldn't tell him that. It was too much. It was too dependent. It was too needy. I wasn't going to let myself be that girl. At least not outwardly.

  “So your answer is to throw me right back into the situations that caused me to cut and drink and be afraid of the dark...”

  “No,” he said, letting me go finally. “Because this is different. You're not ten years old anymore, Fee. You're not a helpless, brainwashed kid. And he's not your father. He's just a man. A deeply disturbed, worthless pile of flesh. You're everything. You're the fucking sun and stars and moon. So you should go there. And you should face him. And you should tell him that no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't break you. Because I think you need that. I think you need him to know that you're not his whipping boy anymore. That he didn't win.”

  He was right. As much as I wouldn't let myself think that before, he was right. I did need that. I needed that closure. I needed to give him a none-too-subtle “fuck you” before I wouldn't have the chance to again. He didn't deserve peace. He didn't deserve to leave this life thinking he did good, that he was a man of God, that he lived a righteous life. He needed to know he was wrong. That he had sinned against the God he had devoted his life to by abusing me and our mother and, in a lot of ways, Isaiah as well. And then, if he felt the need, he could repent.

  It wouldn't do him any good. Not in my eyes. There are some things that you do in life that can never be forgiven. There are some cuts that are too deep to heal. And I wasn't going to tell him I forgave him. I wasn't going to brush it under the rug.

  God could forgive him. Not me.

  “What's up, Fee?” he asked, watching me as I leaned against the counter.

  “I know I need to go,” I said, shaking my head. “but I really, really don't want to.”