by Cynthia Sax
The men at the window chant to our rhythm, urging us onward. I dig my fingernails into Nicolas’s tanned shoulders, holding on to him, wishing a decent man, a staying man, could love a bad woman such as myself. It’s a futile fantasy. This is all I’ll ever have, one fast and furious encounter in the back of a limousine.
For now this is enough. Nicolas thrusts into me, using my body for his pleasure, wanting nothing more. A sheen of moisture covers him, slicking his skin. His chest flattens my breasts. His muscles flex under my palms. He’s a brute and, in this moment, mine.
I pant and he grunts, the sounds of sex filling the vehicle. The men’s chanting grows louder, Nicolas’s tempo increases, and my legs, thighs, everything, quivers, my pussy closing around his shaft.
“Nicolas, please.” I rake his back with my fingernails. “I need . . . I need . . .” I dangle over the edge of desire.
He drives into me, swivels his hips, grinding against my clit, and I scream, reaching out for him. I grasp air. Nicolas isn’t there. The space between my legs is empty. He’s not inside me, not on top of me. I fall down, down, down into the spinning vortex.
I JERK AWAKE, confused, disoriented. The room is semidark, illuminated only by the light from the bathroom, and silent except for my ragged breaths. I’m drenched with perspiration, my body shaking, the sense of being abandoned, being rejected adding to my unease.
I stare up at the ceiling. Nicolas can never know about my fascination with being watched, or he will reject me. He barely tolerated my cussing, and no man wants a pervert for a wife. Especially not a high-profile billionaire. I glance toward the window. The curtains remain closed. All I have to do is act normal, avoid temptation, and I’ll be safe.
Avoiding temptation includes avoiding a certain tattooed, leather-clad, motorcycle-riding former marine. Hawke is off-limits from now on. He can strut around his balcony naked all he wants. I won’t look at him or talk to him or let him touch me, with my lipstick container or anything else.
Certainly not with his impressive junk. I rub my thighs together, my arousal lingering from my dream and from memories of this morning’s obscene display.
My feelings are wrong and I refuse to touch myself, to give myself that satisfaction, punishing my body for its betrayal. Nicolas fits all of my criteria for a man. I’ve decided upon him. He deserves my loyalty, every ounce of my desire.
My lust gradually eases. I look at the digital clock on the nightstand. It’s one fifteen, not yet time for work, and I should fall back asleep, a dreamless sleep. I breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out. My heartbeat slows. I picture clear sky, vast expanses of the palest blue, and my thoughts fade into oblivion.
Chapter Six
“WHERE ARE YOU, Bee?” a voice sings, the words slurred. I groan and roll over, placing a pillow over my head. “You can’t hide from me.” Laughter pierces my makeshift earplug. “Hey, that rhymes. I’m a poet and I didn’t even know it.”
My bedroom’s wooden door slams against the metal doorstop. Flesh smacks drywall once, twice, three times. I sit upright and glare at the intruder. Light blinds me and I slap my hands over my eyes.
“There you are,” Cyndi calls out.
“You’re drunk.” I remove my hands. My inebriated friend stumbles toward me, a goofy grin plastered across her beautiful face. “And what the hell are you wearing?” She’s dressed in green plaid boxer shorts and a loose white tank top that barely contains her humongous breasts.
“Awww . . . don’t be mad at me, Bee.” Cyndi throws herself on top of me, smacking her forehead against my collarbone. “I love you.” She attempts to hug me, her arms tangling in the sheets. “You’re my bestest friend in the whole wide world.”
“I thought Angel was your bestest friend in the whole wide world.” I unwrap her fingers from the fabric.
“Angel is a bitch.” Cyndi holds one of her freed fingers up, her voice muffled, her face remaining buried in my chest. “They let her into R, and she left me. Outside. Alone.” She turns over, her hard head grinding into me. “Then she sent me a picture of Cole Travers. It was blurry and snapped from across the room, but he was there. Cole Travers was at R and I wasn’t.”
Angel is a bitch. Everyone knows Cole Travers is Cyndi’s favorite movie star. She’s been mooning over him since he arrived in town.
“Why doesn’t anyone like me?” Cyndi’s bottom lip trembles.
“Don’t be an idiot.” I push her away from me, guilt harshening my response. “Everyone loves you.”
“You don’t love me. You never go out with me anymore.” She rolls off the bed and lands with a splat on the floor.
I peer over the edge. She is sprawled over the hardwood, a mess but otherwise unharmed. “I’ll talk to Rainer tomorrow,” I tell her. “Then we’ll go to R on Friday to celebrate my full-time job.”
Cyndi’s eyes widen. “Promise?”
“Promise.”
“Pinkie promise.” She holds out her little finger.
It is covered with unidentifiable grime. Sucking up my disgust, I hook my pinkie around hers. “Pinkie promise.”
“He hates me, you know.” Cyndi doesn’t release my finger, her expression suddenly grave. “Rainer hates my whole fam-damily.” She lies flat on her back on the floor. “And my daddy hates him right back. With a burning passion.” She flings her arms out. “I don’t know why because shhh . . . it’s a secret.”
“Rainer allows you to live in one of his precious buildings. He can’t hate you.” I roll my eyes. My best buddy can be paranoid at times.
“He has to let us live here.” She scrunches up her face. “Daddy won’t tell me why.” Cyndi rocks onto her knees and props her chin on the edge of the bed next to mine. She must have been drinking fuzzy navels again. She smells of alcohol and peaches. “Do you love him?”
“Do I love your daddy?” I intentionally misunderstand her question. “He’s a bit old for me.”
“No, silly.” She laughs, jumping to her feet. “Do you love Rainer?” I don’t say anything because Cyndi has the remarkable ability to remember things she heard while drunk. I also don’t know how I feel about the billionaire. “You do!” She dances around the room, drawing her own conclusions. “You love him.”
She wiggles her butt to the window and tugs on the curtains. The rod drops to the floor, the white fabric spilling around her feet. Cyndi doesn’t notice the chaos she’s created. She presses her face against the glass. “Bee loves you, Rainer,” she yells into the closed window. “She wants to have your baby.”
My face heats. Thankfully the condos are soundproof. “Cyndi, you’re drunk.” I state the obvious. “Go to bed.”
“Yes, bed,” she squeals. She pivots and takes a running jump onto the bed. I brace myself for impact. Five foot four inches of curvy best friend slams into a much smaller, slighter me.
I grunt. “I meant go to your own bed.”
“I don’t like sleeping alone.” She burrows under the covers, kicking me with her freakishly cold feet. “Can’t I sleep here?” Cyndi flutters her eyelashes, giving me those big puppy-dog eyes that always work with men and sometimes work with me. She then spoils the effect by burping, the fumes causing me to cough. “It’ll be like Frosh Week. We partied all night, remember?”
I remember. I move to the right, giving her more space on the bed. Frosh Week feels like ages ago. All-night drunkfests and talking with random guys, knowing the relationship wouldn’t move past the flirting stage, no longer appeal to me. I gaze at my yawning best friend. Cyndi hasn’t changed at all. This could be part of our problem.
“If you marry Rainer, he’ll have to like me.” Her voice is soft, full of a yearning I understand. She wants everyone to like her, even her dad’s enemy. “You can marry him and I’ll marry that bird guy, the one with the motorcycle.”
That bird guy must be Hawke. The thought of Cyndi and Hawke meeting, talking, touching, makes me uncomfortable. I frown. No, what I’m feeling is much more than uncomfortable. Sh
it.
“Why are you wearing men’s underwear?” I change the subject, not wishing to explore my confusing emotions.
Cyndi smiles sleepily, her eyelids lowering. “I traded clothes with a guy I met.”
I blink. “Some guy is wearing your Hervé Léger minidress?”
Cyndi answers my question with a loud snore.
She traded clothes. I stare at the ceiling, stunned, shocked, outraged. This is a crime against fashion, a waste of fine couture. The dress was gorgeous, a functional work of art, and some cross-dressing stranger is wearing it. I’m so jealous I could spit.
I WAKE UP with the alarm ringing in my ears and the sun’s rays stretching across the bed. Slapping the snooze button stops the noise. It doesn’t stop the morning from arriving.
It has dawned an hour earlier today. I’m determined to arrive at work before Mr. Peterson does, showing him how very dedicated I am. He’ll have no doubts about giving me the full-time position.
“This job is mine.” I glare at the ceiling. Dru won’t take it away from me.
“You can have it,” Cyndi groans. She puts a pillow over her blonde head and promptly falls back asleep, snoring louder than an allergy-stricken lion.
She can snooze. Her dad owns the company she works for. I don’t have that luxury. I drag my sleep-deprived ass out of the bed and glower at the bare windows. Friendly will be happy. Thanks to Cyndi, I’ve left my curtains open.
I pull the chair away from the dainty vanity, grab one side of the curtain rod, and rise to the tips of my toes. My fingers don’t reach the ceiling. I flick the white-painted piece of metal upward. It catches on the bracket and holds. When I try to do the same with the other side, the entire rod falls down. After three more failed attempts, I determine this is a two-woman job. “Cyndi.”
“Go away.” She waves one of her hands in the air.
“I’ll go away after you help me fix the curtains.” I grab her wrist and pull her out of the bed. She glowers at me, looking more adorable than a hungover friend should look. Maybe if she looked like hell after a drunkfest, she’d stay home more often, keeping me company.
“Stand there.” I direct her to the chair. “And hold this.” I hand her one end of the curtain rod.
I search for something to stand on. The hope chest looks serviceable. I drag it toward the window, leaving groove lines in the hardwood, and I step gingerly on the flat white wooden top.
“You’ll break it,” Cyndi warns. “I doubt it’s real wood.”
“I won’t break it. I’m light,” I reply, hoping I’m right. If the chest is half as expensive as it looks, I can’t afford to replace it. “Let’s do this.”
We lift the curtain rod, my muscles straining under the weight of the thick fabric. It takes us a couple of minutes, and a few failed attempts, to align the rod properly. Finally, it clicks into place.
“We did it,” Cyndi declares triumphantly. Her loose white tank top has shifted during the process, revealing her entire left breast, nipple and everything.
“Is this a good time to tell you that your boob is hanging out?” I tease.
Cyndi yanks on her top. “Is this a good time to tell you that both your camisole and your boy shorts are transparent?”
“What?” I stare down at my chest, horrified. She’s right. My nipples show through the worn cotton. “Oh my God.”
“Relax,” she scoffs. “It’s not like anyone is watching us.”
Someone could be watching us. I jump to the floor and peek between the curtains. Nicolas sits in his regular spot in the tiny park, his papers and electronics arranged around him, his handsome head bent over a tablet. He appears completely unaware of the activities in three eleven south.
This appearance could be deceiving. There are cameras positioned all around the buildings. I chew on the inside of my cheek. The video feed could be streamed to his tablet. He could be watching me as I watch him.
He doesn’t leave anything to chance. That’s what he told me.
“I’m going back to bed.” Cyndi shuffles past me and falls facedown into the mattress. I don’t know why she has a bed of her own. She never uses it.
I wait until she snores, and then I glance out the window once more. This morning, Nicolas’s suit is black, his shirt is white with a hint of gray pinstripes, and his tie is a deep charcoal. He turns his head slightly toward me, and I hold my breath. He doesn’t look upward. I exhale, my shoulders lowering. A small smile softens his hard face. His fingers fly over his screen. Despite the additional stack of papers beside him, more work having been added to his already full day, he appears excited, almost happy.
He must be my mysterious texter.
But why would he want me to leave my curtains open? Was he trying to trick me? He’d tricked me in my dream last night, demanding I do something no good girl would do, and then punishing me for obeying him. This could have been a similar type of test.
Or Nicolas could be the man I’ve been yearning for, a stable man who wants his wife to be a good girl in public and a naughty girl in private. I flutter the edge of the curtain against my chin. I could have it all, safety and passion, a husband and a lover.
Light flashes from the north tower. Maybe the texter wasn’t Nicolas at all. I lift my gaze to three eleven north. A man stands on the balcony. I can’t make out the details of his face, can’t verify the shadowy marks on his chest. The distance is too far. But I know it’s Hawke, watching me as I watch him.
My nipples pucker, my arousal sudden and strong, shocking me. I should look away, stay true to the vows I made to myself. I certainly shouldn’t encourage him or indulge this foolish fascination I have for bad boys. My gaze lowers. Hawke’s groin is obscured by the balcony’s railing and I can’t see his cock, but I suspect he’s naked again. I see no trace of clothing.
Is he hard? Did he like what he saw this morning? I skim my tongue over my lips. Hawke is using his binoculars. He would have seen every detail of my body, the outline of my nipples through my camisole, the lace of my G-string panties through my boy shorts.
My panties are black this morning, flimsy and feminine, revealing the private side of me, a part of myself I rarely show to others. The lace barely conceals my mons, the ribbons sliding between my ass cheeks.
Hawke has seen this part of me, more than once, but it doesn’t matter. Lifting my chin, I stare across the park. When he leaves, and he will leave, he’ll take this naughty knowledge with him. Nicolas will see only the virginal white bikini briefs, the granny panties, as Cyndi calls them. Those are the type of panties I wear on dates. Those are the type of panties I’ll wear for the rest of my life, plain, boring, safe.
A sigh escapes my lips.
I close the curtains and walk away from temptation, going through my morning ritual, showering, drying my hair, dressing, as Cyndi sleeps. I wear a charcoal gray sleeveless sheath dress, the hem adjusted to match the length of the dresses in the Calvin Klein ads. This dress is paired with my imitation Louboutins. My hair is slicked back into a tight ponytail, my makeup minimal. I appear stylish and sophisticated yet proper and refined.
“Not the Mini-Me Crypt Keeper outfit again,” Cyndi mutters from the bed. “Would it kill you to wear some color? Even Rainer, your priggish boyfriend, mixes it up a bit.”
“Rainer is not my boyfriend, and I do mix it up.” I reluctantly place the strap of my beat-up purse over my shoulders. It now hangs around my right hip, the way the original was worn by the much taller Ralph Lauren models. “I wore a pink blouse on Tuesday.”
“Pale pink isn’t a color.” Cyndi staggers toward the bathroom. “Bright pink is a color.” The door closes. Water runs, drowning out her mumbling.
Color is almost impossible for the fashion pirates to faithfully duplicate. I wander into the main room, searching for something to eat. Tara, my high school tormenter, had taught me that lesson.
When I was a freshman, my mom bought me a red leather belt from a discount store. I loved that belt . . . until I
wore it to school. Tara spotted the knockoff from the far end of the hallway, bringing its cheap design to everyone’s attention, loudly pointing out the lack of a label, the cheesy faux leather, the already peeling gold paint on the plastic buckle.
I rummage through the fridge. At the end of that long, humiliating day, I vowed to never again wear a knockoff in a bright color. I lift my left heel. The red soles of my imitation Louboutins don’t count. No one can spot the bottom of a shoe from the far end of a hallway.
I grab half of a bagel, hesitate, and then grab another half, tossing both of them into the blue enamel toaster. Cyndi will be hungry. She always is after one of her wild nights. I tap my blunt, plainly polished fingernails on the countertop, ignoring the windows and the telescope.
Does Hawke have a job, or does he strut around his balcony naked all day? My dad had a job . . . for a while. He was a mechanic at the sole auto shop in town. He’d been there a week when he had that fateful one-night stand with my mom. He stayed there for two and a half months in total, leaving the night she told him about me.
He never came back. He knew where we were. He simply didn’t care enough about my mom, about me. The bagel pops out of the toaster. I spread cream cheese on both of the halves, place raspberries on mine. I like a bit of tartness. Cyndi gets her customary sliced strawberries, her sweet tooth inherited from her dad.
All my dad left me was a lesson on the types of men to avoid. I glance toward the window, toward one of the men I should be avoiding, and I bite into the bagel, eating standing up. Cyndi doesn’t emerge from my bathroom.
I can’t wait for her. She could linger in the shower for hours. I pop the last bite into my mouth. Unlike my roommate, I have to arrive at work on time, prove my commitment to Mr. Peterson. I brush a crumb off my chest. My list of initiatives has been printed, ready to be discussed with my boss.
