by Dawn Steele
BURN
WET
She is cold, wet, hungry, and miserable.
She huddles by the brownstone walls of the tenement building, her arms wrapped around her thin body as the New York City rain pelts down and sideways, and the wind whips and howls through the street. Wet leaves and sodden debris scuttle past her. Her jacket is soaked through. The material is hardly enough to keep her warm in the dipping temperature.
Her thigh muscles ache from having run so fast. She is now in an unfamiliar part of town, not that New York City is familiar to her. She has just gotten off the bus at Port Authority, and her first day here has been shot to hell.
She has no idea where she has ended up. All she wants is to get out of the rain and cold.
But she has no more money, courtesy of those street thugs back there. She has no wallet and no spare change. Her cellphone too has been stolen. Her stomach hurts something awful. It’s her gastritis, acting up again. She has to eat something soon or keel over with heartburn.
She sees an alcove with a doorway and huddles under its meager shade. The rain angles in and pelts her, so its sanctuary is not much comfort. But at least she can rest here and gather her energy, or what’s left of it.
Her knees buckle with fatigue. She slides down against the wall and sits there on the wet ground. Her head droops. She’s tired. So tired.
She has hardly had any sleep during the bus ride. But her nerves are fraught with anxiety, and every time she closes her eyes, she imagines someone will come for her if she isn’t on the alert. Someone will close his hand over her shoulder and say:
“What have you done now, Abby Holt? You are in so, so much trouble.”
She sits up, startled, and then realizes it is just a daydream. She relaxes – as much as someone can relax while being exposed to this weather. Finally, she dozes off, unable to fight sleep. She has been fighting too much lately and her body is screaming at her to rest.
“Miss?” says a male voice in her dreams. “Miss, are you all right?”
She jerks herself awake again and opens her bleary eyes. Her body shivers violently.
A man is standing there at the doorway, staring intently down at her. In the dark, he is silhouetted by the streetlamps beyond. His yellow parka glistens with raindrops. He is very tall, and his shadow covers her huddled body like a shroud.
“Sorry,” she says, trying to stand up. Her legs feel frozen.
“Are you all right?”
No, she isn’t all right.
“Y-yes,” she says. An awful cramp assails her lower limbs, and her stomach squeaks out another burning protest.
“You don’t look all right.” The man’s voice is deep, and yet it sounds young. She reckons he may be a student or something. “Would you like to come in while I call you a cab? You’re freezing.”
“No thanks. I’ll be going off soon.”
She tries to stand up again, but falls to the ground in a heap.
“Shit,” he says.
Her mind is in a semi-glazed fugue as she feels his arms scooping her up. His parka is damp and shiny, but his body warmth still permeates through the layers of clothing to heat up her skin. She wants to say “No” again, but she is too tired. She can feel his breath on her hair, and he smells of good, clean water.
She lets him carry her in his arms through the door, which opens to reveal a brightly lit hallway. She vaguely takes in her surroundings – a stairway, bannisters, cream walls – as he carries her up and up and up. Then she closes her heavy eyelids again and surrenders her fate to him.
*
The apartment lounge is warm. This is the first thing she notices as her chilled skin begins to flush with the sudden change of temperature. She is seated on a battered brown couch with a slash sticky tape covering one armrest.
The man who has carried her inside sheds his wet parka.
“You want to take off your wet clothes? You’re going to catch pneumonia this way,” he says.
In the ceiling light, she has a good look at him – a really good look at him for the first time.
He is a young man of about twenty . . . twenty-one, thereabouts. Handsome. No, he is much more than handsome. In fact, he is someone she might describe as extraordinarily beautiful.
He has large eyes that are mud-green in the yellow light. They swirl enchantingly with highlights of other colors: blue, red, gold, purple. His hair is chestnut brown and slightly shaggy. He is lean and very tall. His fine boned features are not perfect, but they lend his face a startling contrast of sharply delineated lines that are very arresting to gaze upon. His is a face that you would look at twice and linger, studying every nuance on it with great scrutiny.
He wears a simple white T-shirt and jeans underneath his parka. His hair is wet at his forelocks but dry at the back and sides as a result of his parka’s hood.
Shaking off her bedazzlement, she takes in the rest of her surroundings. The apartment has large glass windows that are currently dark with night, but would have allowed in plenty of light during the day. There are no curtains. Outside, the rain patters on, the drops of water lit by the golden haloes of the street lamps.
Scattered everywhere are canvasses and easels and paint pots and brushes. Some of the canvasses are half-completed. They swirl with colors and impressions of half-scenes. A pungent smell of turpentine permeates the air, causing her nose to twitch slightly. The floor is linoleum, and covered with a large plastic tarp.
There does not appear to be much furniture, except for a single white table and two mismatched chairs near a tiny kitchenette where a kettle, a small refrigerator and a smaller stove reside.
The man comes over and bends down to peer at her face.
“You don’t look too good,” he pronounces with concern. “I’ll call a doctor.”
“No,” she says quickly. “No doctors. I’m all right. I’m just a little tired.”
“I have a robe if you want to dry your clothes. You can borrow one of my T-shirts as well. The bathroom is over there.” He points to a half-open door. “You really need to get out of those clothes.”
“All right,” she says in a small voice.
He pauses, as if contemplating something. “Don’t worry. I’m not dangerous or anything. I’m not going to touch you. I just want to help. My name is Devon. What’s yours?”
“Abby,” she says in a daze.
It’s a reflex. Was that so wise? Perhaps she shouldn’t have given him her real name. But she will be out of here soon, and it won’t matter. She hopes.
“Come with me, Abby. I’ll get you some clothes. Can you walk? Are you on . . . something?” His green eyes are dubious again. Perhaps he is afraid she would OD right in his apartment.
“No, I’m not on anything. I’m just hungry.”
“When is the last time you ate?”
“I can’t remember.”
“Wait here.”
He vanishes into a room which she presumes is the bedroom, and returns a minute later with a T-shirt and a pair of baggy shorts.
“I don’t know if these will fit you, but you can try them on,” he says.
“Thanks.”
She takes them. He eyes her expectantly as she stands on her feet, wobbling slightly. He catches hold of her arms before she can teeter and fall.
“You are not well,” he says. “I will call a doctor. There’s one at the twenty-four hour clinic two blocks down.”
“No,” she says forcefully. “No doctors. I’m all right. I just need to lie down for a while.”
“You can lie down on my bed. Come.”
He shepherds her slowly with her arm draped around his shoulders to the one bedroom beyond the lounge. As with the lounge, the bedroom is spartan and uncluttered. The walls are done in white, but there is evidence of mold on the ceiling. A double bed is set against the unadorned wall. He gingerly lays her on this.
She falls weakly upon the mattress. The bedclothes are a faded off-white and worn with repeated washings.
“Abb
y,” he says gently, “I’m going to take off your clothes, OK? I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to get you warm.”
“OK,” she mumbles. He’s so afraid to appear improper that she allows herself a secret smile. Of all the good Samaritans she ended up with, he could have been much, much worse.
She allows him to tug her sodden jacket off her arms, and then her T-shirt above her head. She wears a thin white bra underneath.
“Oh my God, you’re hurt,” he exclaims, as she knew he would.
“It’s nothing. Just a flesh wound.”
Her thin arms are covered with old scratches and yellowing bruises. And on her palms are healing weals, which are just beginning to form scar tissue. The pain from the burns has faded into a nondescript numbness that make her hands feel like cotton balls.
“Did someone hurt you?” he demands.
“N-no.”
“Abby, are you running away from someone? Something?”
“No,” she says stubbornly.
If only it were that easy. If only he knew the truth . . . then he wouldn’t look at her in quite the same way he is gazing at her now – with total concern and outrage that someone has done this to her.
He pauses to compose himself, and then he proceeds to unbutton her jeans. She is very aware of his large, warm hands as they hook her jeans downward and off her thin legs. Her panties match her brassiere, and he covers her with his blanket, never taking his eyes off her face.
She wishes she weren’t quite so thin and unattractive in the presence of this beautiful boy, who clearly does not find her sexually alluring. But sex should be the last thing on her mind, she tells herself. Her survival should be paramount.
“I was mugged,” she offers as an explanation. It is the truth. Well, part of it anyway.
“When? Where?”
“A couple of hours ago. They took my purse.”
She remembers the three thugs who accosted her near Port Authority. They slammed her against a wall in a back alley and took her purse. She didn’t put up a fight. But the bruises did not come from their rough dealings, merely her current woebegone helplessness. And then the rain came and washed everything away.
“We should go to the police,” he says.
She shakes her head and lowers her eyes. She doesn’t want to look at him. She is too ashamed.
He sits by the bedside for a long, long while, complex emotions flitting across his face. Then he says, “I’m going to make you a sandwich. Then I’ll have to go out again. Will you be all right here on your own?”
He’s hesitant. Perhaps he thinks she may steal something while he’s away. And why not? She is a total stranger and he doesn’t know her from Adam.
But he doesn’t withdraw his offer.
“Yes,” she says in a small voice.
He nods and leaves the bedroom. He returns several minutes later with a glass of cold milk and a mayonnaise sandwich on a plate.
“It’s all I have in the fridge,” he says with a rueful smile. “I’m not too good with keeping up with my grocery shopping.”
He watches her while she bites into the sandwich hungrily.
“Do you live here alone?” she asks.
“Yes. I don’t think anyone would want to be roomies with me with the current state my apartment is in.” He laughs.
“Are you an artist?”
“Yes.”
“Are you famous?”
He laughs again. He has a vivid laugh, rich and full of baritone. “I wish. I’m barely surviving.”
She nods and finishes the last crumbs of her sandwich.
“Do you want some more?” he says.
“No.” The burn of the stomach acids is appeased for the moment. But it will come again, she knows. She quickly downs the glass of milk.
“Good, because I don’t have any bread left. I’ll get some more when I come back.”
“When will you be back?”
He hesitates again, perhaps gauging what to tell a stranger.
“Tomorrow morning, perhaps. But you’ll be all right here. Do you have someplace to go?”
“No.”
“How old are you anyway?”
“Twenty,” she lies.
He eyes her skeptically. “You don’t look twenty. You sure you’re twenty?”
She nods.
He sighs, aware that he is not going to get the truth out of her tonight. Then he gets up. “I’ve got to go. Just get some sleep. It’s safe here, and I’ll be back tomorrow with some food. What do you like? Peanut butter? Oreos? Minute rice?”
“Sounds good.”
“Don’t mind if I change in here?”
It’s your room, she wants to say, but doesn’t for fear of sounding trite in the face of his kindness. It’s funny for him to be tiptoeing around her like this. But he’s probably as wary of her as she is of him, two strangers thrown together by unique circumstances.
He turns his back on her and opens his closet doors. He then peels off his white T-shirt and jeans. She can see the interplay of muscles on his magnificent back, covered by his golden skin. His torso narrows fetchingly into ‘snake’ hips. He wears Y-fronts, but nothing else underneath. He quickly puts on a black sleeveless shirt with snaps instead of buttons down its front and a pair of black jeans.
When he turns to her, she can see how nicely his arm muscles are defined. She wonders if he is going clubbing. He is certainly dressed for it. Perhaps he is meeting his girlfriend. A part of her brain goes fuzzy with disappointment at that thought, but she brushes it aside.
She doesn’t ask him anything and he doesn’t volunteer information.
“I’ll see you,” he remarks, a little shyly. His large eyes are framed by the longest lashes, she notices.
“Thank you, Devon,” she says, smiling weakly.
“Don’t let anyone in,” he warns as he exits.
She hears him shut the door outside and lock it.
She lies there for five minutes before making herself sit up. Her head spins a little, but she arrests herself. Then she hops out of bed to rifle in his bedside cabinet drawers. There is no spare cash. A cheap leather-strapped watch, but nothing of value. She looks under his bed. There are dust-covered suitcases, and they are empty.
Does she really want to rob him when he has been so kind to her? She’s desperate, but not desperate enough to do this to him. Besides, she has no place to go and whatever petty cash he has in this apartment probably wouldn’t be able to cover half a night at the YWCA.
She forces herself back on the bed. Sleep comes easily once she allows herself to drift on her pleasantly full stomach.
LUST
Devon finds himself thinking about the girl he just left in his third floor apartment. That was smart, he berates himself wryly. He just left a total stranger there. For all he knows, she might have absconded by now with all his valuables.
The good thing about being a starving artist is that he has no valuables, unless you count his paintings, which may or may not be worth something one day when he is dead. But of course, he’s hoping to make it big while he is alive, and preferably not without all his teeth.
The trouble is that he has lost his spark, and lost it in a major way. He hasn’t been able to paint for weeks now. He would start something, and then tear up the canvas in a fit of self-loathing. He rented the apartment because of its unique light, but it isn’t in a rent-controlled zone and the place is costing him an arm and a leg.
His friends – models, busboys, students who haven’t dropped out of college the way he did – have always marveled that he is able to afford a place of his own. He tells them he gets commissions from rich patrons to paint their loved ones or pets.
This is only partially true.
The sky has stopped weeping and the streets have thinned out considerably of people at this late hour. The wind is still chilly, and he wraps his leather jacket tighter to his body, tucking his hands into the deep pockets to keep them from losing heat. He takes the subway down
town and gets out at a stop near the Central Park reservoir.
He walks a little distance and stops outside a swanky apartment building. The doorman gives him a strange look as he enters and swipes his own card to take the private elevator up to the penthouse.
Once there, he walks to the handsome double doors and presses the buzzer. He waits there for someone to come to the door.
He is assailed by a sense of déjà vu as he stands there. He remembers every imprint of the sturdy wooden doors, every whorl of the polished wood, every curve of the careful geometric pattern carved into its frame. He has stood here for so many nights, studying every detail of the doors and wondering how they would look on his canvas.
The door finally opens a fraction, and a woman peers out. When she sees him, she smiles.
“Come in, Devon.”
“Hello, Claire.”
He steps in, always a little apprehensive at the start of any date. She turns and walks down the hallway to a magnificently lit lounge. Here, the high ceiling is vaulted and bedecked with frescoes of lotus flowers. The woman is clad in an apple green terrycloth robe, and her hair is damp, as if she has just stepped out of the shower.
She goes to her Chanel purse, nestled by a large vase of flowers on a Welsh dresser. She fishes out five hundred dollars and hands it to him.
“Here,” she says.
“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” he says. It does sting a little – the callous way she still treats him despite the fact they have known each other for well over a year.
“You were the one who established the boundaries, Devon,” she reminds him.
He flinches. Yes, he remembers that all too well. He accepts the money, folds the bills and pockets them.
“Take it off,” she orders, eyeing him as though he is a piece of horseflesh. “Take it all off.”
He does this slowly, knowing that she enjoys the show. Off comes his leather jacket, dropped in a careless heap upon the white marble floor. Off comes his black shirt with the snaps, and off comes his jeans. He knows he looks sexy and he revels in his effect on her.
