by Dawn Steele
“It doesn’t work that way. Come on, lazybones. It’s time you got off that couch and get yourself a proper job.”
“Says the pot to the kettle,” she retorts.
He laughs. “Get up, or I’ll pull that couch from under you.”
It’s amazing how well they are getting along with each other. She has certainly never thought her little sojourn to New York would turn out this way.
He still hasn’t tried to put any moves on her. He is too much of a gentleman for that, she thinks, despite her attempts to drop hints that she isn’t a virgin by any account. They have resorted to sleeping with each other in his bed but keeping a goodly distance between their bodies, as though they are brother and sister in a forced and cramped environment.
Perhaps he isn’t interested in her. Perhaps that woman who has been capitalizing his time and body holds him in thrall.
How disappointing.
But she refuses to be defeated by it. She has time on her side now that she has decided she will not go to college.
Abby is curious about that woman, of course. Any attempt to ferret it out of him draws a blank wall. He is deft at deflecting questions, hurling back her own curiosity at her with a few barbed remarks about her own lack of transparency. But she doesn’t mind not knowing. It keeps him mysterious and interesting.
They walk down several blocks to Padraig’s, which is an Irish pub that doubles as an eatery during the day. The décor of the pub is shamrock green. A sign at the window displays: WAITRESS WANTED. GOOD TIPS.
“Good tips?” she says. “Does that mean the actual pay isn’t good?”
“Don’t be such a smart mouth. Billy Dee owns this place. I know him. Let me talk to him on your behalf and he’ll give you the job.”
She is not sure she wants a waitressing job. There are plenty of more interesting things she can do. But she humors Devon anyway by going in through the green door after him. A little bell tinkles somewhere above the doorway and she steps into the relative gloom.
Since it is three in the afternoon, there are only a few customers at the bar. A bartender wipes the inside of a large beer mug in a corner.
“Hey, Sam,” Devon calls out to him. “Billy around?”
“He’s in his office.” The bartender jerks his head towards a door marked ‘Staff Only’. “You still owe him that paint job, Devon.”
“I’m on to it.”
Devon strides towards the door.
“What paint job?” Abby asks.
“Walls need a little color other than green.”
“But green an Irish thing.”
“You reckon?”
He taps once on the door. “Billy?”
“Go the fuck away,” says a disembodied voice.
Still grinning, Devon opens the door. After a moment’s hesitation, Abby follows suit.
The man behind the desk of the cramped little office is not what she is expecting. He is tall, but balding, with swarthy Italian features instead of ruddy Irish ones. But maybe she is anticipating a stereotype of an Irish pub owner.
“Devon Fisher, to what do I owe this pleasure?” he rasps sarcastically. “Whatever happened to that commission I gave you the down payment for?”
Devon plunks himself in a chair in front of the desk and gestures at Abby to do the same.
“Sorry, Billy. Something came up.”
“Sure, something always comes up.” Billy shoots her a fierce glare. “This your boyfriend? Well, let me tell you, he’s a no good son of a bitch. Fella comes here begging me for a job nine months back, so I take pity on him since his mother’s from the old country. I tell him I want a mural type of artwork on my walls. You know, like that Sistic Chapel back in Italy – ”
“The Sistine Chapel’s in the Vatican, Billy,” Devon drawls. “You should know, since your mother is Catholic.”
“ – I wanted leprechauns, banshees, faerie folk, the Seelie and Unseelie courts and the like. He tells me he can paint them, no problem. And at the first sight of a well-turned woman who’s willing to bankroll him, he runs.”
Abby pricks up her ears. “A woman?”
“Billy,” Devon says uncomfortably, “that isn’t how it happened.”
Billy fixes his black eyes on Abby. “That is exactly how it happened. He saunters out of this very office, whistling with my money in his wallet, and he bumps into this woman at the bar. That very bar outside. They get to talking and they leave together, and the next I hear, he’s a kept man. Like one of them concubines in a harem.”
“Billy, shut up. It isn’t true and you know it.” Devon’s fair face flushes slightly. “I just haven’t found the inspiration to do your murals, but I will . . . once I get back the muse. Abby is here to ask about that waitressing job you posted out there. Is it still available or not?”
Billy flickers his dismissive gaze up and down the part of Abby’s body revealed above the desk. “You ever been a waitress before?”
She decides to tell the truth. “No.”
“It isn’t hard. Just requires balancing a tray and being on your feet eight hours straight. The pay is not much, but you can make a nice profit on the tips.”
Devon beams at her. “So what do you say, Abby? You want it?”
“Hey, I’m the boss here. I decide who I want to hire.” Billy shifts his gaze to her. “You work eight hour shifts. Eleven to seven or seven to three. That’s three a.m. in the morning, just in case you think it’s a walk in the park. You get Tuesdays off, but I’ll require you to work through the weekends.”
Waitressing sounds tough, Abby thinks with dread.
“Um, can I think about it?” she says timidly.
Billy frowns. He favors Devon with another burning glare. “You wasting my time again, Fisher?”
“Uh, no, Billy. If you’d just give me a moment with my friend.”
Devon ushers her outside the room and closes the door behind them.
“Why are you stalling?” he hisses. “This is a good a job as any. And I know Billy. He’s a good paymaster and he won’t give you a hard time like some of the other joints.”
“I know what you’re saying, Devon, but waitressing is not something I want to do. I need to look around on my own and decide what I want.”
He pauses, his face a mask. “OK, so what do you want to do?”
“I don’t know yet.”
What can she tell him? That she is a straight A student who is supposed to go to Princeton? That she ran away before any part of that life could be fulfilled?
“Devon, I really appreciate what you’re trying to do for me, but I’ve got to find my own way, you know? You of all people should understand that because that’s what you’re doing, and I admire you for it.”
“Don’t admire me. You don’t know the half of it. So what do I tell Billy?”
“I’ll tell Billy myself. Wait here.”
She goes in again and firmly shuts the door on Devon. Billy looks up expectantly.
“Answer’s no, right?” he says with a shrewd grin.
She nods. “It isn’t for me, but I’m really grateful you even considered me.”
His eyes narrow. “You know, you look really familiar. I’m sure I have seen you someplace.”
Her stomach does a double flip. “I don’t think we have met before, Mr. Dee.”
“I didn’t say we’ve met. I just said I have seen you someplace.” He taps the side of his nose. “I can’t remember right now, but I’ve got a memory for faces and names. It will come back to me.”
She’s starting to get nervous.
“Well, I’ve got to be going, Mr. Dee. It was nice to meet you.”
He gives her a look as if to say ‘I’ll be watching you’. She turns, a flush coming to her cheeks, and bolts out of the office before he can say anything else.
Once outside, Devon says, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
She grabs his arm and propels him to the exit. He glances back at the closed office door and
wisely decides not to say anything else.
*
“I’ve got an appointment,” Devon announces that night. He takes off the white T-shirt he is wearing and rifles in his drawers for a black wife beater. He pulls this on.
Abby sits cross-legged on the bed. She would never get tired of watching him undress and dress. After one week of sleeping in the same bed together and sharing his body warmth, he has shed most of his inhibitions he has in her presence, except for one. He still will not show her his cock at full frontal, though she has gotten glimpses of it, like a teaser to an R-rated movie.
She supposes her reaction is justified. He is a staggeringly beautiful young man, and she has eyes like any other female. She can’t help but be attracted to him. So would anyone else breathing the same air space. But it doesn’t mean she is going to do anything about it, or that he is attracted to her. Guys like him don’t get attracted to girls like her.
He has been kind to her, granted, and very helpful in every way. But she is not foolish enough to equate niceness to attraction. Besides, she is very sure that he is a kept man. Billy Dee all but confirmed it.
“Will you be back tonight?” she asks casually.
“Probably not.”
“And you aren’t going to tell me about this girl you’ve been seeing?” She doesn’t want to sound like a jealous admirer, but she can’t help it.
“No.” In his black wife beater and ripped jeans, he looks carelessly marvelous. “Billy tells me he’s seen you somewhere before.”
“I’ve got one of those faces,” she says with a diffident wave of her hand.
He cocks his head. “That’s not what he says. He says he has seen you somewhere before. But not in the flesh. He thinks it’s in a newspaper of some sort. Or maybe even on TV.”
Her heart stops.
“Are you famous, Abby?” he asks her. His expression betrays nothing. His entire posture is tense however.
“No,” she says quickly.
“Are you in trouble of any sort? Look, you can level with me. I’m not going to give you up.”
He moves towards the bed and sits down at the edge. His eyes are open and shining. He takes her hands in his large ones and turns them so that her palms face upward. She flinches as her healed burn marks are revealed.
“I have seen them before,” he says softly. “I smeared them with antibiotic creams until four nights ago, remember?”
She pulls back her hands.
“I’m not ready, Devon.”
He gazes at her for a long time.
“OK. When you’re ready, you can tell me.” He gets up. “I have to go. I’ll catch you tomorrow.”
She watches his leanly muscled back as he exits the bedroom. He pauses to grab his leather jacket off the back of a chair, and then he leaves.
She waits till he closes the front door. She counts till ten, and then she sprints from the bed. Grabbing her own jacket, she lets herself out of his apartment and locks the door. She peers down at the stairway to see his bobbing head as he walks jauntily down.
She makes sure he doesn’t see her as she follows him.
She continues to trail him on the street, keeping a good distance away. Good thing he is so tall so that she can see his dark head above the crowd. He descends into the nearest subway station, and she has to sidestep a gaggle of chattering teenagers coming up the stairs to keep pace with him.
Feeling like a private detective, she weaves her way through the throngs of commuters as he descends further into the bowels of the earth. The speeding escalators are so fast that a push from someone behind you can send you tumbling to your death. Coming from a far smaller city, she is not used to subways.
As he boards a train, she does the same, only in a carriage behind his. At this time of night, the commuters have thinned out considerably. There are even vacant seats, but she remains standing so that she can glimpse him on the other side.
She watches him carefully from the doorway in between the carriages. He has taken a seat beside an elderly African American gentleman in a rainbow scarf. He does not look at anyone around him. He takes out his cellphone and starts texting to someone.
The train stops at five stations before he stands up to wait at the sliding doors. She tenses, watching him. At the next stop, he gets out with several other passengers. She steps out too, making sure that her smaller body is always shielded by several other people as they take the common walkway out.
She exits the station. He is suddenly nowhere to be seen. She almost panics, and then catches sight of his well-shaped head at a news kiosk. She tries to blend in with a lamp post. He selects a stick of gum, pays for it, and then walks out again. Her heart is beating fast as she resumes her stalking.
He saunters a few blocks down. He has a languid way of walking that is very sexy, but he’s totally unconscious when he does it. If he had been conscious about it, he wouldn’t look half as good. He enters a restaurant called ‘Orso’. It is the type of restaurant that requires a reservation in advance, but is avant-garde enough not to require a suit and tie. He says something to the grreter at the door. She looks through her reservation book, and then nods and smiles enticingly at him. And no wonder, Abby thinks jealously. He’s a hotbed of hotness with his height and stellar good looks.
Abby doesn’t enter the restaurant. That would be pushing it. She watches him instead through the large glass windows which are framed from the inside by decorative gold curtains held back by tassels. Inside, Orso is well-lighted, in contrast to the darkness outside, and so she has no fear that he would see her spying on him.
He approaches a table with two women. One of them is dark-haired and definitely older than him. Her friend is a blonde goddess who makes her think of Nordic ice queens. The dark-haired woman gets up and he greets her with a hug. He nods at the blonde. Abby can’t see his face from her vantage, but his shoulders tense up as the blonde gets up and gives him a perfunctory hug.
Interesting.
What can she deduce from this?
Part of her feels guilty that she is so curious about what he does that she has resorted to trailing him like a wife intent on catching her cheating husband. And the other part of her – the one that can peer into her own heart with crystal clarity – tells her that she has fallen for his good looks and kindness.
A sadness creeps within her.
She remembers what happened the last time she fell for a handsome boy.
Devon seats himself at the table with the women. He takes off his jacket, revealing his perfectly toned arms. A waiter approaches him with a menu, and he peruses it. Another waiter comes over to pour some red wine into his glass.
Abby watches on. Devon is very handsome as he chats amicably to the women. She can’t help but notice that he gravitates more to the dark-haired one while keeping some reserve towards the blonde. The dark-haired one laughs, seemingly amused by what he has to say. The blonde maintains her ice cool façade.
After a while, the dark-haired woman puts her hand on Devon’s bare arm. She strokes his forearm in a proprietary manner, making it clear to anyone who cares to view them that they have been intimate before. Then the blonde puts her hand on his thigh under the table and begins stroking him through his jeans as well. She goes so far as to venture near his crotch. Abby has a vantage on that view, and it makes her blood churn to see him being treated like a sex object.
She turns away from the window, her stomach feeling hollow. She can’t help how she feels about Devon.
She recognizes the emotion now.
It is sheer desire.
QUAD
Devon is slightly apprehensive as he follows Claire and Rachel back to Rachel’s apartment in Soho.
He would rather have gone back to Claire’s place. In Rachel’s apartment, the room of pain with its torture instruments beckons like a shadowy pall cast upon the evening. Claire isn’t into the BDSM scene, but he can never tell what Rachel has persuaded her to do. The room itself may not be utilized tonight, bu
t it will hover like an ephemeral threat – a pinprick in his heightened consciousness.
The deal was simple. A thousand dollars for the night. It would be a threesome. He has never done three-ways before, but it sounded relatively straightforward. After all, he had enough stamina to get it up several times a night. And he certainly has the stamina to hold his erection and fuck two women in a row, one after the other.
As soon as the doors close on them inside the elevator car, Claire clasps his face in a strong grip and kisses him. She is far shorter than he is, and so she has to tilt his head down for the kiss with her fingers spreading across the back of his neck. Her fervor takes him aback. He cannot recall a time when she has been this predatory. She usually wants him to be the aggressor, to be the one who takes charge in the initiation of carnal pleasures.
“Mmmm,” she murmurs as her tongue shoots into his mouth. She explores his own flexing tongue and the corrugated landscape of his molars.
Rachel’s hands roam over his abdomen and buttocks. Even as Claire locks passionate lips with him, Rachel cups her palm over his cock and balls, snugly ensconced in his tight jeans. Blood begins to fill his penis and scrotal sac, raising his shaft so that his cock head tents against the crotch of his jeans.
“Wait,” he says against Claire’s mouth, “someone might come in.”
Any time now, he expects the elevator to go ‘ping’ at another floor and a nice couple with their little kid to enter.
Claire pays him no heed.
Rachel pulls his head from Claire’s embrace and kisses him wetly on the mouth. He can feel their hands on every part of his body – groping, squeezing, lifting, pinching. His nipples tingle from their purposeful tweaking.
The elevator doors open with a hiss. He braces himself for the shocked gasps of the decent family which is supposed to materialize, but the passageway outside is empty. They have arrived at Rachel's floor.
Laughing at his relief, Claire pulls him by the hand out of the cab.
“You’re such a prude by nature, Devon,” she says.
“I am not.” He flushes.
