Jackson

by Mary Potter

  JACKSON

  BOYS IN BLUE

  SAN FRANCISCO

  BOOK 6

  MARY POTTER

  This book is a work of fiction. Other names, characters, places, dialogue, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It contains substantial sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which may be considered offensive by some readers.

  All sexual activity in this work is consensual, and all sexually active characters are 18 years of age or older.

  Copyright © 2020

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval systems, without expressed written permission from the author/publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review in any media format.

  Contents

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Epilogue

  A Teeny Favor To Ask

  Other Books By Mary Potter

  About The Author

  Chapter 1

  JACKSON

  I think my neighbors like me. I think it has something to do with me being one of the Boys in Blue, with the badge and the gun, and the sensible disposition. I don’t mean to add anything provocative, but I know Mrs. Arbuckle likes to look at my ass when I leave for work every day. I don’t mind. If it gives the retired woman of sixty-seven a thrill, I’m happy to oblige a little rump-shake to make her whole day. I know they mean well. I know they’re good people, and when you live in a condominium with walls thinner than sheer nylons, you want to make sure your neighbors are not hard of hearing, sex addicts, or experiment with strange foods. With the Arbuckles, I got one out of three.

  Fortunately, the condos on 19th Avenue afford me a little privacy, some height off the streets of San Francisco, and luxury care service for the property. It includes fumigation.

  “Seems here you’ve got an infestation,” the property manager says. He’s one of those guys who looks like he belongs on a sex offender registration. But I’m not interested in his hobbies right now. Only what he can do for me in his line of work.

  “The Arbuckles came back from Mexico with some tourist crap. They gave me that Mayan wooden mask on the side table.” I motion to the quaint and rudimentary wood carving. It’s a face of sorts, and it was a gift. I didn’t want to throw it away because the Arbuckles like to snoop sometimes when they take care of the trash. If I toss it, I need to wait a few years when they’re senile or dead.

  “Yeah, I was afraid of that. It seems like they brought back some gifts for everyone around this building,” the property manager said. He pulled off his baseball cap and scratched his scalp with greasy fingernails. “I think you got the same mask as everyone else on this floor, and the floor below, and the floor above, and—”

  “Great, so what do you need to do?”

  “Well, I need to fumigate the apartment, that’s what. It’s gonna take a week. Stop by the rental office on your way out today. Tell them I sent you. They got a contract with the hotels around town. If you get there soon, you can get the coupons for a stay at the one on Beach Street. I like it there. You can see the girls on the beach.”

  “Well, thanks,” I say. It’s one thing to think the guy a little creepy. It’s something else when the creeps want to share their hobbies. “You know I’m a cop, right?”

  “Yeah, so, it ain’t a crime to look.”

  And that’s my life in a nutshell.

  KAYLA

  T here is a rhythm and an art to housekeeping in a swanky hotel like the one where I work. I keep that rhythm on my hips, not just because I’m curvy. It has to do with my music I use to drown out the noise of the place, while I go from room to room, and scrub, clean, replace linens, empty trash cans and wonder where all these people are going.Can anyone really be happy cleaning up after other people?

  I mean, I know it’s a job. It’s not a terrible job. There are worse things to do, but I have an intrinsic sense of accomplishment when I leave each of the chic suites in pristine condition. Especially after some guests take a lot more liberties than others, those are the ones I have to watch out for, and there are more than a few.

  “Sometimes, I think San Francisco is a magnet for horny, bald, fat businessmen who would rather tip the help with their little, bent dicks than with a few dollars on the dresser.” That’s Maria, and she’s feisty. She’s the head housekeeper, and I love her attitude. She knows what it means to take coquettish to a level that works in her favor. She might complain about those frustrated businessmen and their lonely business trips, but she enjoys using what she’s got to get those compliments and gets better tips than most.

  “I think they come to hotels to enjoy time away from their humdrum lives,” I say. Maria says I have the potential to get better compliment cards, to earn a little extra if I raise the hem of my housekeeping skirt and lower the neckline a little. Maria has the talent to use her attire and the surroundings to make everything work out in the end. I’m curvy, a lot on top, a lot on the bottom, and a little in the middle. And I am perfectly okay with that because I’m healthy. And I find that most days I am happy. It’s a living, and it’s a step in the right direction.

  “You see that cop that moved into 412?” Maria asks.

  “I’m on the third floor this week, remember?” I say. We’re in the laundry, folding fitted sheets together from the industrial dryer. Yeah, you can fold fitted sheets. It’s an art form, and I am all for a little style.

  “Oh, yeah,” Maria smacks her lips. “Ooh, girl, I think he is right up your alley. He is older, and I know you like them a little older. He’s fit－I think I saw him bounce a quarter off that washboard stomach. He’s here for a week. You should check him out.”

  “Well, I don’t have fourth floor this week,” I shrug, and keep folding. Maria does the scheduling and floor details. I follow the routine and never complain.

  “You put in for that job yet?”

  “No, I don’t know if I’m going to,” I say.

  “Girl, don’t let the world walk over you. You’re perfect for that job.”

  “I feel like I don’t have enough education. They want a degree—”

  “They want experience. And you got all that and more. Don’t you let something get in the way of what you want. You got to seize it with both hands—you want to hope it’s big enough to grab it with both hands.”

  “Says the girl who runs the hotel housekeepers,” I say. “Don’t you ever want more?” I ignore Maria’s perpetual innuendoes because I have to concentrate on work and not fantasize as she does.

  “No, I like it. I know I’d like it a lot more if I had someone in charge that knows what it’s like to scrub toilets and take out the trash. We get these college graduates in here, and they think its all allegory rhythms and kissing ass.”

  “That’s algorithms, and kissing ass is what it takes for the job.”

  “Ain’t you kissed a little ass in your time?”

  I giggle. “Not in a while.”

  “Girl, you don’t know what you’re missing.” Maria hums. “You know what I mean.”

  “Nope, honestly, I don’t.”

  I
’m happy, maybe that’s not the right word: content works. I’m not as bold as Maria. She’s my boss, but she’s my best friend. I’m not flirtatious like her. I’m amorous when I want. Sometimes it is about the right time and place, and even in a hotel with 360 rooms, millionaire playboys just don’t do it for me. I want a man who’s loud, confident, but not obnoxious or needy. There are a lot of rooms, but the choices are limited. And then, there’s always the gym.

  Chapter 2

  JACKSON

  T he hotel is a dream, even if the room is a little snug. But it’s free, so I’ll take what I can get. As long as the roach infestation the Arbuckles brought back from their adventure south doesn’t follow me to the suite, I am all good.

  The architects who designed the hotel wanted a sailor theme. It’s on the heart of Fisherman’s Wharf, the north waterfront touristy places that are always busy with police calls. I don’t have this district, but I hear some stories about the kind of criminal activity that comes with souvenir shops, crab stalls, and clam chowder. Tourists are fine when they’re not looking to make a name for themselves. Sometimes they come for vacation and leave on probation.

  The hotel concierge is a major bitch. She complained that my coupons for rooms didn’t include any of the extra amenities like access to the gym or pool. She’s a skinny, haughty thing with curly hair and a bent attitude. She’s the kind of girl who graduated college with a liberal arts degree and thinks the world owes her a favor. So, for me to take advantage of the pool and the gym, I have to pay out of pocket. And I have to agree to use the gym during off-hours.

  The room comes with a view of San Francisco Bay. I see the courtyard. I see the shores and the blue waters. It’s got double beds, a minifridge, and a 50” TV. I can forgive the maritime-inspired décor for the other amenities, even if I had to pay a little extra.

  It’s the gym, the pool, and the view that makes it worthwhile. I’ll hold back from complaining to hotel management about the skinny-bitch concierge as long as she stays out of my way during the week.

  So, I hit the gym when no one is around. I don’t mind. I can listen to my music, forget about the world, and just pretend it’s me, the free weights, rowing machine, and the treadmill. I wear my baggy-fitting gym shorts and loose fit tank tops. Both items are a little risqué in the gym setting because, well, sometimes things hang out. I try to pay attention, and I’m not trying to advertise. At night in a gym alone, I don’t have to be shy because there’s no one around, and I am an adult man, and I have a little more junk than some men my age. I’m not bragging, it’s just genetics.

  KAYLA

  I don’t mind working nights in housekeeping. It keeps me away from Sheila. I know Maria did me a favor by having me switch shifts and floors. I notice she put me on the fourth floor. She didn’t clarify which room one of the Boys in Blue occupies, but I’ll figure it out. I’ll make it into a game. I like occupying my brain with puzzles and fantasies, because it takes away from plunging toilets or pulling gobs of gross hair from shower drains. Yeah, we’re full-service housekeeping.

  But tonight, a little after ten, I’m in the workout room. Well, that’s not entirely true. I’m outside the fitness center. It’s got full glass walls to see inside and a widespread area that includes most of the top exercise equipment that’s offered in membership gyms. It could be better, but it has potential. I have a notebook full of ideas about the way to make it all worthwhile and on a budget for the changes.

  At that moment, I’m not thinking about what the hotel can offer everyone else. I’m thinking about what I want from the hotel. I’m not one to gaze longingly at sultry men, and experience lovemaking that’s beyond anything I know exists in this world. Ha! I read that in a tacky romance novel, some lady left in her suite after checkout. Sometimes we have some lucky finds, like nice pens or books. Sometimes we get rewards for turning in merchandise people forget to take with them. I know when I’m working in a room. I don’t take anything from guests, and I make sure they get the word about what’s left behind. The lady left the book with a sticky note to pass it along.

  I read it, and it’s a great way to escape, but I’m more of a physical kind of person. Don’t get me wrong, I have a delightful collection of personal toys in my bedside drawer. But when it comes to fantasies, there is nothing sweeter than memorizing the right man at the right time. And baby, do I have the perfect view.

  Now, I’m savvy about the layout of the hotel. I’ve been in every room. I’ve explored every hall, hiding place, and nooks with crannies. And I know the few sweet spots to go where you’re wondering if the area has occupants, or if you’re alone.

  The fitness center has a charming little nook where the custodians park the housekeeping cart. It’s got the standard supplies, cleaning rags, disinfectant, and mop. But it’s the placement of the nook that makes it unique.

  I’m not one to judge people. I think a little looking is healthy, as long as looking isn’t interfering with others, or they’re not immortalizing the view with pictures. Like the day I saw the young trainer who works at the fitness center. I saw that his hands were busy inside his shorts while he was watching the two women working out in the gym. He managed to slip his cock back into his pants before I got too close, but I knew what he did. And I saw by the look on his face that he knew I knew what he did. And I didn’t say a word.

  Now I think the shoe’s on the other foot. I’m facing the tempered glass of the fitness center, hidden in the alcove, and I have a near-perfect view of the most beautiful older man I ever saw within the halls of the hotel. I love the view.

  Chapter 3

  JACKSON

  T here’s something about having the gym all to yourself that makes the whole thing worthwhile. I know some guys think they need an audience. They like it when girls are looking, and guys are judging themselves by what you put on the weight set. For me, it’s about the quality of time, not the quantity. I enjoy a little freedom, and I’m glad a paid a little extra to get the passkey to the fitness center. It was worth the money. Since I have the gym to myself, I can take my time because I am without a limit, and no one waits in line for the elliptical machine or the stair mill. I can use the recumbent bike for as long as I want and the rowing machine for twice as long.

  The music pumping in my ears makes the whole place fade away, and I am relaxed and feeling free. I know there’s a little freedom because I can feel some of that refreshing recycled air-conditioning on my thighs, and there’s a good amount of sweat that’s coating my body.

  I wipe down the machines when I finish my sets. But I’m not worried about the heat index in the gym because no one is around to see my balls hanging out my shorts. It happens to the best of us. Even when we’re doing our best to keep everything pure and up top－when you’re alone, it doesn’t matter. Right?

  The thing about having baggy shorts and the wrong underwear during a workout means I can feel it. I feel that freedom and the draft. I am sweaty, and I feel the burn, and I am a little turned on. I know it because I’m doing my sets, and I can’t help but think that if there was anyone outside the aquarium glass watching me work out, they might get a little more than they expected.

  But the other side of the glass shows nothing but darkness where the outer doors open to the preparation room. There are lockers for men and women, and both doors are on the other side of the dark glass. I’ve been conscious about paying attention to any variety of light that happens when someone moves in and out of the outer room. I’d see the hallway light outside the swinging doors. It’s enough time to tuck my legs closed and try to tame my cock. Since I’ve thought about it, I can feel its tingling and thickness. I’m not too shy about what I have between my leg, but I’m not a guy who needs to flaunt it. I mean, in the right circumstances and context, titillation is very erotic.

  I think some women who wear skirts and sometimes go without panties during the summer not only do it for their freedom but the pure entertainment value. Someone might get more than a skating
glance if they happen to be looking at an excellent pair of legs. I know, I’m a man, I look.

  So, lying on my back over the bench using the free weights, I have 35lbs in each hand. I’m alternating with my dumbbell triceps extensions. My feet are firm on the rubber mat, and I have my thighs open. If I had someone outside the glass, they’d see my dedication to a good workout, and perhaps a lot more.

  KAYLA

  I haven’t worked out in a gym for a long time. The membership prices are too steep for my budget. Sometimes I get a little self-conscious when I see the bean-pole girls in their form-fitting workout pants and sports bras. The guys pay attention to the curve of the thighs and the glimpse of a cameltoe if the women are trying to get attention. For me, it’s about the workout. There is a time and place to feel and look sexy. I know it happens at the gym. I think I’m a little envious of some women who are unafraid to let it hang out. I mean, I could give a good show if I want. I know there is enough of me to have some curves and even the fashionable toe between my thighs. I can’t afford the gym. But I get more than enough workout doing my job because we’re always on the go, we’re constantly moving. Except at that moment, I am taking my fifteen-minute break alone in the dark and enjoying the show.

  Except I haven’t moved in twenty minutes, and I am sweating buckets. I’m not working out. I went through six shades of crazy watching the guy in the gym. I think I realize why I caught that young custodian handling more than his broom that day. It’s the perfect vantage point. It’s covered, and it’s dark, and I can see a lot more than I ever expected. I’m not much of a freak when it comes to sex. I mean, I like sex. I love getting freaky sometimes when I have sex. But I’m not one to go out of my way for fetishes. I mean, I guess I get it. I’ve had a few boyfriends who had some interesting ideas about sex, and they all turned me on. But I never knew voyeurism had such a draw.