“We should stop,” Sarah said, pulling away.
Tyrese’s hands kept running over her as if he was looking for something. They were just…rough. Like they were made of sandpaper. Not like a woman’s would be.
“I said stop!” She gave him a shove, and he broke off, immediately pouting.
“You said we should stop. Girls always say they should stop.”
“How would you know!”
His hand slid out from under her shirt, which he’d jammed up over her belly.
She pulled it down, straightening it until the band logo on the front was unwrinkled.
“So what? Why’d you come over if you didn’t want a little something-something?” Tyrese asked, trying and failing to keep his voice away from a whine.
“To talk!”
“We talked at dinner, we talked at the show—”
“So I guess I have a lot on my mind, okay?” Sarah lowered her harsh voice, softened it. “Rub my feet?”
Tyrese wasn’t any more eager to fight than she was. “Sure,” he said, groaning as she reoriented herself on his bed, kicking her shoes off and bringing her feet up so he could start kneading them. That always felt nice. A little clumsy, a little weird when his palms skidded temptingly up her ankles, squeezing like they were some sort of erogenous zone, but she thought it was good for them. He got to touch her, and she didn’t have to try so hard to let herself be seduced.
Tyrese pressed a kiss to the side of her foot.
It tickled. Sarah forced herself not to kick.
>~~~<
There was a notecard sticking out of Nina’s front door. Sarah pulled it free and read: Prior engagement—the door’s unlocked. Please get started, will catch up later.
Automatically, Sarah flipped it over. The back read, in Nina’s same elegant writing: We’ll have to get you a key.
Sarah tucked the card away and tried the doorknob. Sure enough, it was unlocked. She wondered what kind of ‘prior engagement’ a hermit-cum-possible-vampire could have. From the few times she’d been over already, they’d started to settle into a routine. Nina liked to get in a brief greeting and serve her a snack and a drink before she got started. Nothing much, just fruits or veggies, some juice or a smoothie. And Nina would ask about what Sarah’s plans for the day were, with Sarah gladly telling her.
It always felt nice, having someone ask her what was up and not expecting an essay. Eileen always grilled her at dinner, like on a daily basis she needed to make sure Sarah hadn’t brought shame to the family.
There was a sudden thump from upstairs—the kind of thing that would have plaster falling in a less well-made house. Sarah stared up at the resounding ceiling. That had been Nina, right? It had to have been.
“Ms. Rose?” Sarah called. She still wasn’t quite comfortable doing first names. That whole “respect your elders” thing Eileen had drilled into her ran deep.
She started up the stairs. “Nina? Are you alright?”
She could hear a mélange of sounds—muffled, meaty, rhythmic. Footsteps. Something creaking, metallic. “Nina?”
A pregnant pause. Sarah thought she could feel each individual air molecule against her skin. The noise stopped. Then Nina’s voice, out of breath: “Sarah? Did you see the note?”
“Yeah, I got it… Is everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine. Do you need help refamiliarizing yourself with your duties?” Nina’s voice was tinged with irritation.
“No. No, it’s all good.”
>~~~<
Nina’s backyard had six-foot-high hedges that hid it, and a goodly portion of her house, from the rest of her land. Sarah decided to tackle them today, killing anything that looked like a dandelion and stuffing it in the trash bag she dragged behind her. She was getting pretty into it, letting her mind wander.
Who had been in the shower while Nina was showing her around the house that first day? What was making those noises today? Who was making those noises?
Knowing there was no point in speculating, Sarah distracted herself with Barnaby, who had taken to watching her work like a prison guard in a chain-gang movie. Sarah didn’t take many breaks, determined to give Nina her money’s worth, but when she did, it was usually lying in the shade, petting an ecstatically grateful dog. He wasn’t so bad, once you won him over with belly scratches.
She was about to go inside to see if Nina had any more ginger snaps when the woman herself came out. She wore a loose silk dressing gown, the material nearly translucent, beckoning Sarah to try to look through it. The flesh underneath was…
Sarah quickly concentrated on the next weed. God, she was perving on her boss. What was wrong with her?
Nina waved at her, and Sarah waved back, her hand doing a twitchy thing instead of the graceful acknowledgment Nina had perfected.
“I think it’s time for my hour of sun,” Nina said. Then she took her gown off, laying it ever so neatly across a patio chair. She sat down on a lounger, every inch of her stretched out for the light.
Sarah only allowed herself to look out of the corner of her eye. All Nina wore was a bikini, the two-piece covering almost nothing, like garnish on a steak. The rest of her… The school district had been too cheap to hire models for Sarah’s photography class and too prudish to get them naked anyway. They’d had to make do with photographing volunteers from the class, fully clothed, which meant that Sarah had wasted far more rolls of film than posterity could justify on Kesha T-shirts and jeggings.
But Nina… God, Sarah wanted to photograph that body every which way. Low-light, blinding light, silhouette, black-and-white. Under the bleachers, against a white background, in the woods. Everywhere. She wanted a portfolio of Nina, proof to convince the harshest skeptic that a woman really could look like that.
Nina gave her neck a crack, did her fingers next, and finally picked up a pair of sunglasses off the patio’s dining table. She slipped them on like the finishing touch of the picture she was making of herself.
Keeping herself very focused on her work—seemingly—Sarah craned her head just barely to the side. Her eyes took in the cute little toes on Nina’s bare feet. She dared to tilt her head further, taking in Nina’s legs. They seemed impossibly long with Sarah’s gaze traveling up them second…by…second.
A glob of white liquid squirted onto them, and Sarah looked away hurriedly, pulling the next three weeds at record speed. When she looked back, Nina was smearing suntan lotion up and down her calves. Completely ordinary and responsible. Sarah looked away just as Nina’s legs started to shine with it.
She pulled weeds and pulled weeds and pulled weeds. Quietly, efficiently—her mother would’ve been so proud. And when she looked back, it was practically by accident. A drop of sweat ran into her eye and stung, and as she wiped it away, she happened to look over at Nina—at those hands traveling over her breasts, up her throat, over her cheeks like the caress of a lover. Sarah had the feeling of being an intruder, stumbling upon a private moment—Nina in a moment of autoerotic pleasure. Then Nina’s hands slid back down, over the tops of her breasts, applying the lotion with the lightest touch. Sarah’s mouth went dry. If she’d tried, she would’ve found it impossible to look away.
Not that she tried.
Nina tugged her top down a little ways, exposing even more of her cleavage. The bikini top was loose-fitting, the kind of thing that might come off at a quick pull. She spread the lotion over her areolas, almost to her nipples—almost letting Sarah see them. Then she saw she’d gotten lotion on her top. Sighing, she moved to untie the knot in the middle. Sarah felt her breath hitch and couldn’t imagine ever exhaling again.
Then Nina looked right at her. Her expression was impossible to make out with the black sunglasses blocking her eyes. “Oh, I’m sorry, Sarah. I forgot you were there.”
“No, it’s…okay. Don’t mind me.” Sarah tried to force a chuckle, but all that came out was a very hoarse cough.
Nina smiled graciously. “I know it’s just us girls, but we don’t know each
other that well.”
“But how are we going to get to know each other better if we don’t…” Don’t what? Don’t see each other naked? Sarah wasn’t sure if she was joking with Nina or trying to defuse the tension, or what that tension even was.
Nina turned over with her top held to her chest. “I think I’d better do my back anyway.”
And what a back it was. Supple muscles, slender waist, and…a feature men were fans of and the appeal of which Sarah could very well understand. Nina’s bikini bottoms could’ve been mistaken for body paint at first glance.
And it all needed suntan lotion.
“I could—” Sarah started, her words coming out as a squeak. She cleared her throat, but before she could start again, he came out, straightening his clothes. The man from the boat. He held a single glass of water clogged with ice.
“Your drink, madam.” He set it on the ground under Nina’s lounger. “Need someone to get your back?”
“Mmm. Desperately. Sarah?” Nina called out.
Sarah felt as if she was going to pass out. “Uh, y-yeah?”
“Would you like a drink?” Nina offered.
“No thanks.” Sarah finally caught her breath. “I’m just gonna do the rest of the yard.”
On the other side of the hedge, Sarah dropped flat on her face and just breathed. God. Shit, shit, shit. What was she doing? Nina was good-looking, but she wasn’t that good-looking. Okay, she was, but Sarah didn’t care. She was straight. She had a boyfriend. She had posters of Chris Hemsworth. So Nina was getting a tan? Good for her. It was probably just to stop her from getting Alzheimer’s or something, not so she could give her gardener (her female employee) wet dreams. Fuck!
“Nice workout today,” the man said, sounding exactly the way Sarah imagined an internet comment section would.
“You weren’t so bad yourself, Marshall. Do you mind if I remove my top?” Nina asked, the question drifting distantly through the leaves of the hedge.
Sarah felt her head shoot up like a prairie dog’s, despite the split-second realization that Nina wasn’t talking to her.
“Sure thing,” Marshall said. “And my guy is sending you the sample. You can look over it, tell me if you’re interested.”
“Wonderful.” Nina sighed.
Sarah’s eyes darted to the hedge. She could just make out Nina, quivering under Marshall’s hairy-backed hands as he lathered the suntan lotion onto her shoulders. “And get my sides too, if you don’t mind…”
Sarah felt herself being pulled to the hedge as if her head had a magnet in it. And the leaves were magnets too. She nearly shoved her face in it as Nina leaned up, her breasts swaying under her, Marshall’s grubby fingers running down the sides of her body. They barely touched Nina…there. Sarah suddenly developed a keen appreciation of Marshall’s self-control. How could you not want to touch those? They were just so…and they were really…and then there was just how round they were!
“That feels good,” Nina cooed. “But…just a little lower. You missed a spot.”
Sarah knew what Nina was talking about. So did Marshall. His hands traveled back up Nina’s ribs, toward her—
Sarah pulled herself away so hard she nearly gave herself whiplash. This was so wrong. The man was just helping Nina put on some suntan lotion, and Sarah was using simple skin-cancer prevention like an issue of Maxim! What, had she been a teenage boy in a previous life? Gross. She’d helped her friends put on lotion plenty of times and there’d never been anything sexual about it. It was just something you did at the beach.
“And my lower back now?” Nina asked.
Sarah forced herself not to listen. There was work to do. Nina had given her a great job. She should be doing it, not…whatever that had been. Almost viciously, Sarah returned to tearing out weeds.
“God, you must have magic fingers, Marshall.”
“Thanks.”
“Oh, I should be thanking you. Just work your magic on my thighs, and I’ll be absolutely beholden.”
Sarah heard herself groan. Okay. Just this once. Gently, her hands actually shaking a little, she spread the branches of the hedge and eased her head down to look through the hole she’d made.
Marshall was on his knees between Nina’s legs (they were spread, Jesus Christ), those oily fingers “working their magic” just below Nina’s ass. His hands moved with firm strokes; if he was nervous about touching Nina, he didn’t show it. Maybe he had a lot of experience with it.
Sarah felt another groan make its way up her throat.
“Between my thighs too, Marshall,” Nina said, her voice just barely carrying to Sarah, thanks to the wind. “I’d hate to get a burn there.”
His hands moved up Nina’s thighs and then down between them, as if he was spreading Nina’s legs. Sarah could’ve sworn that Nina raised her ass a bit but couldn’t be sure from this distance. She involuntarily arched forward for a better look, but it did no good. She could just make out Nina’s mouth. It seemed to be opening and closing. In pleasure, or was she just breathing…?
Did she hear Nina hiss in a breath, like she’d just been touched somewhere sensitive, or was that just her imagination?
Sarah didn’t notice she was leaning too far forward until she lost her balance and crashed through the hedge, displaying all the grace of a Bigfoot sighting.
>~~~<
“So you said you tripped?” It being IRL, there were no connection issues to spare Sarah an iota of Beck’s sarcasm. “And they bought it?”
“Why wouldn’t they buy it? Why would they think I was spying on Nina Rose putting on suntan lotion? Why would I think I was spying on Nina Rose putting on suntan lotion? You don’t think I was spying on Nina Rose putting on suntan lotion, do you?”
Beck gave the sidewalk a kick, propelling her skateboard a few more feet. Sarah hastened a little, walking her bike a smidge faster to keep up. When they were side by side again, Beck looked over and pretended to notice her again.
“No, no, you were just…enjoying the show. Lots of girls enjoy spending time with older women. They’re called lesbians.”
Another, stronger kick took Beck’s skateboard out of comfortable conversing range, and Sarah broke into a jog to keep pace.
“Very funny. So you don’t think I should change my name and move to Bulgaria?”
“Well, everyone should do that once in their life, but at least wait until your car’s out of the shop.”
Sarah was about to mount her bike when Beck slowed down to check the storefronts they were passing. “Is this it?”
“No, it’s up against a Victoria’s Secret, for some reason.”
“Why wouldn’t a Half-Price Books be next to a Victoria’s Secret?”
“I don’t know.” They passed the park where the statue of Sarah’s father sat, which she pretended not to notice. “You looking for anything in particular? Tell me now. I don’t want you to bitch me out later because I didn’t help you find a Brazilian translation of The Fault in Our Stars.”
“Anything by Guy N. Smith. I’ve got five of the Crab books, so—one to go.”
“Why do you read those things? They’re not even scary.”
“No, they’re not scary, they’re awesome.”
“Here we are,” Sarah said. The bookstore had spinner racks of ninety-cent paperbacks out under the awning. She gave one a spin, like the appetizer before the meal. Cheesy old Harlequin romances were currently tickling her fancy, and in her experience, ones about bare-chested Scotsmen were the Velveeta-iest. Easy to find too. You just had to look for the kilts.
Beck stopped, stepping on the tail of her skateboard to flip its front end up to her hand as she perused the other spinner rack. “Also, I’ll take anything about anyone fighting a war on crime.”
“Like detective stories?”
“No, like the Executioner. He’s pretty much the Punisher, only he runs out of criminals to kill, so he just starts fighting the Cold War. It’s amazing.”
Sarah knew for a fact t
hat Beck had every Ryan Gosling movie where he wasn’t killing someone on DVD. It always struck her as odd that Beck could be into shopping and sewing and One Direction and basically every stereotype of the X-chromosome, but then also proudly display the cover to a splatterpunk horror paperback and declare triumphantly that it featured the killer bashing a victim’s head against the wall so hard that her eye popped out, into his mouth, and he ate it.
Still, it made Beck easy to shop for. While the woman disdained internet shopping for herself—she preferred the thrill of the hunt—she was happy to accept treasured old paperbacks as gifts, no questions asked. Anyone who looked at Sarah’s eBay bids around Christmas would be liable to suspect psychopathic inclinations.
Sarah plucked out a Dean Koontz book with a suitably lurid cover—she knew, she knew, but needs must—and was about to show it to Beck when she caught sight of him.
“Holy shit! That’s the guy?”
“The guy?” Beck asked, following Sarah’s line of sight.
“The fucking guy!”
“Oh, the Fucking guy,” Beck said, pronouncing the capital letter.
Sarah gave her a look, setting the Koontz book atop the rack. “I’m following him.”
“C’mon, I left my good stalking shoes at home.”
Sarah pushed her bike into Beck’s arms. “Watch my stuff.”
“I’m already—” But Sarah was off. Beck groaned, called “Hey!”, and tossed Sarah her skateboard. Sarah caught it.
Marshall was across the thoroughfare of the shopping center, obscured by rows of parked cars and their sunlight-throwing windshields, but it was him, Sarah was sure of it. From the sidewalk opposite his, she kept pace, clutching Beck’s skateboard like a shield. She wasn’t sure why. In case he spotted her and went into a berserker rage, she would bludgeon him with it? Hold it up in front of her face so he wouldn’t recognize her? Sarah hung back, lingering behind the pillars that held up the ‘covered’ part of the walkway, dashing from one to the other but keeping mostly out of sight.
It didn’t take long for Marshall to turn into one of the shopping center’s storefronts. Sarah came out of hiding, crossing the street in just a little disbelief. It was a goddamn dojo. Gym mats, punching bags, katana stands, and samurai armor on display for that decorative flair. A class of students was working out under a young red belt. The sounds of sparring hit Sarah’s memory like a freight train. Last time, she’d heard it through floorboards…
The Woman at the Edge of Town Page 5
