Tamed

by Emma Chase

  “Delores! Hey Dee—you awake?”

  Because this is New York City, a neighbor immediately yells back, “We’re all awake now, asshole!”

  A few “Shuddups” come from various directions, and I think one woman may have thrown a potted plant at me.

  But I’d like to believe it was an accident.

  With no other recourse, I throw my head back and go for my best Marlon Brando impression. “Stella!! Steeellllaaaa!!”

  Delores’s window opens. Fucking finally.

  “Matthew?” she calls down, surprised.

  My fingers hook my belt loops, going for a nonchalant stance. “Hey,” I answer. “S’up?”

  “What the hell are you doing?” she asks.

  Here is when I realize my grand plan to stop her and Tony from getting busy . . . only reached this point. Damn. From here on out, it’s all improv.

  “I wanted to . . . Can you come down, please?”

  Miraculously, she doesn’t tell me to go screw myself.

  And two minutes later, she’s walking out onto the sidewalk . . . with Goomba Johnny trailing behind her. Thankfully, she’s still fully dressed in her club clothes. That doesn’t really mean much—especially considering the outfit covers little more than a bra and underwear would, but at this point, I’ll take whatever bright side I can.

  The wise guy wannabe walks in front of Dee and shoves me back. “The fuck’s your problem? You some kinda psycho?”

  On instinct, my fists rise to a defensive posture. “I didn’t come to fight you, but you wanna go? We can go.”

  Then I notice the tattoo low on his bicep—a tattoo of the Virgin Mary with AVE MARIA scrolled below it. And I take a different approach.

  “I’m just trying to save my marriage.”

  Yes, lying is a low blow—but desperate times . . .

  His head snaps to Dee. “You’re married?”

  She’s horrified. “No, I’m not married. He’s out of his mind!”

  I open my wallet to the picture of Mackenzie and force sincerity onto my expression. “My family is my everything. I know you don’t know me, but could you just do me a steady and . . . walk away?”

  Now Dee is seriously pissed off. She pushes my shoulder and turns to the Jersey Shore reject. “Mickey, that is not my daughter, and he is not my husband!”

  He replies, “My name is Mikey.”

  It’s a relief to see I’m not the only one having trouble with names tonight.

  Exasperated, Dee asks, “Does it matter?”

  For most guys, it doesn’t matter—we don’t care if you scream the Pope’s name while we’re giving it to you. But apparently, “Mikey” isn’t most guys. Because he throws his hands up in surrender. “This is way too heavy for me. I’m outta here.” Then he turns on his heel and walks away.

  I watch his retreating form with glee. Then I turn to Dee and hook my thumb over my shoulder. “Some people are so gullible.”

  That’s when she punches me—right in the mouth.

  I stumble back and taste blood. Delores may be petite, but she can throw a hell of a right hook. She points and wags her finger as she rails, “I don’t know what the fuck this is, but it is not okay!”

  My hand drops from my injured mouth to my side. And my mind is blank—not a single smooth line or witty comeback in sight. So all I can do is ask, “Why don’t you like me?”

  “What?”

  “We had a great time—the sex was hot, we laughed—but now you don’t want anything to do with me.”

  “This is a new concept for you?”

  I snort. “Shit, yeah, it’s new. Everybody likes me. I’m a great fucking guy.”

  Dee massages her forehead with her fingertips the way my mother used to do when she had a headache brewing. Then she sighs and admits, “Okay . . . the thing is . . . it’s not you, it’s me. I’m the problem.”

  My eyes crinkle with revulsion. “Jesus Christ, are you serious? I’m practically pouring my heart out here, and you can’t even be bothered to make up a decent lie?”

  Dee throws out her arms, “I’m telling you the truth. I do like you. You’re very cute, you’re very funny, and you’re fantastic in bed. But I . . . I’m a more content person when I’m not in a relationship. When I get serious with someone . . . I go a little crazy.”

  “Who’s said anything about a relationship? Let’s just . . . keep having a good time. See what happens. It’s not like we’re going to take off for Vegas and get married.”

  That would just be ridiculous.

  Dee shakes her head. “You don’t understand. It never ends well. This won’t be any different, Matthew. I used to think it was the men I picked, but I’ve finally accepted the fact that it’s me. I make good guys go bad. I’m like . . . a penis pump . . . I turn men into gigantic pricks. I’m the girl your mother warned you about—bad news.”

  And her expression is so serious, I can’t not laugh. “No, you’re not.”

  “You don’t know me.”

  “What I know so far is pretty awesome.”

  She starts to deny what I’ve said, but I push on. “You’re overthinking this. We can be fuck buddies if it makes you feel better. New friends with fabulous benefits. I’ll be the scratch for your itch . . . the booty to your two a.m. call. Just . . . don’t screw any other guys—you won’t need to.”

  She begins to shake her head. Until I remind her. “And the world could end tomorrow, remember? The aliens could invade . . . global warming . . . we’ve got to live for the now, ’cause you never know when the now will be gone.”

  I hold out my hand. “Take a chance, Dee. I won’t let you down.”

  Her honey-colored eyes look wistfully at my hand. “God, you’re good.”

  I smirk. And it just comes out. “That’s what she said.”

  Dee cracks up.

  Then she takes my hand in hers. They’re a perfect fit.

  Like two middle schoolers experiencing their first crushes, we stand like that for a few moments, smiling at each other. Wordlessly, we turn and walk toward her apartment.

  Much too seriously, Dee says, “Hey, Matthew?”

  I raise my eyebrows.

  “When you’ve had enough? Just remember I tried to warn you, okay?”

  I don’t know what kind of fucked-up, douche bags Dee has been going out with, but that kind of talk ticks me off. I’m determined to prove her wrong and lighten the mood. So I lean toward her and whisper, “You’re too beautiful to ever get enough of.”

  Delores rolls her eyes. And I get the distinct impression she thinks I’m bullshitting her. Guess I’ll just have to keep calling her beautiful until she believes it.

  Chapter 8

  Waking up in a place that’s not yours is always slightly disorienting. My eyes open to sunlight streaming through sheer purple curtains and to a clothes-cluttered bedroom. Last night, Dee and I talked some more after going inside her apartment. Turns out, she didn’t have sex with the homeboy. She said he spent the majority of their time at her apartment on the phone with a friend. Idiot. She asked me if it would’ve bothered me if she had—my answer was yes. But . . . I would’ve gotten over it.

  I slip on a pair of boxers, then I follow the smell of bacon and the sound of music to the kitchen. Dee stands at the stove with her back to me, singing along to “Beneath Your Beautiful” that pours out from the stereo, which is mounted below her cabinet.

  Her voice is adorably bad—off-key and screechy—like a mating cat’s. Her reddish-blond hair is pinned up with chopsticks—still color-streaked from last night—and the only piece of clothing she’s wearing is my button-down, blue shirt. As the song ends, I applaud.

  She spins around, spatula in hand. “Morning.”

  “Nice shirt.”

  She shrugs. “Since I was making you breakfast, I decided to go full fledged cliché and wear it.”

  I step up close and plant a sweet kiss on her lips. She smiles, shyly. “Are you hungry?”

  “Starved.”
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  Dee hands me two glasses of orange juice and grabs a platter of bacon and scrambled eggs from the counter. We sit at her small, two-chaired dining table and dig in.

  “This is good,” I comment.

  “Organic turkey bacon. It’s like crack. One taste, you’ll never do pork again.”

  As we eat, I take the opportunity to check out her place. Before, I was much too preoccupied with making her moan. It’s neater than I expected, and eclectic. A red recliner whose fabric has seen better days is stationed next to a round, mosaic-topped table, adjacent to a comfy looking beige couch with a soft, brown blanket thrown across the back. Floral pillows of all shapes are scattered around, and a tall lamp with a beaded fringe shade stands in the corner. Just a few picture frames decorate the walls—one is of Delores, standing next to a thin woman with similar hair color, who I assume is her mother. Another is of Dee, at about thirteen, with one arm around the shoulders of a braces-adorned Kate Brooks, and the other arm around a brown-haired boy, who must be Dee’s cousin. All three are wearing roller skates.

  I swallow a forkful of mouthwatering eggs and ask, “What are you doing today?”

  “I have to hit up the farmers’ market in Brooklyn . . . but otherwise, nothing.”

  “Do you want to hang out?”

  “Okay.”

  “We’ll swing by my place so I can shower, and I have to make one quick stop, but after, I thought we could go to Central Park?”

  The beauty of living in the city is there’s always something to do. Even if your ass is sitting on a park bench and you’re feeding the pigeons, it feels like you’re doing something.

  “Sounds good. I’ll get dressed.”

  Thirty minutes later, Dee’s freshly showered and walking out of her building with her hair in a bun, wearing a silver, strapless shirt, black leather pants, and tiger patterned high heels. Luckily, my illegally parked motorcycle didn’t get ticketed or towed. Dee gazes at the bike appreciatively. She runs her hand over the seat and it reminds me of how she ran her hand over my stomach, inching lower and lower. I pick up her hand and kiss her palm. “Don’t stroke it like that unless you mean it.”

  She reaches up on her toes and whispers in my ear, “I always mean it.”

  I pull a cap helmet out of the pack on the back of my bike and place it on Dee’s head, buckling it under her chin. She’s the perfect mixture of sensual and adorable, sexy and cute—I could eat her out right here on the street.

  She climbs on my motorcycle and winks. “Take me for a ride, Matthew.”

  I rev the engine. “Hold on tight.”

  Not every girl is cut out for riding on a motorcycle. One or two have clutched me so tight they left nail marks and cut off feeling to my extremities. Another time, a chick didn’t grip strong enough—was too busy “wooting” and waving her hands in the air—and she almost gave me a heart attack when she went sailing off the back. Thankfully, she wasn’t harmed. Dee squeezes me just right—one arm around my waist, her other hand on my thigh, the splendid feel of her tits pressed against my back and her chin on my shoulder blade.

  I’ll gladly give her one long ride after another. Both kinds.

  After we arrive at my building, we park in the private deck and head to the lobby. Delores admires the impressive architecture while I retrieve my mail from the box. When we walk into my apartment, I tell Dee to make herself at home and hop in the shower. After I’m dry, I slip on a pair of jeans and a flannel shirt. Leaving it unbuttoned for the moment, I walk back to the living room in search of Delores. She’s staring out the picture window.

  “I think I’m going to call you ‘Upper West Side’ from now on,” she tells me with a grin.

  “But ‘God’ is much more accurate.”

  She moves to the bookcase. “These are great pictures.” She’s looking at one I took of Mackenzie last year, blowing a kiss at the camera. The lighting brought out the brilliance of her baby blues.

  “That’s Mackenzie,” I explain. “The niece I told you about Wednesday night . . . who’s technically not.” I point to another picture beside it. “And that’s my parents.” It’s a black and white—my mother looks blissfully clueless, my father grumpily oblivious; their everyday expressions.

  I pull out my camera bag, making sure I have extra film, checking the lenses.

  “Do you have a darkroom?” she asks.

  “I do, actually.”

  A look appears in her eyes that I’m beginning to grow familiar with—one that says she’s turned on. “Will you show it to me?”

  I put the camera down and raise my arm. “Right this way.”

  Officially, it’s a walk-in closet, but windowless and large enough for a shelf of chemicals and a table with a row of developing trays. The lighting is low of course, with a sepia-tinted hue. I close the door behind us, as Delores looks around. And that feeling of playing seven minutes in heaven when I was thirteen washes over me. But heaven, back then, was never this beautiful.

  Dee’s eyes rake over me from head to toe. “Do you have any idea how sexy this is, Matthew?”

  “A little bit,” I admit.

  She presses up against me and my back hits the closed door. Dee kisses my chin, then scrapes it with her teeth. “Will you take my picture sometime?” She bends her knees and slides down my torso, her warm hands leaving a trail of heat as they skim my chest and stomach.

  I swallow hard. “I will definitely be taking your picture.”

  She peppers my stomach with soft kisses. “We’ll be like a modern day Jack and Rose from Titanic.”

  Breathing heavy now, I say, “Jack was a pussy. If I were him, I would’ve tied Rose up, gagged her, and tossed her ass in a life boat. Then I would’ve gotten in after her.” I’d like to point out that if Rose had just done what the hell Jack told her to, they both would’ve survived.

  Dee wets her lips with her tongue and slides my jeans down over my hips, freeing my already aching dick. She wraps her small hand around the base, pumping slowly. “Until you take those photographs of me, and develop them here, I want you to think about this the next time you’re in this room.”

  Still stroking the base, she covers the tip with her lips, sucking gently and flicking it with her tongue. I lean more weight against the door—my knees going weak. She removes her mouth, peels the foreskin back, and takes me fully in.

  And I can’t help but moan. “Fuuuck.”

  Her mouth is hot and wet and so tight, bright dots appear in the darkness of my closed lids. Slowly she increases the suction of her mouth, the speed of her rubbing palm—my hand buries in her hair and tightens.

  Dee hums around me, and I beg, “Faster . . .” She grants my request and her head bobs quicker, dragging me closer with every pass of her mouth. I pant. “Dee . . . yes . . . gonna come . . .” She sucks me even tighter, and then I’m coming, groaning raggedly, gripping her hair in my fist—trying not to pull. As soon as she releases me, I sink all the way to the floor, breathing like I completed the New York marathon.

  I reach for Delores—pull her up against my chest. I kiss her nose, both cheeks, and finally her mouth, thoroughly. “I’ll remember that for a long, long time.”

  “Mission accomplished.”

  “You’re kidding me, right?”

  I take my helmet off and lock it onto my motorcycle. “No, I’m serious.”

  Dee hasn’t gotten off the bike. “I’ll wait out here, if it’s all the same to you.”

  “Come on—it’s halfway over already—I just have to drop off my envelope.”

  “Have you never heard the saying, ‘As nervous as a whore in Church’?”

  “Knock it off with the self-deprecating comments. If that’s the standard, I should be sweating bullets. Let’s go.”

  “Do I have to drink blood?”

  “Only if you’re baptized.”

  If you haven’t figured it out yet, we’re at St. Mary’s church. It’s Sunday—and on Sunday, I go to church, even if it’s only for the tail-end
of the mass. I have a deeply held belief that something terrible will happen if I don’t.

  Twelve years of Catholic school will do that to you.

  I drag Dee into the vestibule. She steps carefully, like she’s walking into a haunted house.

  A suited, gray-haired gentleman comes through the double doors carrying a brimming collection basket. Perfect timing. I slip my envelope in and bow my head as the priest’s voice echoes through the speakers from the main chamber, working up to the final blessing. Dee watches, copying my stance as she stands beside me. Before the priest is finished, a commotion of clattering feet coming up the stairs from the basement draws my attention. Through the side door, Sister Beatrice Dugan steps into the antechamber with a dozen Sunday school students in two lines behind her.

  Sister B was my first sexual experience. Well . . . my first self-sexual experience. She was all of our firsts—the closest Drew and I have ever come to a three-way.

  Wait, that last part is gross, forget I said that.

  Anyway, puberty is a confusing time for a boy. Having a fuck-hot teacher who happens to be a nun made it more confusing. I got carried away when I first discovered the joys of masturbation. Unfortunately, I didn’t just “choke the chicken”—I literally strangled the sucker. That’s how, at thirteen years old, I ended up diagnosed with CPS—Chafed Penis Syndrome. I don’t need to elaborate on that do I?

  My mother may have bought into the doctor’s explanation that my CPS was caused by keeping a wet bathing suit on too long, but my father sure as hell didn’t. In one of our more tender conversations, he told me spanking the monkey was nothing to be ashamed of, that it was like electricity—God wouldn’t have given it to us if he didn’t want us to use it. But, like all things, moderation was key. I calmed down after that chat, and was able to engage in regular self-pleasure, without inflicting injury.

  Sister B quiets the giggling kids with a look. Then with an Irish lilt that time hasn’t diminished, she says, “Matthew—how are you, m’boy?”

  “Right as rain, Sister B.”

  “Right as rain and yet still late for Mass? Tsk-tsk.”

  I shrug. “Better late than never.”

  She smiles. “I suppose you’re right, though offering a few Our Fathers as you pray for punctuality may be in order. I saw your parents at the early mass; they’re looking grand as always.”

  I nod. Then I turn to Dee and say, “Delores, this is Sister Beatrice, my grade school teacher. Sister B, this is Delores Warren.”

  Sister B greets her. “Pleased to meet you.”

  Dee waves. “Hi.”

  Sister Beatrice’s brow wrinkles. “You look uncomfortable, m’dear. Why is that?”

  Dee fidgets. “I just . . . I’m not Catholic. Not even a little.”

  Sister B pats her shoulder, and in a hushed voice tells her, “That’s quite all right. Neither was Jesus.”

  When we get to Central Park, I take out my camera and get a few great shots of Dee by the fountain. I take some more nature-themed pictures of the leaves as they’re blowing down from the trees. Then Delores and I lay next to each other on a blanket, on a grassy patch, heated by the warm sun of the fall afternoon. And we trade questions—the random, inappropriate kind that are always fun and a great way to get to know a person.

  “Have you ever been arrested?” Dee asks me as she plays with the buttons on my flannel shirt.

  “Not yet. You?”