Switch

anything except stare. The song ends and slides into

another and I'm sure he's done. He'l take the dolars and

go into the back room.

But he does something else, instead. He gets on his knees,

sliding across the floor on them until he ends up at my feet.

And for that one moment, that instant, everything freezes

for me.

I can't breathe. I can't blink. I stare at him on that dirty

floor and our eyes lock. I've never wanted anything as

much as I want to put my hand in the long silken darkness

of his hair and pul.

And in the next moment he's up again, this time shaking his

ass at the woman waving a five-dolar bil like she might fly

away with it. The moment passed, but not the feeling. Not

the memory.

Later, after the club closed, I fucked Jack in the backseat

of his car while he whispered dirty, filthy things in my ear.

We fucked a lot, but not for long.

He never got on his knees for me again.

The rap on my window startled me so much my hands

flew up and knocked against my key ring. I stabbed at the

radio, switching it off. Heart pounding, I turned to the

window, expecting a gun.

I was shot al the same by the sight of the man's face

beyond the glass. My neighbor, my workout buddy, Mr.

Mystery. He frowned and leaned closer.

"Are you al right?"

I puled my keys from the ignition and grabbed my purse,

then waited until he'd stepped aside before I opened the

door. "Yeah. Fine. I was just…spacing out for a minute."

"Decompressing? Yeah. I do that, too. Sorry I scared

you."

I could breathe again, but every nerve ending stil tingled.

This guy looked nothing like Jack aside from dark hair, but

even that was nothing alike. I swalowed hard and fought

not to smooth my hair, though I had a sudden fear of how

messy it probably looked.

"It's okay. It's probably not smart to sit in the parking

garage."

His smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. "No, probably

not. You never know just who might be watching you."

Funny how that was supposed to sound like a warning but

Funny how that was supposed to sound like a warning but

came off as a temptation. He shifted his bag over his

shoulder and looked me over, seeming as though he might

say something else, but satisfied himself instead with

another smile. With a little wave he backed off and got in a

car across the aisle. It was newer than mine, a dark blue

hybrid, which told me that at least he was environmentaly

responsible as wel as hot.

I waved, too, and watched him drive away. For a second

or two the memory of Jack's face shimmered and merged

with my mystery man's. It made me shiver and I put the

thought from my mind. Jack had been a long time ago, and

a different time. I was a different me back then.

Or so I thought.

Chapter 11

Though I'd checked my mail that morning, I couldn't resist

peeking into my mailbox when I got home. Through the

smal glass window I expected to see nothing, so at first,

that's al I saw. Then the black sliver of shadow on the

mailbox's metal floor caught my gaze and my breath

razored my throat as I sucked it in. I hid my cough behind

my hand. There was something in my mailbox.

A Tenant Association flyer, probably. The T.A. was

notorious for its enthusiasm for memos. But they usualy

came on half slips of cheap computer paper, the message

printed multiple times on one sheet and torn in halves or

thirds. This was not a memo from the T.A.

I puled out the card, stil not addressed to me, and looked

around with sudden suspicion. I have never liked surprises.

Not in parties, not in relationships, not in practical jokes.

I saw other tenants in the lobby and standing by the

elevators. Some with unfamiliar faces moved past me

toward the stairs to the basement. Nobody looked at me.

If anyone was watching to see what I'd do, they were

being very shy about it.

being very shy about it.

And why should anyone be watching? I'd passed the other

notes along to the rightful recipient. Chances were good

the person putting them in the wrong box didn't even know

they'd gone through a different one first. Yet something

about it seemed off. Who would keep making the same

mistake over and over?

Unless it wasn't a mistake?

But I could think of no reason why anyone would be

slipping me sexy little instructions. I looked around again. I

tapped the card against my palm. I looked at the mailbox

for 114. I peeked through its glass window, saw the

magazines and letters inside and held the card to the slot.

I wouldn't read it. I shouldn't read it. I didn't dare read it.

I couldn't help it, I swear. I was thirsty and it was a drink

of cold water; I was hungry and it was a loaf of bread. I

had PMS and it was a bar of chocolate and a bowl of ice

cream with peanuts and fudge sauce on top. It was the

cherry on that sundae.

With a quick glance from side to side, certain no one was

With a quick glance from side to side, certain no one was

watching, I tucked the card into my bag and hightailed it to

the elevator. My phone was ringing when I got to my

apartment. The answering machine had just clicked on

when I grabbed up the portable handset from the end

table. My mom had already started talking.

"Paige. It's Mom. Cal me—"

"Mom. Hi." The note, unopened and unread, burned my

palm.

"Are you screening your cals?" She sounded amused.

I took a couple of deep breaths and stared at the number

on the front of the paper. "I'm not screening my cals. I just

got in."

This perked her ears. "Oh? Were you out?"

"Yes, Mother," I said. "Hence the just-getting-in part."

"Where were you?"

"Not on a date, if that's what you're hoping," I told her, just to poke.

"Too bad for you."

"Too bad for you."

"Yeah, yeah. What's up?" I put the note in the center of the kitchen table where it could watch me and I it. I circled it,

only half my mind on the conversation with my mother, so

distracted by this new note I'd forgotten I needed to be

angry at her.

"Does something have to be up for me to cal my favorite

daughter?"

My mom has always been almost more like an aunt or

older sister than a mom. She was only nineteen when she

had me, about the same age I'd been when she'd had

Arthur. I'm not saying she didn't do her best. I'm just

saying that now, when I'm in my twenties and she's in her

forties, the age difference seems even less than it did when

I was growing up and she was the only mom I knew who

cared as much about the Backstreet Boys as I did.

"No, I guess not. But there usualy is. Usualy you just hit

me up on e-mail."

Since I moved "so far away," anyway, and phoning me

had become a long-distance cal.

"Wel, I don't have to do that anymore." She paused and I

could hear the grin in her voice. "Guess where I'm caling

from."

"Paris."

"No, Paige," my mom said as though I'd been serious. "My car! I'm driving to the mal!"

"You're talking and driving? Mom, you do know that's

ilegal in the city of Lebanon. You'd better hang up. You'l

get a ticket!" Not to mention my mom's driving was

haphazard even when she wasn't distracted by a phone.

"You're missing the point, Paige. The point is, I'm caling

you from my own cel phone!"

"Ah." I should've guessed it was something bright and

shiny that she'd caled to tel me. "Congratulations.

Welcome to the milennium."

She ignored my far-from-subtle sarcasm. "Leo bought it

for me. Isn't he the sweetest?"

As boyfriends went, Leo was one of the better ones.

Being older might have been part of it, though with his big

Being older might have been part of it, though with his big

beer bely and long beard there was no question he was as

rough a biker as any guy my mom had ever dated. He stil

rode his Harley to work and sported a line of faded

tattoos on each arm, but he was melower than some of

the younger guys she'd dated.

"That was nice of him."

"So now I can cal you al the time! And text. I can text

you, too, if I can figure out how."

"Oh, joy." I dug into the junk drawer for a pen and some

paper and paused when I puled out the yelow legal pad.

My scant list of flaws and strengths stared out at me, and I

forgot to speak.

"Paige?"

"What's your number?" I put that list aside and poised to

take down the number.

"I.D.K.," my mom said airily.

"Huh?"

"I.D.K.," she repeated. "Geez, Paige. Don't you know

"I.D.K.," she repeated. "Geez, Paige. Don't you know

what I.D.K. means? It means ‘I don't know.'"

"I know what it means. I just didn't think you did. Besides,

Mom, nobody talks like that out loud. It's just textspeak."

"L.O.L.," my mom said.

"M.O.M.," I said.

We both laughed.

"Also, listen," she said, but didn't say anything else.

"I'm listening."

"Guess who I ran into the other day."

"With your car?"

"You," my mom said, "are a smart-ass."

"I.D.K., who'd you run into?"

She paused. I waited for the sound of crunching glass and

metal, but she must've just been puling into a slot rather

than ramming into a phone pole.

than ramming into a phone pole.

"Austin's mother."

Serendipity. It's not just the name of a mildly entertaining

John Cusack movie. "Oh?" I couldn't manage a different

response.

"She said to say hi."

"Uh-huh." As far as I knew, when her son and I had

broken up, Mrs. Miler had been happy to see me go.

"Don't make that face at me, Paige."

"You don't know what face I'm making."

"I'm your mother, I don't need to see your face to know

you're crunching your nose. You're going to get horrible

crow's-feet that way."

"Around my nose?"

"And guess what she said?"

I waited while she dangled further information in front of

me like cheese in front of a rat.

"She says he's moved up there. Where you are."

Wel, at least I'd forgotten to keep staring at the note with

hungry eyes. "Harrisburg isn't a foreign country, you know.

It's only forty minutes away." I tried not to sound sharp,

but failed.

My mother didn't care. When "going away" in the

vernacular of the area means you're taking a trip to the

store, forty minutes was an eternity. I was gone. Anyway,

I'd already known about Austin.

Harrisburg was my place. Not his. He didn't belong here.

He should've stayed in Lebanon, where his family lived

and had always lived and would always live. He should've

stayed there where every street could remind him of me

and he could weep bitter, salty tears at the loss.

"Lemoyne," she said as though I hadn't spoken. "His mom said he got a new job with some big heating-and-cooling

company. He's not doing construction with his dad

anymore."

"Good for him."

"I'm sure I could get his number for you."

"I have his number." She was silent to that, because as far as she knew, Austin and I hadn't spoken since the day I'd

walked out of our apartment.

"Fine. Be that way. I just thought you might like to know,

that's al. He's got a good job."

"Depends on what you consider good."

This time, her silence was longer. "Wel. When did you

become such a snob?"

I sighed. "I'm not a snob. I'm just…trying to change things

for myself. That's al."

There realy was no better way to put it, and no way not to

say it without offending her. My mother had everything I

never wanted. Most parents want better for their kids, and

I know my mom wasn't different. But there's always that

sting when you realize what you gave someone hasn't been

enough, even though it was your best.

"I just thought maybe you might…"

"What?"

My mom cleared her throat, a sure sign she was getting

ready to pretend she hadn't done something to piss me off

when she knew she had. "I just thought maybe he'd seen

you. That's al. Been in touch."

"Stalked me, you mean?" Angry again, I paced the length

of my living room and then around my kitchen table, and

finaly into my bedroom, where I stopped so I didn't have

to make another round. "How could you tel him where I

lived, Mom? You know I don't want to see him!"

"You know, Paige, once upon a time you'd have been mad

at me for keeping him from you."

"Once upon a time was a long time ago," I said.

"I'm sorry," my mother said stiffly. "He caled and asked if I could tel him where you were living. I didn't think you'd

mind. You said yourself you had his number."

"Mom…" I sighed and pressed my fingers between my

eyes to keep myself from completely losing my temper. "If

I wanted him to know where I lived I'd have sent him a

card."

card."

"I'm sorry, Paige." She sounded sincere, but I knew her

wel enough to know she was sorry I was angry. Not sorry

because she thought she was wrong. "I have to go. I'm at

the mal."

"Okay. Fine."

"You know," she said suddenly, "it wouldn't kil you to come back home every once in a while. Arty misses you.

Me, too."

I didn't suggest they come up to visit me. Even meeting

halfway would've taken her out of her comfort zone. "I'l

be there tomorrow night, remember? Taking him to the

movies? Power Heroes? "

"You could come on Friday, instead. Spend the

weekend."

She might be able to know what my face looked like

without seeing it, but I doubt she knew about the shudder

crawling over me at the thought.

"I can't. Busy."

She didn't push it. "Okay. Fine."

We were so alike, sometimes it was scary. Which, of

course, was one reason why I'd moved away. We hung

up.

I stripped out of my clothes and headed into the bathroom,

wishing the conversation could be washed away as easily

as soapsuds down the drain. Growing up, I'd lived with my

mom in a series of low-income-housing apartments, rented

trailers and dilapidated houses owned by men who often

seemed more interested in the way my mom cooked and

kept house than anything else about her. There had never

been enough of anything, but especialy hot water for

showers.

In the best of them, I'd been able to sneak a late-night

shower when nobody else needed to use the bathroom,

the washing machine wasn't running and nobody was

cleaning dishes. In the worst of them, I'd sought the

shower as a refuge from the shouting and the slamming

doors, shivering under spray that turned frigid long before I

was ready to get out.

I worked hard and sacrificed much to afford the smalest

I worked hard and sacrificed much to afford the smalest

unit and cheapest maintenance package in one of

Harrisburg's hottest new apartment buildings. Unlimited

hot water might be wasteful, and I didn't care. I took

advantage of it every chance I could.

By the time I came out dressed in a pair of stretched-out

fleece pants and a T-shirt that had been threadbare when I

stole it from Austin's drawer, I felt better. I fixed myself a

sandwich and a glass of cold milk, and I set it on the table.

The note was stil there.

It slid into my hands as though it had been made for my

fingers. The same black letters stroked this paper with the

same black ink, and this time, with nobody to see, I

brought it to my nose and breathed in deep.

Fresh, good ink smels like nothing else in the world. I

closed my eyes and breathed again. The paper stil had a

scent, faintly musky like cologne or perfume I didn't

recognize. I sat to study it. Bold, heavy strokes of the pen

carved the number on the front. No envelope, no name, no

postmark to show where or when it had been mailed. Not

even a fingerprint smudge to give me an idea of the size of

the hand that had written it. The elegant handwriting

showed no gender.

showed no gender.

Without an envelope and stamp it couldn't have come

through the mail, which meant someone had pushed it

through the slot. The wrong slot, again. They'd taken the

time to write the number on the front, but hadn't paid

attention to the number on my mailbox. It wasn't a note for

me, and I should not have read it. If I hadn't, everything

would have been different.

If only I'd done the right thing.

Chapter 12

You wil take your finest paper and your best ink.

You wil write down in explicit detail your most erotic

experience. It may be real or it may be fantasy, but you

are to write it without error in your best handwriting,

without blots or misspelings.

You wil return this essay to me by Thursday.

The note listed the same post-office box as before.

I blinked and read the note again as heat rose in my

cheeks. I closed it and put it aside. I shouldn't have read it.

It wasn't for me.

I opened it again, read over the words in that fluid,

beautiful hand that gave away nothing of its origin, and

something twisted inside me. Finest paper and best ink.

Already I could feel my fingers curving around the pen,

could imagine the words unscroling under the tip as I put

my secret thoughts onto paper. I even knew the paper I

would use. Creamy white, unlined, bordered in gold. It

was the perfect sheet to use for writing something so

was the perfect sheet to use for writing something so

intimate and explicit as had been demanded. I had only

two sheets.

I folded the card carefuly and slipped it back into the

envelope, closing it up as tenderly as I might pul the

blankets higher on a lover next to me in bed when I woke

to a chil. I pushed it away from me on the table, and

folded my hands while I stared at it. The mystery of who

was sending these notes, these lists, had been

overshadowed by the more intriguing enigma of why.

I got up from the table and puled a glass of water from the

tap, but even though I drank it back in a few quick gulps,

more the way a practiced drinker wil take whiskey than

water, it didn't cool the heat rising in my throat to my

cheeks. I turned, my back to the counter, and leaned. The

note sat on my table. Not accusing.

Inviting.

In a long, long list of sexual experiences, what would I

consider my most erotic? Not the first time I ever sucked a

guy off, or the first time I came from someone's else's

hand. Not the first time I ever fucked, either. Al of those

had been memorable. I'd had a lot of sex, a lot of it good.

had been memorable. I'd had a lot of sex, a lot of it good.

Quite a bit bad. I had a long list of experiences I could

have written, but what was the one worthy of my finest

paper? My best ink?

I busied myself with cleaning my tidy kitchen but was

unable to put the list from my mind. The first few notes had

been simple, if enigmatic, instructions. Eat oatmeal. Work

out. Be beautiful. It had been something of a game, these

suggestions implanted in my brain and leading me toward

the choices I'd have probably made anyway even without

the suggestions. But this…this was different. What had

seemed harmless before had become slightly more sinister.

Also, a heluva lot sexier.

Late night.

The only light comes, flickering blue, from the TV in the

corner. The sound's turned down low because it's not so

important to hear what's being said as it is to see what's

going on. I've seen this movie before, a few times, in

pieces, but it's the first time I've ever seen it al at once.

He lifts his head from kissing me when it comes on, his

hands stiling on my bely where they'd been wandering

their way up toward my breasts. "Hot," he murmurs. "This their way up toward my breasts. "Hot," he murmurs. "This movie is hot."

I push his face back to mine and take his mouth to keep

his attention on me, not the TV screen. I open my mouth

and legs to him, puling him down on top of me. Puling him

close. My heart's open, too, though I haven't yet told him I

love him. Those are words for prom pictures and class

rings.

We don't have that, him and me. We have the backseat of

his car, we have the space beneath the bleachers after

school. We have the back row of the movie theater. We

have the basement in his parents' house and this couch.

But when I hear the song, the one my mom plays over and

over on those old mix tapes from her youth, I lift my head

from his kisses to see what's going on. I know why she

loved this song. She'd been a fan of Duran Duran in her

youth, complete with fedora hat and bleached-blond

streak in her hair, just like the bass player. John Taylor, the

same guy singing this song. Wel, not singing it. Chanting it,

sort of. I knew she loved this song because he sang it, but

until now, I hadn't known this was the movie it had come

from.

The woman on the screen bites her finger. The slide show

she's watching cycles through to another picture, but the

movie doesn't show what she's looking at. Only her. She

touches herself, her thighs opening, her head faling back in

ecstasy as she makes herself come.

He watches me watch. His hand presses flat on my chest,

over my heart. My breath had caught in my throat and I let

it seep out, slow and silent, not wanting him to know I'd

been holding it.

"Do you do that?"

I tear my gaze from the TV to look at him. "What?"

He jerks his chin toward the set. The movie's moved on to

something else, but I know what he meant. "That. Do

you?"

"Do I touch myself? Do I get myself off?" I hitch higher

against the arm of the battered couch his parents donated

to the basement. A cat had scratched it; a dog had lifted its

leg on it. We'd fucked about a thousand times on its faded

cushions, or maybe only ten.

He sits back. His shirt hangs open at his throat. I'd been

the one to undo the buttons. The waistband of his boxers

peeks from his jeans. Beneath the denim his cock had

throbbed, hard and hot, moments before.

I know him now, though not as wel as I wil eventualy. He

doesn't know me very wel at al and never wil. Yet this is

different, this coyness as he scrubs his hand over the brush

of his hair and grins.

"Wel. Yeah."

"Do you?" I pul down the bottom of my sweater and

cross my arms over my stomach.

He laughs low. I've known him for years, since elementary

school. I've watched him become a man. He sounds like a

man when he laughs, al low and growly deep. Rough-

edged.

"Wel, yeah," he says. "Al guys do."

"But you don't think al girls do, too?"

"I'm not asking what al girls do. Just you," he points out.

He knows how to work me. And, because I want to

believe I'm the only girl in his thoughts, I answer his

question honestly. Later we'l both lie.

"Yeah. I do it."

He clears his throat. "Realy? I mean, you realy—"

"Wank? Masturbate? Pet my pussy?" I guess I'm trying to

shock him. Make him blush. He's not the blushing sort.

"Is that what you cal it?"

"What do you call it?"

We're whispering, though his parents sleep a ful two floors

above us and we haven't bothered to keep our voices

down about anything before. He leans forward and so do

I. He smels faintly of cologne and more like fabric

softener. His mother does his laundry. Mine doesn't.

"Jerking off, I guess."

"I don't cal it anything," I admit. "I just do it."

"How often?"

I laugh, then, and look to the movie for strength. The

couple in the film are fucking in what looks like a clock

tower. Their hands scrabble at each other as they pul off

their clothes.

"Whenever I feel like it!"

He laughs. "How often do you feel like it?"

I don't want to tel him about the nights I've spent with

other boys' hands on me, revving me up without finishing

me off. Or the blank-fronted books I sneak from the

shelves of the family down the street who pay me to watch

their kids while they go bowling. I've learned a lot more

about sex from those books than I've ever learned from a

boy. Until him, anyway.

"Do you feel like it now?" he asks when it becomes clear

I'm not going to answer.

"Do I feel like coming now?"

He's used his hands on me, put his cock inside me, put his

mouth on my mouth and on my body. I've come with him

more than a few times. But not every time.

more than a few times. But not every time.

"Wil you?" he asks. "While I watch?"

I don't know what answer to give. I only know I want to

give him everything he asks for and some things he hasn't. I

nod.

He sits back against the couch's opposite arm. I'm not sure

he'l even be able to see me, painted in shafts of white and

dark from the TV's glow. I'm not sure I want him to see

me do this without a shield of shadows.

I've never done this in front of anyone, and at first I'm not

sure how to start. In the privacy of my bedroom I'd have

the door locked and soft music playing in the dark. I'd be

naked, or wearing only panties and a T-shirt. Now I have

to navigate the barriers of my jeans and sweater,

underpants and bra. So I start by touching my breasts

through the wool, not because I usualy feel my boobs

when I'm masturbating but because I think that's what he

expects me to do, and doing it wil buy me time to find the

nerve to folow through with the rest of it.

The smal noise that eeps out of his throat convinces me I

made the right choice. My hands feel smal on my breasts,

which are fuler in my palms than in his. I can't remember

which are fuler in my palms than in his. I can't remember

the last time I touched them this way, cupping and rubbing,

trying to tweak my nipples to points. The sweater is too

thick for this, so I shift until I can pul it off over my head.

Another smal noise from him, and I bite my lower lip. My

fingers tiptoe over the slopes of my now-naked chest, over

the lace and satin of my best bra. The one I bought from

Victoria's Secret with my babysitting cash. The one I wear

on every date. Beneath its expensive material and breast-

lifting bands of metal, my nipples have gone tight and

aching.

My palms slide on the smooth fabric. When my thumbs

pass over those hard points, I bite harder. Soft flesh dents

under my teeth. It doesn't hurt yet, but if I don't ease up I

wil soon taste blood.

I close my eyes because it's easier to be what I think he

wants me to be when I'm not watching him watch me. And

it gives me darkness, which I'm used to and prefer for this

sort of thing. I feel my skin, softer than the bra that has

been through lots of washings and, despite its cost, wasn't

made to last.

I go away.

I go away.

From this basement, which always smels a little of wet

dog though his dog died years ago. From him, the boy-

man watching me. Even from the TV and the movie in the

corner that started al of this in the first place.

I go away to the place where everything feels good, and I

don't have to think about anything but the whisper of my

fingertips along my sides. Down across my bely, which

wil never be flat enough no matter how many crunches I

do or lunches I skip. The metal button on my jeans isn't

cold or warm, it's the same temperature as my skin. My

fingers miss it in their first walk across, though the belt

loops snag my touch.

I don't open the button at first. I slide my hand down the

front of my jeans. My panties are already damp from the

hour we've been on the couch. Sometimes, though I'd

never dare tel him this, no matter what I'm about to share,

my pussy gets wet even before we start kissing.

Sometimes, when I'm in the shower getting ready to meet

him, I do what I'm doing now with my hands, which is rub

them al over my body and pretend they're his. Sometimes

I spend the entire date—the movie, the dinner, bowling,

whatever it is, waiting for it al to be over so we can get to

whatever it is, waiting for it al to be over so we can get to

this part. The couch, the backseat. His hands and mouth

on mine. His cock inside me.

I gasp aloud when my finger finds the smal bump at the

front of my panties. I don't have room to stroke, so I

satisfy myself with pushing gently. I use my middle finger.

The fuck finger, he cals it. It's the one he uses inside me to

get me ready before he uses his dick, but when he touches

my clit he uses his first finger. Or his thumb, if I'm on top. I

didn't come to his bed or his backseat or his couch as

anything close to a virgin, but I don't want to think about

who taught him how to do that.

I can always get off faster by myself than with someone

else. I'm already close. Another gentle press of my finger

pushes a shudder through me. My toes curl against the

cushions. My hips lift a little.

I don't have room to do this right, so now I unbutton my

jeans. My zipper ratchets apart, tooth by metal tooth. My

jeans open. I hook my thumbs into the sides and push

them down, over my hips and thighs. They get hung up at

my knees, and he reaches forward to grab a handful of

denim and help me.

In my bra and also-best panties I lean back and give

myself over to his scrutiny. I push my hands over my body,

al the curves that scared and annoyed me when they

started forming but I'm grateful for now. Boys like boobs

and ass and even a little bely is okay if you have the rest

of it, too.

He unzips his jeans, too, while he watches. Soon his prick

is settled firmly in his fist and he pumps it slowly as he

watches me caress my body with my hands acting like his.

I have seen him do this before, stroke himself erect, give

himself a few quick pumps now and then. I've never

watched him finish this way. He's always done it in my

mouth, or my hand, or in my body.

"Take off your panties," he whispers in a voice rough-

edged with need.

I can't remember him ever saying that to me before.

They've always just…come off. But now I slide the cotton

and satin down to end up on the floor next to my jeans. I

try not to think about the couch under my bare flesh, or

wish we'd at least put down a blanket.

When he groans, I'm no longer distracted. I can't focus on

When he groans, I'm no longer distracted. I can't focus on

anything but my hand moving between my legs and his

moving on his cock. I'm wet and my fingers slip and slide.

I push two inside myself, echoing the motion he's making.

It's like my fingers are his prick, his fist my pussy. Our

bitten-back moans come at the same time.

My clitoris is hard. Rigid. When I brush it with my

fingertips I want to arch and squirm, thrust my hips. I want

to fil myself deep with something hard. I want to ride his

dick while my clit rubs his hard bely.

I want to come.

My hand moves faster between my legs. My other hand

finds my nipples, which I twist and tug in time to the

thrusting of my fingers. My knees fal open and my head

fals back. The arm of the couch is unyielding, but I push

against it anyway.

The couch dips as he moves closer to me. He's on his

knees, his jeans and boxers tangled on his ankles. He

stops just long enough to pul his shirt over his head, the

sleeves going inside out as it flutters to the floor. Then his

hand is back on his dick and his other is on my hip.

I stop rubbing my clit, thinking he's going to take over.

That he means to cover me with his body and push up

inside me. Every nerve is singing now, and I want that. I

want him to fuck me, but he doesn't.

"Don't stop, Paige," he says. "I want to watch you."

So my hand moves back between my legs and my fingers

stil, going slower even though he's hand-fucking himself

ever faster. I want to draw it out, make it last, build the

pleasure.

My breath is coming in short, harsh pants and my hips are

moving al on their own. I'm so close I could come only by

thinking about it. I take my clit between my thumb and first

finger and squeeze, just gently. Just softly. Just enough.

Everything contracts at once. My pussy, my ass, my clit.

My breath bursts out of me in a cry that's too loud but I

can't hold it back. This time when I bite my lip, I do taste

blood.

My orgasm has taken over. I am steamrolered by it and

left flat. I can't move, though my neck is kiling me from the

awkward angle and something sharp is poking me in the

ass.

ass.

"Ah, God," he cries. "Ah, Paige!"

Hot wetness spatters my chest and belly. It pumps out

of him in three hard spurts. The rest surges over his

hand as it cups the head of his cock and he strokes a

few last times. The scent of him fills me. The couch

beneath me dips again as he leans to put his hand on

the arm behind my head.

Crouching over me, his hand stil on his penis, his face is lit

by the television's moving shadows but I have no trouble

looking straight into his eyes. His jizz is going cold on my

skin and I'm afraid to move in case it drips off me onto the

cushions.

He leans to kiss me with an open mouth, but no tongue.

It's sweet and unexpected. I taste the salt of his sweat on

his upper lip.

He puls his shirt up from the floor and wipes me clean,

which is also unexpected and leaves me uncertain how to

react. He scrubs at the wetness on my bra with his sleeve,

but it's too late. I can wash it, but there wil always be a

stain.

stain.

"You are so beautiful," Austin says when he kisses me

again.

It's the first time he says it and this time, though later I

won't, I believe him.

My fingers had gone stiff from gripping the pen. I hadn't

thought about that night in a long time. Other memories

had crowded it out. Worse memories, actualy, that had

made me forget there'd once been a time when I'd been

young and in love.

"Discipline," I said aloud. I wasn't smoking, but the taste and scent of tobacco smoke filed my senses anyway.

What the hel was going on?

I gave in to the need to let my legs buckle under me then. I

let myself fal onto my couch, where I curled into a bal and

puled the knitted afghan over my head. Through the holes

the stark wals of my apartment glared at me until I closed

my eyes.

I'm no prude. When other kids were watching Aladdin,

my mom was working third shift and leaving me alone in

my mom was working third shift and leaving me alone in

the house from ten-thirty at night until eight in the morning.

She thought I was asleep when she left, and it was true I

was in bed. I never told her how anxious I was when she

left, or how hard it was for me to sleep knowing I was

alone in the house al night. I'd creep downstairs and

console myself with hours of cable television. I saw a lot of

things I probably shouldn't have, but it also taught me a lot.

Even so, these notes. The commands. What had seemed

fairly innocuous at the start couldn't be confused for

anything innocent now.

The lists had been specific. Detailed. And now, explicit.

What sort of woman wanted someone to tel her how to

live her day? What sort of woman needed someone else to

tel her to be beautiful, to be strong? What sort of woman

craved the commands of someone else dictating her life?

I put my hand between my legs, on the damp cotton of my

panties, and felt my clit pulse.

What sort of woman?

I thought I knew.

I thought I knew.

Chapter 13

Here's a funny story made humorous by time, since it

wasn't funny when it happened. I was nineteen when my

mom had Arthur, which means that when she got pregnant,

I was eighteen. A senior in high school and screwing my

brains out with Mr. Popular Jock.

My mom had always been up front about sex and

protecting myself. Too up front, in my opinion, since my

sex life was the second-to-last topic of discussion I ever

wanted to share with her, the last being hers. Austin wasn't

the first boy I'd fooled around with. He wasn't even the

first boy I'd slept with, though the previous few times I'd

had sex had been so unremarkable and meaningless I

mostly forgot it had ever happened. I'd been on the pil for

a couple years already, but I made him use condoms, too.

There's nothing quite like being an ilegitimate child to

make a girl fear pregnancy. There was no way I was going

to end up the way my mother had.

Stil, when a condom broke I wasn't too worried. At least,

not until my period was late. Not even a warning cramp to

announce its pending arrival. I counted the days and when

we'd had sex—easy enough to do because it was pretty

we'd had sex—easy enough to do because it was pretty

much every time we were together, which by that point

was almost every day.

I didn't tel Austin what I suspected. I didn't tel anyone. I

went to the drugstore on the far end of town and bought

the first pregnancy test I could find. I came home and

drank a quart of water before I went to sleep so when I

got up I'd have plenty of pee to use for that first morning

urination. I read the instructions four times. I peed on the

little stick and watched with my guts cramping from fear,

not PMS, for the lines to show up. One or two? Safe or

caught?

One line.

I hadn't been raised a regular churchgoer, but I got on my

knees there in front of the toilet and I sent a prayer of

thanks so fervent I was sure any God who'd listen would

forgive me for my past sins. Then I wrapped the test in a

handful of toilet paper the way I usualy wrapped my

tampons and shoved it to the bottom of the garbage can.

I got home from school to an empty house, my mom at

work as usual. And, as usual, I was already flying through

my homework and my chores so I could spend the rest of

my homework and my chores so I could spend the rest of

the time with Austin until she got home. When I went into

the bathroom to clean it, my heart stopped. Literaly. The

world grayed out in that two seconds before it started to

beat again, and I clutched the sink to keep from faling.

There on the counter was a pregnancy test. The same

brand I'd used that morning. Only this one had two lines in

the little window. A positive result.

This time when I got on my knees it wasn't to pray. I put

my head in my shaking hands and concentrated on

drawing in breath after breath. I could smel the bleachy

cleanser I'd meant to use on the shower wals, which never

wanted to come clean from the soap scum no matter how

hard I scrubbed. I could feel my breath whistling through

my fingers.

I got myself under control and onto my feet to stare again

at the test. Hadn't I left enough time for the results? Had it

turned positive after I'd thrown it away and gone my merry

way to school, secure in my un-knocked-up state?

Had I been pregnant al day and not known it?

Normaly I wouldn't touch the garbage without rubber

Normaly I wouldn't touch the garbage without rubber

gloves, but I dug through the layers of used tissues and Q-

tips without even a gag, though my stomach had risen in

my throat. I found the box I'd wrapped as carefuly as the

test, but before I could tear it open to reread the

instructions to see if it was possible a test could turn

positive later than the three minutes I'd given it. And I

found, stil wrapped tightly and hidden, the test I'd taken

that morning. Which meant, of course, the one on the sink

wasn't mine.

My thanks this time were louder and more fervent than

they'd been that morning, but shorter. Because if it wasn't

mine, that meant it was my mother's. I didn't want to think

about that.

Thinking of this now, I puled up in front of my mom's

house. The one she'd lived in with Leo and Arty for the

past three years, not one of the many in which she'd raised

me. A brick row home sandwiched between two others

and within a stone's throw of the railroad tracks, it wasn't

anything like my dad's house. Yet inside the good smels of

something baking tickled my nose instead of expensive

scented candles, and the hug I got from my mom felt

natural and not forced.

"Arty's upstairs getting ready," she said. "I told him he couldn't wear his Batman costume to the movies, but…

wel."

"I don't care if he wears his Batman costume."

My mom sighed and shook her head. "You're sure?"

Once upon a time I'd have been appaled at the thought,

but distance seemed to have melowed me. Or time,

maybe. I shrugged.

"What's it to me if the kid's happy?"

I couldn't decipher her look, which only lasted a second as

she turned to shout up the stairs. "Arty! Paige is here!"

"Where's Leo?" I'd always liked him, even if he did laugh

too loud at truly stupid television shows and wear offensive

novelty T-shirts.

Again with the look I couldn't interpret. "He's not home."

"Obviously." She didn't return my smile, but before I could ask her if something was wrong, Arty bounded down the

stairs. "Hey."

stairs. "Hey."

"Pow!" Arty leaped in front of me with his hands on his

hips. His brown eyes glinted from behind the mask.

Clearly he'd had no intention of listening to our mom. "I'm

Batman!"

"I see that. Are you ready to go, Batman?"

He launched himself into me, his arms and legs wrapping

around me. "Yay! Yes! Yay for Paige!"

"Good luck with him. Today was somebody's birthday at

school. He's had a lot of sugar."

"Oh, joy. Put a sweatshirt on, shorty. The movie theater

might be chily." I squeezed him back, tight. He smeled

like baby shampoo and candy. I could handle even a

sugar-infused Arty.

My mom tried to press a ten-dolar bil into my hand as

Arty struggled into his jacket, but I refused to take it.

"Mom, no."

"For popcorn."

"I said no." I'd been taler than her since seventh grade, but

"I said no." I'd been taler than her since seventh grade, but looking down at her now it seemed strange to be staring at

the top of her head. She'd starting graying early but had

always kept up the color. Now I saw half an inch of white

here and there along her part.

I noticed lines in the corners of her eyes, too, when she

looked up at me. My mom had never looked old to me, I

guess because she wasn't, but she looked tired. Her

eyeliner had smudged a little as though applied by an

unsteady hand, or as if she'd been rubbing her eyes. She

did that when she had a headache.

"You okay, Mom?"

"Fine, baby." She pressed the folded bil toward me again,

even though I jerked my hand away. "Take this."

"I said no. C'mon. It's my treat."

She frowned. I looked like my dad most every other time,

but now I saw myself in her face. "Paige. You can't tel me

that fancy apartment's not expensive."

"And I have a good job, remember? You don't have to

worry so much. Realy. I'm happy to take Arty to the

movies. I'm fine."

movies. I'm fine."

With a sigh she tucked the bil into the pocket of her jeans.

"As if you'd tel me otherwise?"

She had me there. I merely grinned and shrugged. She

shook her head and bent to help Arty slide his arms into

his sleeves. Considering how much Arty was bouncing up

and down it was no smal feat. I reached a hand to help

her and she stepped back with a strangely defeated sigh.

"Let's go, let's go, let's go, let's go!"

"Chil, little dude. Chil," I admonished with a hard look at my mom. "You sure you're okay?"

"Just tired, baby. Go have fun. I'l see you when you get

back. Not too late," she cautioned for Arty's benefit and

not mine. "School tomorrow."

Arty, stil bouncing, grabbed for my hand. "Let's

goooooooo!"

Like me, my little brother looked like the man who'd

fathered him. Personalitywise, though, he was almost

entirely my mother. Nonstop chatter from the backseat

entirely my mother. Nonstop chatter from the backseat

kept me entertained on the ten-minute drive to the mal.

Growing up, I'd had to go al the way to Palmyra to hit a

multiplex, but now Lebanon had its own stadium-seating

theater fancy enough to rival anything in Harrisburg. The

prices were cheaper, too, a reminder there were some

minor advantages to life in the town where I'd grown up.

Halfway through the movie, my phone vibrated against my

thigh. I flipped it open with a sigh when I saw who it was

from…ignoring the fact that not only did I recognize the

number on sight, but that I had, in a fit of insanity, assigned

it a photo. I shielded the glare of the backlight with one

hand as I read it.

Where you @?

I didn't reply, just flipped the phone closed and slid it back

into my jeans pocket. The movie went on and on. And on.

And on some more. I never knew an hour and a half could

last so long, but since Arty stared slack-jawed in wonder

at the cavorting cartoon figures I figured he, at least, was

enjoying it.

I blame the cartoons. If the movie had held my interest I

would never have puled out my phone again. I'd never

have answered Austin's text. I know better now, but that's

what I told myself at the time.

I'm watching a movie.

Cool. What movie? The answer came within seconds.

I tried not to be excited that he'd been waiting for my

answer.

Something with elves and fairies. My eyes are bleeding.

You're with Arty?

I loved that Austin didn't abbreviate his texts. Yes. What

are you doing?

Thinking about you.

Something briliantly colored and loud happened onscreen,

but I couldn't blame the sudden thunder of my pulse on

that. I glanced at Arty, his mouth ful of popcorn, his entire

attention taken up by what was going on. I looked again at

the phone. My fingers stroked the keys, but I didn't type

anything. I didn't want this to keep going.

Or maybe I did.

Or maybe I did.

What are you thinking about me?

"Paige," Arty whispered. "I have to go to the bathroom!"

"Now? Can't you wait five minutes? The movie's almost

over." I looked at the jumbo-size drink in his cup holder. It

had been the smalest size and stil contained enough soda

to float a boat. "Never mind. C'mon."

Arty squirmed. "No, no, I want to wait."

"Dude, you'l pee yourself."

The woman in front of us gave an annoyed glance over her

shoulder. Since her own three kids had been bouncing out

of their seats and talking over the entire movie, I wasn't

realy sure where she got off with the bitchface, but I

ignored her to focus on my brother.

"No, I want to wait," he insisted, eyes glued to the screen.

With a sigh, I watched him squirm. He was totaly going to

wet himself, but I remembered what it was like to miss the

best parts of a movie because of a teeny bladder. Not that

this movie seemed to have any best parts.

this movie seemed to have any best parts.

My phone vibrated again, earning me another look from

Mrs. Grumpy in front of me when I opened it to see

another text from Austin.

I'm thinking about how good your hair always smels.

Once I'd stuck a bobby pin in an electrical socket. What

can I say? I was young and dumb and it had seemed like a

good idea at the time. Much like this text-message

flirtation. Austin's message shot the same frigid-inferno

tingle up and down my body, and I saved myself from

gasping aloud only by biting my tongue.

I was saved from myself by the movie ending. Thanking

God it wasn't one to have outtakes and jokes scattered

throughout the final credits, I hustled Arty to the bathroom

where he peed forever as he chattered about the movie.

The weight of my phone in my pocket distracted me so

much I forgot to make him wash his hands, a fact I

remembered too late when he grabbed mine on the way to

the parking lot.

"Paige, you're the best sister, ever. I love you!"

"Love you too, squirt." I ruffled his hair and helped him

into his seat belt.

My phone remained silent, and so did I. Arty talked

enough for both of us al the way home. By the time I

puled up in front of my mom's house, he'd relayed the

entire movie to me, including dialogue, and I marveled at

how he could repeat word for word eight minutes' worth

of dialogue but was unable to remember his telephone

number.

"Inside and get ready for bed," I told him on the front

porch. "No fussing."

"Okay." He was off the moment he got in the door, up the

stairs before my mom even made it out of the kitchen.

"He's sufficiently caffeinated now," I told her. "To go along with the sugar."

"Great." My mom's laugh sounded forced.

From my pocket, my phone buzzed.

Her eyebrows lifted when I didn't reach to answer it. "So

I'm not the only one you ignore?"

I'm not the only one you ignore?"

I remembered then I was supposed to be angry with her

about something. "It's Austin."

She didn't even try to hide the pleasure on her face. She

puled a pan of brownies from the oven and settled them

on top of the stove, then slapped the hot pads on the

counter. "I'm not surprised. You were crazy about that

boy for so long—"

" Crazy being the operative word."

She turned to face me. "I said I'm sorry, al right?"

I eyed the brownies, then her. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. Why would anything be wrong?" She

rummaged in the fridge to pul out a bowl of what looked

like fudge icing.

"Because you bake when you're upset."

She held out the bowl to me. "Taste this. Is it too sweet?"

"I don't want to taste that, Mom."

"Trying to watch your figure?" She ran a finger around the edge and tasted, then grimaced. "Is this too sweet? I think

it's too sweet."

"What's wrong?" I asked more quietly this time, and this

time, she put down the bowl to answer me.

"Leo moved out."

My mom had been with countless men during my lifetime.

Some had been boyfriends. Some had been dates. Only a

few had been live-ins, and out of al of them, Leo had

lasted the longest. I didn't expect to be so surprised he'd

gone.

"Why?"

"I asked him to." My mom waved a hand as she dug in the

drawer for a rubber spreader.

Above us, the floor creaked as Arty ran around. I looked

upward and said, "I'l go."

"Thanks, hon."

Upstairs, I wrangled my brother into the bathroom to

Upstairs, I wrangled my brother into the bathroom to

brush his teeth, then into bed. I tucked him in tight and

gave him half a dozen hugs and just as many kisses. I held

him close. Now he smeled like popcorn and little-boy

sweat, not candy.

"Go to sleep, monster."

He protested, yawning, that he wasn't tired, but his eyes

were already closing as I ducked out the door. I stood in

the hal for a few minutes, my own eyes closed. I'd never

lived in this house, but it smeled the same as al the places

I'd ever lived with my mom. Dust and chocolate brownies

and, fainter, below it al, the subtle odor of never-quite-

good-enough.

Downstairs, my phone vibrated again in my pocket. I

clapped a hand over it to stifle the buzz, which sounded

like a fly in a bottle. My mom had iced the brownies and

wrapped up half the pan in aluminum foil for me to take

along. She didn't mention the phone cal, and I didn't try to

refuse the food.

She hugged me on the way out the front door, her grip

fiercer than usual. "Drive carefuly, sweet girl."

My retort to that had been, "No, Mom, I plan on driving

recklessly," but tonight I kept those words inside. I hugged

her back as hard as she hugged me. She didn't have to be

crying for me to know she was upset about Leo. The

brownies had told me that.

"I'l cal you tomorrow, okay?" I said into her hair, which

smeled as always of Apple Pectin Shampoo.

She nodded. When she stepped away her eyes were

bright but she smiled. "Sure, honey. Good night."

She stood silhouetted in the doorway until I drove away.

By the time I reached the railroad tracks the light on the

front porch had gone out. My car bump-bumped over the

rails, taking me away from the house that hadn't ever been

home.

My phone buzzed again as I puled into the parking lot of

the Manor. I flipped it open to read al three messages. Al

from Austin.

How was the movie?

Say hi to your mom for me.

I had to laugh at that. Oh, that bastard. He knew my mom

had always loved him. More than his had ever cared for

me.

And finaly, Cal me when you get home.

Chapter 14

I didn't cal Austin when I got home. I didn't cal him the

next day, or the day after that, and though I tensed every

time my phone rang, eventualy I stopped worrying. He

didn't cal me, either.

The notes arrived every few days but never on a day when

I might expect one. Only on the days I was convinced I'd

be left without instructions, a list, a command. I read each

and every one, committing them to memory before tucking

them into the slot of 114, a mailbox that had become so

familiar to me it was like stroking a lover.

You've done wel. Treat yourself to your favorite dessert.

That had been a piece of key lime pie so decadent and

rich I'd made sex noises while eating it.

You didn't return your essay in time. Clearly, discipline

means nothing to you. Don't waste my time again.

A fit body deserves appropriate clothes. Purchase yourself

an appropriate new outfit. Don't skimp on it.

A simple suit, navy blue to match my eyes but with a crisp

stripe of summer green at the hem and on the buttons of

the jacket. It was the first outfit I'd ever bought I also had

altered to fit just right. Wearing it, I felt more than

professional, I felt appropriate.

Go to the bookstore. Look at the aisle you don't normaly

browse. Find a book that looks good and buy it. Read it.

Enjoy it.

I'd picked a book on the history of movies, trivia mostly,

but also photos of stars from days past. I'd savored the

glamour and taken to wearing my hair parted and over one

eye like Lana Turner.

For days the notes had arrived in my mailbox, teling me

what to eat, what to wear, what time to go to bed and

what time to rise. I was a rat folowing a piper unseen,

maybe to the cheese nirvana, maybe to a watery grave in a

river. I couldn't tel.

I only knew that I didn't want it to stop.

I want you to be bare for me today, beneath those clothes

you bought. I want you to feel the coarseness of denim,

the roughness of wool, the sleekness of satin lining, on

the roughness of wool, the sleekness of satin lining, on

your bare ass. Every time you move, you're going to think

of me and how I own you.

Voices echoed in the lobby and the elevator dinged, but

nobody came down the hal to catch me, a thief, taking

what I hadn't meant to steal. I pushed the card through the

slot and bent to make sure it had gone al the way through.

It would be gone when I came home, gone and read by

the person for whom it had been meant.

Did she glory in them as much as I?

Did she deserve them, the smal rewards of treating herself

to a hot bath, a piece of gourmet chocolate, for completing

the tasks? Did she force herself to another hour in the gym

as punishment when she failed to folow the list exactly?

Or was it only me who looked forward to each day's

commands?

Paul had left me another list. Along with the standard

"copy the files" and "schedule the appointments" he'd added something interesting. Lunch. He'd underlined it

twice. Like I wouldn't remember to eat?

Order from China King for delivery.

He'd added what I should order and in what amount, and

what time I should place the cal to ensure the food would

arrive by the time he and his client returned. As if I couldn't

figure al that out for myself.

Order enough for yourself, he'd added. At least he was

being generous.

I tried to put the morning's note from my mind, but my

thoughts were focused more on the fact I was bare

beneath my skirt than anything Paul was having me do. His

list was longer this time, more detailed, and while I

enjoyed the new responsibilities and projects he'd left for

me, I hadn't finished by the time the food came. I'd only

just managed to colect it from the front desk downstairs

and set it out on the smal conference table in Paul's office

when he and the woman from marketing showed up.

Vivian Darcy. I'd seen her before, a tal woman with blond

hair she wore in a sleek twist. She wasn't thin but dressed

like she was and managed to carry it off. Her shoes cost

more than my rent.

I had my own lunch, chicken and broccoli, to eat at my

desk. Paul gave me little more than a glance and closed his

door. I heard them laughing behind it. They were in there

for a long time. When the door opened again, I'd finished

eating and set back to work on the filing I hadn't managed

to finish before lunch.

"Paige, bring me the advance proof packet," Paul said

from the doorway. He'd loosened his tie and taken off his

jacket and roled up his sleeves. From behind him I heard

the flush of water running in his private bathroom.

I nodded as he disappeared into his office, but a moment

later my stomach sunk. I hadn't actualy finished copying

the packet. I'd known I needed to do it, it was part of my

regular weekly projects, but it hadn't been on Paul's list. I

also didn't want to admit I'd been distracted.

"Paul?"

They both looked up. She had puled her chair close to

his, their heads bent over what looked like a spreadsheet.

She'd taken off her suit jacket, too, and her breasts

pushed at the front of her silk shirt.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I haven't finished with the copies of that packet. It wil take me about fifteen minutes, but I'l do

that packet. It wil take me about fifteen minutes, but I'l do

it right now."

I'd been made to feel smal before, but I hadn't expected

the look both of them gave me. Different looks, neither

pleasant. Hers was cutting, an arch of brow to indicate

surprise but not too much, as though she'd expected as

much from the likes of me. Hers I could deal with.

Paul, on the other hand, looked blank for the span of some

long seconds. Then he looked disappointed. "We need

that packet now, Paige."

He didn't need to tel me I'd screwed up. I'd have liked it

better if he had. I could have been angry, then, at being

scolded. Instead, al I could feel was the vast wash of guilt

for knowing I hadn't done what I was supposed to do.

"Ten minutes," I promised.

"No need to jump through hoops," Paul said. "Just get it done."

I did it in seven minutes, though it meant cheating and

taking up al three copy machines at the same time. When I

handed the packets, properly colated and stapled, one

handed the packets, properly colated and stapled, one

each to her and him, I didn't expect a reward.

I didn't get one. Not even a smile. Not even a terse thank-

you. Both of them took the papers and bent back to their

work without more than a glance at me, and I slunk out of

Paul's office in disgrace.

My mood only lasted another ten minutes. I worked for a

paycheck, not approval, and I'd never given him a reason

to have any complaint about my work, not even in the first

few weeks when I hadn't known what I was doing.

"Paige, can I see you for a minute?" Paul said when Vivian left, finaly, at a quarter to five.

"Sure. Of course."

He stepped aside to let me into his office and gestured at

the chair that had been returned to the front of his desk. I

sat. Paul sat, too, and looked across the desk at me with

his hands folded together.

"I wanted to make sure you were doing al right."

This wasn't what I'd expected. "I'm fine, thanks."

"The job's not overwhelming you?"

I had a bad feeling about where this was going. "No…."

"Good." Paul looked down at his hands, now clasped

tightly. "Because I'd hate to think you were unable to keep

up with the position, Paige."

One mistake in six months, and he was worried I couldn't

keep up? I wanted to stand up and walk out, flipping Paul

the bird. I might have, had he sounded sarcastic or

condescending. He didn't. He sounded…cautious.

"I'm sorry I forgot the packet, Paul. It won't happen

again." I knew it wouldn't. I might forget a dozen other

tasks, but I wouldn't ever forget to copy the fucking proof

packet again.

He stil didn't look at me. His voice quiet but not soft, he

said, "I hope you won't."

That was it. He nodded at me and I got up, and I went out

to my desk to shut it down for the night. My fingers had

gone cold and stiff and I mistyped the password I needed

to log out three times before I got it right.

You wil masturbate in the shower, but you wil not alow

yourself to come. Your orgasm is a reward for good

behavior, and you haven't earned it. You wil write, on

your best paper and with your best ink, how you

masturbated and how it felt when you stopped, and you

wil return it to me no later than tomorrow afternoon.

Disobedience wil not be tolerated.

You said you wanted discipline.

With shaking fingers and hot cheeks I passed the

mailboxes without looking to see if the note I'd shoved into

114 was stil there. I'd done what it said. Rubbed myself in

the shower that morning until my breath came tight and

close and my entire body tensed until I eased off. It had

been close. I knew my body too wel not to bring myself

off within a few minutes. But I'd stopped myself, because

unlike the intended recipient of the notes, I did know

discipline.

I'd written the letter, too, describing how I'd touched

myself with fingers slick with my saliva and tilted my clit

against the spray of water until my thighs shook and my

breath came hot and hard and fast. How I'd had to turn

breath came hot and hard and fast. How I'd had to turn

the water to cold to keep myself from getting dizzy as I

rubbed and stroked. I'd used the finest paper in my

colection, my favorite pen, and I'd taken such care with

each letter, every stroke, that I was almost late for work.

I didn't give anyone the letter, of course. But I couldn't

bring myself to throw it away. I put it in my nightstand,

instead, tucked into the pages of the book on movie

history.

The ache between my legs flared as I shifted the gears of

my car, and as I walked, and as I turned in my desk chair

to pul files from the drawer.

Paul was not out of the office today, but he hadn't come

out yet this morning. Not even for coffee. Him hiding away

with his door closed was not unusual, but him not at least

caling out to me for a mug was.

Two weeks ago it wouldn't have occurred to me to think

he was stil angry with me for screwing up the files the day

before. Two weeks ago I wouldn't have much cared.

Now, I listened hard for the sound of his voice and stared

at my computer screen without typing anything.

"Paige." Paul stood in his doorway. I'd been so

"Paige." Paul stood in his doorway. I'd been so

preoccupied, I hadn't even heard him. "Can you come in

here, please?"

I nodded, but was clumsy when I stood. I knocked a pile

of folders, so the papers inside slid across my desk in a

messy heap. Paul stopped me when I tried to gather them.

"Now, please."

I nodded again and folowed him into his office. He didn't

tel me to sit, so I didn't. I could tel nothing from the look

on his face, which was carefuly blank. Over his shoulder, I

could see the red numbers of his clock radio, tuned to a

station playing soft jazz. I swalowed hard, my nerves on

fire.

"I think we need to have an understanding."

I said nothing, not trusting my voice.

Paul cleared his throat and folded his hands together on

the desk. He didn't look at me. I couldn't look away.

"I believe I have a reputation for being…difficult. To work

for."

for."

"I don't think so." The pulse beat in my throat, forcing my voice to deepen.

He looked at me then, straight in the eye. His hands on the

desk tightened inside each other as though he wanted to

be holding something else, something precious, but was

afraid he might drop it. I lifted my chin and met his gaze.

Without speaking, he unfolded his hands and pushed a

piece of paper across the desk to me. Neither of us

looked at the paper. We looked at each other.

I didn't look at it when I touched the tips of my fingers to

the paper, nor when I puled it toward me, or when I

clasped it in my hand. I didn't look at it until I sat at my

desk and laid it down in front of me.

The list.

I sat at my desk and looked at the list. It took up the entire

sheet of ruled paper. It was insultingly long and infuriatingly

detailed. He hadn't yeled at me yesterday, he'd done this

instead, and it was infinitely worse than if he'd caled me on

the carpet.

It was also infinitely, inexplicably better.

Not only did the paper have the projects he needed me to

work on today, but it contained detailed instructions on

duties I'd been performing without supervision for months.

He'd left out breaks for me to eat and use the bathroom,

but every other minute of the day had been accounted for.

In high school I'd had a teacher who didn't like girls. I

don't mean he was gay, just that for whatever misogynistic

reason, he'd thought females somehow lesser creatures

than males. Considering the boys in my class, I thought the

man was an idiot, but at sixteen there's not much you can

do about it but get through it. This teacher hadn't been

impressed by good grades earned through hard work, and

I'd had to work very hard for al my good grades. I've

already said I wasn't the brain. Even so, I wasn't a bad

student, and so when I got an A on my first test and this

teacher, this man put in charge of young adults to mold

them into something fit for future society, sneered and

suggested I'd cheated off the boy next to me in order to

have earned that grade, I learned a very important lesson.

No matter how hard you worked, there was always going

to be somebody out there who thought you were a fuckup.

to be somebody out there who thought you were a fuckup.

Part of me pictured myself storming into Paul's office,

tossing the list on his desk and quitting in an outrage, but I

knew there was no way I'd ever do it. I needed my job. I

wanted it. I could put up with a lot more than a stupid list

to keep it.

So instead, I did what I'd done in high school with that

dumbass teacher who thought girls couldn't be better than

boys.

I worked my ass off. It was a game, that day, going down

that list and completing each task on it. And as the day

wore on and I finished item after item, my sense of

accomplishment grew. I'd never realized, actualy, how

much work I accomplished in one day.

I'd never thought to write down everything I did. Looking

at it at the end of the day, this job no longer seemed a

mindless drone. I'd done something. A lot of somethings,

as a matter of fact, and when I took that list into Paul's

office with each item boldly checked off and my neat

annotations in the margins, there was no hiding my triumph.

"Finished," I said and stepped back, waiting to see what

"Finished," I said and stepped back, waiting to see what

he'd say.

But, unlike my teacher who'd have probably dismissed my

efforts with a snide comment, my boss looked over the list,

ticking off each item with the point of his pen.

He looked up at me. I'd never noticed how blue his eyes

were before. Paul held the paper with both hands.

"Thank you, Paige," he said. "This is exemplary work."

"Thank you," I said graciously.

We did have an understanding, after al.

Chapter 15

Through the mailbox window I could see Alice, one of the

women who ran the office. I could also see the thin edge

of a folded note card.

I puled it out with the tips of my fingers and held it by the

edges so as not to muss the paper. Al I had to do was

bend, just a little, and slip it directly into the right box. But

of course, I read it first.

You've failed at every task I've set you. Your reward and

your punishment are in my hands. If you cannot learn

discipline, this wil end.

You have one more chance.

Today, between 5:00 and 6:00 p.m., you wil visit

Sensations. There you wil purchase the item that most

embarrasses you. You wil pay for it with a credit card, so

there wil be no question that the clerk won't know your

name. You wil engage the clerk in pleasant conversation,

so there is no way he or she wil not know your face.

And tonight, you will use that item until you achieve

And tonight, you will use that item until you achieve

orgasm. You will do this knowing it's not for your

pleasure.

It is for mine.

I had to put my hand on the wal and close my eyes after I

slid the card through the slot. The brass, cool under my

palm, did nothing to steal the heat from my cheeks, my

armpits. The inferno between my legs.

I hadn't been the one to fail. I hadn't been late with my

essay on discipline. I hadn't even written one.

This note was not for me!

Yet there was no question in my mind I would do as it

said. I had written the sexual fantasy. I'd read al the notes.

Whoever was meant to find these and folow them, I had

done it, too.

Looking back, I understand how much easier it would

have been, how much better sense it would have made for

me to simply complain at the office about the misdeliveries,

to throw the notes away. To knock on the door of 114

with a note in my hand and say, "Make sure these stop

coming."

coming."

I can't explain why I didn't, except to say, simply, I didn't

want to.

I'd moved away from home to get away from my past and

my life, and the life I didn't want to have there. I'd taken a

new job, found a new apartment, tried to make new

friends. I wanted to become someone new, but the truth is,

I would never be new.

I would always be me.

Somehow, whoever was sending these notes knew that.

I slapped the note closed. I walked around the corner to

the desk. I could see her through the office door and after

a second she came out. "Alice? Did you see who put this

in my mailbox?"

"Nope." She barely glanced at it. "It's not a religious tract, is it? We have a strict policy about that."

"No, it's not a religious tract." I kept the note close to my body so she wouldn't see the number on the front. "I just

wondered if you'd seen who put it in there, that's al."

"No, sorry, hon." Alice flashed me a grin. "What is it, love letter?"

I laughed when heat spread up my throat. "No. Nothing

like that."

"Wouldn't be the first time," she said. "Last year at Valentine's we had a bunch of anonymous notes coming

and going. The T.A. wanted to ban people from putting

notices in the boxes but then they realized if they did that,

they couldn't deliver their newsletter, either."

The Tenant Association could be a little overzealous.

"Maybe I'l get lucky next time."

"I wouldn't doubt it, hon," Alice said. "This place is a hotbed of lust."

She said it without so much as a blink and I had no reply.

Seeing I wasn't going to comment, she gave me a nod and

went into the back to finish sorting the mail. I looked down

at the note.

I couldn't stop myself from opening the note one last time

before I gave it back.

before I gave it back.

I was stil thinking about it as I went outside and faced the

sunshine for a moment. I knew I wasn't alone, but I hadn't

expected an audience. When I opened my eyes, blinking, I

saw Mr. Mystery watching me. He hovered over the

sand-filed tube meant for disposing cigarettes, and when

he saw me looking he stabbed his out with a furtive smile.

"Caught me," he said.

"And without a net," I replied. Clever.

He laughed and looked with unrestrained longing at the

cigarette butts nestled into the sand. "I'm trying to quit."

"Good for you." It was a little surprising for someone as

into fitness as he'd seemed in the gym to be a smoker. But

appearances weren't everything, and I should know that.

"Eric." The hand he held out engulfed mine as we shook.

My name wasn't a prize, but I offered it like one. "Paige."

Eric shifted on battered hiking boots. Today instead of the

long-sleeved T-shirt, he wore a faded black AC/DC shirt

under an open plaid button-down minus a few buttons. His

under an open plaid button-down minus a few buttons. His

hair, long to his colar in the back, ruffled in the wind. A

scruff of beard stood out on his cheeks and over his

throat. Dark stubble. He looked tired and disheveled, but

his hands were clean and his teeth white. The leather bag

slouching by his feet wasn't cheap, nor was the watch

tangled in the dark hair on his wrist. I noticed things like

that.

He yawned, jaw crackingly, and roled his neck on his

shoulders. He looked out at the sunshine, across the street

to the river. He looked around with a grin that stopped me

in my tracks and held a finger to his lips. "Don't tel on me,

huh?"

I laughed. "Your secret is safe with me. But it's a good

thing you're quitting. Smoking is bad for you."

He hung his head before peering up at me through the

fringe of his dark, shaggy hair. "I know. It's terrible. I

started in colege and just could never kick it."

"But you are now, right?" I stared down into the butt

holder.

Eric chuckled. "Yeah. I'm trying, anyway. Hey, nice

officialy meeting you, Paige. Maybe I'l catch you later in

officialy meeting you, Paige. Maybe I'l catch you later in

the gym."

Was that a promise? "Oh, sure. I try to make it in a few

times a week. After work."

He yawned again, adding a loud, drawn-out sigh. "Yeah,

me too, but I'm just coming off a twelve-hour shift. I'm

beat. I might see you, though. We'l work on some reps or

something."

"Okay, sure." I managed to sound casual even as the

thought of another round of Eric helping me work out sent

my heart skipping in my chest.

He looked at the sand, the butts, then puled a pack of

cigarettes from his pocket and held it up. "One left. I

should just toss it, right?"

"You should." But I could tel he wasn't going to.

I watched him tug the cigarette from the pack with his lips,

crumple the package and toss it. He cupped the match he

lit to shield it from the breeze and held it to the end. He

drew on it. He took the cigarette from his mouth and

licked the end, and I watched him with helpless

licked the end, and I watched him with helpless

fascination.

He looked up at me and stopped for a few long seconds

before he smiled. "I know. Realy bad habit. This is my last

one, see? Then I'm done. Kicking it cold turkey."

I wasn't staring to get on his case but because watching his

mouth work had been so damn sexy, and I was already

feeling weak in the knees. "No. I mean, yes, it is. But it's

not my business."

Eric drew in a long, slow breath and let out the smoke.

The wind came and whisked it away and he closed his

eyes briefly before looking at me again. He looked at the

cigarette. "I know it's the best thing for me. I know it is.

You ever have anything you keep doing even though you

know it's bad for you, Paige?"

"Hel, yeah," I said without a second thought. "More than one thing."

We laughed together. His gaze caught mine. Maybe it was

the sunshine reflecting in his eyes or maybe it was my own

reflected heat, but I met it ful on. He was the first to look

away.

"See you," he said.

"I hope so," I told him, and he smiled.

I passed Sensations every day on my way to work. The

building, nondescript and set back a bit from the main

street, had suffered a fire not too long ago, but apparently

the dancing girls and nudie film booths hadn't been

damaged, because the parking lot was half ful and I

watched a stream of men go in and out the door for about

fifteen minutes before I went in, myself.

I'd been inside that memorable night with a boy on his

knees, and a few other times to buy joke gifts for wedding

showers or birthdays. I hadn't been embarrassed then,

giggling with my friends or feigning nonchalance while

comparing the girth of dildos molded from actual porn

stars' cocks. I wouldn't have been embarrassed this time,

except the note had told me I should be.

I'd owned a vibrator I rarely used. I had slinky, kinky

lingerie I never wore. I even had, someplace, a book of

ilustrated sexual positions, the corners of the pages folded

to show which I'd done.

The clerk behind the counter looked up when I came in.

I'd been expecting something different, not a hot, wel-built

guy with model-pretty features.

Now I was embarrassed.

It was akin to looking down between the stirrups at the gy

necologist you were expecting to be fat and balding,

someone's dad, and finding Brad Pitt, instead.

"Hi," he said. "Can I help you find something?"

You wil find the one thing that embarrasses you the most,

and you wil use it until you achieve orgasm.

None of the plastic pricks or fur-lined cuffs embarrassed

me. Hel, the anal beads and butt plugs had me squeezing

my ass cheeks tighter, but they didn't embarrass me.

"Yes," I said. "I'm looking for something special."

He had a nice smile. Fuck. Realy nice eyes, too.

"Something special? For a gift? Birthday party,

bachelorette party, maybe?" He sounded as if he did this

every day. Probably because he did.

every day. Probably because he did.

"No. For me."

His gaze held mine for a second totaly longer than

necessary. "Okay. Wel, maybe I can help you find what

you're looking for."

A beat, a pause, one smal breath in and out. A smile.

"That would be great. Thanks."

The racks of cheap crotchless panties and feather-trimmed

bras were toward the back. Victoria's Secret this was not.

Not even Victoria's un-secret. None of these garments

looked as though they'd stand up under one wearing, not

to mention what would happen to them in the washing

machine. I sorted through them anyway, my fingers toying

with the hangers and making them clatter on the metal

rack.

I held up a flimsy corset printed with a pattern of

misaligned roses. My fingers itched touching the fabric,

and I could only imagine how awful it would feel against

my breasts. I held it up to me, anyway, and turned to the

clerk. "How's this look?"

I expected him to say "good." Or maybe "hot." So when I expected him to say "good." Or maybe "hot." So when he frowned and shook his head, brows furrowed and

mouth twisting, my self-assured position as a fairly

attractive female in a sex shop plummeted to hit my toes.

"Not for you," he said.

I put it back on the rack and crossed my arms. I wished

I'd had the time to change into jeans and a T-shirt after

work instead of being stuck in three-inch heels and a skirt

to my knees. I wanted pockets to shove my hands into

denim to shield me from his assessing gaze. I hadn't

dressed this morning for showing off and now he'd made

me feel like I shouldn't want to.

Flirting is a funny thing. Earlier, talking with Eric, I'd no

doubts I was the hottest bitch around. Right now I wasn't

sure I shouldn't be ringing bels in a church tower.

"Come with me." He quirked a finger.

I almost didn't. The look on his face had left me feeling

shot down. Embarrassed. And when I realized that's what

it was, I nodded and went after him down through the

narrow aisles of sleazy underwear and gigantic plastic

pricks. Surrounded by a sea of tits, ass, pecs and abs, I

pricks. Surrounded by a sea of tits, ass, pecs and abs, I

tried to keep my eyes on the man in front of me, but I

couldn't help comparing the jugs on one box of "Titty

Twister, the Party Game!" with the boobs on a package

containing a vagina molded from an actual porn star's pink

parts.

He glanced over his shoulder as we stopped at the shop's

far end. Through a doorway to his right I glimpsed the

interior of the nudie bar. Even this early, girls wiggled and

writhed on a smal stage. Every few seconds a

disembodied leg, foot clad in skyscraper heels, sprang into

view. There must've been a pole I couldn't see.

"You wanna go check it out?" he asked.

I had been staring, and my cheeks heated, though I

couldn't have said exactly why. "No, thanks."

His smile lit up eyes the color of toffee. "You sure?"

"I'm sure." I cleared my throat and gestured at the shelves he stood in front of. "You had something to show me?"

"Oh. Right. Yeah." He reached to pul a box toward him.

I stepped back, gaping, at the box in his palm. Not

I stepped back, gaping, at the box in his palm. Not

because it had been festooned with pricks and pussies, but

because with its treasure-chest shape and smal, hinged lid,

it was a smaler version of the box I'd spied in Miriam's

shop. It fit neatly in his palm with his fingers open to cradle

it. Butterflies patterned the box's red satin.

"You know what this is?"

"No." I shook my head and closed my mouth.

He blinked, watching me closely. Then he crooked his

finger for me to lean closer, and I did. I held my breath,

waiting as he opened the box. I didn't know what I'd see

inside. When I saw the smal, stoppered bottle, I looked at

him.

"Ancient Chinese secret," he said. "And I'm not talking about laundry detergent."

The bottle had clear plastic sealing it, so it couldn't have

been too ancient. I had to squint to read the print and

couldn't make out the words, but the picture on the front

was a stylized butterfly. That didn't tel me much.

"It's orgasm-enhancement gel. For women. The ladies go

"It's orgasm-enhancement gel. For women. The ladies go

crazy for it," he said, as if he was confessing.

An invisible yardstick slid down the back of my shirt. My

shoulders came up, and so did my breasts, which finaly

got more than a disinterested glance from him. He didn't

look long, but he did look.

"What's it do?" I asked.

He held out the box to me until I took it. "It helps women

who can't come."

"I—" I had nothing to say to that. I tried, but the words

stuck in my throat. My back went impossibly straighter,

my shoulders squaring. I put my hand on my hip as I tried

to hand him back the box.

He wouldn't take it. "You said you wanted something for

yourself. You can't tel me you want a crappy piece of

lingerie."

"I don't need this!" I shoved the box toward him again.

"That's for women who need help!"

Maybe I was primed to be embarrassed. Maybe the idea

had already been put into my head that I would find an

had already been put into my head that I would find an

item, as unbelievable as I could find it, that would

embarrass me to buy. Vibrators that could guide missiles

and ass plugs with horsetails on them hadn't made me

blush, but this smal bottle had turned my cheeks to fire.

I looked into his face. "This is for women who can't have

orgasms, right?"

He shrugged and wouldn't take the box from my hands.

"It's supposed to help."

"Do I…do I look like I need help? With…that?"

I have been checked out and dismissed by women who

knew how to cut me down with no more than a glance, but

I've never been so thoroughly dissected visualy by a guy.

Guys look. They find the parts they like and linger there

and maybe they turn away if there's not much to hold

them, but most often, in my case, they'l look again if for no

other reason than I have al the right parts where they're al

supposed to go.

This guy looked. And looked some more. He took me in

from every inch and then went over them al again. When

he settled, finaly, on my face, he shrugged again. "Sweetie,

he settled, finaly, on my face, he shrugged again. "Sweetie,

fuzzy panties aren't going to get you off. This wil."

The "sweetie" gave it away, but guessing he didn't like girls made me feel only marginaly better about the fact he

thought I looked like a woman who didn't know how to

come. I closed my fingers over the box. I lifted my chin

and blew out a slow breath that did nothing to cool my

cheeks.

"Fine," I said through gritted teeth. "I'l take it."

At the register, he rang me up while he chattered about the

dancers on the other side, and how on Monday nights they

had "boys," if I was interested. He slipped the box into a plain brown bag and swiped my credit card, peering at my

name like he wanted to imprint it on his brain.

I kept my head high, even though my signature skidded on

the paper from the shaking of my hands. I was sure he'd

question it, but that would've only added to my

embarrassment, which was why I was here. Wasn't it?

In the parking lot, I took long, shalow breaths to clear my

head. The brown bag, spotted with sweat from my palms,

got tossed immediately into the backseat. I put my hands

flat on the roof of the car and took another few breaths.

flat on the roof of the car and took another few breaths.

Night had begun to drift over the parking lot while I was

inside. I hadn't thought I'd come out in darkness, but

spring is tricky that way. You think you have another few

minutes in the sun and you end up stubbing your toe

because the twilight hides the rough spots on the

pavement.

I needed a drink in the worst way, my throat so dry now I

could concentrate on it and not my molten face. Sensations

sat back from the road, but it wasn't alone in the strip of

stores. A smal Handi-Mart with a liquor license sold

snacks, beer and wine coolers, probably to the patrons of

Sensations' dance parlor.

I yanked open the door and heard the bel jangle, my

attention focused on the row of refrigerators at the end of

the shop. I stepped aside, though, for the woman pushing

her way out of the door as I went in. Then I stopped as

the door swung in to close in my face, and I pushed it

open to cal after her.

"Miriam?"

She turned and gave me a broad, white-toothed smile.

She turned and gave me a broad, white-toothed smile.

"Helo, dear. So nice to see you."

I knew she had a life outside of her shop, that she lived in

a house. Drove a car. Shopped for wine coolers, too,

apparently, and bought gum and cigarettes. Even so,

seeing her outside what I thought of as her natural

environment stumped me.

"What…hi. Wow, I didn't think I'd run into you."

She smiled again and patted my arm. "Of course not, dear,

why would you?"

I laughed. "I don't know."

"Wil you be in to the store soon?" She tilted her head to

assess me. At her throat she wore a tiger-print scarf

tucked into the lapels of her sleek red coat. Damn, I

wished I had her style. "I have some lovely new things.

And that box is waiting for you."

I thought of the box I'd just purchased and what I was

meant to do with it, and my voice went a little faint when I

answered her. "Maybe I'l make it in this week."

"Good." She nodded and moved off. She walked slowly

"Good." She nodded and moved off. She walked slowly

but without limping or using a cane, belying her age.

I watched her go for a little, then turned and went inside

the store, where I added a six-pack of wine coolers to my

bottle of water. I had a date with my hand and a bottle of

Cum-Ezee.

Chapter 16

Why had I been embarrassed?

Naked and wet from my shower, I stood in front of my

bed and opened the box lid. I puled out the bottle, peeled

off the plastic meant to protect me from God knew what.

A glass bottle, it was heavy, and the stopper made of

rubber reminded me of a nipple when I squeezed it

between my thumb and forefinger.

I squeezed my own nipple with fingers slick from my own

saliva. It stood up under my touch. Already my heart had

begun beating a little faster, not so much from what I was

doing but in anticipation of what I meant to do. I shook the

bottle and held it up. Inside, clear liquid shifted, looking

oily. It reminded me of those toys I made in elementary

school out of plastic soda bottles, oil and colored water.

I'd always liked to add glitter to mine.

This had no glitter, just an oily clear liquid that shone when

held up to the light. I read the ingredients but could find

nothing scary. Hemp oil. Was that even legal? Ginseng.

Ginger. Al natural ingredients, I thought.

My face flamed again. I didn't have a ful-length mirror in

my bedroom, just the mirror on my dresser. From where I

stood, only my torso reflected. I had no head. No legs

below my upper thighs. I was nothing but my sexual parts.

Breasts. Bely. Ass. Cunt.

You will find the one thing that embarrasses you the

most, and you will use it until you achieve orgasm.

Why had I been embarrassed to buy this bottle of liquid

from a man who didn't even like women, and therefore

shouldn't be blamed for not seeing how fucking sexy I

realy am? I shook it again and took the stopper out. It

looked like a medicine dropper, but without the marks to

indicate dosage. I squeezed the rubber nipple again as I

pinched my own.

In the mirror, the woman did the same. I held out my

fingertip, the dropper poised over it. The liquid, stil

shining, made a teardrop before it fel onto my skin. I

rubbed it in with my thumb and waited. The slickness

didn't dissolve and faint warmth filtered through my skin.

Why was I embarrassed to have a stranger think I couldn't

Why was I embarrassed to have a stranger think I couldn't

have an orgasm? I let another drop fal onto my fingertip. I

spread it on my nipples. This time, when I squeezed them,

my fingers skipped and slid over my skin. My nipples,

hard, now, warmed under the oil and my touch.

Lubricated, my finger slid across my clit like silk on satin.

My lips parted. Air eased out. I touched myself again,

finger circling, and waited for the heat. It came a second or

two later, hotter than it had been on my nipples. I bit my

lower lip with a hiss.

It was hard to tel if the oil had aphrodisiac powers or the

effect was in my mind, but in the end, did it matter? I lay

back on my bed, my legs spread, feet planted firmly on the

comforter to make it easier to rock my hips into the

seduction of my hand.

I rubbed my clit in slow, smooth circles, just the way I

liked it best. The oil absorbed into my skin but left it slick

enough I didn't need to add more. I let my fingertips

explore the familiar dips and curves of my body, the soft,

secret places that could bring me such pleasure.

My clit got hotter as I rubbed, and that seemed only

natural, because heat and shame both rode the same bus

to school, so far as I was concerned. Sweat pooled in my

to school, so far as I was concerned. Sweat pooled in my

armpits and salted my upper lip. I licked it away, wishing it

were someone else's tongue on my mouth. Another

person's hand between my legs.

Why had I cared so much what a stranger thought of me?

I groaned and closed my eyes to push away thoughts of

anything but the sensations building in my body. It was

easier to pretend that way, to imagine I wasn't alone in my

brand-new bed with the clean, new sheets that had never

had another body in them. With my eyes closed, the

whisper of my hand moving against my skin tugged my

ears.

Why did I want so much to folow the commands of a

stranger not even meant for me?

The oil slid from my fingertips down my labia and into the

crack of my ass. I used my other hand to folow its path. I

could probably come from this, in a minute or two, but I

stopped, thinking of how it had been such a short time

since last I'd done this. It didn't take a genius to figure out I

was psyching myself out, losing my orgasm to too much

thinking.

Or maybe I realy was embarrassed?

She might not be too smart, but she's pretty enough.

One of Stela's friends had said it, not knowing I could

hear.

I groaned. I didn't want to be thinking about my father's

wife and her friends when I was trying to get off. Yet the

hotter the oil on my clit got, the less interested I became in

finishing what I'd started. I stopped trying.

She might not be too smart, but she's pretty enough. Just

like her mother.

They'd laughed, but not as though they found the subject

realy funny. More like it embarrassed them. As a kid I

hadn't understood why, exactly, just that it had made my

stomach hurt to know Stela thought I wasn't smart, even if

I was my mother's pretty daughter. As an adult, I figured it

out. It embarrassed Stela to admit she'd married a man

who'd been so swayed by some tart, he'd knocked her up

and then had the compassion to make the bastard child a

part of his life. Sort of.

To them, I wasn't Paige. I was some slut's daughter.

Thinking of that, I understood something else, too.

I wasn't embarrassed by the fact a man I didn't know or

like, a gay dude, for that matter, didn't want to jump my

bones. No. What had been most embarrassing was not

that he didn't want to fuck me, but that he'd believed I was

something I wasn't.

I licked my mouth, tasted the salt of my sweat. I listened to

the sound of my breathing stil coming fast. I roled to get

the tiny bottle from under my ribs and tossed it into the

trash can by my bed, and then I tucked my legs up toward

my chest with my extra pilow in my arms, hugging the

lover who wasn't there.

The notes started coming more frequently. Every morning

before I left for work, or sometimes when I came home,

there was another sleek card teling me how to go about

my day. Sometimes the list was short, a sentence or two.

Listen to your favorite radio station today. Sing out loud.

Sometimes the instructions were lengthier. More

demanding.

At eleven-thirty today you will stop what you are doing

and focus on one thing in your life that makes you

happy. For thirty seconds you will do nothing but

appreciate this reason for joy.

I'd spent the entire morning waiting for eleven-thirty to

arrive, half-afraid I'd forget and half-defiant, imagining I'd

refuse when the time came to folow the instructions. I did,

of course, helpless to resist in the same way someone

who's told not to think of the pink elephant can do nothing

else.

If there is someone in your life whom you've hurt, you

must make a true apology.

That one had been easy enough. I hadn't seen Kira in

weeks and arranged to meet her after work for coffee in

Hershey, halfway between Harrisburg and Lebanon. She

wasn't quite ready to forgive me.

"But can you blame me?" I asked over steaming mocha

lattes. "I mean…Kira…it's Jack."

"Jack Rabbit," she said. "Yes. I know."

I raised a brow. "I'm sorry. It wasn't when you were even

I raised a brow. "I'm sorry. It wasn't when you were even

close to being with him."

She sighed, then, and shrugged. "I know. I guess I'm just

pissed you got him and I didn't. But then, so what else is

new?"

That wasn't exactly what I'd expected to hear. "Huh?"

She pretended to be very interested in her new beige

manicure. "Just like every guy I ever liked, right?"

"What are you talking about?"

She leveled a look at me. "Austin?"

"What about him?"

Kira just stared, then looked away.

I had to laugh. I realy did. "You tried to get with Austin?

But you were mad at me for fooling around with Jack?

What a hypocrite!"

Her eyes flashed. "You knew how I felt about Jack! It was

different with Austin."

"How was it different?" I finished my coffee and picked up my purse to go, not because I was furious but because as

I'd said not so long before to the very man we were

discussing, that cake was baked.

"You left him! You didn't love him anymore." Kira

grabbed up her own purse, too, glaring. "Not that it

mattered."

"He turned you down, huh?"

Her expression was enough of a reply.

"That's why you were pissed off, isn't it? Not because I

messed around with Jack, but because you tried to get

together with Austin and he turned you down."

"He turned me down because he stil wanted you," Kira

said.

I didn't have an answer to that.

"And then you went and screwed around with him again

anyway."

"Kira. I didn't know you wanted Austin."

"Kira. I didn't know you wanted Austin."

But she couldn't have him, I thought, suddenly and

surprisingly. Because he was mine.

"Whatever. Does it matter?" She slung her purse over her

shoulder. "We shouldn't let boys come between us

anyway, right?"

I didn't tel her the reason I'd apologized had nothing to do

with our bond of friendship, which had been strained in

times past. Sometimes you stay friends with someone

more out of habit than anything you have in common. If not

for the note, I might not have caled her again at al.

"Right," I agreed.

"So, what's going on with you? You getting back together,

or what?"

"Oh, God, no."

We walked to our cars, parked next to one another in the

lot. I looked past her to the sidewalks overrun with

shoppers attacking the outlets in search of bargains. When

I was younger my mom had taken me to the real outlet

stores, places that sold seconds and out-of-stock items.

stores, places that sold seconds and out-of-stock items.

These stores weren't anything like that.

"Anyway. I think Tony's gonna give me a ring." She said

this with less coyness than I was used to from her. "For my

birthday. I thought maybe he'd get me one for Christmas,

but…"

It seemed suddenly outrageous and unlikely to me that

Kira could get married. "You want to marry him?" I hadn't

even met him.

She gave me a level look. "Yeah. I think I do. I'm not

getting any younger, you know."

It was such a cliché and yet fit her so wel.

"Marriage isn't everything, Kira." I was trying to make her feel better, but she fixed me with another steady look.

"Easy for you to say, sure. Because you gave it up."

"That's not why. That's not what I meant," I added. "I just meant you shouldn't feel like something is missing. That's

al."

"But something is. Hey, maybe you'l be my bridesmaid,"

"But something is. Hey, maybe you'l be my bridesmaid,"

Kira offered.

"Sure. Okay."

We parted with half a hug and brush of cheeks. I

wondered if she'd realy ask me. I wondered if I'd care if

she didn't. I drove home, glad I wasn't her. Glad I wasn't

missing something.

But I was missing something in my life, and those notes,

those lists, gave me something I needed. One waited for

me when I got back. My fingers shook a little as I opened

it. What next? I wondered. What fantasy would I be

asked to live out this time? I already imagined the paper

and pen I'd use to write it, this time. This time I would

write it.

Tomorrow you wil wear a blue shirt.

That was it.

I think I bared my teeth before composing myself quickly.

If someone was watching, I wasn't going to give him the

pleasure of seeing my disappointment.

Tomorrow you wil wear a blue shirt.

"Tomorrow," I muttered as I shoved the card through the

slot of 114, "I'l wear whatever color shirt I damn wel

please."

I refused to think of it al the way up the four flights of

stairs to my apartment, then al the way down again as I hit

the basement for an hour's workout. I refused to think

about the note and its simple, one-sentence instruction as I

sweated and cursed at the television and its bounty of

buxom, slim-hipped beauties on their mission to make al

other women feel inferior. I refused to think of it in the

shower as I lathered my body and deep-conditioned my

hair and shaved my legs.

"Damn it!" I cried to my empty room as I stood in front of my closet.

I had no clean blue shirts.

I put on a soft pair of sleep pants patterned with grinning

monkeys wearing Santa hats and twisted my hair up high,

clipping it out of the way so it would be wavy when it

dried. I turned the TV on, then off. I picked up a book

and put it down.

and put it down.

"Shit."

I lay on my bed, arms crossed behind my head, and stared

at the ceiling. The plaster had been laid in smal, even

swirls. There was a medalion with a metal cap in the

middle in the ceiling's center. The former tenant had taken

the ceiling light and fan when he left, and though

maintenance was supposed to replace the original fixture,

they never had. The metal reflected light from my bedside

lamp and the window outside when the room was dark.

Sometimes when I woke in the night I imagined it was the

moon's bright eye somehow transported into my room.

Watching me.

Was someone else watching me? Playing some sort of

game? I got up on one elbow to look around my room and

at my closet, where rows of shirts hung in every color but

blue.

I got out of bed and riffled through my laundry basket to

see what I could find. Blue wasn't my favorite color. I

preferred white shirts for work, since any stains could be

bleached. I did have a blue shirt, though it wasn't one I

would've worn to work. The neckline dipped a little too

would've worn to work. The neckline dipped a little too

low and the cut was a little too close. I held it up in front of

my reflection and turned this way and that. Paired with a

pair of black dress slacks, it would probably be okay.

With a blazer over it. Sure.

And I needed to do laundry anyway, I told myself as I

tossed socks and panties and towels into the basket to

make a ful load. If I did it now, I wouldn't have to do it

later in the week. And there was nothing on the tube.

Yeah.

There was no getting around it. I was hooked on those

lists. For whatever reason. Even if nobody was watching

me. But if someone was, he'd know I hadn't obeyed.

Tomorrow, I would wear a blue shirt.

But first, I had to wash it.

Chapter 17

Riverview Manor had the highest line of efficiency washers

and dryers, but never enough of them. Just another of the

quirks of this supposedly high-end building, and one about

which the T.A. had sent around many memos. Some of the

units were supposed to have their own washers and

dryers, which explained why the laundry room had been

under-stocked. Whatever. Al I knew was when I walked

in with my laundry basket and found the room empty but

for the scent of fabric softener and the hum of rotating

dryer drums, it was a bonus.

I filed a washer with my clothes and the detergent, then

took my empty basket and my book, one I'd found in an

aisle I rarely browsed, to one of the hard wooden chairs

along the wal. I promptly let out a smal shriek as I

realized I was not alone, after al. The man sitting there had

his head bent, headphones on, so he hadn't heard my

scream but the way I jumped must have caught his

attention, because he looked up.

Eric looked up at me with a smile and slipped his

headphones from his ears. I heard the tinny, faraway chant

of a song I'd have known if I'd been able to pay attention

of a song I'd have known if I'd been able to pay attention

to it, rather than him. His eyes, specificaly, which were a

deep, dark liquid brown.

"Hi," he said. "Sorry, did I scare you?"

"I didn't see you behind the washers." I set down my

basket and put a hand over my rapidly beating heart.

"Yeah, the layout's not so great in here." He looked

around, then shifted the papers off the chair next to him.

"Sorry, though. You want to sit?"

I took the chair two spots away from his and pushed my

basket to the side with my foot. He stil smiled at me, so I

smiled back. "Thanks."

"Fancy meeting you here," he said.

"Here, there. Everywhere." I tapped a finger against my

chin, feigning thoughtfulness. "Are you stalking me?"

To my delight, his cheeks pinked. Just a little. But enough.

"It would seem like that, huh?"

I shook my head and bent to pul a handful of laundry from

I shook my head and bent to pul a handful of laundry from

my basket. "Missed you around the gym lately."

I looked up and caught a flash of something in his gaze.

Guilt, maybe, though why Eric should care if I kept track

of his workouts, I didn't know. He shrugged and ran a

hand over his shaggy hair.

I stuffed a load of whites into the nearest washer as we

spoke. I was conscious of my panties and bras among my

T-shirts and blouses, but I didn't draw attention to them by

blushing, even when I caught him looking.

Eric had a smile as slow and easy as honey dripping from

a spoon. I wanted to lick it the same way. "Did you?

Damn. I'm sorry."

We looked at each other, surrounded by the scent of

fabric softener and moist, hot air.

"Were you…looking for me?" Eric asked. "For any reason in particular, I mean?"

Heat flushed my cheeks, and I answered with laughter and

a duck of my head. Eric laughed, too, after a second. His

voice joined mine like a duet, and when I looked up at

voice joined mine like a duet, and when I looked up at

him, his deep brown eyes were shining with good humor

and undisguised interest.

"Were you?"

"Yes," I admitted. "It's not quite the same without you there."

"Sorry. Work's been insane."

I stuffed my quarters in the slot and dumped half a cup of

detergent, then started the cycle. "What do you do,

exactly?"

Eric leaned back in his chair. "I'm an E.R. doc."

Bing, bing, bing! We have a winner! Hot, funny and a doctor. My mother would be so proud.

"What's that like?"

He looked a little surprised. "Busy. But exciting."

"Saving lives and al that? Lots of pressure," I said,

watching his mouth form the words as he spoke.

"Yeah," Eric said after a second or two of silence. A

"Yeah," Eric said after a second or two of silence. A

shadow passed over his face, but only briefly. "Lots of

pressure. What do you do, Paige?"

I told him without making it sound as if I was at al

ashamed of not being a doctor. If Eric wasn't as impressed

with my career as I with his, his eyes didn't give it away.

Neither did his mouth, which held on to his smile.

The conversation flowed as we washed, dried and folded

our clothes.

"I bet that color looks great on you." He pointed at the

blue shirt I'd puled from the dryer.

I held it up in front of me. "You think so?"

"Yes. It matches your eyes."

I'm hardly ever at a loss for words, but this time I only

managed to swalow, hard, and say, "Thanks."

He scrubbed the back of his neck with a hand and looked

utterly endearing. "Too much?"

"No. I'd be a liar if I said I don't like compliments." To save myself from having to look at him just then, I bent to

save myself from having to look at him just then, I bent to

pul more laundry from the dryer.

"And you're not a liar?"

Over my shoulder, I said, "No. What about you?"

I'd meant it lightheartedly, the way the entire conversation

had been going. So when Eric didn't answer, I straightened

and turned to face him. The look on his face stopped me

from speaking.

"I know where it was." He snapped his fingers. "Where I saw you for the first time. It wasn't the gym."

I drew in a breath. My hands, ful of warm, soft laundry,

tightened. My tongue slid along my lips as I considered

what to say. "No. It was the Mocha."

"No. That's not it. Have we ever met in the Mocha?" He

laughed and covered his eyes with his hands for a second

before looking at me again. "I'm sorry. I meet so many

people, sometimes I forget where I met them. But believe

me, I wish I did remember seeing you there."

"We didn't actualy meet. I just saw you. You were sitting

"We didn't actualy meet. I just saw you. You were sitting

by the window, writing something. Very serious. You

wouldn't have noticed me, anyway. You were busy."

"I should've noticed you, Paige." His smile let me know

exactly what he meant by that.

I laughed again. "But you didn't. Because you meet

soooooo many people. So. If it wasn't the Mocha, or

outside by the smoking station—"

Again, that flash of something furtive and guilty in his gaze.

"And it wasn't the gym," I continued as though I hadn't

seen it. "Where was it?"

His dark eyes gleamed again. "Outside the Speckled

Toad."

My mouth opened, but I had nothing to say.

He snapped his fingers again and crowed, laughing. "Yes!

I'm right, right? That's where it was? I knew you looked

familiar!"

"I love that place." With my laundry in my hands, there

was no chance I was going to leap into his arms, so I kept

was no chance I was going to leap into his arms, so I kept

it there.

"Me, too." Eric's smile softened as he looked over my

face. He seemed to be studying me harder this time. He

nodded after a moment. "Yes. That's definitely it. A few

weeks ago, right? You were going in and—"

"You were going out. Yes." I pretended to just remember

now. "I guess that's why when I saw you in the Mocha I

noticed you. You looked familiar."

It sounded like a much better story, said that way, and

Eric's grin stretched wider. "Uh-huh. Wow. Smal world,

huh?"

"Infinitely."

I wanted to kiss him. I wanted him to kiss me. Instead, I

bent to finish puling the rest of the clothes from the dryer

and into my basket. He was stil staring when I stood, my

basket in my hands.

"What are you doing after you're done with your laundry?"

"I thought I'd read my book…" I glanced at the clock on

the wal, then back at him. "I have to work tomorrow.

the wal, then back at him. "I have to work tomorrow.

Why?"

"I was going to watch a movie. Monty Python and the

Holy Grail. Have you seen it?"

"No." I drew the word out, slow, not wanting to jump to

conclusions.

"Would you like to?"

I pretended to think about it, though inside I was already

screaming out the YESYESYES of Saly's deli orgasm in

When Harry Met Sally. "Are you asking me to watch it

with you?"

"I am." He spread his hands at his sides. "How about it?"

"Sure. Why not? Just let me put this stuff away and I'l

come over."

"Great!" He flashed straight, white teeth and al I could

think about was how they'd feel denting my flesh. "Half an

hour, then? Forty minutes?"

"Sounds good."

"I'm in one-fourteen," Eric said.

I dropped my basket.

Chapter 18

"Are you al right?" Eric had already gone to one knee to gather my scattered clothes while I did nothing but gape.

The world made one slow revolution as everything

changed.

I recovered wel, or at least wel enough to keep him from

checking my pulse and offering me CPR. I watched his

strong, big hands slide along my clothes and put them back

in the basket, and I didn't move. When he stood to hand

me the basket, I took it.

"Fine." I sounded fine. I even managed a smile. I white-

knuckle-clutched the laundry basket and kept my eyes

pinned on his. "Let me just run this home and I'l meet you

at your place, okay?"

We rode the elevator together, not in silence, though

looking back it's impossible for me to remember what we

talked about. I remember his voice, low and rich, and the

sound of his chuckle when I made some smal joke. I

remember the sound of machinery whirring as we lifted

and the way the cool breeze blew against my face when

and the way the cool breeze blew against my face when

the door opened on his floor. I can recal the gleam in his

eyes when he glanced over his shoulder, and the half wave

he gave me as the door closed. But I can't remember what

we said.

In my apartment I set my basket on the bed and puled

open the door on my nightstand. From inside I took the

folded paper on which I'd written my most erotic memory,

and the bottle of Cum-Ezee I'd retrieved from the trash

before I emptied it. Without the notes and their

commands, I wouldn't have either one of them. I looked

around my bedroom, at the new clothes in the closet, at

the books on the shelf. At the new me I'd become because

of those letters.

None of them meant for me.

Al of them for him.

The sound of my laughter stung my ears and I closed my

mouth tight to keep it from escaping again. I looked at the

jumbled mess of laundry in my basket and thought of Eric

on his knees, picking it up. My heart thumped a little faster

and my throat got a little drier.

Al this time I'd imagined the intended recipient of the

letters to be a woman. Not me but like me, at least. To

discover they were meant for a man…I shook my head,

my hair faling forward from the clip. I closed my eyes and

pressed a fist to my lips. They'd been meant for a man.

Did that mean the writer of the notes was…a woman?

God, that was so fucking hot I couldn't stand it.

My cunt bloomed molten heat and the seam of my jeans

pressed suddenly on my clit as I let myself fal back on the

bed. My nipples tightened, begging for a mouth and hands

on them. I took my hand from my mouth and let it roam

my body, though they did little to ease the sudden fire.

Minutes ticked by as I ran through the lists and pictured

Eric performing the tasks I'd found so arousing. What

memory had taken him so long to write he'd returned it

late? What had he bought at the store that had

embarrassed him? I thought of his basket, his laundry, and

the blue shirt there.

I sat, my hair askew and clinging to my forehead in places.

Sweating, I puled off my shirt and jeans and ran the

shower cold enough to make me hiss as I got in and rinsed

off quickly. New panties, new bra, not so fancy as though

off quickly. New panties, new bra, not so fancy as though

it would look as if I was trying too hard should my clothes

happen to come off. A fresh T-shirt, sleek-fitting, soft and

flattering. My favorite jeans, the ones that gave me a round

ass but kept my gut tucked up tight. The gut I didn't realy

have any longer, I had to admit as I checked out my

reflection. Courtesy of those lists, I'd been working out

more diligently than I ever had.

I swiped a brush through my hair and slid clear gloss over

my lips. A dusting of powder finished me off without

making it look as though I'd tried too hard. I grabbed a

couple of packages of microwave popcorn and a big bowl

from my cupboard, slipped my feet into a pair of flip-flops

and tucked my key into my pocket.

My phone buzzed as I debated taking it with me. Now

Austin caled me? After so long silent? I put the phone on

the table, flipped it the bird and locked my door behind

me.

Eric hadn't changed his clothes, but I spied teltale wetness

in his hair that told me he'd at least washed his face.

Minty-fresh breath gave away the fact he'd brushed his

teeth, too, and I hid a grin as he let me in. I hadn't been the

only one assuming there might be more to this than

watching a movie.

I did brace myself as I stepped inside his apartment, but

on first glance I didn't see anything freaky. He gave me a

quick tour. Living room, kitchen. His was a two-bedroom

unit, and he used one for an office complete with shiny

new iMac that had me salivating with envy. He didn't take

me into his bedroom, but I caught a glimpse through the

open door. His window overlooked the parking garage,

same as mine, but he was closer to it.

I'd been half expecting a St. Andrews Cross in the living

room. I think I was a little disappointed. Eric did have a lot

of leather, but in the form of a modern black-and-chrome

sofa and chairs arranged in front of a flat-screen television

hooked up to a bunch of high-end equipment.

"You have a Wi. Sweet."

"Ever played?" Typical male, proud to show off his toys,

Eric grinned and headed for the TV.

"Sure. Not for a while, though."

"Want to try a game of tennis? I know it's not the latest

"Want to try a game of tennis? I know it's not the latest

and greatest, but it's stil fun." He held up the controler.

That's how we ended up playing video games instead of

canoodling on the couch under a blanket, hoping our

hands met in the popcorn bowl. Eric had a wicked

backhand, and yet he let me win. We laughed a lot as we

played, sharing the sort of random conversation that lets

you get to know someone without treading into territory

too intimate for a first date.

If that was what this was. I had my doubts. Brushed teeth

aside, Eric didn't seem to have any intentions about putting

any moves on me, if he ever had. It had been a long time

since I read a guy wrong, but it wasn't impossible. When

at last we colapsed together onto his slippery leather

couch, Eric's smile didn't give me any clues one way or the

other.

I was flummoxed, to say the least, my confidence shaken.

I remembered the trip to Sensations, and how the clerk

had set me back. I didn't get a gay vibe from Eric, and in

any case, if he liked boys, why had he invited me over in

the first place? No. Something was most definitely up and

unfortunately for me it didn't seem to be his cock.

I excused myself to use his bathroom. And yes, I looked in

his medicine cabinet. Anyone who says they've never done

it is a liar or forgot to add the "yet" to the end of that sentence. I found shaving gel, ibuprofen, Tom's Natural

Toothpaste and a jumbo box of condoms. In the cabinet

beneath the sink I found toilet paper, extra towels and a

few scant cleaning supplies. Like the rest of his apartment,

Eric's bathroom was apparently kink free.

I shouldn't have been so surprised. After al, my own place

wasn't decorated in early-medieval dungeon, either. And

there had never been anything in any of the notes or lists to

indicate he was into hard-core bondage or pain play,

unless I'd been so focused on getting my own rocks off I

hadn't read between the lines. Who knew what those

notes had meant to him?

I had to find out.

He'd put the movie in the DVD player and was popping

the corn in by the time I came out. "It's not too late, is it?"

He gestured at the clock. "We kind of got carried away

with the game. Sorry."

He shot me a sincere and slightly abashed grin. I wanted to

He shot me a sincere and slightly abashed grin. I wanted to

pet him. I wanted to sit extraclose and whisper naughty

words into his ear to make him blush. I wanted, I realized

only a bit uneasily, to see him on his knees again.

"No. It's fine. Anyway, I'm in the mood for a movie."

"Great! Thanks for bringing the popcorn." Eric hopped

over the back of the couch in a fluid motion and headed

into the kitchen. "What can I get you to drink? Soda?

Beer?"

"Soda's fine." I watched him pul the bag from the micro

wave and empty it into the bowl and grab two cans of

Coke from the fridge.

"Coke okay?"

I'd never been with a man so solicitous. "Sure. Yes."

"A glass? Ice? I could slice up a lemon for you."

I broke down and laughed. "I could just drink it from the

can."

"If that's what you like." Eric smiled after a minute, cans held high. "Saves me washing the glasses."

held high. "Saves me washing the glasses."

He brought the drinks and popcorn but waited until I sat

before he did, too. I thought of Austin, who'd have been

yeling from his place on the couch, feet up, to bring him a

beer. This was a nice change, no doubt about it, even if it

did leave me feeling more than a little off balance.

"Be right back." Eric hopped up and disappeared into the

bathroom.

I took the chance to look around. He had framed photos

on the end table and on the brick-and-board bookshelves

that looked as if he'd made them himself but that probably

came from Ikea. He was in a lot of the pictures, his arm

slung around the shoulders of his companions. He'd done a

lot of traveling it looked like from the backgrounds of his

colection. I spotted the blue oceans of the Caribbean,

Hawai's lush greenery. In one he wore the whites of a

cruise-ship crewmember and was sitting at the captain's

table. Ship's doc, maybe.

It didn't look as if he had a girlfriend. Or a boyfriend.

None of the people in the pictures were standing close

enough or giving him goo-goo eyes. Eric was a puzzle, no

question. But at least I could be fairly sure he was single.

"Ready?" If my perusal of his pictures annoyed him, he

didn't show it.

I sat on the couch again, popcorn bowl balanced on my

knees. "Sure."

There's nothing potentialy embarrassing about Monty

Python and the Holy Grail. Even the tiny reference to

oral sex isn't realy sexy. I'd seen the film half a dozen

times but never in its entirety and never completely sober.

And yet I had a hard time concentrating. Eric stretched out

long legs next to mine. He had a deep, infectiously sexy

laugh I couldn't help echoing even if the movie itself hadn't

been hilarious.

It didn't last long enough. I'd forgotten the abrupt end.

When he leaned forward to use the remote to click off the

TV, a thin stripe of skin bared between his shirt and jeans,

tempting me to run my fingers over it. I resisted…but only

barely.

He caught me looking when he turned. "One of my

favorites. Sometimes after a long day in the E.R., al I can

think about is coming home and watching something

stupid."

stupid."

"I can imagine so. Sometimes after a long day at work I

can't manage anything other than stupid." I grinned in

sympathy. "And I'm not saving lives."

Eric's handsome face went stil for a minute. "It's not the

saving them that's the problem. It's when I can't. Sorry,

that's a bummer."

"No, it's okay. There must be a lot of pressure." I watched him look away from me.

When he turned back it was with another smile, less

convincing than his others. "Yeah. Wel. I did a couple

rotations on terminal wards. Pediatrics, too. That was

worse, believe me. A lot worse. At least most of what I

see is fixable. A few stitches, a cast, give out a script for

meds. I'd rather face a roomful of broken bones and

bloody noses than a terminal ward again."

"I can't even handle being sick myself, much less take care

of anyone else." I shuddered involuntarily.

Eric dug into the popcorn bowl to scoop out a couple

unpopped kernels, which he crunched. "Funny thing.

unpopped kernels, which he crunched. "Funny thing.

When I was a kid, I was sick al the time. At least it felt

like I was. Constant colds. Probably alergies, now that I

think about it, but at the time, al we knew was that I

always had a runny nose. I was the kid who always

looked like he'd been squashed in the face with something

nasty."

"Nice to see you outgrew it."

His smile quirked higher on one side, charming me. "Yeah.

So anyway, I got older and decided I wanted to become a

doctor, right? And my mom, you'd think she'd be happy to

have her son the doctor, but al she said to me was, ‘But,

Eric, think of the germs!'"

"It's a good thought." I looked at the bowl of popcorn

we'd shared and tried not to wonder if he'd washed his

hands after work.

"But I haven't been sick in years. Nothing more than a mild

cold or two. I think I immunized myself to everything when

I was a kid, so I can't get anything now. In med school

they caled me Iron Man because no matter what we

faced, stomach bugs, coughs, colds, flu…whatever it was,

they usualy got it and I never did."

"Wow. Lucky you."

He swirled those long fingers through the crumbs again,

bringing them out covered with buttery salt. He licked

them one by one as I watched. If I'd thought he was doing

it on purpose to tempt me I'd have been annoyed, but Eric

didn't seem to have any awareness about how he looked.

Or of how my mind went at once to that dirty place.

"Yeah. Pretty amazing." He held out the bowl. "Want

some more?"

I shook my head. "That's interesting, though. Why you

decided to become a doctor. Was it everything you

thought it would be?"

"It's not like I dreamed it would be. No," Eric said flatly.

I waited for more. It seemed there must be more, but no.

His gaze went to the bowl in his lap. He swirled again

through the popcorn and licked the tips of his fingers. He

put the bowl back on the coffee table and looked up at

me.

"It's an incredible amount of responsibility. It's a lot to

"It's an incredible amount of responsibility. It's a lot to

handle, you know?"

I didn't, realy. Not the way he meant. I thought of my own

job and the lists from Paul, and how there realy wasn't

anything I had to be accountable for there. How I had

nothing in my life I needed to take care of. How I never

had. Even when I was married, what had I ever done but

taken care of myself?

"But Monty Python makes it better?"

Eric laughed and ducked his head again for a moment

before looking back at me. "I'm glad you liked it."

"It's a classic. What's not to like?"

Eric shrugged and leaned back against the couch, one arm

stretched out along the back. His fingers could have

touched my shoulder if he'd stretched half an inch more.

Neither of us moved.

"Some of the women I've known…most of them, actualy,

don't get Monty Python. Don't like it." He shook his head.

"So when you said you loved it, I wasn't sure you meant

it."

I studied him. Many things had brought us to this point.

Too many to discount as coincidence or chance. There

was a reason I was here, I believed it in my gut.

"You thought maybe I was lying?" I didn't ease myself

closer to him, but I turned my body in his direction. "Why

would I do that?"

He laughed, self-conscious, and scrubbed the back of his

head with a hand. "I'm not saying you're lying, no. Just that

maybe you were—"

"Lying." I laughed. "To impress you, maybe?"

Eric ducked his head but shot me a glance. "Something

like that. I don't know."

Today you will know you are strong and beautiful.

Advice meant for him, but I'd taken it, too. The difference

was, I knew something of what he'd been doing and living

the past few weeks, and he had no clue about me.

There was such power in that.

"You have an awfuly high opinion of yourself, Eric." My

"You have an awfuly high opinion of yourself, Eric." My

voice came out different. Lower and sultry. It was the

voice of a woman who had never believed she was

anything but strong and beautiful, and I saw how he heard

it.

He sat up straighter. It was subtle, but I noticed. "You're

right. I shouldn't have assumed."

I wasn't sure what I saw in Eric's eyes, only that I wasn't

ready for it. I made it different with a laugh and a pat to his

arm. "It's okay. I'm just teasing you."

"Right." He laughed, too, but I glimpsed something like

disappointment on his face, so brief I couldn't be sure it

had been there.

I made a show of looking at the clock and getting up. "This

was great, but it realy is getting late."

He was up, too, seconds after me. "Right. Yes."

He walked me to the door, al prim-and-proper-like, and

there I stopped and turned to face him. "Thanks for inviting

me."

Now would have been a good time to kiss me, but he

Now would have been a good time to kiss me, but he

didn't do it. I didn't lean to kiss him, either, though I could

have. I wanted to. I didn't believe for one second he'd turn

me down. And I didn't choke, either, dithering at the last

second about what he might think of me or whether he'd

cal me the next day if I gave it up to him tonight.

I didn't kiss him because I had the power to decide which

way this went. Hours before I'd lain on my bed and

touched myself, thinking it might be his hands. I thought of

doing that now, when I went upstairs. How I'd undress

myself and make myself come pretending it was his fingers

and mouth on my tits and clit, my cunt and ass. Or maybe

I'd think of Austin.

Hel, maybe I'd think of Brad Pitt.

I didn't kiss Eric because he was waiting for me to do it. I

saw it in his eyes and the part of his lips, the cock of his

hip as he leaned against the doorway with one hand up

high and the other hooked in his belt loop. He wanted me

to kiss him, but I knew about him what he didn't know

about me.

I knew he wanted to be told what to do.

"Good night, Eric," I said.

And I didn't give him what he wanted.

Chapter 19

There was an actual voice-mail message waiting for me on

my cel when I got home.

"Paige. It's me. I'm bored. Why don't you come over? Cal

me."

The cal had come in only ten minutes ago, and I wasn't

sure if I wanted to laugh or curse at Austin. It was after

10:00 p.m. on a work night.

"Your booty-cal skils need improving," I said before he

could do more than say helo.

"I knew you'd cal."

"You know shit, Austin."

"What were you doing?" He sounded sleepy, and I hoped

I'd woken him.

"I was on a date." It was only half a lie. It hadn't been an official date, but it had been with another man. It would

infuriate him to hear it. He didn't have to know we hadn't

even kissed.

even kissed.

"Couldn't have been a very good date if you're home

already."

He had a point. "How do you know I'm home? Maybe I'm

just only now answering my phone."

"Couldn't be a very good date if you're talking to me."

He had another point, but I wasn't going to concede it.

"Why do you want me to come over? It's late."

"Is it?" He yawned. "I hadn't noticed. Anyway, you're stil awake. And I'm up. Come over."

"I'm not coming over."

"You're not hanging up, either."

I gave him enough silence to make him think otherwise, but

damn him, Austin knew me too wel. He'd discovered

patience, it seemed, whereas I'd lost mine. "If you were

realy that interested, you should've caled me before now."

"I was giving you your space."

Phone clamped to my ear, I was halfway to my bedroom

when his words brought me up short. He sounded sincere,

and it kiled me that without being able to read his face, I

couldn't tel if he was putting me on. "How very Lifetime

Channel of you."

"What are you wearing?"

"How very Playboy Channel," I said, and my breath

hitched.

By the time I reached my bed I was already unbuttoning

my jeans. When I lay back I cradled the phone against my

shoulder to slide the denim over my hips. My panties came

down, too, and I kicked them off. The comforter was

chily under my skin at first, but warmed quickly. I roled,

reaching for my nightstand drawer, and stopped with my

hand on the knob.

"Are you naked? Tel me you're naked."

I found the smal bottle of lube and my bulet vibrator, not

the one that could land aircraft. I sat on the edge of the

bed to pul them from the drawer, and I stared down at the

evidence of what I meant to do in my palm before I

evidence of what I meant to do in my palm before I

answered. "I'm not naked."

"Liar." Austin's low laugh perked my nipples and parted

my legs.

"I have a shirt on."

"I'm hard, Paige. And I'm naked."

I closed my eyes to see him better. "What makes you think

I care?"

This stumped him for a second. In the past I'd been al

about the phone sex. Sometimes we'd fucked more often

on the phone than with our bodies. Before he could

answer, I said, "Are you jerking your cock, Austin?"

"Y-yeah."

"Wel. I want you to stop."

"Aw, Paige—"

"You can't just cal me up and expect me to run right over

and screw you, Austin. And you can't expect me to fuck

you over the phone, either," I said, though I was thinking

about doing just that. "We're not together anymore.

Remember?"

"That never mattered before." He sounded sulen, and I

pictured his frown.

I loved it.

"It matters now." He had to hear my voice dip low and

breathy, and he knew me wel enough to know what that

meant. I just had to wait and see if he'd figure it out.

"Fine. I'm sitting here with my dick ready to go and I'm not

touching it. Is that what you want to hear?"

I lay back again and twisted the end of the vibe to get it

buzzing. Then I brought it to the phone and let him hear it.

I took it away after a second.

"Shit. Is that your vibrator?"

"It is."

"Let me come over, baby. I can make you feel better than

a vibrator."

"I'm hanging up on you now. And then I'm going to use this

"I'm hanging up on you now. And then I'm going to use this

vibrator until I come. But you're not."

"Wel…fuck," he said miserably.

"No." I laughed.

"What the hel am I supposed to do?"

I let the vibe tickle-tickle between my legs, then puled it

away to stroke with a finger, which I preferred over the

mechanical. "You're going to take a cold shower and go to

bed."

"What if I don't? What if just finish myself off right now?"

A low, slow groan seeped from my lips. "You'l do what I

just told you to do, and maybe, just maybe, the next time

you cal me I'l let you come over and eat my pussy until I

scream."

Dead silence greeted this. My eyes, which had been

languorously closed, flew open. Too far?

"Uh…" Austin coughed. "Fucking hel, Paige!"

Apparently not.

Apparently not.

"Good night, Austin," I said sweetly. "I'm going to get back to getting myself off now. Have a nice shower."

"Paige, don't hang up!"

But I did, because I could. Because there was power in

that, too. And then I lay back and looked at the ceiling, my

vibe stil abuzz in my fingers, and thought of Austin. And

Eric. And then some nameless, faceless stranger who

would do everything I wanted him to do without talking it

to death first or ruining it after with words.

My hands became his hands, running over my shirt and

under to cup my breasts through the bra. Then under that

to stroke and tweak my nipples. The vibe buzzed lower as

I adjusted the setting and slid it between my legs, where I

kept it clamped close to me by closing my thighs. I only

wanted a tickle there, not a ful-on buzz.

I'd used this vibe at the command of a note. I'd set it at the

low speed and rubbed it on my clit and down over my lips.

I'd rubbed it on my nipples, too. I'd brought myself close

and eased off, then close again, but obeying the note, I

hadn't made myself come.

hadn't made myself come.

What had Eric done?

Had he spread his legs in the shower, leaning forward with

a hand against the wal while the other pumped his prick

slowly? Did he bend his head beneath the spray, eyes

closed, picturing some nameless, faceless woman on her

knees sucking his cock? Or maybe she had a name. Had a

face. Maybe he had someone who made him crazy the

way Austin made me.

Or maybe he'd lain back on his bed the way I was, his

hips thrusting upward into the cunt made of his curled fist.

Maybe he'd spit into his palm to ease the way, or squirted

a handful of lube. Maybe he stroked his bals at the same

time as he stroked, twisting a little at the head and groaning

at the pleasure.

I groaned, thinking of it, imagining how thick his prick must

be. How his pubic hair would be dark like the hair on his

head. In my head inches didn't matter. Length and girth

were a matter of sensation, of how his cock would fil my

hands and mouth and pussy.

I wanted something to fil me now but had only the bulet

vibe and my fingers. My hips lifted, pressing my cunt into

my hand. I didn't even need the lube, I was so wet. I

sought my G-spot with one hand and stroked it, shivering

as always from the gut-deep tingles that stimulation always

gave me.

Austin had always loved to watch me make myself come.

Sometimes we'd pretend I didn't know he was there as I

sat at my desk or lounged in our apartment's old claw-foot

tub. I could come sometimes more from the way he

watched me than by what my hand was doing. Now I

could only imagine his eyes on me.

I have a very good imagination.

Two men filed my head. One was jerking his cock but not

alowing himself to spil over into sweating, moaning

climax. The other watched me from a shadowy doorway

as I licked my fingertips and swirled them over my hard,

tight clitoris. One was dark, the other golden, and both

wanted me.

I wanted both of them, too, and the realization washed

over me as suddenly as my orgasm. Sweat tasted bitter on

my upper lip when I licked it. My cunt bore down on my

fingers and I came, hard. I opened my eyes as pleasure

fingers and I came, hard. I opened my eyes as pleasure

swarmed over me and swept me away. I shuddered with

it, that pleasure, so familiar and yet so different, every time.

It was al about control, in the end, and I had it.

I didn't see Eric the next morning at the crush for the mail,

but since I'd seen him every other place but the mailboxes

I wasn't surprised. I held back for a lul, though, glad I did

when I saw the familiar shape of a white note card waiting

for me. I held my breath when I puled it out, more aware

than ever of how wrong it was for me to read it.

It didn't stop me. I shoved the other mail into my bag and

slid the card from its envelope, my heart already pounding

in anticipation of what I'd find today and how different it

would seem now that I knew for whom the words were

truly meant.

"No." My mouth fel slack with the sound of disbelief and I stared harder at the card.

I folded it shut as though it might change what I'd read, but

as though they'd been written in flames, the words burned

my fingers through the paper.

No. No, no, no.

This is your last list.

It couldn't be. It shouldn't be. It was not alowed to be!

You've done wel, though I think you understand you need

more work on discipline. Should you desire further

instruction and encouragement, I might consider continuing

your service to me. But only if I see a ful commitment

from you. You know how to get in touch with me.

Don't feel yourself worthy of more of my time. Only I can

decide that.

Wow, and oh, no. I tucked the card back into the

envelope and pressed it to my chest as I stepped aside to

let the snotty woman who'd dismissed me several times

before get to her mailbox. She gave me a curious glance,

but something in my face must have looked formidable

enough that she glanced quickly away.

I turned my back to the row of mailboxes with the note stil

clutched to me. I wanted to cry. Or puke. I wanted to put

the note back and pretend I hadn't read it.

But instead, I did what I hadn't ever done before on

purpose. I shoved it in my bag.

I was keeping it.

Paul wasn't in his office when I got to work, but that was

fine. I didn't have time to worry about him this morning, or

his lists that could never take the place of the one in my

bag. I hadn't taken it out to look at it again, though I could

remember each swirl and whirl of every letter and line.

I made the coffee and set his cup by the pot with the sugar

and powered creamer already in it. In his office I lit the

desk lamp instead of the overheads that gave him a

headache, and I puled up al the files he'd need to work

on. I even set his radio, though not to the station he usualy

chose but one with alternative pop instead of the soft-rock

channel he usualy played.

I did al of this without a list and not because I feared what

would happen if he came in and found none of it done. I

did it, simply, because Paul needed these things in order to

be productive. If my boss was being productive, he would

have less time to hover over me, and simply put, today I

would not have been able to stand hovering.

would not have been able to stand hovering.

I fielded a few phone cals and settled some business by

the time he breezed in with a frown.

"Paige, I need coffee, please."

I pointed to the counter. "It's al ready, Paul."

"Thanks." He said it offhandedly, then looked at the mug

and back at me. "Thank you, Paige."

I nodded but didn't glance up from my files. I had a lot of

work to do today and not enough attention to give him

more than that. Most of my mind was stil caught up in

what I was going to do without the lists. Paul disappeared

into his office and shut the door, and I let out the sigh I'd

been holding.

Anger shook my fingers as I typed. What a fool Eric had

been! He'd asked for discipline and from the start he'd

made a mess of it! Turning in his essay late, not folowing

the lists. Why had he bothered? Why had he wasted his

mistress's time? Because there was no doubt in my mind

any longer the sender of the notes had been a woman al

along.

Men weren't so eloquent. Men weren't so perfectly cold in

dispensing their instructions even as they drew forth an

emotional response. Only women could dig so deep and

pul out so much.

I typed faster, making mistakes and going back to fix them

because I'd be damned if I turned in faulty work and gave

Paul a reason to judge me. From behind his half-closed

door I heard the music swel, but he didn't change the

station. The lights didn't come on, either. I concentrated on

my tasks, but today they gave me no satisfaction.

Fuck!

I sat back in my chair, muttering. Nothing satisfied me, and

I understood why. It wasn't only because the notes were

going to end, it was because I'd solved at least half the

mystery. I knew who the notes were for, if not who was

sending them. And knowing, I couldn't stop thinking about

it.

If I hadn't found out it was Eric, a man. If that hadn't

changed my perception of what it meant to be on the

receiving end of the lists. If. If. If!

"Paige?" Paul caled. "Can I see you in here for a minute?"

He certainly could, though I doubted he'd be as thriled

with quiet, subservient little Paige as he'd been. I pushed

back from my desk and stood tal in my expensive shoes.

The list had told me to buy these shoes. This blouse and

skirt. My armor, what I put on when I wanted the world to

see me as who I wanted to be and not who they might

think I was.

"Yes, Paul."

For the first time in many weeks, I didn't sit to talk to him.

He had to tilt his chair back a little to look up at me. I

noticed the difference, and I thought he did, too, because

when he spoke he sounded a little uncertain.

"Thank you for setting up my office."

"You're welcome."

I thought he would say more, but Paul just turned his

attention back to his computer and dismissed me with his

silence. I had time to think of what it meant when I went

back to my own desk, but I didn't care enough to bother.

When my cel rang just before noon, I almost didn't

answer. I didn't want to talk to Austin, but it was my dad,

an even greater surprise. I flipped open the phone and

pressed it to my ear, though it wasn't my habit to take

personal cals at work.

"Dad. Hi."

"How'd you know it was me?"

"I have caler ID, Dad. I have your number programmed

into my phone." Not that I used it much.

He loved gadgets but wasn't particularly tech savvy. "Can't

pul anything over on you, huh? What are you doing for

lunch?"

"I brought a sandwich."

"How about I take you out for lunch? I have to be up your

way today for a meeting. Stela's off shopping or

something. It'l just be you and me."

My dad had taken an early retirement a year before, but

though he'd suggested it a few times, this was the first time

he'd actualy invited me to lunch. We made plans to meet

he'd actualy invited me to lunch. We made plans to meet

at a chain restaurant not too far from my office. I knocked

on Paul's door to tel him I'd be leaving. He'd been

concentrating hard on his work, and I had to knock twice

before he looked up. He was going to get a headache that

way, even without the overhead lights on.

"Paul. I'm going to lunch with my dad. I'd like to take an

extra hour today. I can stay later, if you need me to."

He shook his head. "No, Paige. That's fine. Go enjoy

yourself."

"Want me to bring you back anything?"

"No." He sighed and waved a hand at the monitor. "I need to get this done before I leave for Kansas next week."

"You have my cel number if you need me," I told him.

"Cal if you want me to stop on my way back."

Paul has a very nice smile he doesn't use half as often as he

should. It doesn't make him into a movie star by any

means, but it was easy enough to see why his wife had

agreed to become Mrs. Johnson.

I couldn't remember the last time I'd gone to lunch with my

dad. He usualy managed to remember my birthday, if not

the day at least the month, and major holidays seemed to

trigger his memory, too, but with nothing on the calendar it

was a bit unusual for him to ask me. He greeted me with

the same hug and kiss as he always did, the one that left

me feeling slightly strange though he never seemed to think

so.

We both ordered the same thing, soup and salad. "Stela's

got me on some sort of diet," he explained. "Says we both

need to drop a few pounds. You look like you've slimmed

down a bit."

"I've been working out." Leave it to my dad to compliment

me while making me feel bad at the same time.

"We just got an eliptical trainer and a Bowflex. You can

come over and use it if you want." My dad thickly buttered

a rol already glistening with grease.

"There's a gym in my apartment building, but thanks." I

didn't even take a rol, thinking of the word discipline and

what it meant to me. I didn't point out how little sense it

made for me to drive al the way to my dad's house to

work out.

work out.

"You could stop by anyway some time this week. Check it

out."

In the past I'd have given him an awkward laugh and

shrugged off the invitation knowing that though he meant

the offer, he wouldn't notice if I didn't take him up on it.

Real invitations, the ones I was expected to take, came

from Stela and always had. Now, though, something in the

way he said it sounded different.

"Sure, I guess I could."

"Your brother's been giving us a bit of a rough time," my

dad said.

Interrupted by the waitress bringing our soup, I didn't

answer at first. My dad, as was typical of him, ignored the

server, spiling his guts in front of a stranger when I'd have

preferred the decency of a few minutes' wait. Ah, wel, it

wasn't my secret.

"Jeremy," he added. "He's been acting up in school, getting into trouble at home. Won't listen to a damn thing we tel

him."

him."

I didn't think pointing out giving in to your child's every

whim was bound to catch up to you would be appropriate,

so I made some sympathetic murmurs and wondered why

my dad was sharing.

"He's been realy mouthy to me."

"Kids go through stages, don't they?"

My dad gave me a fond smile. "You never have."

Choices. We al make them, sometimes more than once.

Sometimes it's the choices we make over and over that

define us, but more often it's the ones we don't.

"Kids who feel confident in their parents' affections can

take the risk of acting out," I said calmly. "I gave my mom a heluva hard time growing up."

My dad's not a stupid man, though he is deliberately blind

to certain things. He sighed. "Paige. I know I haven't

always been there for you."

I lifted my spoon to give my hands something to do, but it

clattered against the bowl and I didn't want to risk spiling

clattered against the bowl and I didn't want to risk spiling

the soup, so I put the spoon down. Of al the awkward

moments we'd ever shared, this had to rank right up there

with the top ten. Worse even than the year he'd noticed I'd

started wearing a bra and announced it at one of Stela's

parties.

Knowing he wanted me to say it didn't matter only made it

harder for me to answer. I stared into my soup for a long,

hard minute and felt his gaze weighting me. I wanted to

make it al right for my dad because it would be easier then

to pretend it was al right for me. But in the end I said

nothing, silence more of an answer than words could ever

have been.

"Could you come by?" he said after another half minute

ticked by. "Jeremy has always liked you, Paige. He looks

up to you like a—"

"Sister?" I looked up at him, then, and took pity on the

man who was responsible for one-half of me.

"You are his sister. We've never tried to make you feel like anything less."

He wasn't going to apologize more, I could see that. I was

pretty sure he hadn't realy meant the first one. On the

surface, sure, but not down deep. No where it mattered.

"I can come over. Sure. I'm not certain what you think I

can do with him, though."

My dad's look of relief was genuine, anyway. "Just talk to

him. I asked Steven if he'd come, but he's busy with the

kids. I knew we could count on you."

That, at least, was flattering and believable. "Sure.

Thanks."

"Great." Just like that, things were okay again.

My dad slurped up his soup, then dug into his salad as he

talked the rest of the meal about the trips they were

planning for the summer. Again to the beach house he'd

bought a few years back, and also to the Grand Canyon

for a river-rafting trip. He invited me to come to the beach

house if I could make it, and I said I'd try.

"Good," my dad said like that settled everything that had

ever been strained between us.

In a way it had. I'd been honest with him, in some smal

In a way it had. I'd been honest with him, in some smal

way, which I'd never been before. We said our goodbyes

and this time the hug didn't feel so strained. He patted my

head, then puled me closer for a second hug.

"You look so much like your mom," my dad said, which

was untrue. "How is she, anyway?"

"Fine. Good." He never asked about her, but I wasn't

going to act as if it was a big deal.

"Good." My dad hesitated. "Tel her…I said hi, and I hope she's doing al right."

"Sure, Dad. I wil."

He looked at my car. "You get a new car?"

My car, a silver-gray Volvo, had seen me through three

moves, multiple winters and road trips to the beach and

back. It was the first car I'd ever owned and even though

Austin had cosigned the loan he'd never put a cent toward

it. It had been too much car for me when I bought it. It had

been my debt and my work.

"No. Same car."

"Huh. Looks new."

I looked at it again. Lately al I'd been able to see were the

scratches and dings. "Wel, it's not."

"You had that when you and what's-his-name were

together, didn't you?"

"Austin. Yeah."

"You see him at al?"

I gave him a hard look. The bright sunshine wasn't kind to

him. I saw his years in the lines around his eyes and mouth

and the sag of his jaw and the gray glint in his hair.

"Sometimes. Why?"

"Just that…hel. You were young. I should've told you not

to marry him."

He was stil my dad, despite everything, and I loved him. I

think my hug surprised him as much as I surprised myself.

"Dad, you couldn't have stopped me."

He laughed. "No. I guess not. That's one thing I'l say

He laughed. "No. I guess not. That's one thing I'l say

about you, Paige, you always knew just what you wanted

and how to get it, and you never let anything stand in your

way."

His assessment took me aback. What could I say to that?

"Thanks."

"Give Stela a cal, would you? See when's a good night

for you to come over. She knows the boys' schedules

better than I do. We'l give you dinner."

"You don't always have to feed me."

"I'm your dad," he said and tucked a twenty-dolar bil into the pocket of my jacket before I could even register he'd

done it. "Cal her. I'l see you later, kiddo."

I watched him go and turned back to my car to look at it

with new eyes. Sunshine had made a mirror of the

windows, and in it I saw a woman who never let anything

stand in her way, who knew what she wanted and how to

get it. My father saw me that way and suddenly, I could

see myself that way, too.

Chapter 20

It's amazing how one smal thing can change so much. I

went back to the office humming under my breath. I'd have

danced and scattered glitter if people did that in real life,

but I settled for stopping at Starbucks to grab Paul a late-

afternoon coffee and scone. He'd need one.

Tension creased his brow when I gave it to him, but he

took the cup and bag gratefuly as he pushed back from

his desk. "Thank you, Paige."

Five minutes later, as my fingers flew over the keyboard, I

heard the phone ring. Five minutes after that, I heard a

thud and a curse, folowed by the sound of water running

in his private bathroom and more muttered cursing. I

waited for him to cal me, and when he didn't, I got up and

went into his office without knocking.

Paul stood in the center of the room with a handful of

sodden paper towels. He'd been using them to scrub at the

coffee stain al over his white shirt, but al he'd managed to

do was spread it. Smal bits of paper towel clung to the

fabric, adding to the mess. The harder he scrubbed, the

worse it got.

worse it got.

The first three days I'd worked for Kely Printing, Paul had

been out of the office. He'd hired me, one of three people

who'd sat in on the interview, but I hadn't known until I

showed up that day who was going to be my boss. I'd

assumed the thick sheaf of instructions left for me on my

desk were because he wasn't there to start me off. I knew

better now, of course, but looking back you always see

things you didn't at the time.

The first day I'd come into work to find him actualy in the

office, he'd had this same look on his face. It was because

he'd assumed I hadn't finished everything he'd left for me;

when I showed him al the tasks I'd completed, he'd

calmed down at once, and our routine had quickly become

the way I've described it. So I'd seen the panicked look

before, but not for a while.

"Stop." I didn't have to think about this. I took the paper towels from his hands and threw them in the trash. I went

to the bathroom and puled a handful of dry paper towels

out, then dabbed at the wet spot on his shirt. "What

happened?"

"I spiled my coffee," Paul said unnecessarily.

"I spiled my coffee," Paul said unnecessarily.

"I see that." I also saw there was more to it than that. I blotted the stain and scraped off most of the paper-towel

flecks.

Under my hands, Paul's chest was firm. He radiated heat,

though his face was dry and even a little pale. His hands

shook a little as he held them out away from his sides to

give me room to work. He was getting ready for a ful-on

panic attack.

"This isn't so bad," I soothed.

"I have a meeting to go to in five minutes, and Melissa

forgot my dry cleaning again. So I don't even have an extra

shirt." His voice went a little hoarse. "Damn it, why'd I

have to spil coffee on myself now?"

"You wouldn't be the only person at the meeting who ever

spiled coffee, Paul." I stood back to assess the damage,

then looked him over with a critical eye. "Did you bring a

suit jacket today?"

"Yes. Of course."

"Wear that. Nobody wil notice. It's a little warm, but you'l

"Wear that. Nobody wil notice. It's a little warm, but you'l

feel better." I patted his arm, and the muscles jumped

beneath my fingers.

Paul shook his head slowly. "Paige…"

I let him trail off and didn't offer a response. We looked at

each other. Without the harsh overhead lights, Paul looked

younger. The lines in his forehead visibly smoothed as I

stroked his arm.

It wasn't appropriate. If anyone had seen us, the gesture

could have been misconstrued. At the very least, it might

have started damaging rumors. But nobody saw us, and

Paul gentled under my touch. After working for him for so

many months, I knew what he needed.

It al fel into place. I thought of the day he'd put the

bandage on my leg. How he'd taken such care. And of his

lists, laid out in such detail to let me know exactly what he

needed and wanted. I thought of how he'd owned to being

difficult to work for, when in the end he'd made it so very

simple for me to give him everything he needed I couldn't

remember why I'd ever thought he was hard to work with.

And just then, I think we both understood.

And just then, I think we both understood.

He must have known before what he realy wanted, and

how hard it must have been for him to get it. Yesterday,

too focused on what I thought I'd needed and wanted, I

hadn't been able to see it.

"Put your suit jacket on, Paul. And go to your meeting.

And tomorrow, instead of coffee, you'd better drink water

until you can be less clumsy." I didn't say it lightly. I wasn't teasing.

I was testing.

He closed his eyes briefly and when he opened them, I

saw relief and something else. A little shame. A little

excitement. I felt the sting and swirl of it, too, but I lifted

my chin and tried not to show it.

"Now," I said, "go to your meeting."

He put on his suit jacket and left.

There was nothing overtly sexual about what had

happened. I didn't want to fuck my boss. Until today I

wouldn't have believed he wanted to fuck me, either,

beyond the fact that most men would like to fuck most

beyond the fact that most men would like to fuck most

women. Yet something had passed between us, something

charged and tense and arousing.

Alone in Paul's office I had to bend and put my hands on

his desk, my head down so I could catch my breath. I'd

fainted twice in my life, and this didn't feel like that, the

gray-red haze taking over my vision, the ringing in my ears.

This light-headedness was more like the breathless rush

that comes just before orgasm, when every muscle

clenches. When the body takes over and nothing the mind

can do wil stop the inevitable.

It was synchronicity again, or maybe serendipity. Like

when you've never heard a word before and suddenly you

see it in every book you read, or how you've been craving

ice cream and the ice-cream truck rounds the corner just

before you go inside. Three men, similar but different. I

might not have noticed a few months ago, but now it was

al I could see. The notes had done that. Opened my eyes

to that need. Theirs and mine, too.

Last night, learning about Eric had rocked my world. This

morning, discovering I was about to lose my lists had done

it again. But now, just now, with Paul, I'd learned

something so basic it had been with me al along. Only like

something so basic it had been with me al along. Only like

Dorothy with the Scarecrow, Tin Woodsman and

Cowardly Lion, I simply hadn't seen it. I thought of lists

and notes and what they meant to me. And what I wanted.

And I knew what I had to do.

"Paige." Miriam gave me a broad, crimson-lipped grin. "So nice to see you. What can I do for you today? A gift for

someone?"

"No. Today I came in for myself."

I looked to the shelf where the boxes of ink, pens and

papers had been, but they were gone. Miriam came

around the counter and saw me looking. She tugged gently

on my sleeve.

"In the back. Come with me." She'd set the boxes on an

eye-level shelf, each displayed with its lid open to show off

the papers inside. "Not so many people wil see these

back here, but if they take the time to look, I believe they

wil be unable to resist."

I already knew the one I wanted. Red lacquer with blue

and purple accents. The paper inside bore the watermark

and purple accents. The paper inside bore the watermark

of a dragonfly, and there was enough to last a number of

weeks even if I wrote a letter on it every day. The brush-

and-ink set interested me less. I didn't intend to write in

caligraphy.

"This one." I closed the lid and slid the smal wooden clasp through the loop of ribbon to keep it shut. I turned to

Miriam and stopped at the look on her face. "What?"

"I knew you would find something to write on that paper,

that's al." She was already leaving the room and gestured

over her shoulder for me to folow.

The box was heavier than it looked because of the marble

stamper, also featuring a dragonfly, and the porcelain

container of ink paste inside. Heavier, too, because of

what I meant to do with the contents. The wood slipped

against my fingers as I carried it to the cash register. I

didn't want to let it go long enough for Miriam to ring it up

and put it in a Speckled Toad bag, but I did.

I was sweating a little, my stomach and throat buzzing with

anticipation. Colors seemed a bit too bright and sounds

too loud. I was already thinking of a quiet room and

candlelight, and the scritch-scratch of a pen on the paper.

I already knew what I was going to write.

Miriam rang up my purchase and wrapped the satin box

liberaly in tissue paper, then slid it into a bag. She peered

at me over her half glasses, her mouth pursed, and tapped

the countertop with her crimson nails. "You need

something else."

I was already spending too much. "I don't think so."

Miriam ignored me and turned to the glass-topped display

case next to the counter. She leaned over to look at the

Cross and Mont Blanc pens inside, each snuggled in its

own cradle of velvet. She ran her finger over the glass,

drawing my attention to each of the pens I'd lusted over

since discovering her shop. There was a Starwalker

rolerbal pen in black and one in blue. There was a

Meisterstuck Classique Platinum rolerbal in classic black

with silver accents. She even had one of the special

limited-edition Marlene Dietrich pens I'd seen online that

cost the earth.

"Mont Blanc doesn't cal them pens, you know," she said

in the reverent voice of an archeologist unearthing

something precious. She didn't look at me as she unlocked

the back of the case and ran her fingertips over the velvet.

the back of the case and ran her fingertips over the velvet.

"They're referred to as writing instruments."

Her fingers closed on one, a slim black piece with the

signature six-pointed star in the cap. She drew it out and

laid it flat on her palm the way the jeweler had done with

the diamond ring Austin had bought me. The pen in

Miriam's palm wasn't quite as expensive as that ring, which

I stil had locked away in my jewelry box…but it wasn't

much less, either.

I itched to take it, but shoved my hands in my pockets

instead. "Yes, I know. I've been to their Web site."

Now her gaze, cool and amused, flicked to me. "I'm sure

you have. You look at these pens every time you come in,

Paige."

"They're beautiful pens."

Miriam puled out a smal square of velvet and laid the pen

—the writing instrument—on it. Then she folded her hands

and tilted her head to look at me over her glasses again.

"Let me ask you something, my dear. Would a plastic

surgeon operate on someone's face with a rusty butter

knife?"

knife?"

"I sure hope not." I grimaced.

Miriam smiled indulgently. "Would an artist try to paint a

masterpiece with a box of watercolors from the dolar

store?"

"If that's al the artist had, why not?"

"My point is, my dear, that in order to create real, true

things of beauty, a person needs the right tools." She

waved a hand over the Mont Blanc.

My soul strained toward it. "I'm not an artist."

"No?" Her perfectly plucked brows lifted in unison. "That paper says otherwise. Tel me you intend to use it for a

grocery list, and I'l cal you a liar. What's more, I won't

sel it to you. It would be a sin not to use that paper for

something special."

"I plan to use it for something special." My mouth curved

into a smile on the words.

"Good. But what about the instrument? Don't tel me you

plan to use a half-chewed pencil stub with no eraser."

plan to use a half-chewed pencil stub with no eraser."

I tore my gaze away from the Mont Blanc to look at her.

"I have a nice fountain pen my dad bought for me for my

colege graduation."

I didn't tel her it tended to stain my fingers in addition to

blotting the paper with ink. Miriam sniffed. Her fingernails

ticktocked on the counter, timing the seconds before her

response.

"It's not a Mont Blanc. Or even a Cross. Is it?"

"No. But it's what I have."

Miriam sighed and shook her head. "Paige, Paige, Paige.

Pick up that pen and hold it."

I didn't want to—putting it down would be so much

harder. But when Miriam puled a piece of cream-colored

paper from beneath the counter and slid it toward me, I

did what she'd said. If you've never held a realy good pen,

you don't understand how the weight distributes itself so

evenly in your palm. Or how the fit of it in your fingers

makes writing even the longest documents easy. How the

ink slides from the tip without effort.

I wrote my name.

"Oh…" I breathed and with reluctance, set down the pen.

"It's so nice."

I'd put it down at once so I wouldn't be tempted to run

away with it, but Miriam lifted it and held it toward me.

"Buy it."

"I can't afford it." I hadn't even looked at the tiny, hand-lettered price tag attached to the pen's box stil in the

display case. I didn't have to see the numbers to know I

couldn't buy it.

"Are you sure?" Miriam asked calmly. "You might be

surprised."

"I doubt it, Miriam. I know what those pens cost."

"My dear," she said. "Aren't you worth it?"

Chapter 21

This is what I wrote on that expensive paper with my

exquisite writing instrument.

The time has come to reevaluate our relationship.

You will send me your exact schedule, work and

pleasure, for the next ten days. In addition, you will

write ten things that excite you. You will send them in

an e-mail to me at switch1971@gmail.com no later

than 6:00 p.m. the day you get this letter. You will

include your cell phone number so I can text-message

you my approval. Or not.

Things are going to change for us both.

I'd stepped it up, but unlike my last interlude with Austin, I

didn't wonder if it had been too much. I wondered,

instead, if perhaps it hadn't been enough. There were

several messages in my Inbox when I got home from

work. One of them was from a friend from colege,

another from my mom. And the last was from an e-mail

address I didn't recognize. Eric.

He detailed his schedule as I'd requested. Working

twelve-hour shifts in a three-on, four-off pattern. I hadn't

asked him what hospital he worked at, but he'd included

varying drive times, so I thought he might fil in at several.

His attention to detail pleased me. Clearly he'd done

something like this before…but then, I was guessing he

was more used to this sort of thing than I was. I liked his

list of things that excited him even more.

• 1. Standing in the rain

• 2. Roller coasters

• 3. Knowing I'm being watched while I make myself

come

• 4. Serving a woman on my knees while she ignores

me

• 5. Tacos!

• 6. Lingerie (on a woman, not me wearing it)

• 7. Being told exactly how to please the woman I'm

with so I don't have to guess

• 8. Clean sheets

• 9. Monty Python on DVD

• 10. Lists

Lists excited me, too. I loved that he had a sense of humor

about it and was self-confident enough to show it. I also

appreciated that he'd responded in time—5:55, by the

time on the message. I didn't know if I'd have had it in me

to punish him for failure.

I never wore leather and I'd never cracked a whip. I liked

high heels, but the thought of using them to step on a

person squicked me out big-time. I'd always thought of

men who got off on "serving" women as pussies, though

Eric had impressed me as anything but.

I didn't know how much of a mistress I was going to be,

or how long I could get away with the impersonation. I

could have pretended I'd taken this on for his sake—the

thought of losing those daily lists had sent me into a mind-

spin, after al. But I knew it was realy for me. Those lists

had given me something I hadn't known I needed.

Writing them, I discovered, fulfiled me even more.

Writing them, I discovered, fulfiled me even more.

This is what I left in his mailbox.

Tonight when you get home from work, you will eat

your dinner. Then you'll shower. After that, you'll go to

your bedroom and leave your curtain open.

When you jerk your cock, know that I'l be watching you.

"Cute shoes." The woman whose name I didn't know but

whom I always seemed to bump into at the mailboxes

sounded as if she meant it. "Enzo Angiolini?"

I looked down at the chunk-heeled pumps in classic black,

tied across the top with a tasseled leather strap. I'd picked

them up at the thrift store for three bucks. But yes, they

were brand name and nearly brand-new. "Yes."

"Nice. I have a pair almost like it but in navy. I never wear

them, though. I couldn't ever find anything to go with

them." She gave the rest of my outf it a critical look. "I'd never have thought to put them together with a flared skirt

and tapered top like that."

For months I'd agonized over what to wear to work each

day and she'd looked at me as though I were something

she'd scraped off the bottom of her enviably fashionable

shoes. Today, caught up in thoughts of slipping Eric's note

into the mail and what it would lead to, later, I'd thrown on

the first outfit I'd grabbed. I looked at my shoes and

swirled slightly to flare my skirt around my knees. My

smile had nothing to do with her compliment, and I didn't

thank her for it. Okay, so I can be a bit of a vindictive

bitch. I never pretended otherwise.

I looked her up and down from the chiffon scarf she'd tied

at her throat to her feet in the same pair of Kate Spades

I'd seen several times already. "Realy?"

One word. So many layers of meaning. She blinked

rapidly, and then her mouth quirked into a grudging smile.

We understood each other the way women do and men

never wil.

"They're having a great sale at Neiman Marcus next week.

I'm on their preferred buyers mailing list and got a

postcard about it," she offered.

"Thanks. I'l check it out." I waited until she'd gone before putting my letter in Eric's mailbox.

When I had, I leaned for a moment against the wal, my

breath whistling through parted lips. Beneath the skirt she'd

so admired, I wore lacy, silky lingerie. Sexy things to make

me feel pretty al day, and to remind me of what I intended

to happen later. As if I could forget, I thought with a secret

smile I kept with me al day.

Paul noticed it. The smile, not the panties, which rubbed

me deliciously each time I crossed or uncrossed my legs.

He stood over my desk with a sheaf of files in his hands,

but he waited until I looked up to acknowledge him rather

than simply addressing me the way he had in the past.

Oh, how so much had changed in so short a time!

"You look nice today," he said.

In this era of sexual-harassment suits, in a time where I'm

an executive assistant and not a secretary because of some

misbegotten notion that a title means more than the job

itself, his compliment wasn't realy appropriate. I leaned

back in my chair to give him a nice long look at my legs as

I crossed them high at the knee. And he looked, Paul did,

without pretending he didn't.

"What do you need, Paul?"

He offered the files. "These have to go out today."

I didn't take them. Power thriled through me as he set

them on the desk but didn't go. Was this a dangerous

game? I didn't think it was so risky. I didn't even count it

as flirtation, realy. I had no intention of fucking my boss.

Of becoming my mother.

"Al right."

We stared at each other. Paul cleared his throat and

rocked on his heels a bit. I took the files and set them in a

tidy pile in front of me to show him I would, indeed, get to

them. Not at that instant, and I wasn't jumping through

hoops to do it, but it would happen.

"Paige, there's something else I'd like to talk to you about."

I studied him for a second, trying to gauge what it could be

about, then nodded. "Sure. What about?"

"Can you come into my office in about ten minutes?"

He asked as though he was afraid I'd say no, even though

technicaly we both knew I didn't have a choice.

"Absolutely."

"Thanks." He'd always been polite, but he was nearly

dancing now with some hidden anxiety.

There were many things I knew about my boss, some I'd

known from the start and others I'd learned only over time.

When it al came down to it, though, I liked Paul very

much. Whatever had his garters snapping, it was going to

make it impossible for him to get some work done until it

was resolved.

"Go get yourself a mug of coffee," I told him. "I'l send off these reports and see you in ten minutes."

I hadn't given him permission, and it was nothing he

couldn't have decided for himself, but the relief in his eyes

at my suggestion made me glad I'd made it. I flipped

through the reports while he poured his coffee and made

some notes about what needed to be sent where, then

ducked down the hal to visit the restroom then make

some copies so I could be back in time to meet with him.

He sat in a familiar slouch at his desk when I pushed open

He sat in a familiar slouch at his desk when I pushed open

his door, but he turned his attention immediately to me.

"Paige, hi. Would you sit down, please?"

I did, and watched his gaze flicker over my bared knees as

I crossed my legs. "Is something wrong?"

"No. Nothing's wrong. I just…wanted to talk to you."

I waited. Paul drew in a breath and pushed back in his

chair to run a hand over the top of his head. He'd taken off

his suit jacket, but his tie was as snug to his throat as if it

had grown there. He cleared his throat, and I waited

another ten seconds for him to speak.

"It's about your performance."

I sat up a little straighter. "Yes?"

"It's past time for your first review."

I understood that. Kely Printing, like most companies,

gave annual reviews, but they also had an introductory

probation period for al new employees. They'd told me

about it when they hired me. Six months into the new job,

you could be out on your ass if you didn't live up to

expectations. It was hard to believe I'd been here that

long. It felt more like forever, actualy.

Again, I waited for him to speak. That was the thing with

Paul. He took his time with talk. I thought it was because

each word that came from him had to mean something,

like he had to weigh their worth before he said them.

Unlike writing, you can't scratch out speech. Once it's

said, there's nothing you can do to erase it.

"I just wanted you to know I'l be giving you the highest

ratings, that's al. And recommending you for advanced

training."

My pleased smile sat oddly on my face, which had been

expecting to frown. "Realy? Great. Thanks, Paul."

He seemed a little more at ease once he'd told me, though

his fingers stil toyed nervously with his pen. He roled it

onto the edge of the blotter, then off. It hit the desk with a

sharp click.

"You're welcome. I've been very pleased with your work."

"I've enjoyed working with you."

He nodded a bit and focused his attention on the pen.

"There are some opportunities available in-house. A good

recommendation could…um…lead the way to some of

them."

This was interesting news I wasn't sure how to process.

"Like what?"

"Promotion opportunities."

I read the buletin boards in the hal by the office mail every

day. I saw the internal-job postings along with the memos

on company policy and announcements about the holiday

parties and picnics. Nothing there had caught my eye or

sent me into spasms of excitement. I'd never considered

applying for any of them. I stil intended to get my MBA

when they'd chip in to pay for it.

"Such as?" I leaned forward.

"They're looking for someone to start in a new entry-level

marketing position in Vivian Darcy's department."

"And if I don't want to work for Vivian?"

For a moment, Paul looked pleased before he smoothed

For a moment, Paul looked pleased before he smoothed

his features into studied neutrality. "It's something to think

about. You can't be an assistant forever, Paige."

That was certainly true, and I was touched he cared

enough to think so. "I don't plan to be."

"This could be a good chance for you," he said.

And that was true, too. So why did we both look so sad?

I knew from Eric's schedule that he'd be home around

eight o'clock today. I gave him half an hour for dinner,

another fifteen minutes for a shower. If he was as eager as

I was to folow the instructions I'd left him, it wouldn't be

more than that.

The black trench coat I wore wasn't meant to make me

look like a pervert, though that's what I felt like as I

entered the parking garage. I'd picked it to help

camouflage me in the shadows, but I had toyed with the

idea of going naked beneath it. I ended up putting on black

jogging pants and a black T-shirt instead, not bold enough

to go bare. I might have had I had a note teling me to do

it, I thought with a smile as I climbed the second flight of

stairs.

stairs.

I came out onto a nearly empty level. At this time of night

the spots taken up by daytime commuters would be

vacant. But from this level I had a clear view across the

street and into Eric's first-floor apartment.

The concrete wal hit me chest high, but I could lean on it

to look across the street. At 9:00 p.m., night had already

falen. The orange lights of the parking garage lit the door

to the stairs and hit every other pilar, but none was above

my head and so I had no glare to distract me. The

streetlights, too, were placed far enough apart they didn't

interfere with my voyeurism.

I hadn't brought a pair of binoculars, but realy didn't need

them. The street between the buildings was one-way and

narrow. I could have spit and hit his window. Inside his

apartment, the lights went on.

My ears rang, and I let out the breath I'd been keeping

prisoner in my lungs. He was there. This was realy going

to happen.

Everyone peeks. We do it al the time when we drive past

houses at night with the lights on, in hotel rooms we can