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“Are you sure you’re okay?” my friend Sabrina asks over the phone.
It’s late. I’m curled up in bed, my body sore from the extra hours I did at the restaurant. Dirk asked with far, far more respect than he usually would. Since I need the cash—I always need the cash—I said yes.
“I’m fine,” I reply. “Itwascrazy seeing him.”
“I can imagine.”
But she can’t. Sabrina is my closest friend, but I haven’t told her about the feelings capturing me since I watched the documentary and first saw Jamie. I know she’s sitting there with a pensive look, twirling her blond hair around and around her manicured fingernail.
Sabrina was on the cheerleading squad in school and a skilled swimmer too. We never would’ve met if she didn’t also have an interest in writing. She saw me reading a book about it one day in the library, and we started talking. It felt surreal initially, like I was inferior, but Sabrina has never made me feel that way.
“If you need anything, let me know, okay?” she says firmly.
“I will. Thank you.”
“Always.”
After hanging up the phone, I try to sleep, but my thoughts return to Jamie. They’re so much more vivid than when we met in real life. Before, I only had his image from the documentary. A muscular inmate with captivating eyes and a somehow soft smile, or a smile thatcouldbe soft if he found the right woman.
Now, I can remember his heat as he closed in on me in the hallway and the unrestrained energy that clothed him when he stood up for me in the restaurant.
My hands slip between my legs. I know I shouldn’t. I know Inevershould’ve done this, even once, but it’s so tempting as I think about tearing his shirt off and revealing his muscled body.
In my waking dream, it’s easier to be confident and trail my fingernails down his chest and over his belly. In the fantasy, I can step up on my tiptoes and guide my lips to his.
“We shouldn’t be doing this,”he growls, his hand claiming my hips, holding me firmly as he pulls me against him, so close I can feel the solid length of his cock.“I murdered your dad. Killed him in cold blood.”
My fingers stroke over my clit, pleasure and guilt joining in a sharp pulse. I push away that stuff, the murder stuff, and think about the physical act instead. Suddenly, he’s on top of me. I can almost feel the solid strength in his back, as if his muscles are right up against my hand.
He leans down, his husky breath moving over me, finding my lips as his cock glides up. There’s no pain. No hesitation. I moan as my fingers move quicker over my clit.
“Fuck me,”I imagine saying, so confident it’s unreal.“Fuck me hard.”
I hear a noise outside in the backyard. It sounds like somebody knocked something over. Maybe the bird feeder. I quickly jump to my feet, struggling not to panic, struggling not to think about Dad’s old life. I was a kid, so I didn’t get it, but in hindsight, I saw my dad was a drug dealer or a criminal. People were always coming and going, his sporadic “work hours,” and stuff like that. I think he was using his own supply, hence his mood swings.
I go to the back window, staring out at the garden. It’s lit with security lights, a bright blanket of yellow bathing everything. The yard isn’t as tidy as I would like, but it’s difficult with so much else to focus on.
I was right. The bird feeder is on its side, but I can’t see who knocked it over. Then, from out front, the impossible. I’m sure I must be hearing things.
“Stay where you are,”a man roars.
It sounds likeJamie. I rush to the front window and look onto the street to find Jamie’s car there. It’s the same oldish one I remember from last time. I’m not great with cars, but it’s seen better days. A minute later, Jamie walks down the street, shaking his head.
What theheck?He looks up and sees me. His whole posture tightens. I can’t make out his facial expression, but I bet it’s not good. I react before I let nerves catch up to me and remind me I’m supposed to be afraid. Of the noise in the yard. Of my dad’s killer. Of these feelings that won’t ever quit.
As I rush down the stairs, the fabric of my PJ shorts rubs against my sex. It makes my body tingle and my clit ache as though trying to force me to go back upstairs to finish what I started.
“What are you doing?” I say, opening the front door.
Jamie stands at the end of the path leading to the door, his hands at his sides, his chest rising and falling exaggeratedly like his body is about to erupt. Lights in the adjacent houses start to flick on.
“Jamie,” I hiss. “Get over here.”
Some of my neighbors know who he is. They would’ve seen us together on my porch, but that’s fine. That was planned, and a few of my neighbors knew about the meeting, but showing up in the middle of the night gives different ideas.
Jamie walks up the path into the front security light. He’s wearing a faded blue T-shirt, highlighting his pecs from how the fabric clings, his arms bulging, and his fists clenched.
He stares at me like he’s angry. His blue eyes flit to my legs, his jaw tightening as though my naked thighs piss him off somehow. Or does it turn him on? And is heangryat being turned on by me?
