Do Not Disturb Read online

  I smile at the voice, non-muffled without the door between us, and glance at Jeremy to see if he understands the man’s comment. His face surprises me. Tense, his back leaving the wall, his posture stiff as he straightens. I have forgotten that he knows Simon, that they have bitched countless times over the package of pills that he delivers monthly.

  Simon pauses, a hitch in his step, when he is ten feet away, his eyes warily recognizing Jeremy. “Oh. Hey, man.”

  Jeremy says nothing, nodding at him in acknowledgment of the greeting.

  The druggie’s gaze jumps left, and stares me up and down, his eyes taking their time. “What—delivery boy bring you to see the freak show?” he cackles. “I’ve got stuff a lot more exciting in my place. If you want…” He steps closer, smiling, and I see Jeremy’s fists clench.

  I smile brightly, using the young innocent smile, the one that my clients love, the one that dissolves all tension and puts them all at ease. He moves closer and I jump into action, bringing my knee up quickly, into the soft flesh between his sweatpanted legs, the hard impact causing his eyes to tightly close, his torso doubling over as all air leaves his chest in one brittle exhale. He wheezes and I bring my forearm up, under his chin, and press hard, pushing him back against the wall, my four-inch heels putting us at eye level with each other. “Hi Simon,” I drawl, watching his eyes jump to mine, a hesitant recognition at my voice in their red-rimmed depths. “Welcome to the freak show.”

  CHAPTER 4

  JEREMY PULLS ME off. Not that it is really necessary. I have no weapon on me. My knee-to-the-crotch move is pretty much the only move I have—and it’s been in my repertoire since middle school, back when a properly timed middle finger was just as argumentatively effective. Had Simon not been surprised, not still been overcome from the assault on his nuts, I wouldn’t have been able to push him back, to get my forearm under his chin and hard against his throat. He was already recovering when Jeremy pulled me off, already gaining his wits and understanding the situation before him. A few seconds later, he would have pushed me off. So I’m glad Jeremy stepped in. Saved my credibility while still letting me feel like a badass.

  Jeremy moves before me, glancing at my face. “Are you okay?”

  Are you okay? An outside observer would think he was being protective, was asking if I was hurt, or offended, or any other manner of state that would send a knight in shining armor rushing to my aid. But I know what he is asking. He is asking if I am under control. If that show of violence was a spark that will lead to a full-blown forest fire. I feel a buzz of warmth that he understands. That he appreciates what is possible.

  I look at Simon, whose expression sits somewhere between incredulity and admiration, most likely in relation to my looks over my barely there ass-kicking abilities. “Nine o’clock?”

  He nods, looking down. “Yeah. Sorry about the… Yeah. Nine. I’ll be here.” He stumbles sideways, avoiding the glowering stare of Jeremy, and hurries down the hall, the jingle of keys announcing his arrival at his apartment door.

  Jeremy swears under his breath and reaches for my hand, grabs the key ring I loosely hold, and jams the aluminum piece into the lock, twisting and pushing until the knob gives way. Then he pushes open the door and steps inside.

  “What happened to good night?” I ask, my feet still in the hall, my arms crossed as I watch him wait, his hand impatiently holding the door open for me.

  “Get in, please. Before that piece of shit comes back.”

  I grin at his tone, which is more of a growl than enunciated speech, enjoying the pained look on his face and move past him, tossing my bag to the side, enjoying the look of it falling to the floor. I am normal. I go out and come home and toss my purse casually on the floor.

  “And stop looking so happy,” he continues. “That punk is dangerous.”

  “Happy is not a bad thing. And Simon is harmless. He’s not going to bite the hand that feeds him.”

  “He didn’t know what you looked like before.”

  I shrug, sitting on my bed, and unstrap my heels, my feet aching. I watch him, facing the door as if he expects it to open, a frown on his face. “Your protectiveness is cute, but I’ll be fine.” More than fine. In fact, I am fingers-crossed hoping Simon will walk back down the hall and knock on my door before he locks me in, will try to talk his way inside. I am suddenly anxious for Jeremy to leave, hoping he will scamper on so that I can unlock my safe, pull out my knives, and have time to sharpen them just in case. I close my eyes, tighten my fists, and try to block out the thoughts. Try to think of something other than how easy it would be to kill my keeper. How easy it would be to throw out the possibilities and take action into my own hands. Walk to Simon’s door instead of hoping he’ll open mine. Put my heels back on and saunter down that hall, my stiletto knife hidden in my purse. He’d open the door. Open the door, welcome me in, and then see what the true meaning of “freak show” was. The freak show would be my redecoration of his apartment with his blood. His skin growing cold under my hands as blood drained from his body. My eyes flip open when I feel a hand on my shoulder, the touch startling me.

  “Are you okay?” Jeremy’s eyes flit from my face to my hands, my fists clenched so tightly that the skin is white.

  I nod, releasing my fists, flexing my hands, and shaking them loose. I try to focus on his face, to listen to the words that he is saying, but I can’t hear anything, the roar in my head increasing as I think of Simon, of the interest in his eyes—my opening—the possibilities that Jeremy’s presence is inhibiting. The roar subsides a bit when I meet his eyes, distracted by the flicker of desire in their depths. Desire. Very different from my own, but present just the same. I clench my fist, draw in a shuddering breath, and spit out the words before my want to kill buries the possibility. “Kiss me. Now.”

  CHAPTER 5

  THERE IS NOT a moment of hesitation in his response. I think he moves before I even finish the order, his hand sweeping up to move my hair aside, to cup my face, his lips on mine, my body falling back against the bed. He is above me, the weight of his body warm on mine, and it is different. Completely different from our previous nights of cuddles and comfort. This is raw, needy heat, thoughts of Simon obliterated by the assault of sensations that are suddenly barraging my brain. I close my eyes and let him in. Let his mouth kiss my lips and his body settle atop mine, my legs instinctively spreading, wrapping around his waist, pulling him tighter into my body.

  My virginity suddenly sits up and takes notice.

  It is funny how a mind works. Three minutes takes me from killing to lusting to debating. Why am I still a virgin? There is no morality front that is keeping my legs bound. It has really been more of a question of opportunity. I made it to age nineteen by blind luck, then imprisoned myself for three years. Jeremy is the first person I’ve kissed since then.

  Is tonight the night? The night that I say good-bye to my v-card? Some would say I lost it a long time ago. Lost it the first time I pushed a plastic dick through the thin hymen, the small bit of blood causing the irritated client to accuse me of being on my period. Little did he know that he was my first. That he witnessed a pivotal moment in that six-minute Internet chat. A chat I’m pretty sure he requested a refund for.

  I push against Jeremy’s chest, breaking our kiss, his ragged breath matching my own, a question in his eyes when he looked down at me.

  “No sex.”

  “Okay.” He shrugs. “I didn’t bring protection.” He lowers his mouth to me as if my statement is no big deal, as if he isn’t straining against his zipper, the ridge of him obvious as he grinds against my body, my thin panties letting me feel every inch of his want. I run my hands down his body, tugging up on his polo, dragging the material up and over his head, his mouth reluctantly letting go of me long enough to dip out of the shirt.

  I love the feeling of his skin underneath my hands. The hot surface flexing and breathing beneath my palms, my fingers skipping over and pressing into abs, clear and defined
, then sliding up and over the muscles of his chest. I slide my hands lower, till I hit and slip under the leather of his belt, the rough material of his jeans, a slight intake of breath pausing our kiss, his mouth lifting off of me long enough for the word stop to slip out.

  “I don’t speak crazy,” I whisper, my hands quick on the leather, the brass of his button, the clasp suddenly free, my hands encountering soft cotton behind his zipper. I pull the top hem down slightly and am rewarded by a brief glimpse of a skin-stretched-tight, glistening head.

  Cock.

  A real live cock. Twitching, responding, panting for me. The last one I saw was during the first few weeks of community college, when a Friday night kegger led to a heavy make-out session on an upstairs black leather couch, my new acquaintance’s short stub pumping a load into my hand just moments after I pulled it from his pants. He laughed with embarrassment, belched, and stood up to refill our beers. I never saw him again. Jeremy’s cock is entirely different. It is different than KegBoy’s, it is different than the fifteen dildos just twenty feet away. It is there, I can see it, and I want nothing more than to tug down his pants until it pops free.

  “You touch that, I won’t be able to stop,” he mutters.

  He wants me. I hear the yearn in his voice, can feel the fever in his touch, the jump of his skin when my hand moves lower. The knowledge empowers me, feeds my confidence, and I am shocked when he pulls away, moves down the bed, sliding my dress up and his hand down, its touch hesitant on the lace of my panties. He looks up at me and I nod, unsure of what I am even agreeing to, just knowing that I need more. Anything that he wishes to give me.

  His hands dip under the edges of my boyshorts, tug at the material, and I lift my hips to help him, the silk sliding down my legs quickly, his fingers trailing along my skin as he takes them down and off my body. “No sex.” He says the words as if reminding himself of the fact.

  I prop my body up at his words, resting on my elbows, my eyes watching greedily as he kneels beside my bed, spreads my legs, and runs his hands down the inside of my thighs. “Is this allowed?”

  I don’t know what he has planned, what he is asking permission for. I only know that the throb between my legs is screaming for attention, and the look in his eyes is hot as hell. It is a raging fire, as needy as my own, both of us desperate for something more than we currently have, his right hand sliding further on my thigh until he is close enough to move his thumb slightly and it brushes across my sex.

  I inhale, someone else’s touch so different from my own. My fingers spend hours on that area, other objects bumping across that skin hundreds of times a day. I should be immune to touch, should barely feel the calloused ridge of his finger, should play the “cool” card and shoot him a “what else do you have?” look.

  But I don’t. Just the slight brush of his thumb brings me to life, pouring sensation through every nerve in my body. He moves the digit again, returning it to my thigh, and I involuntarily buck from the touch, my body instinctively moving closer to his hand, wanting more of what I just so briefly experienced.

  “Is this allowed?” he repeats, his eyes on mine, my mouth practically panting as I stare at him, bare-chested between my legs.

  “Yes,” I gasp, clenching my inner muscles in an attempt to satisfy the need that is growing there.

  He grins, hunger in his eyes, and lowers his mouth to my needy skin. The first touch of his tongue causes my mouth to drop open. My eyes involuntarily close and my head falls back, temporarily blotting out the delicious image of his mouth on me.

  I’ve never had a tongue on my clit. Never had the hot, wet sensation, vibrating suction, the delicate play of a talented tongue against pleasure-packed bundles of nerves. It is shocking, how incredible it feels. My nervousness fades, my body relaxing as my legs drop open, giving him full access to whatever he wants. My elbows relax and my upper body collapses upon the bed. Somehow, my hands find their way to his head and I twist my fingers through his short hair. My orgasm is building, growing at a rate faster than I have ever been able to bring it. I worry, for a brief moment, that it will come too quickly, that I won’t have time to enjoy this incredible sensation he is creating.

  Then, I stop worrying. I stop thinking. I lose myself in the beautiful experience he is bringing to my body. I don’t think about how close my fingers are to his neck, or the vulnerable proximity of his eyes to my fingernails. I am too engrossed in the arrival of ecstasy. And when it comes, it is the most perfect form of insanity I have ever experienced.

  CHAPTER 6

  I COME BACK down to earth, my legs shuddering around Jeremy’s head, the orgasm better than anything I have ever brought myself. I have the sudden realization that I have pushed through a door—the door of awareness. I will never enjoy my orgasms the same, will always compare them to this moment. I close my eyes and wonder what sex will feel like. How his cock will differ from my toys. How the unknown, undirected motion will stack up against my stimulated thrusts. I relax my legs, letting them drop from his shoulders, and feel his hands on my skin as he stands, open my eyes to find him smiling, a crooked, sexy gesture that I can’t help but return. “You look pleased with yourself,” I mumble.

  I don’t know dating protocol. Is now when I suck his cock? My limbs are too relaxed, my brain too lazy to do anything other than lie here. He falls onto the bed next to me, the mattress jumping at the additional weight, and both of us stare up at the ceiling. He reaches his arm around me, and I lift my head and allow his arm to steal underneath, relaxing back against the strength of his shoulder.

  “Is this okay?” he asks.

  I smile. “Yeah. This is cool.” I enjoy the moment, the warmth of him next to me, and curl slightly to the side until I am nestled in the crook of his body. “Are you okay?” I blush, trying to find the right word, my personal dictionary too stocked with crude terms to be ladylike. “Do you want to get off or are you—”

  “I’m fine.” He presses a soft kiss onto my head. “I didn’t intend to barrel in here and take advantage of you. In fact… I had big plans to be a gentleman.”

  “Is that what that peck in the hallway was all about?”

  “Peck?” His scoff makes me smile. “From your reaction, I think it worked pretty well.”

  “Easy, Casanova.” I poke his side, admiring when my finger hits hard muscle. “Just making sure you don’t get a big head.”

  “I understand. Your biting comments are your way of secretly stroking a man’s ego.”

  “Stroking is one of my talents,” I tease, the comment earning me a groan, his body rolling into mine, his hand gripping my back and sliding me closer, until I am flush against him. Then, he reclaims my mouth with one, long, heart-stopping kiss.

  Ten minutes later, the witching hour near, we say our good-byes. An hour later, there is the slide of dead bolt through metal, and Simon locks me in for the next eight hours.

  CHAPTER 7

  House Arrest Countdown: 2 Months, 3 Weeks

  A WEEK AGO, Marcus had walked through palatial doors to an empty house, the stale smell not overcome by the traffic of maids and repairmen. It felt like someone else’s home, the sweeping banisters, the chandelier that towered thirty feet above him, all staring at him as if unsure of who this man—his clothes cheap, face unshaven—was. He had moved through the entire house, visiting rooms he hadn’t seen in years, nodding to unfamiliar staff as he tried to reacquaint himself with his former lifestyle.

  Now, he still feels awkward, as if he is living another man’s life, an imposter in a world he once dominated. It’s the minor things that point it out. The smell of refinement—something his nose is relearning, each scent bringing back memories and a piece of the man he used to be. A cigar, freshly cut, its smoky scent and the change in it once lit. The citrus scent of polish. The whiff of it from his housekeeper’s rag as she wipes a banister. The scent that hangs off Persian rugs, custom drapes, and fine leather. Merlot, the draw of it against his nostril sweeter given the fact tha
t the bottle bears his winery’s name.

  The smells comfort him. Move him closer to the acceptance that he is home. And the other, more vulnerable smells of emotion, are slowly but surely giving him back the confidence, the swagger, that prison has robbed him of.

  Fear. It floats off the elderly woman who cleans his house, as she avoids eye contact and scurries out of the room when he enters. Subservience. The smell of weakness, shown in limp handshakes, quickly nodding heads, flurries of activity in response to his words. Respect. The best smell of them all, the one that will be confirmation that the axis has righted, that life is back in order, that he is once again king and un-fucking-stoppable.

  He frowns at his ankle, at his constant reminder that he is, in fact, stoppable. It blinks. All the fucking time. He’d had to stuff his feet under the covers last night just so that damn light wouldn’t keep him awake. Had to feel the restrictive weight of sheets and blankets pressing on his toes. Kicking did nothing, the weight settling back down as soon as his movement stopped. Fucking bracelet. Pinching the hair on his ankle. Makes him want to shave his leg like a fag.

  At 6:04 a.m. he sat at his desk. Pen in hand. Papers spread before him like a mountain of cash. Coffee almost gone, the white mug almost lost in the sea of paper. Each sip reminding him of the dwindling supply. Where was the girl? The one who should have refilled it by now. The black one they hired, probably because he isn’t attracted to dark women, likes his sluts pale and quaking. Black women have too much attitude. Talk back. Roll their eyes. All behavior which deserves a strong slap across the face. He takes a final sip, draining the cup, his anger mounting when his office door opens and she steps inside, a coffee pitcher carried on a tray in her hands. Finally.

  He ignores her. Focuses on the property rent roll before him, reading the same numbers over and over, the words blurring as she moves close, refills his cup silently. She smells like cake. She moves away. The door clicks shut as his eyes move to the next line. He finishes the column, makes a note in the margin, and reaches for the phone.