Kristen Ashley - Mystery Man

I felt the covers slide down my body then a hand light on the small of my back. It was so warm it was hot, like the blood that ran through its veins went faster than the blood of any average man.

If this was true, it wouldn’t surprise me.

I opened my eyes and it was dark. It was always dark when he visited me.

I had a moment like every moment I had when he showed. A moment of sanity. A moment where my mind said to close my eyes and open my mouth and tell him to go away.

But if I did, I knew he would. He wouldn’t say a word. As silently as he came, he’d leave.

And he’d never come back.

But this was the right thing to do. The smart thing to do. The sane thing to do.

And I was thinking of doing it, honest to God, I was. I thought about doing it every time.

Then I felt his weight hit the bed, his body stretching out beside mine, he turned me into him, I opened my mouth to speak and before I could do the sane thing, his mouth was on mine.

And for the next two hours, I didn’t think at all.

But I felt. I felt a lot.

And all of it was good.

It was still dark when his shadow moved in the room.

I lay in bed and watched him move. He didn’t make a noise. It was weird. There was a rustle of clothes but other than that, silence.

Even as a shadow, I saw he had masculine grace. Powerful masculine grace. That was weird too. Just my mystery man putting on clothes was like watching a badass, macho dance if there was such a thing. Of course, there wasn’t except in my bedroom when he came to visit. No, when he was getting ready to leave.

It was so fascinating I should sell tickets. But if I did, I’d have to share. I probably already shared with half of Denver, all of them getting their own private show. That already messed with my head enough, that and the fact that he came at all, I let him come, then he made me come after which he came. Then, often, like tonight, repeat.

I wasn’t real hot on sharing any more than I already likely did.

He moved to the bed and I watched that too. He bent low, I felt the heat of his hand on my knee, his fingers curling around the back and he lightly kissed my hip, his lips skimming across my skin, making it tingle. Then he slid the covers up my body to my waist where he dropped them.

I was mostly on my belly, partly on my side, my arm crooked, hand tucked under my face on the pillow. His body moved in that direction, his fingers slid under my hair, pulling it gently back and his lips came to my ear.

“Later, babe,” he whispered.

“Later,” I whispered back.

His head moved infinitesimally and his lips skimmed the skin at the back of my ear then his tongue touched there. That made my skin tingle too, so much my whole body shivered.

He pulled the covers up to my shoulder.

Then he turned and he was gone.

No noise, not even the door opening and closing. He was just gone. Like he’d never even been there.

Freaking crazy.

I stared at my bedroom door awhile. My body felt warm, sated and tired. My mind did not feel the same.

I turned to my back, tucked the covers around my naked body and I stared at the ceiling.

I didn’t even know his name.

“God,” I whispered, “I am such a slut.”

The next morning I was sitting at my computer in my home office.

I should have been working. I had three deadlines the next two weeks and I’d barely begun on the work. I was a freelance editor. I got paid by the hour and if I didn’t work that hour, I didn’t get paid. I had a mouth to feed, my own. I had a body to clothe, a body that liked all sorts of clothes, it craved them so I had to feed the habit or things could get nasty. I had a cosmopolitan addiction and cosmos didn’t come cheap. And I had a house I was fixing up. Therefore, I needed to get paid.

Okay, that wasn’t strictly true. I wasn’t fixing up my house. My Dad did some of the work. My friend Troy did other work. So, I should say that I had a house I was guilting, begging and emotionally blackmailing others into fixing up.

But still, it needed fixing up and cabinets and tile didn’t march from Cabinet and Tile Land into my house and say, “We want to live with you, Gwendolyn Kidd, fix us to your walls!”

That only happened in my dreams, of which I had many, most of them daydreams.

Like right then, sitting at my computer, one heel to the seat, my chin to my knee, my eyes staring out the window, I was thinking about my Mystery Man, the Great MM. I was daydreaming about changing our first meeting. Being smarter, funnier, more mysterious, alluring, interesting, hooking him instantly with my rapier wit, my flair for conversation, my ability to discuss politics and world events intelligently, my humble stories of expansive charity work all wrapped up with enticing looks that promised a lifetime of mind-blowing orgasms, making him declare his undying love for me.

Or at least tell me his name.

Instead, I was drunk and definitely not any of that.

I heard my doorbell go, a chime then a clunk and I started out of my elaborate daydream which was beginning to get good.

Then I got up and walked through my office into the upstairs hall making a mental note, again, to call Troy and see if he’d fix my doorbell for a six pack and a homemade pizza. This might mean he’d bring his annoying, whiny, constantly bitching new girlfriend though, so I changed my mind and decided to call my Dad.

I got to the bottom of my stairs and walked through my wide living room, ignoring the state of it, which was decorated in Fix Up Chic, in other words dust rags, paint brushes, power tools, not-so-power-tools, cans and tubes of practically everything, all of it jumbled and covered in a layer of dust. I made it through the area without my hands going to my head, fingers clenching my hair and mouth screaming, which I counted as progress.

I got to the entryway which was delineated by two narrow walls both fit with gorgeous stained glass.

Two years ago, that stained glass was my undoing.

Two years ago, approximately six months and two weeks prior to meeting my Mystery Man, I’d walked one single step into this ramble and wreck of a house, saw that stained glass, turned to the realtor and announced, “I’ll take it.”

The realtor’s face had lit up.

My father, who hadn’t even made it into the house yet, turned his eyes to the heavens. His prayer lasted a long time. His lecture longer.

I still bought the house.

As usual, I should have listened to my Dad.

I looked out the narrow side window at the door and saw Darla, my sister’s friend, standing out there.

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

I hated Darla and Darla hated me. What the hell was she doing there?

I searched behind her to see if my sister was lurking or perhaps hiding in the shrubbery. I wouldn’t put it passed Ginger and Darla to jump me, tie me to the staircase and loot my house. In my darker daydreams, this was how Ginger and Darla spent their days. I was convinced this was not far from the truth. No joke.

Her eyes came to me at the window, her face scrunched up, making what could be pretty, if she used a less heavy hand with the black eyeliner, and the blush, and her lip liner wasn’t an entirely different shade as her lip gloss, not so pretty.

“I see you!” she shouted and I sighed.

Then I went to the door because Darla would shout the house down and I liked my neighbors, they didn’t need a ten thirty in the morning, biker bitch from hell standing on my doorstep and shouting the house down.

I opened it but not far and moved to stand between it and the jamb, keeping my hand on the handle.

“Hey Darla,” I greeted, trying to sound friendly and pretty pleased with my effort.

“Fuck ‘hey’, is Ginger here?” Darla replied.

See!

Totally spent her days looting.

It took effort but I stopped my eyes from rolling.

“No,” I answered.

“She’s here, you better tell me,” she warned then she looked beyond me and shouted, “Ginger! Bitch, if you’re in there you better come out here, right fuckin’ now!”

“Darla!” I snapped, “Keep your voice down!”

She craned her neck and bounced on her toes, yelling, “Ginger! Ginger, you crazy, stupid, bitch! Get your ass out here!”

I shoved out the door, forcing her back and closed it behind me, hissing, “Seriously, Darla, shut up! Ginger isn’t here. Ginger is never here. You know that. So shut up and go.”

“You shut up,” she shot back. “And you get smart. You’re helpin’ her…” She lifted her hand, pointed her finger at me, thumb extended upwards and then she crooked her thumb and made a gunshot noise that puffed out her cheeks and made her lips vibrate. I would have taken a moment to reflect on how good she was with verbal sound effects if the serious as shit look in her eye wasn’t scaring the crap out of me.

So, instead of congratulating her on the only real talent I suspected she had, I whispered, “What?”

She dropped her hand, got up on her motorcycle-booted toes so we were eye-to-eye and said in a soft, scary voice, “D-e-a-d, dead. You and her, you don’t get smart. You get me?”