Page 9 of Rooke
“And then,” he says, leaning forward, sticking a pointed finger in my face. “He tells me that I have to take my own damn car for an oil change today.On my goddamn birthday. Can you believe it? Can you seriously, honestly believe the gall of the man?”
“I seriously, honestly can’t.”
“Thank you. Thaaank.You. Mmm. I thought I was going to have a heart attack on the way over here this morning. Oil change my ass. Whew. Would you like a top up on your coffee, sweetheart?” On the days that I’m surly and grumpy, Duke calls me Eeyore; he says I’m just like the sad donkey in the Winnie the Pooh books. On days I buy him tickets to The Book of Mormon and I console him on the pains of having such a thoughtless partner, I get called sweetheart.
“That would be great,” I tell him, holding out my coffee cup. “Thanks.”
Duke lets his arms fall limp by his sides, my mug swinging in his hand. His head falls back as his eyes turn toward the ceiling. “Lord have mercy. I can’t evenrememberthe last time Simon said thank you to me.”
I feel like suggesting that it might have been twenty-five years ago, but Duke storms out of the room in a flurry of arms and scarf before I get the chance.
******
She could taste herself all over him. It was an unmistakable flavor that made her head spin. Why was that so exciting? Why did tasting her pussy all over his mouth make her heart beat so fast? It made no sense. Guys had gone down on her before plenty of times. She’d lain on her back constructing to-do lists and thought about the groceries she needed to pick up the next day, and when the guys were done she’d told them thank you very much and then thanked god even more the experience was over. It had never been fun. But with James, everything tilted on its axis when his head was between her legs. The things he could do with his tongue were criminal. She trembled just thinking about the unfathomable depth of her orgasm a moment ago. She’d had no idea it was even possible for her body to react that way, shaking and convulsing, her hands clawing at the skin of his back. It had left her more than breathless, and now, kissing him, tasting her pleasure on his lips, she could already tell that—
It’s really hard to turn the page of a book when you’re jerking off. I didn’t know that until today, when I finally hit the juicy part of Sasha’s book. Jake’s still at work, and since I’ve been home I’ve done nothing but flick through the pages ofThe Seven Secret Lives of James P. Albrechtand stroke my dick. It’s absolutely fucking crazy. I’ve watched my fair share of porn, let me tell you, but I had absolutely no clue reading about sex could be a turn on. It made me feel kinda stupid at first, reading scenes that contained words likewet, andpussy, andthrobbing cock, but after a very short while I realized I was getting a hard-on. Next thing I knew, my pants were unbuttoned and I was having to stop myself from coming.
I can’t help but ask myself the question: is this what Sasha does when she reads books like this? Does she pour herself a glass of wine and sit on her couch, growing hotter and hotter under the collar as the characters get closer and closer to one another? Does she pretend the guy, James, is kissinghermouth withherpussy all over his lips? Does that make her wet? Does that make her touch herself, slowly sliding her hand beneath her panties so she can tease her clit as she reads? Fuck. The image is too hot for words. Call me ignorant, but I had no idea this sort of thing existed. I know chicks get horny. I know they get turned on enough that they’ll lynch you for sex sometimes, especially if they’ve got a few drinks in them, but that’s different. This is a grown woman, a sexual woman, seeking out her own pleasure. And fuck me if the idea of it isn’t driving me insane.
An hour later, I’m still teasing the fuck out of myself when I receive a text:
Corner of 2ndand 5th. Black Mercedes. DROP OFF AFTER MIDNIGHT.
It’s 11:15 now. Well, shit. That’s that, then. Looks like my fun is over. I toss the book underneath my pillow and grab my go-bag from underneath my bed. I’ll be back to finish what I started here later. Outside, huge puddles of water flood the sidewalk, reflecting the sodium orange burn of the streetlights. The location that was texted through to my phone isn’t far away, but I usually like to stake out a boost before I commit. Smart to wait, smart to watch. You never know if someone’s going to show up all of a sudden and ask why the fuck you’re jimmying open the driver’s side door of their car. It starts to rain again while I’m walking. When I reach the corner of 2nd, I stand in the shadows of a doorway, pop the collar of my leather jacket, and I light up a cigarette.
People see me leaning in the doorway, but they pretend they don’t. Conversations stop as nervous eyes take me in. The jacket. The tattoos.Especiallythe tattoos. Hipsters all over the city have full sleeves these days, but full throat tattoos? Hands, covered in ink? That takes a certain level of dedication most pretty boys shy away from. Passersby notice me, and they recognize danger. I’m not a safe person to acknowledge. Even a gang banger quits shouting into his cell phone and speeds up a little when he sees me.
I hover, and I take my time. It’s almost twelve by the time I decide it’s safe to make my move. The Mercedes is right where the text said it would be. It’s a new model, bound to be alarmed, so I don’t go for the obvious. I hold off on sliding the length of flat steel down the gap between window and door and instead I use a long-bladed knife to force open the hood. Takes less than a second to cut the necessary electrics and slam the hood closed again.Nowtime to pop the door.
To say I have experience at this would be the understatement of the fucking century. There are fools out there that take a full thirty seconds to get a car open. Me, on the other hand? Two seconds. Three maybe, if I’m off my game. An onlooker seeing me approach the driver’s side of a car would see the vehicle’s owner letting himself in and driving away. I’mthatfucking good.
I make short work of the Merc’s interior electrics. The engine purrs as I start it up. I drive away calmly, responsibly, the way a normal person would drive. Thirty minutes later, I pull up outside my destination feeling pretty fucking smug. I passed three cop cars on the way over and not a single one of those bastards paid me any attention.
A tall, shadowy figure emerges from the garage I’m parked outside, hood pulled up against the rain and prying eyes. A tap on the window.
“Jericho ain’t here, man,” the guy by the window tells me. Tall. Skinny. High as fuck, by the looks of things. He twitches nervously. “He told me to drive the car ‘round back when you got here. Said he would pay you tomorrow if you come by at four.”
I narrow my eyes, staring at the guy. He twitches some more, then scrubs at his nose with his palm, shivering. “Okay, man. Sure.” I get out of the car, and I brace myself. I know exactly what’s coming next.
Sometimes, I’m not the only person to get a text like the one I received earlier. Sometimes, the message is sent out to two or three people, depending on the job. If someone shows up at a boost after someone else has already arrived, it’s expected that you’ll move on and find another job. Common courtesy among thieves, if you will.
This guy doesn’t look familiar, I didn’t see him over on the corner of 2ndand 5thjust now, but I’m willing to put money on the fact that he was there. He saw me and bailed, only he didn’t want to walk away from the paycheck. He figured he’d come here and wait for me, then snake the job right out from underneath me. It’s not the first time it’s happened. Won’t be the fucking last either, I’m sure.
He’s desperate.
I make a point of turning my back on him as I close the door of the Mercedes—I’m not scared of you, motherfucker.
When I turn back around, he does not look happy. “Hey, man, what are you doing? I told you I got to move it ‘round back.”
“I’m not giving you the car, you stupid piece of shit. I’m going to give you three seconds to get the fuck out of here, and if you’re still standing there when I’m done counting then I’m gonna beat you so hard your face is going to cave in.”
The guy in the hoody sneers. His teeth are a mess. His eyes are bloodshot. He needs a fix, and he needs it bad. The last thing he’s going to do is walk away from me. He reaches into his pocket and slowly draws out a long flick knife, the silver of the wickedly sharp blade glinting in the darkness. “Pushy rich boy. You think I don’t know who you are? This ismyjob. I already told Jericho I’m bringing it in.”
I eye the knife. It’s a savage thing. Looks like its brand new, never been used, though. Either that or this tweeker takes exceptionally good care of his steelwork. “How are you gonna use that thing on me?” I ask.
He frowns. “What?”
“How? How exactly are you going to use that blade on me? Are you going to try and stab me in the ribs? Neck? Stomach? How’s this next part going to go down? I’m interested.”
