Tangled Sheets

I could not, would not believe this was happening again. The
plume of hissing vapor spewing from the front end of my claptrap Ford
was in contest for attention by the odd crunchclangbang of the still
idling motor as I hit the emergency lights and pulled off the shoulder
of the highway and onto the long since dead grassy patch of Earth
speckled with patches of litter. With a disgusted sigh I reached for
the cell phone and punched the buttons I had memorized in the last few
months. Is it a good sign when the local tow truck guys know you by the
sound of your voice? It took a few seconds to realize the ringing I had
expected to greet my ear, was replaced by nothingness. Looking at the
blank face of the contraption I understood the battery was dead. Damn.
I was not dressed for a stroll down the highway especially now, as dusk
was giving way to the darkness and the cool, crisp fall air was kicking
it up several notches and was now dipping to the high thirties. I'd
worked in the office all day and still wore the hounds tooth suite,
silk stockings, and four inch spiked heels. The only jacket I had with
me was the matching hounds tooth blazer. If I sat long enough would
someone graciously stop? In today's world, unlikely; if they did,
would I want the offered help?
Gritting my teeth against the onslaught of frigged air, I
grabbed my wallet, keys and stuffed them in my pocket then shoved the
Italian leather knock off clutch under the passenger side seat. Opened
my door, hit the auto lock and without a backward glance at Old
Unfaithful, struck out at a brisk clip trying to stay as far to the
side as possible without sinking my heels in the water logged ground.
Transfer trucks and motorists whipped past me and the backlash of wind
hit me hard and grimy in the face.
As I walked, I let the words to an old song Midnight Rider
take my mind of the biting cold and blisters rubbing on my feet. Two
miles into the impromptu hike, I came to an off ramp and followed it
down to a fuel station. Inside, the air was warm and I asked if there
was a phone I could use. The lady handed me a cordless and I called the
tow service and a taxi. After thanking the gothic looking kid behind
the counter, I poured a cup of thick, hot coffee from the self serve
area and diluted it with several Irish Creams, wishing I had something
stronger. Gave the kid the coins and stood near the large window and
watched for the cab. My feet were stinging and I shifted from foot to
foot for almost an hour. Where was the wretched taxi? Another ten
minutes passed and I asked to use the phone again. The kid handed me
the same phone and I asked where the taxi was. I was told they had been
unable to find my location. Again I gave directions and again I took up
vigil at the windows. People came and went bringing a brisk flow of
business and I noticed the kid did a pretty good job, being polite and
helpful, even telling them to come back. Down to the grounds in the
bottom of the coffee, I tossed the cup and shifted again to the other
foot.
The kid looked at his watch then let me know it was time to
close. He went about this routine and I'm sure wondered how best to
get rid of me. With keys in hand and leather jacket zipped, he asked me
where I was headed. I told him to the new apartment complex near the
Air Force Base, but then obviously the taxi hadn't showed up. He
seemed to do some heavy thinking. One could almost see the little mouse
running around in his mind. He seemed hesitant, but offered me a ride.
He didn't mind going the back way home. Walk or let the stereotypical
Goth Kid give me a lift. My left foot stung reminding me I was in no
condition to continue walking. Reluctantly I agreed.
I waited for the kid to lock up and followed him around the
back of the store. I wasn't sure what I expected, but it was not the
racer yellow Harley parked in a somewhat protective alcove. He grabbed
the helmet and extended it out to me and saw me hesitate. He assured me
he knew how to drive, and that he really needed to get going because he
had a dinner "thing" to get to. Taking the helmet, I put it on and
he made sure it was fastened properly. The ride, once I got over the
fear somewhat and realized he really did handle the machine well was
actually somewhat thrilling! We pulled into my end of the complex and
he helped me off the bike. I thanked him, handed him some bills and
before I even got the key into my door, he was zooming out of sight.

The next morning was Saturday and as is typical of me I was
procrastinating in my comfy warm bed, reading the paper and nibbling on
the remains of breakfast while Snicker Doodle sprawled kingly across my
legs. A pounding at the door startled both of us. The clock read eight
am. I pushed my tender and some what abused feet into the standard
Dollar Store slippers and pulled on a fleece robe as I hurried to the
door. I glanced through the peep hole and was surprised to find two
uniformed police officers at my door. They made brief, almost curt
introductions, and asked if I had ever seen the person in the photo
they pushed at me. I stared down at the Gothic Kid who, in the picture
looked well dressed and not at all like the kid I'd ridden with, but
the face and striking blue eyes were the same. I nodded and explained
what had happened. Then asked what the questions were for.
A knot of fear clenched a fist in my stomach when they told
me he'd been found murdered about 3 miles up the road where he
apparently stopped at a red light and was shot. Another motorist had
noticed the toppled over bike and body in the early hours of the
morning. On him, they'd found my business card. I explained it must
have been in with the cash I'd given him for bringing me home. I told
them what time I'd gotten in and no, I didn't have anyone to back
me up on the time I got in. By the time they left, I felt like I was a
possible suspect and guilt added to the sinking feeling in the pit of
my stomach. He'd said the back way home, I didn't really make the
connection that he'd be traveling a less traveled road that time of
night.
I dressed for the day in a casual pair of jeans and a soft,
cashmere turtle neck then fished my soft as butter moccasin style
loafers. Snicker Doodle followed me outside and I walked to the mailbox
area of the complex and checked the mail, then went into the stark,
unadorned office where Mrs. Abby sat in her uncomfortable looking metal
folding chair. A blue halo of smoke wreathing her graying head. She
grunted a greeting as I entered. She'd long since tired of keeping
Snicker Doodle from the off limits to feline tenant area. I paid the
rent, chatted briefly and returned to the apartment minus my shadow,
who apparently found other worth while things to occupy his attention.
The mail I pitched onto my desk and I called the shop to inquire about
the damage to my savings this visit was going to cost. I was still on
the phone when another loud pounding almost shook the not so stable in
the first place door. I was saying good bye to Robert the owner of the
shop when suddenly my door flew open and a large, angry man let himself
into my apartment, his size automatically dwarfing the room. Fear
logged in my throat as I sat rooted in place completely stunned.

The man glared at me not speaking. He wore kaki slacks,
Ralph Lauren starched blue shirt. No tie and an open, leather trench
coat. He was every bit of 6 foot something, and had jet black hair
trimmed military style. His face, hard and furious. His hands were
clenched in fists at his side. Though they hung loosely, I could well
imagine they would be whip like fast and strike with deadly accuracy. I
tried swallowing the lump in my throat as I stared dumbly at this
intruder.
He came about half way into the room and stopped. Hate and
rage blazed in his steel grey eyes. He demanded to know what I was
doing with his son and wanted to know what I had given him. My voice,
cracked some what and came out below a whisper mumbled just some cash
for bringing me home. The man said I was ling. He knew the truth and I
was not going to get away with this. He stalked closer and read the
fear in my face. It seemed to satisfy him. He told me to get up and
come with him. Intentionally, he shifted and the glint of a .45 backed
up his command. He grabbed my arm and escorted me down my steps to a
haphazardly parked Mercedes. Opening the door he half pushed me into
the seat and slammed the door.
He gunned the motor and raced from the complex. I prayed a
cop would catch this and make a traffic stop. Doubtful, they never
seemed to be around when you needed them. I tried talking, but it came
out more as rambling. About how my car broke down and how his son
mentioned his dinner engagement and how he was kind enough to give me a
ride home. That was all. The man did not so much as grunt or hear me.
We were entering a side of town I was unfamiliar with. Expensive homes
with professionally manicured lawns stood like silent clones. Each
looking identical with the exception of a few cosmetic differences.
Silently he pulled into the serpentine drive and followed the curves to
a circular drive. He pulled to an abrupt stop and put the car in park.
He told me to come with him, he had some further questions
and to behave myself or else. He left the "or else" dangling as an
open threat. I silently followed him into his expensive lair taking in
the marble foyer, the Van Gough oil panting in the hall and the
polished stone floor that interrupted the marble once we made it past
the entrance and spilled into a large, open great room. A massive
natural stone fireplace commanded the
focal point and was graced by being surrounded by fashionable, designer
furniture. The room was done in muted natural tones of tan, cream, and
beige and off set by splashes of burgundy. I didn't have time to
admire the room or react to the cold, impersonal feel of the room. No
signs of life. No pictures, books, throws, clutter. Not even a house
plant. At this point I was still frightened but that was slowly giving
way to my mounting temper and annoyance at being treated in such a
manner. I followed him as he led the way to a room near the back of the
sprawling house.
The room was just as elegantly decorated, however tall
shelves were adorned by thousands of books. Large prints of framed old
world maps graced the walls. The focal point in this room was the huge,
heavy, ornately carved wood desk with the glass top. Twin leather
chairs padded and upholstered sat facing the desk. To the left, along
the wall was a matching leather sofa flanked by two side tables. The
far table holding a tall table lamp and the other, a table top water
fountain and a small, not so healthy looking Ivy plant. I was told to
sit but was left to choose where. I picked one of the side chairs and
eased down gently glad to be off my feet once again.
He positioned himself in front of me and leaned against his
desk with his arms crossed over his chest as he slowly let his eyes
travel the length of me. I know I flushed at being the subject of such
intense examination. At five foot four, I was well past the
"normal" weight and was classified as a BBW according to current
politically correct wording. He reached into his breast pocket and
withdrew a card and handed it to me. It was my business card. Smudged
from all the handling, but it must have been the one I had handed to
the boy when I handed the cash to him. I stated it was my business
card, and what was the deal?
The deal he informed me was that it was the last thing his son had been
given before his death. I was drilled coldly about the type of business
"SilkNFeathers" was and became increasingly irritated at the
disbelief I was being met with. Yes, it was simply lingerie boutique
near Judson Avenue. No, I did not practice escorting services on the
side, and no, I did not use my store as a front for drug trafficking! I
kept my answers to his hounding questions brief, pointed and did not
offer additional information. I made a point of looking at my watch
then standing.
I told him, unless I was under arrest, using the most
frosted tone I could muster, I had an appointment, and would be leaving
now. I turned to walk towards the door, and didn't get more than a
few strides when iron vise grips clamped down on my arm and spun me
around. The man's face was void of emotion. I licked my lower lip,
something of a nervous habit. I decided to change tactics. I expressed
my sympathy on the loss of his son. I mentioned how he was very
friendly and professional behind the counter at work, and how it had
been kind of him to offer me a ride home. I suddenly began to jabber
nonstop. I explained about my car breaking down, I described my walk in
the cold, I talked about the thick unappealing coffee, and how the taxi
never showed up. I praised the kindness and big heartedness of his son.
As I jabbered on and on, the man stared silently. His painful grip on
my arm loosed slightly but he made no move to step back from me. Why
was I noticing how good he smelt? It was so warm in here, I wondered at
my choice of a sweater. My mouth kept moving, though I lost track
really of what I was rambling about. His eyes collided with mine; my
voice went mute as the breath left my lungs.
The kiss was hard and demanding as I had known it would be.
He let out a deep, primitive growl and I was pulled tight against him.
Heat infused my body as his tongue plundered the recesses of my mouth
much like a pirate plundering the bowels of a cargo ship. He tasted
dark. Urgent. A mix of brandy and peppermint. I knew this was wrong.
But my mind was having trouble thinking and the energy to push him away
was being drained rapidly. Even as I was thinking of pulling away I was
melting closer into him. A moan escaped into the air and I was
surprised to realize it was mine. My hands were moving on their own
accord as were his. I don't remember how I lost my sweater; I was too
consumed by the moist heat of his mouth suckling my triple D's
through the raw silk of my bra. His fingers easily undid the clasps and
the thin barrier was no more. Some how he'd guided me to the leather
sofa, and pushed me down following, never once loosing contact with the
pebbled peak he so hungrily devoured. He did not rush, but lingered
there, making me cry out from the pleasure pain his intense attention
was causing.

My jeans were but a memory, and the cool buttery smooth
leather against my exposed flesh was as sensual as the silks and satins
I sold at the store. My hands slid his pants over his hips and did the
same with the Calvin Cline briefs. Heavy and fully awoken, the one eyed
beast nestled in the palm of my hand as I enclosed my fingers around
it. It pulsated with life. I brought it to my lips and tasted of the
diamond like droplets that dripped from the eye. He pulled way from me,
not allowing my oral pursuit of his steal like beast. But then, I did
not care, for the beast found its beauty mark and all thoughts fled my
mind as cascading waves of pleasure took their place. He was not
gentle. His body demanding response. I did not fail. I responded time
and again as my flash clamped around his in vise like fashion. The
ending explosion sent us both in a spiral vortex of pure sensation as
Beast and Beauty merged and became united as one. A final soul deep
gasp and the man lay spent upon my chest. He stayed there for what
seemed minutes, but I am sure it was mere seconds before rising to look
into my face. Smiling coolly I asked if he always slept with suspected
murderers of his loved ones. Thus, the spell was broken.

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