Chapter Eight
Molly
A couple of days go by with no contact from Sal. I’m able to forget about him for the most part, and things seems refreshingly normal again. I fall back into my routine at work. Greg and I have finalized the budget. The purse strings are tighter, but we’re adjusting.
When I walk home in the evenings, I keep up the habit of walking on the other side of the street. Each time, I see the group of homeless people, and the man with the knife. Each time, they pay me no attention.
One night, I’m drinking red wine, and perusing my collection of old cookbooks. Soft, relaxing jazz music plays from the laptop that sits next to me on the couch. I’m considering Julia Child’s recipe for cheese soufflé, when the hair on the back of my neck stands up. I take a deep breath, trying to shake it off. Seconds later, there’s a knock on my door.
Him.
“Okay, okay,” I repeat to myself, as I close the laptop and place my wine and cookbook carefully on the coffee table.
I straighten my hair, then open the door. The hallway is empty, though his chilly aura hangs in the air. It takes me a moment to notice the package in front of my door. I grab it up, and close the door behind me, somewhat relieved that I won’t have to face Sal.
The box itself screams that its contents are expensive. It’s a deep red, with a satin finish. Inside, delicate paper is carefully folded over a pretty pink dress. I unwrap it, and pull the dress out of the box.
It’s lovely. The fabric is a luxurious silk, in a soft, blush pink color. It has a boat neck, a fitted waist, and a flared skirt, classic, in a vintage sort of way. I hold it against my body and study it in the mirror. It looks like it will fit perfectly.
How much does something like this cost? I wonder. More than a month’s rent?
I hang the dress in my closet, where it sparkles like a diamond next to my drab, everyday clothes. While putting away the box, I notice there’s something else inside. After unwrapping the paper further, I gasp when I see what it is.
Sal has bought me underwear, and not just any underwear. The fabric is silk, like the dress, but the bra and pantie set are a deep crimson red, fringed with delicate black lace.
Red. The color of the devil. And I’ve made a deal with him.
*
Salvatore
I’m pressed against the door, peering out of the reverse peephole, waiting for her. Molly emerges, wearing a T-shirt and sweatpants, her hair pulled back into a tight ponytail. I’ve purposely avoided her for the past two days, letting her get back to a sense of normalcy, so that the delivery of my package would have an optimal effect.
It works. Molly shivers, and glances down the hallway, looking for me. I breathe hotly against the door. Her cheeks quickly turn red. She pushes an invisible curl behind her ear, one of her tells, and the one that sets me most on edge.
My Molly, my puppet, I think, my dick growing hard. My balls swell, stretching the skin, and throbbing with need. But I refuse to touch myself, or have anyone else pleasure me, until I can get my hands on Molly. After years of chasing pleasure, and my experience with edging, I’ve learned that anticipation makes everything exponentially sweeter. Molly will be worth the wait.
She snatches the package, then slams the door closed. I pull away from the peephole, my skin tingling with the rush she just gave me. I picture her opening the package. Does it give her a shock? Does it blur her line between attraction and fear? Does she try them on?
I enjoyed picking out those panties for her. I hope she likes them.
*
Molly
Friday afternoon. I can barely concentrate on the tedious, administrative task that’s glaring from my computer screen. I have butterflies in my stomach, and can barely sit still. Tomorrow night is my “date” with Sal. Date, with quotation marks.
Greg is on the computer to my right, steadily typing, while munching trail mix, and tapping his foot to whatever song he’s listening to in his earbuds. I’m lucky he’s been distracted for the past couple of hours, and hasn’t noticed my tense behavior. He x’s out of a document, announcing “done,” as he pulls out his earbuds.
I hunch over my keyboard, pretending that I’m suddenly very busy. He and Grant have a trip to Yosemite planned for this weekend, and I know he’s been anxious to go.
“Have a good weekend,” I say, hoping he’ll just pack up and leave.
“Thank you.” He’s planted in his seat, carefully wrapping up his earbuds. When he’s done with that, he takes a can of condensed air and laboriously blows dust particles off of his keyboard. “Got any plans this weekend?”
My face heats up. I silently curse that fact that I have no control over the blood vessels in my face. They give me away every time.
“Propolis,” Greg says, saying the word low against my ear.
I laugh, nervously. “What are talking about it?”
“It soothes the skin. Reduces redness. Could help with your blushing. Think about adding it to your skincare routine.”
I roll my eyes, though I make a mental note to do more research on propolis. Greg’s skincare advice is usually spot on.
Greg is all packed up, but he’s not leaving. “So, what are these plans?”
“I never said anything about any plans.”
“Does it have anything to do with the tall drink of water that was in here the other day?”
I grit my teeth, but I can feel my face burning.
“Are you seeing him?” Greg presses.
I let out a frustrated sigh. “It’s just dinner,” I blurt out, hoping, foolishly, that will be enough for him.
Greg falls silent. I turn from my computer screen and look at him. His mouth is hanging open, the rest of his face, frozen. He grabs my arm, his mouth twisted in a silent scream.
“It’s just dinner,” I say, shoving him off.
“He’s so hot,” Greg muses, with a dreamy look in his eye. “And the vibe he gives off-” He shudders with exaggeration.
“He’s a very intense man,” I concede.
Greg settles back in his chair with his bag in his lap, showing no intention of leaving any time soon.
“I have to finish this,” I say, gesturing to the monitor.
He doesn’t seem to have heard this. “I always pictured you with someone different. Like, a cowboy, or a preacher’s son.”
Ouch. That comment hurts my sensitive pride. Even Greg’s admitting that Sal is way out of my league.
“You’re right,” I say. “It’s absurd.”
“No, no, Molly. That’s not what I mean.” He leans forward appealing to me with his eyes. “I’m so happy for you. You deserve to have a rich personal life. Take it from me, don’t get too wrapped up in the fucked up world of nonprofits where there’s never enough money.” He takes my hand and squeezes it. “You want to help. That’s brilliant. But you have to help yourself first.”
Greg’s pep talk would’ve worked if this “date” wasn’t a sham, so I pretend it does.
“Have you had sex yet?” he asks.
“No!” I shout, reflexively, making a few other counselors stare at us.
Greg purses his lips. “Kissed?”
“No,” I say, more quietly this time.
“What are you waiting for? This isn’t the 1950’s.” He stands, gathers his bag, then kisses me on the top of the head. “Have fun,” he says, then merrily walks out of the center.
Greg couldn’t possibly understand what I’m going through. He’s off to a fabulous trip with his real boyfriend. I was too ashamed to tell him the truth about the arrangement with my landlord. It’s degrading. And since Greg mentioned it, I can’t stop thinking about Sal kissing me.
As the clock ticks closer to five, one by one, the other counselors turn off their computers, and leave, wishing everyone a happy weekend. I take my time on my work, because when it’s finished, all I’ll have to think about is my “date” with Sal.