CHAPTER THREE
SHANNON
I’ve learned to quietly loathe the bing sound that my computer makes whenever a message pops up onto my screen.
It’s from my boss, film producer extraordinaire Daryl Somerset-slash-douchebag of the year, but hey, the money here makes it worthwhile.
‘Those Paramount files good to go?’ the message reads, followed by a winking emoticon. God, he loves emoticons. I think I hate them almost as much as his leery, you-know-you-want-this grin.
I make final changes to the file and print it off, standing to knock on his door.
“Enter,” comes the reply.
Yes, sir, Your Highness.
He waves me in and motions for me to close the door. Behind his desk is a grand arch that overlooks the city. He’s got the best view on the entire floor.
My nose wiggles. There’s a strange smell I’m having trouble pinpointing.
Eau de entitled asshole?
Ah, yes. That’s the one. Manufactured by Harvard and too many hours spent at the rowing shed.
I place the files on his desk, standing back with my hands in front of myself like some kind of vagina shield.
He watches me with that slick smile on his face as he picks up the files and skims over them.
His eyes pop up back to me—to my breasts, at least. “You know, Shannon, you should really wear your hair down, and smile more. You’ve got a great smile.”
Two invisible strings pull the corners of my mouth upwards, but they’re struggling. I want to tell him he’s a sexist pig, but I go with, “I’ll keep that in mind,” speaking through gritted teeth.
I stand there quietly smoldering while he continues to review the files.
He looks up again, sliding the files away and leaning back into his chair, legs spread and hands behind his head. I think they call this a ‘power pose.’ It’s definitely not the kind of power I’m looking for. “The section on the royalty transfer is incomplete.”
Crap.
“Oh?” I question.
He swings back forward, nodding. “I guess it’s a good thing you’re pretty, right?”
I wish I had a pride of lions here now. ‘Attack!’ I’d bellow.
But no. All I’ve got are my wits, my patience, and a pencil-pleated skirt that my sleazy boss is X-raying through with his eyes right now.
He winks. “I’ll let you off this time, okay.”
Think of the money. Think of the money.
“Yes, sir,” I reply.
He rolls his eyes. “For fuck’s sake, lighten up, Shannon. Show me that sexy smile.”
The invisible strings go to work again.
Why do you put up with this?
I know the answer. Because it keeps my bank account healthy and I need the money.
He smiles back, his entire expression dripping with seediness. I always feel like I need a shower after being in his office.
“There it is.” He gestures to the door. “Now get your cute little butt back to work and fix up my files.”
I go to head out as quickly as possible.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” comes the call at my back.
I turn expecting to find him with his tiny penis out, but he’s holding the files.
“Sorry,” I mutter, reaching forward to take them. He holds onto them tight, the two of us caught in some weird office tug-o’-war.
He pouts, bottom lip extended. “You didn’t say please.”
Seriously?
“Please.”
He lets go of the files and I get out of there, closing the door quietly but wishing I could slam it through the wall.
I sit back at my desk and open the files back up, making the required changes. I can barely concentrate I’m so worked up. The big black clock on the wall doesn’t help. It’s running in another dimension, a really slow one, ticking and tocking and driving me insane.
I wait until just before closing to send the files through lest Daryl call me back in again. I let him know the hard copies are on my desk.
I’m standing when I hit ‘Send,’ my coat already slung over my arm as I half-pace, half-run to the elevators, making my escape.
I arrive home half an hour later to a seemingly quiet house apart from the lovebirds merrily singing down the back.
I drop my handbag and coat by the door, and head down to the sunroom at the back that has since become the home of my little menagerie.
My tarantula, Aragog, shuffles to the front of his enclosure, no doubt looking for today’s handout. I take a handful of crickets from the jar beside him and dump them in. “There you go, my little buddy. Enjoy.”
I move onto the lovebirds, Pikachu and Ash, opening their aviary and letting them take a shoulder each. I had their cage custom-made. It’s bigger than my bathroom, but they need the space. People don’t realize how intelligent they are, the human contact and interaction they crave. Dad understood. He had a huge aviary out in the backyard growing up, but the lovebirds don’t appreciate competition.
I hit stop on the radio beside the cage. The lovebirds like the classical channel, especially Beethoven.
I replace the cuttlebones in their cage and move onto Tripod, my three-legged squirrel. I can hear him scratching against the back door.
He wasn’t looking so good when I found him beside the road almost a year ago, set no doubt to become an evening meal for one of the larger animals in the area. I took him home and cared for him, even tried to set him loose, but he’s never left the backyard.
I open the door and take a wrapped chunk of Baby Ruth out of my pocket I’ve been saving for him. He swipes it away in seconds, moving down a step to nibble away at it. That’s the thing about squirrels. They are junk food addicts. They’ll beg, borrow, and steal if they have to. They’re like children. What they like to eat is not what they need, but I like to spoil him once a week.
I let Tripod in. Percy, my crested gecko, lumbers in behind him, both of them headed to the kitchen. He was mates with my Dad’s gecko Penelope, but Penelope passed a week after Dad did. I don’t know if he’s ever gotten over it.
“Nice to see you too,” I tell her. “How was your day? Did you get called into the office by your chauvinistic boss?”
The lovebirds flitter away when the sugar gliders arrive, swooping down to take up their places, one burrowing down the front of my top to settle in my cleavage, peeping over my bra as I move through the house, my friends in tow.
People think I’m crazy for owning this many animals, but Dad had three times what I do now. It started after Mom died, the collecting. I guess he passed it down to me.
I reach down and stroke Percy, my thoughts turning to the gecko tattoo on Gabe’s arm. “You share a striking resemblance, you know. I think he’d like to meet you.” His eyes roll around, glinting in the light. “Maybe you’re good luck and maybe you aren’t, but rest assured I love you either way.”
Maybe you could love Gabe? You know, an actual human being instead of holding one-way conservations with animals all day.
I don’t know what I want. If I was to look at it from a purely superficial level, then yes, Gabe was attractive. The thought of those bulging arms closing around me, keeping me safe, his chin resting against my shoulder, his soft lips on the side of my neck…
Daydreaming will get you nowhere.
And then the Navy thing. That’s hot. I’ve never really had a thing for military guys, but the thought of Gabe sweating it out, running through water, has me heating up in naughty places. I could almost touch myself thinking about the kind of artillery he’s no doubt packing in those cargo pants, the long, thick butt of his cock.
Shannon!
I’m blushing as I stand at the kitchen counter. I’m blushing and—Lord, help me—getting wet thinking about it all, especially his eyes. If those eyes are the window to his soul, sign me up for the home tour.
The gecko tattoo was a sign. It has to be.
And yet you’re not going to call him, are you? You’re terrified.
I hand the sugar gliders, Buffy and Angel, a grape each. “What do you guys think? Did I dream it?”
No response. They’re too busy stuffing their faces. They’re teenagers—sleeping the day away to go crazy at night.
Percy rubs himself against my leg. “Don’t worry, Perce. You’re still my man.”
After I’ve fed the family, I can finally relax in full. I watch a bit of Community, but I can’t stop thinking about Gabe. All sorts of lewd and wonderful thoughts stream into my head, so much so I head to bed early fully intent on wearing the batteries in my vibrator out.
I deal with the others first, putting them to bed. The gliders love to be near me. I normally wear two shirts to bed so they can hang out between them and not tickle-slash-scratch me to death, but not tonight. They are incredibly social creatures, but tonight they’ll just have to hang with each other.
I place them carefully into their cage, right of the sunroom. “Sorry, guys, but Momma needs some alone time tonight.”
I take a quick shower and get into bed, lying there stiff as a board under the covers.
You’re really going to do this?
The vibrator, fresh from its packaging, sits on the bedside table.
I look at it nervously. Better go au naturale first, come in with the heavy artillery later.
I haven’t touched myself since I was sixteen, but this feels right. I’ve never had the appropriate, uh, image to fixate on, but I do now.
I shift and wiggle. “You can do this,” I tell myself.
My hand is shaking as I slip it under the waistband of my panties and let it settle over my sex.
It’s hot down there. That’s the first thing I notice—hot and wet.
I conjure up Gabe, naked now, his back turned.
Cute bum. How about you turn around?
He does and I give a little jerk as I see it—all of him.
HQ, copy. We have found a weapon of mass destruction. I repeat, we have found a weapon of mass destruction.
I smile broadly at this while I let an exploratory finger run downwards into the slick heat gathering between my legs. My knuckles press the crotch of my panties out as I bring the finger back up, letting the pad of it sit against my clit.
Could I be with a guy like Gabe?
I think the question is, could a guy like Gabe be with a girl like you?
It’s a fair call. I’m not exactly normal, whatever that means. I’m not like my friends or the hip characters in the TV show I watch. I don’t like to fuss over my makeup or pore over online stores for hours.
I hear my grandmother: “You’re an odd one, Shannon.”
My finger stops.
No, no. Think of Gabe. Think about his chest, those rippling, corrugated abs.
You can touch them, he laughs, this imaginary man in my head. They’re not going to bite.
I start to move my finger in concentric circles, concentrating now. My back arches off the bed, my muscles pulling and releasing.
I add a second finger to the first, the need and arousal building in my core, knotting there.
It’s been so long since I’ve felt horny like this.
At this moment I do want to have sex. I do want to come, screaming and clutching at the sheets like they do in the movies, my throat burning with his name. “Oh, Gabe! Yes, do it! Fuck me! Harder. Harder.”
I want to buckle and explode from the inside out, see constellations before my eyes. I want it more than I’ve wanted anything in my life.
I want to experience an orgasm, just once.
My fingers are really working now, my legs spread wide and my sopping core exposed.
I think about Gabe and I touch myself.
I don’t come. I don’t experience the mysterious ‘big O.’ The fancy vibrator Jenny gave three years ago is no help.
But it does feel pleasant, nice.
One thing is clear, though. I need the real thing… and fast.