Bram
“Let me just wank off on your tits, babe,” I tell Astrid in a begging voice that I’m not too proud of.
She stares up at me, my cock in her hand, drool and precum at the corners of her wet lips. She’s too fucking gorgeous, even though that vapid stare of hers can be right creepy at times. I’m not keeping her around for her intelligence, that’s for sure. But considering how hard I’m trying to step away from my past, I hope for her sake she’s not into coke.
“Am I not good at sucking your dick?” she asks in a hurt little girl voice before wrapping her tongue around my throbbing head.
She is good. Bloody good. I have no doubts how she got that way either. Things I don’t want to think about, just like she’d rather not think about how my lips and tongue can get her coming faster than she can scream my name. But when I texted her this afternoon to come over and make me come, I was counting on fucking her on the floor. Or on the bed. Or anywhere, really.
But she’s got her period, and so, this will have to do. Now, I honestly don’t mind sex when a lady is on the rag. It’s messy and kind of hot. But she, like most girls, can’t fathom the idea. And it’s not like I’m not enjoying my BJ – again, she’s good. But the position, her on her knees, causes my mind to wander.
I don’t want it to do that. It’s been doing that a bit too much lately. About things I’ve tried to keep buried, things that keep surfacing in different ways.
Thankfully, I’m almost ready to come, so I pull out of her mouth and flip her around, pushing down on her shoulders so she’s on the ground. Then I stroke myself off and come all over her neck and shoulders, glad to have it over with.
“You’re a bit rough,” she says with a breathy giggle.
Why does everything have to be so fucking funny?
“Only because you love it,” I tell her. She pretty much loves everything I do and I think it’s for more reasons than just what I can do in bed. Money speaks louder than a lot of things. “Stay put.”
I go and get a dishtowel from the kitchen and quickly wipe the cum off her back. I wonder what’s the easiest way to get rid of her. In hindsight I shouldn’t have even invited her over but I needed something to get my mind off of Nicola.
The thing is, when I give a girl my phone number, I expect her to call me. They always do. And I wasn’t even giving it her on the pretence of fucking her or anything like that. I genuinely can help her out. I want to. And she needs it. It’s rare that I have all three of those.
But it’s two in the afternoon and she hasn’t called. Wasn’t she curious? Isn’t she desperate?
Does she really hate me that much?
I can tell when women “hate” me. You know, as a precursor to getting naked, a fun way to make our interactions more exciting. And then there’s women who hate me, as in they wish I would die. I’ve gotten that impression from Nicola ever since I first met her at a bar early last year, right after I moved here. At the time I would have just blamed it on her being an uptight snob, but she was so nice to everyone else and so snide with me, that I couldn’t help but take it personally. And, of course, be challenged by it.
It’s bothered me ever since. I saw her twice more after that and it was the same. The cold nod, the death glare, like I had wronged her in a past life. When I saw her at my brother’s wedding, I thought maybe she’d come around. I kissed her when I shouldn’t have, but I just had to see. And for a split second I thought maybe I could win her over. I saw something in her eyes that was wild and free and I just wanted to let it loose like that damn tight-arse hairdo she had going on.
That didn’t happen. My dick got the better of me.
Now I think she really hates my guts. I’m pretty sure she saw me take that chick into the bushes and I’m pretty sure I pissed her off to a point she’ll never come back from.
Still, when I said last night that I could help her, I wasn’t just trying to make her like me, to make up for past misdoings. All right, maybe that last part a wee bit but really I’m coming from a good place.
But if she doesn’t call me, she won’t ever see that. Now I’ve got Astrid naked from the waist up and on the floor of my apartment, wiping the remains of my cum off of her and I don’t know how to get her out the door.
I zip up my pants and give her an exaggerated yawn. “You know what, I think I’m going to take a nap. I have a lot of work to do this evening.”
She gets to her feet, her tiny, perky breasts bobbing in front of me. For once she doesn’t look vapid, but annoyed. It’s a nice change. “So, you invite me over for this and now you’re throwing me out?”
“I’m not throwing you out,” I tell her as I grab her shirt and chuck it at her. “You may want to put that on, though.”
She scowls out me. “You’re a pig,” she says, quickly slipping it on through a huff of anger.
“More like a hog,” I correct her. “They tend to be bigger.”
“First you invite me out to a party and you end up spending it in the hospital.”
I frown at her. “Hey, no one asked for that to happen.”
“Well, it did,” she says, going for the door. “And I’ve had enough. Don’t call me.”
The door slams behind her.
No worries on the calling part. Most girls don’t last more than a week with me before they’ve also had enough. They may act all dumb and easy-going, but I know they all have their limit and I’m pretty good at dragging them to it every time. Some might call that a sad way to get through life, but when it’s just your life, you learn to accept it.
I pick up my phone off the counter and stare at it. No missed calls, no texts. I don’t even have her number, so I can’t call her.
I can call my brother, though. If he’s not out flying the chopper for the chartering company, that is.
He answers on the third ring, but the connection is a bit fuzzy.
“Aye, what do you want?” Linden shouts.
“Don’t tell me you’re in the air and answering your phone all willy nilly.”
“Just about to take off. What’s up?”
I clear my throat, wondering how to phrase this without him getting the wrong idea. “How is the girl? The wee one?”
“Like the child, Ava?” he asks, his voice rising above the rotors I can hear starting. “She’s okay. Diabetes they said, like some kind of shock. You were there.”
“I know I was there. I mean, how is she now? And how is her mum?”
“I guess she’s fine as she can be, I don’t know. I know Steph is at her place right now, helping out. She’s worried as hell. You know how she can dote on people.”
That I do know. Steph’s like the mother we never had. I don’t tell Linden that or he’ll balk at the Freudian implications.
“Do you have her phone number?”
“Nicola’s?” he asks. “Not on my phone. I have her Facebook. Why?”
“No matter,” I say, then pause. “Tell me something about her.”
“What, why? Wait. No, Bram. No,” he commands, like I’m some rangy pooch.
“No, I’m not asking because of that.”
“Right, you’re not asking because you don’t want to stick your dick in her.”
“I honestly don’t,” I tell him. “I think she’d cry if she saw a dick in real life.”
“Nice,” he says dryly. “Anyway, she’s off-limits to you. She’s gone through enough. She doesn’t need my arsehole brother fucking up her life anymore.”
“Arsehole?”
“Yes, Bram,” he says, tiredly. “Look I have to go.”
He hangs up and I mutter a swear at the phone.
There’s only one thing to do.
Soon I’m parking the car in an above-ground garage near Union Square and walking several blocks over into the heart of the manky Tenderloin neighborhood. Other than good music venues, the place is crawling with crazies. It’s not that bad during the daytime. I mean, it ain’t pretty but the people just really annoy you to death with their begging and aren’t dangerous. But if I were Nicola’s parents, or even friends, I wouldn’t want her living there. The thought of fuckheads outside her apartment at night makes me strangely pissed off.
By the time I reach her place, I’ve been asked for change by eight different people and was told I “smell like crunchy toast” by a random running down the road with a severed parking meter under his arm. I’m not sure if I do smell like toast, but it is hot out. I’ve been warned how San Francisco’s seasons don’t follow any rhyme or reason.
I take off my suit jacket, run a hand through my hair in an effort to look respectable, and buzz her apartment number having remembered it from last night. Borderline stalker-ish, I know.
“Hello?” I eventually hear her voice come through the crackly intercom.
“Nicola, it’s Bram.”
More crackle. Silence. Maybe she’s hung up.
“From last night,” I go on. “And other times.”
“Uh, hi…”
“Can I come up?”
I can sort of hear Steph in the background, “Who is it?”
“Tell her it’s her brother-in-law!” I yell and then I’m disconnected.
I stare at the door wondering if I’m being told to fuck off when it buzzes and I go on up.
The funny thing about Nicola, the thing I’ve gathered from what little I know about her, is that if there’s anyone that shouldn’t be living in a place like this – bars on the doors, mildew on the stairwell walls, stains on the carpet – it’s her. Maybe some hipsters could make it work, or James and Penny, Linden’s friends on the alternative side who might call this type of living as “being real.” But Nicola seems too stiff, prim and proper for this place, like she should have been born in a palace instead. From the way she was talking, well blubbering, in my car, I have a feeling she might have been.
Just before I’m about to knock on the door, it opens and Stephanie is staring at me with a suspicious twist to her lips.
“What are you doing here?” she asks, blocking the door.
“What are you, her guard dog?”
“Well, I am a bitch sometimes,” she says. “Woof, woof.”
“Can I come in?”
She shakes her head, her skull earrings rattling. “Why?”
“I want to know if they’re okay.”
A line slowly forms between her brows. “They’re going to be okay,” she says in a drawn-out tone. “Sorry, Bram, not used to you caring about people.”
I guess I deserved that. “Can I talk to Nicola? Alone?”
Steph flinches. “What?”
I look over her shoulder and see Nicola appear just beyond the door. She looks like shit. Her hair is greasy and pulled back, her face sallow, her eyes puffy and red. Other than sad, though, I can’t really read her face and tell if she’s happy to see me, or pissed off, or indifferent. I’m betting it’s the latter.
“Hey,” I say to her. “I just wanted to check up on you. You never called,” I add.
Steph looks between the two of us. “He gave you his number?”
“Business card, actually,” Nicola says wryly.
Steph folds her arms across her chest and I try my damndest not to stare at her cleavage. Damn, Linden is a lucky guy. Good thing I think of her more as the mother type. “What did I tell you?” Steph whispers harshly to her.
I raise a brow. “What did you tell her?”
“Never mind,” she says quickly, fixing her eyes back on me. She’s like mother hen with teeth in that beak. “I’m watching you,” she says to me.
I raise my arms out to the side. “Watch all you want, babe, I’m used to it.”
Nicola gives out a small sigh of resignation. “It’s fine. Bram, you can come in. Just be quiet, Ava’s sleeping.”
Victory. I step inside and take a quick intake of my surroundings. It looks like some trendy grandmother’s cottage in here. The type who puts ruffles and doilies on everything but also listens to the Rolling Stones on vinyl to remember the days when she’d get so bloody high.
Nicola walks over to her tiny kitchen, which is cluttered with bright cups and plates. “Want coffee? Or tea?”
Do I admit I drink tea over coffee? Hell. “I’d love a cup of tea, please. Do you have orange pekoe or Earl gray? With cream?”
I can’t see her face but I know she’s not looking too impressed. “I have chai.”
“That’s fine,” I say, aware that Stephanie is staring at me. “What?” I say to her.
She just narrows her eyes, points her finger at me as if she’s about to say something, then picks up her purse. “Okay, Nic,” she calls to her. “I’m going to go. Call me later, okay? Please?” Now I’m not sure if that please is because of Ava’s situation or the fact that I’m here.
“I will,” Nicola says. “Thanks for everything.”
“Love ya!” And then Steph is out the door and I’m alone with Nicola.
It’s suddenly very awkward. While the kettle is boiling, I sit down on her sofa. It’s like sinking into a marshmallow. I’m afraid I won’t be able to get up.
She’s not talking, so I attempt to fill in the gaps.
“Nice apartment,” I comment.
“Thanks,” she says, still puttering around in the kitchen.
“Did you inherit all your furniture from your grandmum or something?”
She shoots me a killer look over her shoulder. “It’s from Anthropologie.”
I shrug and run my hands over the couch cushions. I can feel all the rough threads where she tried to sew together any rips and tears. I don’t think she’s hanging onto it out of love, but out of necessity.
“How’s your little one?” I ask.
She doesn’t say anything for a moment. Her voice turns quiet. “I think I’m having a harder time than she is.”
I hear her pour the water and the clank of a spoon against porcelain and she comes over, placing a cup of tea on the coffee table in front of me, making sure to use a coaster. It’s black.
“Sorry,” she says, cradling her own cup of tea and sitting at the opposite end of the sofa, legs curled up, as far away from me as possible. “I don’t have any milk in the house. I’m lactose intolerant.”
Though she’s curled in the corner, she doesn’t look all that comfortable. Her head is up high, chin out and her mouth is set in a firm line. I can’t read her eyes at all, so I stop trying.
“Did you get the medicine okay?” I ask.
She nods and takes a sip. “Thanks to Steph’s insistence on paying, yes. The doctor at the hospital gave me a month’s supply of insulin, but Steph paid for everything else. The pharmacist at Target gave us both a crash course on injecting Ava again, so I don’t have to go and pay for my doctor either.” She exhales heavily. “I really needed that reminder. Last night just seemed like a horrible nightmare.” She looks at me and maybe I see her face softening. “Thanks again for driving me around. I kind of ruined everyone’s night.”
“Shit happens,” I tell her with a wave of my hand. “It’s no big deal.”
“I bet your girlfriend was upset.”
“Aye,” I nod. “But she’s not my girlfriend. Especially not now.” I don’t say anything else.
“So, what did you want me to talk to you about?” she says, sounding tired. I realize talking to me is probably the last thing she wants to do.
“You look like you need a nap,” I tell her. Her eyes look sad and I realize it’s a jerk thing for me to say. No one wants to hear they look tired. “I mean, you’re still pretty hot but you look tired as hell.” And now I’m just making it worse.
“I don’t dare sleep,” she says. She seems to shrink down before my eyes. “Not now, not when something can happen to her.”
“You could,” I say. “Right now. Just have a nap. I’ll stay here. I’ll be up, make sure that everything’s okay.”
She looks at me like I’m crazy. Maybe I am. I have no idea why I just volunteered to do that – maybe because it’s the right thing to do – but it makes me sound like the world’s biggest creeper.
“No thanks,” she says, looking a wee bit disgusted. “So.” She sounds impatient now. “What is it that you want from me, Bram?”
I lean forward on my elbows and twirl the watch on my wrist over and over again.
“I have a proposition for you.”
She watches me for so long I have to look up. She doesn’t look curious, she looks worried.
“Is this going to be like ‘Indecent Proposal?’” she asks. “Because Robert Redford loses at the end.”
“A) I’m surprised you’re old enough to remember that movie,” I say. “And B) no, it’s nothing like that. I know my reputation precedes me –”
“That is does.” She takes a quick sip of her tea.
“But, this offer is coming from a good place. An honest place.” I pause. “I think you should move in with me.”
She nearly drops her mug.