Without Limits: A BWWM Collection of Passion and Desire, page 33
Well, well, well... what do we have here? He slicked his tongue along his lower lip, salivating at the sight before him.
Dressed in a black half top that exposed part of her stomach, skin tight black pants and snow white thick-soled sneakers, her dark brown long hair was tossed over one shoulder and she wore a face full of makeup. He could see her shiny rings, glossy red lips, and long, hot pink nails from where he stood. She looked like a fucking movie star.
Who looks like that to take the damn trash out? What kinda silly shit is this? Maybe she was somebody important... and he didn’t want to wait any longer to find out.
“Hey!” He smiled as he waved at the woman, making sure she saw him. His dick throbbed in his baggy jeans as he stood there with his ankles crossed, sporting a soiled wife beater tank top in desperate need of a good washing. His nose wrinkled as he caught a whiff of himself, but then he put his smile back on once the woman turned in his direction. She paused, her face twisted as if disgusted with the mere sight of him, then she kept on right along, ignoring him. “It’s a nice night, ain’t it?” He smiled wider now, enjoying the curves of her body. He could tell she was a woman with class.
“Yes.” Her tone was curt, truncated at the root. She disappeared back inside of the house, the door slamming behind her.
“It was nice talkin’ to you!” he yelled out, chuckling.
He went back inside. His steak was now half-defrosted and the bag of lettuce on the counter looked sad and partially wilted. Grimacing, he snatched the bag up between pinched fingers and examined it, wondering if he should chance his gut on such a side dish. Opting to take the risk, he dumped it into a colander, washed it for his own peace of mind, picked out the slimy dark pieces, and dumped the rest in a large plastic bowl he’d picked up from the Dollar Tree. Grabbing a bottle of ranch dressing, he drenched the lettuce in it, grabbed a fork and went to town on the salad. He stood in the middle of his kitchen, crunching and chomping away. Less than thirty minutes later, he had the steak in a skillet on medium heat, frying it up along with a few slices of white onion as he polished off the last drops of his beer.
After dinner, he took a hot shower, his body covered in Zest soap, his locks of dark hair saturated with Head & Shoulders shampoo, a new kind incorporated with Old Spice scent. He hummed to the music playing off his iTunes playlist on his phone. “Waitin’ on a Sunny Day” by Bruce Springsteen set his spirits high.
His phone rang several times but he didn’t answer. In fact, he didn’t give a shit who was calling. Unless it was the Lord himself, he wasn’t moving one muscle. He yearned to just be left alone, whirling in his own thoughts until it was time to rise at 6:30 A.M. the following day and clock in at Dock’s Car repair. In no time flat, he was dried off, teeth brushed, and lying in bed, the darkness surrounding him like an old friend.
He forwent the television — no movies, no Netflix, he didn’t even bother surfing the various social media sites on his phone. Peeping in on the local eye candy from his dating app didn’t strike his fancy, either. Instead, he lay in the dark wearing only a pair of striped blue and green boxers, a fan blowing from across the room on high and his window cracked, allowing nature to sing him a live selection. He could hear the crickets chirping a sweet song and the frogs singing along, while the soft, fresh rain hitting the concrete walls of his house became percussion. He hadn’t realized it had begun to rain until just at that moment.
Must’ve started up when I was in the shower. It didn’t look like it was gonna rain... usually you can see and smell it.
And then he recalled he’d been distracted — a woman had caught his eye. He quickly shoved thoughts of the rude neighbor out of his mind and drifted further into himself... his goals, his trials, his failures.
The world around him was fading, disappearing after only brief glimpses, like a book slowly being closed at the end of one more chapter read by tired, sleepy eyes. For the first time in a long while, Knox felt small, as if there was so much he didn’t know or understand. He’d had a life of crime, his criminal cherry burst at the early age of fourteen, and this new-found freedom, walking the straight and narrow, proved to be a balancing act. He now rented a house he hoped to soon own. He made a living via a real job, and he’d purchased an old white Mustang he was fixing up in his garage. He didn’t have much, but it felt good to try again, start fresh. Reaching to his nightstand, he pulled out another cigarette and lit it. The orange ember glowed in the darkness of the room.
“I ain’t going back to prison... tired of that shit. Can’t even piss in peace... lookin’ over my damn shoulder every five minutes... I gotta keep on with this, no matter how hard it gets. Nobody believes I’m gonna change my ways. It’s my duty to prove ‘em wrong.”
Rings of dense smoke curled from his lips as he said the words aloud, like an anthem, a chant to his heart. Looking out the bedroom window, he noticed several lights in the house next door were turned on. His thoughts drifted right back to her.
I didn’t even know a lady lived over there, I never see anybody comin’ or goin’. I’ve only lived here a couple months though, been busy... She’s been there all along, I’m sure. Ain’t too many Black people over here; that was a surprise. She sure is pretty with those big dark eyes and face all made up like some beauty queen... seems kinda stuck up though, real sadiddy and conceited like...
He took another toke of his cigarette and grinned real wide as he imagined sliding his hand between her thighs and feeling the heat between her legs...
I wonder what ‘er name is...
I wonder what she’s doing right now...
I wonder if she’s married and has kids...
He wondered many things about the brown beauty next door. In time, he may just find out the answers to many of his questions. He put out his cigarette, smashing it in the ashtray on his nightstand, and turned on his clock radio. “Psycho Killer” by the Talking Heads played real low through the speakers.
Snatching the sheets around his body, he turned on his side and closed his eyes. Another day, another damn dollar... only this one wouldn’t be taken at gunpoint...
Chapter Two
Tina Rochelle flipped through People magazine in the Super Target store. The red and white bullseye to spending Hell was notorious for pulling people in and not letting them out until they paid double the amount they told themselves they’d spend, and she was now honoring that curse to the letter. She perused the reading material, taking note of a variety of cooking magazines, celebrity gossip rags, and muscular dudes showing off their glazed physiques on glossy covers. Perhaps she stared at the beefy men a bit too long. No kidding, she’d been in a sexual drought.
Pulling herself away from the titillating material, she placed the People magazine down and reached for a crossword puzzle book instead, tossing it into her cart along with the two new NYX lipsticks and four lacey bras in various shades of blue, her favorite color. Sucking hard on a wintergreen mint, she took her sweet time. After all, she had a $675.00 hair weave that had just been installed — Brazilian kinky, 22 inches — and she wanted everyone to see this shit in its full glory.
Money sure as hell didn’t grow on trees, especially now that the movie deals had dried up and her reputation had been set out to pasture. She hadn’t even received an invitation for an audition in three months. Not even one. She called her agent at least a few times a week, demanding work. Anything. She’d even offered to work on some of the local cheesy commercials, but she rarely got a call for those, either.
Maybe she was overqualified. That had to have been it. Flipping her hair over her shoulder, she sucked on the refreshing candy a bit harder until all that was left was a sliver of its former minty glory. Aisle after aisle she went, then paused in the jewelry section. Taking note of a silver necklace with white flowers, she smiled down at it as she felt the cool metal between her thumb and forefinger. For costume jewelry, it was made quite well. She studied it in a discerning way, cocking her head to the side, wondering If it could pass for higher quality — perhaps mistaken as real silver or an antique.
Yeah, it could be...
Snatching it off the display rack, she tossed it into her cart. The thing hit a sack of pretzels, and the package sighed under the weight of the heavy metal. Daryl Hall & John Oates crooned “I Can’t Go for That” through the store speakers. She found herself mouthing the lyrics, and then she remembered her new neighbor...
She’d watched from her kitchen window when he’d moved in a couple of months back. A tall, attractive man, the contour lines of his body appeared hard and rigid. He oozed masculinity and gave off a rough flavor only palpable to the female eye. And tongue … hmmmm.
Dark, almost ebony hair hung in loose locks on his head, while sideburns and a tapered cut at the nape showed care for his appearance. But then there was his bare chest… His arms and pecs were covered in colorful tattoos, making him look grimy and beautiful all at once. The house he’d moved in had gone into foreclosure many months prior and was rent to own for quite some time thereafter. Snatching the sign out of the yard, the man had played that very song by Hall & Oats through his old, beat up truck, the speakers blaring the tune in a smooth, nostalgic way. He seemed to have a thing for cars, for vehicle parts were soon loaded out of the truck and cast inside the garage alongside another car that needed attention in the worst way.
A heap of white scrap metal that was passing as a Mustang had been towed into his garage while he and some jalopy of a fellow moved various bits of furniture into the house. The stuff was so run down and beaten to death, it looked as if he’d found it all on the side of a road after some poor soul endured a house fire.
She kept spying on him from that kitchen window, leaning forward and getting comfy as she held tight to her cup of coffee. He was a breathing and walking show, the type of man you couldn’t turn away from. He was gritty and dirty, chain smoking cigarettes that he tossed onto his driveway then stomped out with the sole of his filthy black boots. Sweat ran the length of his muscular arms and chest, coating him in a glassy sheen, but his face was a thing of perfection...
Tanned skin and that damn gorgeous hair... He reminded her of a young Elvis Presley for modern day consumption, a version with a short beard and mustache. But he also had a James Dean vibe; he didn’t seem to belong in modern day. Something about him reminded her of days gone by, old school wistfulness, and Southern charm and ways. Being originally from Los Angeles, she hadn’t seen such sights until she’d moved to Florida, but this guy was the epitome of sexy swag. He was the sort of guy that belonged on a wall, one befitting a time when teens still had posters of heartthrobs taped to their bedroom walls to kiss goodnight before bedtime like a ritual or evening prayer.
The bastard cursed like a sailor. Every word that curled from his mouth wrapped in his cigarette smoke was an F bomb, and his laugh was loud, raspy, and contagious. He had a beautiful smile, the same one he sported when he spoke to her last week, waving at her as if they’d been on intimate terms for a mighty long time. She had no choice but to sneer at him then, hating him for his mere existence at that moment.
On the surface, he hadn’t done anything wrong, but it was simply his aura. She didn’t like it one bit.
She knew his type. She’d been around men like him far too often. Attractive, nasty men who treated women like shit... served great dick, then cheated on them left and right and dared them to complain. He had ‘bad boy’ written all over him in at least fifteen different languages, and the semantics of love definitely wasn’t one of them.
There was just something about him, an energy, a filthy nature... an outright perversion in the very air he breathed. The evening prior, he looked her lustfully up and down as she took her trash out and didn’t even offer to lend a hand. He just stood at his front door ogling her like some cheetah high up in a tree as it surveyed a poor bunny rabbit who’d lost its way back home.
“Oh, my goodness, I’m so sorry to bother you!” A woman in her thirties stood before her, snatching her out of her thoughts of the disgusting beast with the face of an angel.
“Oh, it’s no problem!” Tina prepared to pull out her ink pen and sign the lady’s napkin or whatever she had on hand. It was nothing new for people to stop her and ask for her autograph. She stood straighter, a broad smile on her face, waiting for the whole, ‘Are you Tina Rochelle?!’ question. “What can I do for you?”
“Can you tell me where your restroom is?” the woman questioned with a silly grin.
Tina’s smile slowly faded, melted like chocolate ice-cream left out on a ninety-five-degree day.
“I... I uh, I don’t—”
“I’ve gotta go so bad. I know that’s TMI but what can I do?” She shrugged. “I hate public restrooms though, don’t you? Target is the Devil, you know that?”
The woman cackled, tossing her head back, forcing her reddish blond curls to fall back away from her face as she held steadfast to her red basket filled with odds and ends.
“I came in here for one thing and I’m leaving with at least fifteen,” she added. “Blew my weekly budget right outta the water!”
Tears of mirth filled the woman’s green eyes as she laughed all the harder. Tina caught her reflection in a mirror near the shoe section. She indeed sported a red shirt. It was tight, hugging her prized breasts that she’d paid a pretty penny for several years prior in hopes that they would help land some gigs. They didn’t. But her red shirt allowed her to play a new role nevertheless; today she looked just like the Target employees.
“I... I am not sure where the restroom is. Sorry.”
She forced a smile and excused herself from the conversation, but not before taking note of the confused expression on the woman’s face. She made her way to the other side of the store in a hurry as INXS’s “Need You Tonight” played through the speakers. Shoving her buggy down the cookie and cracker aisle, sick of the ‘80s nostalgia, she made a beeline to the mint Oreo cookies, Chips Ahoy Chocolate Chip cookies, and strawberry wafers, too.
Buy one get one free, huh? Well, I’ll take eight of these sons of bitches!
She grabbed the eight packages of sweet decadence, stacking them atop one another in her arms before dumping them into her cart. She made like a rocket, flying towards the refrigerated section from where she removed a carton of Blue Bunny Birthday Cake ice cream, a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Chocolate Chip, and two cartons of milk. The waist busters and thigh expander items were plopped down into her cart to help wash away her woes... and now, there were far too many to count. She stormed back over to the women’s attire section and snatched an oversized T-shirt from a shelf display, one that read, “It’s okay if you disagree with me. I can’t force you to be right,” and tossed it in her cart as well.
Oh, those yoga pants are cute, too... nice and stretchy. Soon, a pair of leopard print leggings landed on the heap.
It’ll go well with my meal tonight. I’m ordering a large pizza with thick crust and a two-liter bottle of Coke — and not diet, either. Fuck this shit. Fuck everything and everyone. You give your entire childhood away to working in television and movies, entertain the masses, and then that childhood is gone, up in smoke! You didn’t get to play hopscotch, you didn’t get to ride your bike with your friends. No, you were off at auditions, rehearsing, practicing your lines, on set, getting your hair and makeup done under hot lights to turn into some little doll! And for what? You worked hard, you’re a household name, and then everyone just drops you like a hot potato when you grow up! I’m Tina Rochelle, damn it!
She hissed the words within as she marched towards the checkout lanes, filled with rage and depression all at once.
“That’ll be $142.15, please.”
Her heart thumped, flipped, and did a mean shimmy at the total. There’d been a time in her life when money was no object, and definitely anything under a thousand bucks didn’t get more than a blink. Now she hoped that her royalty check had been deposited as she gathered her purse, pulled out her debit card, and paid up.
I wonder if the new vibrator I ordered from Amazon arrived yet? Do I have any AAA batteries? Yeah, I have some left...
Orgasms, movies, sleep, and sugary delights... what could be better?
Soon, she found herself in the parking lot, her wedge platform heels wobbling about as she moved faster than her body could catch up to. Hot tears formed in her eyes and pain shot through her chest. She reached her car, a late model BMW that had been well taken care of, and gripped the center of her blouse, trying to catch her breath as the tears now blinded her, making her world all watery and surreal.
Heaving and struggling to get enough oxygen, she leaned against her car trunk, both hands planted firmly on it, and simply sobbed. Her heart hurt like a wrecking ball had taken to it, destroying the last bit of self-esteem she’d struggled to muster on a daily basis. She remained that way for quite some time, until, at last, she pulled herself together, placed her items in the trunk, and got inside of her car, driving down the way towards her home in hopes of a quiet night in with some male companionship — just her, ice cold Ben & Jerry, hot Domino P. Za, and Keebler the stripper striped cookie elf...
She planned to bite off more than she could chew.
She had big damn plans for the guys that night, and no chocolate chip would be left untouched. For she needed them, diet be damned! There was more than one way to fight one’s demons. Sometimes cookies and curses did the trick...
Chapter Three
...Three weeks later
The rickety, old lawnmower Knox had picked up from the garage sale a few roads down the previous Saturday was working much better now. He’d replaced the blades and cleaned it up. Before heading out to mow the lawn, he put on a pair of worn jeans he’d used to paint the house in and a pair of old, grass stained sneakers he only wore to do yard work. With a dark blue snapback on his head, he started with the front yard first. As he moved along, the sweltering heat was getting to him but he refused to stop until he finished the task. He gripped the handles of the machine, taking notice of movement out of his peripheral vision.
