For A Good Time, Call... (2 page)

I
took pride in my apartment. I spent a lot of money getting it how I
wanted with. Even though no one saw it but me. Literally. No one else
had stepped foot in it in the two years since I moved in. But there
was something in taking something as ugly as a cramped New York City
apartment and turning it into your own personal sanctuary that gave
me the tinglies.

I
grabbed a fluffy white towel, reaching in to turn the water in the
shower on, then stood in front of the mirror and started to slip my
shirt off, then my panties. I had a certain kind of appeal. Five foot
seven with thick thighs and a small waist. My boobs were the envy of
the girls I went to school with, high and round, ample enough to fill
out a blouse nicely without making me look like a cartoon character.
My hair was long and blonde, falling in a beach-wavy mass toward my
chest, just brushing my nipples. My face was round and soft with a
small rosy mouth and big green eyes. My best feature was my skin.
Pure and milky. Flawless naturally.

That
was, if you could look past the scars.

My
hand moved downward, touching the scars that cupped my breasts
underneath. Thick bands. Very pink still even after all the years and
smooth. Scars are so weirdly smooth to the touch. I reached downward
toward the outer side of my thigh, the one without the tattoo, and
stroked those scars. Those were different scars.

A
few dozen tiny little straight lines in various stages of healing.
Violent red reminders of why I needed to go out at night.

There
were other scars. The worst scars. Old and almost skin toned. Almost.
Too awful to let myself think about. The ones I avoided looking at.
Or allowing anyone else to see.

I
sighed and climbed into the shower, letting the hot water wash away
the growing sense of unease I was feeling. I would take an hour and
put myself together, towel drying my hair, applying mascara and
eyeliner, getting dressed. By then it should be late enough for me to
hit the street. Get something for dinner. Grab some coffee. Maybe
find a band playing or an art exhibit or a poetry slam. Something to
take me away until for a few hours before I had to change tactics and
hit a bar.

Shame
walk home at 4 AM still half drunk on a Tuesday morning. Ready to
slip out of my clothes, scrub off my makeup, and fall into bed around
five. Then sleep until eleven. Get up, have some coffee and get ready
for my lunch calls. My quickie guys.

The
“I want you underneath my desk sucking my cock while I have a
meeting” guys. The “I want to bend you over the fax
machine and fuck your ass” guys. In other words, my
upper-middle class, married, businessmen. Those guys paid my rent
each month.

Then
the day would be a mismatch of calls. I would do video calls for my
executive clients. The stockbrokers. The judges. The CEOs. The ones
who paid a pretty penny to have me tell them how I want to suck them
off or fuck their brains out. Or tell me to touch myself. And I would
pretend to play ding-dong with my clit until they came neatly into a
tissue. Those guys made my shopping obsession and endless nights out
possible.

I
slipped into my shoes that pinched my toes and were bound to keep me
in constant pain all night. Which was good. In a twisted way. Pain
was always a good distraction. I could sink into it. It could save me
from downing the last few shots of the night. The walk home would be
excruciating enough to block all the ghosts out.

I
was halfway out my door when I heard his open. I looked down at my
feet, clutching my keys in my fist as I quickly moved past him. I
wasn't embarrassed. At least, I was never usually embarrassed about
my nights out. No one paid much attention. And everyone needed their
own kinds of salves for their wounds. It was a fact people in bad
neighborhoods generally just accepted about each other. I wont judge
you for dropping acid to forget if you don't judge me for drinking
too much to forget.

But
I felt embarrassment as I shuffled past him.

The
sooner I found out his flaw, the better. He wouldn't be the random
guy next door with the piercing eyes and great ink. He would be just
another fucked up tenant I could feel normal around.

Three

I
had put up with it three days in a row. Which was generous.
Especially for me. Especially given how cranky it was making me. That
it was costing me money because I was sleeping past noon.

The
new guy started bang-bang-banging around six-thirty every morning.
And I don't mean that kind of banging. The banging with the moans and
the grunting. I could sleep through a fucking orgy on the other side
of the wall. No, this was the sound of hammers on nails and wood and
god-knew what else. I tried to let it go. I had done more than my
fair amount of improvements since I moved in too. But I had the
decency to do it in the middle of the damn day when no one was trying
to sleep.

I
tried burying my face in my pillow. I tried turning on the TV.
Turning on music. I tried everything in my power to keep to myself.
To not have to go over there.

But
by the third morning, I was running on empty and no amount of coffee
was going to make up for this kind of lack of sleep.

I
crawled out of bed in my white silk pajama pants and matching tank
top, throwing open my apartment door and storming next door. I was
slamming on the door violently, making it shake in its jamb and one
of the copper letters tilt out of place.

“Keep
you panties on,” I heard from inside, followed by some slamming
and shuffling. The door pulled open without and sliding of a lock.
Which in any neighborhood was foolish, in ours it was downright
asking for it. He pulled the door open, keeping a hand on the side of
it and looking down at me. I saw his eyes dip down to my breasts, the
nipples sticking shamelessly out of the thin, cool material. Typical.
Then his eyes found mine. “What?”

What?
What? That was what he was going to go with? Well, I was going to
tell him what. “The fucking banging,” I said, running a
hand through my wild hair. He stood there dumbly, cocking an eyebrow
as if he was going to need more than that. “It is
six-forty-five in the morning.” More eyebrow cocking. “I
am trying to sleep,” I added, hoping that would make the idiot
get the point.

A
smirk toyed at the edge of his lips. “It's not my fault you're
a vampire,” he said, shrugging a shoulder and slamming the door
in my face.

I
know I shouldn't be offended by rudeness. Hell, I am rude. Especially
with my neighbors. But I was pissed. How dare he? I wasn't going to
let it go. I couldn't let it go. I was going to be too damn exhausted
to go out that night and then all kinds of bad things were going to
happen.

There
was one perk to this guy though- an unlocked door. I grabbed the knob
and swung it open, barreling into his apartment and grabbing all the
hammers I could find off of his makeshift work station: a piece of
plywood laid up on old metal saw horses as he looked down at the
plans in front of him on that very table. He turned his head at me as
I stole his tools, his face impassive.

I
left as quickly as I had arrived, three hammers clutched to my chest
as I went back into my apartment, locking all four locks, dumping his
tools into my kitchen sink, and falling back into bed. I waited for
it. A part of me was expecting him to have an extra hammer hidden
somewhere and for him to continue his banging, only with more relish.
But that didn't happen.
Instead
I was met with the much easier to deal with sound of a hand saw. I
actually found it almost soothing and I fell back to sleep easily,
waking up feeling somewhat less zombie-like around twelve-fifteen.
Which wasn't so bad. I could still fit in a good three calls at
lunch.

I
got out of bed, put on the coffee, and grabbed my work phone in a
bright pink case that boasted: Phone sex is OFF THE HOOK!

I
laughed when I put the special order in online. Drunk at five AM on a
Wednesday.

Four

The
girl next door had a lot of sex. I mean, a lot of sex. Mostly during
the day. Noon and on until around five when the groaning, moaning,
and filthy talk stopped and I could hear her showering and her stereo
turning on as she got dressed to go out. Again.

Every
night.

I
tried not to judge. To each his (or her) own. We all deal with our
shit in different ways. I bury myself in work and half-kill myself at
the gym. I work on my new apartment. She fucks nonstop and drinks
almost to oblivion every night of the week, coming in at four or five
AM, her heels clicking loudly on the linoleum in the hallway.

Since
I moved in three days ago, I couldn't stop thinking about her. And it
wasn't her drinking habits. Or her crazy high sex drive.

It
was her eyes.

From
that first day when I unlocked the apartment and saw her on her
balcony in her panties drinking coffee, she had been invading my
thoughts. When she had turned to face me with that delicate little
face and big green eyes, I was done for. What man wasn't a sucker for
a pair of emerald green eyes?

It
didn't matter that she was rude and unsociable. Hell, I was rude and
unsociable. It was half of the appeal to this place. No one was going
to ask me to take in their mail or water their plants. No one was
going to care what I did with my time. If she were some middle aged
woman or some fat guy, I probably would have just inclined my head at
them whenever I caught them on the balcony or in the hall.

Her
slow, unconcerned about being noticed inspection of me had forced me
to engage her.

“Neither.”
That word had been stuck in my head ever since. Not just the word,
the tone in which she said it. Like she didn't give a damn about me
or what I thought about her. Which I found refreshing. It wasn't a
common outlook for women. At least not in my experience.

I
heard her stumble home this morning around five, still wearing the
little black dress, tan fishnets, and thigh high boots. I could hear
the boots hitting the floor as soon as she was inside her door. Then
some shuffling and silence. She was my new wake up call.

Maybe
a part of me felt a little guilty for banging early in the morning.
But for the first few days, there was no complaints. No banging on
the wall. No telling me to pipe the F down. Nothing. So I had just
figured she was a deep sleeper.

When
I walked to see who was banging like mad on my door, she had been the
last person I was expecting. And she looked mad as a fucking hornet
in her white silk pajamas. Her hair looked like she had been spending
the last hour and a half being thrown around her bed instead of
sleeping. Her eyes were small and red. Almost pained looking.

A
part of me maybe felt bad a little. Maybe. The other part was too
into what I was working on to give a shit. It wasn't my problem that
she was a heavy partier.

But,
damn when she pushed that door open and stormed in, grabbing all my
hammers like a madwoman... it took everything I had not to bend her
over on my makeshift table and make her scream all those filthy
things she yelled at other guys during the day. A good, solid fuck
that was what I was due for. But she was gone before I could even
really shake the idea, slamming her front door for good measure. I
could have been spiteful and gone into my toolbox and used one of my
other hammers. I could have done that.

But
that would steal the fun of going over there sometime in the near
future and getting my stuff back.

All
in all, it had been a good move even if the neighborhood and the
building and the apartment were several steps down from what I was
used to. It was a more expensive city. A downgrade was to be
expected. But there was plenty of work to be had and I always liked a
good home improvement project. The last place I'd lived, I had spent
years getting it how I wanted to be. I always liked the idea of
fixing things up myself.

When
I got my hammers back.

Her
timing actually wasn't bad. I needed to shower and get to work
anyway.

I
grabbed my wallet and my two black and metal cases with my guns
safely nestled inside and headed out the door. I would be missing the
porn show in the next apartment today. Which was disappointing. That
woman had some inventive dirty talk.

Sometimes
it was downright hilarious.

She'd
once whinnied like a horse in the throws of it all.

I
had to walk into my bathroom to laugh my ass off in private.

Five

I
threw myself down on the chair at my tiny dining room table, resting
my face in my hands. I hated new callers. It was good because you
never knew who was going to be a regular and therefore a steady
income, but that being said, learning a new guy's perversions was
always a feat. Was I their girlfriend? Was I their streetwalker? Was
I a kink? Did I need to be spanked and owned? Did I need to be the
spanker and owner? Did he want me filthy or sweet?

“Yes,”
I murmured, hearing his frustrated grunting. “Yes, baby. Right
there. Like that,” I could hear his breath hitch and had the
horrifying realization that he was crying. “You alright?”