I was dragging out a box dated six months ago when I heard footsteps coming toward the room. I turned around.
"Jesus Christ," he said, stopping dead, and I bit my lip to keep from laughing.
He looked at me and shook his head. "A little warning would have been nice."
"What's the fun in that?" I said cheekily.
"I'll show you fun," he said, and grabbed me and tickled, making me squirm and buck as I shouted with laughter.
"No, stop, please. I can't breathe." Tears were streaming down my hot face as I giggled and sputtered. He smacked my ass and let me go, wandering around the room and looking at the pictures on the wall. He looked delicious in the black silk boxers I'd loaned him. They had bright red lips on them and were too tight, being mediums. I hoped he had clothes in his car; otherwise the neighbors were going to get a show when he left.
"I don't mind the women," he said after a minute, "but all those dicks make me feel like I'm being watched. Look at this guy," he said, pointing to a dick as big around as a beer can. "I got nothing on that."
I had collapsed on the floor after he let me go, but managed to drag myself to a sitting position while he looked around. I smirked at his comment and flipped the lid off the box. "Don't be an idiot, I like what you've got just fine."
"Well, I like it, too," he said, rubbing himself absently.
I smiled and shook my head. I love men, I truly do.
"Are you going to help or compare yourself to all of them?" I asked waspishly, when he still hadn't bothered to come and help. So far I'd gone through half the box and didn't see anything remotely similar to the design we were looking for. I thought I would dig out the 2000 box next. That was the year I'd done the shoot with the tattooed models for an out-there gay mag in the East Village.
"What's this?" he asked, and I looked up. He was standing in front of the easel and looking at the photos of his hands.
I waited, wondering what he would say.
"I like these," was his comment, and I stared at him wonderingly. Can't he see that they are his hands?
"You did someone else's hands, too. I saw them in the showing. An old woman's."
"She's not old," I said, and he looked over at me inquiringly. "They were my mother's hands. I gave them to her for her birthday."
"They were beautiful. You really love her, huh?"
"Yes, I do," I said simply, and went back to sorting through the files. I didn't know if I could explain what that picture had meant to me. When I woke from the coma they'd kept me in to keep the swelling in my brain under control, the first thing I'd seen was a tiny blond woman with blue eyes looking down at me. She was crying and laughing at the same time and calling me her baby. It took me a minute to recognize her voice, and when I did I became even more frightened than before. I didn't recognize her. This stranger had my mother's voice. I panicked and jerked away, screaming, and the doctors came in and sedated me. It took days to sort out what was wrong with me, and I cried every time I looked at my mother and didn't see the woman I loved more than my own heart.
I remembered learning in college that when a baby first looks into its mother's face, there is an instant connection. Something about the mother being a mirror of that child's self, and that mirror in some way defines what it means to exist. I would argue that it also first defines what it means to love. I think that was the hardest part for me, losing that connection, and it wasn't till I looked down at her hand clasped in mine weeks later that I found a measure of peace. They were my mother's hands, wrinkled and tiny, filled with love.
"You okay?" Marshall asked, jerking my attention back to him.
"Yeah," I said. "Why don't you get the box marked 2000. I took a picture of a bunch of tattooed freaks that year."
"Should be interestin'," was his only comment. He didn't know the half of it.
THREE O'CLOCK ROLLED around before either of us had found anything, though we'd spent a good part of the time fucking rather than working. The first bout had started innocently enough. He'd pulled a 3x5-inch print out of the box he was looking through and told me he wanted to keep it.
It was a black-and-white shot of a woman sitting cross-legged on a mat, stark naked and smiling brightly. She looked familiar, but I didn't recognize her.
"Why?" I asked.
He looked at me kinda funny and took the picture back. "Because I want a nekkid picture of you and I like your smile in this one."
"Okay," I said quickly, but he caught on.
"You don't recognize yourself, either, do you?"
"Nope," I said offhandedly, but he wasn't buying my nonchalance. He caught me by the back of the neck and pulled me to him, kissing me roughly.
"My poor baby," he murmured. "Sweet girl." And then he began kissing my face. My eyelids, cheeks, the tips of my nose, my chin, all got the same reverent attention. He pushed me down on my back and slid his hands under the man's button-down shirt I wore, catching the top of my panties and pulling them down my legs. I tried to help, unbuttoning the top button of my shirt before he pushed my hands under my head and told me to keep them there.
He shoved the boxers down, spread my legs, and took me. I was already wet. Wet just from sitting near him while he was half-naked, wet from the sound of his voice, and the tenderness of his touch.
He rode me gently, abrading my back on the hardwood floor as his thrusts moved me back and forth. I trembled, lifting my chest toward him. He obliged, sliding his hands under my shoulder blades and lifting me up. I let my head drop back, my fingers laced tightly behind my neck as he suckled me through the fabric of my shirt.
It felt as if he did me for hours, so tirelessly, so carefully did he work me. My orgasm caught me by surprise. One minute I was just enjoying the feel of him inside me, running himself over all my secret places, and then I was biting my lip and whimpering in pleasure as my body convulsed and shuddered around him. My climax brought his own, jerking his hips into me spasmodically.
"Damn woman, you're going to kill me," he said into my neck.
I stretched under him, lifting one knee and hooking it on his hip. Rubbing against him, I murmured, "You'll die a happy man," and he groaned and proceeded to take me again, at some point lifting one of my legs over his shoulder while the other rode high on his hip. I'd never been so grateful to the yoga classes that kept me flexible and strong. I wasn't sure I'd be able to walk otherwise.
He helped me load up my car with camera equipment. I would have to hurry to get everything set up when I got there, though I wouldn't even begin shooting until sunset, which didn't start until about eight P.M. this time of year. I'd been allowed to take light readings about the same time the week before, so I had some idea of what to set my equipment for.
He'd made me get his clothes out of his truck, a pair of old jeans and a white T-shirt that I'd lifted to my face and sniffed as I brought them back to the house. It smelled like laundry soap and the warm, musky scent of his body.
He called Stevens again, but his partner still hadn't found anything, so he asked me if I would mind if he stayed and kept looking through my files while I was gone. I said no, I wouldn't mind, and it was the truth, though I was surprised that I was so comfortable letting him invade my space. God knows he'd invaded my body.
I gave him my spare key in case he needed to leave and left him standing in the doorway wearing nothing but his jeans, waving my white undies at me like a flag before going back in the house. Dirty man, I thought happily, and drove away with my body tingling and a smile on my face.
Chapter Seven
I've always loved driving on the freeway in San Diego. Everyone goes like ninety miles an hour and the weather is usually nice enough to roll down the windows. The traffic could suck, though, especially on the I-5. It was even worse than usual that day and it took me a while to figure out why: the Del Mar fair. I'd forgotten about it. The traffic always caused a backup that hung around for hours. I twitched impatiently, wanting to get the photos done and get back home so I cou
ld screw my detective's brains out.
A half hour later I was passing the fairgrounds, looking at the brightly lit rides. I could take him there, I thought, remembering that I had free tickets. I used to enter my photographs in the competitions there in high school, and now gave a lot of money in scholarships to the winners. As one of the contributors, I got complimentary passes every season.
I hadn't gone in a long time. Almost two years, not since my friend Sara had been stationed in San Diego. I smiled, remembering that night. I loved Sara, but even I had to admit that she was a slut. A beloved one, but a slut nonetheless.
We'd been drinking quite a bit beforehand. My little sister had driven us with a bunch of her high school friends, making us promise to leave when she called us. We'd agreed, though I think both of us secretly intended to find other accommodations for the evening.
I have to give Sara credit. She found them in record time: twins, tall, gorgeous, and from the look in their eyes, more than willing to give her a go. I had doubts at first; they were carnies after all, though they seemed reasonably clean, but when Sara pulled me aside and whispered that they were hung like horses, I laughed and told her to take her time.
I waited in a lawn chair outside their brightly painted trailer in the staff parking lot while she entertained the boys. I thought about asking if I could photograph them after the sex marathon was finished. I'd never shot twins before, but I didn't have my tripod and the ick factor was a little too high since they would have just taken a dip in my best friend.
She fucked them until the park closed. I had to bang on the door like a madwoman to get their attention. One of the guys opened it, stark naked, and asked if I wanted a go.
I declined politely and shouted for Sara to get her butt outside. She came out ten minutes later, kissing and petting each of the boys, a Cheshire-cat grin stretching her face. We hurried to meet my irate sister in the parking lot. She'd been waiting for an hour, calling frantically on my cell phone, which I'd forgotten to charge. I apologized, and Sara gave her the giant pink panther George (or was it Willie?) had given her as a farewell token. She took it, but made me promise to tell our mother it was my fault she was late getting back. I promised and we got in the backseat. Two of my sister's friends were in there, staring at us like we were insane.
I laughed at the memory, coming back to myself, and thought wickedly that maybe it was my turn to get laid at the Del Mar fair.
I was fifteen minutes late getting to the lighthouse. It was gorgeous, white, and shining. I'd read up a little on its history. It'd been built in either the late eighteenth or early nineteenth century (I couldn't remember), but was shut down shortly after. The designers hadn't considered its position very well, and its guiding light was more often than not blocked by low fog.
It was privately owned, though there were public tours in and out during the day. The best part of the interior was the great full-length windows looking out over the ocean. The models I'd chosen for the photographs were four women: a great-grandmother, grandmother, mother, and daughter. All gorgeous, stately, green-eyed brunettes. I'd met them while having dinner at a nearby Italian restaurant, which they owned and ran together.
I didn't expect them for another hour, but I still hurried to set up my equipment. I thought maybe I would try to get some shots of them on the beach as well, just for shits and giggles.
They arrived in a blue Ford Escort, laughing and singing as they got out of the car. The youngest, Lena, spotted me first, giving me a hug and a water bottle full of sangria, which explained the rosy glow to their cheeks and the bright smiles on their faces.
I smiled in return, enjoying them as I did so few people. They were such a happy, laughing family, but I think I liked them mostly because their features were so similar. Only their ages marked the gaps between them, and I felt strangely that when I spoke with one, I spoke with them all. It took the pressure off me to separate them as individuals, and something in me sighed and relaxed.
I photographed two of them hugging each other and smiling while the others lounged naked nearby. They were my priestesses, my goddesses of love and beauty. I took several rolls of photographs in different poses while the sun sank slowly in the sky. I asked the women if they wanted some shots on the beach as well, which I'd made sure was private property, so we wouldn't get in trouble.
The two youngest women squealed in delight at the idea and ran for the stairs. I took my Nikon, loaded with color film this time, and walked more sedately down the steps with Rosa and her daughter, Isabel, following behind me.
The two younger women were already splashing in the shallow water, naked and frolicking like nymphs. I snapped a picture quickly, at a high enough shutter speed to freeze the droplets of water sparkling gold against the orange and red sky.
When the light got too low, I stopped and let the camera hang around my neck. I breathed in deeply, enjoying the feel of the wind in my hair.
Rosa spoke next to me, her eyes on her children. "You bring your man, eat dinner with us."
I nodded, smiling at her, not asking how she knew I was with someone. It probably showed on my face.
She turned to me then, reaching up with her gnarled hands to cup my cheeks. "This hurt in you," she said, and waited for me to nod my understanding, "this hurt is not everything. Is not so deep that it touched your heart. Understand, cara?"
"Yes, ma'am," I whispered, and wanted to cry.
"Good," she said briskly, and dropped her arms. "Come, children," she called out, loudly for such an old woman, "we go now."
I stayed on the beach for a while after they left, letting the sound of the surf roll in my ears and wash away all my worries, then I got up and went to collect my stuff before the lighthouse keeper arrived to lock up.
Chapter Eight
The drive home seemed to take forever. I didn't relax until I turned down my street and saw that Marshall's truck was still in my driveway, though he had moved it in front of my garage door for some reason. I parked my car beside it and jumped out with only my purse and my camera bag. I figured I'd get him to move the car with all the camera equipment into the garage later.
It was about eight-thirty. Too late to go out on a weeknight, but I didn't care. I wanted food and his body, and I didn't particularly care what order I got them in. I thought he should've been able to look through everything by now, which meant that either he'd found something, or I was probably wrong about seeing the tattoo before. At any rate, he was all mine, and I was looking forward to enjoying him.
The first thing I noticed was the heavenly smells emanating from the back of the house. He was grilling. I could see him through the French doors that opened out onto my back porch. He was still barefoot and shirtless, wearing only the holey jeans he'd had on before.
He'd put on my Elvis's greatest hits CD, and I could've sworn from the motion of his head that he was singing along to "All Shook Up." I bit my lip to keep from laughing and walked quietly through the living room and the French door he'd left wide open.
I slid my arms around his back, and he stilled, craning his neck around to look back at me.
"Hello, gorgeous," he said, twisting to drop a kiss on my lips. I kissed him back, gripping the belt loops on the back of his jeans.
We broke away and I smiled at him. "Hello, handsome. Don't you know better than to let people sneak up on you?"
"You can sneak up on me anytime."
"You heard my car, didn't you?" I said suspiciously.
He grinned and turned back to the grill, humming again.
"Uh-huh," I said. "Well, I can't be too annoyed with you. You might not feed me."
"Are you hungry, then?"
"Starved."
"Good, you can start the greens."
"I have to cook?" I pouted, and he looked at me again.
"God, I love it when you do that," he said, yanking me into him and nipping my lower lip. I squealed and tried to nip him in return.
"The greens, woman, or no mea
t for you," he ordered, pushing me away, and went back to expertly flipping sauce-covered chicken pieces with a pair of tongs.
"Okay," I said with a heavy sigh, "but can you move my car into the garage later? It's got all my equipment inside it."
"Sure," he said. "How was the shoot?"
Was it me, or did he sound deliberately casual? "It was great," I said, a little confused. "I'll tell you about it while we eat."
"Okay," he replied with what I thought was a decided lack of enthusiasm.
I didn't know what his problem was. I thought he would've loved to see those four naked women set against a panoramic backdrop of the ocean. I know they would've enjoyed his attention.
"How long till they're ready?" I wanted to know.
" 'Bout fifteen minutes, I think."
"Cool," I replied, and went back in the house.
I pulled a box of butter beans out of the freezer, hoping that was the kind of "greens" my Southern boy meant. I certainly didn't have collard greens or okra handy; there just wasn't much of a market for it in Southern California. What a shocker.
I thought corn bread would be good, too, so I got out the cast-iron pans my grandmother had given me and pulled out a box of instant corn bread mix.
I put on a white chef's apron that my sister had painted a dragon on and given to me on my birthday last year. I didn't take her choice of beasts as a comment on my character, but I probably should have.
It was as I was wrapping the ties around my middle that I remembered Marshall's comment to me the other night. His fantasy was to come into the kitchen and find me wearing nothing but an apron. I thought about that for a second, flushing a little at the idea of it, and carefully turned off the stove.