Zipper Fall (12 page)

“Just admiring the view,” I said as I licked my lips. Then I anchored my hands against his hips and leaned in, letting him feel the heat of my moist breath first.

“Gaudens!”

“Hmmm.” Not to be distracted by his insistence, I leaned in some more, stroking the side of my neck on his silken hardness. He gasped and I purred and did it again, eager to hear the sounds of his pleasure.

His tip felt so soft against my parted lips; he bucked a little, recklessly seeking contact. I had planned to toy with him—to use my tongue sparingly, barely touching at first—but his action brought a scent of his previously hidden parts to my nose.

I loved the spicy, musky smell of sex as much as I loved the smooth hardness of cock.

Oh, fuck it. I just want….

I wrapped my lips around him and descended without hesitation. My nose was buried in those lush curls within a second. I heard him cry out and did it again and again, just feeling his rigid texture and his need—

My fingers grasped his base and squeezed it tight; he whimpered, trying to thrust—

I deep-throated him and gave a few swallows, massaging his head with the softness of my throat.

Jack exploded. I felt his jizz splatter way past my tonsils and, being as deep as he was, the bitter liquid invaded my sinuses. His powerful, musky scent reminded me that I had had almost three very stiff martinis and the world wasn’t as stable as it used to be. I swallowed, then swallowed again. The rest of Jack spurted into unintended passages and was dripping down my nose as my eyes begun tearing up. Having Jack Azurri come out my nose was much like being a victim of pepper spray.

I reached for the tail of his shirt and, half-blind, wiped my nose on it.

“What the… hey.” His voice didn’t have any more bite and hardly any bark left. “You can’t do that to my shirt.”

“Sorry….” I lifted my head, finally meeting his dazed, glazed-over eyes. “That’s just your come. You came so big, it came out my nose.”

His laughter split the air and, for whatever reason, he seemed pleased with himself, as though he did something he ought to be proud of.

“Stuff it! It fucking hurts.”

“Oh.” He handed me a box of tissues, and I turned to the side and emptied my nose of what didn’t belong there.

“Why does it hurt?” he asked.

“I dunno. It’s just bitter and it stings—I guess the pH is all wrong for that part of the body, y’know?”

“Sorry,” he said, not sounding sorry at all. He had a silly grin on his face, an expression similar to my current laptop wallpaper.

Then it hit me. “Hey, you didn’t roar for me!”

“I know,” he said. “I held back in hope that you’d give it another try soon.”

Bastard.

Then again, this way I’d get to keep my ringtone.

I got up and stumbled into the bathroom, the mixture of alcohol and unexpected chemical attack suddenly causing a chain of reactions in my body. As soon as I managed to slam the door shut, I fell to my knees once again, this time before Jack’s toilet bowl.

The contents of my stomach were forcibly expelled. Jack’s jizz was all gone, Jack’s martinis were all gone, my long-gone dinner was… wasn’t there. Well, that explained a lot. I hadn’t realized how late it had gotten.

Oh God, never again. I promise.

Never again will I drink on an empty stomach.

I heaved again and again, but nothing came out. If you’ve never had dry-heaves before, you’re lucky; few sensations are as disconcerting as feeling your stomach spasm and contract, trying to expel a vile substance that is, unfortunately, no longer there.

“Gaudens?” There was a knock on the bathroom door. I heaved again. “Are you okay?”

I didn’t bother with a reply. What kind of a moron would ask a question like that? However, moments later the bathroom door opened and Azurri came in with a tall glass of ice water.

“Have a sip. Not too much.”

I rinsed my mouth and spat into the toilet. My hair was plastered to my clammy forehead and my face felt slick with sweat. Never, to my recollection, had I felt less sexy than at that moment.

I closed my eyes, resting my forehead on my arm. Only vaguely do I remember having felt a smidgeon of gratitude for Jack’s caring hands, and for the cool, moist towel on my forehead.

I
WOKE
up in bed. I could tell even with my eyes closed, and I had no intention of opening them, because I had a mean headache. My eyes didn’t want to open and face the world. Searing embarrassment flooded me as I recalled the events of the previous night. I suppressed a groan and forced my eyes open, but the bedroom was fairly dark and heavy rain still drummed on the windowpanes. It must have been early. The best I could do was sneak out of Jack’s apartment before he woke up.

At some point I began to think of the tall and handsome man by his first name. Up until very recently, we spat our last names at one another with contempt, foregoing all honorifics: manners, the veneer that made polite society a viable concept, were almost absent in our interactions.

Or were they? Did we, perhaps, merely express our dissonant liking for one another in a coarser, more primitive manner?

Being carried over broken glass.

Cool washcloth on my forehead.

No, Jack wasn’t an indifferent cad. He only acted like one.

Returning stolen goods.

Doing work for free.

Likewise, I wasn’t a hardened criminal. I was merely an incompetent one.

Slowly, not rustling the crisp, white sheet that covered me, I slid to the ground. The soft, white carpet of Jack’s bedroom silenced the light tap of my feet as I landed. Crouched behind the bed, I realized I was dressed in nothing but a pair of Jack’s black silk shorts.

I listened.

Nothing.

The rain-darkened sky made it hard to judge the time of the day. With painful stealth I straightened, only to find the other side of Jack’s bed hadn’t been slept on. A feeling of doom came upon me. He must have cleaned me up and changed me into his own clean underwear, and he was probably still asleep on his own sofa.

I pattered outside his bedroom, the layout of the apartment now so familiar I could have found my way around in absolute darkness. I peered down the hallway and into the large living room. In the relative light of day and undistracted by Jack’s presence, I took a look around. The space was still the way I remembered it from my first break-in: half of it was full of boxes and assorted pieces of furniture jumbled all together, the other half was a tidy, modern living area with a leather couch and a large, flat-screen TV. The couch was where I had given Jack one of the best blowjobs in living memory—and I expected to see him there, asleep.

Except he wasn’t there. Only a pillow and a blanket betrayed where he had spent the night.

“Jack?”

Not hearing an answer, I walked into the living room as a vague sense of guilt washed over me for having driven him out of his own bed. Then I stopped, utterly flabbergasted to see my wet green rappel line coiled on the glass coffee table. Rainwater still weeped from the woven rope, making a puddle on the gleaming surface. My black clothing, formerly soaking wet, was washed and dried and neatly folded on top of my backpack next to it.

I halted my steps, thinking. It wasn’t easy to penetrate the drowsy, sore cobwebs of my mind, but eventually I managed: Jack had gone up to the roof to retrieve my rope in pouring rain. He had washed and dried my clothes. What happened to the garments he lent me the night before? If he’d stripped me out of them, I must have been a real mess.

A white sheet of paper was stuck in the coils of the expensive rope.

Hey Gaudens,

I got your rope. Your climbing harness is still in the vent, and if you fail to use it next time, I’ll never want to see you again, you idiot. You could’ve died, you dimwit. Sorry to make you sick. I’m at work; let me know when you’re ready to leave.

Jack

I sat on the sofa, reading and rereading the note, trying to discern extra bits of meaning from between the lines. His upset over the harness was rather unexpected, as was the “sorry” part. Maybe he was just sorry about getting me drunk so fast; no guy will admit to tasting that vile. Although, the alcohol might have something to do with my reaction. The thought of his martini made my gorge rise, and I sat up straight, regaining my composure.

My cell phone told me it was almost eleven. First, I’d shower. Then I’d dress. Then I’d snoop around. Jack was a closed book to me. Judging by his apartment, I’d have to conclude his character was akin to having a case of split personality. Streamlined, modern décor clashed with boxes of tchotchkes and antiques. I wanted to use my nefarious skills not to purloin objects, but rather to acquire information about the object of my infatuation.

Half an hour later I felt a lot more civilized, and I applied my newfound energies to cracking Jack’s safe. Now, you might think this was an evil thing to do, but I had a good reason. I wanted to learn more about him, and what a man puts in his safe says a lot about what sort of a man he might be. Resolved to only take a gentle peek, I approached the cheap painting replica in its ornate frame and swung it open, revealing a gray, metal door with one simple dial.

I took a deep breath and released the air, preparing myself. My fingers felt sensitive, itching with anticipation. With a controlled exhale, I took hold of the dial and spun it clockwise. The gears moved with smooth precision. I didn’t hear any clicks, didn’t see it stop at a convenient point all by itself. Lacking my stethoscope, I leaned my ear against the metal and slowly rotated the dial until I detected the slightest change in sound and resistance. The feeling was miniscule and unquantifiable; I probably only imagined it. Eyes closed, I felt a smile creep to my face as I slowly rotated the dial in the opposite direction. I passed the point of the first stop and waited for the next one—then I rotated the dial clockwise again, waiting for the final destination. It felt pretty good, like a highly sophisticated high school locker. It took me a few tries, but eventually I leaned against the door gently and its spring-loaded mechanism pushed it open. An automatic light came on. The safe wasn’t huge but it still had three shelves.

The top shelf had a 9mm Glock on it and a few spare boxes of ammo. I recognized the gun but didn’t touch it.

The middle shelf had an accordion folder with papers in it; I pulled it out and rifled through the contents, trying not to disturb anything. Insurance policies, a passport, a lot more cash than in the freezer, several loose family photographs, a birth certificate and a social security card, a car title, a will and a living will, and three death certificates. Eyebrows raised, I gently pulled those out. Helen and Raymond Azurri appeared to have been his parents, and their death occurred on the same day ten years ago. The third one testified to the death of one Celia Azurri—its paper wasn’t yellowed like the other two, and was dated to only nine months ago.

Had he been married?

He had said he was too depressed to deal with me the first time around.

Shit.

I replaced everything, taking care to make it the way it was—you don’t need to have photographic memory to do that sort of thing, you just need to be observant enough.

The last shelf held a thin cardboard box. Well… I had already gone this far, I might as well see it all. I pulled it out and opened it. Gold and silver gleamed at me, reflecting the dim daylight. Green emeralds twinkled from an ornate necklace, a bracelet, a pair of earrings… it looked real alright, and pretty old. There were some other pieces, mostly women’s stuff. The two men’s rings that sat there would have fit him, but I’d never seen him wear any jewelry at all. I slid it all back and shut the safe and closed the picture. Then I went to the bathroom and washed my hands and face again, barely able to breathe.

Who was this man? Not a single family photo was to be seen anywhere; his living areas, the ones that didn’t look like an antique shop, were rather plain. Impersonal, even. I knew a little about his former work at Provoid Brothers. Once their CEO got carted off to jail for massive fraud, the corporate officers got dragged over hot coals. Some, like Risby Haus and his boss, Kevin Toussey, were barred from work in the industry, while others got another chance. Jack Azurri would have been one of those. His work history didn’t tell me much about him as a person, though. I needed to find out more.

I opened and closed his drawers, having learned he preferred silk boxers for underwear. His medicine cabinet revealed a snapshot of a healthy man prone to occasional headaches and an allergy to poison ivy.

I decided to call my best friend, since it was right before I knew she’d go out for lunch. “Hey, Reyna. What can you tell me about your former boss?”

“Uh… why do you wanna know?”

I hesitated. Not even Reyna knew about my shadier activities. “Um, I’m at his place right now, and it’s kind of… weird.”

“What?” I heard her choke on something and cough. “What are you doing there?”

“I, um… I started something with him, as you know, and it sort of took on a life of its own… so anyway, I stayed the night and he let me sleep in. What I wanna know is, why would he have this simple, masculine furniture right next to boxes full of, you know, knick-knacks?”

“Gimme a second…. You made me spill my tea.” I hadn’t known Reyna to be a tea drinker, not unless Pillory decided to wean her off coffee. My old boss claimed coffee was evil and smelled up the whole lunchroom. “Okay, then. I joined Provoid Brothers as a temp. Azurri was on some kind of a family-related leave back then. I rearranged his files, and when he got back, it really pissed him off.”

“What was the leave about?”

“He never said, but wait. I’ll ask—they did go to school together, after all….” I heard steps going down the hallway, then a knock on the door. “Hey Auguste, a question for you….”

I tuned out anything Reyna was asking my former boss, too stunned by the fact that my best friend would be on first-name basis with the cool, reserved man. Pillory—or preferably, Mr. Pillory—never let anyone call him by his first name before. Interesting….