Love Me In Darkness

As the covers gradually glided down my body, I felt a gentle hand rest on the small of my back. The touch was incredibly warm, almost to the point of being scorching, as if the blood coursing through its veins raced faster than that of any ordinary man. If this were indeed the case, I wouldn't find it surprising.

With a heavy heart, I reluctantly opened my eyes, only to be greeted by darkness, as always, whenever he paid me a visit. In these moments, a recurring pattern emerged-a fleeting instance of lucidity. It was a fleeting moment when my rational mind urged me to shut my eyes, part my lips, and sternly instruct him to depart.

However, deep down, I knew that if I were to muster the courage to voice my desire for him to leave, he would oblige without uttering a single word. As silently as he appeared, he would vanish into the night, leaving me alone with my conflicting emotions.

And he'd never come back.

But this was the right thing to do. The smart thing to do. Thesanething to do.

And I was thinking of doing it, honest to God, I was. I thought about doing it every time.

Then I felt his weight hit the bed, his body stretching out beside mine, he turned me into him, I opened my mouth to speak and before I could do the sane thing, his mouth was on mine.

And for the next two hours, I didn't think at all.

But I felt. I felta lot.

And all of it wasgood.

* * * * *

The room remained shrouded in darkness as I observed the shifting silhouette of the man. Lying in bed, I quietly watched him glide about without making a sound, which struck me as rather peculiar. Apart from a faint rustling of his clothes, an encompassing silence enveloped his movements.

Even as an indistinct figure, it was evident that he exuded an air of powerful and masculine grace, an aspect that struck me as unusual. Witnessing my enigmatic visitor donning his clothes was akin to observing a mesmerizing display of a badass, macho dance – or at least that's how it felt to me. Of course, such a comparison is not something one encounters every day, except in my bedroom, when he paid his visits. Well, to be precise, when he prepared to depart.

I was so captivated by the scene that I could've sold tickets to this enthralling display. But the thought of sharing this intimate experience with others gave me pause. Already, it seemed like I might have unwittingly shared these private moments with half of Denver, each of them getting their exclusive glimpse of our passionate encounters. The mere idea of it messed with my head, along with the fact that he kept coming back, and I willingly allowed him to do so, culminating in shared pleasure, followed by his own satisfaction. Often, like tonight, the cycle would repeat.

To be honest, I wasn't exactly thrilled about the notion of sharing even more than I might already have.

I closely observed his every move as he made his way to the bed, my senses heightened with anticipation. He leaned in low, his hand generating a comforting heat on my knee, and his fingers curling around the back, while he placed a tender kiss on my hip, his lips delicately grazing my skin, sending tingles throughout my body. Then, with a swift motion, he pulled the covers up, revealing my waist as they cascaded down.

I was mostly lying on my belly, partially on my side, with my arm bent, and my hand nestled under my face on the pillow. His body shifted in my direction, and his fingers slipped under my hair, gently pulling it back as his lips found their way to my ear.

"See you later, babe," he murmured softly.

"Later," I responded in hushed tones.

Ever so slightly, he shifted his head, and his lips gently brushed against the skin at the back of my ear, followed by the tantalizing touch of his tongue. The sensation sent tingles coursing through my body, causing me to shiver with delight.

He considerately pulled the covers up, ensuring I was cozily tucked in up to my shoulder.

Then, with a swift and silent maneuver, he turned, and just like that, he was gone. Not a sound, not even the faintest creak of the door opening or closing. It was as if he had never been there in the first place.

It's simply mind-boggling, utterly crazy.

I gazed at my bedroom door for a while, my body feeling warm, content, and weary, but my mind didn't share the same sentiment. Turning onto my back, I wrapped the covers around my naked form and fixated my gaze on the ceiling above.

The truth was, I didn't even know his name, which made me whisper to myself, "God, I feel like such a slut."

The next morning, I found myself sitting at my computer in my home office, feeling like I should be getting down to work. You see, I had three looming deadlines, and the truth was, I hadn't even made much progress on the tasks at hand. I work as a freelance editor, getting paid by the hour, so if I didn't put in those hours, well, no paycheck for me. And let's face it, I had my own mouth to feed, not to mention a body to clothe. My body had quite the fondness for all sorts of clothes, and it craved them, so I had to indulge that craving to keep everything smooth and trouble-free.

Plus, there was my cosmopolitan addiction to consider, and as we all know, cosmos don't come cheap. And on top of all that, I had my house to think about. I was in the process of fixing it up, making it just right for me. So, yeah, getting paid was pretty essential.

But let's be honest, when I said I was fixing up my house, that wasn't entirely true. The truth was, my Dad had chipped in and done some of the work, and my friend Troy had also lent a helping hand. So, I guess you could say I had a house that I was sweet-talking, begging, and maybe even emotionally blackmailing others into fixing up for me.

Nonetheless, the fact remained that my house needed some serious TLC. Those cabinets and tiles I wanted didn't just magically appear and say, "Hey, Pennelope Casey, we want to be a part of your home, so fix us to your walls!" Nope, that was purely a wishful thought that only happened in fairy tales.

That sort of thing only happened in my dreams, and let me tell you, I had plenty of them, most of which were just daydreams.

Like at that very moment, while I sat at my computer with one heel propped on the seat, my chin resting on my knee, and my eyes gazing out the window, my mind wandered off to the Mysterious Stranger, whom I affectionately referred to as the Great MS. I couldn't help but indulge in a little daydream about our first meeting. In this imagined scenario, I was a whole lot smarter, funnier, and way more mysterious and alluring. My charming qualities would have him instantly hooked, dazzled by my sharp wit, my talent for engaging conversation, and my ability to delve into politics and global affairs with ease. Oh, and not to forget my humble tales of extensive charity work, all bundled up with irresistible looks that promised a lifetime of unforgettable experiences, even making him confess his undying love for me.

Or, at the very least, I hoped he'd reveal his name to me.

But let's face it, instead of being any of those things, I was simply drunk, and not at all the impressive version of myself that I daydreamed about.

The sound of my doorbell broke through my elaborate daydream, and I snapped back to reality, just as things were starting to get interesting.

With a sense of curiosity, I got up from my seat and strolled through my office into the upstairs hall, all the while reminding myself to give Troy a call. Once again, the doorbell needed fixing, and I had this brilliant idea of offering him a six pack and a homemade pizza in exchange for his handyman skills. But then, a not-so-appealing thought crept into my mind – bringing along his new girlfriend, who was nothing short of annoying, whiny, and constantly complaining. That changed my plans, and I decided it'd be better to give my Dad a call.

As I made my way down the stairs and ventured through my wide living room, I tried my best to ignore the chaos that surrounded me. My living room was like a display of Fixer Upper Décor, cluttered with dust rags, paint brushes, power tools, and a collection of not-so-powerful tools. Cans and tubes of practically everything added to the clutter, all of it haphazardly jumbled together and coated in a fine layer of dust. Surprisingly, I managed to navigate through the chaos without succumbing to the urge to clutch my hair with frustration or let out a scream of exasperation – small wins, I'd call it, small wins of progress.

I arrived at the entryway, marked by two narrow walls adorned with stunning stained glass.

That stained glass was the beginning of my troubles, exactly two years ago. Approximately six months and two weeks before I crossed paths with my Mysterious Stranger, I took a single step into this chaotic and dilapidated house, caught sight of that captivating stained glass, and without hesitation, turned to the realtor, proclaiming, "I'll take it."

The realtor's face instantly lit up with delight.

As for my father, he hadn't even stepped inside yet, but his eyes sought solace in the heavens above, and he sent up a prayer that seemed to last an eternity. His subsequent lecture lasted even longer.

But, despite my father's sensible advice, I went ahead and bought the house anyway.

As always, in hindsight, I really should have listened to my dad.

Glancing out the narrow side window at the door, my heart sank as I saw Roxy, my sister's friend, standing there.

Oh, shoot.

Oh, shoot, shoot, shoot.

I couldn't stand Roxy, and the feeling was mutual. What on earth was she doing there?

I peeked past her, scanning the area to check if my sister might be lurking or perhaps concealing herself in the shrubbery. With Payton and Roxy, I wouldn't put it past them to surprise me, subdue me, and then ransack my house. In my more ominous daydreams, I often pictured this as a regular pastime for them. I had a strong hunch that this wasn't too far from the truth. No joke.

Her eyes locked onto mine through the window, her face scrunching up in a way that could be considered pretty if she eased up on the black eyeliner and blush, not to mention using a lip liner that matched her lip gloss a bit better. As it was, the look didn't quite hit the mark.

"I see you!" she shouted, and I let out a sigh.

Inevitably, I made my way to the door, because if I didn't, Roxy would make sure the whole neighborhood heard her. I quite liked my neighbors, and I'm pretty sure they didn't need a biker-bitch-from-hell making a scene on my doorstep at ten-thirty in the morning.

I slowly opened the door, but not too wide, positioning myself between it and the jamb while keeping a firm grip on the handle.

"Hey, Roxy," I greeted, mustering a friendly tone and feeling rather proud of my effort.

But Roxy wasn't about to exchange pleasantries. Instead, she retorted, "Forget 'hey', is Payton here?"

See! That's exactly what I was talking about. Roxy totally spent her days causing chaos.

I took a deep breath, making a conscious effort to keep my eyes from rolling.

"No," I replied.

Undeterred, Roxy issued her warning, "If she's in there, you better tell me!"

Then, she looked beyond me and unleashed a thunderous shout, "Payton! Bitch, if you're in there, you better come out here, right now!"

"Roxy!" I snapped, trying to maintain some level of decorum. "Keep your voice down!"

But Roxy seemed unfazed, craning her neck and bouncing on her toes as she continued to holler, "Payton! Payton, you crazy, stupid, bitch! Get your ass out here!"

I stepped out the door, gently pushing Roxy back before closing it behind me, and hissed, "Seriously, Roxy, you need to shut up! Payton isn't here, and she's never here. You know that perfectly well. So stop yapping and get going."

But Roxy wasn't about to back down. She shot back, "You shut up. And don't act all smart. You're helping her..." She raised her hand, pointed her finger at me, and with a quick motion, she crooked her thumb, making a gunshot noise that puffed out her cheeks and caused her lips to vibrate. I would have admired her talent for making verbal sound effects, but the intense and dead-serious look in her eyes sent a shiver down my spine.

So, instead of praising her for the one real talent I suspected she had, I opted to whisper, "What?"

In response, she dropped her hand, rising up on her motorcycle-booted toes to bring our gazes level. In a soft, yet threatening voice, she said, "D-e-a-d, dead. You and her, you don't get smart. You understand me?"

Then, in a moment of utter foolishness, I posed a question that was asked repeatedly, and the answer was always the same – yes.

"Is Payton in some kind of trouble?" I inquired, hoping against hope that maybe, just maybe, the response would differ this time.

But as expected, Roxy gave me a look that implied I might have a screw loose. Without hesitation, she raised her hand, conjuring the all-too-familiar gun gesture, complete with the sound effect, her finger seemingly pointed straight at my head. Following that dramatic display, she promptly turned on her heel and briskly made her way down my front steps.

I remained planted on my porch, watching her departure. My mind wandered, almost unconsciously noting her attire – a tight tank top, an unzipped black leather motorcycle jacket, a short, frayed jeans skirt (which would have been deemed a crime in multiple states for various fashion and decency-related reasons), black fishnet stockings, and motorcycle boots. And all this while it was around forty degrees outside! Not even a scarf in sight.

Yet, the remainder of my thoughts was entirely preoccupied with my sister and Roxy's unnerving sound effect.

Shit. Shit.Shit.

I drove my car, trying to convince myself that my current plan was a good one, but deep down, I knew my first plan was the right one. It involved calling my father right after Roxy left, but now I felt that the new plan was nothing but garbage.

The reason I hesitated to involve my father was because he and his wife Lily had already disowned Payton a while back. It happened shortly after they returned from their Jamaican vacation and lost all the island holiday bliss when they walked into their living room and caught sight of their daughter on her knees, head between the legs of a shirtless man with his jeans wide open. He was passed out, his head lolling on the back of the couch, while Payton, in her drugged-up state, remained completely oblivious to the fact that her activities were getting her nowhere.

And let me tell you, the state of their living room was a complete disaster, much like the rest of the house.

As you can probably gather from this story, I was reluctant to bring my father into any situation involving Payton, especially since this wasn't even the worst tale I had about her. It was just the final straw for Dad and Lily. They were currently enjoying a carefree and Payton-free life, and I had no desire to disrupt that peace.

Thus, I refrained from calling Dad.

Instead, my thoughts turned to Payton's boyfriend, Tank. As a member of a biker gang, Tank possessed a rugged exterior, embodying the very essence of toughness. Yet, despite his rough exterior, I had the chance to meet him, and surprisingly, I found myself rather fond of Tank. He had a great sense of humor and genuinely cared for my sister. In his presence, Payton displayed a somewhat improved version of herself. Not a complete transformation, mind you, but at least she became more tolerable.

Admittedly, Tank's past was likely marred with felonies, but here's the ironic twist: he happened to be a positive influence on Payton, and such influences were exceedingly rare – almost nonexistent, in fact – during the last twenty-five years. Given the not-so-subtle hint from Roxy, Payton's sole friend, that her current predicament was worse than the usual, I realized I had two tasks ahead of me. Firstly, I needed to take action to address Payton's situation. And secondly, since we were talking about Payton here, I thought it might be best to call in some reinforcements or, even better, lay the problem at their doorstep.

Enter Tank.

I hopped in my car and drove over to the auto supply store located on Broadway, where I managed to snag a parking spot on the street. Even before I got to know Tank and discovered that this store was probably a front for some shady biker gang activities, I was already familiar with it. The store was called Drive, and I had frequented it quite a bit, mainly because I could find an excuse to shop just about anywhere. But Drive was pretty awesome. They had some seriously cool stuff in there. I even purchased my windshield wiper fluid from there. Last year, I bought new car mats, and let me tell you, they were the bomb! Supreme car mats, the best I'd ever had.

Now, I must admit that back in my twenties, during one of my many phases, I was trying to pimp my ride. So, you know what I did? I went to Drive and got myself a fluffy, pink steering wheel cover. And to add some extra flair to my car, I bought a glittery, pink Playboy Bunny thingie to hang from my rearview mirror. Ah, those were the days!

Everybody in town knew that Drive had a triple-bayed garage in the back, but it wasn't your typical garage for regular cars and motorcycles. Oh no, it was exclusively reserved for the assembly of custom-built cars and motorcycles, and let me tell you, these creations were the epitome of coolness. In fact, Drive's reputation reached far beyond our little town; it was world-famous! People from all over the globe sought their services, and no wonder why – they crafted automotive and bike masterpieces that would make your jaw drop.

I once stumbled upon an article in 5280 magazine that showcased this remarkable place. Reading it, I learned that even movie stars and renowned celebrities couldn't resist the allure of Drive's offerings. They lined up to purchase their fantastic cars and bikes, and I must admit, just looking at the pictures made me yearn for one too. Alas, my bank account didn't boast hundreds of thousands of dollars, so that dream was currently residing a bit further down on my List of Things I Want. It sat right under a luxurious Tiffany's diamond bracelet, and directly under that, a pair of those stunning JiMSy Choo shoes that I simply couldn't get out of my head. One can only hope, right?

I parked my car and strolled down the sidewalk toward Drive, hoping my outfit was up to snuff. I had fashioned my hair into a girlish ponytail, tied up at the top back of my head. For attire, I chose a pair of low-rider jeans, along with some low-heeled boots that had a biker vibe. And of course, I donned my biker jacket, although it wasn't quite like Roxy's. Mine was a distressed tan leather, with some fancy quilting around the high waist area, and it boasted a cozy lining of short, warm fur. But the unique feature was the six-inch tuft of fluffy fur at the sleeves. I personally found it super cool, and the deal I snagged on that jacket was nothing short of red-hot.

However, there was a tiny bit of uncertainty gnawing at me regarding the fluffy fur. I mean, I didn't think bikers were overly concerned with animal rights, but I couldn't help wondering if they might take it as an affront to their brotherhood. There was this tiny fear that they might decide to garrote me or something!

But hey, you know what they say – nothing ventured, nothing gained! So, with a deep breath and a pinch of courage, I ventured forth into Drive, hoping that my outfit would blend well with the biker ambiance and that I wouldn't be met with any unexpected surprises.

Taking a deep breath, I squared my shoulders and confidently entered the vast, cavernous store. My gaze immediately fixed on the long counter at the front, where a solitary cash register stood, despite the fact that this place could often get jam-packed with customers. Since I didn't have Tank's cell phone number, my primary objective was to inquire if anyone at Drive knew how I could reach him. I didn't exactly anticipate coming face to face with Tank, the towering, brawny, and fully tattooed guy with long, flowing blond hair, standing on the other side of the counter. On his side, there was another burly biker dude, three more on the outside, and to my surprise, all eyes turned toward me the moment I stepped inside.