Fake Dark Vows

6

“The door,” she breathes when I move my mouth down to the base of her throat.

I don’t waste a beat.

I move her around so that her back is pressed up against the front door. It rattles, but I ignore the sound, and drag her dress up, over her waist, further, until her breasts are exposed. Her n*****s are small, pink, and erect. I pin her arms above her head while my mouth closes around one, teasing it with my tongue, tasting the faint tang of shower gel and fabric softener.

She’s clean, so clean… I bite her n****e and she lets out a yelp of surprise rather than pain.

It’s all the prompting I need.

I release her and drag her dress over her shoulders. She doesn’t resist. She keeps her arms raised, spurring me on, doesn’t even attempt to remove my tie or unzip my pants. She’s enjoying the vulnerability of being n***d in the hallway of her apartment building as much as I am.

Her dress lands in a crumpled heap on the floor behind me. “You want to take this inside?” I murmur.

She doesn’t move. There are pink marks in the soft flesh around her mouth from my teeth, and her swollen lips tilt upwards at the corners. “No,” she says. “Do you?”

My mouth finds hers. I hold her wrists above her head and push a finger inside her, feel how wet she is, and add a second finger. She kisses me back. Greedy kisses, hot, fast, brutal almost. I slide my fingers back out and raise them to my mouth—our tongues meet as we both taste her, l*****g the wetness, combining it when we kiss.

I lower my hands to her hips, my tongue trailing down between her breasts, circling her belly button, and down further still. Kneeling, I spread her legs, and she grips the door frame either side of her as I slide my tongue in. I’m rough with her. Nibbling, sucking, probing.

I don’t stop until she squeezes her eyes shut and her breathing becomes shallow, and then I pull away. I stand up, lick the taste of her from my lips, and take her hand. “I’m not finished yet,” I say.

“Neither am I.”

Grabbing her dress and my jacket, she leads me, n***d, up the stairs to her apartment, lets herself in the door, and slips her shoes off. “Where were we?”

An empty bottle of brandy is on its side on the floor when I wake up. I vaguely remember Wren opening it and half-filling a glass. She took the first gulp and dribbled the liquid from her mouth into mine before I pulled her on top of me and we picked up where we’d left off in the hallway.

I prop myself on one elbow and study her face.

In slumber, with the daylight filtering in through the open curtains, I can see the resemblance to her sister even more. Her features are a little softer perhaps, the smudges under her eyes a little lighter, her lips plumper and less defined, as though she hasn’t quite allowed life in this noisy bustling city to harden her. Not the impression I’d gotten the night before.

In the kitchen, I turn on the faucet and wait for the water to run cold. I fill a glass, down it without stopping for air, and refill it a second time. It’s true what they say: water is life. I feel it reenergizing me like a tree slurping the rainfall.

The kitchen is untidy. A loaf of sliced bread is open on the side, the contents spilling out across a scarred breadboard. A buckled box of Kraft macaroni cheese sachets has been left next to the kettle. The sink is filled with used dishes and coffee-stained mugs, and a lid is only half on a jar of strawberry jelly.

My mother would throw a hissy fit if she saw this. I can’t even imagine Julia in this environment with her crisp outfits and perfectly manicured fingernails.

The living space is no better.

I spot a carton in one corner which I missed the night before because I was preoccupied elsewhere, and cross the room, lifting the flap and peering inside.

On top is a camera and tripod. Portable spotlights. Underneath, a stack of books with pastel-colored covers and images of cute animals and bakeries and young women with red polka-dot bandanas around their heads.

We never got around to the part where we swapped personal details, but it looks like Wren is a photographer or designer. Not that I’ll be storing the information for later use. I’ve already lingered longer than usual.

I retrieve my clothes from the spot where I abandoned them. An image of Wren and I crashing into the room in a tangle of limbs and tongues pops into my head and I shove it aside, bury it with the others.

My gaze skims the room—aside from the unpacked carton, there are no personal belongings, nothing to reflect Wren’s personality. A couch that has seen better days, an unused TV stand, a coffee table shoved up against a wall. She’s either moving in or moving out.

In the bathroom, I splash my face with cold water and dry it on a pink hand towel.

The vanity unit is littered with fake eyelashes, tubes of lip balm, hair bands, and tweezers. I slide open the mirrored cabinet and there’s more of the same, everything thrown onto the shelves as if in a hurry. Then I notice the bottle of men’s cologne, right at the back behind Wren’s grooming paraphernalia. I don’t recognize the brand.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. There’s only one reason why Wren would have men’s cologne in her bathroom cabinet, and I’m not sticking around to be proven right.

Dressing quickly, I peer into the bedroom where she’s still sleeping, her tangled hair fanned out across the pillow. Her left hand is on top of the comforter—no ring. No tan line either, but it doesn’t mean there isn’t a man in her life.

On my way out of the apartment, I pull a wad of cash from my pocket and am about to toss it into the open carton, when I hesitate. I’ve no idea how close Wren is with her sister—do sisters even discuss one-night stands? But while I have no control over how much detail she might go into, I draw the line at my assistant believing I paid for her sister’s services.

Outside, the sun is trying to break through the heavy layer of cloud cover. I check my watch. It’s too late to go home and freshen up, so I start walking in the direction of Weiss Tower. I can shower and change before anyone else arrives. I might even get to meet the janitor on my way in.

Head down, I sidestep around an elderly man walking a scruffy gray-haired dog. There’s little traffic this early in the day and the walk is almost pleasant, the city given a chance to reveal itself in all its glory before the stench of exhaust fumes and the clamor of sirens takes over.

I stop at the traffic signals and wait for a yellow cab to pass before I cross. Halfway, my phone vibrates.

Kelly.

I swallow, and my dry throat clicks loudly. I need coffee. I smooth the lines between my eyebrows and, against my better judgment, hit the green button. Kelly never calls… I can’t even remember the last time we spoke outside of a family gathering, so whatever she wants, it must be important.