Baring Souls

She frowned, lips twitching. "Right."

"But, you know what's funny? I never thought that about you. I didn't want to think that about you. It was a stupid thing I said when you came up to see me. I really am sorry, Michelle." I backed away from the door, started down the hall to the stairwell. I almost felt like smiling. At least some weight, I realized, had been lifted from my shoulders.

"Will."

I paused at the frosted glass door marked 'Stairs' in gold stencil. I considered just jerking open the door and leaving Michelle behind. But I didn't.

"Will!"

I turned back. Michelle's face was apologetic, though I was fairly certain she would not admit her feelings with words. I stepped away from the stairwell and faced her. "What."

She stood in her doorway, illuminated from behind by soft light. "You, uh . . . want a beer?"

I hesitated a moment, regarding the stairs, torn between returning to my safe and comfortable home, turning the locks and not letting the outside world in, or . . . or . . . .

I glanced back to her, briefly, found myself smiling. "You have any dark beer?"

Michelle laughed softly. "Just Corona."

I knew that, I thought. I gripped the handle to the stairwell door. "I'm gonna get my own," I said. "I'll be right back."

***

Michelle's apartment looked different in a first-hand view, as opposed to the voyeuristic one I had been privy to. She styled her living room with all the furniture facing the glass-topped coffee table in the middle, as opposed to my couch and chair facing the entertainment center. There were a few books beneath her table, mainly dog-eared paperbacks with the names of Cornwell and Grisham on the covers.

There were pictures on the walls, not the usual and mundane decorations one might find at Ross or TJ Maxx. These were personal photographs, ones I had never noticed before. A man and woman, blurred by color, with a little blonde girl between them. And others, mainly featuring just the man and woman. Michelle's parents, I deduced.

I found myself looking to the ceiling, when Michelle's attention wasn't on me. I had always wondered how the spyholes went unnoticed, and now I knew: her ceiling was heavily stuccoed, the light of the room casting shadows across the jagged surface that did well to hide the little holes through which I had watched my neighbor.

"I started dancing when I was sixteen," Michelle was saying, staring at the TV as she cradled a bottle of Corona against her chest. "I could've been working for five bucks an hour at Burger King or some shit, but . . . ."

"But, what?" I prodded.

Michelle sighed, sipped from her beer. "I did work at Burger King," she said, in a way that made me think it was a low point in her life. "Me, Lindsey, Maria . . . we all got hired, and then this guy came in. Took one look at me and told me I was 'hot.' Turns out he owned a few bars."

I watched her pull from her bottle again, watching the flickering images on the TV.

"I started dancing," she continued. "It was a shit-hole, really. Used to be a gas station on the southside. Tiny stage, nothing but greasers and tool-monkeys . . . God. But it was a hell of a lot more money than doing fast food. The only part I didn't like was the private shows. They called it 'table-dancing,' but it was really in this little booth, where nobody could see what was going on." She shot me a look, conveying more meaning than any words ever could.

Michelle took a breath and kept going. "I made enough money, and after a while, took a bus to the north side of town. Worked my way through a bunch of clubs, made enough money to get a fucking car and a place to live. Not like this place, though. Shacked up with another girl for a while." She gave me a little smile and a wink.

"Then, I made it here," she said at last, stretching her arms above her head. Her long shirt rode up along slender thighs, briefly exposing her sexy hips and the swell of a panty-covered pubic mound. Michelle jerked her shirt down and looked at me. "Been a long ride."

"So why tell me all that?" I asked.

Michelle sat up, holding her beer between her legs. She studied me with her eyes for a long moment. "You know what Thursday is?" she asked.

I frowned, shaking my head at her unexpected question. "What?"

Michelle smiled. "Valentine's Day," she said. She gave me wistful look. "I've never really had a real Valentine's Day."

I met her amber-colored eyes, then looked down, lighting a cigarette. I blew smoke in the air, peripherally watching as it was carried out through the balcony door. "In tenth grade, I sent flowers to Mandy Reed," I said with a self-admonishing smile. "She didn't even know who I was."

Michelle laughed under her breath. "Shit. That would've at least rated a blowjob where I went to school," she said.

I chuckled. "I sent flowers the next year," I continued. "She had a boyfriend."

Michelle gave me a funny look. "Same chick? Dude—"

"I know; I've always been an incurable romantic. But I was sixteen, what do you expect? I thought I was in love."

A soft smile crossed her face. "I can see that about you."

I shrugged. "I ran into her about three years later, in college," I continued. "I was still the same old romantic. Happened to be around Valentine's Day, too, so I sent her flowers again."

Michelle shook her head with a smile. "You're hopeless, you know that?"

I smirked. "She called me that night," I said. "Found my name and number in the student directory. I met her half an hour later at a pizza place, and we ended up having sex in her car."

Michelle looked surprised. "No way."

I laughed. "Serious. We saw each other every day for about two weeks. Then she went back to her jock boyfriend."

Michelle's face soured. "Sounds like some girls I know," she remarked.

I shrugged. "Yeah. Should'a seen it coming. But it was my first time and all. I really thought I was in love. Then she dumps me, just like that. Talk about devastated."

A curious frown distorted Michelle's lips. "Wait a sec. 'First time?' How old were you?"

"Twenty," I said. I sipped my beer. "I was a late bloomer."

"No shit," Michelle muttered. "Jeez, by the time I was twenty, I already . . . ." She looked down at her bottle, a pained look crossing her face. "Never mind."

"You already what?"

She sighed. "I had a baby," she said. "When I was eighteen. But she, uh, died about four months after she was born. They called it 'crib death.'"

My heart sank. I could literally feel it dropping in my chest. "Oh, God, Michelle, I'm sorry."

She put on a brave smile. "'Sokay. I've had thirteen years to get used to it."

"That's a hell of a thing to get used to. I really am sorry."

Michelle took a heavy breath, then slipped her legs off the couch and faced me, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees. "You have any kids?"

I shook my head, also leaning forward, as I had been since we sat down. "We tried, for a while. Turned out Monica was barren."

"'Monica?'" asked Michelle. "That was your girlfriend, or what?"

I smiled sheepishly, flashing my unadorned ring finger. "My wife."

Michelle looked a little surprised, her lips parted. "Oh. How long were you married?"

"Eight years," I said. "We were together for ten, all told."

"Wow. That's a long time. I mean, these days, it is."

I swallowed thickly. "I used to think I wanted it to last forever. But when her attorney gave me the divorce papers, I really wasn't that surprised."

Michelle's eyes flashed brilliantly, just for a moment. "Did you cheat on her?"

I shook my head. "Not once," I said. "But I'll admit I thought about it. A lot. Especially during the last few years. Once a month isn't enough for this boy."

Michelle laughed vicariously. "Or this girl," she said, her mouth curling impishly.

For a moment, images of Michelle masturbating in the shower, her bed, on the furniture in her living room – including the very chair upon which I sat – filled my mind. I could feel myself getting hard, as well as the teasing rush of anticipation. For a long moment, Michelle and I just stared at one another, both of us simmering in silence.

I finally spoke. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Why, um . . . why did you want me to bite you?"

Michelle nibbled her lip, eyes dipping for a moment. A little color tinted her cheeks. "Freaked you out a little, didn't it?"

I smiled nervously. "A little, but . . . ."

"But what?"

I stared into her glittering amber orbs. "It turned me on, too."

More color rose to her face, and Michelle breathed in. "Seriously?"

"Yeah. Don't know why, but it did."

Michelle fidgeted with her hands, rolling the bottle of beer between them. "I've always wanted to try that," she said. "I just . . . I mean, I didn't think it would happen like that, with a guy I didn't really know. I guess that's why I freaked."

"I thought I did something wrong."

Her eyes were unflinching. "No."

It was another one of those moments, then, as I fell into her eyes. A moment in which I could have said and done what I really wanted at that moment, and I knew Michelle would let me.

But then, of course, her phone rang.

Michelle sighed, muttering "Fuck" under her breath as some hip-hop song filled the air. She apologized with her eyes, then leaned toward the end of the couch, where her phone lay. I was treated to a flash of the tiny red thong that barely covered her sex before Michelle straightened, ending the song by flipping her phone open.

"Hey, Dar," she said, looking perturbed. ". . . just having a beer. What's up?"

I watched as Michelle listened to her friend. I could just make out what sounded like an excited female voice, but could not discern any words. Michelle rolled her eyes, then frowned.

"What? Oh, come on, bitch, you know I don't do that shit anymore!" She huffed angrily, gritting her teeth as she stared at the TV. She reached for her cigarettes and lit one as 'Dar' prattled on in her ear. Michelle finally spoke again. "Look, I'll go with you, all right? But I'm not partying, period . . . Fine. Half an hour, but you're dropping me off back at my place, got it? Okay." She snapped the phone closed, drew on her cigarette, and sighed. Her eyes drifted to me.

"It's okay," I said, pushing to my feet. "You've got things to do."

Michelle looked reticent, eyes blinking up at me gently. "Darla's such a selfish bitch," she said. "She's gotta have her fucking fix, but she's afraid to go to her dealer alone."

Darla? I thought. Wonder if she's got long, curly black hair . . . . "But you don't do that stuff, right?"

"I used to," she admitted. "I used to be really fucked up. I've been trying to get Dar cleaned up, but . . . guess that fucking monkey's got a real serious hold on her."

I smiled. "Well, I'm glad it doesn't have a hold on you anymore."

Michelle smiled back. "Nah. I kicked my monkey in the balls and threw him out the door."

I laughed. "Guess I'll see you later, huh?"

Michelle bit her lip. "Guess so." She remained seated as I turned to the door. But just as I was about to leave, I turned back. "You know what you were saying about never having had a real Valentine's Day?"

"Yeah."

I smiled, my heart hammering with nervousness. I had never been anxious at the prospect of asking a woman out before. But neither had I ever asked out a woman like Michelle. "I was just thinking . . . how about dinner?"

Michelle stared at me, her expression blank. For a moment, I wondered if I had said the wrong thing, or misconstrued her words and body language.

"Dinner?" she asked, starting to smile. "You mean, like, a real date?"

"Yeah," I said with a small laugh. "A date. I'll make reservations."

"'Reservations,'" she repeated. She laughed suddenly. "Are we going some place fancy?"

I shrugged. "Maybe," I said. "Would it bother you?"

Michelle blushed, looking so much at that moment like the teenager I had originally mistaken her for. She finally shook her head. "Guess not."

"Yeah?"

She laughed. "Yeah. I'd love to go out on a date with you, Will," she said.

I matched her laugh. "I'll pick you up at seven?"

Michelle nodded. She was smiling in a way I had never seen before, her eyes sparkling beautifully. "Okay."

A warm feeling flowed through me like the waters of the River Jordan. "Okay." I felt like a teenager myself, nervous, anxious, elated and awkward. I indicated the door behind me. "Um, I, uh . . . well, you got stuff to do."

Michelle giggled. "Good night, Will."

"Good night."

Heading away from Michelle's apartment, I felt like I could fly. The grin on my face couldn't have been dispelled if a school bus crashed on the street below. I've got a date! I thought. I've got a real freakin' date!

Looks like life is looking up, Will . . . .

***

I made a firm and final decision, and headed down to the supermarket. Caulking, spackle, putty knives and scrapers, I got everything I figured I would need to not only cover all the voyeur holes in my apartment, but to seal them up for good. I felt good about myself as I started with the hole in the living room, and each one I covered up cemented my decision, reinforcing the fact that Michelle was now a real presence in my life, and not just a tantalizing peep show.

I took a break, lighting up a cigarette and letting the windows open to allow the air to circulate. The sharp, acrid aroma of caulk filled my apartment. I never knew how much that stuff smelled. Nor had I been prepared for the effort involved; I was sweating, and had stripped down to just my jeans. Little pieces of white spackle decorated my hands and forearms. I had even managed, somehow, to get a little of the stuff on my stomach and jeans.

Knock, knock . . . .

I looked to the door. Huh? I checked the time on my watch: nine-thirty. Who the hell . . . oh, man, it sure as hell better not be Ramon, bothering me with the Arredondo account. I told him three times what he had to do before Monday . . . .

"Hi."

I was a little startled to see Michelle standing before me, clad in tight little boy shorts and a loose white top. She smelled clean and sweet, a little spicy. Whatever her perfume was, I instantly vowed to write the manufacturer a thank-you note.

"Uh . . . hi," I said back, feeling self-conscious in my partial nudity. Not to mention the aroma of sweat that I was sure wafted off me like the odor off a pig.

She chuckled softly, eyes wandering over my chest. One of her thin, nearly invisible eyebrows arched with interest. Evidently, Michelle wasn't put off by my appearance in the slightest. "Um . . . you busy?"

"No," I said quickly. "I was just, uh, you know. Fixing stuff," I said awkwardly. Well, it's not as if I can tell her I was covering up the spyholes that allowed me to watch her for the past month and a half . . . good thing I've been covering up as I went along.

Michelle's eyes smoldered sexily. "Wanna take a break?" she asked, in a way that, to me, seemed to promise something. She held up a six-pack of Warsteiner.

I smiled. "Sure."

***

Michelle complimented me on my apartment and furnishings, poking around a little, but in a way that wasn't intrusive. She was really interested in the collection of masks that I'd hung on one of my walls. They ranged from African tribal masks to Italian masquerade-style works. She listened as I explained the significance of some of them. Only rarely was she not smiling.

Well, not until she kissed me.

We were standing out on the balcony. The air was crisp, more than a little cool from the receding winter, a glow coming up from the street below. We peripherally heard the traffic below as we talked about ourselves. Michelle had been orphaned when she was seven, and from her account, her parents had been fairly affluent. She had been promised a trust fund once she turned eighteen, but over the following eleven years, her aunt and uncle, with whom she went to live, had squandered it away. I got the impression, as well, that her uncle had taken advantage of more than just his niece's money.

"I didn't exactly have the best life growing up," Michelle said. "Guess that's why I turned into such a bitch."

I leaned against the railing, having donned a T-shirt in an effort to retain my modesty. "I don't think you're a bitch," I said.

Michelle curled her mouth, glancing to me from the corner of her eye. "You didn't know me when I was sixteen," she said meaningfully. "A real Hellraiser, that was me. I got into all sorts of shit. Smoking pot, drinking, hanging out with older guys just 'cause they had cool cars and would buy me what I wanted. And what they didn't buy, I stole. I got to be pretty good at shoplifting. Well, until I was caught."

"Worst thing I ever did was take money out of my mom's purse because I wanted to buy a game," I said.

Michelle laughed, shaking her head. "Man, I wish I'd had your life," she said wishfully, taking a drag off her cigarette. Our beers remained barely touched.

"Sometimes I wish I'd had yours," I said.

Michelle frowned skeptically. "Bullshit."

I laughed. "I'm serious," I said. "Hell, I don't think I grew up until I was almost thirty. I could have used a few good kicks in the ass."

Her smile faded, eyes remaining on mine. "Trust me, you wouldn't have wanted my life."

I looked down, chastised, and suitably so. "You're right," I said. "And I'm sorry you had to live it. I wish there was something I could do."

Michelle smiled thinly, looking down at the world below us. She flicked her cigarette, watching it fall. "There is."

I slid a little closer. "You want me to guess?"

Michelle smiled more genuinely, then turned to face me. "Kiss me."

They were just two simple words, ones I had heard before, but never in such a context, and never from a woman who so utterly exuded sexiness the way Michelle did. Beyond merely encouraging and compelling me, those two little words aroused me more than any impassioned utterance of "fuck me, baby," ever had.

More words would only have ruined the moment, so I said nothing. I just moved a little closer, watching Michelle lick her lips in anticipation. I leaned in, inhaling the sweet spiciness of her perfume along with the strangely carnal aroma of nicotine . . . .

"Mmm . . . ."

Michelle's gentle moan fueled me, urged me on. I loved the taste of her lips, the slick softness of them, the way the tip of her tongue snaked out, just a little, to touch mine. The kiss was soft, passionate, neither desperate nor yearning. The kiss of imminent lovers who knew not to rush the moment.

Our arms lifted to encase each other at the same time. Michelle yielded with more moans and grateful sighs, pressing herself against me. Her right leg slid up along the outside of my thigh, and I felt the slow but steady grind of her sex against mine. My arousal was obvious to her; she had to feel it, I was certain.

"I want you," she whispered with a heated breath, drawing back a little. Her eyes slowly opened, so beautifully golden and wet.

I shuddered. "I want you, too," I said.

Michelle stepped back, her lips parted and moist, eyes mischievous with passion. Carefully, she took my hand. "Come on." Her voice was barely audible, but I didn't have to hear her words. I followed her into my living room. We set our beers upon the small bistro table I had placed beside the balcony door, and Michelle held both of my hands behind her, as she had done when leading me to the private booth in the strip club. But this was not the same situation; this seduction was more palpable.

She pushed me down onto the couch, leaning over me. The hungry glow in her eyes was unmistakable, the look of a tigress before pouncing upon her kill. To say that I was not intimidated would be a lie; yet, my arousal never abated. In fact, it intensified.