No Such Thing as a Free Ride (33 page)

“Ooh!” I squeaked, turning around. “I was looking for the, uh—bathroom. No sense of direction and all that. Oh, here it is.”

I went in and closed the door and then turned on the faucet in case he was listening. When I emerged a few minutes later, Nick was on the couch. He’d changed into pajama bottoms, not the “old man” kind my dad wears, or if they were, they sure looked better on Nick. They were dark blue plaid with a draw string, and it took all my will power not to give it a yank. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, his chest swathed in fresh bandages.

“How are you feeling?” I asked, sitting down next to him on the couch.

“Surprisingly good.”

“But doesn’t it hurt?”

“Only when I laugh.”

“Are you hungry?” I asked, reaching for his plate.

Yes, Angel, hungry for you.

“Not particularly.” He poured himself a glass of wine and took a sip. “How about you?”

I shook my head. “Me neither. Listen, Nick, this might not be the best time to bring it up seeing as you just got shot and all and you’re probably not in the mood anyway—and really, there’s no pressure, but after everything that’s happened lately, I realized that life is just too damn short to waste worrying about if I’m ever going to be loved back by you, and the truth of the matter is I love you more than I ever thought humanly possible so that’s good enough for me, and as long as I’m letting it all hang out I might as well tell you I’m feeling really horny, so if you don’t kiss me right now I’m just gonna curl up and die—but like I said, no pressure.”

Nick put his glass down on the coffee table. “Well,” he sighed, “I certainly wouldn’t want to be responsible for your demise, so it seems you’ve left me no choice.” He leaned into me, cupping my face in his hands. “After all, a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.”
And man, did he ever!

Nick gently nuzzled my neck with his mouth and teeth, slowly working his tongue around to my mouth. I invited him in and we played that way for a while, letting the anticipation build, enjoying the heat in our bellies. He licked behind my ear and down into the cleavage of my shirt, and then without missing a beat, his hands were under my shirt and before I could take my next breath my bra was unsnapped and he was massaging my nipples into hard peaks.

“Oh,” I moaned and felt obliged,
excited
to return the favor. Reaching into his pajama bottoms, I felt him instantly spring to life. He was hard and warm to the touch. “Hmm,” I smiled into his mouth. “You seem happy to see me.”

“You have no idea,” he whispered in my ear.

Gently I pushed him onto his back and lowered his pajama bottoms over his hips. And then I made him even happier.

“Oh my God, I can’t believe I’m saying this,” Nick groaned, after a few minutes, “but you need to stop.” He pulled me up to a sitting position. “Darlin’, I have a lot to make up to you after the last time we were together, and, frankly, if you keep doing what you’re doing, I won’t be fit for anything.”

“But, Nick,” I protested, “you’re not in any shape—”

“Shh,” he whispered. “It’s non-negotiable. I’m going to make love
with
you.”

So who I to argue with a man on a mission.

I walked with him into the bedroom and waited while he pulled back the covers. “I’m sorry, Angel, under different circumstances I would have swept you off your feet…”

“Don’t you know you already have?”

I kissed him and climbed into bed and waited for him to settle in next to me. Then I drew up the sheets and reached down to take off my underwear. Nick grabbed a condom, hurriedly putting it on. Then he reached for me but, once again, I pushed him onto his back.

I raised my leg and straddled him, taking him in my hand and slowly guiding him into me. When he was all the way inside, I began to move gently, steadily, careful not to injure him. He raised his head to kiss me deeply, caress my breasts and whisper those same words he said to me the first time we ever made love.
Tu tocas mi alma.

After a while I felt him begin to surge inside me. “Brandy,” he said, his voice a guttural cry.

“Let yourself go,” I whispered. I was right behind him.

*****

I awoke to an empty bed and the sound of a female voice, shrill and demanding. I couldn’t make out the words, but it seemed to be coming from the living room. I grabbed my clothes, threw them on and tip toed down the hall.

Alana stood in the foyer, holding her diamond earrings and waving her arms around like a conductor who was really angry with the orchestra. Nick stood several feet away, wisely saying nothing. She saw me peek around the corner and she flipped out, resuming her rant with added vigor. Now I was able to hear every word, loud and clear.

“
You let her sleep in your room
? Well, that’s just great. I’ve stayed at your apartment a dozen times and never once was I allowed into the
inner sanctum.
If I was lucky, you let me sleep in the office instead of sending me home in a cab after we fucked!

“What does she have that I don’t, Nick? Why does
she
get to sleep with you? Do you love her, Nick?
Oh my God, that’s it, isn’t it?
You’re
in love
with that—that… little…”

Femme fatale? Sex Goddess?

“Gidget!”

Okay, I could have done without the Gidget crack, but
was
Nick in love with me
?
I held my breath and waited for him to deny it. Alana waited too, but there was no denial forthcoming.

Finally, she turned and walked stiff legged to the door. “Goodbye, Nicholas. Have a happy life.”

When I was sure she was gone for good, I sauntered over to where Nick was standing. He had his eyes on the front door, more, I think, to avoid looking at me than for any great interest in the mahogany.

“So,” I said, unable to keep the smile off my face, “you do love me.”

“You know, Darlin’,” he started, “these things are very complicated.”

I positioned myself directly in front of him, arms akimbo.

“No, they're not. Just admit it.”

Nick gazed down at the floor for a minute, and then he raised his eyes to me, matching my smile with one of his own. "Yes, Brandy Alexander, I love you.”

He reached for me and I wrapped my arms around him, leaving soft kisses on his cheeks, his eyes, his mouth.

“I guess there’s really no fighting it, is there?” he murmured. “I love you, Angel.
Me tocas mi alma. You touch my soul.”

“I knew it all along,” I whispered into his chest.

“Do you know how many times we’ve made love, and yet I’ve never seen you naked.”

“And you never will.” I said, groping around in the dark for my underwear.

“Oh? Why’s that?”

“Okay, I’ve never told anyone this before, but I’ve got three nipples.”

“Really?” He thought about it for a minute. “I find that rather alluring.”

“Thank you… I think.”

Nick got out of bed and went to the bathroom. He returned a minute later and flipped on the bedroom light. He was holding a box I’d mistakenly left on the bathroom counter. I jumped off the bed and tried to grab it and a wave of nausea hit me like a ton of bricks.

“Early Response,” he read off the label. “Something you want to tell me, Darlin’?”

In this 4th installment in the Brandy Alexander mystery series you met Crystal; a young adolescent girl enmeshed in a violent street-subculture of drugs, prostitution, and exploitation. Angry and alone, she does the best she can to survive a nightmare world where she is little more than prey for pimps, older street kids, and unscrupulous adults. We can take comfort in the fact that Crystal, and this story, is fiction. Sadly, the world that Crystal inhabits is not.

The National Runaway Switchboard estimates that between 1.6 and 2.8 million youth run away each year. Many of these youth are short-term runaways acting out to call attention to a viable family in need of help. Far too many of them, however, are escaping abuse, neglect, or have simply been abandoned to fend for themselves. Out on the streets they find each other, forming a subculture that helps them to survive, but in a world to which no child … no
person
… should ever be subjected. All over the country … all over the world … children live in the culture Brandy stumbles upon, and the author has done her research well. This is, as I’ve said, a work of fiction … but the culture of the streets is accurately portrayed in the storyline.

For you, the story is over and I’m sure you’re anxiously looking forward to Brandy’s next adventure. But whether you live in an urban or rural area, not too far from you, right now, tonight, there is a Crystal, or some other adolescent girl or boy, for whom the story continues. And the closest thing they have to a Brandy in their life is a youth worker who, I promise you, is overworked and underpaid. They could both use your help. To learn what you can do, visit the InterNetwork for Youth at
http://www.in4y.com
and follow the Brandy Alexander fan link.

Thank you.

Jerry Fest
Author of
Street Culture: An Epistemology of Street-dependent Youth

Former Philadelphian Shelly Fredman firmly believes what she once read on a bumper sticker -
"Reality is for people who lack imagination."

Shelly now resides in Santa Monica, California where she splits her "real life" among writing, teaching elementary school,
consuming mass quantities of chocolate
and enjoying the many characters that manifest themselves in her head (in the non-clinical sense).