Authors: Casey Elliot
*****
Why has she gotta play games with my head?
As David left Marie’s house, he was both raging and confused. He knew she wanted him, she’d made it pretty obvious, but why was she stalling and why did she invite him over?
“God damn women,” he muttered to himself, as he pulled his motorcycle into his usual parking bay and pulled off his helmet.
As he approached his house, he noticed a shadow in front of his door and it immediately sent his heckles up.
Who the hell?
He was on edge and ready to fight whoever it was. Could it be an intruder? He had no idea, but he was sure gonna find out. He had no weapon on him, but he had his rocky fists and he felt his fingers clench, as he swaggered to his door.
“Hey!” he shouted at the figure.
“Hey,” the meek voice replied and David stopped in his tracks.
“Suzanne? What are you doing here?” he stood rooted to the spot in shock. “I mean sorry. It’s great to see you,” and he lunged forward to hug her.
Squeezing her tight, he realized just how much he missed Damian’s family and he felt like never letting her go.
“I haven’t seen you in so long.”
“Erm… maybe you wanna rethink that?” she smirked.
“Eh?”
“The gas station the other day, you think I didn’t notice that beast of a bike of yours roaring into the place.”
“Oh…” he felt ashamed. “I was er…. You know…” he scoured his mind for an excuse.
“Don’t worry about it,” she soothed him. “I know you’ve got a lot to contend with.”
David didn’t know what to say. His mind was in a muddle and all he wanted to do was tell her the truth about Damian, but he couldn’t. For a moment, he moved his lips to speak, but his mouth went dry and nothing came out. He coughed instead and looked to the ground.
“Anyway,” Suzanne shifted to signal she was going to leave. “I just wanted to give you this.”
She grabbed his hand and uncurled his fingers. Placing something cold in the palm of his hand. She then gave him a weak smile before closing his fingers back up and hurrying to her car.
“Don’t be a stranger,” she called from the driver’s seat.
And she was gone with only a long plume of smoke floating up from the exhaust to signal her departure. David felt the metallic object in his hand and recognized it immediately. He felt the jagged edges and immediately, his eyes began to fill with tears. He couldn’t stop it and the pain only got more intense when he opened his eyes. Sitting in his hand were Damian’s dog tags, and they were as shiny and clean as the day he got them.
He headed inside and slammed the door closed. Holding the tags to his face, he let his tears fall onto them, as he held his head in pain. So many thoughts were swirling in his head. The day they all died never left him and it was time the truth came out.
He pulled out his phone and gripped it tight. With Officer Brady’s number at the ready, he held the phone to his ear and…. there was a knock on the door.
Must be Suzanne again
, he thought. Yet, as he opened the door, he stood face to face with Marie.
“Oh! How did you find me?” he asked, perplexed.
“Your address was in your file.”
“Oh yeah; of course,” and he went silent, embarrassed that she caught him crying.
“Have I come at a bad time?” she reached to hold him, but he pulled away.
“Sorry, it’s just… a lot on my mind.”
“I can see that, David, but I’m here to help you. Please, won’t you let me in?”
He slumped in resignation. Looking down at his phone, he could see Officer Brady had answered his call.
“Hello?”
They could both hear the older man’s voice from the phone.
“I guess I have a lot of explaining to do,” David hung up the phone and gestured for Marie to enter. “I’ll tell you everything.”
Once in his living room, he couldn’t help but spill out all his secrets. He held Marie’s hands tight as he spoke with his words catching in his throat. But, with her encouragement, it soon became easier to talk, and it wasn’t long until he felt the great relief come from offloading all the heavy memories that were holding him down.
“Damian,” he was still clutching onto the dog tags. “He wasn’t well.”
“In what way?” Marie leaned forward to hug David.
“Because I was the only one who returned, they all assumed I killed our own men… but it was Damian.”
“Are you saying he murdered your troop?” Marie was dumbfounded and reeled back.
David nodded.
“He was so unwell. The pressure was too much. We’d seen things out there you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy, but we lived through it every day,” he shook his head and gripped Marie tighter. “It was the hottest day when it happened. Up there on those dusty mountains with the sun shining down on you, it can feel like you’re not even on earth anymore. It was then that I noticed a change come over Damian. He started to talk funny, just say the strangest things. Then, he would become agitated and pace up and down for hours and hours. I was looking through my binoculars out onto the valley below when I heard the pop of gunfire behind me. I thought we were under attack, but when I turned round, I saw Damian shoot everyone down.”
“Jesus,” Marie was devastated. “That must have been so awful.”
David didn’t answer. There was a long silence, as he looked into space, his mind churning as he decided whether he should let Marie be privy to his greatest secret.
“I killed him,” he whispered. “It was either him or me. My reflexes made sure it was him.”
Marie didn’t say a word. She just held the man tight, as the grief shook through his body.
“I understand,” she kissed the side of his face. “You don’t need to say anymore,” and David turned his head, brushing his lips up against hers.
They kissed sweetly, as they held each other. There was no pressure or mind-games this time, just the all-encompassing passion and affection of two people who understood each other. Their kisses; however, soon became more desperate and they pushed up against each other wanting to feel more of each other’s bodies.
They pulled at one another, tugging at each other’s clothes and wrapped their limbs around one another’s bodies. David pulled Marie toward him tight and she climbed on top of him, her hair caressing the side of his face.
“We don’t have to do anything if you don’t want,” she made sure she knew he was comfortable.
“I want you more than I can describe,” he traced a finger gently down the side of her cheek.
“I want you too,” she whispered, as she slid off her blouse to reveal her pert breasts.
He touched her delicately, feeling her curves all the way down to her hips. Then, he ripped at her skirt and tore it from her body. Rolling her off the couch, he pushed her onto the floor and kissed her hard. She spread her legs wide to feel him and he lay in between eagerly.
“I want you so much,” she reached up and bit into his chest playfully.
He reacted by nuzzling into her neck, as he pulled his penis from his boxer shorts. He was so much bigger than she imagined and, as she wrapped her hand around him, she was surprised at the size of his girth. Pumping her hand up and down, she listened to him groan and grew wet, as she heard his breathy voice and masculine grunts of pleasure.
“I want you inside me,” she opened her legs wider.
He wasted no time in satisfying both their urges, and he only teased her for a second, as he lingered his tip at her opening.
“Come on,” her voice rasped. “Push yourself inside me.”
He thrust into her hard with her screaming and tearing at his hair.
“Oh God!” she flung her head back, her back arched in ecstasy.
“You want it harder?” he asked, as he thrust into her over and over again.
“Yes!” she screamed even louder.
He obeyed her command by stabbing into her over and over again, as he felt climax approaching fast. Meanwhile, Marie was rocking her hips up and down, pushing herself onto him more and more, as she wanted to feel him all the way inside her.
“Harder!” she screamed one last time, as he pumped himself into her so hard and so fast he’d built himself up into a frenzy with sweat pouring from his brow.
They orgasmed in unison; their cries mingling with each other’s, as they shuddered with pleasure. Marie laid back exhausted with her thighs still quivering and ran her fingers down the sweaty space between his pecs.
“You’re the best,” she said, before closing her eyes.
David looked down on her adoringly before laying by her side.
“So are you.”
*****
The two Harleys were riding side by side with the wind in the couple’s faces. Marie was beaming with happiness, as she felt the warmth of the sun on her back and her new man by her side. Beside her, David got her attention, gave her a thumbs–up, and then swerved left off the beaten track.
Back out in the country, the young man was in his element and he gazed up at the dense forest and the high mountains of the national park and felt the calmness of nature descend on him. As they reached the end of the track, they climbed off their bikes and kissed each other.
“Are you sure about this?”
“Yep,” David nodded. “Absolutely sure.” He looked up to the nearest mountain.
“Looks like a hell of a climb.” Marie held her hand up to her face, as she looked up. “But, it looks like fun.”
“That’s my girl.” David kissed her cheek. “I like a woman who’s up for a tough challenge.”
As they began to climb, David felt as though he couldn’t be held back. He was on a personal mission and he owed it to Damian to respect his honor. The climb was tough, but Marie was with him every step of the way with her hand in his.
“Nearly there,” he was breathing heavy, as his boots crackled on the rocky road. “Not long now.”
After a few hours, they were finally at the top and the view was breathtaking. Marie exhaled and whistled as she looked all around her.
“My God! It’s incredible!”
“Sure is. Damian loved the mountains.”
Marie went quiet for a moment, as she contemplated what to say next.
“Do you think you’ll ever tell anyone what really happened?”
“No,” his voice was stern and final. “As far as they know, it was an ambush. That’s the end of it.”
He gripped the dog tags in his hand and reached out his arm. Feeling the cool breeze lash the sand against his skin, he closed his eyes and whispered:
“I’m so sorry buddy. I’ll never forget you,” and he let the tags drift away in the wind.
The End
New York Shifter
*****
Mina
Moving to the big city on an impulse — one of many that I had on a daily basis — was a decision that I began to regret by the end of October. It wasn't that I hadn't enjoyed the past three weeks in civilization or that I missed home too much or any of the traditional reasons you might expect.
I was regretting it because I was going to have to go home soon. Why?, because I had foolishly failed to budget accordingly. I thought that I would have picked up a job in my first couple of weeks, and that I'd have money by then to look for a place. I booked a hotel room for the month based on that intent.
All of this would have been fine if I'd either (a) found a job or (b) saved enough money to be able to stay without one. The only thought worse for me than having to crawl back to my mom's cabin up in the Catskills with her endless parade of lovers and constant forgetfulness was the thought of winding up on the streets of Boston because I'd failed at being an adult.
In desperation, I applied for every Craigslist ad, every box in the help wanted section of the classifieds, everything.
How many people called me back?, two. One of them ended up being an escort agency, and the other was for the position of live-in cook. I was undoubtedly better at sex than cooking, but decided that I felt more comfortable receiving a wage for the latter.
That was what brought me to the house on the edge of the city that was too beautiful for its own good. It was in a more run-down section of town, which I felt was odd. It probably had been a rundown house at some point, but the fresh colors and spotless roof tiles told me that it had been recently renovated.
Calling it a house would be a bit like calling a cardboard box a ski chalet. It was a mansion, really. As soon as I double-checked the address I'd hastily drawn on a napkin, and seen that the mansion dominating the landscape was my destination, I had almost turned right back around to go to the bus stop.
The only thing that stopped me was the realization that if I bombed this interview, literally my only options were my mom's stewed beets and hummus or prostitution.
Both were dire prospects.
So, I did what any person would do in a life or death situation like that: I lied.
Richard
Mina, my last interviewee of the day, was seven minutes late when Gaston led her into my study. I would have turned her away for her impudence right then if she hadn't been so beautiful. I was ready to, as well. I nearly told Gaston not to answer the door, but I realized then that I'd have nothing left to do for the day — and no cook — so I allowed him to let her in; at least.
A tinkling laugh floated down the hallway, which was odd. Gaston was many things, but funny was not one of them. Perhaps she was a lunatic, laughing at herself. I wondered what it would be like to have a lunatic as a cook.
I wasn't sure what I expected when she walked through the archway to my study. The other applicants had mostly been retired and looking for extra income to supplement their benefits. I had received a couple who were highly trained chefs as well.
Most of the applicants had balked at the live-in aspect including the inflexibility of the schedule. I couldn’t afford to hire two cooks so that they could share days off. Monetarily, it wouldn’t have been a problem, but the more people in my household, the more chance there was of someone sticking their nose where it didn’t belong.
Mina Cooper clearly did not fit in either of those categories.
The girl that Gaston ushered in was in her twenties with curves that demanded attention. Her heart shaped face was framed by flaming red hair, which hung down past her shoulders in light waves. The sense of irritation that had been building prior to her arrival began to ebb in her presence. I couldn’t decide whether it was because of her charming smile or because of the lust that began to take its place.
“Mr. Turner,” Gaston said. “This is Miss Mina Cooper.” He turned and exited the room, closing the great curved door behind him.
Mina, who had been looking around in wonder before we were introduced, now had her eyes glued on me as I stood gracefully from my chair and extended my hand.
“Thank you for coming, Miss Cooper,” I said. “I was worried that you’d gotten lost.”
From the sheepish expression that took over her face, I knew that she understood my veiled criticism.
“Sorry!” she said, reaching for and shaking my hand. Her handshake was limp. “Turns out there aren’t a lot of busses out here.”
I gestured to the chair across from me and I resumed my seat behind the desk.
“You’re far from the most qualified of my applicants,” I said shortly. “Tell me why I should hire you.”
She looked surprised at how to-the-point I was. If she had been expecting friendliness, she was in the wrong house.
“Uh,” she stammered, “because I’m a good cook.”
“Everyone I interviewed today is a good cook,” I retorted.
She fumbled for words, eventually coming out with “because I really need it.”
An unorthodox way to answer the question, I thought. In its essence, her statement relied on my caring about her situation in life, which I didn’t. Still, her frankness made me smile.
“Why do you really need it?”
“If I don’t get a job by the end of the month, I’m going to have to go live with my mom and her weird man-bun boyfriends or start tricking.”
That made me laugh. “Time is ticking for you then,” I said, in reference to the month drawing to a close in only two days. “I’m curious; would you rather live with your mother or sell your body?”
“I’d rather be a cook.”
She was bold. I liked that. She also seemed innocent, which the beast inside of me liked. It wasn’t that I thought she was a virgin — no. With pouty red lips like that, her appearance was anything but sweet and virginal. It was that she seemed somehow... unspoiled by the world.
She was the kind of girl who believed in miracles and good things coming to those who wait. Her big brown eyes had never seen true pain. That intrigued me. I had grown up among society’s elite, and even they — with their trust funds and private education — so rarely exhibited the same kind of innocence.
I doubted her cooking skills. I doubted her ability to be a good employee. But, the one thing I didn’t doubt was her ability to entertain me.
Mina
“You’re hired,” he said.
My heart did a flip. Well, it had been doing many flips over the course of the interview. The first and most substantial one had occurred when I first saw my new employer. In a mansion so far from civilization with a wizened butler and the need of a cook, I had imagined that I would be being interviewed by a crotchety old man.
He was crotchety, no doubt, but he certainly wasn’t old. I would have placed him no older than thirty five, and damn was he good looking. Well-built, black hair with one or two silver strands peeking through, and piercing blue eyes that I struggled to hold eye contact with. He belonged on the cover of a magazine, not hidden away in some mansion on a bus route that I thought the busses themselves often forgot about. Only adding to this strangeness was the fact that he had hired me.
I tried to hide my excitement at his declaration, but I barely managed to stifle a shout of glee. It came out as a tiny yip, which elicited a look from him that suggested he was about to withdraw his offer.
Before he could, I said, “When can I start?”
He gave me a mirthless grin. “You start now. Gaston will show you to the kitchens.”
My eyes bulged. “But my stuff…”
“Get it tomorrow. I’m hungry.”
I stared at him. “Are you serious?”
He stared back. I took that as my sign to go with Gaston to see the kitchen.
I jumped up out of my chair and over to the door, which opened to reveal Gaston waiting on the other side. “This way,” he said.
I followed him down a long hallway that led past several other rooms. I tried to look in them as we passed, but for an old man, he was spry. When we got to the kitchen, my jaw dropped.
Granite countertops, stainless steel appliances, an island with pots and pans hanging over the top of it… it was like something from the movies. I immediately knew I was in over my head. I needed to be practical if I was going to convince Mr. Turner that I was worth keeping around.
Gaston left me to my own devices, which was both a blessing and a curse. On one hand, I wouldn’t have him hovering over me as I scrambled to make something edible. On the other, there would be nobody there to help me if things went awry.
The stove was a gas-top, which made me incredibly nervous. Most people, I gathered, preferred that for cooking. I wasn’t sure why; I preferred to heat things up without possibly catching myself or others on fire.
I started in the fridge; half hoping that there would be something in there that I could warm up and add a couple sprigs of parsley to or something. Unfortunately, it was stocked with fresh fruit, vegetables, and what looked to be very expensive cuts of meat. There was enough food in there to feed a family of four for a week.
Rich people.
I chose steak over chicken because I was less likely to kill my new boss that way, then I scanned the rest of the fridge’s contents, wondering what the hell you were supposed to serve with steak. Steak and potatoes was a thing, right?
There weren’t any potatoes in the fridge.
The closest thing I could find to a potato was a cauliflower. They looked practically the same when cooked, right? Great; I saw a bottle of teriyaki sauce in the side door, and decided I would use that for the steak, and then I saw some grated cheddar and figured that would go well with the cauliflower.
I smiled. I had a plan.
I approached the stove with hesitation. It couldn’t be any harder than a regular stovetop, right?
It was much harder.
First, when I spun the handle, gas just started coming out. I spun it back; terrified that I was going to cause the house to explode. It was a fancy stove; surely I couldn’t be expected to physically light the gas? I didn’t see any matches. I tried again, but this time, I pressed the handle in. My mom cooked exclusively on the barbeque, and that was how she turned it on.
Low and behold, it worked.
I grabbed a pan from the island and set it on the flame. That part was done. Next, I grabbed the steak and was about to set it in the pan when I realized that I had no idea how long cauliflower took to cook or how to cook it.
I had a horrifying thought: I was a worse cook than my mother.
Determined to; at least, do better than dry and tough turkey legs with spicy gravy, I pulled out my phone and quickly searched how to cook cauliflower. Apparently, steaming was a common way to cook it, so I grabbed the pot that most closely resembled the one in the photo and set to work. Only when the cauliflower was done did I put the steak in the pan. Then, I sprinkled some cheese on the cauliflower and put it into the oven to melt.
In less than half an hour, I had a steak that, once drizzled in sauce, looked somewhat tasty with a side of delicious smelling cauliflower and cheese. I didn’t think I’d done too poorly, truth be told.
Mr. Turner hadn’t told me where the dining room was or what to do when I was done, and I couldn’t find Gaston. I decided to try my luck in the study.
Mr. Turner was still in the study, luckily. I walked through the door and he looked up abruptly from his laptop, his expression morphing from irritated to confused in two seconds flat. Normally, he looked dark and brooding, but when he was perplexed, he almost looked innocent. It was strange.
“I forgot to ask what to do when I was done,” I said by way of explanation, placing the plate down on the desk next to him with a fork and knife.
His mouth was set in a hard line as his eyes went from me to the food and to me again.
“It’s teriyaki steak,” I said. “And cauliflower.”
“And cheese.”
“You’ve got it!” I exclaimed brightly.
On the outside, I might have looked bright and at ease, but on the inside, I was a wreck. He didn’t look happy. What would happen to me if he didn’t like my food? Would he kick me out and charge me for the food I’d wasted? Could I even afford a steak like that?
But, he didn’t say anything more about the food. He simply said, “Very well.”
I took that as my queue to leave, but he placed a staying hand on my arm. “Please, sit. I don’t like to dine alone.”
I wasn’t sure what I was meant to say to him, but I followed his direction and sat in the same chair that I’d been interviewed in. I watched him tensely as he cut into his first piece of steak.
He inspected it, saying, “In the future, I like my steak medium-rare.”
“Right,” I said. “My apologies; that piece is obviously…”
He watched me as I looked at the piece of meat on his fork. It was mostly grey, but there was a little bit of pink in the middle. Wasn’t that medium-rare?
“This is medium,” he supplied.
“Right,” I nodded furiously; “of course.”