Jane Shoup (2 page)

Zoe hooked up with Mr.
Right, or at least Mr. You’ll-do-for-the-evening, not terribly unusual for her.
She had a fun, easy-going, wide-open attitude that always attracted somebody.
She wasn’t exactly pretty, but she was attractive when she cared to be.

* * * *

Jenny felt the full effect
of her alcohol consumption as she walked back to her car. She climbed in and
sat there, shaking from the cold and wondering if she was okay to drive. Of
course, the real deciding factor was that she didn’t have the money for a cab.
Damn it, she knew better than to drink and drive. What would happen if she got
pulled over? Like she could afford that mess.

“Idiot,” she berated herself
as she drove home. “And all for what? It’s not like it was fun.” She’d wasted
money, gotten slightly drunk, drove. She was twenty-seven, way old enough to
know better.

She arrived at her
apartment without incident and walked to the entrance, fumbling with her keys.
Her depression had increased to a seven point five. It was weird how much more
difficult everything seemed when depressed. Walking, lifting keys, breathing.

Her step was considerably
slower as she neared her apartment. She was aware of the soft swishing of her
long silk broomstick skirt. Wearing it had been her own private joke. She’d
intended to tell Zoe about the anonymous letter, and yet she hadn’t. She’d
started to numerous times, but she’d always stopped herself. Why? Why did she
want to keep it to herself? Was she actually thinking of going to the laundry
room?

Jenny stopped in her
tracks, shocked by the thought and by the thrill that pulsed through her. When
she began moving again, it was to go inside her apartment, drop her purse and coat
and lean against the door, aware of her increased heart rate. “Being stupid,”
she muttered. It would be insane to go. It would be dangerous. How could she
possibly know the guy didn’t intend her harm?  If it was a guy. If he’d even
still be there. If he even existed. It might have all been a joke.

Of course, she wasn’t
tired. And she did have some laundry to do. She flipped on lights and went into
the kitchen. The letter still lay on the table where she’d left it. She picked
it up and reread it. All the men who had tried for her attention that night,
the eyeballing of her, the tongue, the verbal innuendo, it had done nothing for
her. Less than nothing. But a few printed words caused her to moisten her
panties.

She set the letter down and
went about gathering up her dirty laundry and some change. He wouldn’t be
there. It was past midnight. She would get some laundry done. Then she would
come back to her apartment, masturbate for the first time in a long time and go
to sleep. In the morning, she’d be mortified by her actions, but that was
tomorrow. Besides, it would be good to catch up on her laundry.

* * * *

The basement was quiet and
deserted. She started two loads of laundry in the new laundry room, then
sauntered over to the old, trying hard to look nonchalant. The machines in this
room were olive green and gold, purchased mostly in the sixties and seventies.
A few of the incandescent overhead lights flickered and an old pinball machine,
missing the pull to spring the balls into action, sat in the corner. Her
stalker had obviously checked out the room. The dryers on the side were in back
of a partial wall and out of view of the front door. Not that it was likely
anyone would pop in. It probably received a cursory sweeping once a month.
“Hello?” she called softly.

Of course, there was no
answer. Still, the thought of it…

 She moved to the middle
dryer, spread her feet apart and leaned over the top slowly, wondering why she
was so turned on? She needed some release. She’d been so depressed lately,
she’d even given up masturbating. No wonder she felt so empty and rotten.

 A soft noise behind her
made her jump. She snapped up, but before she could turn around, a hand on her
back stopped her. “No,” came a whisper. “Don’t turn around,” he finished
slowly, deliberately, still in a whisper. “I won’t hurt you.”

Her muscles locked up.

“Please,” he whispered.
“That was…nice, how you…were.”

She could see a jean leg
behind her. A man’s arm in a white shirtsleeve came forward and slipped a hundred
dollar bill on the dryer in front of her.

“Jenny,” he continued. “You
need the money. I need to be near you. Please.”

“I can’t do this,” she
stammered. She shivered and made a move to bolt from the room, but he gently
put his hands on her shoulders, steadying her, calming her.

“It’s okay,” he whispered.
“
Sshhh
.”

He reached around, gripped
her wrist softly and slowly brought her hand forward, placing it on one side of
the dryer. For some reason she left it there while he repeated the action with
her other hand, placing it on the opposite side. She could feel his heat, his
presence, and it filled her senses. He didn’t push himself at her, but she
still felt the hard bulge in his jeans. He was aroused, but not forcing himself
on her. Instead, he coerced her with money, whispered proclamations of desire,
with warm breath on her neck and the back of her ear. Yes, he was seducing her
and her body responded. “Who are you?” Her voice sounded higher pitched than
usual. “Do I know you?”

“
Ssshhhh
.”

What had she been thinking,
coming here? She should turn and leave. He wouldn’t stop her. Even if he tried,
she’d taken a self-defense course. She could get free of him. So, why didn’t
she move?

He lifted her skirt slowly.
Was he teasing himself or her? Her heart pounded painfully, as if it wanted to
jump right out of her chest. He ran his hand up the inside of her thigh with
light fingers. His fingers were rough. He obviously worked with them.

“Soft,” he whispered.

The breath came right at
her neck, making her breath catch and her nipples harden. She allowed him to
nudge her forward slightly, aware that her skirt was being inched over her
thong-clad bottom. She shivered, realizing how wet she was—and how dangerous
this was. What if he had a weapon? What if he really did want to hurt her? Her
stomach clenched as his fingers touched the damp heat radiating through her
panties. She bit her lower lip in order not to make a noise, but as he began
stroking her in a rhythmic motion, a moan escaped her.

He reached around in front
of her to continue the soft, teasing of her clit, while his other hand began
gently stroking her buttocks. Her knees felt weak and she couldn’t quite
control her shaking. It was everything she could do not to make noise. If she
did make a sound, it would not only be unintelligible, it would sound as
tremulous as if she stood in front of a moving fan.

He maneuvered under the
ribbon of material between her buttocks, and stroked as he began kissing the
back of her neck. The muscles in her midriff were painfully tight with
excitement and arousal. He teased and toyed. She’d never felt such exquisite
torture. His hand slipped under the front of her shirt and discovered her front
clasp bra, which he easily unfastened.

He eased her back against
him and she allowed it. Her eyes closed and she reveled in the feeling of his
hands on her. The stroking was so loving, so needy, so thorough, and it had
been so long since anyone had touched her that way. In fact, no one had ever
touched her quite this way.

He fondled her breasts,
cupping them and squeezing lightly. He circled the erect nipples with the pads
of his thumbs. She felt his breath on the top of her ear. Her stranger was
taller than she. She had the impression he was lean and young. A hard-body, as
Zoe would say. He looked down at her breasts as he learned them; she just knew
it. Did he think they were pretty?

“I’m going to make you
come,” he whispered.

The words alone almost did
it for her.

“Lean over for me,” he
said, directing her hands forward again, to the sides of the machine in front
of her.

She obeyed like a mindless
puppet. She was a mindless puppet. He began teasing her through her panties
again, but more aggressively this time. She realized, with a pang of
embarrassment and surprise, that she was moving her ass, straining toward his
touch. He reached inside her panties and inside her wet, warm pussy with two
fingers. The touch of flesh in her aroused vagina was too much and she came in
a shuttering, explosive wave. There was no holding back the cry.

When the world stopped
shaking and she caught her breath, she realized she was alone. Except for her
blood pounding and her ragged breathing, it was silent, the room empty. She
straightened up, turned around, and slid down the dryer to sit on the cold
concrete, deeply shaken, physically and emotionally.

Jenny put a coat of gloss
on her lips then studied the gleam in her eye. “Pervert,” she whispered. The accusation
didn’t do a thing to dampen her mood. She pulled on her coat, hat and gloves
and left her apartment with a bounce in her step. She decided to splurge on a
large mocha latte and then she was going to make an appointment to get her hair
trimmed and highlighted. Another thing
—
she was going to stop being so
damned depressed. Mitch should never have exercised that kind of power over her
life. She’d allowed him to ruin too many days. No more.

* * * *

“What’s up with you?”
Megan, the receptionist asked, as Jenny glanced over the appointments for the
day. “You look good. Did you get some this weekend?”

Jenny nearly choked on her
coffee. “Megan!”

“Oh, I think you did,”
Megan laughed. “You’re blushing.”

“Did not. Stop it,” Jenny
rejoined, walking off as fast as she could and nearly colliding with the office
grouch, Myra Fitzpatrick. “Sorry,” Jenny muttered and hurried on.

In the locker-room, Jenny
donned her work jacket and thought about what Megan had said. She knew she’d
blushed because she could still feel the heat in her face. The door flew open
and Myra Fitzpatrick stood there like a general poised before battle. “Mr.
Thompson is in room six,” she announced.

“Thanks,” Jenny replied
automatically.

“We’ve got a walk-in, and
Ross is late.”

Ross was Zoe Ross. Myra insisted on calling everybody by their last names.

“Okay,” Jenny said,
scooting past the old battle-ax.

Jenny resented the fact
that she made only twenty-seven thousand dollars a year, but she loved her job.
She’d worked hard for it. Even to get a job in the field, she’d been required
to complete nearly four hundred hours of clinical experience beyond the
Master’s degree she’d earned. Still, when she was involved with a client, she
was
totally
involved and time ceased to matter. She couldn’t imagine doing
anything else.

She’d been working with Mr.
Thompson since his stroke a year ago and his progress was slow because, for the
most part, he chose not to talk. His wife of more than forty years, wanting
desperately to help, had taken to interpreting his every need and wish, and now
spoke for him, no matter how Jenny discouraged it.

After their session and her
usual lecture about practicing, which went in one of Mr. Thompson’s ears and
out the other, she went back to reception to see if Zoe had arrived. She had.
She was slumped in a corner, looking a pale shade of green. Jenny grimaced.
“This isn’t from Saturday night, is it?”

Zoe nodded, although she
tried not to move her head much. “Which lasted until Sunday sometime. I’m so
fucking stupid.”

“Mr. Cosgrove has been left
waiting in room two,” Myra reminded Jenny with a potent glare. It had enough
venom in it for Zoe to share. “And he is not a walk-in,” she turned to glower
at Megan. “The appointment was made some time ago.”

Megan had just about had
enough. “Ever made a mistake in your whole,
long
life, Myra?” she
seethed.

“On my way,” Jenny replied
quickly, taking the clipboard Zoe silently offered. She really didn’t want to
stick around if Myra and Megan were going to get into it.

She walked to room two while
scanning the information on the front of the clipboard. Ryan Cosgrove, age 29,
referred by Dr. VanBrewster for stuttering. He had insurance, good general
health, was on no medications. Jenny rapped on the door to warn the occupant
and then stepped inside with a warm smile that fluttered briefly as she
observed the male model sitting in the room. He had medium brown hair and eyes
of a much deeper brown. His shoulders were broad and under his navy blue
t-shirt he had a killer chest and well-defined abs, she would have bet her
paycheck. “Hello. I’m Jenny Oliver, your speech therapist.”

He nodded, then dropped his
eyes before uttering, “Lo.”

Not gorgeous and shy, she
thought wryly.  This is one she’d have to guard her heart around. She blushed
slightly from the thought, but, on some level, she was glad for experiencing it
for the first time in a long time. “Okay,” she said gently. “Rule one is, no
shortcuts. ‘Hello.’”

“Easy f-for you to s-say.”

She smiled and sat across from
him. “Have you seen a speech therapist before?”

He shook his head. “On-ee
in s-chool.”

He’d learned to compensate
by substituting certain difficult to pronounce consonants with easier ones.
“Did it help at all?”

“No,” he said without
hesitation.

She glanced over the form
again, wondering which insurance he had. That made all the difference in what
treatments she could offer. “I see you work for On Duty,” she read. They were a
big construction company. “And you’ve got Blue Cross.”

He nodded.

She looked back up at him.
“So you do construction?”

“Brick,” he said, working
hard to get it out. “And I d-do iron w-work. That k-kind of thing.”

She nodded, noting his
stuttering worsened due to stress. “When did the stuttering begin?”

He shrugged. “Ever s-since
I c-can r-ruh-member.”

She set the clipboard aside
and stood. “Have you done much research on stuttering? The causes and so
forth?”

He shook his head. She
stepped closer and reached out to touch the side his neck for an examination.
The real purpose was to begin relaxing him and to better demonstrate some
exercises. “Most people don’t realize it, but there’s a lot of tension on the
vocal cords even before we begin to speak,” she explained, speaking soothingly.
“It may very well be this tension is part of the problem. There are different
schools of thought on the causes and treatment of stuttering, of course, but
the old school, my school,” she added lightly, “is that stuttering is a learned
response to a pattern of specific, faulty, nerve impulses from the vocal
chords.”

He looked up at her with
penetrating brown eyes so full of vulnerability, she felt her nipples harden.
Suddenly self-conscious, she backed up and crossed her arms. “I’m sure I don’t
have to tell you that stuttering has absolutely nothing to do with
intelligence.” Ryan’s eyes flicked away from her, embarrassed, and she felt the
lioness roar in her, determined to protect and defend. “Unless maybe you
question the brilliance of Aristotle or Isaac Newton, both stutterers.”

He looked back at her questioningly.

“You didn’t know?”

He shook his head.

She nodded. “And Charles
Darwin, who lots of right wing Christians still hate, and Marilyn Monroe and
—
”

He grinned.

“It’s true,” she insisted.
“Girl Scout’s honor. Let me ask you a question. Do you stutter when you’re by
yourself at home?”

“D-don’t t-talk to m-myself
m-m-much.”

“Oh, come on. We all talk
to ourselves. Okay, I talk to myself more than most. But still…”

He shook his head.

“You don’t stutter when
you’re alone?” she clarified.

He shook his head again and
started to say something, then changed his mind.

“Then what that tells me is
we have to work hard on relaxation techniques and relearning certain speech
skills,” she said, sitting across from him again. He was so good looking; she
had to really concentrate on what she said. It would have been so easy just to
gawk.

“I h-heard there’s a
m-machine?”

She knew exactly what he
was talking about. “Looks like a hearing aid?”

He nodded.

“It’s actually a mini microphone
that detects and amplifies vocal tone vibrations,” she explained. “It has had
some amazing results, but it doesn’t work for everyone. I’d rather try a
traditional approach first.”

He looked disappointed but
nodded.

“Today I’ll show you some
relaxation exercises for your jaw, neck and vocal chords, and we’ll begin on
some speech exercises that you’ll continue to work on at home.” She wrinkled
her nose. “First day and there’s already homework,” she teased.

He smiled again and she
felt it affect her physically.
Geez
, she thought.
Get your hormones
under control, Jen. “
I’ll give you my card with all my numbers on it. If
you have any questions, I want you to call. Okay? It’s really important that
you practice these exercises for at least an hour a day.”

He nodded, gave the okay
sign, and the solemnity of his expression convinced her he meant it.

* * * *

Zoe looked a little less
green around the gills by lunchtime, but she still only nibbled on cheese
crackers. “I can’t believe I was too hung over to handle that guy,” she moaned.
“How often do we get young, good looking guys in here? Never.”

Good looking wasn’t quite
the description Jenny would have used. It wasn’t nearly strong enough.  Of
course, that still didn’t explain her going into panting mode over him. She’d
certainly been with good-looking guys before. Mitch had been good looking. No,
there was something else about Ryan Cosgrove. Or maybe it was about their
chemistry. He had only to look at her or smile and her body went into
overdrive.

“God, I hate myself,” Zoe
continued.

Jenny stuffed the last of
her turkey sandwich into her mouth. If Zoe was trying to make her feel bad so
that she’d hand Ryan over, she could forget it.

“And I’m really good with
stutterers,” Zoe offered, flicking her eyes sideways at Jenny.

“So am I,” she said,
holding her hand over her full mouth.

“You could give him back to
me,” Zoe said.

“But I’m not.”

Zoe pouted. “But you love
me.”

“I’m still not giving him
up. He’s nice. We clicked. Ain’t happening, chick.”

“It would save us both the
heartache of me poisoning you before his next appointment,” Zoe said sweetly.

Jenny laughed but shook her
head. “Go back to hating yourself.”

“I hate you, too,” Zoe
declared.

“So you hate us both. So
does Myra. What’s new?”

* * * *

Ryan got out of his truck
and walked toward his house, but came to an abrupt halt as a large German
shepherd came running at him. He positioned himself so the two hundred pound
animal wouldn’t knock him over. “Hey, Jimbo,” Ryan greeted, petting him. “Saw
my girl today.”

They moved on to the house
together and Ryan went directly to the kitchen to make lunch. He put a sandwich
together, grabbed a beer and sat to eat, all the while thinking of Jenny
Oliver.
I’m Jenny Oliver, your speech therapist.
That’s what she’d said.
Your speech therapist.

He’d sought her out. He’d
gone to the damned doctor to get a referral and asked specifically for the
medical group she worked for. He hadn’t realized there were several speech
therapists in her office and that he could have gotten stuck with any of them.
It was pure luck she’d been assigned him. Or maybe fate. Maybe that was a real
thing.

All that research and work,
and he’d almost blown it today by saying too much. She’d asked if he stuttered when
he was home alone and he’d come within a hair’s breadth of saying,
No, and
not when I whisper, either
. “Shit,” he muttered. She would have guessed,
for sure.

It had been so hard not to
let his gaze roam over her shirtfront. She’d worn a v-neck that lured the eyes
to her cleavage. Having actually seen and touched those soft, round breasts, he
had a particular desire to stare at them. And to taste and to suck them.

He swallowed a swig of beer
and closed his eyes, reliving the few precious minutes in the basement. He’d
hoped touching her would take the edge off the almost painful desire she awoke
in him, but it had only made him hungry for more.

Her blonde hair was cut in
layers and she had a nervous habit of toying with the one that fell just below
her chin. He’d made her nervous at first, but she’d regained her composure and
control. He wanted it back from her. He wanted control. Hopefully he’d get
another opportunity soon. Her eyes were greenish-silver. He wondered if they
were color contacts or her real eyes? “God, she’s beautiful, Jimbo. She’s so
fucking beautiful.”

He’d first become attracted
to her blindly, through her voice, which had carried through the fireplace
chute he’d been repairing in her building. She must have been sitting in the
perfect position, facing the fireplace, and the ash-trap in her fireplace had
to have been open, given the way her voice had carried to him. She’d been
telling someone what her ex-boyfriend, Mitch, had done to her. “
Are you
ready for this,” she’d sobbed. “You know we haven’t been happy for a long
time.”
She’d read the whole letter and then tearfully blurted that the
bastard had cleaned out her checking account.

After that, Ryan had made a
point of seeking her out to see what she looked like. Just out of curiosity. Never
in a million years had he expected her to be beautiful. Luckily, he blended in
with the crew, so she never saw him. Anyway, he was good at being invisible. By
the time he’d completed the job, he’d rigged a little used door in the basement
so he could get in whenever he wanted.