Messalina: Devourer of Men (2 page)

Fast forward to today and here I am, back at the theater.
            This place has become part of my life. It lets me enjoy my love for dark places and my need for anonymous fun, because in the dark, no one has to know or get hurt.

It’s just so
naughty
, as my friend Tony would say—if he knew—but I like hiding in plain sight. I’m addicted to it, and right now, I need a hit.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t look like I picked the best day to get it. The lobby is empty, there’s no one hanging around downstairs and I didn’t see any stray men hanging about like I usually do. My finger drumming increases so I take in my surroundings to distract myself.

Twenty minutes to go.

The space around me is dark save for the table where I sit that’s located under a skylight. But I can see the polished, black concession stand glowing under the neon lights and from the constant wiping of a bartender dressed in a white starched shirt. Watching him wipe a circular groove into the counter top, I sigh, mesmerized. Round and round his arm goes and his movements reflect my life. From work to theater and back again, this pattern composes the two halves of my world, and although they’re part of the same design, they never intersect.
            I continue to nurse my cup of cappuccino and try to figure out if I have batteries at home. Sometimes not even hard vibrating plastic can compensate when you’re in the mood for flesh. Looks like I’m going to have settle for a date with “The Bruiser” and take him out of his box when I get home.

“Excuse me, ma’am?”

My arm jolts and upsets my coffee. I see a tall man approach from out of the shadows. Then he starts to mop up my drink.

“I’m sorry I frightened you. Let me buy you another.”

“What? Another skirt?” I frown as I wipe myself. “No, that’s quite all right.”

He chuckles. “Now I would love to buy you things, but I meant another coffee.”

I couldn’t help but give a short laugh and allow a tiny smile at his comeback. Squinting my eyes against the sun, I shake my head. “There’s plenty left.”

“Yeah, but the thrill leaves once the cream’s gone.”

Turning aside to toss several used napkins onto a vacant table, when I look back, he’s sitting across from me.

“Did you want something?” I ask through clenched teeth accompanied by an insincere smile. The sun slicing through the small skylight gives me a better look at him and I try to figure out if I’ve seen him on campus.

He wears jeans and a blue Oxford shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His body is athletic but not muscle-bound. His face is what I would call boyish. He has a sharp, angular jaw line, full, sensuous—dare I say “feminine”—lips, a straight nose, and a long neck that, despite my annoyance, begs me to bite into it. In fact, his doesn’t look too masculine at all. I smirk. He’s probably gay . . . or bi. Just what I friggin need.

But what takes my breath away are his eyes—two glowing amethysts fringed with long dark lashes. I never believed eyes like that were possible but something beneath those irises burns making them incandescent as I look into them. Suddenly I want to bend in all sorts of bizarre positions. My skin gets hot.
I think I’m blushing.

A disarming smile creates twin dimples by the corners of his mouth and he leans closer. His auburn hair, violet eyes, and the direct sunlight intensify the contrasts of his appearance with startling effect.

“Please don’t take this the wrong way,” he says, “but I’ve been watching you for the last fifteen minutes.”

I frown. This is not part of the plan. Erotic thoughts or not, I level a gaze on him like a government employee asked to work on a holiday. But his confident manner has an edge that his smooth, easygoing voice belies, and I think I detect a Southern accent in his voice.

“No, please, don’t be angry.” He smiles and places a sketchpad before me. “I want to show you something.”

I crane my neck to look at the sketch and my guard eases. An annoying sunbeam has been blinding me as I sit here and I must’ve been looking straight at him without realizing it.

He’s caught me from the front but at a slight angle. The drawing is in a film noir style but it’s definitely me. He even put a sparkle in the pupils of my half-closed eyes and colored the brown of my skin and the blush of my mouth. The composition is divided diagonally as a result of the sunbeam making one side dark, with just a hint of my face, whereas the other side is light and contains most of the drawing. I look mysterious and coy as if poking my face out of the shadows to drink my coffee. My lips look so sensual making an “O” to blow the steam rising from my cup. Considering the atmosphere of the theatre and the main attraction, it’s very appropriate. The only other drawing I’ve seen of myself was a caricature done when I was seven years old. I’ve come a long way. I glance up at him and his smile broadens. But when I laugh, he frowns.

“Have I done you an injustice, ma’am?” His tone is icy and formal. Not that I blame him. If I found fault with his talent, all of my taste is in my mouth.

“No, I’m just surprised, that’s all.” I glance up at him. “Is that how I look?”

He nods and his smile is back again. His gaze on me intensifies, pinning me to my seat.

“You are a very attractive woman. Your features are symmetrical, balanced. More people than you can imagine have something out of proportion or off-center.”

I blink. I’ve never heard myself described as “symmetrical” before. And that is a southern accent. Sort of Matthew McConaughey-ish with a slight twang, subtle but it’s there. Jared makes a sound too guttural for a sigh and my PC muscles clench.

“Your skin glows. It reminds me of a chamois . . . all pale brown and soft.”

His lips curve into a crooked smile that’s almost too smug for my tastes, and I smirk. Yeah, this man knows he’s got it going on.

“Well, that’s very nice . . . the sketch.” I push the notebook back across the table to him.

“Jared Delaney.” He extends his hand. I look at it first with suspicion, then with scrutiny. I don’t want conversation, just a hand up my skirt. His fingers are not too thick and not too thin. Three or four would fill me nicely. I smile.

“Evadne Cavell.” Accepting the gesture and ignoring the charcoal smudges on his fingers, his hand encircles mine like a warm glove.

“Are you here for the show or have you been?” he asks.

“Both. This is my second time.”

“You’re an animation buff?”

“Yes.” I say, slightly embarrassed. “Animation is art.”

“I agree. It’s what I do, actually.”

“Really?” I grin. “Any of your . . . work . . . ?”

Laughing, he shakes his head. His laugh is rich, velvety, with a slight huskiness to it that tells of a history of smoking—recent or past—and the sound has me curling my toes in my shoes with desire.

“I haven’t attempted film on my own, yet.” He leans back in his seat to make himself comfortable. When he crosses his legs I see cowboy boots coming from beneath faded blue jeans. Not the flashy kind you may expect a country western singer to wear, but boots that are worn and comfortable from use. “You know a bit about art, then?”

“I was an art history major—briefly—until I decided that the best way for me to keep my appreciation is from an amateur’s view.” Smiling, I reach for the sugar dispenser and sense his eyes watching my every move. “I teach at Bellingham College.”

“Ah . . . the land of the Bellingham Bucks.”

“Yes,” I sigh dramatically. Bellingham is a private college of about 2,800 students where the financial aid office is only there for students to get money out of their trust funds or from their parents in amounts too big for an ATM. Our mascot is the mule deer.

“Listen, Evadne, I can’t sit and watch you try and drink that coffee anymore. I’ll be back.”

He is heading for the concession stand before I can put down the sugar dispenser leaving me to enjoy the presentation of his ass in his jeans as he walks. He moves with a fluidity of motion that reminds me of something.

A cat. Not the domestic kind, but one of the big cats walking in long strides. He may call me symmetrical but his features are easy on the eyes too.

He returns and shifts his chair closer to mine to get out of the sun. He smiles as he presents me with my drink. He’s bought one for himself too. I’m about to blow the steam away and he’s watching me again. I have to close my eyes to drink.

When I open them, he’s still looking at me. Using a tactic I haven’t felt compelled to use in years, I lick my lips while maintaining his gaze. His eyes follow every movement as the tip of my tongue slides from right to left over my upper lip. My breathing quickens. His vibes are far from subtle, but from the way he sits straight in his chair, he is holding back. Slowly, he raises his eyes to meet mine.

“I’ve seen you here before, you know.”

I freeze for a moment, but soon recover then put down my cup. “I beg your pardon?”

“I’ve seen you—here—before. Several times.” He takes a sip of his coffee not minding that he’s just uncovered my greatest fear: the fear of discovery. “Frankly, I’m surprised you’re alone.”

I look at him again, hard, my brain cycling through all the faculty, departmental, and staff meetings to try and place his face. I can’t.

“Who are you?”

He laughs but not in a derisive way and turns in his seat to face me. Once again his mouth turns up in a smile making me wonder if his lips are as soft as they look. His knee brushes against my thigh sending a spark of electricity up my spine.

“Don’t look so scared, Evadne. Your secret is safe with me.”

“And what secret would that be?”

“Do you really have to ask?”

“I think I do.” Even I couldn’t resist smiling as he gives me a knowing look. I twist my upper body in his direction and rest my arm on the back of my chair. As expected, Jared takes in the presentation of my cleavage but only for a moment. “I’m not used to conversation.”

“Well that’s a shame. A pretty thing like you is bound to have something to say.” He winks and turns away to take another sip of coffee. His lower lip looks full and succulent as it supports the rim of his cup. The muscles in his neck flex as he swallows. I would love to bite that neck. Mark him.

“Do you think?”

“Come on, Evadne.” Smiling, he faces me. “Don’t sell yourself short. You may try to look easy, but you’re not. You have taste. I can tell from the films you see—viewing companions not included.” He winks at me again and I get butterflies in my stomach. “You carry yourself like a queen. And girl,” he says, shaking his head, “there are some things you can’t learn off the street.”

This time it’s my turn to laugh. “You’re very observant.”

“It’s what I do, darlin’.”

This time there’s no hint of playfulness in his tone and we sit, taking each other in. For the first time I notice something else about Jared’s gaze. Although clear and open, his eyes are still dark enough as not to give everything away.

In the silence, we hear the downstairs lobby fill with patrons. He looks back over his shoulder, once again giving me a view of his neck. “The film’s letting out.” He smiles and stands. “Shall we go?”

“It depends,” I say while taking a napkin to wipe the corner of my mouth. I raise my head to look up at him and give a playful smile. “What do you think of my viewing companion now?”

In response I am treated to a flash of his white, even teeth in a grin that would melt the resolve of the coldest virgin.

“I also said you had taste.”

And with that, he pulls my chair out, places his hand on the small of my back and escorts me downstairs. Maybe it’s a measure of my excitement, but his touch burns through my sweater and beads of sweat form on my skin beneath his touch.

Inside the theater I estimate about thirty other people have decided to catch this matinee. We take our seats in the center section, four rows from the back. A few minutes later, the lights go out.

During the film I try to concentrate but can’t help glancing at my watch. It’s been nearly an hour and he hasn’t tried anything. Apart from pushing up the armrest to remove any barrier between us, he hasn’t touched me. We’re just two people enjoying a movie together. But watching a movie with a man who’s not feeling me up is a new experience for me and I can’t help stealing side-glances at him.

He’s different from other men, that’s for damn sure. He had the balls to come up and start a real conversation, and what a pick-up too. I’ll give him an A+ for that. My palms are sweating and, between my legs, I feel hot and empty—and wet.

He turns his head and catches me spying. He grins like I just sprang his trap. I turn away. His right arm goes around the back of my seat and he leans over to whisper.

“Evadne, it’s OK if you look.”

When I turn in his direction, his face is so close to mine I can feel it when he exhales. The scent of his cologne mixing with the coffee he just drank makes my mouth water. I close the distance. Our kiss is gentle, unhurried and tastes of chocolate and coffee. He gently takes hold of my chin to deepen our kiss.

“I knew those lips had to be delicious,” he says when we part to take a breath. His hand goes up the back of my neck and into my hair. I lean into the caress, exposing my throat, letting his lips linger on my neck. His tongue tickles along the surging throb of my pulse. I sigh and my hand falls to the side split of my skirt. Pushing the thin material over, I slide my fingers up between my legs.