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Sex with him is incredible. I can admit that without being prompted.
But there were other moments too. Tender moments, or at least Micah’s version of tenderness.
When he was outraged over what Pierce tried to do.
When he insisted on dropping me off at my car despite my protests.
When he asked me why I always hide pieces of myself.
When he listened as I told him about the stone angel.
When he held me as I slept.
And throughout all of that, I feltsomething.
Enough ofsomethingthat I was sorry to see him go the next morning after we spent the night in my bed.
Once my meetings are over, I pause at the desk of the young office assistant. “I’ll be scouting some rally locations on the east side.”
She’s the nail-biting anxious type.“Aren’t you taking some security with you?”
“No need.”
She’s gawking at me as if terrified of the fallout should I get damaged on my east side field trip, still watching when I disappear into the elevator.
Though the east side is as navigable as a hedge maze and populated with dead ends and one lane alleys, I have a good memory when it comes to directions and don’t use GPS unless necessary. After struggling through only a couple of wrong turns, I’m back in Micah’s neighborhood.
Nobody would call this area quaint or pose here on a sidewalk for scenic selfies. There’s a grubby, dim cast to the general landscape, as if the color saturation has been intentionally reduced.
The sight of Micah’s building brings a rush of heat to my belly as I flash back to the night I saw it for the first time. The pinkish ‘Vacancy’ sign still blazes next door. If I turn between the buildings I know I’ll spot the fourth floor balcony where I found Micah quietly sketching in the dark.
“You can trust me, Tess. I promise.”
There’s more than just crude arousal zinging through my senses. The flutter in my belly is more complex, potentially more dangerous. I’m nervous about seeing him. Making a fool of myself is never high on my wish list.
Micah said his gym is two blocks to the north but I have to squint at the washed-out signage to figure out that the squat structure with flaking window images of boxing gloves and athletic shoes is the place I’m looking for.
The nearest parking lot is next door in front a sex shop. Just outside, a man sits on a bench, dressed like a penis. He grows more animated at the sound of my car engine and stands up to wave.
Another time I might be interested in browsing the store called the Candee Shoppe. I’m a big fan of battery-operated toys. Still, I have to admit that there’s not a piece of rubber in the world that has a prayer of making me feel half as good as Micah’s cock.
It’s possible that the door to Golden Wings Gym has never ever been in touch with any kind of cleaning substance. Pinching my fingers on the filthy metal handle, I swing it outward and am instantly met with a fragrant blend of rubber and sweat.
The first room probably qualifies as a tiny lobby. Cheaply framed photos, some of them faded from decades past, hang on the walls in a haphazard fashion. A black rubber mat stretches over cracked linoleum and two metal folding chairs are crookedly parked in a corner. The man seated behind a high desk holds his phone with one hand. He’s likely my father’s age, maybe a little older, but the deep lines etched into his broad face tell the story of a hard life. His eyes flicker to me, then return to his phone screen.
“Not buying,” he says.
Hinges creak as the door swings closed behind me. “I’m not selling.”
He lifts his eyes again and this time there’s some wariness. “Who are you looking for?”
“Micah Lyonne. I’m a friend of his.”
The wariness fades. “Yeah, he’s around but he’s in the ring right now so don’t bother him.”
“Mind if I take a seat?”
He shrugs. “Suit yourself.”
