Page 95 of Naughty Nelle

CHAPTER 8

Sarah

Fuck him.

Remorse giving way to rage, I decided to walk home from Penn Station. The furnished apartment I was subletting on West Forty-Fifth Street between Eighth and Ninth Avenues on the edge of the theater district was not far. Besides, it was a warm May night, and I needed the air to clear my head. Unfortunately, the intense throbbing between my inner thigh area kept me in a fog. Ari’s beautiful face filled my mind while his beautiful dick filled every other part of me. And then the image of that stunning redhead made it all go away faster than losing my virginity. The reality that I was no longer “the twenty-five-year-old virgin,” as Lauren sarcastically called me, made me shudder with disbelief. It had to happen sometime, but now I wished it hadn’t happened with that Adonis. Wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am. The asshole didn’t even thank me for fucking his brains out. But I was the idiot for letting him seduce me. Now I hated myself for succumbing so readily to his selfish, lustful assault.

I got to my brownstone in no time. Mounting the five-step landing that led to the front door, I dug deep into my large bag in search of my keys and sighed with relief when I found them. Had it not been for Trainman, I would have had no bag or keys. For all I know, that kid, having access to my identity and address, might have vandalized my apartment and wiped out everything. And if I happened to be home at the time, who knows what else might have happened. I trembled thinking about the possibilities.

I jiggled the front door key into the tricky deadbolt lock. It was a royal pain in the butt to get it to unlock, but one could never be too safe in this big city, especially in my neighborhood, which was still considered a little seedy.

Once inside, I used a tiny key attached to the chain to open one of three tarnished mailboxes lining the chipped walls of the dingy entryway. Two other tenants lived in the building—Mrs. Blumberg, on the second floor, a retired Broadway actress, who always had a story to tell me about her song and dance days and was convinced she was related to the city’s former mayor, and Mr. Costanzo, on the ground floor, who owned a nearby pizzeria. They were both always trying to feed me. My apartment, identical to theirs, was located on the third floor.

I reached my hand into the narrow metal box and grabbed the pile of mail. Bills. Bills. And more bills. And a letter from the Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania. I would deal with all of them later. Right now, I had to hurry and get myself ready for the Black Eyed Peas concert in Central Park. Perhaps some good music and food would get my mind off my sick mother and the sick feeling I had about being used by that asshole on the train.

Usually the trek up the steep three flights of stairs was effortless for me, but this evening it was challenging. I was worn out, my insides torn, both physically and emotionally. As I mounted each step, the image of my mother, wan and frail, life ebbing out of her, alternated with the image of Ari, tan and fit, putting life into me. I could still feel his hot pulsing cock deep inside me. I wanted the memory to go away and move on. Liar. I wanted more of him.

Breathing heavily, I unlocked my apartment door after several attempts. Jo-Jo, short for Josephine, the sweet black cat I was caring for, immediately brushed up against my ankles and meowed. Her true owner, a flamboyant, singing-dancing transvestite, was away on a yearlong tour of La Cage Aux Folles.

My flat, a railroad apartment, was small but pleasant. I was lucky to have found it on Craigslist. It was rent-controlled, so I wasn’t paying much, and the tenant I was subletting from even gave me a small break for looking after his cat. The only thing odd about the apartment was that the walls were painted a flaming hot pink, and there was a large framed poster of Josephine Baker (obviously the inspiration for kitty’s name) above the pseudo-Victorian sofa. The other flea market finds that filled the apartment gave it a je ne sais quoi charm that appealed to me.

Jo-Jo followed me into the small galley kitchen, where I proceeded to open a can of Fancy Feast and put it into her special bowl on the Formica counter. From the corner of my eye, I noticed that the message light on my landline was flashing red, signaling I had some.

Leaving Jo-Jo to her food, I slogged over to the phone located on the other end of the counter and punched in the code to retrieve my messages. I had six new ones, all from my best friend.

Lauren: “Where are you?” CLICK. Lauren: “What are you wearing? Remember, my cotillion friends are coming.” CLICK. Lauren: “Where are you?” CLICK. Lauren: “Guess what! Taylor is taking me to the Hamptons.” CLICK. Lauren: “Call me!” CLICK. Lauren: “FYI, your cell phone is turned off.”

End of messages. My heart sank. So much of me wanted to hear Ari’s sultry voice. “Saarah. Call me. I want to make you wet and fuck your brains out.”

Stop it, Sarah!I silently chided. He was probably already bedding that stunning redhead. And he had no idea where I lived or how to get in touch with me. Chances were I’d never see or hear from him again. Yet, the raw aching I felt for this man continued to consume me. The aftershocks of my off-the-charts orgasm measured 6.0 on the Big-O scale and my pussy was still pulsing.

Enough. I’d better call Lauren and let her know that I was back in town and that I would meet her at the Seventy-Second Street entrance to the park at 7:30. Before I had a chance to dial her number, the intercom buzzed. Lately, any time it did, my heart dropped to the floor, thinking it might be someone serving me for non-payment of bills. Or even worse, some messenger with the news of my mother’s passing. Anxiously, I hurried back to the door to my apartment and pressed a nearby button.

“Yes?” My voice trailed off as I spoke into the intercom.

“Delivery for you,” said a male voice with a heavy New York accent.

That was strange. I wasn’t expecting anything. Unless Catherine, my demanding boss, had decided to send a stack of her expenses to take care of over the weekend. I had taken the day off to visit my mother, and she was not happy about it one bit. So, this was her revenge.

“Just leave it outside on the stoop.” I never let strangers inside the building. As both Mrs. Blumberg and my mother said, you just never knew who could be the next David Berkowitz, the city’s next serial killer.

“You need to sign for it,” said the invisible voice.

“Fine. I’ll be right down.”

Grabbing one of the loose pens that I kept in a tin can on the counter, I galloped down the three flights of stairs. Waiting for me outside was a twitchy man holding a box that must have measured five feet in length. It was magnificently wrapped in violet paper and topped off with a white bow the size of a basketball. This could not possibly be for me. And it was definitely not from my stingy boss, who I think hated me.

“Sign this,” said the man, handing me a receipt.

Sure enough my name, Sarah Greene, was printed on the paper along with my address and apartment number. Huh? And then it hit me. Of course, it was a gift from my mega-wealthy, debutante friend Lauren, who probably sent me something nice to wear to the concert tonight so I wouldn’t be an embarrassment in front of all of her high society friends. She had threatened to burn my entire wardrobe once, and this was her way of sending me a message.

Grabbing the receipt, I plastered it against the hallway wall and signed my name. The deliveryman promptly left, and I humped back up the stairs with the large package in my arms. What did Lauren pick out for me? Knowing her over-the-top expensive taste, I’m sure it was something like Seven for Mankind tight-ass jeans and some bold print halter-top cut so low you could see my navel. Trendy things that flat-chested, straight-as-an-arrow, bohemian me had no right wearing. And would not look good in.

Once back inside my apartment, I gently laid the massive package on the couch and carefully unwrapped it. I’d never seen such a meticulously wrapped present, and the dazzling bow must have cost a small fortune. Lauren could afford it. Her father, Randolph Hoffmeier, was a major Wall Street honcho, and she already had a substantial trust fund from her Mayflower-descended family.

The box was from Bergdorf’s. Wow! The only time I’d ever set foot inside that store was the one time Catherine sent me there at lunch to pick up a tube of her favorite Chanel red lipstick. Dressed in my cheap, unfashionable garments, I stuck out like a sore thumb among all the expensively dressed chic women and couldn’t wait to get out of the place. I spent the rest of my lunch break down the street, consoling myself at T.J. Maxx.

I carefully removed the box top. Layers of delicate white tissue paper lined the interior of the other half. I peeled them away and then gasped. Facing me was a beautiful black silk dress with two sparkling spaghetti straps. A tag hung off one of them. Marc Jacobs, size 6, no price. I lifted the dress by the straps and held it up in front of me. It was stunning. Simple and elegant. But certainly not the kind of thing one would wear to a rock concert in Central Park. What was Lauren thinking?

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