Jane Doe(12)

Fall is my favorite season. It reminds me of myself, all hollow and cool. And despite the dying crispness of it, people still find it beautiful. Maybe they could feel that way about me too.

I think I had too much wine.

He opens the passenger door of a big silver SUV that looks as if it’s never touched mud. For a moment after he closes the door I’m alone, and I want to open the glove compartment and look for a sign or a clue of who’s been here before. A hair clip. A lipstick tube. Maybe even an actual glove. But then he’s opening the driver’s-side door and I’m smiling at him again.

“My place is only a mile away,” I say before I give him directions. The seat heater kicks in quickly, and now I’m cozy and tipsy and full of good food and I can’t wait to get home and go to sleep. I don’t like cuddling, but a warm body would be nice right now. Not Steven, though.

Maybe I should get a cat.

The thought invades my head fully formed and utterly obvious. A cat. Another little sociopath to curl up beside me at night and keep me warm.

The idea is a sudden, desperate need in me. And it’s an awful idea. I won’t be here long, my apartment doesn’t allow pets, and I’m heading out of the country after this. But I’m terrible at denying myself what I want, and I’m already wondering where the nearest animal shelter is.

“Right here?” Steven asks, and I realize we’re on my street.

I point to my run-down 1920s apartment building. “This one.”

“I’ll walk you up,” he says as he pulls to the curb.

I’m irritated that I have to stop making plans for my new cat and pay attention to him again, but I wait like a nice, patient girl as he walks around to open my door.

He walks me up the stoop, waiting while I unlock the main door with an old-fashioned metal key. There must be hundreds of these floating around. I can’t imagine when they last bothered changing the locks. I glance at him. “Thank you for walking me up.”

“I’ll take you to your door. This doesn’t look like the best neighborhood.”

“You don’t have to.”

But he holds the door open and follows me into the dingy lobby and past the mailboxes to the stairs beyond. My place is on the second floor, right at the top of the stairs. I’ve heard it’s better to be farther from the entry for security reasons, but I like watching my unsuspecting neighbors come and go through the peephole. The woman three doors down is an old barfly who brings home a different drunk codger every night, and she’s my favorite. Everyone needs a hobby, and I’m glad she’s found hers.

But tonight I’m the scandal in the hallway. I stop at my door. “This is me.”

“Must be noisy here by the stairs.”

I let him get his dig in. Yes, I was too stupid or poor or weak to demand a better apartment. Another barely noticeable insult to grind me down, but I know his game and I hear exactly what he means.

“Thanks for dinner,” I murmur shyly. “It was really, really good.”

“I had an amazing time. You’re a fun girl.”

But how much fun? That’s the question.

He moves closer and tips my head up with a gentle nudge. I let him kiss me. He’s not bad at it. Careful but firm. Not asking so much as suggesting. His tongue slips quickly in, claiming my mouth. I settle in against my door and try to enjoy it.

He’s already excited. Excited that I’m letting him. His fingers curve around my waist and grip me. He’s breathing harder, kissing me more deeply, sliding his tongue in a suggestive rhythm over mine.

I pull back a little and pretend to be breathless too.

“Maybe I should come in,” he whispers against my mouth.

I shake my head.

“I don’t mean that. We can have a drink.”

“No. I . . . I can’t.”

He growls a little and presses his hips to mine. “God, you’re so damn hot.” His mouth is wet on my throat now, his erection poking my stomach. I breathe with little panting sighs that make me sound helpless.

His hand slides up to palm my breast and he groans. I was eleven the first time I let a boy touch my breasts. I was so ready for it, and then when it happened I thought, That’s it? That’s what I was waiting for? It feels like he’s honking a horn. Such a letdown after all those stolen copies of Penthouse Forum.

Steven’s technique isn’t much better. He’s rubbing and squeezing and getting mostly padded bra. I let him go on for a little while before I finally say “No” and push him gently away. “I can’t do this. It isn’t right.”

“It feels pretty right,” he says with a sly smile.

“What kind of girl would I be if I slept with you on our first date?”

We both know the answer to that.

If we were already in my apartment, he’d push harder, of course. Here on the landing he has no choice but to give in gracefully, so he chuckles and tries to pretend his face isn’t flushed with lust. “I know. But what kind of guy would I be if I didn’t try?”

In deference to my role, I don’t answer “A born-again Christian with sincere beliefs and a genuine respect for women?” but it’s a close one. Instead, I ask, “Will you call me this weekend?” and give him a little power back.

“Yeah, if I can. Weekends are pretty busy.”