Second You Sin - Sherman, Scott Read online

  Not much of a legacy.

  As you might expect, Chase grew up with every imaginable opportunity and indulgence. Top-notch schools, travel to the world’s greatest cities, the coolest toys, and the most fashionable clothing— Chase had it all. Still does.

  Chase also has a predilection for an unusual kind of sex. The kind of act that you’re not likely to find on the “likes” list of even the most progressive dating agency.

  In fact, Chase’s kink is so particular, so unusual, and so, well, dirty, that, despite his youth (he’s twenty-eight, according to the society pages of the NewYork Times), aristocratic good looks, and vast fortune, he still has to hire a sex worker to get his needs met.

  Which, at one thousand five hundred dollars a pop, works out pretty well for me.

  Chase’s doorman let me into the building and walked me to the elevator that only went to Chase’s floor. He used his key to open the door, and then pressed the button to take me to the penthouse. The doorman, with whom Chase had arranged it all beforehand, did all of this efficiently and wordlessly. I’m sure he was well tipped for his discretion.

  The elevator opened into a foyer that led to Chase’s living room. The apartment was a study in modernism and good taste. Floor-to-ceiling windows along one wall gave a magnificent view of Central Park. I took a moment to admire the Andy Warhol silkscreen that hung over a white Eames chair before proceeding to the large bedroom at the end of the hall.

  As always, the room had been emptied of its furniture before my arrival. Rubber mats covered the floor. The blinds were drawn. Two rolling carts—one by the door, one by the window—held the supplies Chase needed to get off.

  The outfit Chase wanted me to wear hung from a hook attached to the back of the door. I stripped naked and pulled on the supplied tight pants, baggy shirt, and shoes.

  I opened the closet. Inside, Chase had tucked a small vanity. I sat on the tiny stool and applied the makeup as Chase had taught me. First the foundation, then the rouge, and lastly the lipstick. Bright red, ridiculously garish, but I knew that was what Chase wanted.

  Then the wig.

  I looked in the mirror. I was almost unrecognizable. Even though I knew what was coming, and that Chase would not want his blows to hurt me, I still felt a little nervous.

  I was studying myself in the mirror when—wham! —Chase hit me in the back of the head. I hadn’t even heard him come in. I saw my own eyes widen in surprise.

  I reached around to feel how much damage Chase had done. While most of the white cream was caught in my wig, I felt some drip down the back of my neck and trickle down my shirt, giving me the shivers. I wiped it away and brought my hand to my mouth.

  Delicious.

  “Hey,” I shouted, “no fair!”

  In one swift move, I leapt from the stool and turned to face my attacker. Years of gymnastics training had made me limber and quick on my feet. I crouched to defend myself.

  “No one is safe from Socko the Magnificent!” Chase thundered. He stood at the doorway, tall and imposing. Well, as imposing as you can be in shoes that stuck out two feet, green pants, a rainbowstriped T-shirt, blue suspenders, white makeup, and a huge green Afro.

  Not to mention the red bulb attached to his nose. My outfit was similar.

  The clown fight wason.

  Chase—well, I suppose I should call him Socko when he’s dressed like this—squeezed the bicycle horn hooked to his waist. “Come on, kids,” he said in a trilling falsetto, “it’s time toget dirty!”

  He turned around to grab another of what must have been fifty pies off the cart by the door. I quickly headed over to the other cart and seized my own weapon. Just as Chase brought his arm back to pelt me with a plate of pecan-topped goodness, I caught him full in the face with the spray of an old-fashioned seltzer bottle.

  “Take that.” I laughed as he blinked and sputtered. He launched the pie at me, but, momentarily blinded, missed by a mile. I turned to grab a pie of my own, but as I reached to get it, Socko came up behind me and plopped one right on my head.How does he move so fast in those stupid shoes?I wondered.

  I retaliated by dropping to my knees and hitting him with a plateful of Boston cream pie right in his crotch, using the bulging tube within as my target. Socko growled.

  We were in constant movement, dodging and weaving. Both of us were laughing and panting as we ran around and fought to keep our balance on the increasingly slick floor. We called out silly taunts. We winged each other, hitting arms, legs, shoulders.

  It was Socko who got in the next good shot, hitting me squarely in the face. My features were covered in whipped cream. A classicThree Stoogesmoment. I used my hands to wipe the sweet topping away from my eyes and licked my lips to clear my mouth.

  Socko stood in front of me, breathing heavily. He stared glassy-eyed at my dessert-frosted face.

  “God, you’re beautiful,” he moaned.

  He pulled me toward him and kissed me hard. His tongue darted into my mouth. We both tasted Cool Whip. His strong arms pulled me closer. Then he ripped off my shirt.

  For the next twenty minutes, we continued to pelt each other with pies and seltzer, but also tried to rip off each other’s clothing, which, conveniently, was already strategically cut and loosely seamed. I don’t know where Chase got tear-away clown clothing, or if he had it custom made (I’d love to hear how he explainedthatto his tailor), but even with our greasy hands, it wasn’t long before we were down to our underwear and floppy shoes.

  While I can’t say that wet and messy clown sex is particularly my thing, Socko did look hot. His long and lean gym-toned muscles glistened from the various syrups and creams that covered him. He panted sexily from a combination of arousal and exertion. His shorts strained to contain what looked like a second bicycle horn, but I was willing to bet otherwise.

  Finally, Socko grabbed me and held tight as he emptied a can of whipped cream right into my boxer briefs. My trying to get away (well, not really, but I squirmed enough to make it believable) only turned him on more, and soon I was down to just the floppy shoes while Socko diligently applied his tongue to the tough business of cleaning up the mess he’d made.

  A short time later, after some extremely slippery frottage, Socko added his own special frosting to the mess already drying on my belly.

  “God, I needed that.” Socko, now Chase again, sighed as he rolled off me. His head landed in a pile of cherry filling.

  “Always glad to help,” I answered.

  Chase pulled me toward him so that my head rested on his chest. “You’re such a sweet kid.” He stroked my hair, then, absently, started picking the larger pieces of piecrust from it. “So willing to play along with me. I hope you don’t think I’m, I don’t know, too weird or something.”

  Of course you’re weird,I wanted to answer.You get off on having pie fights while dressed as a clown. What isn’t weird about that?

  But, who cares? If it turns you on, and doesn’t hurt anyone, what’s wrong with being a little weird? Most people never do anything that’s particularly interesting. That’s why they’re unhappy and dull. Celebrate your messy, clowny weirdness, Socko! Let your freak flag fly!

  I knew that wasn’t what he wanted to hear, though. “I always have fun with you,” I answered honestly. “And I think you’re hot.” I licked his nipple. Maple syrup, yum.

  “I never know when I’m dating someone, when to tell them about”—he waved his hand around the now-wrecked room—“all this.”

  Right after you’ve told them you’re worth a hundred million dollars,I thought.

  “You’re a great guy,” I said. “But it’s not the kind of thing you’d want to bring up on a first date. Do you also get into . . .” I wasn’t sure how to put it. Normally, I’d have said “vanilla sex,” but with Chase that had a double meaning.

  “Regular lovemaking?” Chase asked. I nodded against his chest. “Oh sure,” he continued. “But this for me is so much better, you know. So much more intense. It’s not som
ething I’d want to do every day but, but when I do, it’s like . . .” This time, he couldn’t find the words.

  “The icing on the cake?” I offered.

  Chase laughed and pulled me closer. “Yeah, that’s it, little buddy.The icing on the cake.” He kissed the top of my head. “And you’re the cherry.”

  “My advice? Wait till the fifth time you’ve slept with him. When it’s clear you’re both interested and you’ve already proved you can rock his world sans props. Then tell him, ‘You know what I think would be fun to try?’ And make it sound like a fantastic adventure, not a make-or-break demand.

  “If he goes for it, great. If not, ask him again three months later. If he’s interested in you, he’ll get the message that it’s something you really want to do. In the meantime, I’m always available for your sweet, sweet lovemaking.”

  Chase chuckled. “You know, that’s not bad. Maybe I’ll give it a try. Do you charge extra for the counseling?”

  “I may take a pie with me,” I answered. “That peach cobbler is delish.”

  After a quick shower in Chase’s fabulous hightech bathroom (which, BTW, was bigger than my entire one-bedroom apartment in Chelsea), I gave him a peck on the cheek on my way out the door.

  “Here, take this,” he said, pressing a wad of bills into my hand. I knew he paid the one thousand five hundred dollars for today’s date online with Mrs. Cherry. This was a tip.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “And thanks for the advice.” He grinned. “I promise not to wear these until at least the fifth date.” He looked down at the oversized clown shoes still on his feet.

  “Well, I don’t know,” I answered as the doors to his private elevator whooshed open. “They could work for you. You know, some guys think shoe size is directly related to . . .” I arched an eyebrow and entered the waiting lift.

  Chase was still chuckling as the doors slid shut.

  Always leave ’em laughing.

  Especially the clowns.

  I opened my palm and found five hundred-dollar bills curled together like contented lovers.

  Sometimes I loved my job.

  9

  A Sleeping Bee I needed to go home to get ready for the party I was attending with Freddy tonight, but first I decided to go by the hospital and see how Randy was doing. When I got there, I stopped at the gift shop and picked up a small white teddy bear holding a box of Hershey’s Kisses. I didn’t know if anyone had reached Randy’s family yet, and the thought of him lying in an empty hospital room was too depressing.

  Plus, if I knew Randy, he’d wake up hungry. I went up to the intensive-care ward. The elevator opened to a large desk for visitors. A male nurse sat there making notes in someone’s chart.

  “Excuse me,” I said.

  The young man nodded. “One sec,” he said. His short brown hair didn’t do much to conceal his large ears, which stuck out like satellite dishes from his nicely rounded head. I noticed that, unlike most of the staff that works in hospitals, this guy actually seemed healthy. As he wrote in the chart, well-defined muscles in his upper back and shoulders did a lively little dance for me. He was slim, but wiry, not skin and bones. His neck looked smooth and strong.

  “Sorry,” he said, looking up. “Just had to get that down. Now what can I . . .”

  He paused for a moment, and then smiled. I knew what he was thinking.Hey, cutie.I was thinking the same thing. He looked like he was about twenty-five years old. Fair skin, nice broad nose, and deep brown eyes. A pencil stuck behind his oversized ear made him look adorably geeky. He had a great smile. His ID card read “Cody Boyd.” It sounded like a porn name.

  He shook his head. “Sorry, lost my train of thought. Let me guess—you’re here to see . . .” He looked at a clipboard on his desk. “Randy Bostivick.”

  I smiled back. “How’d you know?”

  Cody considered his response. “Ummm, let’s just say you look like you’d be a friend of his.” He paused again, and then looked more serious. “Unless you two are, umm, a couple.”

  His blush was as appealing as the rest of him. “Nope,” I said. “Just friends.”

  Cody broke into an inappropriately broad grin before dialing it back a little. “That’s great!” he said. Embarrassed by his overenthusiasm, he added, “It’s great that Randy has another friend.”

  I’d have bet money that Cody was glad to hear that Randy wasn’t taken, at least not by me. As snackable as I thought Cody was, he really wasn’t my type, and I didn’t get the sense he was interested in me, either.

  “Another friend?” I asked. I didn’t know who else would be visiting Randy. I remembered Freddy’s suspicion that the car that hit Randy hadn’t been an accident. Now, I wondered if whoever was behind the wheel hadn’t come back to finish the job. I was about to tell Cody to check Randy’s respirator when he continued.

  “A Mrs. . . .Berry?” he asked.

  “Mrs. Cherry,” I corrected him, relieved. “We work for her.”

  Cody furrowed his brow. Cutely. “You do?” he asked. “She said she was his aunt.”

  “She is,” I answered quickly. “She’s his auntand his boss. But she’s just my boss. I’m not related to her. Them. We’re just friends. Randy and I. And Mrs. Cherry, too. We’re all friends. See? He works for his aunt.” I was babbling. Had I taken my medication today?

  Cody had a look on his face that told me he was trying to decide if I was adorably scattered or actually deranged. I gave him my best see-I’m-notcrazy smile. Cody decided to go with the first option.

  “Got ya,” he said. He pointed to a huge box of Godiva chocolates at the end of the desk. It had to cost over a hundred dollars. Shit was more expensive than steak. “She brought that. For the nursing staff.” He winked. “Smart woman.”

  I held up my little white bear. “I brought something, too,” I said, a little defensive comparing my pathetic offering next to Mrs. Cherry’s extravagant indulgence.

  “Bears are good,” Cody said. He grinned. “Not as good as a fifty-pound box of chocolate, mind you, but still good.”

  “You can never have too much chocolate,” I agreed.

  “Yeah, that Mrs. Cherry really was a very nice woman,” Cody continued. He stopped and looked at me to see just how honest he could be. “And when I say ‘woman’ . . .” He made air quotes.

  Mrs. Cherry’s drag couldn’t fool a blind man, let alone a skilled medical professional like young Cody here, who, because he was cute, I wanted to imagine was a genius along the lines of Louis Pasteur.

  “It’s a hormonal thing,” I offered.

  Cody’s “hmmm” indicated a certain degree of disbelief.

  “Or it could be her testicles,” I conceded.

  “That’ll do it,” Cody responded.

  At that we both smiled. I could have hung out longer with Cody, but I had to get going.

  “So,” I said, “I guess I should go see Randy. How’s he doing?”

  “Randy, right.” Cody gave a brisk nod to indicate he was turning back to business. “Randy is . . .” He looked at his chart and grimaced. “Randy’s about the same, I’m sorry to say. Still not conscious. But holding on.”

  I was hoping for better news. “Can I see him?”

  Cody stepped out from behind the counter. “Come on, I’ll take you in.”

  He signaled for another nurse to take over for him at the desk and walked me to see my friend.

  “Whoa,” I said. Randy’s room was filled with flowers, balloons, and a huge pink stuffed bunny that sat in one of the two visitor’s chairs. “Mrs. Cherry again?”

  “She thought the place could use a little cheering up.”

  “The Macy’s Christmas Parade isn’t this cheered up,” I said.

  I went over to Randy. He lay motionless except for the slight rise and fall of his chest as a machine puffed life into his sleeping lungs. I brushed the hair off his forehead. The skin felt thin and cool.

  He could have been sleeping. I wished he were.
r />   Cody made himself busy checking the IV drip. “He’s taking in a lot of fluids,” he said.

  “That good?”

  “Yeah, it means things are working.”

  “Good,” I agreed. “I never thought I’d see Randy looking so . . . weak.”

  “Yeah,” Cody said, “he does have that Incredible Hulk thing going on, doesn’t he?” Cody’s admiring gaze made it clear that Randy’s superhuman musculature worked for him.

  “Maybe you should check him for exposure to cosmic rays,” I suggested.

  Cody corrected me. “Gamma rays. Cosmic rays are what gave the Fantastic Four their powers. Hulk was gamma rays.”

  “Nerd much?”

  “I have a mind for useless trivia,” he admitted.

  “You like him,” I teased.

  “I treat all my patients equally, with compassion and no preference,” he answered.

  “Yeah,” I said, “but you like him.”

  “I confess nothing,” Cody said. “Although I may have paid his charge nurse fifty bucks to let me do his sponge bath.”

  I laughed. Even in a coma, Randy was the stuff of fantasy.

  “I mean, does he live at the gym?” Randy continued.

  “Not quite. But he’d appreciate knowing you think so.”

  Cody came over to me and looked me in the eyes. “I’m sorry your friend is hurt. Do you want to sit with him awhile?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Do you think he can hear me?”

  “I do. I think he’d really appreciate a little visit just about now.”

  As Cody was leaving I called out, “Thanks.”

  “No problem,” said cute Cody.

  So, I sat with Randy and told him about my visit with Socko the Clown, and asked his advice about how to ask Cody out for coffee without embarrassing the both of us by making it sound like a come-on. It’s weird—hitting up a guy for sex is easy. Putting the move on a potential friend, though, gets awkward.

  If Randy had an opinion, he kept it to himself. “Besides,” I told him, “I think he’s into big boys like you. Tell you what, wake up right now and you can ride him into the night like a Harley.”