Play Me (2 page)

I set about distracting
myself with my unpacking. I hadn’t brought much—unlike my
sister with her closet overflowing with colorful clothes, I had a
rather small, extremely versatile wardrobe. Black went with
everything, after all. After I had hung everything up, I was pleased
to see that I still had plenty of room in my closet. Despite not
having anything else I needed to put in there, it was still nice to
know I had space if I needed it.

The closet door had a
full-length mirror, making it hard to avoid my reflection when it was
closed. My hair had come loose during my unpacking, so I quickly
smoothed it back into its usual bun—the most efficient way to
style my long black hair. I also didn’t mind the way it made my
eyes look bigger, though my dad always joked that I couldn’t
change that no matter what.

“You look like
one of the things in the
Gremlins
movies,” he would
always say. “But the cute one.”

In the mirror, I
noticed that my loose black shirt was covered in dirt, which I
brushed away, making sure none had gotten on my black pants. Getting
dressed was easy when everything matched, which was good, since I had
a tendency to hit snooze on my alarm more than I should. My quick and
easy morning routine was the only thing that kept me from being late
for rehearsal every day.

There was a small
dresser in the closet where I put my few foldable items, mostly
pajamas and lingerie. It was the one piece of my wardrobe that had
any color. I was a fan of pretty lacy things, just not of showing
them off. Even when I had been with Mark, I had only shown him my
more conservative bras and panties. Somehow, I had sensed that he
wouldn’t have approved of the more . . . interesting
items I had. Those, the thigh-high stockings, push-up bras, and
silken thongs, were carefully arranged in my top drawer. It was a
part of myself that I never felt like sharing. But a part that I
really liked indulging. I had a hard time passing up La Perla or
Agent Provocateur lingerie. My unofficial motto was: when in doubt,
buy panties. I seemed to be buying a lot of panties these days.

I unloaded the box that
held my meager collection of electronics—my phone charger,
which I immediately plugged in right next to my bed to charge my
phone, and my second-hand laptop, which I mostly used to watch
classical performances. Next I took out the bedding, placed the extra
set in the closet and made my bed, which at the moment consisted only
of a mattress on the floor. There was no way a bedframe could
possibly fit in this apartment. But I didn’t mind. I liked how
cozy it all was. And how it was all mine. And if I wanted to sleep on
a mattress on the floor, well, then I was going to sleep on a
mattress on the floor.

The sun was beginning
to set, so I took my first shower in my new apartment and was
thrilled to find that the water pressure was strong and the water was
steadily hot. The city outside was still awake, lights on in every
house on the block across from mine, but I found I liked the darkness
of my apartment—it made it feel even cozier. I put on my
favorite silk cami and short set—a recent splurge—and sat
down at my piano. The first notes echoed beautifully in the room and
I soon lost myself in the music.

Jake

Beer, bed, babes. Beer,
bed, babes. Beer, bed, babes. That was the chant in my head, each
word accompanied by a slightly sloppy step. I had taken care of the
first item on my list, and was on a path straight towards the second,
but sadly, I didn’t think I was going to have any luck with the
third. At least not tonight.

It was a damn shame, I
thought, the city in a rare state of quiet around me. This was my
favorite time of the day—when it was just me and the nighttime
and the city lights. The less perfect parts of the world were hidden,
cloaked in shadows or barely illuminated by streetlights.

As I reached my
building, I didn’t see any lights on in any of the apartments,
which made sense since it was after four in the morning. Not many
people were up after I finished up at the restaurant, which is why
item number three on my list was usually a difficult thing to find
these days. Unfortunately, the same thing that kept me away from
meeting women in the usual ways—my odd hours as a chef—was
also the thing that usually got my adrenaline pumping and on a good
night (and tonight had been a gooooooooood night), I usually came
home totally riled up and completely horny.

Another night, another
cold shower, I thought, gritting my teeth as I climbed the stairs.
Not that I had any problems finding women to go home with me, but my
hours didn’t allow for the traditional dinner and movie dates
that started at seven p.m. Since I was seventeen, I had done pretty
well for myself in that department. Women liked me and I liked them.
I liked everything about them—the curve of their ass, the
bounce of their breasts, the sway of their hips. But lately, I just
hadn’t had the time, and one-night stands didn’t have the
same appeal they used to. No, the most important thing right now was
work, and a lot of women didn’t understand that.

I gave my shirt a sniff
when I reached my apartment and found that it stunk, usually the case
after a long day. But I couldn’t help grinning, thinking of how
full the restaurant had been tonight. Only a few weeks with me as
head chef and the reservations hadn’t even faltered. I knew the
owner had panicked when the head chef, Patricia announced she was
leaving—after all, she was the big name that had drawn people
to the restaurant in the first place—and had loudly voiced her
hesitation about me replacing her. And they weren’t any fears I
hadn’t already had. But if I wanted to open up my own place by
the time I was thirty (only three years away), I had to grab
opportunity by the balls. And this opportunity had a big set of
cojones for me to grasp onto.

I had worked my ass off
to get this far, and even though it was true that I didn’t have
as much experience as some of the other chefs Patricia had been
considering, nobody could match me in sheer stubbornness and
determination to succeed. I had done everything short of begging to
convince my former boss to let me step into her very large,
hard-to-fill shoes. Even after a few weeks, I was still waiting for
someone to burst into the kitchen one night and shout “gotcha!”
and reveal the whole thing was some messed up reality show. The
soul-crushing version of
Top Chef
.

Still, even though I
was grateful for my new position, I still wasn’t completely
satisfied. I itched to try out my own menu. Marilyn, the owner,
wanted me to keep cooking Patricia’s classics, at least for a
few months, and while I understood the hesitance, I was still
frustrated. I wanted to serve my own dishes—to make my mark and
draw the attention of investors. Becoming head chef was a step in
that direction and there was something invigorating about finally
running my own kitchen, but I knew that I wouldn’t be satisfied
until I owned my own place. Where I could control everything.

Lately satisfaction was
a long time coming. Coming being the imperative term.

But by the time I
reached my door, I was so exhausted, I barely had the energy to
undress. I was pulling off my shirt and about to turn on my lights
when I realized I had left the curtains open. Unless I wanted to be
woken by the sun first thing in the morning—which I absolutely
did not—I needed to shut them before I went to sleep.

I went over to the
window, preparing to tug them closed, when I happened to glance down
into the apartment that was one over and down.

And I saw her. All
smooth satin and creamy skin, sitting on a piano bench. Her black
hair obscured her face, as she furiously wrote in a journal. She
hadn’t put up any curtains and the moon was on my side tonight,
so I got a damn good look at my new neighbor. Hadn’t I seen her
that morning, on my way to work?

Right. Yeah. She had
been with a kind of serious looking blonde guy with a grimace on his
face. Her boyfriend? I hadn’t had much time to think about it
then, since I was already running late, but I did remember passing
her in the hallway, that same shiny hair pulled tightly back, her
thin frame swimming in black clothes, and her eyes. Those big, big
eyes had caught mine and there had been a bit of a jolt. Enough that
it took half a block for me to realize my heart was racing. I chalked
it up to the steady pace I was keeping, but now, standing completely
still, I didn’t have the same excuse for the same symptoms. Who
knew I had a thing for pale brunettes with big eyes?

Then again, if I knew
she had been hiding that body under those clothes, I would have
stopped on the stairs and introduced myself, boyfriend be damned.

Suddenly, she stood,
and I took a step back, but not far enough away that I couldn’t
still see her walk in front of the window. I couldn’t see her
eyes, but I could see a whole lot of everything else. There had been
a lot she had been hiding under those baggy clothes. Long slim legs
with a firm, round ass and shapely hips.

Fuck. I imagined myself
there, in the room with her, sliding my hands over the slippery
smooth lingerie before quickly stripping it away. Laying her down on
the bench, kneeling down between her thighs with her gorgeous legs
draped over my shoulders as she’d moan and shudder from my
hands and mouth. She might be skilled with the piano keys, but a
woman’s body was an instrument I was more than experienced
with. After she’d cry out her pleasure, I’d pull her to
her feet, crushing my mouth against hers, our tongues hot and wet,
mine tasting intimately of her. Then I’d bend her over the
smooth surface of the piano and . . .

Damn. I couldn’t
remember the last time a fantasy had gotten me so riled up. I was as
horny as a teen boy watching his first porno.

Did she know I could
see her? A part of me wanted to believe that she could, but her
lights were off and I had no doubt that she thought she was invisible
in the dead of the night. So even though I ached to keep watching her
and ached to take care of the very large problem I currently had in
my pants, I stepped away from the window. Pulling the curtains
closed, I stripped off the rest of my clothes. With my cock standing
at attention, I headed towards my bathroom. My own hand was a poor
substitute for what I craved—black satin and smooth skin—but
if a fantasy was what I had, a fantasy was what I’d use.

Jake

I woke to classical
music playing. What the fuck? My head ached, and still half asleep I
felt around for my phone—was it eleven already? The only time I
was up before then was after my days off, or when I had to go
shopping for produce for the restaurant. But when I squinted at the
bright screen—way, way too bright for my groggy, hung over
state of being—it said eight a.m.

I then remembered that
the ring tone for my alarm was “I Like Big Butts,” which
Dakota had programmed into my phone a year ago and I was too lazy to
change. So where the hell was the classical music coming from? And
not only that, it seemed to be on repeat.

Some of my confusion
lifted and I realized, yep, whatever song it was, it was playing over
and over again. In fact, it seemed to be skipping or something
because it got to a certain point, hit a sour note and abruptly
stopped. For about two seconds. And then it started all over again.

“Ugh,” I
groaned, grabbing my pillow and shoving it over my head, hoping to
block out the noise, but it didn’t work. I threw the pillow at
the wall, and when it fell it accidentally hit a picture on my
dresser, knocking it to the ground, the glass shattering on my
hardwood floor. It was too goddamn early for this.

Then, for a moment,
there was silence. I held my breath.

“Fuck!” I
swore as the music started up again. Then I remembered last night
when I was looking down into my new neighbor’s apartment as she
sat at her piano. Was this punishment for checking her out in her
underwear? As far as I was concerned, the crime did not match the
punishment. I had just taken a little peek. And constructed an entire
fantasy around her. A super fucking hot fantasy. And, okay, yeah,
looking in on your neighbor when she doesn’t know you’re
watching her is kind of a creeper move, but I hadn’t mean it
that way. Maybe she didn’t know that she needed curtains. I
fell back on my mattress with a groan.

All of my neighbors
knew that I was a chef and that I needed to sleep in. Most of them
went off to work early, but were really good about not slamming doors
or stomping down the stairs—an important courtesy in an old
building like this with pretty thin walls. Perhaps no one had let our
new neighbor know.

The song started up
again and I dragged myself out of bed, grabbing last night’s
clothes and yanking them on. Well, there was no time like the present
to introduce myself and let her know a little bit about neighborly
decorum.

Even though I knew
where it was coming from, I followed the music and as expected it led
me right to her door. 1A. From inside, I could hear her make the same
mistake she had been making all morning and I made a quick prayer
that she would just cut her losses and take a walk or read a book or
do something that was considerably more quiet.

But I apparently must
have pissed someone off in a former life because after the same short
break, the music started up again, exactly as it had been doing all
morning. Curling my fingers into a fist, I gave her door a good
pounding, when I’d rather be giving her a good pounding. God,
she had looked so fucking hot in those sexy panties last night.

The music abruptly
stopped.

“Thank God,”
I muttered to myself, though the tune was still continuing in my
head. With my luck, I was going to be hearing it in my head all day.
Fuck my life, I thought, rubbing sleep from my eyes as I heard
footsteps coming towards the door. They paused and I guessed she was
looking out her peephole at me. I could only imagine what she saw. A
tired, annoyed dude barefoot in yesterday’s wrinkled clothes. I
guess I couldn’t blame her for not opening the door
immediately.