"No, I was just surprised to see anyone here." She stands in front of the machine and makes no effort to withdraw her clothes. A light pink stain upon her cheeks gives me a clue. She is embarrassed. I have no idea why, but I turn away and then to go sit in my chair. Her unease is distressing me, and I do not know what to do to make it go away other than to leave her. My throat feels tight. Maybe if I visit a whore again I will pay her to teach me to flirt.
My own cheeks feel hot, and I pretend to read my emails while Daisy empties the contents of her machine into a plastic basket with broken webbing. A cry of dismay has me ricocheting out of my chair, but there is no threat to her. Daisy is staring at her belongings, one item in each hand and the stains from bleach I placed in her dryer are obvious. Guilt strikes me hard, harder than I’d imagined.
"What is it?" I ask, pretending I don’t know that I have likely ruined her only clothes. She bows her head, and I wonder if she will cry. Please, kotehok, please do not cry.
In the end no tears fall, but her fatalism, her resigned acceptance of this loss makes me feel even worse, as if I have physically squeezed a little of her happiness from her.
Abruptly I stand again, and the chair rattles backward into the machine.
"Kotehok, what is wrong?" My hand hovers over her bowed shoulders. I want to touch her but feel too guilty.
She sighs and then turns to me with a slight shake of her head. "Just my luck, I guess. I must have put the clothes in a machine that had bleach in it." She holds up a pair of jeans that look too big for her, with ragged cuffs. There is a large discoloration on the back. The shirt she holds in the other hand has the same problem. "The jeans I might get away with, but this shirt?"
"It was me," I declare. I fist the shirt in my hands and tug it from her. "You must allow me to fix this for you."
"No. What?" She tries to pull the shirt back, and the frayed fabric rips in our hands.
Now she does look like she is about to cry, and she bites her lips to keep back her tears. I cannot withhold myself from her any longer. My hand drops to her shoulder, and I pull her into me. "It is my fault. I do not know how to run these machines. You must allow me to make it up to you."
She leans into me and I rub her back—just her upper back—in small circles, as I did for a sex worker in Amsterdam who offered to teach me to cuddle. Then, I did not like it. I rubbed her back for a few seconds and then made her leave. But this is...amazing. Daisy’s little body is resting lightly against mine. I can feel muscles in her back, which suggests that Daisy is strong. The blades of her shoulders are sharp against my hand, which suggests Daisy is not eating enough. I want to scoop her into my lap and feed her with one hand and stroke her p**sy with my other.
She does not borrow my strength for more than a second before she is pushing away from me and brushing the hair out of her face. "It’s not your fault." She shakes her head at me. "I’m sure it was something I did."
"Nyet." I pull her to her feet. "You come with me. I will not be able to sleep tonight knowing I have ruined your things with my ineptness."
She tries to scramble for her things, but I pull her away. "Wait," she says.
"Daisy," I plead with her. "You must allow me to do this, or I will not be able to live with myself."
She stares in my eyes. While I am tempted to shut them for fear of what she may glimpse if she delves too deeply, the truth rests at the forefront. My steady gaze must have convinced her.
"Seventy dollars," she finally says.
I smile at her and nod. I have no idea what she means, but I take this as acquiescence. I pull her out of the basement and head for the back door.
"Where are we going?"
"To my bike," I say. My hand is still grasping hers. I’m afraid if I let go she will disappear.
My rented Ducati sits untouched in the parking lot between our buildings. I have only one helmet, which I hand to her. "Put it on," I say, and then because I sound like a mudak, an a**hole, I add, "Please."
"I can’t take your only helmet." She looks mutinous. I have no car, only this bike and only one helmet.
"Will you wear it to the motorcycle shop? It is only a few kilometers away. I will take side roads and go slow." I offer her a compromise.
She gives me a slow nod in agreement and pulls on the helmet. All the tension built up from fighting the huesos, the cocksucker from earlier, and convincing sweet Daisy to come with me melts away. I swing my leg over the bike and motion for Daisy to climb aboard. Turning, I flip her visor up.
"Hold tight, even though we go slow, okay?"
"Okay," she replies. Her eyes are glittering with excitement, and I smile back. It’s feeling less foreign.
I ride slowly through the streets as Daisy clings to me. Her br**sts are pressing against the thin cloth of my t-shirt, and I can feel that she is enjoying the thrill. I want to believe that her arousal is because of me but it is likely the simple vibration of the machine between her legs. At high enough speeds, the vibration might be enough to bring her off. I’d love to try that. I wonder if she is wet between her legs, whether the cloth of her panties is damp, or whether she is so turned on that the denim is soaked. I rock slightly on the seat, and I feel her press against me instinctively. I groan and don’t even try to hide it, confident the wind will carry the sound away. My c*ck feels enormous at the thought of her wet, the thought of her coming while riding behind me.
When we arrive at the motorcycle shop that rents and sells these bikes, I scoot forward and try to think of something to reduce my erection. Her neighbor pops into my head, and I’m able to stand upright. Not wanting Daisy to be exposed to the men here, I tell her to remain on the bike and to leave the helmet down. "Else someone might try to steal it."
This is a lie, of course, but Daisy simply nods.
Inside, I buy Daisy a helmet and ask, "I need clothes. Where can I buy them?"
The gum-chewing clerk gives me a hungry look. "Honey, I can fit you out. What do you need?" Her gaze drops to my crotch, and I resist the urge to cover my groin with the newly purchased helmet.
"For my girlfriend," I say. She wrinkles her nose as if the idea smells.
"There’s the mall just up the highway, ‘round the bend. Take the Lindau Lane. Can’t miss it." She emphasizes mall as if it has some special significance.
I nod my thanks.
Outside, I stand in front of Daisy, blocking the shop’s view of her, and I offer her the new helmet.
"I’m sorry for making such a big deal out of this. What are you going to do with another helmet?" She shook her head in dismay. "I wasn’t thinking."
I shrug. "I needed one." For her only, but I did not say this out loud.
She looks at me doubtfully, but I give her my best impassive look. It is a good one; she feels discomfited and can no longer look me in the eye. Suddenly I feel like a fuckhead over this, but how to fix it eludes me.
I reach under her chin with my fist and tilt her eyes up to meet mine. "It is for you. Only for you. You can keep it to ride with me or you can throw it away."
An odd light flickers through her eyes, and I can’t catch it. I don’t know how to read her yet. I’ll learn though. The light is fading fast, and I don’t want to be out with Daisy on my bike when it is too late—when the dangerous drivers are out. Alone, I can avoid these people, but with my precious cargo, I would be worried.
I pull her helmet over her head, carefully brush aside her hair, and affix the strap beneath her chin. I repeat the gesture for myself and climb on. This time, Daisy needs no instruction on how to hold me; her arms wrap around me immediately, and she presses her cheek against the middle of my back. Her thin, strong arms are wrapped around my waist. In this position, I would like to drive for hours just to feel her body against mine.
DAISY
Everything I’ve been taught says that I’m being a reckless fool.
I met Nick two hours ago in the laundry room. I let him dazzle me. I let him kiss my hand and hug me, and now I’m on the back of his motorcycle. The after-school specials that my father let me watch would say I’m being stupid. That nice young women don’t run off with strange men on motorcycles.
But…I don’t care.
I am tired of being cautious and being sheltered. I want to be wild and reckless, and I want to spend a bit more time with this man. If that leads me down a bad path, I’m going there with eyes wide open.
I don’t know how one holds properly to a man on a motorcycle; this is my first motorcycle ride. I cling to him, pressing my body against his. My br**sts rub against his back and bounce when we hit a bump, and I gasp at the sensation. Am I holding him too close? Do I care? I will just feign ignorance if he asks. I like the feel of his big body pressing against my thighs and my stomach far too much to stop.
It feels wicked. I’ve never, ever been wicked before, and I never realized until now that I wanted to be.
And I never realized how big malls were.
He drives the motorcycle into a large parking lot that has more levels than my apartment complex, and I see a massive building ahead of us. It looks like the mall. My goodness. I had no idea it would be so…enormous. I feel a flutter of excitement in spite of myself. I have never been to a mall, much less been to this one, but I’ve seen it advertised on television. My father wouldn’t let me go, no matter how much I begged. Too open and unsafe, he would tell me.
I feel a flare of anger at my father. How much of my life has he robbed from me? For a moment, I’m viciously glad that I have abandoned him…and then guilt sweeps in and carries any anger away.
Nick parks his bike in one of the front parking spaces and pulls his helmet off, shaking out his hair. He’s gorgeous. I watch him under my helmet. I could drink in his profile forever. He is handsome, his features fine-boned but still masculine, his eyes pale and intense. He puts the helmet down and indicates that I should get off the bike.
I comply, swinging my leg over the bike and feeling clumsy as I do. The jeans I’m wearing are baggy and old, and they slide a little when I stand up. I hitch them surreptitiously as he puts up a kickstand and gets off the bike himself.
Before I can lift my hands, he’s removing the helmet he bought just for me. For some reason, it doesn’t feel like control as much as it feels like…tenderness. He’s achingly sweet, this Nick, despite his hard, intense exterior. I think that is why I trust him.
When he pulls it off, he smiles at me, as if pleased to see my face. "We are at mall."
"So we are," I say breathlessly. “Thank you for driving me."
He tilts his head, as if trying to determine what I mean. "I will shop with you. Is only fair."
His accent seems to get thicker from time to time, as if he forgets to control it. I feel a little flustered at the thought of him shopping with me. The clothes that were ruined were panties and bras, two shirts, and a pair of jeans. "You don’t have to. It’s not necessary."
"Da. Is necessary." And he crooks his arm for me, like a gentleman, to escort me into the mall.