7
Tonight, I wait for Kerry Bettencourt, the girl who took a tour of the condos.
After her late work hours, she comes to the construction site. She often wants to check on any progress, any slight addition made to her condo.
There are no lights in her condo yet, so she needs me to escort her inside, every step of the way with a flashlight. Many times, she shows a blush, seems to flirt with me. She’ll comment on how well I wear the uniform, how it suits my muscular build and sharp facial features, how I look the part of a young authority figure.
I’m even beginning to think this girl has a small crush on me.
But I make no obvious advance. If I mistake her feelings for me, she’ll be moving into her condo soon, and I’d be working here every night. Nothing would be more awkward than a mixed signal and a constant closeness.
With Kerry Bettencourt, I’m a real prince, kind and caring, full of charm, the very beating heart of loving sweetness.
We feel easy with each other. Our conversation seems to take on a natural flow. She has no need for a predator. She needs a man who will provide and protect.
Even from Vickers, I’d defend her.
I get overly excited waiting for her tonight.
I look up to see that Kerry has just entered the site. She drives her green Volkswagen Beetle down the dirt road, slowly, as if cautious. She pulls up to park next to the trailer office.
With my binoculars, I watch even closer as she leaves the car, walks up the trailer steps. When she finds the trailer empty, she stands there for a puzzled moment, most definitely wondering where the guard is. I see her then walk over to her condo, so I fire up the monster truck and make my move at just the right time.
“Well, hello there,” she says, real perky like, standing on her toes.
I climb down the step ladder to ground level, my back still turned away from her.
She says, “I didn’t think you were here tonight?”
“Oh, I’m here all right. I’m here every night.”
“Every night?”
“Every single night,” I say. “Right here.”
We stand about ten feet from each other, inching closer as we continue to talk. Her short blond hair makes her face look so pretty, so put together. Her face has such a radiance.
And Kerry Bettencourt says, “Everybody needs a night off, once in a while, don’t they?”
“Not me, Not with all the money I make. You know, overtime.”
“But, once in a while, don’t you need to get out, have a good time?”
“Don’t get me wrong, I still like to have fun.”
Two nights ago, I had went to a strip club with Norman Long and Charlie Moon, but I can hardly use this as an example.
So, instead, I ask her what type of wild adventures she has taken a part in. Recently.
“I used to go out dancing.”
“Clubs?”
“No,” she answers, rather snobbishly. “Swing Dancing.”
“Oh,” I say. I want to tell her I can really get my groove going, too, but it seems like such an odd thing for a guy to say.
And Kerry continues, “But I don’t go out much. Not now. Not lately. Lately, I’ve been trying to save for my big move here.”
“Gotta have the funds,” I say.
“Yup, gotta have the funds,” she is pleased to repeat.
I volunteer by waving my hand at her condo, saying, “Shall we?”
“Yes,” she smiles. “I think we shall.”
She draws up close to me, shoulder to shoulder, as we walk together through the dark garage. I click on my flashlight to direct us forward. I like the fact that she has to obey my lead. This girl is slightly older than me, so I try to show the maturity of a man that might be worthy of a young lady like herself.
“Oh, wow,” she says, “They finally put sliding glass doors in.”
“Yes,” I say. “Your condo is coming right along.”
“I can’t believe how fast—oh, wow, they finished the kitchen countertops, too. How awesome is that?”
“Yes,” I say. “You’ll be living here before you know it.”
“I can’t wait,” she says. Her smile glows, extra bright in the darkness.
She moves across the bare living room floorboards, opens the sliding glass doors, and steps halfway onto her screened-in porch.
I stand there, pointing the flashlight in whatever direction she looks. She comes back in, shutting the glass door behind her. She looks at the windows, the wall, the floor, anywhere the light beam goes.
While she inspects the locks on the windows, she starts a sneezing fit, saying, “Oh, my, the dust.”
I see a pink piece of paper fall from either her hand when she covered her mouth or from her pea coat pocket. She steps on it unknowingly and it sticks to her heel as she paces back and forth. Without any real reason, I don’t alert her to the pink paper.
I try to think of something clever or funny to say, but only pornographic things come to mind.
She says, “I hope I’ll be able to move in before Christmas.”
I tell her, “I’ve seen the project plans, and your condo should be finished by then.”
By the way she smiles at me, visibly, I can see just how much she loves the update.
I stand near the bottom of the stairs and she moves closer, by my side. I point the flashlight in aimless directions, providing her with a vision, although limited. I shine it on the fireplace and say, “I’m sure you’ll spend many winter nights in front of a fire, feeling warm and cozy.”
“Nice,” she says. “It would be even nicer if I had someone to spend it with,” and she laughs at her own insecurity, perhaps revealing too much of her needy personality.
I choose to save her, by changing the subject.
“So, have you got enough furniture to fill this place, or what?”
“Oh, yes, I just looked at a living room set the other day that I think might go really perfect with this place. I love how it all matches. I’m thinking I could put the big couch right here, along the kitchen wall, and put the other smaller couch at an angle, right there, or maybe I could, hmm . . . ”
So I say, “Or maybe you could put the small couch along that wall, and swing the other couch around so that your guests can face each other.”
I can tell by how she taps her foot and thinks aloud that she doesn’t approve of my advice, that women are better at interior design, arranging rooms. So I make no other suggestion. I just let her imagination run wild with the possibilities of furniture calculation.
“Can we check the upstairs?” she asks me. “Do you mind?”
“No, I don’t mind. Let’s go on up.”
I let her climb first, quick to follow, making sure to shine the flashlight on each step she takes. The naked staircase squeaks as we ascend to the second floor. Kerry Bettencourt wears a short skirt, and the flashlight hits the black nylon stockings on her thigh. Her slim calf muscles brand the word “sex” on my brain, and I’m growing more aroused with each step she takes in those red high heels. Her ass is so fine, directly in my blatant sightline.
But just then, at the last step, she loses her balance, begins to trip forward, then falls backwards, into my steady arms. My lips brush the arc of her neck.
She’s relieved I caught her. She laughs nervously at the body contact, lingering loosely in my arms.
“You all right?” I ask her.
“I can’t believe I did that,” she says, standing up straight, pulling at her skirt. “I’m such a clumsy one.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I say. “I needed a good excuse to be a hero.”
We both laugh a little at what has just occurred, trying to pass over and ignore the closeness we felt, for that brief moment. The both of us, we arrive to the second floor, safely. I take the lead once more, showing her a path around the bucket of tools, down the hallway. We walk into the darkest room of the condo, the bathroom. I shine the light first on the sink mirror, then on the Jacuzzi tub.
I don’t mention my terror of thinking the shadow in the corner is Gary Lee Vickers.
Kerry says, “Looks like an awfully big tub for little old me.”
“No problem,” I say. “I’m sure you can find another person to fit in there. Wink. Wink.”
“Naughty boy,” she says to me, placing a hand on my chest, tapping it. “Naughty, naughty boy.”
Then something crunches underneath her heel. I point the flashlight down at the cracked tile.
She says, “I didn’t break that, did I? I hope they’ll fix it. Do you think they will?”
“Oh, sure,” I say. “They fix everything.”
Further down the hallway, we enter the master bedroom. The moon beams through the wide windows, so I click my flashlight off. At the center of the room, Kerry Bettencourt does a little ballerina twirl, saying, “Soon I will sleep here. Soon this will be all mine.”
“All yours,” is all I can think to say. “You’re gonna love it here.”
She says, “Can you shine your light on the carpet, so I can see the color.”
I click it on, saying, “It looks maroon, like burgundy wine.”
“I picked it out myself,” she says. “Do you like it?”
“Very tasteful,” I say. “You have very good taste.”
“Thank you. I love the dark texture. I made sure it would match the bedspread, the curtains, and the lampshades.”
“You little planner you. You’ve executed the perfect color scheme décor.”
And Kerry Bettencourt laughs the cutest little laugh, snorting once, then covering her mouth with her hand like a schoolgirl.
She says, “And, oh my gosh. Should see how big my new bed is. I really hope it doesn’t take up the whole room.”
I can’t help but picture us both, a month from now, in this very room, fully naked in a giant bed, with the moon gleaming down on our bodies, as I enter her with my warm, throbbing manhood. Romantic stuff, by the lake.
I ask, “So what do you like to do outside of work, other than dancing?”
Kerry obviously likes the fact that I’ve taken an interest in her personal life, because her body movements get bouncy, her personality, bubbly.
She answers, “Well, every Monday, Tuesday, and Friday, I teach gymnastics to a bunch of girls in middle school.”
“Really? So . . . you must be one of those flexible types.”
I can’t help but picture us both, in the very near future, stripped naked in bed, under a huge burgundy bedcover, while she performs a double back somersault, landing with the splits on my manhood.
“Flexible,” she replies. “I guess you could say that. I’ve been at it so many years.”
“Cool,” I say. “Exercise is a great thing. I hear it increases the endorphins, making one happier. I should know, I lift weights.”
By making an effort to impress her, the last comment makes me sound desperate, and I hope she doesn’t notice, but, more than likely, she has. The truth is, this beautiful girl could do anything to me, turn me to dust.
We go back downstairs, this time with me in front, flashlight on, her trailing behind, with a hand on my shoulder. Outside the condo, we walk over to her car.
Kerry says, “I hope you don’t mind me showing up all the time, not announced.”
“It’s fine, really,” I say. “I’m getting used to your little visits. Look forward to them actually.”
The girl pauses before saying, “Ya know, there’s something good about you, Mike. I could sense that from the first time I met you. The trust in your eyes . . .”
I’m thinking she wants love and affection the same way I fiend a drug fix. I sense the opportunity to ask her to go out dancing—I know I’ll possess her then, once she sees my sidestep, my chest heave, my arms pump, my hips swivel and rotate. But I hold back from asking her on a date, just barely. I can’t be wrong about her. A mixed signal. A constant closeness. The guard. The neighbor. Not a good thing.
“So,” she says, “did you ever, um, go to college?”
“Yeah, college. UNH, but I dropped out. Too much partying, not enough studying.”
“Oh,” she sounds disappointed. “University of New Hampshire?”
“Right.”
“What a pretty campus.”
“Yeah, the grass in the quads is great.”
“Think you’ll ever go back to school?”
“Well, I’m planning on going back eventually. Probably as a business major.”
I’m not totally lying to her, but I recognize the girl to be a high quality, first class female. I must appear to be a man on the move, a man with a master plan, husband material, on the upswing of life, a few years away from owning my own house, a swimming pool, a few acres of land, a garage for her car and mine—the American dream in action.
She goes on to ask, “Wait, did you know a Kevin Davies who went there?”
“Nope, big school, lots of people.”
There’s a long pause. I shuffle the gravel with my boot.
So then I sputter out, “Let me guess you having dinner, then going to bed?”
“Yeah,” she says. “A weeknight. I have to be to work in the morning?”
“That’s understandable. Where do you work?”
“I think we had this conversation already.”
“Oh, that’s right. You told me. An insurance company. In Boston. Forgetful me. Sorry.”
“That’s okay . . . because, well, ah, I wasn’t telling you the truth.”
“You don’t work in the insurance industry?”
“No, Mike. Actually, I work for the Department of Defense. I’m telling you because you’re easy to trust, those eyes, they’re like puppy dog eyes.”
“The government?”
Kerry Bettencourt nods her head slowly, putting a hush finger to her mouth.
“I can’t really get into the specifics of what I do. Top secret.”
To which I say, “Wow. What do you do during the terror attack when the country is on high alert and—”
She interrupts me, saying, “What do you want to do when you graduate, after you get a business degree?”
“Oh, school . . . I, um, want to be a Technical Expert.”
It was my turn to tell a tale. I don’t even know what a Technical Expert is, if there is such a profession. I think, an astronaut, maybe I should have told her an astronaut.
“A Technical Expert!” She sounds fully electrified, standing on her toes.
So I give her more stories of my path to greatness, so she can envision herself as my wife.
“Yeah, I can fix any and all tech related problems. I troubleshoot.”
“Really? Oh, my. A handy man.”
“That’s me—Mr. Magic Hands, also good to massage with.”
Kerry Bettencourt smiles to say, “Oh, stop,” and “Confidence, I like it.”
The conversation ends on a high note. After we bid each other farewell, she gets into her car, puts her seat belt on, waves to me, switches gears, then, driving away, she waves a second time.
Once she’s gone, I quickly make my way back into her condo, up the stairs, and into her master bedroom. I lay down on the carpet, which has a lush feel to it, the color of burgundy wine, and I undress fully under the pale bars of moonbeam. I begin to pleasure myself with Kerry Bettencourt in mind, a flash replay of her legs going up those stairs. I picture those legs spread open like the gymnast she is, heels in the air, tight ass clenching, while she receives my thrust. My manhood is so big tonight it seems like the moon has it under its gravitational pull. When I finish with a flurry, I wipe myself clean on the rug, so that it barely stains, leaves no mark, because that’s the decent thing to do.
Jordan Shamshack, I’m sorry, but you rejected me and I’ve missed you for too long.
On my way back downstairs, with my flashlight casting across the floorboards, I happen to turn my head twice in a double take. I spot what I remember was the pink paper Kerry had dropped. Curiosity sure gets the best of me, so I pick it up, read it with the flashlight beam.
Written as a list, this is what follows:
The Agenda: Enter the Virtuplex—Instructions 1) Give him compliments—tell him how funny, intelligent, handsome he is. 2) Somehow create body contact. 3) If he asks you on a date, suggest the Airplane Air Show. Report all findings back to Building Base One: ASAP!