Special disclaimer: This chapter contains sexual content. If you are against reading about sex, don't read any further. I don't want to be suspended or have this taken off ala "Pretend" by Mondie, which you should all read, so I'm just warning you. THERE IS SEX IN THIS CHAPTER. There. That should satisfy anyone who does that stupid reporting to FFN.
{Your Body Is A Wonderland}
Look up.
The sun used to be shining as though someone had covered it up for one hundred years and now it was out with a vengeance.
Look up.
But then those ominous storm clouds covered it. Spot could almost hear the sun screeching in protest as the clouds shoved it back into its captive cage in the sky.
He sighed as he made his way back to the Lodging-house. It was only 6:30, according to the bright spot in the clouds where the sun used to shine.
He allowed his mind to melt into his memories and think of Jacob, and how he had taught, on a marvelously sunny afternoon, Katie and Cole how to tell time by way of the sun's perch in the sky.
When he creaked open the heavy wooden door, he heard the faint sounds of people shushing others. His heart sank as soft girlish giggles and gruff, hushed whispers of "Shut up, will ya?" met his ears.
Not tonight.
Not a Brooklyn Bash tonight.
But even as he shook his head and rubbed his eyes with his fingertips, he was engulfed in arms and clapped on the shoulders with hands he could not see. All over the room, people struck matches and expertly lit the lamps.
They were all there. Brooklyn, Manhattan, all of them.
All of them together for the first time in two years. It was strange seeing them now, with their attitudes totally opposite to what they were that night not so very long ago.
They were all grinning, beaming even. There were no presents, only liquor and cards and friends who wanted to be there.
There were girls there, yes—girls like that pretty little red-haired thing smiling coyly at him from the corner. Girls that that saucy brunette with all that on top. And girls like that dark, mysterious girl with all that shiny black hair.
They were all there for his choosing—his 'presents', if you will.
"So Spot, which one ya gonna choose, huh? We got a lotta boys who want to bed these girls—but as the birthday kid you get first pick." Grin had sidled up to him, first order of business in his mind being which girl he'd be allowed to sleep with after Spot had had his pick.
"I don't care Grin. Take whatever one you want. I don't want any of 'em." Spot refused to look at Grin.
"Don't want any of 'em?!" Grin half yelled, his eyes bulging. He looked at Spot as though trying to decide if he was alive or not. Spot didn't see. "Not even the red-head?"
"No."
"But, I…oh…" Grin's face lit up as he followed Spot's eyes to the door. The newsgirls had just entered the room, Scots, Mugger, and Mouse at the lead, the smaller girls taking tentative steps behind them.
"Shut up, asshole." Spot replied, a delayed response. Grin merely kept right on smiling that all-worldly smile.
The small girls were ushered up the stairs Mugger; up to play with the little boys; and the girls began to mingle with the newsboys, the boys of Manhattan getting an immense amount of attention.
Katie stood, flirting shamelessly with Mush, who only smiled his oh-so-insanely-adorable top-toothed grin and flirted back, neither of them particularly interested in the other.
Spot watched them, glowering, and Katie, as if feeling his eyes, turned to him. He averted his stare to the back wall, just above her head.
A hand brought itself down on his shoulder, making him cringe. The hand felt too small, too delicate, to be a male's hand.
Slowly, he turned, hoping against hope that it wasn't one of the sleepers come to turn on her charm. As if charm could cover the stench of them—the stench of sweaty bodies mixed in with cheap beer and even cheaper perfume.
But as he came face-to-face with the girl, his feeling of dread turned to surprise. It was Scots, looking absolutely beautiful, as usual.
Standing next to her, holding her other hand was a man of around twenty. Even Spot, all-mighty sex god of Brooklyn, had to admit that this young man was a good-looking guy. Built like Mush, his face was the same dewy tan as Scots' and his hair was so black it was nearly blue. He smiled; revealing a row of perfectly shaped white teeth usually covered by full pink lips. His dark eyes glimmered as he looked down at Scots.
"Heya Scots," Spot said tiredly.
"Not enjoying' the party, eh Spot?" Scots asked, her obvious happiness making her usually subtle accent thicker.
"Mmm," he replied, shooting a glance in Katie's direction.
Scots saw this and grinned.
"Would ya stop grinnin'?! Everyone's grinnin'! You're grinnin', Grin's grinnin'…What's everybody grinnin' about?!"
Her happiness seemed to make her bold. "You, Spot. You and how you're so obviously in love with the girl you grew up with and how you don't even see that she feels the same."
His mind had stuck on one phrase. "Grew up…how do you know about that?"
"Oh, Spot. I've known since the—" she stopped. "Since she called you Cole when…"
He nodded.
Scots noted that he hadn't yet denied loving her. He opened his mouth to do just that when he realized that this newfound valor Scots seemed to have also made him subject to a verbal bashing if he told a bold-faced lie.
"Oh! This is Pat. Patrick Moore…He…" she cast him a sidelong, adoring glance, "He's my fiancé."
"He…huh?" Spot was baffled. He's never met this joker in his life and here he was, engaged to one of his newsgirls.
"I'm her fiancé. She didn't want anyone except Katie and Amelia to know before we had our plans set." He spoke eloquently, easily, his voice like milk, flowing coolly over everything and everyone else.
"Amelia?" Spot queried.
"Mugger," Scots replied absentmindedly. She looked as though she was itching to tell him something that at the same time, she never wanted him to know.
"What?" he asked quickly, his paranoia on the subject of Katie unnerving him.
"We're uhm. We're leaving tonight. I just—we just—wanted to wish you a happy birthday. We have to leave; we're going to Boston to meet Pat's family. "
"Oh, I—" he faltered. It was that time. All the newsies his age and older were starting to find mates, and soon they'd all leave regardless. "Well…congratulations."
He shook Patrick Moore's hand the two turned to leave. Spot gathered that the girls had already said their goodbyes, and that everyone she had wanted to tell had already been told—he had obviously been last.
Scots turned back as soon as Pat opened the heavy door. She scampered back to Spot and gave him the first and last hug he'd ever received from her. After a slight hesitation, and a glance to Pat, who merely stood, a small smile playing on his lips, by the door, he hugged her back.
She squeezed him as a mother may a child, and he felt comforted by her arms, though he didn't let his face convey that. As she pulled away, she whispered in his ear: "Upstairs, third door to the left—eight o'clock."
And in a flash of orange sunset, she was gone.
Glancing at the clock somewhere in the vicinity of ten frozen minutes later, Spot saw that it was seven o'clock. He hadn't moved from the place Scots had left him, his mind racing to find an answer to the riddle she had left him with.
"Upstairs, third door to the left—eight o'clock." Her words echoed in his ears.
Eight o'clock came. The grandfather clock in the lobby chimed eight long, melodious times. His palms itched. He licked his lips. Should he do it? What waited for him there?
His Conlon swagger returned to his walk and that nearly same old Conlon smirk played on his lips as he regained confidence. Nearly same? As he passed by the mirror that held watch over the room he gazed at his reflection. The smirk on his face was the one he'd had years ago—unpolished, unhardened, unpracticed. It meant he was still unsure of himself, but that he was putting on a brave front.
Ignoring the looks of his friends and companions, Spot mounted the stairs. Third door to the left. It was a room they rarely entered. It had an old rickety bed and a scratched dresser in it, and seemed to always be freezing, whether it was the dead of winter or the inferno of summer. He remembered Deeds, the owner of the Lodging-house, telling them that back when his father first opened the place in the 1860's, that it had been his grandmother's room. When she died, no one had lived in it since.
Pausing outside the door, he took a deep breath and turned the knob. First thing he noticed was the warmth. It filled him like a hot coffee on a February morning, making his skin tingle. He looked down at the floor, noticing the blossoms of white flowers, full and ruffled, strewn across the floorboards. His eyes traveled up to the bed.
Usually it was naked, stripped down to the thick feather mattress. But tonight it was covered with thick white sheets that looked clean and soft. The down pillows that lay guard near the headboard were a deep, blood burgundy that matched the blanket thrown across the mattress.
Unscented candles were lit all across the room—on the dresser, the windowsill. But the room was empty. Spot stood in the doorway, bemusement slowly settling into his eyes and forehead.
A throat was cleared behind him. Startled, but not jumping, as his training as a Brooklyn badass didn't allow him to transmit shock, he turned.
All his training flew from his bones and muscles as he was met with a vision he'd only dreamed about. Katie, wearing nothing but her tightly laced, slightly frayed corset and short, leggy bloomers stood before him. Her creamy thighs were exposed, and her breasts, untouched by sun or sin, were full and plump.
He felt his heart thud and pound in his chest, hearing its procession in his ears. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, but she pressed a thin, elegant finger against his lips.
"Shh…" She murmured, her lips full and her incredibly pale green eyes sensuous and inviting. He'd never seen her like this. It demoralized him that a girl he'd known nearly all his life had this fiery, passionate, even sexy side to her that he'd never seen—obviously he'd been missing out while he'd been bedding other women.
"Katie, what—" But yet again, she cut him off.
"Shh. Cole, just be quiet," she spoke in a tone he'd never heard, soft yet forceful, feminine yet deep and gravelly.
She took steps toward him, into the room, and he moved back with her, maintaining the distance between their bodies. She smiled as she closed the door, and he found himself thinking that she was without a silhouette of a doubt the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. Forget that in most's eyes, Katie was merely cute enough to not 'kick outta bed.' Forget that nearly every girl downstairs was, in the general opinion, better looking than she, to Spot—no—to Cole, she was stunning.
He stepped out of his shoes as he walked backwards; they'd always been too large. His bare foot connected with a flower. Disregarding her order, he asked her, "What kind of flowers are these?"
She smiled softly in the candlelight. "White violets. They mean 'let's take a chance'."
His mouth grew dry.
Katie, despite her deeply sexual and smooth manner, was shaking on the inside. She wanted this more than anything, and his eyes told her that the feelings weren't one-sided, but she was terrified.
Taking a deep, calming, steadying breath she hoped sounded erotic and sexy, Katie stepped forward faster than Spot could step back. Her fingers latched onto the buttons of his shirt and swiftly unbuttoned them. Spot looked down on her as she did so, his eyes hot and sex-starved.
She released the bottom button and slid her hands up his arms slowly, tantalizing him. He already felt himself hardening with wanting her, and his breath came out shaky and tortured. She reached his shoulders, and her warm hands swooped under his shirt collar and stroked his shoulders, taking his shirt with them. It fell to the floor behind them.
She marveled at how strong and powerful he had become in the years since he'd first become leader. His abdominal muscles were finely outlined, and his chest was hard and stiff with muscle. His powerful shoulders gave way to intensely handsome arms. Every longed-for inch of his skin was bronzed and slightly sticky with sweat.
She moved in and kissed him. She'd never kissed a man before, but Scots had done her best to tell her how to make it work. She hadn't known what half the things Scots had talked of were until they happened. His tongue touched her closed mouth and instinctively she opened it. Their tongues met in a flurry of pent-up desire, and she wrapped her bare arms around his neck, playing with the shags of his hair.
They broke the kiss simultaneously, and she turned without thinking. His hands immediately went to the laces on her corset, untying them with practiced ease that made her only slightly jealous. As the strings loosened, she gasped in a large, satisfying breath of air. He finished untying and dropped the corset to the floor on top of her feet.
All too suddenly, Katie found herself unsure and nervous. It was toeing the line to parade in front of a man in barely-there bloomers and an insanely tight corset, but it was quite another to expose her top so fully.
He sensed her hesitation, and brought his big hands to her shoulders. He turned her gently, leaving her a way to resist the movement. She didn't, as he knew she wouldn't.
He took her in, her full, round breasts white as the flowers on the floor, her flat, soft abdomen, her neck. She nervously tossed her hair, and it fell in thick waves over her breasts, masking them from his view. He tenderly swooped it back over her shoulders.
They gazed at one another for a moment longer.
One second they were a safe distance apart, both nude from the waist up, and the next they were on the bed, remaining clothing tossed hurriedly to the floor.
He entered her slowly, knowing that it could hurt her. She gasped in pain and clutched at his shoulders, but slowly she relaxed and her grip softened. Her stroked into her—long, slow, torturous.
A feeling she'd never known existed began to flow through her body, building in pressure and intensity until it burst and she didn't see him, didn't see the candles, didn't see anything but a shocking array of white lights. She didn't hear anything, forgot where she was, and out of her mouth escaped a moan so pleasured and pleased he smiled. Her grip retightened on his shoulders as she climaxed, and he collapsed on top of her.
After a few minutes of his head on her chest, she stroked his cheek, knowing that the first time had been for her.
"Let's do it your way," she whispered.
His strength was miraculously returned and he slammed into her, pushing her back into the headboard. He moved fast, and again that wonderful feeling grew inside of her.
He shuddered as he came inside of her and she let out another starved moan. Again he fell on top of her, breathing harder than before, his whole body trembling.
"That was more wondrous than any caterpillar, Cole."
He smiled, remembering that day she'd found the little creature and had found it so amazing.
"Can we do it again, birthday boy?" she asked softly, pleadingly.
He smiled at her, no cocky and simpering smirk, but a real smile of true happiness.
"Yes." He whispered.