Page 23 of Smoke

But why lie about it? Why is she protecting this fucker’s identity? And this is why I’m up in her apartment snooping around now. I figure I have about twenty to thirty minutes before she comes back up. Plenty of fucking time.

I go over to her desk first. It’s old with deep scratches throughout the dark wood, particularly on the legs and drawers. It’s not messy, just lived in. On top, are a few framed photos—Cherry cutting a ribbon with a giant pair of scissors in front of the bar, a close-up shot of the band Melrose Avenue in mid-performance, and a faded pic of a beautiful woman who looks like an older version of Cherry. Except her eyes are vacant. Like she’s checked out. That must be her mother.

Hawk told us about her once. That she died of a drug overdose and Father Eli didn’t waste any time putting a ring on Hawk’s mom’s finger. Then she died too. Talk about bad fucking luck. Or maybe God just got jealous like a woman scorned.

If you swear an oath to the cloth, you better not be dabbling in pussy on the side. Shit. I was raised Catholic. They don’t even bother with all that. Our priests marry God. Period. These preachers down here are trying to have their cake and eat it too, I guess.

There’s a drawer in the middle and one on each side. I yank open the middle one first to find the expected pens, calculator, staples, and an old school checkbook. There’s also some arcade tokens and a few stickers.

I can’t help but smirk when I open the large drawer on the left. I reach in and pull out a bottle of gin with a rosary wrapped around the neck. “This fucking girl,” I murmur. Next to it I find a pack of cigarettes. Nope. I crush the whole pack in my palm and shove them into the pocket of my suit jacket.

The right drawer nearly takes me out. My breath catches in my throat when I see the three polaroids of her in a bikini. But it’s not just that. I’m not some fucking asshole who’s never seen a half-naked chick before. No it’s what she’s fucking doing in them.

I bite my lip to stifle the groan that tickles my throat. She’s got her legs spread and her hand on the edge of her bikini bottoms, posed like she’s about to pull them to the side. In the second picture she’s pinching her nipples over the fabric. And in the third, she’s starting to pull the bikini bottoms down. The pic was taken with them right below her hips. She teases the camera in every single one of these.

I can’t tear my eyes away. And I’m getting annoyed wondering who took these. Who did she share this intimate moment with? Who did she fuck after the bikini came off? Fuck. Why do I fucking care?

I toss them back in the drawer and slam it shut. “Focus, Om,” I mutter to myself.

But it’s impossible. Being up here in her space, smelling her everywhere, seeing her things, her delicate lingerie draped over chairs… The sweet and spicy scents of her perfume and body wash permeating every inch of this apartment… it’s making me question my own motives. Because I am a fucking man after all.

And like a moth to a flame, I find myself stalking into her bedroom and pulling open her drawers. My hands shake as I plunge them inside, threading my fingers through the side loops of her flimsy thongs. I run the tips of my fingers over the entire drawer, consumed by the feel of the different fabrics. She has panties cut from satin, cotton, lace, and even vinyl. This naughty fucking thing.

But she’s wrong if she thinks I’m sniffing any of them. Where’s the fun in that? I learned a long time ago that the only pair of panties worth smelling are the ones a woman’s still wearing. Mmm. Yeah you get that sweat and arousal. So fucking good you wanna taste it too.

I chuckle to myself as I carefully close the drawer. I don’t know what I thought I’d find up here. Maybe I’m lying to myself, and I just really wanted to creep around her shit. As much as her arrogance pisses me off, I’ve been curious on more than one occasion as to what makes that brain of hers tick. What’s going on behind those deep blue eyes.

She’s the only woman I’ve ever met who always looks like she’s caught between lust and sadness. Like she either wants to fuck or take a bubble bath with a lit fuse. And some days she looks like she just wants to rub up against something hard to satisfy that ache between her thighs.

My cock twitches. Fuck. Hell no. Nope. I spin around to leave, knowing I need to get out of her room before I’m tempted to rub one out on her bed. But before I make it to the door, a shiny glint of silver metal catches my eye. What looks like a glittery bejeweled phone case peeks out from in between the crumpled sheets.

I snatch it up. Now we’re talking. I touch the screen and fail the facial recognition so that it’s forced to take me to the passcode prompt. I type in her birthday first, then Hawk’s, and finally her mom’s. All declined.

I grit my teeth, tempted to just tie her down and unlock the phone with her face. But if there’s nothing on here, then I don’t want her to know I’m invading her privacy. I sigh and punch in the date that she took over the bar. I’ll never forget it, thanks to Hawk.

I try three more attempts with familiar number sequences that most people gravitate to. People are predictable and tend to pick the easiest combinations to hack. Codes like 1111 or 1234.

Oh, wait. Would she? Nah. But maybe. Fuck it. I punch in the date of the night Hawk went to jail for her. My stomach flips when it unlocks. “You gotta be shitting me.” So our little masochist loves how he fucking starves for her. I snicker. Another reason why I don’t like her greedy ass. She’s gonna mess him up for good this time. I can feel it.

I go straight to her text messages and scroll through them. I find a few from some chick named Roxy. One from Father Eli, and then Hawk, of course. And finally, a number with no contact name attached to it. That seems like a good place to start. When I click on it, my jaw nearly hits the floor.

What the fuck is this? Message after message of someone named Kane, blackmailing her. This fucker knows what we did. And he’s making her send him pics and videos. Aw, hell no.

My fingers tremble as I hover them over the video. I can already tell by the still frame that it’s filthy as fuck. But again, I can’t tear my eyes away. I can’t fucking help myself. I press play and nearly cum in my pants.

I stagger back against her dresser as I watch her slide her fingers in and out of her wet cunt. She’s so into it too, rocking and grinding against her own hand. Fuck me. I nearly pass out because I forget to breathe while I watch her cum for the camera.

She’s holding the phone so close… I can see the milky droplets when she squirts. “Damn, mama…” I break out into a cold sweat and will my erection to go down. I can’t relieve myself here. She could come back up any minute now.

Unless I pop into the bathroom real quick…

The front door slams with a bang. “Omen? Where are you?”

Fuck. Too late. “In here.”

She stomps in, her face already contorted in rage. “I literally said to not sniff my panties. And here you are in my bedroom. What the actual fuck, Omen?”

I hold up her phone. “Care to explain why you didn’t tell us about this little blackmail situation you got going on?”