It was Friday morning and the October sun reared its cheerful head through a window I didn't recognize. Once again, I had woken up in a bed that was not my own. Funnily enough, when I probed my foggy brain for clues to my whereabouts, the first image to surface was a plate of chicken tacos. Damned delicious tacos, if I wasn't mistaken, and that's when I remembered I had said yes to Shane. Or was his name Shawn? Either way, I knew the guy was a chef who enjoyed listening to classic rock and used his skilled fingers for more than stuffing chicken tacos. 

Most people would curse themselves for behaving so irresponsibly, desperately filling-in the blanks of the previous night's debauchery. But I wasn't most people, and I welcomed the afterglow of unrestricted sex. Who would have thought popsicles could be so useful in the bedroom? The guy was a supreme lay, whatever his name was.

The sheet slipped off my breasts as I sat up, exposing my nipples to the cold room, and I palmed my size D's as I took in my surroundings; shiny black dresser in art deco style, ladder back chair littered with clothing, and a male voice singing from the recesses of a powder blue bathroom. Was it Shane aka Shawn butchering Hotel California as he lathered up his family jewels? There was only one way to find out.

Rolling out of bed, I stretched toward the ceiling, forcing air from my joints in a chorus of satisfying pops. I never overlooked the importance of an early morning stretch, which ranked up there with brushing my teeth and taking a piss. I went for my toes next, the parts of my anatomy I still intended to reach. I definitely inherited a voluptuous gene from someone in my family tree. I had no idea who it was, since my branch got severed long before my boobs grew in.

I was jonesing for a cup of coffee, but I made for the bathroom first to investigate the karaoke god, padding across the cold floorboards as he switched to Take It To The Limit. The leanly-built shadow behind the shower curtain told me my morning was shaping up to be just as debaucherous as my evening, and a delicious shiver traveled from my belly southward. 

Grabbing a handful of plastic, I slid the curtain away and the singing stopped, giving my ears a reprieve as I drank in the striking lines of a man who had inherited a hotness gene. He offered an honest smile, unembarrassed that I'd caught him in the middle of his Eagle's tribute as he pulled me under the warm spray.

"Good morning, beautiful," he crooned. "Care to join me for a duet?"

"I don't sing." And neither do you. "But I wouldn't mind helping you clean those hard to reach places."

He chuckled as he held me to his chest, stiffening against my navel. "I like you, kid. You make me laugh."

I ignored his dig about our age difference. Who cared if he was approaching forty and I was looking at twenty-five in the rearview mirror. He was hot and I was horny. Besides, he would be history after today. "Would you like me to make you come?"

Groaning, he grabbed my ass and dug his hard-on into my pelvis. "How do you suggest we handle that? The condoms are next to my bed."

"We won't need one for this." Wearing a wicked grin, I knelt in front of him, grateful I had stretched properly, and proceeded to get the morning started with a bang. Coffee was a pale substitute for the rejuvenating properties of sex.

~ ~ ~

With my camera bag slung over my shoulder and my convenience store coffee in hand, I said goodbye to Shane (confirmed via his contact info in my cellphone). He had been kind enough to walk me to the subway entrance, and I thanked him for showing a girl a good time with a kiss on his aftershave-infused cheek. 

He asked if we'd see each other again, and I reminded him it was inevitable since I needed his input on the photos I'd taken of his new restaurant on the Upper East Side. I knew he was fishing for a date, and that was something I couldn't give him. It wouldn't be fair. Shane was a nice guy, and I was not a nice girl.

The journey home from Shane's apartment had me traveling outside my comfort zone, with an annoying mid-trip transfer, but I was used to subway life and had developed strategies for cozying-up with strangers. The first thing I did after hitting the platform was survey my traveling companions, relaxing a bit when I noticed most of them staring blissfully at the screens of their phones. The only questionable character was a crazy leaning against a pillar singing a song in French. With any luck, he would provide our entertainment until the train arrived and wouldn't follow us on. He wasn't half bad.

When the rail cars slid to a stop, I found an open seat with no effort, and I popped off a text to my girl, Sylvie. She knew I had made a lust connection, and I always shared my dirty little secrets with her. Sylvie claimed to live vicariously through me, but she was no slouch herself.

Got laid last night. How was your Thursday?

After hitting send, I continued assessing my compatriots, glancing up in time to see the crazy climb on board. He was hard to miss in his navy blue military jacket and combat boots. The getup was probably something he'd inherited from a long dead relative or well-stocked thrift store. He'd also been cursed with a hooked nose that drew attention away from his otherwise attractive face. My phone buzzed with an incoming text, and I dropped my gaze to read the message.

Damn you. It's that gorgeous body of yours. Men love a woman with a big ass. My night was a fail. Worked late. Leftover Chinese. CSI reruns.

I didn't take offense at Sylvie's big ass comment. It was the truth, although most guys claimed it was my hazel eyes that unlocked the secrets of the universe.

You can't count your night as a fail if you don't go anywhere, Lame-O.

I'll ignore that. You gonna see this guy again?

Nope. He's too nice.

You need nice. You've had enough assholes.

Yeah, and they fucked me up for the nice ones.

As Sylvie and I bantered, the crazy made his way surreptitiously toward me, keeping his nose in the air as if following a scent. I knew he was targeting me because I kept him locked in my peripheral view, watching him dissect me like a bug on a peg board while the subway car hurtled between stops. I willed him to keep his distance, but clearly he couldn't read minds, because the next thing I knew he was standing in front of me.

"Parlez-vous Francais?" he asked.

French, huh? I wasn't surprised. I'd been mistaken for a tourist before, and although I'd had one year of French in high school, I dropped it to study Latin. But I still knew enough to tell him I didn't speak his language.

"Je ne parle pas Francais."

"Where are you from?" he continued in a thickly-accented form of English. Of course, the fact that I could now understand him didn't mean I was going to answer him. At least not in any detail.

"America."

A toothy smile softened his features, and I noticed his teeth were straight and white, making him look less crazy. He also smelled kind of nice, like the cologne you'd by at Bloomingdales not Walgreens. He raised his eyebrows as he continued to stand in front of me. Did he think I was crazy?

"I have never seen you before," he said. "Are you without a domus?"

Domus? Okay, now he was using Latin, which freaked me out a little. Why did he ask if I was homeless? I was wearing makeup and carrying an expensive camera bag.

"I have a home, but I appreciate your concern."

The train came to a screeching halt at the transfer station, and as I prepared to stand, the crazy extended his hand, offering to help me out of my seat. When I hesitated, he dropped his arm and stepped aside to let me pass. While he still seemed interested in me, he didn't follow me out, and I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw him exit and walk in the opposite direction. As I waited for the next train, I sent another text to Sylvie to take my mind off the strange encounter.

Let me know if your Friday gets any better. Wish you were here.

Sylvie's response arrived as I was stepping onto the rail car headed for home, and I checked her message after situating myself in an empty seat near the door.

Baltimore is supposed to get rain tonight, so it's probably pizza and Netflix for me. Wish I were there too. NYC is da bomb.

I chuckled silently as I read. Sylvie still spoke the language of a college student. She also dressed like them and slept with them. It wasn't until the train surged forward that I surveyed the rail car and realized the French crazy had slipped on board, sandwiching himself inconspicuously in the furthest corner. That was fine by me. As long as the guy didn't  follow me home.

~ ~ ~

"I'm home, Mr. Pearlman!"

I shouted a greeting at my neighbor's door on my way to my apartment. It was a ritual we'd established after I saved his life, and I didn't freak-out when he failed to respond, at least not yet. I knew he spent a lot of time in the bathroom. I jiggled the doorknob of my apartment to make sure it was still locked before entering and depositing my Styrofoam coffee and camera bag on the kitchen counter.

My mouth had been watering for my current food obsession; Greek yogurt, granola and honey. My love of honey bordered on the obsessive, and I rifled through my artisanal selection as I put breakfast together. Taking that first delicious bite, I walked back into the hallway and knocked on Mr. Pearlman's door.

"You decent in there?"

"That depends on your definition of decent," came his cynical reply. "Come on in, Reese."

I opened the door and the strong smell of coffee and stale cigarettes hit me in the face. Mr. Pearlman stood in his kitchen pouring coffee into a mug, his ancient body shrouded in a drab terrycloth robe.

"Is that your second or third cup?" I asked as I inspected the level on the glass pot. It was nearly empty. "Looks like your third. I thought your doctor told you to cut back on the caffeine."

"And next month she's going to tell me caffeine is good for me. I'll cut back when it kills me." He offered a smug smile, showing me his coffee-stained dentures as he brought the mug to his lips. "So, you didn't come home last night."

"Geez, don't you get any sleep?" I rolled my eyes, but I made sure he didn't see it. Mr. Pearlman was eighty-four years old, had about twenty strands of gray hair left on his head, toenails that could double as can openers, and he was the only person who could make me feel guilty for my poor lifestyle choices. 

I grumbled as I made my way around his apartment, picking up dirty clothes and throwing them over my shoulder as I shoveled yogurt into my mouth. When I noticed the potted plant wilting in front of the window, I scowled as I stuck my finger into the bone-dry dirt. "You're determined to kill this ficus."

"He'd be in a better place. And I'd have someone to talk to when I get there." Mr. Pearlman lit up a cigarette as I walked to the kitchen to fill a glass with water, returning to share it with the plant. Then I opened his living room window to give the toxic smoke a place to go. 

"You don't want to die, Mr. Pearlman. You'd miss me too much. Please, remember to take your meds. I don't want to perform CPR on you again." I tapped the lid on his weekly pill dispenser as I headed for the door, and I heard his grunt of acknowledgement as I left the apartment. It was a damned good thing I knew CPR when he went into cardiac arrest on the stairwell. If I hadn't, he'd be six feet under and I'd be short a neighbor. Decent ones were hard to find.

Back in my apartment, I threw Mr. Pearlman's dirty clothes into my hamper and powered up my laptop. I deemed Fridays clean the crap out of my inbox day. I also knew there was an urgent message from Cassie Bennet waiting for me. A message I chose to ignore while I banged Shane's brains out. Cassie was a photographer who arrived in New York about the same time I did, fresh out of college and eager to make her mark. When we met, I knew we'd be rivals, partly because she was good at her craft and partly because she struck me as a shallow, catty bitch who I trusted less than a trash bag made of phyllo bread.

Scowling at the endless list on my computer screen, I decided to ignore my emails a little longer for a round of Pilates punishment. Before I could talk myself out of it, I climbed into my spandex shorts and cranked up the thirty-minute workout I'd purchased for the bargain price of fifty cents at a garage sale. While I had always counted vigorous sex as a great calorie burner, it still didn't help me reach my toes no matter what position I tried. 

Just as the excessively chipper instructor started to annoy me, my phone rang. Since there was a chance it could be a paying client or a friend wanting to hook up for a Friday night club crawl, I didn't feel an ounce of guilt when my hand immediately went for the phone.

"Reese Kentwell."

"Reese! I'm so glad you answered. It's Cassie Bennet. I guess you didn't see my email. I have a big favor to ask. It's not so much a favor, since you'll make some cash and possibly some connections." She took a quick break, giving me no time to interject before barreling on. 

"There's this photo shoot I've been assigned to at Saint Thomas Church tomorrow and I've had a family emergency come up. My brother broke his leg and wants me to drive to Philly to help him with his dogs for a few days. I was hoping you could take my place at the shoot. It's at eleven AM, so not painfully early. You'll be taking shots of the recently restored church as well as the major donor on the project, Vincent Valentino. It should be an easy assignment. The New York Historical Society is footing the bill. Please, tell me you're free tomorrow."

She finally stopped to breathe, and I was left to consider the ramifications of accepting a handout from Cassie. She would probably want payback at some time, which could take the form of anything from sharing an assignment to finding her a date. But in the world of freelance, turning down jobs meant certain doom. "Sure, Cassie. I've got time to do the shoot. Who's my contact?"

"Sheila Waterson. She's doing the interview with Mr. Valentino. Cute, African American, skinny as a rake. Not like us full-figured gals." She chuckled and I grudgingly joined in. I never let my body define me. "I really appreciate this, Reese. I'll call after the shoot to see how it went."

Cassie hung up and I quickly plugged the details into my phone. As I hit resume on the DVD and finished the last ten minutes of my workout, my mind detoured to the focus of tomorrow's assignment. Not the church, but the donor – Vincent Valentino. I knew he was a philanthropist who spent his untold fortune on the restoration of gothic structures all over the globe. He was generous, handsome, and available. So, lots of potential there.

But Vincent also had a reputation as a career playboy with a heart of stone, and some of his former lovers had come out with tell-alls of his kinky sexual antics and sterile manner. While I had never put much stock in entertainment journalism, there was enough relevant information circulating about him that I decided to strike him from my fuck buddy list and stay wary.

After completing most of my Friday to-do list, I showered and slipped into my favorite sleep shirt with every intention of staying in and hitting the sack early. Sylvie would be sorely disappointed. As I shuffled down the hall to my bedroom, my phone rang in my hand, and I smiled when the name Monica flashed on the screen. 

Monica Sims was the reigning queen of debauchery and all around crazy bitch, and although my brain had shut down for the day, the part of me that never wasted a moment of life when it could be mercilessly snatched away pressed the little green icon.

"Hey, Monica. What's up?"

The heavy thump of bass echoed through the tiny speaker, preempting Monica's shrill voice. "Reese! We need you, woman! This club is on fire and it doesn't feel right without you."

"Where are you?"

"Psychotic on twelfth. How soon can you get here?"

Ugh. I wasn't about to get on the subway and ride all the way out there at eleven o'clock. That was suicide. "I've got an assignment in the morning, Monica. If you'd asked me two hours ago, I might have given it some thought, but I'm not taking the subway this time of night."

"Take a goddam cab! It's just me and Jen, and we're missing our third musketeer."

With Kaskade blasting through my phone, I redirected my feet to the bathroom, assessing my condition in the mirror and how much work I'd have to put into a Friday night club prep. My hair was still damp, but that could be tackled with a braid, and I could go easy on the makeup, which I tended to do anyway. 

I repeated my mantra about taking life by the horns because fate could walk up and bitch slap you any time. "Okay, Monica. I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Yay! We'll try to find you a hottie before you get here."

I shook my head as I hung up. I knew Monica's idea of a hottie varied greatly from mine, a fact I'd been burned on before. Tonight, it was my choice, and if he was anything like Shane and his magic fingers, I was looking at an equally delicious and debaucherous night.