her early journal entries, and the more he read, the more intrigued he became. She came as a complete surprise to him—and that didn’t happen often.
No one would guess that inside that Minnie Mouse of a girl lived a Jessica Rabbit woman.
He slipped his helmet on, then mounted his bike, a 1965 panhead, full dresser, electric glide, in mint condition. The engine came to life with a jolt, and then he was off, heading straight home to his computer, relaxing instantly as he listened to his bike purr like a kitten.
As he maneuvered through the Manhattan traffic, he kept picturing Good Girl peeling off her clothes piece by piece. But he had to cut that stimulating scenario short when he almost crashed into a hot dog vendor.
Twenty minutes later he pulled up to his brownstone. It was an old building, right in the heart of what used to be called Hell’s Kitchen. The neighborhood wasn’t what it used to be. It had been gentrified, with trendy shops and restaurants popping up like weeds. It didn’t matter to him. They could build whatever the hell they wanted, as long as they left him alone.
He pulled the bike into a small alcove on the side of the building, and, helmet tucked beneath his arm, secured the bike with three sturdy locks. The neighborhood might be more upscale, but it was still Manhattan.
He headed for the door, pausing to nod at Jasper, the doorman. The guy was, like, a hundred-and-eight or something, and his uniform looked as if it had been made during the Crimean War. But Jasper had been the doorman for as long as anyone could remember, and that wasn’t going to change until the old guy died. Not much about this building changed, including the fact that the elevator smelled like a wet dog. Jay lived on the fifth floor. The elevator stopped on three. The door slid open to reveal a man almost as old as Jasper.
“Jay, my boy. You’re a sight for sore eyes.”
Jay grinned. Shawn Cody was his neighbor, and the building busybody. If he’d been on three, it meant he’d checked up on Darlene, made sure she’d taken her meds. At eighty-four, Shawn was still sharp as a tack, and he kept tabs on everyone. He claimed to be a writer, but no one had seen anything he’d written. No matter. He was a good guy.
“How you doing, Shawn?”
The man sauntered in, and the wet dog smell was complicated by camphor and Old Spice. “As my father used to say, I’m as right as could be expected for a man destined to become dust.”
“Not today, old man. Today, you’re up and about and causing trouble.”
Shawn nodded. “That’s right. I’m here to comfort the tormented and torment the comforted.”
The elevator resumed its creaky ascent, and Jay silently urged it along. If Shawn started talking, there was no escaping for a good ten minutes. But Jay liked the man, and his partner, Bill. They’d been together for almost fifty years. It hadn’t been easy, but they’d stuck it out.
“You know,” Shawn said, leaning back on his slightly humped shoulder. “I miss your granddad something fierce.”
Jay nodded. “Me, too.”
“He was a good fellow. A mighty good fellow.”
“That he was,” Jay said, the familiar sadness blossoming inside. His grandfather had passed away four months ago, and had been sick for a couple of years before that. Jay had taken care of him, and they’d grown close. So close, Jay had decided to stay on living in the apartment, even though he was the only one below retirement age in the whole damn place. It was cool. He helped out the old guys now and again. They were his grandfather’s friends. Hell, his friends. Not to mention the fact the apartment was rent controlled. For three hundred a month he had a two-bedroom place that most people he knew would kill for.
The elevator stopped on five, and Jay let the older man out first. “Take care of yourself, Shawn.”
“The same to you, young man.”
Jay headed down the dimly lit hallway. He opened his door, still expecting the scent of his grandfather’s pipe smoke to waft over him. It didn’t, of course. The pipe had been buried right alongside the man, per his request.
Jay took off his jacket and tossed it and his helmet on the couch. He grabbed a beer from the kitchen, took a swig, then went straight to the computer. A few moments later he was at TrueConfessions.com, reading the journal entries of one Good Girl, and the rest of the world faded to black.
2
The way he walks is sex itself. Not self-conscious, but sure. Arrogant. As if he knows. When he looks at me, my body aches with wanting him. But I’m not the woman he wants. I can’t even smile at him, talk to him. I burn with desire, but I burn hotter from my cowardice.
JAY TOOK A PULL from his beer, only to realize the bottle was empty. As if coming out of a trance, he focused on the room, on the shadows playing against the wall. He stretched as he stood, releasing some of the tension in his shoulders. One more beer and then he’d stop. He had things to do. Nothing that was more interesting than Good Girl’s confessions, but he still had to do them.
He opened the fridge, and the jar of Jiffy made his stomach rumble. Damn, it was after ten. How in hell had that happened? Skipping the beer, he grabbed the strawberry jam, bread and peanut butter. It wasn’t fancy but it would do. And he could eat at the computer.
He put one sandwich on a paper plate and took a bite out of the other. As he stashed the food, he snagged the milk carton, then headed back to the living room.
Through the course of the night, he’d built a picture of Good Girl. Incomplete, of course, but still, she was clear to him. Bright, articulate, passionate and crippled by shyness. She wanted to break out of her shell, but she didn’t know how. All she could do was write about her fantasies. Poor kid. She deserved more.
If only she could see how attractive she was. Stop trying to disappear into the woodwork. She even had a good sense of humor. A wry appreciation for life’s ironies.
He clicked to the next entry and read as he ate.
So sex has a name. J.W.
Jay choked on his sandwich and spent the next few minutes coughing. J.W. had to be him, right? She’d been talking about him? Holy… He was the guy in her fantasies? He walked like sex itself?
Jeez. He’d figured she was talking about Brad Pitt. She’d mentioned the actor’s name a couple of times, and it had never occurred to Jay…
This changed everything. Man. He shoved his remaining sandwich to the side of his desk and hunkered down. His gaze shot down the screen until he found her next entry.
I’m walking under the Washington Square arch. It’s late. I should have been home hours ago. I hear footsteps behind me, and my stomach tightens, but come on, it’s New York. When wouldn’t I hear footsteps? I keep walking, not looking left or right. Suddenly, I’m slammed from the back and I cry out as I fall to my knees. A hand grabs my purse, and before I can see who he is, or even what he’s wearing, he’s off like a shot. But then, there’s someone else, a man, chasing him. I watch, stunned, as the second man tackles the thief from behind. They’re on the ground now, fighting, and I struggle to my feet. Before I take a step, it’s all over, and the thief is running away, limping. The man who tackled him gets up, brushes off his trouser legs then looks at me.
