SEX, LIES & SWEET TEA
I rubbed my eyes and stretched, knocking my phone from the nightstand to the bedroom floor. Lynyrd Skynyrd, my wake up tune of choice, continued to play as I drug my sorry ass out of bed, finally snagging the phone to turn it off. It was early in Washington, D.C.– five a.m. early. I’d set the alarm so I could run. My morning ritual, it was usually preceded by a night of drinking and or beguiling ladies. Tossing the phone back to the nightstand, I spied an empty condom wrapper, the small gold package gleaming on the expansive and largely empty floor. Clearly tossed to the ground, devil-may-care, prior to last night’s mattress dance, it was evidence of my latest bad decision. Once again, using the wrong head to do my critical thinking, I was now feeling as guilty as sin on a Sunday.
The massive bed filled the empty room. Minimalist was how most described my décor–empty was more accurate. It was a historic three-story brownstone filled with a long history and very little furniture. When I moved in, I filled it with the bachelor basics: a king-sized bed, a huge couch, and a big-ass flat screen. For the past five years, for better or worse, it was my home.
I stood over the bed, eyeing a leggy piece of ass with long blonde hair lying on her stomach. She was wrapped in my expensive dark gray sheets – a gift from my mother in Alabama when I moved here. Her leg and perfectly muscular bottom were exposed, reminding me of our night together. Tara or Tamara, I couldn’t remember her name exactly, was an assistant in the office of a prominent senator. Senators and congressmen always hired the hottest babes in the city – it seemed to be an unspoken contest.
I always found it interesting how the old farts in Washington got away with so much. Most of the girls I dated had had a run in, or at the very least, an unwelcome brush with a dirty old politician. I was living in a city of sex and lies. It was, as my late father lovingly called it, the largest gravy train with biscuit wheels in the world.
Honest men were hard to find in Washington. It was one of the reasons beautiful women in D.C. were drawn to guys like me. I was much closer to their age, stayed in shape, didn’t need Viagra, or have a saggy ass. And I was clean – in every aspect of the word.
As a seasoned agent for the FBI in the white-collar crime division, I had the unique distinction of being a Harvard-educated Southern gentleman who incidentally packed heat. I had a big brain, a big gun, and big dose of charm I commanded as the occasion dictated. It had always served me well.
I found my boxer briefs in the clothes littered across the bedroom floor – affirmation of our whirlwind shag. Pulling them on, I decided I needed to wake this girl and get her on her way before the sun got too high in the sky. “Good morning, darlin’,” I said, stroking her back and rousing her from her comfortable slumber.
“Good morning,” her voice cracked as she rolled over and brushed her long blonde mane from her face, exposing her fake and perky breasts. “What time is it?”
“It’s way too early,” I joked, pulling away and placing my hands on my hips. I paused for a moment feeling horrible for not remembering her name. I smiled at her and rubbed the stubble on my face, still trying to wake up. “I’m gonna run this morning before I shower, but the coffeemaker is on a timer and there should be a fresh pot in the kitchen.”
She sat and pulled the sheets up, tucking them under her arms to hold them in place and leaned toward the nightstand to look for her phone. Instead she picked up my ID, examining it before bringing her knees to her chest. “I had a good time last night, Special Agent in Charge McKay W. Callahan III. Jeez, that’s a mouthful,” she laughed, reading from the small foldout that contained my badge. “McKay?”
“Family name,” I sighed as I took it from her and tossed it on the dresser, wondering if she was suffering from a case of whatshisname this morning as well. “I prefer Mac if you don’t mind.”
“Okay. McKay,” she teased.
“Don’t make me arrest you this morning,” I baited, flashing her a wicked smile.
“You’re way too pretty to share a detention cell with whatever random transvestite unceremoniously surprised a White House staffer last night.”
“That doesn’t happen,” she laughed, tossing her head back.
“The hell it doesn’t, honey.”
“Well, I don’t remember you reading me my rights last night, but I’m pretty sure neither one of us remained silent.” I smirked and went to find an old t-shirt and shorts in my dresser. She clearly still expected the man who pinned her to the bed last night – but he was gone, and she was the last thing I wanted to deal with at the moment.
“Sweetheart, you’re sexy as all get out, but the pavement is callin’ my name.”
“Maybe I should arrest you.” She ignored me and continued twisting her hair around her finger.
“And what would be the charge?” I asked as I pulled my running shoes from the closet.
“With that beast?” she giggled, nodding toward my crotch. “Assault with a deadly weapon.”
She was cute as hell and I suddenly remembered her big dick compliments from the night before. Her dirty talk had been impressive. “What would you charge me with?” she cooed.
I played along, not wanting her post-coital flirting to fall on completely deaf and insensitive ears. “Indecent exposure,” I joked as I sat on the side of the bed to dress.
“Lewd and lascivious behavior?” she whispered, scooting closer to me and stroking my bare chest.
I chuckled and moved away from her to pull my shirt over my head, leaving an awkward silence in the room.
“Maybe I just wanna be handcuffed,” she said, sitting back.
“C’mon now, darlin’, didn’t anyone ever tell you not to tease a man with a big gun and a set of cuffs? Besides,” I began to lie. “The handcuffs only come out for official business and really bad girls, and you, my dear, are a lady.” I grabbed my phone and headphones from the nightstand. “Help yourself to anything in the kitchen – if there is anything in the kitchen – and like I said, the coffee should be on.”
“I had fun last night, Mac,” she cooed softly, looking down and pulling the sheets tightly under her chin.
“Me too,” I said, leaning in for a quick peck on her tiny mouth still stained with red lipstick. “Just let yourself out and lock the door behind you,” I waved, not giving her a chance to reply.
I leaned against the front of the house to stretch before hitting the pavement. It was March, and still cold as hell in the morning in D.C. I watched the warm mist of air leave my lungs and fog the space between my body and the old brick house. I needed to run. I needed to clear my head. I always questioned myself in the morning, feeling guilty for bedding women I had no intention of ever seeing again.
I plugged my ears and chose my playlist. As Axel Rose poetically sang Welcome to the Jungle, I began my day jogging the streets of another one – Washington, D.C.