Forbidden Desires

Gavin.

Friday evening, I picked up Emma from her neat little brownstone.

"No driver tonight," she murmured, climbing in beside me.

I reached out toward her, gripping her hand in mine. "I wanted you all alone. I'm selfish like that."

The smile she treated me to was warm and dazzling. "Are we on our way to the restaurant?" she asked at the rapidly changing scenery. We'd entered a seedier part of town, someplace I doubted she'd ever seen. For her sake, I hoped she'd never been here.

I shook my head and turned down the side street that led to my destination. I still remembered this area like the back of my hand, though it had been many years since I'd visited.

"Not just yet. There's something I want to show you first."

Lately, for no reason at all, my mind would wander to memories of my childhood, to my mother. I remembered her traipsing around the apartment in the evenings, long after I should have been asleep. She'd turn on her ancient record player, listening to John Coltrane or Miles Davis. The music was so bluesy and sad, but with a hidden depth. It fit my mother perfectly. Beautiful and tragic, all at the same time.

I recalled the way she'd lean over the side of the lumpy twin mattress I shared with Cooper and press a soft kiss to my forehead. She wore a white satin robe, tied loosely at the waist. I remembered catching a glimpse of the white satin panties she wore, and the peek of a cherry-tipped breast, and while I was still too young to understand, I knew enough to know I shouldn't look but wanted to all the same. It was simple curiosity. I knew the parts my brothers and I had, basic utilitarian things used for pissing and nothing else. I knew enough to know my mother was different, saw the way men would stop and stare at her, and shout lewd things to her on the street. She must have had something special under that robe, but what, I didn't know.

We repeated the same scenario night after night. After dinner, she'd drink a glass of something so strong, the scent of it on her breath made my eyes sting when she kissed my head. She'd dress in a white jean miniskirt or a pair of cut-off jean shorts and a halter top, then fix her makeup and hair. Then she'd tell Quinn to lock the door and not answer it for anyone.

I remembered the hot tears that stung my eyes when I begged her to stay, which I inevitably did night after night. She'd ruffle my hair and chuckle at me, not even giving me a backward glance as she lifted the arm on her record player, silencing it before strolling out the apartment door.

I didn't understand what she did for a living, and had fought with the boys at school who told me my mom spread her legs for money. It wasn't until I was thirteen that Quinn confirmed the truth and I'd finally accepted it. I didn't talk to my mother for a week after that, until she'd finally snapped at me and told me to grow up. So, I had. And a few years later, she was gone.

Even as I drove Emma through the streets I used to wander, I found myself growing increasingly quiet. I couldn't bring myself to burst her bubble. She'd grown up so differently, probably hadn't known this life existed, which was fine by me. I didn't want to see the pity in her eyes, didn't want her to know about the struggles, the weeks we ate nothing but hot dogs because we'd run out of money, the schoolyard fights I'd gotten into when a classmate accused my mother of sleeping with his father.

Maybe it was stupid to come here, but reflecting on the fact that I'd pushed her so hard on our date and she'd given in so beautifully, I'd wanted to do something different this time, something to let her into my world just a tiny bit more. I stopped beside an alley that was filled with garbage, broken-down furniture, and an overflowing dumpster. It was quite a sight.

"Gavin?" she asked, her voice steady but filled with questions.

"I know you think you know me and you've got me figured out, but it wasn't always like this. I told you that I came from nothing." Emma nodded, her eyes widening as she took in our surroundings again. "Where are we?"

My very humble beginning was splayed out for her to see, and instead of making me feel bare and exposed, I simply felt numb.

I pointed up ahead to a decaying seven-story red brick building. "We grew up right there. Third floor, middle unit."

All three of us boys and my mother had shared a two-bedroom, one-bathroom apartment. We'd lived that way until I was seventeen. Only when my mother passed away did we finally leave the projects and the government-subsidized housing we'd grown up in. Seeing it all again felt surreal, and suddenly I doubted my decision to bring Emma here.

Christ, this is depressing.

I pointed up ahead to the next block. "We walked to the school two blocks down. I used to hang out on that street corner with a pack of hoodlums who are all probably either dead or in jail today."

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Why in God's name we'd stayed here all those years, I had no clue. During the good years, my mother had enough funds to move us away, yet we'd stayed. Then the money slowed-or rather, my mother got older and her clients became fewer and further between-and we were stuck.

When Quinn hit sixteen, he'd gotten a job doing manual labor at a nearby construction site, and I'd started bagging groceries at the local supermarket. We'd shielded Cooper the best we could, funneling him lunch money or his favorite gummy bears when we could. Even at age fourteen, I'd had my priorities straight. The rent payment came first, groceries next, the electric bill and so on. New clothes and shoes weren't even on our radar. Now, of course, I tended to overindulge and spoil myself. Growing up without, I definitely enjoyed the finer things.

Gazing off into the distance, I could still remember my mother strolling down the street in her chic wool coat with its fuzzy faux-fur collar tucked up under her chin, tramping through the snow in her high-heeled boots. She'd loved this dilapidated little neighborhood. She knew every shopkeeper, every neighbor, and made sure they all looked out for us.

She was a single mother of three boys doing her best. She never spoke of my father, and the few times I'd tried to ask about him, she'd barked, He's not here now, is he? So, forget about him.

My mother pushed hard work and education above all else. She hadn't graduated from high school, but demanded our attendance and good grades. I knew it was her unconventional example of work ethic that pushed me today. Emma watched a drunk stumble past our car, cursing loudly and waving his fist. She turned toward me, concern in her eyes. "I don't know what to say. Why are you letting me in like this?"

Looking straight ahead, I took in one last glance at the place that had been my home for so many years. I'd heard the city planned to tear this building down in a few months. It was filled with lead paint and asbestos, and the housing authority had deemed it unfit.

I shrugged. "Just felt like reminiscing, I guess."

It might not have been the most romantic gesture, but it was all I had. Emma could have said no that first day in my office, but instead she'd agreed to our arrangement. This was my way of reciprocating and letting her in too. Emma's eyes widened as she took in our surroundings. Not missing a single detail, she gazed out on the street. "Thank you for showing me."

"Ready to get out of here?"

She nodded.

I drove us toward the highway, punching the accelerator harder than necessary, eager to leave this part of the city in the past where it belonged.

When we pulled up to the French restaurant I'd chosen for dinner, I parked right in front.

Emma peered out the window. "Are you sure it's open?"

I nodded. "I rented the restaurant for the evening. The chef is a friend of mine. A client, actually."

Emma's eyes widened and her mouth lifted into a smile. "So, it'll be just us?"

"Indeed."

Once inside the dim restaurant, I led Emma back to the table near the fireplace, my favorite spot. Quite the dichotomy, from the projects to fine dining. I could tell by Emma's expression that the irony wasn't lost on either of us. We had a simple meal of perfectly cooked steak and green salad. I was pleased the conversation flowed easily between us, hints of that sexual chemistry I'd come to expect zapping between us as we spoke.

"Will you tell me more about your childhood?" Emma finally asked.

I'd been wondering if she would after what I'd shown her tonight.

"Another time." My mind had had enough of exploring memory lane, and my blood was burning for Emma. I left a stack of bills on the table and rose. "Let's get out of here."