schools aside, Dean had no doubt charity saved him. He got touched a lot, in a good way, the teachers ruffling his hair, some of the women giving him little squeezes, finding him lunches and snacks. Unlike other little boys, he didn’t pretend to eschew the attention, soaking it up instead, his size and willingness to use his fists shutting the traps of any kids who remarked on his possible sexual orientation. His quick brain garnered him further consideration, particularly in math and the sciences. It was a wonder his brain developed, considering how much his mother drank, Dean being the exception to that rule about fetal alcohol effects. He supposed he should be grateful she never left the neighborhood because that ensured the consistency of his schooling.
It also meant everyone knew Marsha Chambray’s son, fathered by some nameless drifter. The kid who was on the street at all hours, time when some stuff that went down could be attributed to him. Dean lucked out there, too, with the local beat cop taking him in hand, showing him the way. Officer Duncan, unknowingly, was the role model Dean emulated, the profession he decided on the first time the cop caught him acting out and treated him fairly. It wasn’t enough to keep him from running errands for the local crime lord, but enough to keep him out of the limelight and line of fire. The money paid their rent and fed him. His mother never seemed to notice she wasn’t evicted, and drank her meals, pilfering his hard-earned cash.
That emotional inhibition contributed to his inability to form relationships , too, although it didn’t impair his sexual competence. Without the emotional attachment, he could focus his attention on the physicality. Honed sexual skills, coupled with his appearance—he was well aware he was handsome and took good care of his body—meant women were always available, like a never ending supply. It wasn’t something he wore like a badge of honor, but he needed the release, one of the few he allowed himself.
Checking his watch, he noted how long he’d been lost in reminiscing. Lots to do in the morning, particularly with an asshole trying to weasel his way into the business. Dean would be a wealthy man in his own right if he cleared his plate of everything but the legitimate side of things, but that wasn’t his call. He had a superior to answer to, however vague and tenuous their connection, and there were expectations to be met. He drained the bottle and chucked it into the bin. His housekeeper would be by tomorrow and he made a mental note to leave her a list of things to pick up, then headed to bed, deciding to shower in the morning. And it wasn’t because he wanted to savor the scent of Amy still lingering on his skin.
****
The room didn’t seem any different at four o’clock. By rights he should be deep in sleep, regenerating, alone in this big, empty bed. Instead he was staring into the dark, senses alert and assimilating any changes in his space as the clock ticked ahead, approaching the time he normally got up. His nose was still full of strawberries, but he could faintly smell Amy. Just a hint of woman and something with grassy overtones. Finally, he got up and hit the shower, scrubbing hard and long, toweling off to fall back into bed and seek that elusive sleep. Nothing doing, so he allowed himself to think about her, resigned to a sleepless night.
He’d had tall, curvy blondes before, being an equal opportunity kind of guy. Hair color, height, and body shape really didn’t matter to him. If the woman appealed, he set his terms, and they either went along or they didn’t. What was it Randy said so crudely, if accurately? They put out and then he put them out. For sure, some of them entertained the idea they would change him, domesticate him. An occasional romp between the sheets, that meant nothing more to him than an intense sexual release, was hardly the basis for what some women anticipated. Those he moved on
It also meant everyone knew Marsha Chambray’s son, fathered by some nameless drifter. The kid who was on the street at all hours, time when some stuff that went down could be attributed to him. Dean lucked out there, too, with the local beat cop taking him in hand, showing him the way. Officer Duncan, unknowingly, was the role model Dean emulated, the profession he decided on the first time the cop caught him acting out and treated him fairly. It wasn’t enough to keep him from running errands for the local crime lord, but enough to keep him out of the limelight and line of fire. The money paid their rent and fed him. His mother never seemed to notice she wasn’t evicted, and drank her meals, pilfering his hard-earned cash.
That emotional inhibition contributed to his inability to form relationships , too, although it didn’t impair his sexual competence. Without the emotional attachment, he could focus his attention on the physicality. Honed sexual skills, coupled with his appearance—he was well aware he was handsome and took good care of his body—meant women were always available, like a never ending supply. It wasn’t something he wore like a badge of honor, but he needed the release, one of the few he allowed himself.
Checking his watch, he noted how long he’d been lost in reminiscing. Lots to do in the morning, particularly with an asshole trying to weasel his way into the business. Dean would be a wealthy man in his own right if he cleared his plate of everything but the legitimate side of things, but that wasn’t his call. He had a superior to answer to, however vague and tenuous their connection, and there were expectations to be met. He drained the bottle and chucked it into the bin. His housekeeper would be by tomorrow and he made a mental note to leave her a list of things to pick up, then headed to bed, deciding to shower in the morning. And it wasn’t because he wanted to savor the scent of Amy still lingering on his skin.
****
The room didn’t seem any different at four o’clock. By rights he should be deep in sleep, regenerating, alone in this big, empty bed. Instead he was staring into the dark, senses alert and assimilating any changes in his space as the clock ticked ahead, approaching the time he normally got up. His nose was still full of strawberries, but he could faintly smell Amy. Just a hint of woman and something with grassy overtones. Finally, he got up and hit the shower, scrubbing hard and long, toweling off to fall back into bed and seek that elusive sleep. Nothing doing, so he allowed himself to think about her, resigned to a sleepless night.
He’d had tall, curvy blondes before, being an equal opportunity kind of guy. Hair color, height, and body shape really didn’t matter to him. If the woman appealed, he set his terms, and they either went along or they didn’t. What was it Randy said so crudely, if accurately? They put out and then he put them out. For sure, some of them entertained the idea they would change him, domesticate him. An occasional romp between the sheets, that meant nothing more to him than an intense sexual release, was hardly the basis for what some women anticipated. Those he moved on
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