By the Numbers

Sheila was the kind of flirtatious, outgoing girl who got attention no matter where she was, what she wore, or what she did. While some of the other girls at the restaurant didn't like her (due to jealousy), most did, and there wasn't a guy who did not salivate when she was around. Sheila loved all the attention, that much was obvious, but at twenty-four, she no giggling girl. She was well aware of her effect on men.

Waiting tables was my first real job. I was twenty years old, halfway through college, and while my parents were paying my rent and tuition, the business they ran had begun to struggle. Bottom line, if I wanted to stay in school, I needed a part-time job to cover basic expenses and my car insurance.

I was more than a little surprised to be hired at the restaurant called Jersey Jack's, especially as a server. I had no experience to speak of, but there was something about me that the hiring manager liked. Next thing I knew, I was showing up for training the following Monday.

I met Sheila that first day. I have to admit, her bold, casual sexuality was intimidating, and I didn't say more than two words to her when we were introduced. But I sure as hell looked. The restaurant was casual; our uniform consisted of blue jeans and yellow polo shirts, and Sheila filled them both out deliciously. She had smooth, dusky skin, a slender dancer's figure, and an angelic face that belied her mixed Greek and Asian heritage. Sheila had the most luxuriously long, straight brown hair that she always kept in a ponytail at work, revealing a sleek and very kissable neck.

After the first few weeks, I got over my nervousness and innate shyness and proved to be fairly good at waiting tables. The job turned out to be more lucrative than I had expected, and I began to feel better about working just twenty hours a week. I made some new friends, hung out with them now and then after work (they knew a bar where I wouldn't be carded), and generally started becoming more extroverted.

But whenever I saw Sheila . . . my mouth went dry and my palms grew damp. I couldn't say anything to her without stammering, and I was in danger of seizure if I spent more than a second looking into her deep brown eyes.

Up until that point, I had only had two 'real' girlfriends. I had neither the confidence nor the suave nature to approach girls, even though I was supposedly handsome enough. The few times I managed to get a date, it was with girls who were just as conservative as I, looking for relationship material. My sexual experience was pretty limited, with the majority of my fantasies unfulfilled.

Fantasies which, suddenly, starred sexy Sheila. I found myself masturbating practically every day to her image, imagining torrid sexual encounters in the walk-in cooler at work, or in my car or apartment. In my fantasies, Sheila was a sultry, eager, seductive playmate for whom everything was enjoyable.

Little did I know . . . .

Eventually, of course, I got to know Sheila a little better, through casual conversation, rumor, and observation. She was devoted to her boyfriend, a guy about thirty years old, I figured, who came in now and then to see her. By all accounts, he was a good guy, who did not seem to mind that his girlfriend was an outrageous flirt. But I noticed quickly, however, that despite her flirtatious nature, Sheila never let it go too far. Though she would go out with us after work, and hugged and kissed a lot, she stopped there. By all accounts, she was faithful to her attorney boyfriend.

Obviously, that just made all the guys want her more. And I was one of them.

***

Three months into my employment at Jersey Jack's, I was looking forward to the holiday break from school. While it meant that I would be working more at the restaurant, the additional money would come in handy for Christmas presents. And it did, of course. By the 20

th

, I had finished all my holiday shopping and was enjoying the excess. Although, some days, after being on my feet for twelve hours straight, I couldn't have cared less about the money. I just wanted to get home and get some sleep.

That Thursday night, I was glad to get out. I had been working all day, and had the greasy skin and restaurant smell to show for it. Sure, I also had just under two hundred bucks for my troubles, which helped to assuage the tiredness in my muscles and the tension in my neck. Having turned down an offer to hit the bar that night, I headed out to my car.

Decembers in the Southwest are typically pretty mild, and that particular season was no exception. We were getting daytime highs in the mid-seventies, with the warmth lingering long after nightfall. I was enjoying that warmth as I strolled through the darkened parking lot. I lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, and—

"Fuck!"

I looked to my left, spying a white Toyota in the shadows of the parking lot. It took me a moment to recognize it as Sheila's car. I saw her throw open the door and step out, looking obviously perturbed. She kicked her car a few times and pulled at her hair, which, I noticed, had been released from its ponytail. It flowed down her back like a cape, hanging just below the cheeks of her tight, round little ass. She still wore her jeans, of course, but had doffed the work polo, revealing a tight white halter that revealed her narrow waist and the exquisite shape of her breasts.

"Sheila?" I called, moving toward her.

She looked in my direction, her beautiful features contorted in exasperation. "Fucking car!" she exclaimed, and kicked the front bumper again. She winced, hopping on one foot as she held the other.

I jogged over, just in time to catch her as she toppled back. Sheila fell right into my arms, her hair covering my face for a moment. Despite the fact that she had worked as long a day as I had, she smelled sweetly, almost fresh from the shower.

"You okay?" I asked her, seeing little through the veil of her long, soft strands.

"Um . . . Nate?" she asked tentatively.

"Yeah."

"You're groping my boobs."

I had not realized I was doing so, but the moment Sheila spoke the words, I could feel her firm little mounds filling my hands. Evidently, in catching her, my hands had slid up her body. "Oh," I said simply, and pushed her up. I turned away sheepishly as Sheila smoothed down her shirt. "I didn't do it on purpose."

She laughed softly. "It's okay, Nate. Thanks for catching me."

I shrugged, feeling sheepish and embarrassed. At the same time, I relished the brief memory of having actually touched . . .

held

. . . those perfectly round tits . . . .

"Um . . . car trouble?" I asked.

She sighed heavily, taking out her cell-phone. She pressed a couple of buttons, held the phone to her ear. After a few moments, however, she snapped the device closed and huffed. "Mother fucker," she seethed under her breath.

I watched her a moment, admiring her face in profile. Sheila was a tall girl, maybe just an inch shorter than I, with classic cheekbones and the oval face inherited from her Chinese mother. She had a tiny nose, slightly upturned, and full, soft lips that presently quivered.

"Hey, um, if you need a ride—" I began.

She snapped her head around toward me. It was obvious that something was bothering her, more than an uncooperative car ever could. Her gorgeous brown eyes were wide, round, and practically brimming with tears. "You wanna get a drink?" she asked.

I blinked. "Um . . . sure."

***

Sheila sulked in the passenger seat of my car, arms crossed under her breasts as she sat low in the seat. She stared at the glove compartment of the dash like a Tantrist in meditation.

"We, uh, we could go to Cooty's," I suggested, mentioning the one and only bar I knew I could get into without being carded. It was the usual hangout for several of us from the restaurant. I knew Angie, Teddy, and Mark would be there, and probably a few others.

Sheila shook her head. "I don't feel like being around people," she said.

I nodded. "Oh-kay . . . ."

She sighed again. "I'm sorry, Nate. I didn't mean it like that. I like you. You don't make me feel like you're looking at me with X-ray glasses on."

I didn't know how to respond, but it suddenly struck me that Sheila was a woman who felt somehow cursed by her own obvious sexuality, even as she reveled in it.

"Hey, look," she said, sitting up in her seat as the passing streetlights flashed over her. "I know a bootlegger, on the west side. We can get a couple pints cheap, then just . . . hang out for a while. Is that cool?"

My heart suddenly flipped over, but I tried to stay cool. "Yeah, well, uh, um, sure. Sounds cool," I said. "You, um, don't have to, uh, go home?"

Sheila fell silent for a few long moments, compelling me to glance over. She was staring out the window. "No. I don't."

***

We pulled up to the house, and as Sheila indicated, I flashed my lights a couple times, revealing a dilapidated structure that was badly in need of fresh paint. The neighborhood was one that made me nervous; we had seen 'gangstas' and strung-out prostitutes walking the streets as Sheila directed me to her bootlegger.

A middle-aged black woman came out of the house, approaching my side of the car. Sheila leaned across me, all but forcing me to inhale her sweet scent. Her lower back and the tops of her taut cheeks were revealed, with sexy dimples framing a tattoo of a golden Chinese ideograph. "Pint of SoCo, and—" she looked to me expectantly, silently asking me what I wanted. I just nodded. I didn't know what the hell 'SoCo' was.

"Make it two," Sheila said, then leaned back, digging in her pocket as the woman walked away.

"I'll get it," I said, reaching for my money.

Sheila shook her head, shooting me a look. "No, it's on me," she said. Her tone made it clear that she was not going to be argued with.

The woman came back with two small brown paper bags. Sheila reached over me with the money, and I took the bottles. The woman returned to her house, and I backed the car out. Sheila was quick to crack the top off one of the bottles and take a drink. She sighed, sinking back into the seat.

"That's better," she said.

For whatever reason, I started laughing. Maybe it was nervous tension, mingled with relief, and again mingled with the constant state of arousal I felt at being so close to a woman who personified, in my mind, the very definition of 'sexy.'

Thankfully, Sheila began laughing as well.

***

". . . and then, he was, like, 'I bet you got great tits, baby,'" Sheila was saying between spurts of laughter. Her cheeks were rosy from the alcohol she had imbibed. She shook her head. "I was a counter girl at Burger King, for God's sake! And he was, like, forty or something!"

I chuckled at her tale, took another swig from my bottle. 'SoCo,' I now knew, was short for Southern Comfort, a rich, potent, caramel-flavored liquor. I was starting to like it. Of course, maybe I was only enjoying the potable due to the cool breeze washing through the open windows of my car, and the gorgeous woman sitting beside me. Sheila had directed me to a small park at the edge of a quiet residential division, and I had pulled up beneath the heavy, broad bows of an old Live Oak.

"I bet you get that a lot," I commented, looking for my cigarettes.

Sheila sighed heavily, settling her bottle in her lap. She stared at the ceiling. "When I was fourteen, I was walking home from school because I had cheer practice and missed the bus and my mom wasn't . . ." She laughed to herself, lowering her head and gritting her teeth. "Middle of the day, and this guy pulls up ahead of me. Flashes me twenty bucks."

I looked to her, somewhat drunkenly. "I'm sorry."

Sheila lolled her head toward me and smiled ruefully. "Don't think I ever ran so fast in my life," she said.

I held up my bottle in a toast. "Good for you."

Sheila grinned, then clinked her bottle against mine. "Good for me," she said, then drank. "How many girls have you been with?"

The question almost made me choke on my cigarette. I pulled it away from my mouth and looked to Sheila. "What?"

She curled up on her side in the seat, facing me as she took little sips now and then. Every time her mouth puckered around the ridged opening of the pint made me think of a blowjob. "Come on," she said, seductively licking the edge of the bottle's mouth. "How many?"

I blushed, looking down. I rolled my shoulders, smoked my cigarette, watched the grey haze getting sucked out the window. "Two."

"'Two?'" Sheila repeated, sounding incredulous.

I could feel the redness in my face deepening, and set my jaw. "I'm not exactly a stud," I said.

She was quiet a gain, shifting onto her back as she tilted the bottle to her lips. "You know, when I was twenty," she said. "I had probably four or five boyfriends. Only time I ever slept alone was when I wasn't in the mood. Trust me, that didn't happen that often."

I stared at Sheila, not sure if what she was telling me was something she was proud of or not. At the same time, I wasn't sure if I liked what I was hearing. I had always thought of Sheila as the sexy flirt, yet practically chaste. But now, here she was, essentially admitting she had once been a slut.

I flicked my cigarette out the window. "Yeah, well . . . now you really got someone," I said awkwardly.

"Yeah," she said, her voice faint and distant. "I sure do."

I frowned, reading something in Sheila's face that I could not quite understand, yet I knew to be painful to her. "You wanna talk about it?"

She rolled her head toward me, her features suddenly soft and sultry. "No," she said, then smiled. "I wanna kiss you."

I just stared, stunned, astonished, transmogrified . . . however you wanted to put it. "Wh-what?"

Sheila turned toward me fully, her shoulders shifting as she breathed in. "You're a really sweet guy, Nate, you know that?"

I swallowed nervously, staring at her lips. So soft, glistening, and inviting. "And . . . you're the most beautiful woman I've ever met."

Sheila kept smiling, and now she bit her lower lip, her eyes flickering around my face. She leaned closer, slipping her tongue out briefly. "Kiss me," she whispered, and then her lips met mine . . . .

Oh, Jesus! I had never been kissed like that before. Sheila's lips barely graced mine, then they pressed a little more firmly. She whimpered softly, bringing up her hands. She touched my face, my neck, ran her fingers through my hair. I tasted her breath, felt the darting tip of her tongue.

Something overcame me, then, and I pushed myself upon her, mashing my lips against hers. She let me, at first, pulling on my shirt, running her hands over my shoulders, moaning into my mouth. She sucked on my lips, pulling them into her mouth, licked the corner of my mouth. I was insanely aroused, and started to move on top of her.

She stopped me. Her hands pushed against my chest.

"Wait."

I stopped, catching my breath, and opened my eyes. Sheila stared up at me, a pleading, pained expression on her face. I wanted her, that much I knew, and if I had been a certain sort of man, I could have taken her. But I wasn't. Instead, I eased back into my seat and faced the windshield over the steering wheel. Without a word, I turned the key, then backed away from beneath the massive oak.

***

The following week was excruciating. Sheila and I had several shifts together, but we rarely spoke. Still, now and then, we exchanged a look as we passed in the server's alley or on the dining room floor, looks that reminded us both of the night we shared. I felt tortured, like a man who had tasted the finest fruit in the Garden of Eden . . . only to be denied the flavor forevermore.

Christmas came and went. I spent the day with my parents and kid sister. I let myself be lost in the general good will of the season, for the single day that it lasted. But, December 26

th

found me back at work . . . with Sheila.

On New Year's Eve, I was one of only a handful of servers scheduled. It was a pretty slow night for us, since we closed at nine and the majority of patrons would be hitting the bars downtown to ring in the New Year. I was surprised to see Sheila on the roster for the night. I had figured she would be spending the night with her beau.

Sheila was pretty subdued during the shift, going about her duties almost like a robot. She seemed to go out of her way to avoid me, or maybe that was just my perception. I watched her at her tables, listened to her sweet, melodic voice.

She finished her duties quickly that evening, and left just after nine o'clock, when the restaurant closed. I stayed around, helping the closers as they cleaned up, shared a shot of tequila with them and our manager. It was still two hours before midnight when we all left, heading to our scattered cars in the parking lot. I had parked mine near a small cluster of dogwoods behind the restaurant.

"Happy New Year."

I started at the sound of the voice, and looked around. Part of my mind recognized Sheila's voice, but it seemed so out of place. I saw her sitting on the ground in the midst of the dogwoods, hidden from view. Her dark eyes glowed slightly in the darkness as she looked upon me.

"Um . . . happy New Year," I responded, unsure of what to make of the situation. "I figured you'd be with your boyfriend. You got out of here pretty early."

Sheila shrugged and stood, stepping from the shadows. I noticed that she had changed into a pair of tight boy shorts and a long-sleeved half shirt that left her shoulders and tops of her breasts bare. Her hair was down and brushed out, and the sheen she always earned at work had been scrubbed away and replaced with fresh makeup. I had never seen her look so gorgeous.

"I wanted to change," she said, dodging my question about her boyfriend. But I really wasn't thinking about that. I couldn't stop staring at her, the way she was dressed. She had a pierced navel, with an inch-long charm hanging from it, and a series of cat-print tattoos on the left side of her lower abdomen, disappearing under the shorts. And the shorts themselves . . . Jesus. They were so snug that they formed a perfect cameltoe, making the lips of her pussy bulge.

"I, uh, can see that," I said, feeling my heart fluttering in my chest. She seemed taller, about my height in fact, and I realized she was wearing brown leather go-go boots. I was getting an erection just from looking at her.

Sheila gave me a catty look. "I heard you were going to spend New Year's Eve alone," she said. "Care to, uh, change your plans?"

As much as I was turned on, I was also a little wary. I really didn't know Sheila well enough to discern if she was playing with me or not. "Like . . . how?" I asked.

Her dark eyes glittered mischievously. "Wanna watch some fireworks?"

***

I didn't know exactly what Sheila was planning, and she was cagey enough not to answer me directly. But that gleam in her eye, and the way she was dressed . . . I was willing to take the risk of possible humiliation. In the back of my mind, I was thinking that Sheila was playing a practical joke on me, somehow setting me up for embarrassment. But I didn't care. If I really was going to have a shot with this beauty, I wanted to take the chance.

I wasn't surprised when Sheila directed me to her bootlegger again, but I was a little surprised when she had me drive to a field on the southern side of the Air Force base, where a fireworks celebration was going to be launched. It was a little after eleven when we arrived, and I noticed several other cars parked nearby. I chose a spot on the dead grass far enough away from the other cars that we would not be easily observed.

Once the engine was off, Sheila pushed her seat back and lowered it, smiling as she cracked open her pint. I mirrored her, earning an approving smile, after turning on the radio at a low volume.