If You Want It

"You okay, mister?" The girl looked down as I lay in the middle of the empty parking lot.

I was not okay. I had slipped on black ice, twisting my ankle and landing hard on my ass. It was embarrassing- I slipped when I turned to check out the girl's ass when she walked by.

The harsh glare from the light posts high over the parking lot was as cold as the December wind and the ice I lay on.

On my hands and knees, I crawled over to clear pavement and carefully stood up. The girl grabbed my arm to help.

"Oww... oh dammit!" It hurt when I put weight on my ankle, and my skinny ass would be bruised from landing on it so hard.

The girl put my arm over her shoulder. "C'mon... walk it off, mister. It's probably okay."

She helped me hobble several steps, and the pain started to retreat. I took a few steps on my own. It hurt, but it didn't seem serious.

"Thanks," I said.

"No problem, mister. Spare some change?" She looked at me blankly, holding out one mitten-covered palm.

I was surprised, but I shouldn't have been. I had seen her the past two mornings at the fast-food place. Both times she sat alone, huddled around a lone cup of coffee.

She was pretty in an unassuming girl-next-door way, her face framed by shoulder-length hair that spilled from under a knit winter hat. To me she was gorgeous. She looked to be in her early twenties... slightly younger than me. Her clothes and her closed-in manner said she was homeless.

I dusted salt and snow off my dress coat, fished around in my pockets and handed her twenty dollars.

"Wow," she said with the same blank expression, "is that for helping you, or because you were checking out my ass?"

I never understood the sixth sense woman have for guys checking them out. I was certain she hadn't turned around until I yelled when I fell. How could she have known?

"Er, a little of both?" I said, sheepishly as I straightened my tie. "Thanks again."

I started walking back to my hotel, limping lightly.

"Hey mister," the girl called from behind me.

I turned to see her pick up something from the pavement and hold it in the air: it was my wallet.

She walked over and handed it to me, lips pursed as she shook her head in admonishment. As she walked away, I checked the wallet. Nothing was missing.

~~~~

The next morning, she was at the fast-food place again, at the same table, and again with just coffee. I wrestled with my shyness for several minutes then picked up my tray and walked over to her.

"Hi," I said, "breakfast is on me, if you want it."

She looked up and studied me for a moment.

"Sure, thanks," she said, holding out her hand.

"No, I'll buy it for you."

"Money's better."

I said, "I'd really rather see you eat. I gave you twenty dollars last night. I would have thought you'd have enough left over for more than coffee."

She pursed her lips, but agreed. I set my tray on her table, and we walked to the counter to order.

"What can I have?" she asked.

I shrugged. "Whatever you want."

She looked at me askance, then took me at my word. The mound of food she ordered barely fit on one tray.

I sat across the little table from her, wondering how she could eat it all. Of course, she didn't: she stuffed most of it into her jacket and the backpack at her feet for later.

"Is it okay if I ask you something?" I said.

Around a mouthful of sausage, egg and cheese, she said, "No, I didn't pick your pocket. Your wallet was there on the ground like I found it. I might beg and borrow, but I try not to steal."

She was clearly more interested in eating than talking, so I stayed quiet. Just as I summoned more courage to make conversation, she shoved the rest of her food in her mouth and stood.

"Thanks," she said with a forced half-smile. She hoisted her backpack and headed out the door.

~~~~

At lunchtime, I ran across the street from my client's building to the little sandwich shop. The girl was there, again with only coffee.

When looked up and noticed me, I said, "Hi. Just coffee again? Lunch is on me if you want it."

She nodded, and she ordered a huge sub sandwich.

"Thanks again, mister," she said, and then hurried out into the cold.

~~~~

The December wind blew right through me. I was skinny, so always dressed warm, but even with all my layers the cold seemed to go right to the bone. The dry air threatened to snow, but so far only light dustings had fallen in the area.

I was walking back to the hotel after a long day with my client. If they hadn't had an emergency, I would have been 400 miles away enduring another awkward Christmas with my father, just like every year since graduating and leaving home. Like me, he was all alone, so as the only child I had no choice but to spend Christmas with him.

Though it was only 5:30 at night, it was dark and Main Street was deserted. It was one of those towns that emptied into the suburbs every night. As I walked, I noticed city hall had tried to improve the down town: brick lined the area between the sidewalk and the street, there were antique-looking cast-iron lamp poles and benches, and oval plaques bolted to anything even slightly historic explaining their faint significance. It was the same trite attempt to rejuvenate a decaying down town I had seen in many of the cities I traveled for my business.

Wire-frame decorations were strapped to each lamp pole: a candle, a candy cane, a bell, each shape outlined in twinkling lights and repeated endlessly along the street.

I walked past the floodlit nativity scene outside the city hall. It was guarded by plexiglass to prevent baby Jesus being kidnapped. I had heard that one year someone had set the hay on fire. Now everything was fiberglass and concrete. The empty street and the cheerless decorations mirrored by own mood. December was when I felt more alone than any at other time.

The wind picked up, so I walked faster. Despite the cold, walking felt good. Usually when I did contracts it was all taxis or rental cars, so I was glad when I found a hotel close enough to my client I could walk for a change. It might help put more muscle on my thin legs.

I met the girl again as I hurried across the same parking lot. She shifted her backpack higher on her shoulder and then pulled a mittened hand from the pocket of her waist length jacket.

"Spare any change Mister?"

I stopped. "Seriously?"

She shrugged, expressionless. "I gotta ask." She didn't meet my eyes.

I stood, studying her. Her short jacket looked like it barely held back the cold, but she had a hoodie underneath. The hood was pulled up over her knit cap, protecting her pleasant face as the winter wind whipped us.

I said, "I'd rather see you eat."

"I ate lots today." She lifted her eyes to me briefly. "Uh, thanks."

I wanted to help her, but I read that giving money wasn't supposed to help these people.

I said, "listen, I'm heading to dinner right now. Dinner's on me, if you want it."

"Why do you keep saying that? It sounds weird. Why won't you just give me money?"

I hesitated, then said, "Well, they say it's not good to give a street person money. They might use it for booze or drugs."

She looked at me sourly. "I'm a person, not a 'street person'. And I don't do drugs and I don't drink."

I held up a hand. "No, of course. I didn't mean to offend you. I'm sorry. I'm not used to talking to a str... I mean, a... person."

She rolled her eyes. "Relax, mister. I'm not gonna knife ya or anything."

"Sorry," I said. "I'm just not very good at conversation. Especially with girls."

"Woman," she said with an admonishing half-smile. "Not girl. Haven't you heard of women's rights? I guess that's a step up from 'street person', though. Are you shy or something?"

Fumbling, I said, "Er, sometimes. Look, I was going to the chicken place. Right over there. I'll buy. You don't have to sit with me if you won't want to."

She looked. "Oh! We always used to go to those places when I was little. Do they still have the 'festive dinner'?"

I said, "That's the only reason I ever go there."

~~~~

"I'm Martin, by the way," I said, sitting down across from her.

"Kayla," she said, looking around the restaurant. She had kept her jacket on and only unzipped it enough to expose a dark blue hoodie pushed out by good-sized breasts. At least she had lowered the hood and removed her cap. For the first time I noticed she had freckles. I always liked freckles.

"Wow... these places are still the same," she said. "I remember that same chicken wallpaper from when I was a kid."

The "festive dinner" was just the normal plate of too-salty, too-greasy roast chicken, but came with stuffing and cranberry, plus a small pouch of chocolates.

When the waiter set it before her, Kayla's face lit up.

"This hasn't changed either," she said. "It's the same as I remember. Except the chocolates. They're a different brand."

I hadn't noticed. "Oh, yeah. You're right."

She started shoveling her food in as fast as she could.

"Whoa," I chuckled, "take your time."

She looked at me warily, then sat back and slowed down.

I said, "Christmas is the only time I eat here. It's not my favorite place."

"So why come?"

"Tradition, I guess. My parents always took us here. It reminds me of when I was little."

"Me too. We always used to go. Not just Christmas. Any time. My dad loved it."

"Comfort food," I said.

She looked at me and nodded earnestly. "Yeah. Comfort food."

We ate in silence while I tried to think of other things to say. I felt awkward, and I didn't want her to feel the same way. The restaurant was warm so took off my suit jacket and tie, self-conscious as always about how my clothes hung off me.

She pointed at me with her fork while she chewed. "You're skinny."

"Yeah," I said. "I don't have to worry about getting fat."

"Huh. Lucky," she said, going back to her food. "How come?"

"Oh, I had a problem when I was little. My heart. I'm okay now, but it affected my development."

She paused eating. "Sorry about that. Still, kind of lucky though... most people can't stop getting fat." She tucked back into her food.

I let her eat more and then said, "So, uh, do you mind if I ask... what's your story? You don't have to tell me. I'm just kind of curious."

She snorted. "My story? I don't have a story. Do you have a story?"

"Sure. I'm here on business. Helping a client clean up a big mess."

"Yeah? You don't look much like a janitor."

"It's a business mess. With financial software I specialize in. The client didn't implement it right, and they've called me in to fix it and clean up the incorrect financial postings."

"Are you rich? You dress rich."

"I guess I'm doing okay. I got lucky and found a niche that lets me charge a lot. And I figure if clients are going to pay a lot, I should at least dress professionally."

"Yeah... rich. But you still won't give me money?"

"What would you do with it?" I asked.

She put down her fork and gave me a sour look. "Oh, opioids, crack, weed, booze. The rest I'd waste on buying food."

I frowned. "That wasn't very nice. I'm not trying to offend. I really don't know how a stree... a woman... can survive on the street."

She must have also gotten warm, because she finally peeled off her jacket and hoodie, revealing a thin sweater that hugged her full breasts. She really was pretty, except for a sad, slightly desperate look that hovered in her eyes.

She said, "You do what you need to do. Anyway, it hasn't been very long. Six months."

"Really? Only six months?"

"What, you think I was born living on the streets? Until June, I was with my step-mom on the East coast. Just her and me since dad died."

"So how did you end up here?"

"Her new boyfriend moved in and decided I should be a fringe benefit. I told him to go fuck himself, but he wouldn't leave me alone. When he started slapping me around and my step-mom pretended nothing was happening, I left."

"But why come here? Friends? Other family?"

"I was on my way out West, things happened and I got stuck in this shitty town. I don't know anyone here, there's nowhere to go. I'm stuck until I can get enough for the bus to get to the west coast."

"I see. So, what's out there?"

"My older brothers."

"Can't they just send you money for a ticket? How much could it be?"

"Two hundred fifty."

"That's all? That's nothing," I said.

She scowled. "Nothing for you, maybe. Almost impossible for me. I saved up one fifty once. Took two months. Then some asshole stole it."

"I'm sorry," I said, "I can only imagine how hard it must be. So why can't your brothers help?"

"They're not rich, and they won't anyway. They're pissed I left my step-mother. They say we all owe her for raising us."

"They're so angry they'll let you live on the street?"

Kayla looked at the table. "I haven't told them. I can't. It's too humiliating. They think I'm staying with friends."

I didn't know what to say.

She brightened up. "But when they see me, one or the other will put me up for a while. Especially if I lay on the drama. My family is a little screwed up."

I said, "I think everyone's family is a little screwed up." I told her about my father and the difficulties he started having when my mother died.

"So, you hate him, but stay with him every Christmas?" she asked.

"I don't hate him. He's just a bit of an asshole, especially this time of year. I think Christmas reminds him of everything he doesn't have anymore... my mother, a fancy house, the job he retired from. I don't know. And he was always really strict. We were never close."

Kayla studied me again, then wiped chicken grease from her mouth and hands and reached down into her backpack. She pulled out a folder of papers and showed them to me: drawings. Charcoals, mostly, but others were in colored pencil, and a few watercolors. They were skillfully done: figures, landscapes, churches, a few streetscapes of the downtown.

She said, "If you won't just give me money, would you buy some of these?"

"I didn't say I wouldn't give you money, you know." I looked at her work. "Hey... these are good. You've studied. You've had training."

She looked at me closely. "How would you know?"

"I draw a little too." I retrieved my spiral sketchpad from my laptop bag and handed it to her. "Nothing fancy... just ink and pencil. I do charcoals sometimes too, but I always make a mess. None of it is anywhere near your level. I can tell a trained hand when I see it though."

"Huh," she said, flipping though the pages. "These are okay."

She paused at a seated nude I had attempted and shook her head.

"Nice form and shading, but the body proportions are off. Her hands are too big. And boobs don't really go like that."

I looked. She was right.

"Anyway," she said, "you're right. I did a year of graphic arts before I left home. When I get settled with my brothers, I'll finish the program if I can. The instructors said I had talent."

I leafed through her drawings. "You do," I said, and pointed out specifics that I liked in a charcoal study she did of a horse. "You sell these?"

"Try to. Nobody wants to pay much though. And supplies are hard to get. And keep."

Kayla leaned across to point out other elements in her work that she was proud of, and we talked about techniques and media. She knew much more than I did, but I only fooled around as a hobby. Sketching helped me relax and zone out. It was a welcome change from working with computers and software.

Kayla eagerly described her work, and I was just as interested in hearing about it and admiring her lovely face now she was near me.

"You could sell these on line, you know."

"Huh?"

"I've bought originals from some indie marketplaces. You could advertise on them. They probably pay better than selling on the street, and you'd reach more people."

We discussed that idea for a while when Kayla gasped.

"Oh, shit... what time is it?"

I checked. "7:15."

"Dammit," said quietly. She sat down and huddled in on herself, eyes searching in thought.

"What is it?"

"Nothing. Never mind. It's... the stupid shelter stops taking people at seven."

"That's where you stay?"

"Most of the time. But I... I have another place."

I wasn't convinced. "A place inside? Or on the street somewhere?"

She looked away, frowning.

"It's really cold out tonight," I said. "Is there another place you can go? Another shelter?" Friends?"

She shook her head. "It's okay. I can stay in the coffee shop for a few hours, then the bus station doesn't kick you out for maybe four hours, then..."

"It's my fault, isn't it? Were you on your way to the shelter when I offered you dinner?"

"I thought I could eat quick. Then I forgot the time."

I considered. "Then I can pay for a room for you. My hotel is just on the next street."

She slowly shook her head. "No... they won't let you. They won't take someone like me. None of the hotels will."

I considered options. "Then stay with me."

"Wha... what?"

"Yes, that's the best solution. Spend the night with me. You'll be warm and safe. We can look at some of those on line marketplaces. And then, in the morning, I can buy you that bus ticket."

It was the obvious answer to the problem. My room had two beds. She would be comfortable. However, Kayla was looking me up and down, like a wrestler sizing up an opponent.

"It's okay," I said. "The hotel won't even know. My room is huge and has good Internet. It's perfect."

She looked away, thinking, then finally fixed her mouth and slumped.

"I... shit. Okay," she sighed, "Let's go."

She should have been happy. Why didn't she seem happy? I could never understand women.

~~~~

I let her into my room, and she looked around cautiously. It was a standard hotel room: two double beds, TV, a small desk and some chairs by the window. The bathroom was a little larger than most, but nothing extravagant.

I put our coats in the hallway closet and then started setting up my laptop on the desk.

Kayla sat on the bed closest to the door, hugging her backpack to her chest.

I said, "Now, let's see what we can do with you..." I started searching the Internet to learn how the on line marketplaces worked. It was all new to me.

Kayla asked quietly, "It is okay if I take a shower first?"

"Huh?" I said. "Oh, sure. There's a guest bathrobe in the closet, and plenty of towels. Make yourself at home."

I heard the bathroom door close and the shower start. She was in there a long time.

I was studying what I had discovered on the Internet and taking notes when the bathroom door opened, steam billowing in the glare of the bathroom lights.

Kayla stepped into the hall, completely naked, and walked toward me.

I gasped, both from shock and from the sight of her lovely body. She was a little thin, a little under-nourished, but shapely. She had womanly hips and delightful full, round breasts capped with modest nipples. Her skin gleamed.

She walked closer, combing fingers through her damp hair, eyes fixed on the floor.

I was speechless, captivated. Her breasts were large, but they barely moved at all in their firmness. Between her legs, thin unkempt hair topped the gap between her thighs.

She stood in front of me. With me sitting, her breasts were right at eye level. They were perfect. Heat radiated from her body, still warm from the shower. She smelled of scented soap.

Kayla knelt and started undoing my pants. I leaned back, wide-eyed, not believing what was happening.

"No," I tried to shout, but all that came out was a hoarse whisper.

She fished out my half-hard dick and put it in her mouth without hesitation.

"Stop... please." My words were just a croak.

She started bobbing her head.

"STOP!" I shouted. I stood, knocking over the chair and sending her spilling back onto her bum.