Ruddy Meyers spread Vera’s pussy lips as she squirmed ever so slightly. “Daddy’s gonna give you a tongue lashing,” he said.
She knew what was coming next, or rather who would be coming; it would be her, three or four times, maybe more. This was what she loved about her husband: his tongue, and his money, not necessarily in that order. The tongue had been a bonus, a surprise, a gift from the gods.
His tongue slid upward, scorching her clit, pressing, rotating around the nub of it, touching her with exquisite pleasure. His hands cupped her ass, bringing her to him, not allowing Vera’s squirming hips to get away. His lips stayed connected to hers, a nether kiss sweet and wet and thorough.
“Oh, god,” she moaned, and let it go, shuddering, coming all over his face.
“Good one, Baby,” he said, and continued to lick, going for the next one. He slipped his tongue inside of her, searching for inner warmth and finding it. His nose pressed against her clit, forcing pleasure on her. Just one lick from ecstasy, he stopped.
“Hey!” she groaned.
“Gonna build a house, Honey,” he whispered.
“Oh?” She’d been waiting three years for that.
“Yeah. A big place. And you and me are gonna live in it. Gonna call it The Viceroy. It’ll have everything I ever wanted in it, starting with you.”
Vera thought, For that, I’ll fuck you to death.
CHAPTER ONE
2003
Tom saw the ‘For Rent’ sign on the front lawn. He looked at the structure, and saw beautiful yellow brick, a three-story apartment building. There had been hundreds like this constructed in the city, he knew, particularly after World War II, solid dwellings to house the veterans and their new families, the ones who hadn’t yet abandoned the city for the suburbs and ranch house dreams. This particular building seemed to have more style and a bit more life than the red brick ones to either side of it.
He needed a place to stay. Tom and Carol Kent were no longer getting along, and it seemed like this time the marriage might be over for good. Band-aids no longer worked on the relationship, and he’d packed a suitcase, and would be staying in the city for now.
Across the front of the building, over the entrance: THE VICEROY.
Curious, Tom thought, to put such a dramatic name to a commonplace building, like it was a special place to stay. But the place looked well kept, and if an edifice could exude a feeling of life, this one certainly did.
Tom entered the vestibule and searched the names of the occupants. Apt 3C, Roker, Custodian. He rang the bell.
“Yeah,” from the squawk box.
“Can I see the apartment for rent?”
“Inna minnit.” Tom patiently waited; then a buzz to the door, and he gained access to The Viceroy.
The custodian was not a goodwill ambassador; he towered over Tom, thin but not a healthy thin, unshaven, a cigarette in his right hand, the yellow stained one. “First floor, rear is for rent, not the studio, mind you, but the one-bedroom. Old woman had been in it. Good size, I got the same flat on the third floor.”
One bedroom was all Tom needed, that and some space for his computer, and a place to watch TV.
Tom and the custodian walked up a half-flight of stairs. “Yeah, the woman just got too old and family put her in a home. Lived here for somethin’ like forty years. I painted it top to bottom, retiled the bath, put in new appliances.” They entered the apartment. It was light, pleasant. “Six hunnert square feet. Just refinished the floors, too.”
Tom felt the space. Nice, he thought, older style mixed in with new technology. It still had the lines of a fifty-year-old apartment, but it was like new. The place had history; it had character. Something compelled him. “I…I’ll take it.”
“You haven’t SEEN it yet. Lemme show you the kitchen, new stove and fridge, new cabinets.”
“S’okay, like what I’ve seen so far.” Tom went from room to room: the dining space, not too large, just right; the kitchen, new in the right places; the bath, with its deep claw-foot tub and 1940s pedestal sink; the bedroom, a comfy size. “What’s this?” Tom asked. He stared at a piece of furniture, a bureau, still occupying the back of the closet in the bedroom.
“Oh, that. It was the woman’s. It’s wedged in there pretty good. I could get it out of there if you really want it gone. Take a sledge hammer…”
“Nah. Leave it.” The bureau had a nice veneer. Somewhere in time the dresser had been forced into the space, and it would stay there until someone else might destroy it, but not him.
And just like that, it was a deal.
***
In apartment 2D, Cherie woke up with wetness between her legs.
Not again, she thought. I’m twenty-seven and I still wet the bed.
She couldn’t tell the difference between that and having a wet dream. She’d been experiencing quite a few of them lately. She was blonde and pretty and her body was telling her things, screaming at her, If you won’t give me sex, I’ll take it by myself!
Cherie got into the shower and scrubbed herself like crazy.
She thought, How can I ever have a man if I wet the bed?
***
In his new apartment, Tom Kent thought, Am I nuts?
Seldom in his thirty years had he been that impulsive, committing to a year’s worth of lease without looking anywhere else.
He’d promised himself that he was going to explore the condominium angle, and go to several neighborhoods before he made a decision. He’d wanted to get a place with rockin’ ambience, not new, not old, with a comfy tavern or sports bar nearby, and a computer coffee house. Luckily he found all of those things within a couple of blocks of The Viceroy.
There was something about this place that instantly beckoned to him, like he was supposed to be there. The part about the old lady was sad, and he wished that he hadn’t heard it, but he could live with it.
Hope she won’t haunt the place, he thought. Aw, Jeez, I’m talking like she’s dead.
***
He bought a futon just half a mile away, and carted it home in his trunk.
Home, he thought. Haven’t spent a night in it, and I’m calling it home.
New coffee maker, coffee, a fresh cheesy croissant in the fridge from a close-by Panera Bread.
An easy chair.
Plug in the computer, turn on the TV.
Home.
***
In apartment 2A, crew cut Guy pulled back the curtain. He watched Tom unload a futon frame. “Another new boy,” he said to Mary. “Try not to scare this one away, okay?”
“Maybe we can just leave him alone,” she suggested. “It’s so soon after…”
“No. I like his ass,” Guy said.
She forced herself to shut up, and not tell him, ‘You’re the one who scared the last one away.’ Oh, Honey, Mary thought, why do you ask for trouble? “You want ass?” she said. “How about my ass?”
“I had it yesterday.”
“You want it again any time in the near future?”
“Don’t threaten me, or I go to the Club.”
“By yourself? Last time you did that, I had to come get you in the emergency room. Seven stitches.”
“And your point is?”
“Guy, just shut up and tie me down.”
***
Cherie was her name.
Tom saw the young woman on the back stairs, carrying groceries. Her face was framed with medium blonde hair, Clairol hair that was straight and full and bouncy like a commercial; she had Nordic beauty, the classic blue eyes, the fair skin, the rich red lips.
A bit too late, he offered, “Can I, uh, help you with your groceries?”
She hadn’t noticed him until then, on the first floor porch, looking up at her; she was halfway to the next floor. “No, thanks,” she said, in a way that told him that she was always getting superficial offers. It was her face that caused that, and the hair, and the tight pants that caressed her buttocks.
“Well, I’m on the first floor, and if you ever need anything, just yell, okay?”
“Sure,” she said, the ‘sure’ of the skeptic.
“My name’s Tom.”
“Cherie.”
“Sherry?” He sensed that she was becoming irritated, that she just wanted to get her groceries upstairs and be left alone.
“Right,” she said with a smirk that told him, no, he wasn’t right. “Uh, later, okay?” And she continued up the stairs.
“Bye.”
Wow.
***
Tom didn’t think that he was looking for anything or anybody. Sure, he was a horny guy, but he was in the process of extracting himself from a relationship. He was positive that he didn’t want to jump into another.
An average guy, Tom was a shade under six feet tall, not particularly overweight, and was moderately athletic. He had dark hair, not black, not quite brown. He was attractive to women in a subconscious way, when he made them laugh. Then he could do just about anything he wanted with them. It was the laughing thing, that was the tough part.
***
The discovery.
Tom was unpacking some clothes; he checked out the old bureau in the closet. There was just a 25-watt light bulb for illumination, and that was much too dark. He brought a flashlight to see into the drawers. Empty. Of course. Smelling a bit like cedar.
He put a few old sweat pants and sweatshirts in it. For whatever reason, he looked under it, not expecting to find anything, not even dust bunnies, because the custodian had been so thorough about everything else. Nothing under there.
But wait.
There was something behind the bureau. There was space that went back another couple of feet, not so readily apparent just by looking at it.
Tom climbed on top of the dresser. Sure enough, there was a small rectangular space, maybe a foot and a half by two feet. He could just squeeze down in there. Tom took the flashlight with him.
What’s this? There was a seam on the wall behind the bureau. Tom pushed at the wall. There was a certain amount of give, and he could make out other seams, as though it was a panel, maybe four feet high, and a couple of feet wide. He leaned into it. Reluctantly, the wall creaked softly and gave in to Tom. Slowly a door swung open.
