Shiver : 13 Sexy Tales of Humor and Horror - Aurora Belle (смотреть онлайн бесплатно книга .txt) 📗

I place my bag of candy on the floor and sit in a floral chair adorned with a lace doily. Taking a small bite of the crab dip, I decide to play along. After all, Halloween is the one night when role-playing is perfectly acceptable. Besides, I have a few minutes to kill, and she seems like a nice granny that just wants some company. “Delicious dip as always, Me Maw,” I compliment with a smile.

“Scotty, how’s Boy Scouts? Did you get all your patches?” she asks.

Not only does she think I’m her grandson, but apparently, ten-years old. “Oh, I need a few more.” I take another cracker with dip and watch the television.

“What is pumpernickel?” she shouts at the screen.

And she’s right.

It’s none of my business, but I feel inclined to make sure she’s okay living alone. “Me Maw, how are you feeling?”

She slaps her knee and laughs. “My damn cataracts are acting up, but other than that, I’m as fit as a fiddle, sweetie.”

I take a moment to look around her apartment. It’s neat and tidy and there aren’t any signs that she’s been forced to save her pension and eat cat food. Her clothes are clean and everything smells okay. Dozens of family photos line the walls — she’s loved by her family. “Me Maw, when was I here last?”

“Who is Clark Gable? Last week, Scotty. Your mother came with you — that little bitch,” she mumbles under her breath.

Noted.

“Me Maw, I really have to leave soon. Do you need anything?”

Saddened, she looks at me and pouts. “But you just got here!”

“I know, but it’s Halloween.”

She smiles and nods her head in understanding. “Well, where’s your costume? Do you need me to help you put something together?” She stands from the sofa with wobbly legs and pats my head. “Come with me, you can borrow one of Poppy’s old zoot suits.”

Not wanting to alarm her, I follow behind and keep up the charade. “No need, I have a costume,” I say.

“Oh Scotty, you can’t be Spiderman every year — try something new.”

The loud doorbell chimes. Ding, dong, ding, dong.

“I’ll get it — probably kids trick-or-treating,” I offer. “Do you have any candy to hand out?”

“Nonsense! I put the roll of quarters by the door. Kids love to have their own money.” She smiles as she threads her arm through mine.

Passing by the floral chair, I bend to pick up my bag of candy. I can secretly give the kids candy when she’s not looking and then get the hell out of here. We open the door together and … fuck!

Standing in the doorway is a man and woman — and a boy dressed as Spiderman. They stare at me blankly, but as the seconds pass, their expressions change to fear.

“Scotty!” Me Maw shouts, extending her arms to the Spiderman.

“Trick or treat, Me Maw,” Scotty replies quietly.

“Who the hell are you?” the man asks. He moves in front of Me Maw and narrows his eyes.

Stepping out into the hall, I reply, “She invited me in. I’m sorry, but she thought I was Scotty.” Saying it out loud only confirms my poor judgment.

“Ma, who is this guy?” he asks.

“I–I’m not sure. I was confused.” She rubs her temples and shakes her head. “Come on, Scotty! I made crab dip to eat while we watch Double Jeopardy!” The real Scotty and the “bitch” follow Me Maw into her apartment.

I’m left standing, silently defending myself to a man with a senile mother. Taking a step closer toward me, he pokes my chest. “If you come near her again, I will personally hunt you down and destroy you.”

I puff my chest — I don’t deserve to be threatened. “It won’t happen again,” I say, slamming my shoulder against his as I walk away.

When I reach the end of the hall, I glance back at the apartment and exhale in relief. I’m brought back to reality when several kids in costumes race out of the elevator and run past me — shit, I still need to get candy for Trent.

The apartment door on my right is decorated with cutesy, child-crafted ghosts and pumpkins. I knock quietly. A moment later, a little girl dressed in a princess costume answers the door. Before I can scold her for opening the door to a stranger, a boy around Trent’s age joins her.

He’s not wearing a costume and his face is smug. The boy snickers and asks, “Where are your kids?”

“I don’t have any,” I answer.

“Are you a fucking pervert?” he insults, stepping in front of his sister.

“What? No!” I answer defensively. Although, if I’m really honest with myself, this whole idea to help Trent get candy is kinda strange, maybe even something a pervert would do. However, this has become a personal quest — not a favor to some kid, but a mission to win. My competitive nature will always be a part of who I am, even if I don’t really know what it is I’m exactly winning.

“Listen, punk,” I spit out between clenched teeth. “I’m with the bureau of the New York City safety initiative. There are reports that you are providing tampered candy to unassuming little kids. I’m required to confiscate all your goods or be forced to take you to the precinct for questioning.”

Full of fear, the boy replies, “Okay, Mister.” He shoves bags and bags of candy at my waist as the little girl runs into the apartment yelling for her mom.

“And the bags over there as well,” I demand, pointing to extra bags on a table.

He hurries to retrieve them from the nearby table. Freaked, he shouts, “This is all we got — don’t tell my mom.” He shuts the door in my face.

Mission Two: Accomplished.

That was easy. Holding four giant-sized bags of Willy Wonka candy — Nerds, Runts, Gobstoppers, Laffy Taffy and those shitty Bottle Caps — I contemplate my next move. I should be getting ready for my date with Lena, but instead, I’m roaming around my apartment building like a middle school Halloween vigilante. At this rate, I’ll make the ten o’clock news as the Upper East Side Halloween Pervert.

Deciding I look like a chump carrying so much candy in dress slacks and a scruffy beard, I head back to my apartment. Once inside, I stash a bag of Willy Wonka in my kitchen cabinet (finder’s fee) and grab a beer from the refrigerator. I can take a quick shower and still be at Lena’s apartment on time.

There’s a knock on the door. I carry Trent’s bag of candy with me just in case.

“Trick or treat!” the little kids scream in unison as I open the door.

I pass out Hershey bars to a bloody leprechaun, a ghost-like doll, and a Dracula with blond hair. “Don’t y’all look scary!”

Excited with their treats, they chant, “Thank you!”

I nod at the designated parent escorting the kids — I feel his pain. Trick-or-treating as an adult sucks. Closing the door, I search for a bowl or basket to leave outside my door. I can’t keep answering the door all night …

Knock, knock.

I open the door to find Libby, witch-free and determined. She’s holding a six-pack of beer and arching her eyebrows in that way — the one a woman uses to seduce men.

“Hi, Chris. How about that beer?” Libby thrusts the bottles into my chest and walks past me. “Wow, your apartment is really pink!”

My apartment is pink because the previous tenant adored pink. Months later, I’m still waiting for the goddamn co-op board to approve my remodeling request. “What can I say? I’m a sensitive guy.”

Libby glances back over her shoulder with a sinister smile. “Even the bedroom?” she asks, walking toward my room.

Ah, shit. Not now — I have to be somewhere in an hour.

I place the beer on the counter next to my cold pizza and walk after her. By the time I catch up with Libby, she’s made her way onto the edge of my bed. Patting the spot next to her and popping open the top buttons to her shirt, she moans, “My divorce is final and I need to be fucked.”

Whoa.

Let me think this scenario through logically in five seconds or less. Five. I have an attractive woman sitting on my bed trying to seduce me. She’s inviting me to have sex without any of the foreplay. Four. It’s been weeks for me, and surely she’s been abstinent during her divorce. We’re both horny adults looking for some casual fun. Three. Being on the same floor in the same apartment building could pose complications. I’ve met her ex-husband — total douche. Two. Lena White is waiting for me. One. Libby brought Heineken. That decides it — I cannot have sex with a woman that drinks that shit.