Listen to what Avery had to say.

The Whisper

You **** down the urge to pursue more base emotions, though it leaves a bitter taste in the throat. As you return your attention to the woman before you, in the distance you can see Jenna – last name still unknown – slide a juicy round ass into her seat and swiftly exit the lot.

“Yeah, I’m still with you. Sorry, thought I saw somebody. Anyway, what’s up?”

“Look, this is sort of awkward, but… are you busy tomorrow night?”

Oh thank god. For a moment there, as Brooklyn’s jeep breezes past you, her radio blasting a song you don’t recognize but can’t help but hear the rapped lyrics “bye bitch, bye bye bye bitch” a bit too pointedly, you were worried you’d missed a golden chance to confront her for nothing.

“Absolutely nothing,” you assure her, grin forming. To think that a woman as radiantly sexy as Avery Parker could feel nervous asking you out!

“And… you said you’re single, right?”

“Last I checked.”

“I thought so, but, you know, good-looking guy like you…” She shrugs, looking ever more uncomfortable as she comes closer to the ask. Not a problem by you. You could stand here preening all evening. “Have you heard of The Whisper?”

You arch an eyebrow. “Have I heard the whisper? Is that a code or something?”

“No, not heard the whisper, heard of The Whisper, ya dork. It’s a nightclub, downtown, by Memorial Park?”

Oh. Embarrassing misapprehension, but still, an exciting prospect. You’re already imagining what a woman who dresses the way Avery does to work wears to go clubbing. “Yeah, I think I have,” you lie.

“Cool. So yeah, some friends and I were gonna meet up there, was originally gonna be a girls night out, a bunch of old ladies pretending we’re still cool, but then somebody wanted to bring a date, and before you know it, everybody’s supposed to. Guess nobody felt like running defense. Blah blah blah, back to the point of all this… are you interested? I don’t know if that’s your scene or whatever, if you got any moves in those bones.”

“Hell yeah I do.” Not a total lie. Once upon a time, you knew how to move. Well enough not to embarrass yourself, at least. “Sounds like fun.”

Avery brightens, the awkwardness on her face evaporating. Your heart swells, knowing you made the day of this gorgeous blonde vixen. “Great! I told my friend Ingrid I’d find somebody for her, and I asked like four guys from my department before I was like, duh, Will’s cool, let’s try him!”

Mother of fuck.

“Wait. Ingrid? Who’s Ingrid?”

“She’s my friend. Don’t worry, Ingrid’s a real sweetheart. Kinda shy like you. I think you two might really get along. She’s so bad when it comes to guys, but a teddy bear like you ought to be right up her alley.” Perhaps some scrap of your shattered hopes is showing, because her smile fades somewhat. “Oh, don’t worry. She’s definitely cool. I’m not throwing you to the dogs or anything, buddy.”

“I… Cool. I think.”

“What’s wrong? You look like…” She gets it, however belatedly, eyes widening in sudden understanding. “Oh shit, Will, I didn’t mean to make you think I meant, like, a date with _me _or anything. Was that how that sounded? Shit, Avery, way to bungle the easy stuff. But seriously, you and me? How weird would that be, banging the shit out of my carpool buddy?”

“Uh, yeah. So weird,” you hear yourself mutter in an effort to salvage your pride by not pouting.

“Think how sick of me you’d get. Riding home with you, riding you all night, riding back to work in the morning… ugh, you’d wanna kill me, I promise. I am not made for long-term consumption, I assure you.” She laughs. You laugh, somehow. “Anyway, I’ll tell Ingrid, text you the details and all. You’re still good, right?”

“Yeah. Um, sounds… fun.” Maybe you can fake sick.

“Great. Anyway, like I said, I gotta get back in there, do some fine tuning on some blahdy blah, but I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

“Yeah. Tomorrow.”

“Cool beans. Later, buddy.” Avery pats your shoulder and sways back into the building. You go home and spend the evening trying to trick Mo into eating his heartworm pill. Not that you have any. Not that he could host any. Not that he technically has a heart. Yeah, it’s an exciting Friday night.

Come Saturday, you come at the dilemma with fresh perspective. Maybe this isn’t being consigned to the kids table. Maybe this is your audition. Play it cool, be charming, look sharp, and show Avery your mettle. No way she isn’t at least a little bit into you. Remember that super weird hand lick? That her own rendition of a scenario in which you went as her date culminated in banging the shit out of her?It’s a test. Luckily for you, you’re a hell of a test taker.

You squeeze in a fresh haircut, let your stylist take some liberties with your facial hair, opting for one of those thin not-quite-stubbly things that you see on male models all over the place. A new outfit, deluxe car wash, splash of cologne and a hearty pep talk later, you’re ready to tackle this. Show this dog Ingrid a decent time – but not so decent she stakes you out as her territory – and help Avery see what she nearly passed on. Easy as algebra.

You catch a light dinner, make sure to hit the head before going to the club, even remember at the last minute to brush the Mo off of you. You’ve been told to show up at 10:30 and meet up with the group out front. Around 9:30, though, you get a text from Avery asking for a ride. Sensible enough, considering how close you live. Besides, the whole point of this is to impress her anyway, and it’ll be easier to do that without your date at your side. You’re at her place at 10:10 sharp, per her request, but she doesn’t come out. Seems a bit uncouth to honk at her like you’re picking up your pal for a ball game, so you head on up to the door. This will be your first glimpse inside the Parker house.

The door opens after a moment. Behind it stands Avery, hair wet, a towel draped barely adequately around a body glistening with moisture. There’s probably a house behind her somewhere, but fuck if you can see it through the smoking blonde body in front of you.

“Sorry, running fashionably late. C’mon in while I get dressed. Beer in the fridge.”

You step inside, confirming at least the presence of a floor in this storage depot for wet blonde goddesses. As she casually wends her way out of sight, you even regain enough equanimity to form an intelligent reply. “Sure it’s a good idea to be offering your driver ****, Avery?”

“I’m sure it’s a good idea to offer him one or two, since my beer costs twenty bucks a case and the stuff at The Whisper is probably gonna be twenty bucks a glass,” she calls back. From the acoustics, it’s obvious she didn’t close any doors behind her. Open air between you and that body. Damn you for existing, Ingrid.

You take her point and help yourself to a can. It’s nothing fancy, something from one of the local breweries you’ve heard of with prominent labels assuring it is gluten free and low carb. It’s also pretty lousy beer. She is right, though. It’s cheap. You’re not exactly hurting for pocket money thanks to this Monarch gig, but there’s not worrying about the price of gas and there’s throwing away a hundred bucks to get you and your date buzzed.

While you wait, sipping beer on Avery’s couch, half-watching some business news show she left on the TV to keep you from imagining what’s happening around the corner too vividly, you’re joined by a little orange tabby cat. She hops up guilelessly beside you on the couch, and begins purring the moment you touch her. By the time Avery returns some twenty minutes later, the animal is curled up in your lap and pawing at your wrist every time your hand stops stroking her.

“Huh. Usually Miss Kittenpuss hates strangers. That’s weird as hell.” You glance up, and suddenly there’s a lump in your throat. She looks amazing, even by the standards of a woman who’d make a burlap sack look sexy. She’s sporting a royal blue dress that sways with every step she takes, its deep color offset by her pale hair and a complement of silver jewelry on her ears, neck, wrists and ankles. Her heels add inches to her already ample height, and the cut of her dress makes sure nobody misses her spectacular bust while leaving her arms and shoulders bared.

“Wow. Avery, you look… just, wow.”

“What, this old thing?” she replies dryly, twisting side to side. “Thanks. You look pretty fine yourself, mister. Ingrid’s gonna owe my ass bigtime.”

“Nah, I plan on ruining it in the home stretch. Sorry.”

She smiles, and it lingers as she takes in the sight of her contented pet. “All right, Miss Kittenpuss, you gotta give him back now, baby.” Avery extends a hand – fresh nail polish, you notice, blue to match her dress – and the cat grudgingly allows you to brush it off your lap.

The ride over is quiet, though only in terms of conversation, as Avery psychs herself up for the dance floor, blasting music with heavy bass on your speakers. You try not to let the giddily gyrating blonde distract you overmuch. You opt to take advantage of valet parking, and there you are at the club.

The Whisper is housed in a large concrete building, its side facing the street paned with black glass that reveals nothing of the interior but the barest suggestion of monochromatic neon lights within. The sign for the place is crafted of thin tubes of glass with a subtle pink glow within. It’s almost difficult to read, oddly so until you connect it to the club’s name.

You follow a step behind Avery since you have no idea who you’re looking for. There’s a line all right, a couple dozen people long. Avery quickly seizes on a group of them, waving and hastening her pace toward them, you trotting along dutifully in her wake.

Through the feminine squeals of greeting, the compliments on each woman’s presentation, the introductions to their +1’s, you’re only half-listening. For the most part, these women are very attractive, exactly the kind of friends you’d expect someone like Avery to have. Moreover, there’s Avery’s date, a threateningly handsome guy with very similar facial hair. Great. Good for him. Good for her. Fuck.

Meanwhile, you’re deducing which one of them could be Ingrid. It doesn’t take long. You try not to sigh when you spot her. At the back of the line, smiling awkwardly at the rest, is your date, the only woman there who isn’t already paired with a guy. Ingrid is a dark-haired woman who is, if not heavyset, more so than anybody else in the pack. She isn’t ugly or anything. She looks pretty decent, all things considered, yet compared to Avery Parker… Her skin isn’t flawless, her tits not bulging beauties, her hair not made of sunlight. She’s a normal girl, dolled up for a night at the club. When no one introduces the two of you, you approach, ready to start your audition.

“Hi, I’m–”

“Oh hey, you made it! Ingrid – you’re slaying, by the way – this is the guy I told you about, Will. Will, Ingrid Haagensen.”

You about face. Approaching the group is another woman. A very different woman.

“What? No, I look awful. I barely had time to get changed after work and I just threw on the first thing in…” She frowns, looking genuinely embarrassed. Somehow. “Anyway, I’m sorry. Hello, Will. It’s lovely to meet you. I’m so very sorry I’m late. You weren’t waiting long, I hope?”

“Long? No, waiting long, no, not long. Err, not a long wait.” You take a breath, and, realizing how scatter-brained you must sound, try to cover by deflecting. “I’m sorry, just… wow. You look incredible. If that’s no time to get ready, I’m genuinely a little afraid to see what you’d do with ample time.”

It’s not untrue. In fact, the woman is so hot you’re immediately nervous as to how she could show up without a date. Or six dates. Ingrid isn’t wrong about her attire. She looks more like she’s off to a study date at the library than coming to a club. A fuzzy blue sweater over a white blouse, a black skirt over dark hose, simple dark brown loafers. Not that you think the bouncers will give her any flak. Beneath that workplace casual ensemble is the body of a porn star and the face of an Irish queen. Flaming red hair, the softest green eyes, a button nose over pert but narrow lips that, without evident lipstick, are very nearly as red as her mane. Beyond that… good god, those things have to be as big as her head, and thrust forward like they resent being caged. Her waist is as big as your thigh, but the hips pour out to the sides like someone squeezed her in the middle and all the tummy was squished to above and below.

Ingrid smiles slowly, sweetly at your words. “You don’t have to say that. I hope they still let me in, looking like this.”

Avery rolls her eyes. “I think they’ll make an exception, babe.”

Indeed they do, though while you await that confirmation, you chat her up. All your rehearsal is out the window. This is no longer showing off to Avery, playing Prince Charming for her fugly gal pal. This is a live fire exercise. The two of you take position in the rear of your group’s spot in the line as it creeps forward, right in front of the now even more painfully average stranger you’d mistaken for your date.

“So Ingrid, do you come to places like this regularly?” A scant step up from “come here often?” but it’s a cliché line for a reason.

“Oh gosh, no! No, I hardly ever go out dancing. I tried to take a salsa class once, but I was all knees and elbows, got laughed right off the floor.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not much of a dancer myself. If you let me get you out on the floor, you’ll at least have good company.”

“Um, we’ll see,” she says bashfully, though there’s warmth in her eyes at the implied invitation. “I had a long day, so, you know. Maybe I’ll spare us both the embarrassment.”

“Long day? What do you do, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Who, me?” As if you might be asking Avery up ahead but forgot to raise your voice. “Oh, nothing interesting. I’m, um, a custodian,” she answers softly, clearly embarrassed.

“What? No freaking way.” Your response is too incredulous by far, but it’s genuine.

“Why? Do I look like I couldn’t do something like that or something?”

“I would have guessed a model, or maybe the world’s hottest librarian.”

She grins at that, a grin like nobody’s ever complimented her before. It’s heady. “Oh, stop! Nope, I’m just a custodian, nothing fancy like Nina or Avery. But hey, those wastebaskets aren’t gonna empty themselves, so why not me? And I really like the company I work for. It’s not so bad.”

“Oh yeah? Is it a special service, a Molly Maids kind of thing?”

“What? Oh, no, it’s a local company. Have you heard of Monarch Industries?”

You almost collide with the back of Avery’s date, who’s presently busy texting someone and ignoring the woman on his arm. A strategy? Or just a douchebag. As for Ingrid, it makes sense almost immediately. Of course Monarch is hiring maids who ought to be models. One of these days, you really need to look into what the hell is going on over there. Or better yet, not look into it and simply sit back and enjoy it.

“Um, yeah. I’m actually working there too right now, as a consultant. IT security stuff. Even less interesting than emptying wastebaskets, I assure you.”

“No way, computers are super interesting! I could never do something like that. I can barely type, much less hack a mainframe database or whatever.” She snort-laughs, but looks to have felt her own rebuke nonetheless. “Sorry, I know I’m such a dork. I’ll shut up.”

“No way, maybe I ought to hire you on as project coordinator. We could team up, code the html module with an XKCD algorithm.”

Ingrid grimaces self-consciously. “Yeesh, I didn’t follow any of that. I can barely log into my google half the time, so I just set my password to 12345. It used to be my cat’s name – her name is Lady – but I read you’re supposed to have different passwords for different stuff so I just use that one for like banking and wifi and official stuff like that.”

Only the swell of her bust in that sweater stops you from reflexively launching into a tirade. No. No, charm the pants off of her tonight, bridge the unfathomable gulf of her ignorance of IT security tomorrow.

Avery turns to face Ingrid, speaking softly. “We’re almost to the door. You’re cute as kittens, babe, but just so we don’t have an incident, maybe lose the top two buttons. Or top five, if you want to be sure.”

“Avery!” Ingrid squeaks, mortified. Still, with a wary glance at the muscled bouncer, her anxiety over causing the group problems quickly overwhelms her modesty. Two buttons go down, showing the beginnings of what promises to be the Grand Canyon of cleavage.

“Is this enough, do you think, Will? I’m so bad at knowing how to do this kind of thing.”

“Well, the woman said five…”

You’re joking, of course, but Ingrid only nods and puts her slender fingers to use. How could a woman be a janitor with those dainty fingers? She must leave the scrubbing to her coworkers. In any event, the fastenings come undone, each of them blasted wide the moment the button clears its path by the sheer weight of its contents. The fifth and final button she generously clears is right at the V in her sweater’s neckline, but already there’s a mile of pale pink titty on display.

“Is this OK? Do you think that I’ll get us in trouble like this?” she asks. When your eyes snap automatically to her bust, she says nothing, your peripheral confirming she seems eager to hear your earnest assessment.

“I think if you undo one more button, you might start a riot.”

She giggles fetchingly, tits slapping together with each miniature exhalation, but then gasps a moment later. “Wait! Do I look too… promiscuous? I was only trying to fit in, not look all, you know. Slutty. Or whatever.”

You take her hand and give it a reassuring squeeze. “You look great.”

After a moment, that broad, innocent smile returns. “Thanks. So do you, Will.”

“So… how are you two crazy kids getting along?” Avery asks you sometime later that night.And what a night. Ingrid is too sweet for her own good by half, like what would happen if Mr. Rogers and Tom Hanks had a kid, but someone darted in and injected it with a liberal splash of Christina Hendricks DNA in all the right places. She dances like a kindergarten teacher, utterly clueless how to use her body, but it only presents the opportunity for you to step in, put your hands on those hips of hers and show her how. She’s only gotten gigglier, though no less shy, with the infusion of ****, going white in the face when Avery stepped in to order her a redheaded slut with a sly wink in your direction. At the time of her question, Ingrid had excused herself to the “little girls room” with most of the rest of the pack, though Avery remained behind. A sheen of sweat coats the voluptuous blonde’s body; you can hardly believe how little attention Ingrid’s beguiling form permitted you to devote to her.

“We’re having a lot of fun, actually.” You raise your glass to her.

“‘Actually?’ What, you thought I was setting you up with some uggo or something?”

“What? No, of course not. I only meant I don’t get out much to places like this, that’s all.” You take a sip, trying to ration your $20 mixed drink. “How about you and Fred, or Greg, or… whatever his name was.” You’ve genuinely forgotten, though the forgetting might have been deliberate.

“Keaton?” she asks with a wry smile. She adjusts herself on her stool, only a bit unsteady from several prior rounds of drinks. “Shitty. Or rather, it was shitty. Last I saw, he was dancing with some flat-chested Asian chick who looks like she’s young enough to be his daughter. Fuck him.”

“Oh, bummer. Guess they can’t all be winners.”

“I’m still waiting for any of them to be winners,” she grumbles into her own glass before a long drink. “I swear, I knew I should’ve kept you for myself, but no, I let Eva talk me into wasting my night on that spaghetti dick asswipe just because he’s a client. Fuck.”

“Keep me for yourself? What happened to not wanting to muddy the waters by hooking up with your carpool buddy?”

She snickers. “Making awfully bold assumptions about how good you look in that suit, Will.”

“Or maybe some well-evidenced assumptions about how good I look out of it,” you counter with a boldness that surprises even you. Maybe there’s something about night clubs that brings out the suave. Either way, Avery’s smile takes on a sultry tint.

Soon enough, Ingrid and the rest are back, and after a final round of drinks (only $17 for a half-sized Long Island), someone suggests that it’s time to call it a night. Whether their dates were going swimmingly or dismally, none argue against it.

As you leave the dance floor, Ingrid’s arm pressed against yours as you stride along, the two of you make it back into the fresh outside air. The din of The Whisper is suddenly… well.

“Thanks so much for making me not feel too dorky dancing, Will. You’re really good at it. I don’t know why you were so modest.”

“Ingrid, you don’t need to know a thing about dancing, beaut–”

Your compliment is cut off by the sudden emergence of Avery between the two of you. Ingrid almost stumbles by the sudden bump from her friend. “Hey, about the ride situation…”

She is overheard by one of her friends, however, who answers first. “Oh right, you and Bill came together. Um, I guess we can give you a ride,” one of them offers.

“Oh come on, like Ingrid’s taking the guy home on a first date,” she replies with a laugh, patting the redhead’s shoulder either affectionately or deprecatingly, depending on one’s assumptions of her motives. “Besides, you drove yourself too, right Ing?”

“I took the bus, actually, but I could take another one, it’s no problem.”

“See? Perfect.” Avery wipes her hands on each other.

“I’m not going to put her on a bus,” your retort.

“We can give her a ride,” someone offers. “Just make up your mind. It’s late, and I’m not sober enough to wanna debate it.”

Avery and Ingrid both turn to face you, side by side. “Come on,” she says, giving your tie a playful tug. “After you made such good friends with Miss Kittenpuss, you gotta at least tuck her in. It’d break the poor thing’s heart if you didn’t.”

Ingrid smiles, green eyes sparkling in the passing headlights. “You like cats? Um, if you wanted to meet mine sometime – tonight, or whenever – that’d be fun. If you want. She’s really bad for allergies and gets kinda bitey, but… I mean, if you want. I wouldn’t mind. I mean, I’d… you know, never mind. I should let you two…”

Decision time! Voting takes place for patrons $10+ at https://www.patreon.com/icebear. Results will continue to be posted here for free, though, so no pressure. Ingrid artwork created by YuPaChu (DeviantArt, Patreon).

Your choices:

• Go home to Miss Kittenpuss.
• Go home to Lady.
• Swing for the fences – try to take them both home to Mo.
• Yech, drama. Best not to start a problem between friends. Let everybody go home to their own pet.