Chapter 4: A Latte and a Lie
The coffee tent was a sanctuary of overheated air and low indie music. Leo guided me to a small, wobbly table in the corner, his hand hovering near the small of my back without quite touching it. The absence of contact was its own kind of pressure. I sat, the wooden folding chair creaking under me, and immediately crossed my legs. It was a feminine gesture, one this body executed automatically, one knee stacked perfectly over the other. The motion pulled the thin dress tight across my thighs.
“So, Sabrina,” Leo said, sliding into the seat opposite. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, invading the space. “What’s your story?”
My story. I was a thirty-six-year-old IT guy currently piloting a tattooed masterpiece of female engineering, and my story was currently trying to flirt with my neighbor using my stolen face. The latte before me was a miniature sea of foam in a ceramic cup. I wrapped Sabrina’s slender hands around it. The heat was punishing, a near-burn, but I clung to it. The pain was an anchor.
“Not much of a story,” I said, aiming for Sabrina’s breezy tone. My voice, up here in my head, sounded like a stranger’s recording—a bright, melodic trick. “I’m a receptionist. I paint. I live over in the subdivision with my roommate, Andrea.” Saying her name aloud to him felt like a betrayal.
“An artist. Knew it.” His eyes left mine, tracing a deliberate path down my arm. His gaze was a physical touch, warming my skin as it traveled over the intricate vines and flowers inked there. “The work is incredible. Who did it?”
“Um. Various people.” A cold sweat broke out under the push-up bra. The underwires felt like they were compressing my lungs. I had no idea. The tattoos were just… there. A history of Sabrina’s life etched onto a canvas I now wore.
“This one’s beautiful.” He reached across the table. His fingers, calloused and broad, brushed the underside of my wrist, right where a small, detailed butterfly rested. His skin was dry and warm.
The contact was electric.
It wasn’t just a touch. It was a conduction. A jolt shot from that precise point, up my arm, down my spine, and detonated low in my belly with a warm, liquid rush. Between my legs, a sudden, shocking swell of wetness bloomed, making the already-uncomfortable thong feel soaked and intrusive. The sensation was utterly alien. It wasn’t a localized tightness, but a deep, internal pulse, a throbbing readiness that clenched and released without my permission. I gasped, a tiny, sharp intake of breath.
Leo mistook it for pleasure. He smiled, keeping his fingers there for a moment longer before pulling back. “Sorry. Artists appreciate detail.”
“It’s fine,” I whispered. I shifted on the chair, trying to relieve the sudden, insistent pressure. The movement made my breasts sway heavily within their confining lace cups, a slow, pendulous jiggle that the push-up bra exaggerated. I felt their full weight, their separate existence, with a brutal clarity. Every subtle bounce was a reminder.
“You seem a little… distracted.” His voice was lower now, conspiratorial. The denim-blue eyes held mine, and I couldn’t look away. “This is a pretty chatty crowd for a Saturday.”
He was right. The murmur of the market was a dull roar just beyond the curtains. Laughter bubbled up from a nearby cheese stall. I could still feel the ghost of Andrea’s cheek against mine, see the way she’d turned her shoulder to dismiss me. Sabrina-me. The jealousy was a sour burn in the back of my throat, a taste cut through the sweet residue of latte on my unfamiliar tongue. Sabrina’s taste buds were sharper, the bitterness more pronounced, the foam cloying.
“Yeah. Chatty.” I took a sip just to have something to do. The liquid was still too hot. It scalded a path down, a clean, simple pain that momentarily overrode the complex symphony of unwelcome sensations below.
Leo watched my throat as I swallowed. I saw him do it. The awareness was paralyzing. He wasn’t just listening; he was observing. Consuming. And a part of this body, a deep, humming part, was thrilled by it. The wetness between my legs hadn’t subsided. It was a constant, humiliating presence. The thong’s narrow strip of fabric was now a damp, chafing line, riding up in a way that demanded constant, conscious adjustment.
“I was thinking,” he said, his voice a low ripple under the market’s noise. “My place is about five blocks from here. Quiet. We could actually hear each other think. Maybe I could see more of your… art.”
He let the suggestion hang. It wasn’t subtle. The subtext vibrated in the air between us: Get out of the crowd. Get alone.
My mind was a blaring alarm. No. This is insane. You need to find Sabrina-in-your-body and figure this out. Andrea is right there somewhere.
But my mind was no longer the sole commander.
The body had a vote. The pulse between my legs was a persistent, persuasive drumbeat. The memory of his fingers on my wrist was a brand. The way his gaze made my skin prickle was a seductive novelty after a lifetime of invisibility. The sheer, overwhelming sensory overload of being inside this responsive, observed form was creating a logic of its own. A terrifying, gravitational pull.
I looked at his hands. I thought about the silence of a stranger’s apartment. A place where the screaming contradiction of my situation might be drowned out by something simpler, more physical. A place where, for just a little while, I wouldn’t have to be Justin, or even pretend to be Sabrina. I could just be this collection of nerve endings.
Before my brain could form the word ‘no,’ I saw Sabrina’s delicate head nod. I felt the motion travel down the slender column of this neck.
“Okay,” the high, pretty voice said.
Leo’s smile transformed. It was no longer just friendly. It was a hunter’s smile, satisfied, knowing. He stood, tossing a few bills onto the table. “Let’s go.”
I rose. The dress settled against me, clinging to damp places. As I turned to walk out of the tent ahead of him, I felt his eyes on me again, taking in the shape of me, the sway of the wide hips under the thin fabric, the contour of the butterfly tattoo low on my back, just visible above the dress’s neckline. The awareness was a cloak. It was heavy. It was exhilarating.
We stepped out of the spice-scented tent and into the riot of the market. The sun felt hotter. As we wove through the crowd, a man carrying a basket of peaches gave me a long, appreciative look, his eyes dragging from my face down to my chest and back up. It wasn’t leering, just frank assessment. A woman glanced at me, her gaze flicking over my outfit with a subtle, judgmental tightness around her lips. I was a walking object, a thing to be evaluated, desired, or dismissed. The exposure was total.
Leo’s hand found the bare skin of my upper arm, guiding me gently through a press of bodies. His touch was proprietary. Each point of contact was a brand.
I walked beside him, my smaller feet falling into step. The world was too bright, too loud, too scented. Every nerve was on fire, strung between the piercing wish for Andrea and the liquid pull toward the unknown. The thong remained a damning, wet seam. My heart hammered against the rigid wall of the bra.
We left the canopy of banners and entered the harsh sunlight of the parking lot. His car, a dark sedan, waited like a promise. Or a coffin.
He clicked the fob. The doors unlocked with a soft, definitive chunk.
The momentum was all that held me together. I had said yes. The body had said yes. Now there was only forward.