Housebreaking (25 page)

“Best of five?” Andrew proposed, popping open a can of tennis balls, the compressed air releasing with a satisfying fizzle.

“Are you sure your hamstring will hold up?”

“You let me worry about that.”

Sampson pushed his hair out of his eyes. “Best of five, then.”

* * *

HE TOOK THE
fifth set six–love. After the last point, Sampson collapsed at the fence and lay on his back for nearly five minutes. Andrew gathered the balls and stood over him.

“Hotel bar again?” said Sampson, shading his eyes against the late sun.

Andrew wanted to put some distance between himself and the firm. “Why don't we try Wintonbury Center this time.”

“Good idea,” said Sampson. “I heard about a good Afghan place there. Hop in. We can come back for your car.”

Andrew shrugged, as if undecided, although he had been about to propose the same arrangement. He locked his gym bag in his SUV and climbed into the little convertible.

Over dinner Sampson asked, “What was your favorite case in law school?”

“My favorite case? Well, let me think on it. That was a long time ago.”

“Don't think. Just tell me the first one that comes to mind.”

“What is this, a psychological test? There's the cabin boy case.”

“
Dudley and Stephens.
A grisly tale on the high seas. You've got a cinematic imagination.”

“Whatever that means.”

“My criminal law professor told us that it was quite common back then, in case of shipwreck and privation, to eat the cabin boy.”

“So much for drawing lots.”

“Any others?” asked Sampson.

“Did you remember the sleepwalking case?”

“Remind me.”

“I can't recall the name of the case. It involved the issue of criminal intent. Mother and father were sleeping soundly in bed one night. Mother had a bad dream. She dreamed that North Koreans were attacking her house, so she went out to the shed and got an ax and came back inside and barged into her daughter's bedroom and split the girl's head open. All while sleepwalking, she said.”

Sampson cackled. “How did I miss this?”

“‘I think I hurt Pattie,' she told her husband, with bloody ax in hand.”

“What was the ruling?”

“Not guilty for lack of mens rea.”

“North Koreans?”

“This was back in 1951.”

“Ah.” Sampson took a forkful of rice and pumpkin puree and slipped it between his lips. After swallowing, he dabbed at his mouth with his cloth napkin. “Maybe you could shed some light on that employee privacy issue—”

Andrew raised his hand, cutting him off. “I'd rather not talk about that.”

“No?”

“We're off the clock.” He leaned back in his seat and took a sip of red wine. “Tell me about that bet you had in mind.”

“You expect me to reveal the bet, now that I've lost?”

“Of course. Gentlemen's honor.”

Sampson paused. “Are we truly off the clock?”

“I just said so, didn't I?”

“Because it's been my experience,” he said, sounding more British than usual, “that sex and law don't mix.”

“Sex? How did we get onto sex?”

“The bet. It has a somewhat sexual element to it.”

“
Somewhat
sexual?”

“Basically sexual.”

“I see.” Andrew felt himself stirring. He finished his glass in a long draw, trying to appear nonchalant. “Should we get another red?”

“Why not? I'm buying.”

Andrew caught the waitress's attention, looking past Sampson but aware of the other's gaze fixed on him, and signaled for another bottle. “Do you think you're telling me something I don't know? I heard all about your indiscretions my first day in Hartford.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes. And I couldn't care less.”

Sampson pursed his lips. “Frankly, I didn't appreciate the lecture. I don't need a morality lesson from homophobic seventy-year-olds. I intend to make my displeasure on that issue known at some point.”

“Well, that was none of my doing. I'm the new boss, remember? So, yes, we're off the clock. In fact, the clock was never on today.”

Sampson smiled. “Agreed.”

“So, the bet?”

Sampson leaned forward. “Winner gets a blow job,” he said. He shrugged. “I wasn't planning on losing. You surprised me. You're good. Damn good.”

“You fell into my trap.”

“Did I? What was it?”

“You expect me to reveal my strategy?”

“Your strategy was obvious,” said Sampson. “Your strategy was to run me around like a headless chicken. And you succeeded. I'll be sore for a week.”

“And you didn't even have to give me points this time.”

“Touché,” said Sampson.

“You're a little bit too sure of yourself.”

“It's been said before.”

“For instance, what makes you think I'd be interested in your bet?”

Sampson smiled. “Who wouldn't be? Shish kebab and a blow job: two of the great pleasures in life.”

“Yes, but—”

This time Sampson cut him off. “If you haven't tried something, don't be so quick to dismiss it.”

“Everything in moderation?”

“Yes, including moderation.”

The waitress came with the bottle and filled their glasses. “Boys' night out?” she asked.

“You could say that,” said Sampson.

* * *

BACK AT
the tennis courts, dark and deserted now after 8:00
P.M.
, Sampson turned off the motor. Andrew fished in his pockets for his keys, making a show of it. He didn't want to appear anxious or foolish. He didn't even know if the “bet” was a gag, another of Sampson's ploys.

“Do you know what else they say about you?” asked Sampson.

“What's that?”

“That you've got a huge cock.”

Andrew snorted. “Who told you that?”

“I'm right, aren't I? Your racket grip.” Sampson didn't smile. His eyes were avid.

Andrew had a bottle of wine under his belt, enough that he didn't care. It felt almost natural, unzipping his pants. “Time to pay the piper,” he said.

Sampson took a long look. “Right again,” he said. He had that superior tone again, Mister Know-it-all. “Do you mind if I—”

Sampson reached across the seat. He had a firm grip, soft hands, except for a spot on his thumb—a tennis callus—which excited and irritated the head of his penis.

Andrew reared up in the seat, to allow Sampson access. Sampson leaned over and took him in his mouth. He started slowly, just the head.

“Jesus.”

Sampson took his time, drawing it out. Every now and then he would push the hair out of his eyes and glance up. “You like it, don't you?”

At last, Andrew released.

Sampson straightened in his seat and wiped his mouth. His pale blue eyes were bloodshot, but otherwise he looked fresh and clean, as always.

“Not bad,” said Andrew, his breath catching in his throat. “I've had better.”

“Liar,” said Sampson. “You came like a fountain.”

* * *

AROUND NINE
Andrew returned to a silent home. Audrey was sitting at the kitchen table with a wine bottle, a glass in hand. She was wearing her robe, her hair still damp from the shower. Her book lay on the table. She was upset, he could tell at a glance—the usual sadness, but some annoyance on top of that.

“Did you have dinner?” he asked, trying to sound cheerful.

“I made chicken. And tofu for Emily.”

“Did she actually eat something?”

“She's seventeen, Andrew. Do you remember what it was like, being seventeen?”

“I didn't spend quite so much time in my room alone.”

“That's because you were a fairly well-adjusted male.”

He put down his gym bag and sat at the table. “Fine. But if you catch her throwing up again,” he said, “I think we should consider sending her to a treatment facility.”

“You'd do that to Emily?”

“It's not something I would
do
to her. It's something that we'd have to consider, for her own good.”

“Come off it. You'd do it because it's easier for you that way, to have someone else deal with her.” She got up and hit the reheat button on the microwave, igniting the radioactive whirl of light and sound.

“You didn't answer my question,” he said.

“She took her plate into her room. I'm not going to check up on her.”

“She could at least sit down with us once in a while, hungry or not.”

“What's with the parenting all of a sudden?”

He shrugged. “She seemed depressed this morning.”

“Well, tonight's probably not the best night to lay down any new rules.”

“Why not?”

“We had an argument,” she said. “I'm thinking of grounding her.”

“Grounding her? Where did you get that idea?”

“Thought I'd try something new.” Audrey turned off the microwave and slid his plate onto the table. Thai chicken with rice and broccoli, her default dish.

He was about to tell her he'd already eaten, but he realized he was hungry again. The Afghan place had served small portions, just one skewer of chicken and vegetables, and he'd burned off some major calories during the five sets with Sampson. The tiredness struck him all at once. He'd been running on adrenaline most of the match, willing himself through rallies. Now, he felt spent.

“What did you fight about? Her staying out last night?”

Audrey shook her head. “I found a stash of pills in her closet, hidden in a box of tampons.” She sipped from her wineglass. “Vicodin, OxyContin. Enough to put a horse to sleep.”

“Really?”

“Yes, Andrew. Really.”

He cursed. “You've got to give her points for ingenuity. I never would have looked in a tampon box. That's just plain devious.”

“She takes after you in that regard.”

He picked up his fork. “What did you do?”

“What do you think? I flushed the pills down the toilet.”

“Where does a teenager get OxyContin?”

“Go ask her. She's not talking to me.”

He chewed the chicken without tasting anything. “Did you run out of peanut sauce?”

“Peanut sauce?”

“Some kind of sauce? Tastes bland.”

“Maybe that's because it was sitting in the microwave for two hours.”

He found it difficult to lose his temper, even in the midst of his physical exhaustion and sleep deficit. Sampson was correct about one thing. A good blow job was indeed one of the great pleasures, a tonic for anyone's mood. “Well,” he said, sampling the broccoli, “at least I know where to go if my sciatica acts up.”

“I'm glad you find this funny.”

“This is your department, not mine.”

“My department? Emily is a department?”

“As you said, I'm a fairly well-adjusted male. These kinds of issues are completely beyond me.”

“You don't need to be a therapist to spend some time with your daughter.”

“You know what I mean. I
do
spend time with her—but I can't advise her on eating disorders or body dysmorphia or whatever else they call that sort of hysteria these days.”

“So what does that leave you? What's your department?”

He gestured outward in a circular motion—the lawn, the driveway, all that lay beyond the boundaries of their property. “Everything else.”

“And I'm the little homemaker, doing the cooking and—”

He tried to change the subject, unwilling to spoil his mood. “How's your book? Any good? You've been reading that one for a while.”

She took a sip of wine. “I haven't really been focusing on it.”

He studied the back cover as he ate. He grinned. “How about this for a title.
Eat Ass Regret
. How's that?”

She didn't respond.

“Subtitle:
A Straight Man's Search for Everything in Another Man's Underpants.
How's that? Is that funny?”

She glared at him above her bifocals. “If you're a homophobic frat boy, it is.”

“I never joined a frat.”

“To my undying surprise.”

“I rowed crew—”

“Yes, Andrew, I know. Crew in the fall, tennis in the spring. You've told me of your physical exploits. Ad nauseam.”

“
Eat Ass Shame.
Is that better? Shame is always more interesting than regret.”

She let out an exasperated sigh. “It's like talking to a child. I'm going to bed,” she announced, getting up.

Andrew pushed aside the book. He didn't want to eat anyone's ass or suck cock or engage in any such gay exercise. He wanted to treat Sampson like a woman. It made sense. Sampson was nearly as pretty as
a woman anyway, with his blue eyes and blond hair. He wanted to see Sampson on his knees, with Andrew's cock in his mouth. He wanted to fill his mouth with come. Again.

The new boss.

* * *

DURING THE WEEK
he ran into Sampson a few times in the hallway and coffee room. He detected no discernible difference in the other's affect, no awkwardness or superiority, nothing to indicate that anything of any import had occurred between them. They scheduled a tiebreaker for the weekend (“More like a jawbreaker if I lose again,” said Sampson under his breath), but the weather did not comply. It rained on Saturday and Sunday, and Andrew couldn't reserve a court at the indoor club in Glastonbury (“Booked up for a month,” the woman told him).

Instead, they agreed on dinner in Wintonbury Center after work on Monday.

There was a fifty-minute wait at the Italian joint they'd picked, so they walked together to a place called Max Baxter's Fish Bar—apparently the local pickup spot for the middle-aged crowd. At the bar, smartly dressed men and women crowded together, practically yelling at each other. Three bartenders were working hard to fill orders. As Sampson caught the attention of a waitress, a woman in a leopard dress smiled at Andrew from her barstool, just a few inches away, her lips painted a startling pink. “I like your suit,” she said. “It takes a real man to wear olive.”