Just One Night, Part 2: Exposed (11 page)

Too much of a coward
. Well, that was one thing Dave and I had in common. Except . . . “You did talk to me about it. We were at my place, finishing off a bottle of wine, and you asked if I was losing interest. You asked if you were the one making me sad.”

“And you started crying. That was the first time you told me about your sister.”

“It was the tenth anniversary of her death.”

A bird lands lightly on the sidewalk by our feet, picks at some crumbs of crackers dropped there by those who had walked before us. “That’s when you broke off the affair with her?”

Again he nods. The bird continues to feed off of someone else’s mess. “I knew when I heard the story of your sister that you were the perfect woman for me.”

“Excuse me?” Again the indignation pounds at my temples.

“You say I’m scared, Kasie? Well, you were terrified. You were terrified by the very idea of being out of control, so much so that, yes, you let me set more rules for us, you allowed me to wield a lot of the control. If you felt the impulse to rebel, you squashed it all in the interest of
not
being Melody.”

“You took advantage of my tragedy.”

“Because you wanted me to.”

The bird, now done with its snack, flies off to find the next course. Dave stares down at the remaining crumbs, shuffles his feet. “I knew we were in real trouble when you insisted on a ruby over a diamond.”

“It’s a small thing.”

“It was enough to let me know that the current had changed.” He reaches down to pick up my keys. I had forgotten about them. “I guess you’re not scared anymore, huh?”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” I say as I take the keys from his hands.

“Well, at least you’re not alone.” He pauses before adding, “That girl I cheated on you with is married now, to some other guy who’d worked at my firm. I doubt she ever told him about me. I haven’t seen her in years, but her husband and I travel in the same circles. I hear things. They have a baby now. Apparently she decided that a career in law isn’t her thing. Too much ugliness and aggression. Now she’s running the Sunday school at his church or something.”

“It sounds like she would have been perfect for you.”

“Yeah, maybe she would have been.” He meets my eyes. His sadness is mixed with just a little bit of anger and maybe a few spoonfuls of regret. “I picked the wrong woman.”

I stand outside my car and watch as he walks away, not to the club but toward some other destination. I’ll never know where. The little minutiae of his day-to-day life is now off limits to me. He’s going to become a stranger.

Maybe he always was.

I turn my head, not wanting to see the moment when he disappears.

CHAPTER
13

I
’VE ONLY JUST
opened my car door when I hear him call my name. I turn to see Robert striding toward me. “Where is he?” he asks; his voice is steady but I can hear the undercurrent of aggression.

“He left. Like I said in the text, it’s over.”

He studies my face then looks around to see if he can spot Dave. “He’s not going to give up so easily.”

“Nothing about this was easy,” I say.

“He’ll talk to Freeland. He’s petty like that. You just have to look at him to see it.”

“ ‘Petty’s the wrong word,” I say but I can’t think of the right one. The only word that comes to mind is
lost
. “He won’t talk to Freeland.”

“Why not?”

“Because he’s like the rest of us, guided by self-interest. There’s nothing in it for him anymore. It serves him better to just walk away.”

Robert shakes his head, unable to accept that any man would so readily accept defeat. The wind blows, making the trees rustle above our heads; leaves fall among the crumbs. Robert looks down and lifts my left hand. “He took the ruby back?”

“I gave it to him.”

A flash of approval, maybe even relief. “Let’s go to my place. We’ll order Chinese food and talk. I know you want to trust him, but we have to be prepared.”

A dry leaf falls on my shoe. The tree doesn’t need it. It has plenty of other greener and healthier leaves to adorn its branches. This leaf here is dead. It must have died on the vine, well before it detached itself.

But I wonder if the tree will miss it anyway.

“I think I’d like to spend the night at my place,” I say.

“All right, I’ve never been to your place—”

“No, Robert, by myself.”

For a moment I can see his confidence waiver, he thought my days of pushing him away were over. Maybe they are, but tonight I need to mourn for a relationship that died on the vine.

I put my hand on his arm. “Monday I’ll come to you, or you can come to me if you like. But I’m tired, Robert, in so many ways. You need to give me a few days to recover.”

He nods, understanding. “My car’s parked in the lot on the next block. Walk with me there; there’s something I want to give you.”

I nod and walk by his side. At some point he takes my hand, rubs his thumb back and forth over my bare ring finger. It feels weird, holding hands in public like this. In fact it still feels wrong.

But how much time have I spent fantasizing about being in a relationship with this man? Sailing away with him, scaling the Mayan pyramids, making love on the floor of the Musée . . . in my mind Robert and I have been a couple for some time now.

And yet I never imagined us walking down an LA street holding hands.

“Was Asha a problem today?” he asked.

“No, not Asha. Today it was Tom who treated me like a hooker.”

The words came quickly to my lips before my mind had time to engage, before it could remind me of who I was talking to.

“Tom . . . Love? What did he do?”

This is a story that needs to be significantly watered down for Robert. I’m not sure why, but I sense that it would be best if I appear unfazed. Unfortunately I can’t repress a shiver when I recall the interaction. “He’s just being Tom, that’s all. Now that he has confirmation about the nature of our relationship, he . . .” My voice trails off as I try to think of the best way to summarize everything.

“He what?”‘

“It’s not a big deal,” I say quickly. “It’s just going to take some time to remind him that my personal life is none of his business. I can handle it.”

Robert’s grip on my hand tightens but he doesn’t say anything. No verbal response is probably the best response I can hope for.

We reach the parking lot and I break out in skeptical laughter. “This is where you parked your Alfa Romeo 8C Spider?” The lot is a little run down. Cars are tightly packed together, the wind pushes bits of litter over the gravel surface; it does not speak of luxury.

“I gave the attendant a little something extra to take care of it for me,” Robert says and gestures to the far end of the lot where only one car is parked.

I try to speculate on how much “a little extra” is and I wonder if it’s necessary. There’s something intimidating about Robert, even when he’s not trying to be. I can’t imagine anyone trying to test him by screwing up his $300,000 car.

He walks me over and opens the trunk that is about the size of a hatbox. He pulls out a couple of dress shirts, considers them both before handing me one. “Sleep in this until I see you next,” he says. He throws a fleeting look at the lowering sun. “Put it on as soon as you get home. Wear just my shirt, nothing else. Think of me.”

I take it in my hands, lift it to my nose. It smells slightly of his cologne. I smile my consent. I will sleep in it, and thinking of him has never been a problem.

He opens the passenger door for me and tells me he’ll drive me back to my car. I begin to protest, telling him that I’d rather walk, but he insists and I give in easily.

As he starts up the engine I realize that when it comes to Robert, I quite frequently give in easily.

*    *    *

W
HEN I FINALLY
get home, it feels oddly empty. I have lived alone since college, but before all of this, I was able to fill the empty space with plans and expectations. On the coffee table are travel magazines to help Dave and me plan our next vacation. And there on the wine rack is the bottle of expensive Merlot I planned to bring to a birthday party for one of Dave’s coworkers. Upstairs is a calendar with each day jotted out in perfect detail with lunch meetings and date nights, next to it a list of potential clients I’d like to promote my firm to, earning their business and impressing the partners.

I still have the things, but they signify nothing. What was once travel research is now just a few periodicals with pretty pictures in them. What was a gift is now just alcohol waiting to be drunk. The calendar of planned days is now just paper filled with useless scribbles.

Perhaps the list of potential clients is still useful. After all, I’m pretty sure I’m right about Dave. He won’t talk to Freeland. Maybe he was never going to. I don’t think he can face the shame any more than I can. Asha is powerless without Dave’s cooperation. Evil bitch that she is, she’ll probably find somebody more vulnerable to torture. Tom will get himself in line in time, after he sees that I have everything under control. . . .

. . . except for Robert. I don’t have him under control. And of course I don’t want to control him, but his unpredictability is unnerving. Perhaps I won’t have time to approach new clients. Maybe he’ll give me more and increasingly time-consuming assignments to fill up my days. He could keep me tied to him with ropes made of numbers and mergers.

I’ve draped Robert’s shirt over a dining room chair but I go and pick it up again. I have nightshirts that are more comfortable than this. Later tonight, when I get tired, I’ll change into one of them. He won’t see me in the shirt, so there’s no real need to wear it.

Put it on as soon as you get home. Think of me.

My hand goes to the scarf around my neck and I carefully pull it off, drop it on the table . . . a table not so unlike the one at Dave’s house.

I do it only because my house is warm. I don’t need the scarf. I don’t need the jacket, either. I pull that off as well, drape it over another chair.

Think of me.

I had been laid out for him like a feast, right there on Dave’s table. He had run his hands over my body, kissed me, tasted me. . . .

. . . as soon as you get home. Think of me.

I unbutton my blouse. I’m alone here. It doesn’t matter.

He had pinched my nipples, made them reach out for him. My hand goes to my bra.

Wear nothing else, just my shirt.

The bra falls to the floor and he’s there. I feel him in the air, hear him in the stillness; I hold the shirt to my face, breathe in the cologne so that now all my senses are engaged.

I can touch you with a thought.

Is he thinking of me now? Is that what I’m sensing? Him, reaching across the distance with a fantasy, like some warlock in a fairy tale? I pull off my belt, drape it over my jacket; my fingers fumble with the buttons that hold my slacks to my waist. He guides me, instructs me, compels me to go further.

Wear just my shirt, nothing else. Think of me.

I remove my pants; my panties are next; I clutch his shirt in my hand.

. . . even when I’m nowhere near you I’m inside of you. I can touch you with a thought.

I feel the throbbing between my legs. Slowly I loosen my grip on the cotton fabric, slip in one arm, then the other. The fabric is light, almost teasing against my skin. Goose bumps rise all over my body. Outside I hear the wind knocking at my windows, clamoring for entry.

. . . even when I’m nowhere near you I’m inside of you.

I feel a jolt of electricity, a small spasm. I reach out for the back of the chair for support. My breathing is irregular. It’s just cotton, just the trace of cologne, just the Santa Ana winds clearing away the haze, encouraging the fire.

Think of me.

I close my eyes, try to regain my composure. There are things I’m supposed to pack, a loss I’m supposed to mourn. This isn’t right. It’s crazy. He’s not here.

I can touch you with a thought . . . think of me.

I lower myself onto the chair, finger the fabric; I can feel him caressing the insides of my thighs, kissing my shoulder. I don’t touch myself. I don’t need to.

I can touch you with a thought.

His teeth graze my neck, his hands run down to the small of my back. I slide down farther in my chair, part my legs just enough. His tongue flicks back and forth against my clit, and I let out a tiny gasp as I writhe in my chair, running my hands up and down his shirt.

Even when I’m nowhere near you I’m inside of you.

I feel him enter me; my muscles contract as I lose myself in the ghostly fantasy. The wind quietly howls and I part my lips tasting the energy that’s in the air. He surrounds me, overwhelms me.

Think of me.

I feel myself on the cusp of losing control. There’s an aching inside of me that’s both erotic and torturous. It seems impossible that I could orgasm without the help of my hands, without his physical presence. But Robert is so much more than the flesh, blood, and muscles that compose him. He’s a force, a phenomenon. He’s power and intrigue, enticement and danger. He licks the hollow of my throat, strokes my thigh.

Even when I’m nowhere near you I’m inside of you.

The throbbing intensifies, I arch my back; his tongue is now on my nipples, his hands are in my hair, his erection fills me. Is this really happening to me?

I can touch you with a thought.

When the explosion comes, I close my eyes and give in.