One Last Lie (9 page)

“If only,” Jonathan cried, knowing his words were thirty years too late.

7

“Shit!” Angela clung to the railing and tried to step over Tommy, whose prostrate body was sprawled across the top steps of her brownstone. His head was buried in the corner where the cement landing met the front door; his legs dangled down the steps, crooked and bent, like a marionette whose strings had been cut.

He hadn’t moved since she’d reached the steps and she cursed him under her breath. He’d better not be dead. The last thing she needed was a night of police questioning and medical examiners. She had to be at work by seven o’clock in the morning and was already working on only five hours sleep, if she was lucky.

She leaned over him to make sure he was breathing, but jerked backward when he snorted and turned on his side.

“You drunken fuck.” She kept her voice down, not wanting to wake him and get involved in an inebriated argument. But inside, her fury burned like a fire. She looked up and down the steps, then inside the glass door, for something to smash over his head. She could call it an accident; say she thought he was a homeless person who snuck up behind her as she tried to enter the building. She walked back to the sidewalk, still looking for a weapon, but there was nothing. God damn it.

She decided to try and sneak around him and raised her foot across his shoulder. Missing it by less than an inch, she let out a brief sigh of relief, until the heel of her other foot caught on the arm of his suit jacket. “Shit!” another whisper, but this one not muted enough.

“Ang,” he gurgled. “Is that you? Angela?”

She reached into her purse and frantically searched for her keys. “Fuck, where are those fucking keys?”

His gurgling continued, every utterance fueling the fire in her belly. “Angela, it’s me.” He pushed himself up and leaned against the stone balustrade, rubbing his hands over his eyes. “I was waiting for you. What time is it?”

Ignoring him, she pushed the key into the lock and looked up to see Tommy’s reflection in the glass door. One of the bulbs in the outdoor sconce was broken, but the remaining ones provided enough light for her to see him standing behind her, staring at her, eyes half closed. She took a deep breath, left the key in the lock cylinder, and turned around.

“Tommy, it’s almost midnight.
Not
a good time.” She darted her eyes up and down the street, checking to see if anyone was coming. “I’m tired and you’re drunk… and extremely pathetic. If I were you, I’d turn around, stumble down those steps, and crawl back to your shit hole of an apartment.”

“But…”

Before he could take his next breath, Angela flexed both hands and pushed him backward down the steps. The concrete platform at the bottom of the balustrade broke his fall, but not before he banged his forehead against the sidewalk. Still on his butt, he dabbed his forehead with the palm of his hand.

“I’m bleeding,” he looked up at Angela, standing at the top of the steps with her arms crossed. “I’m fucking bleeding.”

“Well so am I,” she shot back. “It’s that time of the month. I guess that sucks for both of us.”

As he tried to stand, Angela looked him up and down. His gelled hair was sticking up in the strangest spots; his suit pants now had a fist-sized hole at the knee and a drop of blood had fallen onto his white collar. To her surprise, she realized she was turned on. She watched him struggle to his feet and when he finally did, she gestured with her finger for him to come closer.

“What?” He murmured, distrust and fear in his voice.

“Come here,” she muttered, looking up to the neighboring apartments, checking for possible voyeurs. “You’re turning me on.”

He stopped at the bottom step, blotted his cut with the sleeve of his suit jacket, and leaned his elbow against the balustrade.

“Are you serious? You throw me down the stairs, make me bleed, and then tell me I’m turning you on?” He looked around, as if trying to find witnesses. “You’re nuts, Angie.”

“Nuts about you. Now get over here.” She rubbed her left breast until the impression of her nipple showed through her lace teddy.

“Wait,” Tommy started, “Before I do, tell me what’s up with this Philip guy. And why are you getting home so late?”

She pinched her nipple and grinned flirtatiously, her eyes burning into his. “Why, are you jealous?”

Tommy walked up a few steps and stopped. “Should I be?” He pressed his tie against his shirt, top to bottom, trying in vain to flatten it.

“Maybe. We have to see what you got first.”

“You know what I got.” A few more steps up. “I don’t want to compete with some rich fat cat from Connecticut. I want to be the only one you want.”

She could smell the liquor on his breath, the sweat beneath his jacket. Rubbing her nipple harder, she closed her eyes, letting the heat in her chest drip down her belly and spread into her crotch. She opened her eyes, grabbed Tommy’s tie, and brought his face inches from hers. His tongue reached for her lips, she leaned back just enough so he could feel the warmth of her breath on his mouth.

“I said, let me see what you have first.” She shut her eyes again, this time forming images of Philip in her mind’s eye; the soft hair she’d run her fingers through only hours earlier; those thick lashes that swept across dark chocolate eyes; the stubble he’d brushed against her face as he kissed her cheek at the train station. They were all within her as she touched Tommy’s tongue with hers, devouring it like nothing else on earth existed. She opened her mouth and let him in, groaning and swaying her hips as his mouth seemed to pull the strength from her legs, the air from her lungs.

She tilted her head back, her eyes still closed, and took a breath. “Take me,” she whispered, now unfastening the waistband of her skirt. “Take me now,” she moaned, grabbing his hand and sliding it down into her panties. His fingers, first cupping her wet mound, quickly separated, his middle finger searching for the spot that would bring her close, but not completely, to where she wanted to be.

“Ang,” he whispered.

Not wanting him to speak, she covered her mouth with his. For the smallest piece of a second, she knew that if she’d heard his voice, the images would vanish and she wouldn’t be able to find her way back. She grabbed his buttocks and pulled him close, forcing both his middle and ring fingers deeper inside her. Eyes still closed and her breath trembling and shallow, she placed a hand on each of his shoulders, undulating up and down, waves of heat and chills rippling through her body with each movement.

“Oh, God.” The voice seemed to come from far away. “Get a room for God’s sake,” the voice said again. She turned her head and let her eyes part slightly to see a man and woman walking their dog past the brownstone. A thin smile cut across her face as she wrapped her left leg around Tommy’s waist, opening herself up wider for him.

“Fuck off,” she heard. This time she knew the voice came from her, although again it sounded like it came from blocks away.

The subtle scent of Philip’s cologne had clung to her teddy and she inhaled deeply. Armani. She knew it the moment she’d hugged him at his front door and had made sure to have enough contact with his skin to take the scent home with her, for a moment exactly like this. With one last push downward onto his fingers, she clutched his neck, holding on for dear life as her body shuddered top to bottom, the moisture from within flowing down the one leg that was barely keeping her balance. Her mind was empty, dizzy from the intense arousal and sexual flood tide she was experiencing. She’d felt nothing like this in years and wanted it to last forever. But it didn’t. It couldn’t. He wouldn’t allow it.

“Babe?”

The voice was all too familiar. She kept her eyes closed; trying to ignore any sound or smell that might pull her from the pleasure too soon; allowing the sensations to permeate into every last cell of her body, until they faded into the outside air, leaving her exhausted and, for some obscure reason, enraged.

“Babe?” He nudged his mouth into the curve of her neck, darting his tongue into the soft skin. “Let’s go inside and finish this,” he whispered.

She rolled her eyes and let her leg slide down his, both feet now firmly on the ground. “I did finish,” she said. “Now go home, it’s late.”

He stopped licking her neck and took a step back.

“Please don’t tell me you’re serious.”

“As a heart attack,” she said, grabbing her blazer. She forced herself to kiss his cheek. “I’m sorry. It’s been a long day. We’ll finish you up over the weekend, okay?”

Twisting the key in the door, she wouldn’t turn around, nor would she buckle under and let him in. She wanted to savor what she’d just experienced, alone. As she opened the door, the reflection in the glass showed him holding the same stance, in the same spot she’d left him seconds before. She closed the door behind her, looked at the staircase before her that led to her apartment, and sighed.

“Shit,” she whispered. She turned around to see Tommy staring at her like an old, pathetic dog that had just been scolded. She forced a smile and blew a kiss through the glass. That was all he needed. His scowl softened, his hand raised, and he gave her the slightest of waves. “Good night,” she mouthed and started her climb to the third floor, shaking her head every step of the way.

*

Except for the echo of her clacking heels on the stone steps, the turn-of-the-century brownstone was quiet. The smell of burnt steak wafted through the hallway, as it always did on Thursday nights, the product of the tenant in apartment 1G. Angela and her best friend, June, who lived in 2F had a long-time bet regarding 1G: Angela was convinced he was a pre-op transsexual; June felt strongly he was simply a very effeminate man. But Angela, citing recent articles, as well as her extensive medical education, was certain all signs pointed to a woman on the verge of having
the
operation to become a man. This had been a bone of gratifying contention between the two of them for almost four years, neither getting close enough to 1G to see for themselves what the truth might be. And, in their heart of hearts, neither of them really wanted to know.

Thinking of her tiny one-bedroom apartment two flights up, she almost gagged. Compared to the bright openness of Philip and Jonathan’s home, she felt like a trapped goldfish — slowly dying, swimming around a tiny bowl; bumping into the same filmy walls day after day.

She looked around the foyer, the same lobby she’d entered every day for the past ten plus years, since moving from Boston to New York. When she first arrived in Manhattan, she didn’t care where she lived. She was in New York City, had secured a job as a nurse at Mt. Sinai, and was ready to begin a new life. Her main goal was to leave her baggage behind and create a new existence. Finding the “perfect” living arrangements had always been far down on her list of priorities — until the first time she visited Chelsea. Just seeing the people who walked the streets gave her a sudden understanding that
where
she lived would affect
how
she lived.

Considering her size at the time, she felt the culture and open-mindedness of this neighborhood would be beneficial — a place where she could show people
who
she was before they judged her based on appearance. As she strolled up 5th Avenue, a new confidence emerged. She felt self-assured enough to stop and talk with artisans selling their goods; the pervasive self-consciousness that usually hung around her neck had vanished. She’d smile at people, they’d smile back. Not the center of attention anymore because of her weight: she was now one of the crowd, and the emotional load of her obesity seemed to lift with every step she took.

Only two hours into her apartment search, Marge the realtor led her to the brownstone onto 16th Street. From the moment she set her eyes on the building, Angela knew she’d found her new home. Getting up the three flights of stairs was excruciating. Each step depleted her body of much needed oxygen, and by the time they reached the third floor she had to lean against the wall to catch her breath. Her leg muscles hurt and stabbing pains ran across her lower back.

“Are you okay?” Marge asked, touching her arm. “Maybe this isn’t the place for you.”

Too breathless to speak, Angela nodded, trying to ignore the pounding in her chest. A few seconds later, she pushed herself from the wall and forced a smile.

“This is perfect exercise for losing weight,” she said, pointing to the apartment door. “Let’s see what the apartment looks like.”

When they reached the door, Marge unlatched the three security locks and gestured for Angela to enter.

Although the apartment was empty, its old-world charm enveloped Angela immediately and she wrapped her arms around herself. The high ceilings gave her a sense of freedom, a new appreciation of space she’d been missing in the small hotel room she’d called home for the past week. The original hardwood floors gave off a scent that permeated her senses. She closed her eyes, trying to imagine the people who’d walked these floors decades ago. White crown moldings gave the rooms a feeling of elegance, gracefully flaring out and then disappearing into the pearl-like tone of the walls. As she moved through the arched doorway leading to the bedroom, a beam of sunlight streaming through the large window encapsulated her, warming her from the inside out. Turning to the left, she noticed the black and white hex tile of the bathroom floor that flowed into a vintage pedestal sink and a shower stall big enough for three people.

“I’ll take it,” she said, leaning against the bedroom wall. “It’s perfect.”

Marge threw her PDA in her pocketbook and came running in. “But what about the stairs? Maybe we should find a place with an elevator?
I
even had a problem and I’m…” She cut herself off. “I’m just saying.”

“I know what you’re saying.” The edge in Angela’s voice forced Marge to look down at the floor. Angela forced another smile. “Please, just get the paperwork ready. This place is perfect.”