“I am, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me, Graham. My life is nothing to do with you now. You were Rick’s friend. Not mine.” She starts walking towards the road, barely a glance back at anything behind her. “Goodbye.”
“Mr Rothburg?” he says to me. I put my hands in my pockets and raise a brow, waiting for whatever attempt at chivalry he might try for. I don’t care in reality, but he’s right to a degree. Going off with me in her state is probably unreasonable. From his perspective the reclusive man who pays his check each month might be certifiable. “You’ll get her home?”
I swing back to take a glance at her frame, confused as to why I’m interested at all, let alone thinking of taking her for a drink. “I’ll make sure she’s safe, Graham.”
I turn fully towards her, dismissing Graham and nodding to Jackson for the car to be brought around. He phones it through, as she teeters at the edge of the road, her eyes still blankly looking into the distance. A drink? An odd offer from me. I can hardly bear these roads around me anymore, and I’m certainly not interested in them, and yet here I am proposing help in some way. My gaze roams her again. Maybe she’s just a diversion for me for a while, some time out of the inescapability that is my life.
“I could take you home instead,” I propose, as I walk to her.
“No. Drinks sound good. Somewhere dark. Different.”
“Different?” I come to stand by the side of her, looking out into the night around us.
“Than the norm, Mr Rothburg. It’s all been crystal glasses. High end seating. Small plates of food and nothing of substance. I want substance.” Her eyes swing to mine, her small frame seeming as dismal as the cold bite of November weather. “Take me somewhere real rather than the lie I’ve been living,” she murmurs.
“Real?”
“Yes.” She looks me over lazily, taking in my suit and then shoes. “There’s a thousand dollars on your feet.” Her hand reaches for the cuff of my shirt, pulling it out of the way so she can glance at my watch. “And a Patek Phillipe on your wrist.” Her gaze turns away, seemingly bored with the view of my skin. “I doubt you even know anywhere real.”
The car pulls up beside us, and Jackson hurries to open the passenger door for her. I watch as she slides in, her gaze still focused on anything but me, and chortle as I amble around the other side. Real? I don’t understand what she means by that, from her point of view, but I can only assume she means something other than the money she’s been existing under.
The roads are heavy with traffic as we journey through them silently. I don’t know where to tell Tom to head, which is amusing. I usually know exactly where I’m heading on the few occasions I leave the comfort of my own walls, but she’s asked for something unusual. Challenging. There are only two reals to me, though. One that keeps me researching and working, and the other side that provides yearly titillation when I see that as acceptable. It’s obscure there. Full of people who live two separate existences. Different. Similar to what she’s asked for, I suppose, even if she doesn’t know what she’s asking for. But real, here in this city, is just cloistered behaviour and research.
Nothing more than that.
I glance at her, as she tucks that loose tendril of blonde hair behind her ear, and then I watch the road flashing by the side of her face. It distorts speedily, as the car beneath us travels with no direction in mind, and my thoughts wander to anything but sensible reasoning because of that distortion. I frown and pull in a breath, trying to diminish my temptation. She’s unknown to me. Not that the others are known, but they are there, allowed in. Wealthy enough to get through the hidden door and scared enough to sign the disclaimers.
“Fucking something would probably make you feel better,” I mutter. Her face flies to mine, her body reinforcing and her hands gripping her bag. I chuckle at the look of her shocked face and turn back to the front of the car, dismissing her moralistic protest. It’s the first lacklustre thing I’ve noticed about her since we left that room. Unengaging. “How is your sexual appetite, Mrs Tanner?”
Silence continues for a while, probably as she looks me over and wonders if I’m about to try raping her. I look at Manhattan passing us by, indistinct lights and flashes matching my thoughts on the place I’m thinking about. Raping her isn’t even in my considerations.
She eventually blows a breath out of her mouth, her body moving about in the seat next to me. “It’s underfed.”
My brow arches at the answer. Underfed? I suppose sexual appetite would be underfed if your husband fucked everything else but you. Shame. Looks like he missed out as far as I’m concerned, especially with this vigour she expels every now and then. I chuckle and focus on the glass screen between Jackson and Tom and us, attempting to focus on the roads rather than dissect that word any further than I already am doing.
“I was expecting another slap, Mrs Tanner.”
“Why, because you think I’m a prude?” she mumbles.
“No, because we’ve only just met and I’m talking about fucking.”
“And yet, regardless of only just meeting you, you’re more real to me than my life has been. I’ve been living a lie. Sad, isn’t it?”
I don’t answer. I keep watching as the roads stretch out in front of us and think on those words. A lie. Years of her life failing to keep the man she married interested, regardless of her exquisite frame and face. I frown and reach for the drinks console, pouring two glasses of scotch. Maybe drink will help her relieve the feelings. At least for a while. Distraction usually works to a point. It gives a new way of dealing with situations, allows the sensation to dissipate rather than having to accept the reality of isolation and solitary momentum.
“Gray? Are you Gray, or Grayson?” I shiver, unsure why my name out of her mouth sounds so ominous.
“Gray.”
“Where are we going, Gray?”
“Hell.”
“What?”
I press the intercom and ask for us to be taken through Hell’s Kitchen. We’ll find some dive of a bar around there, let our feet stick to the semi-grimy surfaces. Not that it is all that grimy these days, but it’s the only version of real I have for her in Manhattan because my other version of real isn’t something that will ease any burden she holds unless she’s willing to lose her mind for it.
The car starts turning through the neighbourhoods, Tom covering ground quickly and efficiently because of his job to protect me. I sigh. Protect me? I’m not even sure if I want protecting anymore. Protecting from what? The people who find me accountable for deaths? I probably should be held accountable for them. It’s my wealth that withholds the drugs they need, helping those who can’t afford it die quicker. If I was philanthropic I’d give it away for free, ease their suffering. I’m not. And life isn’t a free for all, nor is it fair. I know that all too well.
Maybe their suffering eases my own, gives me some morose sense of amusement.
“What are going to do with your life now?” I ask.
“What is there to do when your life’s just been rendered a fucking joke?” she mumbles.
“Build a new one. What do you want to do?”
“Grieve.”
“Pointless. And stupid. If you want a better, truer life, you should go and get it. Change it. Change you maybe.”
I knock the window, watching as Jackson’s gaze comes back to me. The car comes to a stop half a block past an old Yankees bar, and I watch Jackson get out, his eyes scanning the area for anything that might try breaking me apart. “You wanted real, Mrs Tanner. Here is all I have to offer you in Manhattan.”
She looks at the slightly dilapidated area outside the car with a blank expression and opens her door, hitching the skirt of her dress up to get out. I watch as she straightens herself down again, one hand reaching back to pull the wide belt around her black dress into place. She looks as out of place here as I do in these clothes. Ridiculous. Still, I get out and walk around to meet her, my own eyes shifting around the litter ravaged streets.
She looks me over for a few seconds, still no real interest on her face, and then strides towards the bar half a block back.
Jackson keeps at our heels the entire walk back, his body obstructing my back from the world around us. I smirk at the thought, amused. This is probably the last place he wants to be with me. Too many threats, too many people wanting a cut of the money I’ve amassed, and far too many wanting the drugs I provide for the world. I turn to look at him, sensing the nerves in his normally impassive gaze.
“Sir?” He asks.
“Nothing,” I reply, looking back at her as she pushes on the door.
Her hand’s raised for the bar-keep before Jackson manages to close the door behind us, her body settling onto a bar stool.
“Tequila,” she snarls. “Bottle.”
I strip the tie from my neck and settle on one of the high stools next to her, part listening to the sound of an old baseball re-run and casting my gaze around the place. There’s nothing interesting to note, but I suppose it’s out of the usual for me. Not too busy. Lacking people, thankfully. I sigh and take in the atmosphere, thinking back to college years because of the bland buzz.
“You like baseball?” she asks. I shrug and take the bottle that’s placed in front of us, filling two shot glasses. “Rick liked baseball.”
“And you want to talk about him?”
“No.”
“Good. Drink your drink.” She does, her face screwing up at the taste, and then she slams the glass down on the counter again.
“More.”
“More,” I whisper, refilling both glasses.
I don’t know what I’m doing, but I could use more, too. It’s been a long time since I did more of anything. Maybe being here with her, with the atmosphere we’re in, is loosening me up. Drink sounds good. A lot of it. I never do to excess. Too closed up for drinking and attempting to enjoy myself, and normally too busy working to have time for it, but I’m doing something out of the norm for her.
We both suck back another couple of shots, our hands slamming down in unison. Might as well use the time to full effect. Drown in this liquor maybe, distract myself as much as her. Might see another path then, find a new genome sequence in my drunken haze.
“More,” she says again.
More.
Fuck knows how long that keeps going on. Could be a couple of hours or so, but by the time I’m throwing cash at the bar-keep there’s two empty bottles of tequila sitting on the bar, and a lot of spilt liquor around them. I chuckle and watch her swaying in my eye line, unsure if she’s the one who’s swaying or I am. It isn’t until she decides to get off the stool, and I watch her fall to the floor, that I realise how drunk we both are.
A laugh rumbles out of me, my own weight buckling as I try helping her up. I end up on the floor next to her, both of us laughing about whatever the hell it is that we’re doing down here.
“Alright you two,” the old bar-keep says. “Up. Time to go.” She giggles beside me and rolls onto her front, using my stomach to pull herself up in front of my face.
“You, Gray Rothburg, are a very attractive men. No, I meant man. Mind you, there are at least two of you here. Might be three. Haven’t had a threesome before. What’s the word for four people fucking?”
“A party,” rolls out of me, as my own hands try clawing me up.
“And are men fucking men considered the same thing?” She groans and falls on her back again, glazed eyes looking up at me. “Now that would be hot,” she says finger pointing at me. “Watching men fuck.”
“It would, would it?” I mutter.
“It would.” She rolls onto her hands and knees and climbs up the barstool, heels kicked off her feet. “Floor’s sticky. But – men fucking. Take me somewhere where I can watch that.”
“I’m doubting your prissy ass could deal with the sort of places that goes on.”
“Asshole,” she slurs, grabbing her shoes and tucking them under her arm. “I’ll go find it myself. Real, Gray. I want all the real there is, and if you won’t take me, this guy can.” She sways over to Jackson, her hands pulling her to his body until she’s in his face and gripping his lapels. “Won’t you? Who are you?”
“Sir?” he says, to me.
I shrug my jacket back on and walk to them both, grabbing at her arm to get us out of here. I need to leave. As does she. Home. Sense.
Work.
Chapter 9
Hannah
M y feet hurt. Why do they hurt?
I look down at them, wondering where my shoes are. I had them a minute ago. The knotted thoughts make me glance around, taking in the dirty streets I’m on. Where the hell am I? Cold wind on my skin. A smell, acrid. Soiled. I turn and look at the bar we were in. It’s not there. Yankees. I’m sure it was called that. And there was another man. He didn’t speak much. Tall. Blonde. He was hard in my hands, a breath away from my lips. Nice.
Where’s my friend gone?
A hand goes around my waist, pulling me closer. It’s helpful, and I lean into the body and breathe in the clean smell. Gray. Warm. He's funny as well. He made me laugh. And then he told me I was prissy. I’m not prissy. I’m …. I don’t know what I am anymore.
I yawn and look around for my shoes again, hoping they’ll appear. They don’t. “My shoes have gone,” I snicker.
“They’re in my hands, you threw them in the trash on your walk,” his voice says, smoothly.
“My walk?” We’ve been walking?
“Yes, we’ve been traipsing for about an hour.” Oh.
“Where to?”
“Home.”
“Don’t have one. And my feet hurt now.”
I’m hoisted onto a step and then up onto a higher one, and then his blurry face comes close to mine. I get lost in it for a minute, my hands reaching for his hair to bring him closer. I could kiss him now. Enjoy it. I’m not married anymore. Widow. Dead husband. Dead cheating husband. I can sleep with the world if I want. He said that earlier, said I’d feel better if I fuck someone. I snicker again, rolling my tongue over my lips at the thought.
“Gray?” murmurs from me, as I run my fingers along the back of his neck. “Gray. My friend Gray.”
More time passes, both of us hovering rather than moving. It’s nice, in a shadowy way. I feel free, or lost. And he’s pretty up close. Maybe not quite as dangerous and scary as I originally thought. Don’t know. He’s nice to look at. Eyes are still weird, though. Dark. Formidable. Stormy. Why is he frowning? He’s always frowning. Don’t know what he’s got to be unhappy about. Miserable bastard. Nice, though. Honest. Real.
My fingers crawl around his face, heading for the crease in his brow so I can rub it out.
“Only I’m allowed to be miserable, Mr Rothburg.” More seconds. More staring. Intense. Brooding. I laugh and look into his eyes, frowning back at him to try and make him smile. He’s nice when he smiles. Better when he laughs. Rich. Warm-blooded. But then he takes my hands from his neck and turns away from me.
“Jump on,” he says, pushing his back towards me. “I’ll carry you.”
Okay.
My legs wrap around his waist, arms around his neck. He’s like my horse. Another snicker. Gray Rothburg, my personal servant. I lean my chin on his shoulder and watch the world blur by me rather than think of frowning. I don’t want to frown. I want happy and smiles and laughter, all of it over and over again so I don’t have to think of anything but this here. It’s all pretty around me. Shapes and colours, all of them black and white, car lights making it all seem red and hazy. “Are we going to the men fucking place?” I mumble.
“I’ll take you another day.”
“Like a sex club? I need one of those.”
“You need a bed.”
“I do. You’re right. With men fucking in it. You can watch with me. We’ll drink more tequila and score them points for ability.” He laughs beneath me, his back vibrating in that glorious rumble he does when he doesn’t want to laugh. “One to ten. One for awful, and ten fo
r that was nearly enough for me to join in.” No noise. No laugh. “And if you’re lucky I’ll rub your cock while I’m watching. That’ll make you smile.”
There’s silence for a while, nothing but the sounds of the night around us and a siren or two. Or maybe that’s just a fantasy I’m making up. It can’t be silent. This is Manhattan. At night. A place I neither know nor want anymore. I lean in tighter and wonder if this is life now. Drinking. Labouring. Being somewhere I don’t want to be. At least I’m making friends with people I didn’t know before. “You’re my friend now, aren’t you Gray?”
My friend. He’s all I’ve got. I lean harder on his shoulder and pull my arms tighter. He saved me from that place, and that fucking woman with her breasts and her dark and dangerous. I’ve never been that. I want to be. Gray is. I can tell. He’s got that look about him. The one that makes me feel insecure and unsteady under his gaze. Sharp eyes. Moody outlook. I try looking at them as we’re walking, but the angle isn’t right. I want to look at them. They’re pretty. No, not pretty – I start moving, trying to claw my way around his body until I’m in front of him and still hanging on – they’re poisonous. They bore in, making me feel irrelevant – unworthy even.
“You’ve got killer eyes,” I declare, looking into them. “Cold. Lifeless until you laugh. Laugh for me.” He doesn’t. He just stares, as I peer into them, occasionally flicking them so he can see where we’re going. I tighten my grip around his waist to help him hold me up, bringing my face to within inches of his. I should kiss him. Wake that smile up again. “How does my ass feel in your hands?”
“Firm.”
“I want anal sex.”
A chuckle rumbles out of him, making those eyes of his spring to life. Glorious. “That’s dirty talk, Mrs Tanner. I thought you were grieving.” I let my arms slip from his neck at the thought, flinging them back behind me, but still clinging on with my legs.
“I can be dirty if I want to be. I’m the widow of a man who was fucking the whole world. A rich widow thanks to you.” I look behind him, watching a man who’s following us for some reason in a suit. He’s attractive too. I could do two men. I think he was in the bar with us. Oh yes, blonde hair. “I’m going to do everything I’ve never done before. Including anal. And watching men fuck.”
A Distraction of Lies Page 5
