Time's Hostage: The dangers of love, loss, and lus (Time Series Book 1)

by Brenda Kuchinsky

  He flung open the French doors leading to the balcony and reached for her hand. He lit both cigarettes, carefully placing them in his mouth. Then he placed one in Sophia’s mouth.

  “Wow. Like an old forties movie. How romantic. Nobody does that anymore,” she said, coughing delicately a few times. She got the hang of it, enjoying the sensation of the smoke traveling down her throat, into her lungs, and out her nostrils. Disliking the acrid burn and the vague nausea. Liking the nicotine seesaw of stimulation and sedation.

  It took her back fifteen years to her smoking days, unfiltered Camels, during a particularly dark period in her life, which she had shared with no one. Well, just Jack because she had no choice. Some of the things she did. She couldn’t believe it in retrospect. Those Camels were good. Turkish tobacco. Maybe she would confide in Barth one day. When trust was reestablished. Now she cemented over the memories in the basement of her mind.

  They lingered, smoking and drinking, enjoying the voluptuous air caressing their naked skin as they gazed at the full moon, hanging so preternaturally large and bright that it looked close enough to touch. Silent and sated, they savored the jasmine-laden air, listening to the insect symphony, zephyrs rustling the leaves.

  Sophia awoke to the enticing aroma of coffee faintly drifting up the stairs through the open bedroom door. She felt exceptionally good. Relaxed. Her anxiety was way down. No ear pulling.

  Maybe I need to get fucked by two different men in one night more often, she thought nonchalantly.

  She floated downstairs in her red dressing gown, her mahogany curls a tangled nimbus, black-eyeliner raccoon eyes, and the ripe smell of sex emanating from her like rotting fruit.

  “Coffee, coffee, coffee. I need coffee,” she chanted when she reached Barth in the kitchen.

  “You’re in a good mood.”

  “So are you, Barth. Why shouldn’t we be happy? We had hot, intense sex. Like the coffee.”

  “I’m sorry I slapped you. Jealousy does get me horny though.”

  “That slap got me going. Can’t beat that lightning-speed ardor. We heated up fast.”

  “Especially after almost nine years of marriage, darling.”

  “I’ll have to evoke that green-eyed monster in you more often.”

  “Funny, funny, Sophia,” Barth said, sarcasm dripping like venom from a cobra. “Let’s pop outside and enjoy our coffee. I grabbed some almond croissants at the bakery around the corner. Shush, you can cheat once in a while. It’s good to take exercise breaks,” he said as Sophia began to object.

  “It is a gorgeous morning. Late morning. I’m feeling very lazy. I don’t have a patient until two, but I want to Skype with Lili. I feel as if I haven’t talked to her in ages, and there’s that six-hour time difference.”

  She stretched languorously while Barth eyed her undulating body.

  “I want to talk to you about the painting. I’ve started it. It’s stirring up intense feelings. Maybe you can look at it soon, and we can talk about it?”

  “Okay,” she said, shuddering involuntarily, pulling at her ear. “Well, that killed the sexual after glow. I’m back to anxiety and dread, Barth.”

  “So I won’t bring up the letter translation.”

  “You just did, Barth.”

  “All right. All right,” he said, holding his hands up in surrender. “Let’s just watch the birds feeding. Mum’s the word.”

  After Barth left, she stayed in her dressing gown, relishing her naughtiness, luxuriating in the knowledge that two men had had her in one night. And she had had them.

  How many women can say that? Whores and escorts excluded, she pondered.

  She set up Skype and reached Lili in no time.

  “Lili, it’s great to see you. You look happy.”

  “I am, Ma. We are continuing to adjust well. We love the work, and we’re making money. We love the place. The food and drink are magnifique. The French are such foodies. Everything is so fresh and wholesome. It’s another world. I’m glad I’m not a vegetarian.”

  “Oh, Lili. I’m sure I would love the food too. Just the cheese and calvados would keep me satisfied. But I’m glad I’m not a vegan.” She laughed, happy to be talking to Lili, her high spirits soaring.

  “We have some wonderful news. You will never, ever guess,” Lili teased.

  “You’re buying a house? You’re expanding the business? No. Too early.”

  “We’re pregnant,” Lili blurted out, jumping up and down.

  “How? When? Which one of you? I never would have guessed,” Sophia said, flabbergasted.

  “Slow down. I didn’t mean to shock you. Here comes Chanel.”

  “Hello, Chanel. You look wonderful too. Lili just told me the news. I’m still stunned. Artificial insemination? In vitro fertilization?” Sophia asked, still digesting the news.

  “None of the above,” Lili said.

  “The old man and woman having intercourse route?” Sophia asked dubiously.

  “Yes. Chanel has a dear friend, Paul, from Paris, who happens to spend a fair amount of time here in Rouen. She ran into him in town right after we arrived. He’s intelligent, personable, handsome, and good-natured. We decided to ask him to try to impregnate Chanel.”

  “Wow,” Sophia said. Even Sophia the therapist was bowled over. “I hear a lot of unusual stuff. But this is a first,” Sophia said.

  “You’re not upset are you?” Lili asked.

  “No, no. Of course not. I’m just getting used to it. How…how exactly did you do it?”

  “I had sex with Paul three times. It was not trois fois rien, heureusement, Maman. The third time was the charm,” Chanel said, hugging Lili.

  “Wait. Where were you?”

  “Right next to the bed watching, making sure Chanel didn’t enjoy it too much. It was a means to an end,” Lili said.

  “She was so jealous. I did enjoy it a tiny bit. I’m only human. That’s good for the baby. The third time I had an orgasm. Lili was very angry,” Chanel said, not looking the least bit remorseful.

  “You better not do it again. Mission accomplished,” Lili said, becoming agitated.

  “Stop arguing, you two. Chanel is pregnant the natural way. Be thankful. I’ve got to be off. A thousand congratulations. A thousand kisses. I can’t wait to see you both in May. You’ll be showing by then, Chanel. We’ll have that big belated celebration of your marriage. Is that still on?”

  “Of course,” they answered in unison.

  “Love from Barth,” Sophia said, ending the session, happy to extricate herself from the crossfire of simmering passionate jealousy.

  CHAPTER 39

  Sophia was trying hard not to picture the unlikely ménage a trois when she was showering and dressing. Poor Lili sitting there and watching, her hackles rising, Chanel admittedly enjoying herself. Yuck.

  “Think of something else. Think of something else,” she chanted as if it were an incantation. She shook her head as if she were stirring up a snow globe, hoping for an obfuscating snow flurry to white out the pictures in her mind’s eye.

  After a day full of intense therapeutic attention and intervention—the sex shook her back on course—she craved nightlife again. She didn’t want to sit at home quietly, ruminating about her day’s sessions, dwelling on Lili and Chanel’s strange situation, yearning for Dirk’s roguish touch, and anticipating Barth’s return home like an obedient hausfrau.

  “He who hesitates is lost,” she announced to the empty room, quoting one of Morton’s favorite lines. She dashed upstairs. Showered, perfumed, and made up, she headed for the closet. This time she donned red-and-black satin underwear, a simple but ravishing red dress, an eye-catching jet-and-crystal necklace, and the same Tory Burch shoes.

  She followed the same routine, down to ordering the same food and drink. No books this time. She grabbed a free table outside, put her feet up on the extra chair, and sipped away. I could get used to this. My second living room.

  The obliging parade milled by, and she emp
tied her mind, enjoying the ceaseless spectacle. Until two bright-blond blue-eyed men who couldn’t have been more than thirty stopped at her table.

  “You guys are so tall, you’re making me dizzy,” she said, craning her neck to admire their lean, muscular bodies.

  “Well then, we’ll have to sit down,” one of them said.

  They sat, flanking her and smiling ingratiatingly.

  “Are you twins? Gorgeous versions of Tweedledum and Tweedledee?” she asked, feeling their body heat radiating at her. “Have you been dancing? I can feel your body heat,” she rushed on breathlessly before they could answer her first question.

  “Slow down, love,” the one on her left said, the words trickling slowly from his lips, the thrilling British accent unmistakable. “We’d love to answer all your questions, but give us half a mo. One at a time.” He placed a sinewy hand on her arm.

  “We’re not even related.” The other one took over.

  “We were dancing at Score. Kicking our heels up.”

  “Are you boys gay? Score is a gay bar with a capital G,” Sophia said.

  “No, love. We’re new in town. Our first night visiting from London. We’re quite chuffed with your Lincoln Road. We just popped into Score, and it looked like so much fun, we stopped for a bit and joined in the dancing,” the one on her right said.

  “We’re knackered. Do you mind if we order some wine and stay awhile? You look like such charming company,” the one on her left said.

  “Not at all. But you must tell me your names, so I don’t keep thinking of you as the one on my left and the one on my right,” she said.

  “Of course. How rude of us. I’m Cecil, and this is Philip. We’ve been friends for so long, since boarding school, we’re like an old married couple. That’s probably why we look alike,” Cecil said, gesturing for the waiter and ordering a bottle of red.

  “I’m Sophia,” she said demurely.

  Their looks, their accents, their heat. She was beginning to fantasize about a threesome. She would be the fun filling in a Cecil/Philip sandwich. She began slowly licking and biting her lips.

  She accepted a proffered glass of wine, having consumed all of hers.

  “I’m going to London in April for my yearly pilgrimage. An annual conference. I’m a psychologist.”

  Was she beginning to slur a little or was it her imagination?

  “A headshrinker. You couldn’t shrink ours. We’re too full of ourselves. Swelled heads and all that,” Philip laughed boisterously.

  They were all feeling no pain when they ordered a second bottle.

  Cecil casually inserted his thick, hot tongue in her ear, causing sparks. Philip whispered steamy suggestions about what he’d like to do to her arse. She liquefied on the spot.

  They staggered down Lincoln Road, which was crammed with revelers all celebrating the night. Cecil and Philip had their arms encircling her waist, one on each side, helping her toward their hotel, the Ritz, just down the road, located where Lincoln met the beach.

  On their short, staggering journey, everyone looked sexy to her. The gay boys, the trannies, the half-naked hot mamas and their companions, even the gawking tourists. Come-hither looks everywhere. Competing sounds—live music and recorded—poured out of doorways. The perpetually steamy air was thick with sea salt and seaweed, jasmine and mango, sweat and cologne. Spicy blue cigar smoke was meandering out of the Cuban cigar bar, tonguing the air. Waves of garlic, chilies, onions, and innumerable ethnic aromas from the multitude of eclectic restaurants were infiltrating nostrils, creating cosmic scents. Lincoln Road was just one big blur of sight, sound, smell, and sex.

  She stopped abruptly, causing Cecil and Philip to complain they’d almost gone arse over tit.

  She thought she saw Barth embracing a young man who looked like Keith. Poor mad, dead Keith. Blond corkscrew curls bobbing in the breeze. She shook her head, squeezed her eyes shut tight, and recalibrated.

  Was he among that pile of men emerging from the bowels of Score? Was she seeing things? The vision, the apparition was gone.

  Cecil and Philip whisked her along to the Ritz.

  “No more dawdling, love. We have to lie down before we fall down. We need to save our energy for getting it up,” Cecil said.

  They continued to whisk her into the lobby, up the elevator to some high floor, down the long luxurious corridor, and at long last, into the lush, plush room.

  As if in a dream, she watched Cecil and Philip undress each other, half erect, kissing, tongues working away industriously, clinging to each other, a spectator at her own ménage à trois. Then they flanked her once again, lifting her dress off, letting it float off like a balloon, momentarily admiring her siren underclothes before discarding them to sandwich her in an insistent embrace, both fully erect now, vigorously penetrating both entryways, four hands, two cocks, causing her to swoon with a surfeit of sexual pleasure, crying out in abandoned ecstasy.

  “Boys, put me in a cab pronto,” Sophia said later. She was dressed, weak at the knees, ripples of delight still coursing through her. “My husband is going to kill me. I just hope he doesn’t try to fuck me,” she said, admiring their deflated happy cocks, tucking themselves in for the night, before she headed for the lobby.

  Once home, Sophia ascertained that Barth was snoring noisily, allowing her to strip and shower undisturbed.

  She poured herself a large cognac, tiptoed out to the bedroom balcony, allowed herself another cigarette purloined from Barth’s pack, and contemplated the sky, head thrown back with careless ease, limbs liquid, unfettered by clothing, her mind uncluttered.

  CHAPTER 40

  In spite of herself, Sophia watched the next two months fly by. Despite her yearnings for Dirk, despite intrusive flashbacks to Amanda and Keith, and despite her foreboding resistance to Barth’s painting of her mother and the Nazi, time marched on. Sophia found herself packing with pleasure, readying herself for the trip to the airport tomorrow.

  The hallucinations had abated. Her ravishing mother and the Nazi appeared to be the last. Sophia had not seen Clyde again and was hoping for the best. A surcease of sorrow.

  She and Dirk had exchanged fleeting texts. Mostly casual. She had sent one text when feeling despondent, admitting she was hungering for him. He merely echoed her sentiment in his text.

  After the lubricious night with the wildcatting English duo, she ceased going on the prowl. Once she admitted to herself that she was going to Lincoln Road like a cat in heat, rubbing up against the warm and available, she stopped.

  It could become a bad habit, she reasoned. Although why did it feel so good? Never mind, Sophia.

  Paul had called, seeking another night at the Casa Victoria Orchid, offering to buy dinner. Sophia was tempted, conjuring up his looks, his voice, and his cock. She took a rain check, telling him she would be abroad in April and May. He promised to call in June when it would be stinking hot, and they could hole up in the room.

  “It’s so tough to pack,” Sophia said when Barth came into the bedroom looking weary. “Are you tired?” she asked.

  “Exhausted from work. Well, not really work. The political crap and backstabbing are a constant backdrop. It gets old quick,” Barth said, sighing, dropping down to the bed.

  Sophia was going back and forth to the closet, emerging with armfuls of clothing.

  “You’re going to London. Don’t worry about packing. You can get anything you’ve overlooked there. They have Harrods for god’s sake. Look at that underwear,” he said, eyeing the red-and-green sets Sophia was packing. “Have any plans for some sexy dates?”

  “Barth, cut the crap,” she said. “You’ve seen the people. Therapists. Lots of Jewish women. Jews and women have a predilection for psychology. Not likely I’ll be stripping to my undies for them. And the smattering of male therapists, also predominantly Jewish. You know I’m not attracted to Jewish men. Never was and never will be. Look at you. A shegetz.”

  “What about Dirk? Think he’s Jewish? You like
him.”

  “Don’t start with that Dirk crap. I’m not in the mood.”

  “Okay. Okay. Just observing.” He stopped talking when she shot him a dirty look. “Anything I can do to help?” Barth asked.

  “Why don’t you open a bottle of wine? I can take a break. I’m doing okay.”

  “Great idea. Be right back.”

  Sophia finished packing all the sexy underwear while Barth was out of the room.

  By the time he returned with the wine, she had finished packing. They went out to the balcony, which was glorious in the crepuscular light, rays of sunlight streaming through the steel-blue clouds.

  “I can take all the time I want. I’m done.”

  “Good. We can relax. Up for another ciggy?” he asked, shaking two out of his pack.

  She reached for it, thought better of it, and withdrew her hand. “I better not. They’re so addictive,” she said, inwardly recoiling at the Pandora’s Box of foul memories her smoking could unlock. She slammed the steel door shut on that past. Some things just needed to be forgotten. When she had smoked the first cigarette the other night, those hard-headed memory demons were battering at her mind’s trapdoor, knocking and pushing to escape and haunt her, resurrecting buried episodes of her life.

  “Ah, I can feel the waves of tension lifting off of me. Sophia, you’re so good for me. Just being in your company relaxes me. I don’t know what I would do without you. I’m going to miss you.”

  “You’ll be too busy. Occupied with the painting. And it sounds like you’re going to pursue translating Ma’s letter or whatever it is.”

  “Of course. How could I just ignore that? Maybe she talks about the child. Your half sibling. We can assume she delivered a child. Unless it was stillborn or Dr. Mengele got his hands on the kid.”

  “Now you’re delving deep. All sorts of things could have happened. Her baby bump may never have come to fruition. Look where she was. Surrounded by death.”

  “All the more reason to relish new life. And she looked healthy, well-nourished, even happy and sexy,” Barth said, drawing on his cigarette, lost in contemplation, thinking of his painting.