Mara let out a little cry as I continued to pleasure her, and then her hips were bouncing rapidly against my hand as she finally came. I finished her off and withdrew, sucking her arousal off my fingers.
“Mmm,” she sighed.
“Mmm,” I said.
She opened her eyes, seeing I was doing, and laughed softly.
“God.”
“Come here.”
She crawled around and straddled me, sitting in my lap. I played with her firm breasts, tweaking her nipples through the fabric as she kissed me.
“I love you so much,” she moaned.
“Mmm. You too.”
She reached down and pulled her nightshirt over her head, leaving herself naked. Then she kissed her way down my chest, pausing to suck on my nipples, before finding my erection and pulling it through the fly of my boxers. She gave it a few slow licks before taking most of it into her mouth.
She bobbed slowly over me, working lips and tongue hard against the most sensitive spots. Mara had gotten very good at this over the year and a half we had been dating, in part because she frequently asked me what I liked and how I wanted her to do it. She kept up a slow massage on the head of my penis for several minutes, then began bobbing more rapidly. All the while, she was gently caressing my balls and thighs with her free hand. I felt myself growing close to orgasm and tried to pull her up, but she shook her head, not letting go. I groaned, running my fingers through her hair as she tried to finish me off. I felt her sucking tightly, bringing her lips and tongue hard against my cock, then began bobbing as fast as she could go. A few moments later, she had me on the brink, and then my come was spurting wetly into her mouth. I felt her gulping it down as it came, and only when it was all out did she finally withdraw, crawling up to lie in my arms.
I laughed softly when I caught my breath.
“I wanted to make love to you,” I said.
“Later. I just love making you feel good.”
“You did.”
She snuggled closer to me, nuzzling my neck. I turned off the lights and the television, and we crawled under the covers, kissing and caressing each other. After about fifteen minutes of random cuddling and fondling, my erection returned and Mara pulled me onto her body. I slipped into her, and we made love slowly and quietly in the dark.
---
We spent the rest of the week sightseeing and shopping around New York, and we hit all the requisite tourist spots. Sunday afternoon, as we were window-shopping on Fifth Avenue on the way home, we walked past a jewelry store, and Mara slowed down to look at the pieces in the display windows. One of them caught my eye, a two-carat diamond engagement ring. I looked at Mara, seeing what appeared to be a hopeful gleam in her eyes. At that moment, something clicked in my head.
This was not the first time I ever thought of the possibility of someday marrying Mara, but that instant was the first time I seriously considered it. I don’t quite know what triggered this epiphany—it wasn’t the first time we had walked past a jewelry store together or even the first time she had sent me those sorts of matrimonial signals. But as we continued our walk back to my parents’ apartment, I realized that for the first time in my life, I could actually ask someone to marry me, and she would certainly agree.
We had a year left at Yale. If I wanted to marry Mara next June, after graduation, now was the time to ask. We might be pretty young to be doing it, but I loved her. That seemed to be enough.
---
I would have asked her. Except for what happened that night.
---
At six, my grandparents came over for dinner again. Mara was in the kitchen helping my mother and grandmother prepare a roast. My father was still at work but on his way home. My grandfather appeared at my side with two glasses of scotch in his hands. He gave me one and motioned for me to join him out on the balcony. I did.
“You and Mara are quite the couple.”
I nodded, not sure what to say to that.
“She’s a nice girl,” he said.
“Thanks.”
“Have you thought much about the future, what’s going to happen after you graduate?”
“Not really,” I lied. “We’ve talked about it, but nothing serious.”
He reached out and rubbed my shoulder.
“Tom, don’t take this the wrong way, I mean, she’s a sweet girl, but love alone isn’t enough to make a successful marriage.”
Distress shot through my gut.
“What do you mean?”
He took a sip of his drink and pondered for a moment.
“One thing I’ve noticed throughout my life is that men will not advance very far in the world without the right woman at their side. However hard I’ve worked, I would not have accomplished half of what I have without your grandmother. I surely would not be sitting behind a bench right now without her. She’s the one who really made the contacts I needed for that, made sure people knew what I could do. I think the same thing goes for your parents. Your father had loads of talent, just like you do, but it was your mother who honed him into who he is.”
I swallowed hard.
“And you don’t think Mara could do that.”
He sighed.
“I want you to understand that I do like her, and she does seem like a wonderful person . . . I just think she’s lacking in the sort of polish she needs if you’re going to be a successful lawyer.”
“She’s from Iowa. It’s not like she grew up here.”
He nodded.
“That is my point.”
“There’s nothing wrong with Iowa.”
“I didn’t say there was. If you live in Iowa. In New York, though . . . I think it may prove to be a handicap.”
I looked back into the house, watching Mara with my mother and grandmother. My stomach tightened as the color of this scene changed before my eyes. A few minutes earlier it had looked like a vision of the future, grandmother, mother and wife cooking together. Now Mara simply looked like an intruder.
My grandfather shook my shoulder again.
“You know her much better than I do, so maybe I’m wrong about her. I just want you to think about what I’m saying.”
“Okay.”
“Whatever happened to that other girl you were seeing, what was her name, with the brown hair?”
“Kate.”
“Kate, right. What happened to her?”
“Nothing. We’re just friends.”
“Well, that girl, I could see you marrying. You could go a long way with her beside you.”
---
I had lost much of my appetite by the time we sat down to eat. The food moved around as we served each other.
“Could someone pass the Burgundy, please?” Mara asked.
My grandmother picked up the bottle of wine as a patronizing smile spread across her face.
“It’s not Burgundy, dear, it’s Bordeaux. There’s a difference.”
Mara glanced at me quickly. The knot in my stomach turned into a ball of lead.
“Oh. Sorry.”
---
Though it would be another month before I broke up with her, my relationship with Mara effectively ended that night. Though I truly loved her, I realized in the back of my mind that a marriage to Mara was not for me. She was too unsophisticated and unpolished, even with her Ivy League education, for me to feel comfortable presenting her to the family as my future bride.
No one could fault Mara’s intentions—she certainly tried her best—but she was simply lost in a setting more formal than a casual dinner party. My grandfather had actually been overestimating her meager social graces, and the more they got to know her, the worse it would have gotten. No one would have tried to stop me were I dead set on marrying her, but the pall of disappointment that would lay over such a union would ultimately have poisoned whatever I had with her.
My grandfather was right about Kate. She would have been perfect in that respect. But I would have had the same problem with her family that Mara
had with mine. And it was up to poor Mara, sadly enough, to point out that irony during our final, tearful, confrontation. I don’t know what she might have told Kate, if anything, but I was too ashamed of what I had done to ever discuss any of it with her myself.
V.
I was at work a few days later when Preston called about the bachelor party.
“Hey, any friend of Kate’s is a friend of mine. If you want come, you’re welcome. Did she tell you where we’re going?”
“Miami, right?”
“You bet. We’re staying on the South Beach. I got the whole top floor of the hotel rented out so we’ve got plenty of room for you. Should have a blast.”
He went for a minute or two about all the debauchery they had planned for the weekend: Booze, golf, strippers, essentially the works.
“I’ll call my agent and get her to send you the ticket.”
“I can take care of that myself. It’s okay.”
“Hey, all expenses paid, bud. Don’t worry about it. She’ll send you the whole itinerary. We’re going to meet at the airport and take a couple of limos over to the hotel.”
“Okay. I guess I’ll see you there.”
“You bet. Catch you later.”
When he hung up, I had to force myself to set the phone down gently rather than pitch it through the window across from my desk. Luckily I had a ton of work to do, and I didn’t have time to dwell on how much I despised this guy already.
---
I didn’t hear from either of them for a couple of weeks. The ticket to Miami arrived in my email box a few days after I spoke with Preston, and I got permission from the firm to take that Friday off work.
I spent a few days wondering if keeping my promise to Kate about reporting the details of this weekend would torpedo her marriage. I didn’t know for certain what Preston was going to do, but based on what he had told me, and my impressions of him over the phone, I had a feeling that he wasn’t planning on behaving himself.
But, I kept saying to myself, Kate had to know this—she had to know what kind of person he was, and she was still marrying him. Because this wasn’t really about Preston. It was about $100 million being held in trust for her by Bank of Boston.
---
Kate called me a few days before I left for Miami.
“Are you ready for all this?”
I laughed.
“I don’t know. It sounds like it’s going to be pretty wild.”
“Just have fun. Don’t feel like you have to take notes or anything.”
“Okay.”
I heard her taking a deep breath.
“Anyway, I’m calling because there’s something else I need to warn you about. I didn’t mention this last month when we had lunch because I hadn’t heard from her. She hadn’t RSVP’d yet.”
“Who?”
“Um . . . Mara. She’s going to be at the wedding.”
I sighed.
“Oh.”
“We’ve kind of stayed friends, so of course I was going to invite her. But she lives in Chicago now, so I didn’t really think she was going to come.”
“It’s all right. It’s your wedding.”
“Have you guys kept in touch at all?”
“No. I haven’t seen or heard from her since graduation.”
“You won’t have to talk to her. There’ll be 500 other people there.”
“Don’t worry about it. It’s not that big a deal.”
“Thanks. Have fun in Miami, okay?”
---
Friday morning, I took a car to Kennedy and got on the flight south. We got into Miami International about one, and I made my way toward the baggage claim area, where I was supposed to meet Preston and his friends. They should have gotten in a little bit before I did, and when I got there, I spotted them immediately. I didn’t think there would be more than one group of twenty-something rich kids meeting here, even had there not been a limo driver standing there with a “MacAllister” sign in his hands. Most of them were standing around holding golf bags and joking about the upcoming weekend.
One of them, a tall, good-looking guy with dark hair, seemed to be directing things, so I went up to him.
“Is this the bachelor party? I’m Tom Dempsey.”
He shook my hand.
“Hey, good to meet you. I’m Phillip Macintosh. I’m the best man. You’re that friend of Kate’s?”
“Right.”
He checked my name off on a list he was holding and got the attention of one of the other guys there.
“Preston!”
Kate’s fiance’ was shorter than I was but more heavily built. His sandy blonde hair was haphazardly styled at best, and he wore what looked like a very expensive Sea Island cotton button-down shirt. I don’t know how much stemmed from my knowledge of the situation, but I disliked him the instant I saw him.
He came up to us with a big grin on his face and shook my hand roughly.
“Hey! Good to see you. Thanks for coming.”
“Thanks for inviting me.”
“The more the merrier. You got all your bags?”
“All I’ve got is carry-on.”
He turned to Phillip. “We got everyone?”
“This is it.”
“Cool.” He raised his voice and motioned toward the doors. “Let’s go! Let the party begin!”
Whooping it up, Preston and his friends headed out toward the limousines. One of the drivers took my bags, and I ended up in the second limo. We drove east toward Miami Beach, and I spent the time trying to get to know the other guests. Most of them were high school or college buddies of Preston’s, and I had enough of a mutual conversation topic in Yale to make me feel like I wouldn’t be completely lost that weekend.
The hotel was at the extreme south end of Miami Beach, off Ocean Avenue, in the art deco district of South Beach. It was a relatively small, all-suite place, and Preston had indeed rented the entire top floor for his party. We didn’t need every single room, but this apparently ensured that they could run wild without overly disturbing the other guests.
---
I managed to avoid Preston for the rest of the day, even when we all went out to dinner that night and he got monumentally drunk on a succession of designer shots. We had reservations for golf the next morning, and he somehow pulled himself together enough to come with us.
I was assigned to a foursome consisting of myself, a guy Preston had worked with at Merrill Lynch, and two of his fraternity brothers from Yale. I had never been much of a golfer, but I had enough experience to avoid completely embarrassing myself. My partners weren’t much better, but since we were doing a best-ball scramble, it didn’t really matter much.
“Do you know what’s going on tonight?” I asked as we were finishing up the sixth hole.
“Strippers,” one of the frat brothers said.
“Plural?”
“So Phillip said.”
“How many?” I asked.
“I’m not sure. But it sounded like it might be a bunch of them.”
The analyst laughed.
“What, like three or four?”
“More than that. He was talking like six of them. Maybe more.”
“Jesus,” I said.
“What I heard,” the other frat brother said, “and don’t quote me on this, but the way Preston was talking about it, I think they might be something more than just strippers.”
The other three of us exchanged a look.
“Seriously?” the analyst asked.
“I don’t know. You know how full of shit Preston is. But I got the distinct impression he was expecting more out of them than just taking their drawers off and dancing around.”
“Six hookers,” I said evenly.
“I didn’t say that,” he responded, “I just said it sounded like that.”
The analyst laughed again.
“Oh, fuck. This should be good.”
---
We finished the golf by about noon and had lunch nearby
, drinking heavily and generally behaving like asses. The energy of the weekend was beginning to carry me along, and as the day progressed, I found myself wavering between disgust with Preston and anticipation of what we were going to do that night. At least I didn’t have to worry that I was cheating on anyone myself.
We spent the afternoon around the pool, went out to eat again that night, and then headed back to the hotel. Phillip had ordered up a full bar’s worth of alcohol for the party, and we collected in the two adjoining suites at the back end of the building, where the hotel looked out on the beach. We rearranged the furniture to create a dance floor, and put a chair in the midst of it for Preston to sit in. Someone produced a few boxes of bootleg Cohiba Robustos, and the entire floor was soon clouded with pungent cigar smoke.
One of the limo drivers who had been ferrying us around arrived at ten with the girls in tow. Not wanting to create a scene in the lobby, Phillip had warned the concierge about them, and the hotel staff brought them in through the service entrance when they showed up.
There were indeed six of them, two blondes, two brunettes, and two redheads, all with the tanned, toned, aerobicized and implanted physiques of professional dancers. Some of the guys whooped it up when they arrived, but most of us just stayed put and watched as the girls filed into one of the bedrooms to get ready. Phillip and the limo driver worked out the finances in one corner of the room while the rest of us waited.
Preston was already half-drunk by this point, sitting in his chair with a cigar in one hand, a bottle of Pappy Van Winkle bourbon in the other, and big shit-eating grin on his face. Someone started up the music, and the girls emerged en masse about ten minutes later
The Teaser Page 3
