And by that, I mean the ones that were glossy and focused entirely on the rich and fabulous, no minor celebrities allowed.
There's an enormous lattice window behind her and I know that she's sitting in her office surrounded by her books and paintings, her favorite room in the house.
The view looks out onto the grounds around her sprawling estate in Cape Cod. Her father was one of the top richest men in the 1940s and '50s making all of his money in oil. But she had a lonely childhood being raised alone with a nanny in this very same Cape Cod home.
"How are you doing, Dante?" she asks, her phone is a little bit further away on her desk and she sits back and I can see her from the waist up.
She just turned sixty, but she could pass for maybe barely fifty. Her hair is cut short against her jawline, the same hairstyle that she has had ever since she was a child. She's wearing a long shirt dress designed by an old friend of hers, Carolina Herrera herself.
"I'm doing well."
"Where has your blasphemous job taken you this time?" she asks, a little bit exasperated.
She's annoyed by the hours that I work and by the work that I do.
The one thing that she does understand is my need to make my own money.
"I'm in Seattle, so not such a horrendous place."
"Yes, I've been there a few times. I wouldn't call that particularly stimulating."
I know that she sounds very dismissive, but I also know her well enough to know that she's actually being kind.
"How are you doing, Mother?" I ask.
"Pretty good. Had a bath this morning, talked to Lincoln."
"How's he?" I ask.
"Still married," she says, slightly annoyed.
"You know, you're going to have to get along with her."
"Yes, I guess so."
"No, for real. Marguerite is a very nice young woman."
"Lincoln could do so much better," she says condescendingly.
"Lincoln and Marguerite have been together for seven years."
"And for seven years I did not approve."
"I know, but it's a testament that they love each other and they want to be with one another."
"Still, a mother can hold out hope."
I shake my head; she's joking again but this feels a lot more severe and cold.
I do feel bad for Marguerite; she's sweet, kind, and completely incapable of surviving in my family.
Mom expects all women to fight tooth and nail. She expects them to fight for what's theirs and not try to make nice and that's exactly why she dislikes Marguerite so much.
Lincoln met her at Yale, they dated, and moved in together almost immediately.
Again, Mom did not approve. She's from an older generation where you didn't do that.
Of course, Mom has been married six or is it seven times now? I lost track at about husband number three.
"She's just not a good fit," Mom announces. "I mean, she actually has plans to keep working as an ER doctor after they have children. I mean, how is that going to be possible?"
"Come on, don't be like that. If you say that, people assume you really think that."
"And I don’t?" she says, moving closer to the camera.
I can see the outline of her flawless makeup and smell the flowery perfume, her signature scent.
“You, of all people, should know how important it is to have your own money and your own career. I mean, you did that back in the 70s when you didn't have to and inherited millions."
"Oh, come on," she waves her hands, "I was in the arts."
"Okay. So what does that mean?" I ask.
"Well, it just means that I could paint, I could write, I could read, but when I had you children, I was also there all the time."
"And Marguerite is going to be there. Besides, Lincoln is going to be a very hands-on father."
"Oh, please. Hands on fathers? What is that anyway?" She shakes her head. "That's what nannies are for."
I exhale slowly. My mom is exhausting. She's full of contradictions and often says what she doesn't mean despite knowing better.
She was raised by a nanny, her best friend in the world, and there was a famous custody battle when her mom got back involved with her and forced her go to boarding school rather than continue living in this Cape Cod house, being taken care of by her favorite person in the world, Miss Emily.
At that time, Mom saw her mother only occasionally, maybe four or five times a year, because she spent most of her time partying and marrying men in New York City.
But she was still technically her mother and when she came home one Christmas and my mom wanted to spend the day with Miss Emily rather than her, because it was a holiday, she went into a jealous rage and vowed to separate them forever and she did.
She sent Miss Emily away. My mom was only nine years old and she never saw her again.
I want to bring this up, the contradictions, the lies of it all, and I have on many other occasions, but I'm too tired and not interested in another in-depth discussion of our family's dysfunction.
"So what about you?" Mom asks, "You seeing anyone special?"
"Nope, absolutely not."
"And why not? Don't you think it's time for you to get married?"
"Mom, you're upset with Lincoln for getting married after he was in a committed relationship with the same girl for seven years and you want me to get married?"
"Well, you know, it's good for men to be married. Bachelors, I don't know. It's a little suspicious. Like, why haven't you been married before?"
"Things have changed, Mom. No one is married seven times now."
"Listen, you live long enough and things happen," she snaps.
She lifts her hand up in the air and points her finger at me, scolding me as if I were a little child while her bangles make a loud clinking sound.
"Besides, it was six times,” she corrects me. “One of the marriages was annulled if you remember."
"I don't, that was before my time."
"Honestly, you know nothing about your family's history," she says, shaking her head and bringing a martini to her lips.
She always has a cocktail at four in the afternoon.
Mom's life is built on routines and around six, she will go out to dinner with one or two of her friends and then maybe dancing in one of the last jazz clubs left in the area, catering just to the people of certain status on Cape Cod.
It's an invitation only kind of club. In fact, it's part of a country club, but you need a special invitation to be invited to this particular festivity.
"Well, I have another client to meet with," I lie, "so I'll be in touch in a few days."
"Okay, don't forget about your mother," she says, waving goodbye to me and puckering up her face in an exaggerated kiss.
"Bye.” I wave and hang up.
I feel myself drenched in sweat.
This wasn't even that long of a conversation, but my mom always makes me feel a little bit uncomfortable.
Not good enough, not smart enough, subpar in almost every way.
I know that somewhere deep down, she loves me, cares about me, but I wish that part of her would come to the surface a little bit more often.
Lincoln and I have talked about this numerous times and he feels almost the same way, probably a lot worse since he has Marguerite to deal with as well.
Unlike our mom, Marguerite offers him undivided attention and love with no strings attached.
And unfortunately, our mother was never like that with us.
You either had to do what she wanted to do, or you couldn't be part of her life and that was the rule ever since I was a little kid and that's why I’d spent seven years of my life in a boarding school in Maine instead of at home.
15
Dante
When I arrive at the club, the music is already pumping. The dance floor is filled with couples and singles living life to the fullest. At least that's what it felt like the first time I came here.
This organiza
tion offered me solace. It offered me a life without the entanglements of modern romantic life.
My brother, Lincoln, had been together with his girlfriend for years. He was always that kind of guy. In high school, he dated the same girl for three years, and anyone who's ever been to high school knows that's like a century at that age.
After she broke his heart, he met a fiery yet incredibly shy redhead with freckles over almost every inch of her body. She had always been like a little sister to me.
Friendly, cute, always hanging around, Marguerite was around when all we wanted to do was relax and play video games. The freckles are probably the main reason my mom doesn't like her.
Lincoln and I have never talked about it, but Mom looks down on red heads. The ones that go to the salon, not so much, but the ones with naturally red hair really irk her.
The irony of the situation, of course, is that her family hails from Scotland, where you can't throw a stone without hitting someone with bright auburn hair.
I have been to The Redemption Club in Seattle a number of times. I usually like to get a drink, nurse it slowly in the lounge area while picking out the girl that I'd like to spend my time with.
Single men aren't particularly welcome in this environment, but on occasion they make exceptions, especially if you fit a certain physique, you have a certain look, and you're willing to pay the astronomical initiation fee.
Two girls walk past me, and they giggle and take a seat across from me on the plush, rich velvet couch.
One of them is wearing a skirt that's so short I can practically see her underwear, and she complains about how itchy the seat is to her friend. Her friend eyes me, blinking her long false eyelashes in my direction.
I take the bait.
They're pretty, friendly, probably a few years older than I am, but then again, that's kind of sexy in its own way.
"Our husbands are right over there," they say, and I watch as they grind against two girls on the dance floor.
In any other club under any other circumstances, there would be rules about this. I'd feel a little nervous flirting, approaching them.
Maybe they shouldn't be here with their husbands, I think, but who am I to judge?
But at Redemption, nothing is off limits. They're here because they're in an open relationship and they like to have fun.
"So what do you two like to do?" I ask.
"I'm a flight attendant," one says.
"And I'm an actress." The blonde extends her hand, and instead of shaking it, I kiss the back.
She smiles and giggles again.
"How long have you been coming here with your husbands?" I ask.
"Long enough.” The flight attendant nods.
"Are they interested in joining us?" I ask.
The flight attendant shakes her head and the actress takes a sip of her martini.
“So, is that what you girls do? You come here, pick up a strange man, and take him to the back?"
"Yes, while our husbands do the same," they say, licking their lips.
I consider that for a moment. That wouldn’t exactly be my cup of tea if I were married, but I'm not the one who's married to them.
"Okay. Let's go," I say, narrowing my eyes.
They're pretty and fun and look like they could be a nice romp in the sack, which is kind of exactly what I'm looking for after a stressful workday.
I take one by the hand and place the other one's arm around my waist.
The three of us walk past the dance floor, and their husbands smile with approval in our direction while kissing on two voluptuous brunettes, who have their hands on their cocks.
When I get to the back room with the women, my hands immediately start to run up and down their curves, and they each kiss me on my neck.
I can tell that they're comfortable with one another.
I haven't been in this position in a while. As the lights dim and we make our way over to the bed, my thoughts return to Jacqueline.
She doesn't know that I have been following her.
She doesn't know that it wasn't an accident that we met at Redemption back in New York.
She can never know.
I thought that if we were together once, everything would be fine.
I'd get this out of my system and I could move on with my life, but in reality, it added fuel to the fire.
Now, everything in me burns for her, and even being here in this room with these two gorgeous women. It isn't enough to take my mind away.
"I'm sorry. I can't." I pull away, suddenly realizing how pathetic I am.
They're surprised.
I'm lying on my back, and they're lying on either side of me running their fingers up and down my body.
One of them kisses me again, playing with my earlobe. "Come on, baby. Stay. You can just watch."
"Yeah, we need you," the other whispers. "We don't get to come here often. Once every three months is the only time that we can play. You don't want to ruin our evening, do you?"
“I’m sorry, but you’ll have to find another guy," I say, shaking my head and sitting up.
I find my shirt on the floor, buckle my pants, and check to see if my wallet, keys, and phone are still inside.
"This has nothing to do with you. You two are gorgeous. Breathtaking. You're going to make some guy feel incredibly lucky."
I walk out the door before I can change my mind.
Even a week ago, this wouldn't have happened. I would have had a good time, enjoying myself, got a little too drunk after, and then flew off to my next work assignment without a second thought.
I like this system and this routine, just like I like all of my other routines. It gives me something comforting to look forward to, something to put me at ease.
But then I went to The Redemption Club in New York and I saw her there, everything changed.
It was supposed to be a visit just like any other, and that was the last place that I thought I would find her.
I've watched her troll the bars. I watch her go home with different guys, worried that they might take advantage of her, but she was never that intoxicated, and she seemed to know what she was doing. She was there looking for the same thing that they were looking for.
But then when I saw her at Redemption, everything changed. The world tilted on its axis.
How did she find out about this place? Why is she here? Is it just a coincidence?
I wanted to talk to her, so I asked her to dance, and then my body took over.
Everything that I knew was the right thing to do in my head I couldn't make myself do. She has no idea about my past, and she thought that it was just a casual meeting like any other, except of course it wasn't.
As soon as I'd seen her, I knew that we had to be together, and when I touched her hand and our bodies ground against each other’s on the dance floor, I knew that I had to feel her naked underneath me.
I hate this about myself.
I hate the obsessiveness, the stalker behavior, but I can't make myself stop.
I feel like a loser, someone who can't just come forward and say what they want and ask a girl out to their face, but there are rules now.
She doesn't know that Dante is my real name. We were supposed to give out a pseudonym. She also doesn't know that I know that Jacqueline is hers.
I couldn't help but tell her the truth about my job, mostly because I was lying about so much other crap. I want something in our relationship to be true.
I get back to the hotel room, get on my laptop, and start to track her again. I check her emails and then log into her iCloud account to see her texts.
My mom doesn't want to do it. She's worried about the debt, Jacqueline texts, But I can't let her die. She has done so much for me, and she has been through so much. I just feel like such a fool for not trying to find a good paying job sooner.
Her mother's cancer is back, and she needs an experimental procedure that costs at least $75,000 upfront with no results promised or guaranteed.
What's a good paying job going to do? It would have to be incredibly good paying to come up with 250K, Allison texts back.
What am I going to do? Are you sure that OnlyFans isn't going to work or some sort of escort service? Jacqueline texts.
My heart clenches up.
Are you sure you want to do that? I mean, that's serious, Jacq.
I'm having sex with all these stupid guys anyway. I might as well get some money out of it.
You're having sex with hot guys who are into you. That's very different from prostituting yourself to the highest bidder, since most of them are going to be old and gross and not someone you'd want to be with at all.
I have to come up with $75,000. I already wrote them back that I have it. They're expecting it within the next couple of days, otherwise she can’t travel for the initial treatment.
What about the rest? Besides, it takes months if not years to develop enough clientele to build up that much of a bank roll, Allison writes. You're not going to be able to do it so quickly. You'll get a few thousand at the most.
What other choice do I have?
The conversation ends there, and I look at the timestamp. Fifteen minutes pass, and they don’t say anything else.
I've been watching Jacqueline for some time, but I never knew this part about her life. I knew her mom had some health problems, he had mentioned that.
But this experimental treatment? This aggressive cancer? I had no idea.
I pace around the hotel room trying to figure out a way to help.
If I send her the money, then she'll know who it's from and she might not take it.
But what if it was sent somewhere else?
What if I send the money to the clinic directly?
The whole $250,000, as an anonymous sponsor?
She won't be able to find out that it's me, and the world would be a little bit of a better place.
16
Jacqueline
I drop my mom off at the oncology appointment, and tell her that I'm going to run a few errands while she's there with the doctor.
Dark Intentions, #1 Page 7
