by Brenda Joyce
23
She was leaving tomorrow.
He hadn’t seen her or heard from her in almost a week.
Vince was going crazy. He was unbearably hard up, thinking about her night and day. And irritable. The guys at work had started to give him a lot of space. Which was fine.
There was a limit to how often he could fuck his wife in place of Belinda.
And Mary these days was impossible. Her drinking was out of hand. The house was a wreck. He couldn’t go home without becoming livid. And more and more she wasn’t even there. Out. Partying. It was a relief, and at the same time it wasn’t.
The thought had briefly occurred to him that she might be having an affair. That should make him happy, make him feel less guilty, but it didn’t. It made him furious. After all, she was his wife. What he was doing was wrong, he knew it, but he was in love, and he hadn’t meant for it to happen. It just had—he couldn’t help himself.
The first time he had ever seen Belinda had been at a party.
A stunning blonde in a skintight red dress, sleeveless, strapless, clinging—and she had looked at him, had smiled at him. With promise.
He knew a come-on when he saw it.
It was totally out of character.
She was a fantasy. It was a fantasy.
He had followed her.
Mary was off somewhere outside, drinking and doing lines with mutual friends. They were inside, in the living room, on opposite sides. With another hot, hot look she turned and started up the stairs. Her ass was high and round and perfect for his hands.
He followed.
He had never cheated on Mary before.
But he couldn’t help himself.
They did it on the floor, without getting undressed. He shoved her dress up to her waist, momentarily stunned to find that she was wearing stockings and a garter belt and nothing else. He explored her with his hands, his fingers, to find her wet and slick. She deftly unzipped his trousers and pulled him out. “Oh, my,” she said throatily. Her only words.
He grabbed her buttocks and thrust wildly into her. She clamped her legs around his waist and arched back. It was an animal rutting—plain fucking. They came within seconds, almost together.
He had watched her as she sat up, adjusted her black stockings, pulled down her dress, stood and smoothed it. Then she looked at him. Staring. He didn’t have the foggiest notion what she was thinking.
He knew only one thing. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and he wanted her again.
Mary never suspected a thing.
Three weeks later Belinda had finally agreed to see him again—the three longest weeks of his life.
Belinda did that. She made time slow down—and speed up.
Just as she made it hard for him to think straight.
He had told her many times in the heat of passion that he loved her, but he meant every word. He was afraid to say it without the passion to blunt the effect. She hadn’t said anything, Not even that she was crazy about him. Nothing. No words of love. No words of affection. Nothing.
He picked up the phone. He was at his local 7-Eleven; he couldn’t dial from the house. He called her again, and for the zillionth time there was no answer. Just where the hell was she?
More importantly—who the fuck was she with?
24
The house was a wreck, but Mary didn’t care. She took a long time showering and pampering herself, moisturizing all over, then spritzing herself with an exotic, earthy musk. She slipped on shorts and a halter and waited for Beth to arrive.
Beth.
She was hot and wet with desire.
Six months ago she would have fainted if anyone had told her she was going to be having an affair, any affair, much less one with a woman.
Not that she didn’t still like men. She did. She still enjoyed Vince, but it was nothing compared to Beth. Vince turned her on—but he couldn’t get her off.
She had come the first time Beth had made love to her.
They had been sunbathing outside on lounge chairs. Three weeks ago, during a warm spell. Mary was aware of Beth’s eyes, which seemed to restlessly rove her body, dwelling on her breasts. But she didn’t think about it. They were both hung over, and Mary was used to the attention her bosom attracted.
Mary had looked, however, when Beth had casually removed her top, revealing round, nice-sized breasts, all tan, the nipples brown and hard. Beth dressed in such a manner that all you ever saw of her was her long legs and small hips. Mary was very envious of her body. It was superb.
When Mary had turned over, untying the string of her top, Beth offered to rub lotion on her back. Her hands stroked the oil into Mary’s skin with slow, sensual motions, first kneading her neck and shoulders, then her back.
“You need a massage,” Beth had breathed. “You’re so tight.”
“That feels great,” Mary said. It did feel great. She was warm and relaxed.
Beth’s hands slid up the sides of her rib cage, grazing Mary’s breasts. Mary tensed. The hands moved away, lust when she was relaxed again, it happened again. If Mary had known better or if Beth had been a guy, she would have been sure she was copping a feel. Mary felt depraved. Beth’s touch had sent a wet heat spiraling down her body.
Beth’s hands brushed her bikini-clad buttocks, and began to massage the back of one thigh. Mary realized she was becoming aroused. Beth’s hands, spread wide on her thigh, moved up and down, coming closer and closer to her swelling groin. Briefly making contact. Then a hard nipple grazed her back, and suddenly Beth’s hand was stroking her, gently, expertly—and it was like nothing Mary had ever felt before.
“Let me make love to you,” Beth had gasped.
Mary’s body said yes and her mind said no. Torn, she didn’t say anything. Beth slid down, pressing herself against Mary’s buttocks, rubbing her nipples against Mary’s back, her hands slipping under to capture Mary’s breasts. The heat between them was electric and overwhelming.
She slid off and pulled Mary’s bikini off, turning her over. Mary closed her eyes. This is wrong, she was thinking. This is really wrong.
Then she felt Beth’s tongue probing between her legs, and it was like nothing she had ever felt before.
Ten minutes later, to her complete surprise, she had an incredible orgasm.
Now she sipped a beer. She didn’t care that she was bisexual. It was fun—and more. Never had she reached the heights that Beth brought her to. The problem was, Beth had fallen in love with her and was making demands. She wanted Mary to leave Vince and move in with her. Mary wasn’t sure she wanted to do that.
What would her mother say?
Mary imagined something like: “If you lost a little weight, you wouldn’t have to turn to girls—you could have men for lovers.”
But that wasn’t right. She had Vince. He was certainly all male.
Still, her mother would find some way, no matter how illogical, to tie her few extra pounds in with her affair with Beth.
Mary hadn’t seen her mother in six months. Fortunately, she had been in Paris this fall with some new man. Mary had read in the society column that the divorce was final. Her mother’s new lover was even younger than her last husband. It made Mary sick.
She was back in town. Mary had read that, too, in the paper. She was going to call any day, and Mary avoided answering the phone. She wanted to avoid seeing her too, as far as possible. Her mother loved to show off her men. Her mother loved to compare them to Vince. Her mother had never forgiven her for marrying a carpenter. Mary knew it was the ultimate hypocrisy. Her mother’s affairs were always with young, poor men. (Well, poorer than she was.) It was okay for her, but not for her daughter. She hated her mother sometimes.
She heard Beth’s car and put down the beer. Beth appeared, clad in a sarong-type skirt, tanned and slim and smiling. Their eyes locked. “Hi,” Beth said, hugging her.
Mary hugged her back.
Her mother would hate Beth.
25
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Of course Jack had forgiven her for bringing Janet to him.
But not right away.
The five days following Janet’s arrival had been hell.
He hadn’t spoken to Melody except for business purposes the next day, the day after he had seen Janet, and he had ignored her at the Cohens’ party, still angry, acting like a spoiled child who was holding a grudge. Melody had realized her mistake. Her ploy had turned into a total disaster. Jack was furious. Really furious, in a way she had rarely seen him, and this time he was furious at her.
Her fear was sick and cloying.
The hurt was overwhelming.
Her weekend in Santa Monica had also been a disaster. All she could think of was that she had lost Jack’s friendship, his love—even if it was platonic. She had cried on and off, miserable, frightened, depressed. He had returned from New York that next Tuesday, after having done a morning talk show, and they had met at his office in L.A. Jack was cool and distant all day.
At four, just before they were ready to leave for the day, Melody had gone in. “Jack?”
“I was just about to leave.” He spoke with none of his old friendliness.
Tears flooded her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m here to apologize. I made a mistake.”
“Damn right you did,” he said tersely. “Don’t you ever interfere in my private life again. My private life is just that—private.”
Aghast, Melody stood and watched him walk out.
The next morning she was waiting for him in his office when he arrived. Her eyes were swollen and red. She handed him her resignation with two weeks’ notice.
The moment he read it, still standing, he lifted his green eyes, wide with shock—and panic. “Mel!”
She bit her lip and hurried out.
He ran after her. “What do you mean, you’re quitting?” he shouted, waving the letter she had so carefully composed.
“Just what it says, Jack,” she replied, her voice quavering.
He seemed speechless. Finally he spoke. “You can’t.”
“Jack, I can’t work for you anymore.”
Jack’s hand, holding the letter, shook. “I thought we were friends. I’m sorry, I’ve been a prick. I apologize. Melody, you can’t leave.”
“But …” she began, the tears escaping.
“Mel—please. Don’t desert me.”
She stared.
“You’re my best friend.”
His eyes were panic-stricken. Like a frightened boy’s. How could she hurt him like this, she wondered. He needed her—he always had. And he had no one else.
“I won’t leave, Jack,” she had whispered finally, her face wet.
He was suddenly upon her, hugging her, holding her tightly so that her face was pressed against his chest. He had never held her so intimately before. She could feel his hands in her hair. And then she felt his mouth—he kissed the top of her head, then the side near her ear. She actually trembled. She was in Jack’s arms. The way she had always dreamed of—almost.
He hadn’t held her like that since.
Now he was hanging up the phone with barely contained irritation. He had been speaking with the Dean of Boys at Beverly Hills Day School. Melody didn’t have to have heard the conversation to know that Rick was in trouble again for fighting. She wondered how much Jack would have to “donate” this time to keep Rick from being expelled. He had already given fifty thousand just to get him in. But keeping him in was proving expensive. Worse, Jack was all torn up over the brat, and he didn’t deserve this. He’d already suffered enough.
“Is everything okay, Jack?”
He sighed. “Yeah.” Then, “How do you do it, Mel?”
“How do I do what?” She had no idea what he was talking about.
“How do you deal with the nights?”
Melody stared.
“Ah, shit,” Jack said. “I have a date with whatshername, and I’m not in the mood. Christ, am I bored. Thank God we start shooting soon!”
Hope surged in Melody. Was he finally tiring of all those mindless bimbos? “How about dinner, Jack? My treat.”
He looked at her. “I don’t know. I’m so restless. You know, the only thing I hate about this North-Star contract is its exclusivity. Shit, I could have done a couple of commercials, at least, in the past few months. Don’t you have plans tonight, Mel?”
She smiled wanly. “Me?”
He seemed to really focus on her for the first time. “You don’t get out much, do you? Aren’t you lonely at night? Or are you just very discreet?”
Melody looked away, taken completely by surprise. What should she say? The truth? Her heart was thudding. “I’m human, Jack,” she finally said.
His beautiful, slightly sad eyes searched hers. “What do you mean?”
“I’m not discreet. And I am lonely.” Very lonely. For you.
Jack stared, his face filling with compassion. “I’m sorry.”
Melody wanted to lean close and lay her head against his shoulder. As if reading her mind, Jack pulled her close, embracing her with one arm. “Life’s tough.”
Melody would have given anything to make the moment last forever. She looked into his eyes. Unplanned, the words came out soft and serious:
“Jack, I don’t want to be alone tonight.”
26
“You got Adam Gordon on the line?”
“I’m sorry, sir,” came the cool voice. “He’s out of his office for the afternoon.”
“What do you mean?” Abe roared. “Try his home. Have you left a message? Doesn’t he at least call in for his messages?”
“I’ve left two messages, Mr. Glassman.”
Abe hung up, annoyed and angry. He could picture Adam, tall, dark, handsome in a slick way, so sure of himself, so arrogant. He liked that about Adam. He was man enough to stand up to him, but only to a point. The smart point. He knew which side his bread was buttered on.
Of course, it helped that Abe had a daughter worth billions, if he chose it to be so.
It helped that Adam was greedy.
It helped even more that Abe could ruin him in one second if he wanted to. L.A. was used to perversity, but Adam was a corporate lawyer, working in a big, very big, and even more conservative firm, and if Abe made public some of Adam’s inclinations …
Abe wanted an update. It had been so easy, getting Adam and Belinda together. Too easy, he realized now. All he’d had to do was make clear that he despised Gordon, and Belinda had practically run into his arms. Yet now it was almost five months later, and he hadn’t heard any wedding bells. He was starting to get pissed off. Adam said it was the Outrage sale, that all her energies had gone toward that. Which just confirmed what Abe already knew—that if his daughter got her career going, she’d be impossible to control. He’d never get her married off, never get his grandson, his heir …
His resolve had never been stronger.
This time, Belinda! he thought with satisfaction.
Soon. It wouldn’t be long now before he’d be able to move openly on North-Star. “Hah!” He laughed aloud. Two birds with one stone. He couldn’t wait to see the expression on Ford’s face when he realized he was now owned by Abe Glassman. Lock, stock, and barrel.
And if Belinda dared to complain, dared to be outraged, (he liked the pun), well, he’d tell her the truth. The truth about her mother. The reason he was destroying Ford. And if she was still upset, so what? In the long run she would adjust, and it would be for the best. Every woman, no matter how “liberated,” wanted a husband and family, and one day, one day when her son had it all, she’d thank him …
It was so funny. As smart as she was—and grudgingly, he had to admit she was no slouch—she was foolish enough to think she could beat him. To think she had beaten him. He shook his head.
When she had finally graduated college after that two-year fiasco with Rod Barnett, he had had a son-in-law all picked out. Bright, attractive, good bloodlines. The perfect father for his grandchildren
. Or so he had thought.
Belinda had met David Shaeffer and quickly picked up on the fact that there was some matchmaking going on. In her usual, blunt, forthright style, she had called him on it. Abe had told her the way it was. “You’re twenty-three, almost twenty-four, and not getting any younger. You wasted two years with that schmuck. Where are my grandchildren?”
“I don’t believe you,” she had said, staring.
“What’s there to believe? I don’t have a son. I’ve spent my whole life building up this empire—and not for Uncle Sam. I want a grandson, Belinda, and you won’t find anyone better than David Shaeffer.”
“I don’t love him,” she said, stunned.
“So what? What does love have to do with anything? That’s bullshit. Lust. That’s all it is—then it’s gone. Do you know why I married your mother?”
“I’m afraid to ask.”
“Because she had everything I wanted in a wife—in the mother of my children. Class, breeding, manners.” Or so I thought.
“I’m not marrying David Schaeffer,” she said.
And she hadn’t.
But not, as she thought, because she had chosen not to. Rather, Abe had found out that David was a frigging closet fairy. Jesus! That’s all he needed, a goddamn faggot for a son-in-law. What if his grandson turned out the same way?
So he had dropped the issue temporarily. It wasn’t easy finding the right man for a son-in-law. There were dozens of possibilities, but always some flaw—some weakness—that disqualified them. The most important thing was that the man be controllable but not weak. A very difficult balance. The minute he met Adam, he had sensed that he was it—if he could find some way of controlling him. He hadn’t had to look very hard.
With Belinda, it was harder. Damn the Worths for giving her that million-dollar trust anyway. It gave her just enough financial independence. But it hadn’t stopped him from manipulating her through other means. Rod Barnett had been easy: money. Abe had finally paid the bum to walk out of her life, That and the threat of some physical impairment, Other manipulations had to be psychological, as with Adam Gordon. And then there was her career—her would-be career. By ruining the sale, he kept her vulnerable. One day she’d have to turn to him for help with her career—and he would gladly make her a success. For a price. An heir.
