Lovers and Liars

by Brenda Joyce

  “Okay.”

  “You and me—we’re spending the whole damn weekend together.”

  “All right.”

  He suddenly smiled, and so did she. He pulled her closer and she came willingly, burying her face in his shoulder. So warm, so hard, so male, so … Jack.

  She wondered if she should tell him she had canceled her plans with Adam that morning.

  She wondered if she dared to tell him everything.

  107

  The weekend passed too quickly.

  They walked on the beach holding hands and made love. They swam in the sea and chased each other like porpoises and made love. They ate smoked salmon and bagels and cream cheese and stayed up to watch The Late Show and made love. They ran at sunrise along the surf; they flew a kite until they dropped; they grilled Pacific king salmon on the deck overlooking the ocean. They made love on the dunes, on the bed, in the shower, in the sand, in the Jacuzzi, and on the kitchen table, among peanut butter and banana sandwiches and frozen yogurt shakes.

  It was Monday morning, but still black as pitch outside. Jack lay next to Belinda, unable to sleep, listening to the rhythm of the surf. Mingled with the sound of the waves thundering against the shore was Belinda’s steady breathing. He restlessly fixed the pillow beneath his head, tossed uncomfortably, punched the pillow once, then threw it on the floor.

  Shit.

  He’d been awakened by that fucking dream—the dream about his mother.

  Except, once again, instead of it being his mother on the porch of his house, disappearing, it had been Belinda. It was stupid, his unconscious. He didn’t know what the hell it meant. He didn’t care what it meant.

  It was growing lighter out. He turned to look at Belinda, beautiful even in sleep. Today the weekend, which had been just perfect, was over. Today was Monday.

  Today he was going to ask her to marry him.

  The feeling in his gut was like a cramp, the feeling behind his temple a definite ache. He wouldn’t think about it. About what he was doing.

  He got up and silently made his way into the kitchen. He toasted an English muffin and put up water for instant hot chocolate. He stared out the window, watching the sun rise in a glorious ball of orange. He imagined proposing. More cramping. He had never thought about marriage before, not really, but maybe deep inside he had all the same feelings as anyone else—all the romantic illusions of love, hearth, and home. Why else would he be tortured by this feeling of dread?

  “Jack?”

  He whipped around.

  “I didn’t mean to scare you,” Belinda said, rubbing her eyes. “Why are you up so early?”

  She had thrown on one of her silk robes, paper-thin and barely belted. Her hair was disheveled, testimony to all the rocking and rolling they’d done before in bed. She squinted at him—she wore contacts and was nearsighted without them. He smiled suddenly. “Come here.”

  She came, protesting. “I’m tired. Let’s go back to bed.”

  He pulled her into his embrace. He buried his face in her hair. Yesterday he’d told her he loved her, because it was important he make a declaration before proposing. Now the words popped out in a husky, unpremeditated whisper. “I love you,” he said and instantly marveled at himself—at his role-playing. Because it was role-playing.

  Except—it didn’t exactly feel like any role he’d ever played before.

  She clung to him, lifting her face for a kiss.

  Instead he said, urgently, “Marry me.”

  “What?”

  “I love you. Marry me. Please.”

  “Jack!” Belinda said, stunned. All remnants of sleep fled.

  “Don’t you love me?” he asked huskily, persuasively. “Just a little?”

  “You have great timing,” she said, but she wasn’t angry. “Can’t I have a cup of coffee first?”

  “Not until you answer the question,” he said. He couldn’t have put a teasing note in his tone if he’d been up for an Oscar. Not then. “Belinda?”

  “You know I do, don’t you,” she said, falling helplessly, a victim of Jack Ford. Hadn’t she known all along it would be this way—that she was helpless to resist anything he wanted?

  He smiled. Laughing slightly, triumphantly, he cupped her face. “Tell me!” he demanded.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Yes, you’ll marry me?”

  “Yes, I’ll marry you, and yes, I love you,” she said, watching his eyes. There was no mistaking the leap of elation. He hugged her hard, then swung her around until they knocked into the kitchen table, causing a straw catchall with all its contents to roll off and spill to the floor. He hugged her. “Today—well get married today.”

  “Today?”

  “Today. We’ll fly into Vegas—just you and me and a couple of witnesses off the street. No press. We’ll go right away.”

  When are you going to tell him about the baby? she asked herself. “Why are you rushing?”

  “So you don’t change your mind,” he said, then began dragging her down the hall. “Come on. While you get dressed I’ll charter a noon flight out of LAX.”

  “Jack,” she protested, grinding to a halt. “It’s not even seven. We have plenty of time.”

  “You’re not going to change your mind?”

  She should do it; she couldn’t. “No, God help me, I’m not. But maybe I’d better warn you, Jack …”

  He clasped her buttocks in his hands, pulling her tightly against him. “Uh-oh!”

  “Uh-oh is right. Your days of other women are over. If we’re getting married, this is the real thing—I won’t do it half-assed.”

  He was amused. “Would I ask you to marry me if I wanted to screw around? I don’t think any man has other women on his mind when he proposes.”

  “I’m serious. Marriage means commitment and fidelity.”

  “I agree,” he said, surprising her. “And that means I’ll kill you if I ever catch you with the Adam Gordons of the world.”

  She felt pleased. “Jealous?”

  “No. Why should I be? You love me. We’re getting married today. I’m very, very happy.”

  He loves me. We’re getting married. I love him. So this is love.

  Love and lies.

  How could a marriage start with so many unspoken lies between them?

  Tell him, Belinda. Tell him now, before it’s too late.

  She couldn’t.

  Six hours later they were married in the Happy Day wedding chapel just off the Strip in Las Vegas.

  108

  “Do come in, Miss Griffin,” Abe said, smiling.

  Melody walked into the spacious, airy foyer that opened onto an even larger and airier living room. Abe gestured her to a couch. On the coffee table was a pot of hot coffee and cups and saucers. “Help yourself,” Abe said, his black eyes never leaving her.

  “No, thank you,” Melody said, primly crossing her legs and folding her hands in her lap.

  “Now,” Abe said, sprawling comfortably on the opposite couch. “Just what could we possibly have in common with regard to your boss?”

  “His worst interests,” Melody said, staring back.

  “And exactly what do you mean by that?”

  “I mean,” Melody said slowly, “that if you want to destroy Jack, I can help. I want to help.”

  “How do I know you’re not a spy?” Abe said.

  “Because I’m going to give you something that will prove it.” Melody smiled. “By destroying Jack.”

  “And I assume that what you want to give me is in that satchel?”

  Melody pulled out the video. Abe’s eyes narrowed on the tape, then lifted to meet hers. “It’s Jack. Porn.”

  Abe smiled, then laughed. “How much?”

  Melody hadn’t thought about selling the information. But now it seemed like a good idea. If she had some money, a nest egg, she could quit and find another job. And be free. The thought was intriguing—and frightening. “I don’t know. I hadn’t thought about it. Ten thou
sand?”

  Abe laughed. “Five.”

  “Seven fifty.”

  “Deal. Half now, the rest after I’ve reviewed the goods to make sure it is what you say.”

  “No,” Melody said softly. “All now. Cash.”

  Abe gave her a grudging look and took the video and walked across the room to a videocasette player. He stuck it in and turned on the TV. And when he saw what he had been promised, he laughed softly, triumphantly. He turned it off and crossed to a safe in the far wall, taking out the cash and putting it in Melody’s hands. “Do you mind my asking about the history of this tape?”

  “When Jack first came to L.A. he accepted money for sex. Frequently.”

  Abe stared. “He sold his damn prick?”

  “Actually, the cover was that he was an escort. The escort service is still around. It’s called Escorts International. He worked for them for two years at least that I know of. I met him in ’79, and about a month later he quit.”

  Abe was smiling.

  “He told me about it once. There were lots of parties, orgies. Men and women, together. Jack never did anything with another man, not that I know of Sometimes there were cameras at these parties. The man who throws them is very big here in town—very respectable. You probably know him.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Bart Shelley, the director.”

  Abe knew him, of course. “How did you get the film?”

  “A private investigator stole it.”

  “Tell him thank you from me,” Abe said.

  When Melody left, she was feeling the best she had in years. And she was wondering when Abe Glassman would use the film. And how.

  Anticipation was sweet.

  109

  Impatiently he glanced at the huge clock in front of the store.

  Five to five.

  Five more minutes and he could take off his red Safeway apron and hit the streets.

  Rick was on his knees, stocking the lower shelf with toilet paper. The job was okay. Boring, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that he had gotten it, and Friday he was getting his first paycheck, which according to his calculations would be only for sixty-eight dollars. But that was okay too.

  He couldn’t wait to see the expression on Jack’s face when he handed him fifty dollars.

  Jack would probably drop dead from surprise. Rick felt proud just thinking about it, a swelling kind of feeling in his chest. He knew he had really let Jack down by stealing from him, and this was the only way he could think of to redeem himself. He couldn’t wait until Jack got back from Santa Barbara.

  Five o’clock.

  Rick ran into the back, hung up his apron, threw his nametag into his pocket, and half raced, half walked out of the store, saying good-bye to a few of the packers and checkers he knew. On the street outside he paused, glancing around.

  “Rick!”

  He saw the maroon Mercedes that belonged to Lydia’s mom, which Lydia was driving. He rushed forward, leaping in beside her. “Hi,” he said, grinning.

  “Hi yourself. Hungry?” She was already tooling out of the parking lot.

  “Starved.”

  “McDonald’s?”

  “Sounds perfect.”

  Lydia ran a red light, laughing, than squealed around a corner. Rick laughed too. She was a crazy driver. At first it had bothered him but not anymore. At the next light, which she stopped for, he threw his arm around her and kissed her. “You always smell so good,” he said, almost complaining.

  “Girls are supposed to smell good,” Lydia retorted. “No feels in the car, Rick—you’ll make me have an accident.”

  Rick laughed and didn’t remove his hand. “Me make you have an accident? That’s the funniest thing I ever heard!”

  She smacked his hand, which was on her thigh, and hit the accelerator. The Mercedes barred! forward.

  “Let’s go to the beach after,” Rick said.

  “Okay.”

  Rick leaned his head back against the upholstery and once again thought about the expression Jack would have on his face when he gave him the money. He chuckled.

  “What’s so funny?”

  Rick shrugged. “I guess I’m just feeling good.”

  110

  Two nights in a row.

  And last night he had told her she was a knockout.

  Even his Brooklyn accent made her cream.

  Mary smiled brightly as Abe handed her a glass of Chablis. The couch dipped as he sat next to her, smiling. “We’re gonna celebrate tonight, doll, whaddya say?”

  “Let’s start right now,” Mary said, snuggling closer.

  He laughed. “You’re the horniest broad I’ve ever met, Mary. And I like this dress on you.”

  “Thank you,” Mary said. Last night he had given her more money, told her to buy herself another knockout dress. Told her he liked seeing her in dresses, low-cut ones. Mary had never felt sexier or more powerful than she did now. She had even lost two pounds. From all the fucking, she was sure.

  “How old are you, Mary?”

  Mary looked at him. “Twenty-four. Going on twenty-five.”

  “You like kids?”

  She blinked. “I guess so.”

  “How come you don’t have any?”

  “I’m only twenty-four, Abe.”

  “How come you don’t have any?” he repeated impatiently.

  “Vince said we couldn’t afford it yet.”

  “Kids are expensive,” Abe said in agreement. Then he put down his beer and pulled her onto his lap. “C’mere.” He pulled her bodice down, freeing her breasts. He groaned. Mary felt her groin turn to liquid. He crushed her breasts in his two large hands, his mouth on hers, his tongue invading.

  He pulled her into the bedroom. They stripped hastily, breathlessly, as if they were teenagers. “Look at us.” Abe laughed. “Like a couple of goddamn kids.” But his eyes were dark and unlaughing as they moved over her body.

  Mary laughed, too, huskily and shakily, lying back on the bed, spreading her legs. Abe loomed over her with his huge red penis swollen and stiff, looking down on her. “I’ve never given you head, have I, Mary?” he said.

  He knelt on the bed between her thighs, pushing them farther apart. “Spread ’em as far as you can. Farther. Come on, bend your knees …” She gasped when his thumbs spread her pussy lips and his tongue began a slow, patient journey, traveling back and forth over her hugely swollen clit, washing it devoutly until she came, screaming.

  He chuckled.

  He shifted around with his head still between her legs and his cock over her face, dipping for her mouth. She grabbed him and nibbled, then began sucking the huge hammerlike head. He grabbed her cheeks to hold her in place and licked. Mary came again with Abe’s face buried in her cunt. When reality returned she became aware of Abe, thrusting deeper and deeper into her throat, half choking her. But she sucked him like a vacuum, and when he started coming in long, thick spurts, she sucked harder, as if to draw every drop out she possibly could.

  “Jesus!” he said, panting.

  “Mmmm.”

  A bit later he said, “I don’t think you want kids.”

  She stared. “What?”

  “I want to set you up, Mary. As my mistress.”

  She sat up. Her breasts bounced. For once Abe did not grab one. She stared.

  “I’m not in love with you—I’m too old for that—but I can’t get enough of you. You know that, don’t you, doll?”

  “Yes,” she managed.

  “I don’t love my wife and I don’t fuck her, but I’ll never leave her. I want to make that clear.” He grinned. “I’ll give you whatever you want, Mary—cars, homes, yachts, furs, jewels. You just have to make me happy.”

  Mary had a vision. She saw herself stepping out of a private jet in a Russian sable, by Fendi, of course. She was wearing a Chanel dress. Around her throat was a choker of diamonds worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. She descended from the jet like royalty. Below, on the concourse, her
mother—clad in blue jeans, without makeup, her hair a mess from the wind—waited, a begging supplicant. Mary looked at Abe.

  He laughed. “I know how to take care of a broad, Mary.”

  “Yes.”

  “But this is an exclusive thing. No other guys. First off, because I don’t ever share what’s mine; second, because of AIDS.”

  “What about Vince?”

  “He’s a loser. I want to fly you and your husband down to Vegas. You two will get divorced—I’ll pay him off if there’s any problems. And when we’re through, Mary, you’ll see, I’ll be generous. You’ll be way ahead of the game. Well?”

  “Yes,” Mary said, breathless, her heart pounding with excitement. Her cunt was so wet and tight she thought she might faint. “Yes, yes.”

  111

  The cunt.

  The no-good, rich-bitch cunt.

  Canceling on him at the last goddamn minute.

  Adam was furious.

  To make matters worse, he hadn’t been able to stay in town that weekend to take her out even for a single night because he would have looked pussy-whipped for changing his plans. So he’d taken Cerisse to Santa Barbara instead of Belinda—the cunt—and of course Cerisse had been amusing, but he was temporarily stalled. Losing time.

  And he’d had to wait a few days before calling her after he got back to town. So it wouldn’t look like he was chasing her. And she wasn’t in. Or she wasn’t answering her phone. Damn and double damn.

  He was not going to forget this.

  Oh, no.

  She wasn’t answering her phone.

  Either that or she was out every night.

  And she hadn’t returned his two calls.

  Peter Lansing was pissed.

  And starting to feel as if he’d been had.

  Just when he was becoming furious, realizing he was right, she called—sounding as sweet as ever, and for some reason Peter felt relief.

  “You free tonight?” he asked bluntly. Wanting to see her. Horny as hell. Maybe more. There was something about Melody. Something so innocent. Sort of like the girl next door. It was possible he was starting to have feelings for her that transcended sex.