by CD Reiss
Once the door closed, I knocked back the shot. The other one was my prop. I looked in the mirror and tried out my customer service smile. Awesome. I was just smashing. And fuck her.
I went out to do my job. I entered the room and said a few hellos, smiling and graciously accepting compliments. Deirdre was at the bar. Jessica was alone at the table, half paying attention to her phone and half pretending she didn’t see me.
I went to the bar and squeezed next to Deirdre. “Hi, I think we’ve met,” I said.
She was more polite than before and nodded, a noncommittal smile playing at her lips. “Yeah. Nice singing.” She tucked a strand of tight curls behind her ear. They bounced right out.
“Thanks. I, uh, I don’t want to launch into this and be rude, but I couldn’t help but notice you came with someone?”
“Yeah. She’s family. She wanted to see you. I knew where you were, so…” She ended with a shrug.
“She’s borderline malevolent.”
“She’s my brother’s wife.”
“Not anymore.”
“You have a lot to learn.” She tried to put the hair behind her ear again, but it sprang in front of her eyes.
I took a deep breath. She was one of seven, and I was alienating her. “I’m sorry. I just don’t understand.”
She considered me deeply. There was something about her, some sadness, a touch of melancholy. She had a deep spring of sorrow. I saw it in her eyes and the way she fought a losing battle with the strand of hair that wouldn’t tuck behind her ear. “Like I said. Family. A man is meant to marry one woman. One life, one wife.”
I wondered for a second if Deirdre lived in the twenty-first century, then I saw her crucifix necklace. I got it then. She was saving Jonathan’s soul by serving Jessica.
“All right,” I said. “I’ll go say hello. You walking over there?”
“In a minute.” She smiled at me. I couldn’t read it. Besides the spring of sadness, I couldn’t read Deirdre at all.
Jessica pretended to see me for the first time when I was halfway to her. Quelling a tidal wave of hatred that would surely overcome even the power of my customer service smile, I sat at the edge of her booth. We were equals. I wouldn’t stand over her as if I was her waitress.
“Nice to see you again,” I lied.
“Same here,” she lied back. “You play beautifully.”
“Thank you.”
“And your voice is heavenly. You’re an artist.”
I put my elbows on the table and fondled my glass of whiskey. “Is there something you want? Being here? Because I do believe in the odd coincidence, but not this one.” I was all smiles. If Rhee saw me, she’d assume I was making friends with a customer.
Jessica looked down at her own drink, a half empty clearish-brownish thing with soda and lime. “You played a song in the middle I didn’t recognize. I mean, let me correct myself. I did recognize it. I asked myself many of the same questions.”
“Were you as honest with yourself as you were with me?”
A smirk played at her lips. “I deserve that.”
I could have pounced, but I didn’t. She wasn’t there to get beat up. She wasn’t there to apologize, and she certainly didn’t come to see me sing. She came to get Jonathan back. As far as I was concerned, I was pissed as hell at him, but I hadn’t decided I was finished with him. So I stayed silent, waiting for her to explain. She didn’t move a muscle unnecessarily. Her face gave away nothing. She didn’t twitch or fondle a glass like I did, and she didn’t have a customer service smile. She had an expression that went deeper. It was more practiced, more ingrained. She had the grace Debbie tried to instill in me. In spades.
“There will come a day when you want to talk to someone.” She reached into her bag and took out a card. “Someone who knows more about who you’re involved with. If you can forgive the little joke I played on you, you can contact me. We can talk.”
She slid the card to me. It was a plain, matte, white business card with her name, number, and an address in the industrial part of Culver City.
It was so wildly classy I resented her all over again. I slipped it into the pocket of my dress. “If I have something to ask, I can just go to Jonathan, don’t you think?”
She sipped her drink. “Has he told you about Rachel?”
“Yes.”
“Everything?”
“I can’t prove a negative. Neither can you. And if you think I’m repeating what he told me so that you can cross-check it… well, that says more about you than it does about me, doesn’t it?”
“Your hostility does the same.” I felt slapped, and I shouldn’t have. She barely moved a muscle or changed her expression, adding to my feelings of inadequacy. “There are a lot of moving parts here, and if I may be honest, you’re out of your depth.”
I rolled my glass between my palms, cooling them, thinking of Jonathan’s porch on our first night together and how he’d used his glass and the ice in it. The shot had loosened me, reducing my stress and inhibitions. I’d walked minefields like Jessica’s before. Unfortunately, I always forgot my map. “So what you’re telling me is you want to help me stay away from your ex-husband, whose heart you broke? No, I don’t think so.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Oh, yes, it is.”
“Things have been put in motion. I wanted to warn you away, so you don’t get hurt.”
I didn’t like threats, especially vague ones. They implied the person making the threat didn’t respect me enough to explicate, and that was guaranteed to twist my knickers in a knot. I tried to keep my game face on. “I’d understand if you just wanted him back, but you want something else.”
“Right now, I’m trying to get you out of harm’s way. I’ll be happy to explain but not here.”
Oh, that was a sneaky trick. I wouldn’t touch it. Wouldn’t believe it. Why would she have my best interests at heart? I thrust myself forward. She didn’t balk. “He has one dick, and it can be inside one woman at a time. Nothing you say will stop me getting peeled off the ceiling every time he puts that astonishing cock in me. If you miss it badly, if you imagine it when your new man’s on top of you, if you think about it when you’re alone with your hands under the sheets, I understand completely. He’s a monster fuck, Mrs. Drazen, and you’re going to have to go through me to get him back.”
Through the slight smile spread over her face, she practically whispered, “You’re a class act.” I tried not to react. I tried to be implacable and cold, and I knew, as sure as it never snows in Los Angeles, that I failed. My face was lemon Jell-O held up by toothpicks. Jessica pushed her glass away and stood. “I’m sure your refinement will keep the astonishing gentleman coming back for more.”
Lemon Jell-O turned to cherry, and if there was a deeper shade of red to turn, I had no idea what flavor it was. She looked over my head and smiled. “Jon, how are you?”
His voice came from over my shoulder like a warm sweater, fresh from the dryer on a cold night. “Fine, Jessica.”
My plan had been to rail at him, to throw rage his way. To let him know he couldn’t have me watched. I had boundaries even if he didn’t, and I didn’t like being stalked. But when he put his hand on the back of my neck as if he owned me, I was awash in gratitude. It was the best possible comeback to Jessica’s jab about my lack of refinement, and I didn’t have to say a word.
Jessica said, “I was just having a word with Monica about her song. It made me think of you. Deirdre, honey, you all right?”
Deirdre had entered the circle, still tucking her stubborn red curl behind her ear. “Yeah.” She turned to Jonathan and punched his arm. “Hey, man.”
“I hope you’re getting a lift home, Dee. Monica and I are leaving.” He looked at his ex-wife. “Jess, I don’t know what you were doing here, but I’m dispensing with all the niceties and saying good-bye.” He squeezed my neck and looked down at me. “You ready?”
“My stuff’s in the dressing room.”
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“Let’s go, then.” He held out his hand and I took it, sliding from the booth as he helped me up.
I walked to the back without saying good-bye, pulling him along. I didn’t start shaking until we were both behind the dressing room door. Before I could even flick on the light, he pushed me against the wall, his mouth on mine, pressing my head to the plaster.
“Jonathan,” I gasped. Didn’t I want to yell at him? Wasn’t I mad about something? I knew I had things to say.
He kissed my neck and stroked my breast through my dress. “The camera. Not mine. I asked Dave to keep an eye on you is all.” He pressed his club of a cock against me.
Fuck it. Fuck explanations. Fuck boundaries. Whatever he said was good enough for me if it let him take me right then.
With both hands under my skirt, he kneaded my ass as he kissed me. His finger looped in the crotch of my fancy Bordelle panties and yanked them. I pulled one leg out, and he draped it over his hip, opening me to him. He taunted my nipple through my dress, drawing his thumbnail against it before putting his whole hand over my breast.
I undid his pants and released him. He put one hand on my chest, leaning into me, and he used the other to guide himself in me, which he did with a hard, fast thrust.
Eyelids half-mast with pleasure, he thrust again, even harder. I squeaked when his dick hit the end of me. He put my other leg over his hip so I was wrapped around him. He leveraged me against the wall with his body, a fulcrum where we were joined, the base of all that held us together.
I put my hands on his face, and he took them off, holding them down.
“You ready, goddess?”
“Take me.”
He grunted as he pushed hard, getting so deep it hurt. Without a moment’s hesitation, he pounded me again, forcing me against the wall as if he wanted to punch through it. Again and again he took me, hard and fast, pushing into a tingling warmth, forcing pleasure to current through me, the base of his cock slamming my clit over and over.
“Look at me,” he demanded in a husky voice. I did, though my hair was falling into my eyes. My breath was timed to his thrusts. “You talk to me, do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.” I could barely understand myself.
“Never shut me out.”
“Never. Oh, God. Jonathan. My king.”
“Don’t come, Monica.” He slowed down, angling himself differently so I felt him inside me, deep, hard, deliberate. “Don’t let your emotions get the best of you. Talk. To. Me.” He thrust with every word, sending me into a place where verbalization was nearly impossible.
“Yes.”
“What do you want to say?” he asked.
“Let me come?”
“No. What else?” He slammed into me and ground against me, pushing all the way in, his face by mine, his scent of leather and earth and clean laundry overtaking me. “Why did you shut me out?”
“I’m scared. You scare me.”
He cupped my cheek. “Why?”
The room wasn’t well lit, but I saw the green in his eyes where the lights from the parking lot cut through the window blinds. “You can hurt me, Jonathan. You can do damage.”
He stroked my bottom lip with his thumb. “Your honesty is beautiful.” He pulled out and pushed into me again, jamming himself against my wide-open sex.
“Again, please,” I begged.
He thrust into me again. And again, until I thought I’d explode from the crotch out in a spray of screams. My breath got raspy and hard, my chest hurt with the effort to move air through my body when I wanted to stop breathing completely. He put his hand over my mouth and took me fast and hard. I came, crying out into his palm. He put his chest to mine, his cheek against my face, and with a long groan, he filled me, jerking and rocking. I felt his warm breath on my neck, his hand sliding down my sweat-coated face, whispering my name. We leaned against each other for a minute, breathing together, until he kissed my cheek.
“You’re staying with me tonight, at least,” he said softly.
“Why?”
He kissed my mouth again and said, “Your house and your car need to be swept for cameras. I can’t let you go back there until it’s clean.”
“What if whoever put that there was really after you? How do you know your house isn’t full of cameras?”
“It’s getting checked right now.”
We kissed as he pulled out of me. He let my legs down. I was still short of breath, still sensitive between my thighs. My lips hurt where his late-day scruff had rubbed me, and my spine ached from being pushed into a brick wall. As usual, I felt as if I’d been beaten near death with a fuckstick.
Jonathan kneeled before me and helped me get my lacy underpants back on, kissing a trail up my leg. When he’d straightened my dress, he kissed me.
“We have to talk,” I said.
“About Jessica. What did she say?”
“About that, and—”
There was a loud knock on the door. The handle jiggled. “Monica,” Rhee called, “you in there?”
“Yes.”
“Bernie’s here.” Bernie was the guy who played after me.
“Out in a second.”
I hoisted my bag. Jonathan ran his fingers through his hair and took it from me. We got outside into the crisp, autumn night. The valet went for Jonathan’s car. Mine was parked on the street. He walked me to it, our fingers linked. “People are waiting at your house to sweep it for cameras and mikes.”
“This is so weird.”
He held my chin when we stopped by my car. “It’s probably nothing. We need to go there so you can let them in.” He put his arms around my waist. “You, darling, will gather clothes and things. Then I shall bring you back to my bed, and I will have you again. And maybe again.”
“We have to have an unpleasant conversation.”
“Do you believe I’m not spying on you?”
“Yes.”
“Did you fuck someone else?”
“God, no!”
“Are you leaving me because I interrupted your work?”
“No.”
“Are you leaving me at all?”
“No, Jonathan, really—”
“Then I fail to see the urgency. Let’s take care of business and let unpleasantness take care of itself.”
Chapter 18
JONATHAN
I didn’t want to hear a word about what my ex-wife said. I didn’t want to navigate her labyrinth of lies and half-truths, and I didn’t want to explain anything to Monica while my mind was on Kevin and the cameras. We needed to hand off keys, pack her for the night, and get her into my bed. Then I would explain or fuck away whatever Jessica told her. Jessica was going to the mat. I couldn’t deal with her shit for another minute. Her worst nightmare was seeing me happy, apparently, because I hadn’t seen her as much in the past half year as I’d seen her in the past month.
I got to Echo Park first and parked across the street from Monica’s house. The green minivan was gone, replaced by a black van. Margie’s guys. I walked up to her chain-link gate. A man greeted me. Late twenties. Suit and tie. Pinkie ring. My eyes adjusted and I saw two others shaking the bushes.
“Jonathan Drazen?” he said, holding out his hand.
“The same.” I shook it.
“Name’s Will Santon. You look exactly like Margie.”
“Tell her she looks younger.”
He smiled at me. “This place yours?”
“Girlfriend.”
“We found a wireless minicam on the porch. Not the best, but good enough. Middle-class work.”
The porch. What had we done on the porch? Anything? My mind was a blank. I was blinded by the lights of a little black Honda tearing up the hill and into the driveway.
“Don’t tell her,” I said. “Let me take care of it.”
Monica got out, all legs and hair, looking like a force of nature, a wild animal entitled to her own sovereignty. Her sexuality wasn’t coy or cute. She wasn’t saucy; she was feral.
Her very presence on the earth stirred me.
“Hi,” she said, smiling.
Santon smiled back at her. “Miss, is this your house?”
“I live here.”
“I’m Will Santon. I’m a licensed private investigator in the state of California.” He showed her an ID card. She looked at it, back at him, and back down to the card. “I’ve been hired by the law firm of Bode, Drazen, and Weinstein to check your house for surveillance devices. Do I have your permission to enter?”
She glanced at me. I nodded.
“Yes.” She flicked her keys and headed in. We followed her, a line of four suits. The other two fanned out, glancing at everything, as Santon gave Monica papers to sign. I stood behind her and prayed that whoever watched her did so only from the outside. If they got inside, I would have the strong urge to burn the place down.
Finished with Santon, Monica turned to me and whispered, “I’m uncomfortable.”
I kissed her forehead. “Go get your toothbrush and whatever, and we’ll get out of here.”
Chapter 19
MONICA
I found a bag in the closet and threw it on the bed. My drawers were a mess. My closet was even worse. I took whatever I touched first and threw it on top of the bag. I needed work clothes and after-work clothes. Shoes. Underwear. Lacy Jonathan shit seemed absurd. Would his rule still stand? Garter belts and stockings felt frivolous and ridiculous with men in my house looking for cameras and microphones.
I threw both options on the bag. From the bathroom, I got makeup, a hairbrush, ties for braids, and my toothbrush. I was sure I was forgetting something, but I wanted out of there. I’d buy whatever else I needed.
I stuffed everything in the bag and picked it up. It had covered something: a manila envelope labeled Jonathan S Drazen III in Sharpie. One of Gabby’s files. Darren must have found it and left it for me. I picked it up. There was enough inside to give it some heft, but it wasn’t as big as the envelopes she’d created for people in the music industry. Twenty pages, tops. Probably a bunch of friends highlighted in orange and family in yellow. Jessica in pink. The corners were curled and the color faded. I almost slipped it in the bag. But no, I wouldn’t bring it to his house. That was crazy.
