by CD Reiss
“I’m fine, thanks.”
He took his hand off me and straightened, pulling a silk handkerchief from his pocket. “You should wipe your eyes, then.”
“I wasn’t crying,” I said, more in surprise than denial. I put my fingers to my face, but he put out his hand before I touched it. He pressed the handkerchief under my eyes. I let him. I didn’t know why. He seemed nice enough.
“You’re smudged, nonetheless. It wouldn’t be right to have such a lovely woman look like a raccoon.”
I put my hands on his and pressed the hankie down,. He brought his hand away.
“Thanks,” I said.
“You look familiar,” he said. “Did you come to this circus last year?”
“No.”
“My God. You should have seen the place. It was a Damien Hirst homage with decapitated heads for centerpieces.”
“Sounds awful.”
“The forks had these hands already attached to them. With veins and nerves. I almost didn’t come tonight. I was afraid they were going to try to top themselves.” He wrinkled his nose, and I smiled. “Well, I’m glad you weren’t here. Maybe I know you from somewhere else.”
I looked up at him as if for the first time, trying to see if I could place his features. There was something about the shape of his eyes, the angle of his jaw, the way he tilted his head when he spoke.
Jessica burst out the big doors, on the phone. I angled myself behind the man in the cashmere coat. “Deny it,” she said into the phone in clipped syllables. “It’s not my voice. Just say no comment.”
She stopped in the middle of the patio, still on her call, and stared at her shoes, then out over the mezzanine onto Wilshire Boulevard. The flights of stone steps on each side framed her perfectly, yet she still looked lost. If I felt sorry for her for half a second, the image of Jonathan getting put into a police car at Santa Monica Airport dismissed my compassion and replaced it with something much fiercer.
Jessica glanced at the wood doors then turned on her heel and went down a hall. Once she was far enough away, I handed the man his handkerchief. His back had been to her, and he didn’t look around.
“Thanks,” I said.
“Keep it.” He smiled and went toward the wooden doors. I saw inside when he opened them. The room was crowded, and everyone was sitting. I checked my phone. Nothing from Jonathan. If he was sitting at our table, getting pissed, he would have texted me.
I went down the hall. I’d come to look for Jonathan, but I thought I might hear another snippet of phone call. I was sure he was fine. Just being mysterious, as usual. I followed Jessica into the ladies room. It was a standard museum bathroom. Clean, white and blue, with midlevel fixtures and flat, warm, white lighting. My shoes echoed on the tile. If she’d been on the call in the bathroom, she either stopped talking when I entered or she’d cut the call already.
The door opened behind me, and I heard Jonathan’s voice, but it wasn’t him.
“—my belt, loop it once, and slap it across those sweet white cheeks until you’re pink as a rose and your face is covered with tears. I’ll stop when I can stick two fingers in your cunt and feel how sopping wet you are.”
I froze. It was undoubtedly him, from the floral metaphor, to the word cunt, to the dominant voice. Three women came in and stopped dead in their tracks when they saw me. The young woman with the phone in her hand had her hair done up like Audrey Hepburn, right down to the tiara. The second was tall and matronly with a sweater, flat shoes, and lines of disappointment permanently etched on her face. They both wore silver pins.
The third woman was Geraldine Stark.
The recording continued.
“Then I’ll fuck you until you beg me to let you come, which I may or may not let you do. That going to work for you? Didn’t think so.”
“Do it.”
The voice was shrill and desperate and definitely Jessica’s. That must be it. The voice memo from her stolen phone.
Audrey Hepburn fumbled with the phone, shutting it.
“I want to hear it,” I said. “From the beginning, if you don’t mind.”
She hesitated.
“I was telling them,” Geraldine said, “he’s really like this, and it’s hot. Don’t you think?” She raised an eyebrow. I didn’t answer but stared down Audrey Hepburn. She was a nervous kitten, breakable and easily bossed.
“Do it,” I said, my voice the exact opposite of Jessica’s whine.
She shrugged as if she wasn’t giving in as much as bored by the prospect of not continuing. “It’s only really good when he starts this.”
“I’ll undo your jeans. I’ll pull them down to the middle of your thighs so it’s hard to walk. You’ll be uncomfortable, and that will please me. Then I’ll get behind you, and I’ll grab a handful of your hair at the back of your head and bend you over that table. I’ll take off my belt, loop it once, and slap it across those sweet white cheeks until you’re pink as a rose and your face is covered with tears. I’ll stop when I can stick two fingers in your cunt and feel how sopping wet you are. Then I’ll fuck you until you beg me to let you come, which I may or may not let you do. That going to work for you? Didn’t think so.”
“Do it.”
“Jess, really.”
“Do it! Start with the hair. Or the pants. Whatever.”
“No.”
“Do it!”
Audrey cut it off. I knew what the joke was. The desperation. The pitch. An actress couldn’t have reproduced something so raw. I pressed my lips between my teeth. We all knew who it was, and as it turned out, we all thought the idea of her desperately begging for a spanking was hilariously funny.
Geraldine snickered first. Then Audrey. Matronly looked as if she ate a lemon, and the crinkles in her brow sent me over the edge into laughter. Then we all broke up. Between peals of hilarity, someone would shout do it! in a shrill, pleading whine, and we’d laugh again.
“Do you want to hear the rest?” Audrey asked.
“No, thanks,” I said. “I’ll have plenty of the real thing later. Without the do it!” I shrieked the last two words, and we laughed again.
I checked my face in the mirror, stood up straight, and arranged my lariat. “I’ll see you back in there.” I looked at each of them in the mirror. “Thanks for the entertainment.”
When I got back onto the patio, I stopped at the big wooden doors and turned around, stepping behind a partition. Despite the cool, collected person who had shown up in the bathroom, I was upset at hearing Jonathan promising sex to another woman. And I was upset that everyone knew. They wouldn’t see him as mine. They’d look at me and either feel sorry for poor cheated-on girl or assume I shared him with other women.
“Stop it, Monica,” I whispered to myself. “Stop caring.” I clenched my fists.
The three artists left the bathroom, giggling and commiserating. Matronly opened one of the big wooden doors, and they were gone. Were they laughing at me? Was Geraldine talking about her nights with Jonathan, taking bets on when he’d dump me?
My name is Monica. I sing like an angel and roar like a lion. I am the owner and ruler of my mind. I keep my own counsel. I decide how I feel. I answer to no one.
I didn’t realize my eyes were closed until I heard a sob and the scuffle of feet on carpet. Jessica ran out of the bathroom, crying. She stopped, and I ducked farther behind the partition. She fiddled with her phone, but she was upset and couldn’t seem to get it to do what she wanted. She tossed it in her bag and rooted around in the purse, pressing it to herself so she could dig in the bottom.
For the second time, I felt pity, but I was overwhelmed. I’d known exactly what I was doing in the bathroom. I knew she was behind a stall or a wall, yet I’d egged the girls on because I could. For what? To hurt her feelings? Wasn’t I better than that? I stepped out from behind the partition. “Jessica?”
She spun and saw me. “Get away from me.” She used her do it tone. I didn’t think she could even hear it.
&n
bsp; “Are you ok?”
She ran, still clutching her open bag, heading for the stone steps. I went to the mezzanine railing and watched her go, feet shuffling. She lost her balance and the contents of her bag scattered. Papers and receipts fluttered down into the courtyard, lipsticks and pens clicked. A notebook opened like a butterfly three steps beneath her. She stopped and scooped up her things. Her sobs echoed off the granite walls, even as far away as she was.
“What happened to Eddie?” Jonathan stepped up behind me. “He was supposed to watch you.” I put my hand on his face. He was cold and damp.
Jessica looked up, and seeing us both looking down at her, she left half her bag’s contents and ran away them. She tripped, skidded, righted herself, and ran onto Wilshire without looking back.
“What happened?” he asked with short breaths.
“That recording.” I didn’t want to describe the bathroom scene. I didn’t care anymore. He looked like shit, and Mister Drazen never looked like shit. “Are you all right? Where were you?”
“Looking for someone.” He crunched his eyes shut.
“Who?”
“I haven’t been feeling...” He leaned on the railing. “My back hurts and...” His knees bent. I took him by the arms and looked in his green eyes. He wasn’t all right; he was panicking. No. That was wrong. I took out the handkerchief the man in the cashmere coat had given me and patted his face.
“You look like hell. You need to sit down.” The nearest bench was a mile away, or four steps.
He took the handkerchief. “Where did you get this?” His breath heaved as if it hurt him.
“Some guy. Tall guy, it’s fine.”
It dropped from his fingers, and I saw the black and blue embroidered letters: JDD. It all came to me. The voice, the way he had looked and walked. It had been Jonathan’s father. I was about to confirm that, but Jonathan put his head on my shoulder. I put my arms under his, and before long, I was holding him up.
“Jonathan!” I cried for help, the sounds shrieking and echoing off the granite walls.
He fell, sliding down my body. I bent over him, rolling him onto his back. I didn’t know what to do. His face told me he was in pain, his hands reached for me, clutching my arms, keeping me from moving. All I could do was shout his name.
Why was no one coming?
My phone. I had to get my phone.
I dumped the contents of my bag onto the floor, searching through the contents. I looked at him, the love of my life, finally found, finally recognized, finally embraced, with his eyes toward the sky in surrender. I turned back to my pile of crap and found my phone through a curtain of tears. “Okay, I’m calling someone. Please just...”
His eyes closed.
“No! You shit!” I screamed his name and slapped his face.
His eyes moved under the lids.
I slapped him again.
People came.
I hit him harder.
I felt hands on me, clenching hard on the bruised parts of my arms.
I couldn’t slap him if they held me.
So I fought, and they pulled me away.
I didn’t remember anything after that.
Jonathan and Monica’s story continues in ONE LIFE WITH HIM.
GET BOOK 3 - ONE LIFE WITH HIM
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