by JF Freedman
He waved off her apology, his smile temporarily fading. “It’s ancient history.” He brightened again. “I’ll call the Hotel Bel-Air, it’s practically down the block. They can usually come up with a suite for me, even on short notice.”
A suite at the Bel-Air, she thought. What a treat that would be!
“We’ll figure it out over dinner,” he told her. “Any particular kind of food you prefer?”
Wow, this was fast. “I’m easy.”
“California cuisine? Do you like Michael’s?”
“I’ve never been there.”
“That’s right, you live in Santa Barbara. It’s an oldie, but a goodie. One of my favorites. They have a great California wine list.”
This had been fast. “I have to call my daughter,” she told him. “She’s expecting me home tonight.”
“How old is she?” he inquired politely.
“Eighteen. She’s a senior in high school. She’s fine being on her own overnight, but I need to touch base.”
“Don’t worry, Mom,” Sophia told Kate over the phone. “Of course I’ll be okay.” She listened for a minute. “I don’t know. Hang out with friends. Maybe have a dozen kids over here and get stoned and drunk.” She scrunched up her face. “I’m kidding, Mom. I don’t even have a dozen friends. Tina and a couple of other girls, at the most. Pizza and videos, really wild stuff.” She listened again. “I’m riding with Mrs. McCoy in the morning, so I may not be here when you get home. I’ll see you tomorrow night, Mom. Have fun.”
She hung up. Tina and pizza. What could be more boring? She had a much better way to spend the night. She picked the phone up again and dialed.
“Mrs. McCoy? It’s Sophia Blanchard. My mom’s out of town tonight, and since you like to ride early in the morning, I thought maybe I could spend the night there, if you have room for me.” She listened for a moment. “I can have dinner with you, sure. I’ll be there in a couple of hours, is that okay?” A smile spread across her face. “I’ll see you. Thanks.”
She showered, washed and conditioned her hair, carefully applied her makeup. She brushed her hair until it was gleaming, and took extra care to choose the right clothes. Casual, but a little sexier than usual. She packed an overnight bag with a nightgown, tomorrow’s riding clothes, deodorant, toothbrush, and hairbrush. Standing in front of the full-length mirror in her mother’s bedroom, she checked herself out. She looked good, if she did say so herself. Still young, but in all the important ways, a woman. A woman whose time had come to be with a man.
Kate floated through dinner, happy to let Warren orchestrate everything. Talk between them was easy. He told her about the trials and tribulations of his business and about vacations he’d taken—he was an avid sailor, he kept a fifty-nine-foot Hinckley sloop in the British Virgin Islands. She opened up more than she normally did, particularly on a first date (was this a real date, she wondered, or was he making the best of an unfortunate situation), telling him about her work, her past as a police officer with the Oakland PD, about her daughters and their successes. He listened attentively, and seemed to be genuinely interested in what she was telling him. She forgot about how they had gotten together, and relaxed.
The meal was a progression of delightful pleasures, with terrific wines to match. Kate knew her way around a wine list—Cecil, her last serious boyfriend, was a winemaker, so she’d had exposure to good wine—but still, she was knocked out by what they drank: Kistler chardonnay with their first courses, a Harlan Estate cabernet with the entrees, and to cap the evening off, a glass of Graham’s Vintage Port with their cappuccinos and dessert. She managed to steal a glimpse of the bill when the check arrived. The wine tab alone was over four hundred dollars.
Warren signed the check without checking the total. “I have a house account,” he explained casually.
They rode back to Bel-Air in his Aston Martin. Kate was tipsy. She wasn’t drunk by any means, but she wasn’t feeling any pain, either. She looked at her watch. It was after eleven. They had been at dinner for over three hours. When midnight comes is my coach going to turn into a pumpkin? Am I going to wake up from a beautiful dream?
Be in the moment, she reminded herself. She stretched back deeper in the seat and watched the night fly by.
Sophia sat across the small dining table from Steven, with Juanita between them on her left. Now that Steven was a local hero, Juanita felt comfortable relaxing the rules about having contact with Sophia; she would be a vigilant chaperone. She was certain that Kate would feel the same.
She had prepared a simple but delicious meal—buttermilk fried chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans, homemade biscuits, and salad. They all drank iced tea. Dessert was apple cobbler with ice cream.
Steven pushed away from the table. “No mas.” He had eaten twice as much as either of the women. “If I didn’t work like a fieldhand every day, I’d be a blimp,” he said, grinning at Sophia. “As usual, perfect,” he complimented his grandmother.
“Thank you, Steven,” Juanita answered serenely. As he started to pick up their plates, she said, “You can have tonight off. Sophia and I will do the dishes.”
“Great!” He grinned at Sophia again. “You should come out here more often. I’m getting washerwoman’s hands from all the dishes I’ve been washing.”
“Very funny,” Juanita scolded him. “You can barely keep your room clean. What are you going to do now?”
“Watch the Lakers, if they’re on.” He shook his head in disgust. “They’re a farce. Golden State beat them like a redheaded stepchild last night. Golden State, for Christ’s sakes! And with Shaq leading the way, Miami’s wiping up the east.”
“Do you know what he’s talking about?” Juanita asked Sophia, in the conspiratorial tone women use with each other when they’re talking about men’s foibles. “Sports on television! What a waste, when there are so many great books to read. We’ve become a nation of couch potatoes.”
“I like basketball,” Sophia said, wanting Steven to know that she was on his side, and that she liked what he liked. “But I love to read,” she added quickly. “I always have a book in my face.” She got up and started clearing the table.
“Don’t worry about rinsing, the dishwasher does it for you,” Juanita told her. “Do you want to play Scrabble?”
“Sure,” Sophia answered diligently. She knew Juanita loved playing Scrabble.
“It’s good for your brain,” Juanita wise-counseled her. “Like doing crossword puzzles. There’s never been a case of Alzheimer’s in our family, and it’s because everyone read voraciously, and did the New York Times crossword puzzle religiously,” she proclaimed.
Sophia glanced over at Steven, who was sprawled out on the couch in front of the television set. A game was on, but she couldn’t tell what teams were playing. He was shaking his head and grinning.
She and Steven hadn’t had a moment alone together. Juanita had dragooned her into the kitchen as soon as she had arrived, so she could teach Sophia her special recipe for fried chicken. Two elements were critical, she explained carefully. The batter had to be light and fluffy, and the oil had to be hot. Sophia had listened diligently, but it was hard, because Steven kept drifting in and out of the house. Back from working out on the ranch for a late-afternoon snack. Out again to help Keith fix the engine on a tractor. Back in again to wash the grease off his hands and arms. Back out in a pair of shorts and Nike running shoes for his daily run through the hills and valleys of the property. Even now, when the fall weather was getting chilly in the evening, he ran without a shirt. Then back in again after the run, all sweaty now, for a shower. His body was lean, rock-hard. He didn’t look like he had an ounce of fat on him. A statue, Sophia thought as she ogled him. A masterpiece of flesh-and-blood art.
Steven turned the TV off with the remote. “How did they do?” Sophia asked, looking up from the Scrabble board. This was their second game. Juanita had won the first, but she was going to win this one. They only had a few tiles left, and all the
high numbered ones, like Q and Z, that could turn a game around, had been used.
“They sucked, as usual,” he answered.
“Did they lose?”
“No, they won, but they still sucked. I can’t wait till I get home and can watch the Suns.” He stretched and yawned. “I’m going to turn in.” He came over and kissed Juanita on the cheek. “Night, Gram.”
“Good night, darling,” she said, keeping her eyes on the board, still trying to figure a way to eke out a win. Sophia was a good player, better than most. She had a good head on her shoulders, this one.
Steven smiled at Sophia. “See you.” He paused. “In the morning.”
“See you,” she said back to him. “Thanks for letting me use your room.”
“No biggie. The horses will whinny me to sleep.”
Steven was sleeping in the stable tonight, in a small room in the back that had a bed, which had been used years ago when the ranch had a full-time stable hand. It was rustic, but comfortable. He was sleeping out there, rather than in the house, because Juanita didn’t think it was proper for him to spend the night under the same roof as Sophia. It was intuitive on her part: until Steven’s trial was over and he had been cleared, he shouldn’t be sleeping in the same space with a young girl like Sophia. She worried about any smell of impropriety. If those noisy detectives found out about it, it could mean trouble for Steven. She couldn’t put her finger on “why,” precisely. But she trusted her intuition. It had served her well for seventy-six years.
Steven went out. Juanita and Sophia sat up a while longer, drinking herb tea and talking about the play. Then they said good night to each other. Sophia changed into her nightgown, used the bathroom, and went into Steven’s room. Juanita had put clean sheets on the bed, which smelled of laundry detergent. She lay on the bed on top of the covers, waiting.
“There wasn’t a suite available. I hope this is all right.”
They were in her room at the Hotel Bel-Air. It was a large single, with French doors that led to a small outdoor patio. This is the most posh hotel I’ve ever been in in my life, she thought, and he’s apologizing?
“It’ll do,” she told him. She couldn’t keep back her smile. “It’s lovely.”
“Any toiletries you’ll need should be in the bathroom. If not, just call the desk and they’ll take care of it. If you need a change of clothes for tomorrow, order from the shop and put it on the room bill.”
“Thank you.” He was being extremely generous, even though he was probably trying to butter her up because of whatever troubles she might be bearing for his son.
“I’ll have you picked up tomorrow morning, a little before ten,” he said. He smiled—his teeth were dazzling. “Unless there’s a problem, in which case I’ll definitely call you,”
The evening was over. “Good night, Kate,” he said. “Again, I’m sorry about the inconvenience.”
“Not me,” she replied honestly. “This has been one of the nicest evenings I’ve spent in God knows how long.” A real date with a real man.
“Me, too.”
You’re laying the charm on too thick, she thought. This man was a Hollywood powerhouse, and he was attractive to boot. He could have any woman he wanted, and probably did. His being free tonight had been an accident. She wasn’t going to kid herself about that.
“That’s sweet of you to say, but…” She let it drift.
“I’m serious,” he told her. “I spend all my time with people who do what I do. It’s refreshing to be with someone who has a life that’s different from mine. Real problems and real people, not made-up ones.” He smiled. “I make shows based on people like you. I talk the talk, but you walk the walk. I admire that.”
I’ll trade you places, she thought. Make me an offer.
She could feel the awkwardness between them. It’s always hard to say good night, she thought, especially under circumstances like this.
She took the initiative. “Good night, Warren. Again, thank you for a very special evening.”
They looked at each other for a moment. He smiled, and turned to go—then he turned back, and they lunged for each other.
And he’s a good kisser, she thought deliriously, as their lips and tongues ate at each other. One of his hands was on the back of her head, cradling her, while the other cupped her ass. She pressed up against him, wanting him to feel her breasts on his chest. Their legs parted so they could push up against each other.
Still locked in their embrace, they stumbled across the room, falling onto the bed. She kicked off her shoes. He kneeled above her, straddling her. He leaned down and unbuttoned her blouse from the bottom, at the same time kissing her stomach, his tongue fishing into the crease of her belly button. Her mind flashed haphazardly on what was going on, like lightning skittering across a dry field. If I had known this was going to happen, she thought, I would have worn sexy underwear.
She arched her back so he could reach behind her and unsnap her bra, which he tossed onto the floor. A hand caressed her nipple. She moaned, a deep animalistic growl. His mouth worked its way down her body to her vagina. She writhed under him as he serviced her, feeling an incredible surge of heat all over her body, splotches of red blooming on her chest and legs.
She came in waves, thrusting herself hard against his mouth. She lay there for a moment to catch her breath. Then she grabbed his erection, pulling her knees up and spreading them to take him. “I’m in the middle of my cycle,” she whispered. “You’d better use a condom.”
“I don’t need one,” he whispered back. “I had a vasectomy years ago.”
She laid back again and guided him in. They rocked slowly, kissing deeply, her hands roaming his back. His mouth was on her eyes, her neck, her ears, her mouth again. She grabbed his ass and pulled him even tighter, like she wanted to pull him into her, all of him, to live inside her.
The orgasm was even more intense this time, she could feel a river of blood rushing to her head. She was afraid she might faint, she was so dizzy with fucking.
He came in one long thrust, then a bunch of smaller ones. She held onto his ass for dear life, pushing her mouth against his.
They collapsed against each other, breathing hard like marathon runners. His mouth was against her neck. His breath was hot and dry. The quivering slowed, then stopped. They lay motionless, one spent creature.
He propped himself up on an elbow and looked at her, his eyes searching her face. “Are you all right?” he asked her.
Are you insane? “Yes, I’m wonderful.” Beyond wonderful.
“I never push this hard the first date. I don’t know what came over me.” He grinned boyishly. “Besides you, of course.”
“Me, neither.” Meaning, I’m really not that easy a lay. Would he think she was a tramp in the morning? It was too late to worry about that, and she didn’t care anyway.
They stood in the open doorway. “Sleep well,” he told her. “I’ll see you in the morning.” A shadow crossed his face. “I hope things go well with Peter.”
“I’m sure they will,” she said. What she meant was, she hoped they would. She didn’t want this to be a one-night stand.
One last, lingering kiss. She watched him go until he was gone around the corner, then she closed the door.
She lay on the bed, idly stroking her body where his hands and mouth had caressed her. That was extraordinary, she thought. It was also the most unprofessional thing she had ever done. She had made love to the father of a man who could be a critical witness for or against her client, who, she had to remind herself yet again, was facing a charge of murder.
It had happened. Fate, something you can’t avoid. Or more simply, plain human desire. She hoped when the dust settled this wouldn’t blow up in her face.
Sandals in hand, Sophia tiptoed across the floor to Juanita’s bedroom. All the lights were out in the house; it was after midnight.
She stood at the door. Under the crack between the door and the floor she could see that the room was
dark. It had been over an hour since they had said their good nights. The old lady had to be asleep by now. She put her ear to the door. Nothing.
She went into the kitchen and slipped her shoes on. Being careful not to make any noise, she opened the door, making sure she left the lock off. She waited another moment, to make sure Juanita hadn’t heard her. Then she was outside, running to the stable.
Steven was by the stable door, waiting for her. He was wearing Levi’s, a T-shirt, and flops. In one hand he held a lit joint; in the other, a can of Coors. She ran up to him.
“I was beginning to worry you weren’t coming.”
“I wanted to make sure she was asleep.” She looked at what he held in his hands. “Should you be doing that?”
“No,” he said. “But I’m going batshit here, I’ve got to do something to relax. I only do it late at night. No one’s going to know.” His smile was easy and bold. “Unless you bust me.”
“I don’t care,” she said, trying to be casual. This was reckless of him, she thought. What if his grandmother caught him? Or the cops?
“Where do you keep it?” she asked.
“In a safe place. This is a big ranch. Plenty of room to hide almost anything.” He held the joint up to her. “Want a hit?”
She hesitated—she was nervous already, she didn’t want to fuel her edginess any more than was already happening naturally.
“Come on,” he cajoled her, holding out the joint. “It’ll loosen you up.”
She took it gingerly and sucked in a small amount of smoke. It burned going down her throat. She held her breath for a few seconds, then exhaled with a hack.
“Strong,” she wheezed.
“Killer shit,” he agreed. “Could paralyze an elephant.” He handed her the beer. “This’ll help.”
She swigged down a mouthful. That was better. “Want some more?” he asked, holding the joint up again.
She shook her head. She was already feeling the effects. “I’m cool.”
He took one more hit, then wet his thumb and forefinger and extinguished the joint, putting the roach into the pocket of his jeans. “It’s cold out,” he said, taking her hand. “Let’s go inside.”
