by Nathan Field
“Great, so Chloe’s been talking me up. She happen to mention my scars, and my eye condition?”
“Yes to both. Maxine doesn’t care. I keep telling you – chicks don’t care about that stuff.”
I sighed. “Alright, what the hell. I said I’d go, so I’ll go. But I need a favor first.”
“Name it.”
“Meet me for a drink tonight? I’m still having problems at work, and I could use a sounding board.”
“Right. Ah, did I mention the dinner booking is tonight?”
“Shit, really?” I closed my eyes, imagining an evening of awkward conversation. “No way, Bruno. It’s not a good time.”
“But that’s the beauty of it. I’m saving you from weeks of worry and stress. We’re booked in for eight-thirty at the Red Drum. It’s a cool place – you can look it up online. Don’t let me down, bud.”
My first instinct was to invent another excuse, but I held back, thinking of the long night ahead. For once, I didn’t feel like being alone. “Okay, you win,” I said. “I’ll see you at eight-thirty.”
“Hallelujah!” Bruno exclaimed. “And pigs do fly! I’m hanging up now before you change your mind.”
“Wait, can we still grab a drink afterwards?”
He’d already gone – no doubt rushing to tell Chloe the good news.
I checked my watch, grimacing at the time. In less than an hour, I'd be making small talk with a stranger – deflecting questions about my past, ignoring the sneak peaks at my scars, and pretending to be a normal guy. I had a hard time being social at the best of times, let alone when my mind was preoccupied.
I stared again at the empty desk. I was still struggling to explain what was going on, and how it related to my past. But even though the questions were mounting, one fact seemed terrifyingly certain.
I'd been sharing my office with a murderer.
8. “Why don’t you take off your sweater?”
Our affair began at a two star chain motel in West Sacramento. It had been Lucy’s idea to drive out of the city. She was paranoid about bumping into one of her husband’s friends, and I had to admit, Sacramento was that sort of place. Neither of us knew anyone in the new-growth suburbs across the river, so that’s where we headed – nodding along to my carefully chosen Bryan Ferry CD, keeping our emotions under wraps until we reached our destination.
The bareness of the second-story motel room was matched by the stark landscape outside. But we weren’t interested in the view, or the quality of the furnishings. We didn’t even pause to draw the curtains, reaching for each other as soon as I kicked the door shut.
I kissed her hard, scrunching my fingers through the back of her hair. She moaned and rubbed herself against me, her bare arms looping around my neck. During the car ride, I’d coached myself to take my time, to slowly savor and delight in every inch of her. But now that her tongue was in my mouth, and her soft breasts were squashed against me, I was consumed by an uncontrollable haste. I wanted all of her at once.
She helped me out of my shirt, and expertly whipped off my belt. I moved to remove her dress, but she batted my hands away, pushing me down on the bed. She pulled off my pants and boxer briefs, pausing to smile at my jutting cock. Then she climbed on top of me, taking control, sucking my nipples and running a flicking tongue down my stomach. Before I could protest, she had my cock deep in her mouth, keeping me completely immersed, denying me the chance to slow the pace. The pressure built quickly, and I tried to buck her off, worried I’d soon embarrassed myself. But her lips were locked tight, and she put a firm hand on my chest to hold me down. I threw my head back in surrender, and at once I was in the thralls of a violent, shuddering climax.
Lucy slid off the bed and went straight to the bathroom. I lay motionless, unable to speak. As the euphoria subsided, feelings of shame and inadequacy crept in. I’d barely lasted a minute.
When Lucy returned from the bathroom, I apologized for my lack of self-control.
“No, that was my apology,” she said. “For being such a bitch the last time.”
“But…don’t you want to make love?“
She laughed. “You mean fuck? Don’t worry, we’re not leaving yet. You’re a young man Johnny. I’m sure you’ve got another round left in you.”
She stepped out of her dress, proudly showing off her shapely body and shaved pussy. She lay down next to me, and we stared at the cracked ceiling for a while, listening to the unfamiliar rhythm of each other’s breathing. It didn’t take long for my cock to start twitching again, and when I rolled over and entered her, she immediately arched up against me, her hips perfectly simulating mine. She dug her nails into my back and told me to let go, to fuck her deeper and harder. My cock felt electric inside her, and with every thrust, I felt myself transforming. I was no longer Peter, the average white male whose name everyone forgot. I was a stud who could make a woman like Lucy quiver and groan. A man to be reckoned with.
There was never any doubt our motel trysts would become a regular thing. Lucy was insatiable, and I was happy to cede to her many desires. She liked me to hold her throat when she was on top, scolding me if I was too gentle. She liked to wear stilettos and spread her palms against the wall when I took her from behind. She liked to put on VH1 and give me long, sensual lap dances that made my cock so damn hard it hurt. And when I was spent or recovering, she liked to grind her pussy against my face to speed things along. She was incredible, a force of nature, and best of all, it was me she wanted. My confidence went through the roof. Being the object of Lucy’s desire felt like the first round of applause my life had received.
I would’ve happily met up every day, but Lucy couldn’t get away so easily, usually only once or twice a week. The main problem was her husband, Sterling. According to Lucy, Sterling had been intensely jealous ever since he swiped her phone and discovered a series of lewd texts from a crazy ex. The texts had been unsolicited, and she hadn’t responded, but that hadn’t stopped Sterling from confiscating her cell and treating her like a grounded teenager. Given her husband’s paranoia, Lucy had to be particularly careful not to rouse suspicion.
There was also the small matter of Sterling’s kids – all four of them. The eldest two were away at college, but they would frequently drop in to raid the fridge and sponge money off their father. And the youngest two, at fourteen and ten, were often dumped on Lucy without warning by Sterling’s first wife, a diagnosed manic-depressive. Even if Sterling wasn’t around, Lucy felt compelled to help out, fearing the ex-wife would do something foolish and the kids would be forced to live with their father. Lucy described all four children as spoiled, ungrateful brats who hurled abused at her whenever Sterling’s back was turned. With so many eyes upon her, it was difficult for Lucy to leave the house without good reason.
I sympathized with her predicament, but after a while, the limits on Lucy’s time began to bother me. Every spare moment was spent fucking. And while the sex was reason enough to get up in the morning, I became frustrated that our relationship wasn’t progressing beyond the physical. The only time we talked was in the car, driving to and from cheap motels on the outskirts of Sacramento. Even when we talked, Lucy would only discuss things she’d seen on TV or read in the newspaper. Whenever I asked her a personal question or tried to express my feelings, she’d quickly shut me down, claiming she didn’t want to make the situation any more complicated than it already was.
I heeded her wishes, but secretly I craved a deeper connection. I would’ve happily traded in one of our steamy motel romps for a lunch date, or a walk in the park, or an hour just spooning her and talking. Alone at night, I would lie awake for hours on end, devising ways to convince Lucy to leave her husband. I knew she didn’t love Sterling, of that I was certain, but I wasn’t kidding myself that she’d give up her cushy lifestyle to shack up with a lowly reporter. I could barely support myself let alone a woman who’d grown accustomed to the finer things in life. And there was no mistaking that Lucy expected to be looked af
ter. From the very start she’d made it clear that modeling was the only job she could imagine doing, and having just turned thirty-four, those days were now behind her.
There was no clear road forward. I was never going to lure Lucy away from Sterling with my measly $35k a year – she needed wealth, not rent money. On the other hand, it was madness for us to be living apart, snatching a few hours a week to satisfy our physical desires. I needed more from the relationship, and despite Lucy’s claims that she wanted to keep things simple, I sensed she did, too.
None of these thoughts I shared with her. I knew the rules, and they didn’t allow for declarations of undying love only six weeks into an affair. But I prepared my speech anyway, waiting for a sliver of an opening to make my feelings known.
The opportunity to raise the subject came sooner than I expected. I was picking Lucy up from our regular spot – a shopping mall parking lot where she would ditch her Range Rover in favor of my anonymous white Corolla – but I knew something was wrong from the moment she slid into the passenger seat. She was wearing a white cashmere sweater and a modest ankle-length skirt – both tasteful and designer-made, but not exactly Lucy. She also failed to lean over and greet me with a welcoming kiss before she fastened her seatbelt. Instead, she stared down at her lap, smoothing the folds in her skirt.
I asked her if she was okay.
“Yes, I’m fine.”
“You don’t seem fine.”
“Well, I’m telling you that I am.”
I continued to study her. She seemed nervous and distracted, like she’d rather be somewhere else.
She cracked under my scrutiny, turning her eyes on me. “Christ. What?”
“Tell me what’s wrong.”
“Are you deaf? Or just plain stupid.”
“Damn it, Lucy. What’s got into you?”
“For the last time, nothing!” she snapped. “If you’re going to make a fuss, maybe I should just leave.”
Lucy was daring me to bite, giving her an easy out, but I wasn’t about to play into her hands.
“No, I’m sorry,” I said, turning the ignition and starting down the exit ramp. “If you say you’re fine then I believe you. Now, which of Sacramento’s finest budget motels do you feel like visiting today?”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m sick of those dumps.”
“Okay, fair enough. Where do you want to go?”
“The Park Royal.”
I slowed the car to a crawl. “That’s downtown,” I said patiently.
“So? We’ll drive right up to the entrance and use the valet. No one will see us.”
I frowned, struggling to work out her game. Previously, Lucy had refused to go anywhere near downtown. She’d even vetoed my apartment on the city fringe, where the chances of bumping into someone she knew were negligible. Yet now she was saying the Park Royal was okay? You couldn’t get a more conspicuous location.
There was also the small matter of the Park Royal being decidedly more expensive than your average Super 8 or Motel 6. It was one of Sacramento’s premier hotels, a place where high-price lobbyists and visiting NBA teams stayed. I was pretty sure they didn’t rent rooms by the hour….
And that was it, I realized. Lucy was looking for a reason to bail on our date, and she thought a five-star hotel would be too rich for me.
I decided to call her bluff. “No problem, the Park Royal it is.”
Lucy looked up, surprised. “You know how to get there?”
“Of course,” I said, not mentioning that I’d only been there for a press conference.
She dropped her gaze, smoothing her skirt again. “Let’s go then,” she said in a quiet voice.
As we drove to the hotel, I could see Lucy studying me from the corner of her eye, waiting for me to buckle. But I kept a straight face, determined to see the charade through to the end.
I pulled up outside the front entrance. After leaving the keys to my Corolla with a sneering valet, I grabbed Lucy’s hand and led her through the white-pillared reception to the front desk. She squeezed my hand urgently just as one of the young clerks looked up to greet us.
For a moment I thought she was going to back out, afraid of being recognized by one of the businessman milling around reception. But instead she asked: “Can we get a room with a balcony? I want to watch the sunset.”
I hesitated, suddenly freaking out over the cost of a balcony room.
Lucy was quick to pounce. “Look, it’s no big deal,” she whispered. “If you can’t afford it, just drive me back to the mall.”
Her condescension strengthened my resolve. I spun around to face the desk clerk, who’d been waiting patiently for our attention. “Good afternoon,” I greeted formally, knowing it would annoy the hell out of Lucy. “Are there any standard rooms with balconies available tonight?”
After a flurry of keystrokes, the desk clerk said the only available room with a balcony was a junior suite. Lucy squeezed my hand again, but I ignored her, confirming the booking without bothering to check the price.
Three hundred and twenty bucks later we were riding a glass elevator to our suite on a private-access floor. Lucy stared at her shoes while I held my calm, beatific smile in place, determined not to show any hint of aggravation even though I was silently fuming over the hit to my credit card.
The two-room suite was suitably spacious, far bigger than my studio apartment, and I managed to forget my money worries as I eyed up the sumptuous king-sized bed, the fluffy white robes in the closet, and the complimentary fruit platter on the coffee table. Maybe it was worth the eye-popping expense – to treat Lucy to a night of pure indulgence, to make love in a bed with six pillows and Egyptian cotton sheets.
“They call this a suite?” Lucy said, instantly killing my enthusiasm. “You should ask for your money back.”
I cast a critical eye over the room, but I couldn’t see what she was complaining about. It was certainly the nicest hotel room I’d ever been in. “What’s wrong with it?” I said.
“It’s ugly,” Lucy said with a dismissive wave. “They should fire the decorator.” She grabbed the television remote and perched herself on the edge of the bed. She flicked through the channels until she found a talk show, and then turned the volume up as far as it would go.
I let her sulk, moving to the window where the late afternoon sky was already beginning to darken, the glass cool to touch. I pulled the window-slide across and stepped onto the balcony, sucking in the fresh, late autumn air. The view was about as pretty as it got from the city center, looking down over the palm trees lining L Street, and the Capitol building’s grand Corinthian columns and lush gardens.
“Come onto the balcony,” I shouted to Lucy, struggling to be heard over the television. “It’s going to be a beautiful sunset.”
She ignored me, pretending to be mesmerized by the squawking talk show guests. When the audience started whooping and cheering, I couldn’t stand it any longer. I marched over to the bed, snatched the remote from Lucy’s hand, and pressed the off button.
She shot me a withering glare. “I was watching that.”
“It was giving me a headache. Jesus, what’s got into you? You’re acting like a five year old.”
“And you’re acting like a control freak.”
There was a tremor in Lucy’s voice that gave me pause. I noticed she was shivering slightly, even though the room was warm. I sat next to her on the bed. “What’s wrong, Lucy? Just talk to me.”
“It’s nothing,” she said softly. “Nothing for you to worry about.”
“I’m already worried. I mean, look at you.”
She dropped her head. “Why do you put up with me, Johnny? God knows I’m more trouble than I’m worth.”
“Don’t say that,” I said, leaning in to comfort her. She recoiled at my touch, jumping to her feet.
“I better go,” she blurted.
I stood up and grabbed her hand. She tried to yank free, and I pulled her towards me, hoping to steady her. When my a
rms tightened around her waist, she let out an ear-splitting howl of pain.
I immediately backed away, shocked. Lucy was hunched over, clutching her side.
“Fuck, I’m sorry,” I said.
Lucy shook her head. “It’s not you,” she said, breathing sharply through her nose. She was still holding her right side, as if a piece of her would fall off if she took her hand away.
And finally, I twigged. Lucy’s modest outfit. Her defensive body language. Her many attempts to drive me away before we hopped into bed.
“Why don’t you take off your sweater?” I said.
She straightened slightly. “Excuse me?”
“Your sweater, Lucy. I think your hiding something. If I’m wrong, you won’t mind taking it off.”
“Whatever,” she scoffed. She peeled off her cashmere sweater to reveal a silky white camisole. She folded her bare arms over her chest. “Satisfied?”
“And the camisole.”
“I’m really not in the mood…”
“–Just do it Lucy.”
She flinched at my direct order. She took off her camisole, and then looked up at me guiltily.
I couldn’t believe my eyes. On her right side was a massive bruise – yellow and brown at the center, turning purple at the edges. The bruise tightened against her ribs when she breathed, causing her to wince each time she inhaled. It was painful just to look at.
“Jesus,” I said, moving forward.
“Don’t touch it,” she warned, hunching over to protect herself.
“I won’t,” I said, crouching down for a better look. The bruised skin was badly swollen but it was the damage underneath that concerned me. I asked, “Have you seen a doctor?”
“No. It’s not as bad as it looks.”
“It’s probably worse than it looks. Does it hurt to breathe?”
“A little.”
I stood up. “Then you need to see a doctor. Your ribs might be broken.”
“I’m okay, Johnny. Honestly.”
I was shaking my head in disbelief. “What a fucking monster. Why do you stay with him?”
