I waited for him to pass the information to the driver, then answered what was likely to be his inevitable question. “I tutor. English literature and French.”
Mostly.
He settled back into the leather seat and regarded me.
“They must pay rather well if you’re willing to trek all the way up there, especially on a miserable day like today.”
“When you’re on your own, every little bit helps.” I turned my head just far enough to study the icy rain sticking to the car window and the streets beyond. That made the Tuesday afternoon rush hour traffic even slower than usual and the commuters, rushing along, bags and briefcases held over their heads, even more visibly foul-tempered than usual. Closing my eyes, I shut it all out and took a deep breath—leather and tobacco and memories wrapping around me. Even if the lingering chill of my skin and the scent of damp wool painted them with a slightly different hue it nevertheless allowed me to pretend—for just these few moments—that that wasn’t my world out there. That my world was fine wine and private cars and polite, educated gentlemen. It would be a memory to hold onto. Good timing. Some of the other memories, they’d begun fading to the point where they felt more like ephemeral wisps of a dream. Snippets of fantasy.
“Natalie—we’re here.”
“Ay—” I caught myself, almost too late. “Oh no, I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” At least I’d been leaning against the window and not Mr. Barnes. What was I thinking? What would Mrs. Mercier think if this ever got back to her? I couldn’t risk anything that might cause me to lose Mercier’s. I should have just gone home. I could always find another tutoring job. I hoped. “Please forgive me, Mr. Barnes.”
“Okay, first off—” The hand on my shoulder went from the gentle touch that had woken me, to a firmer hold, demanding attention. “I’m the first to appreciate professionalism, but I’ve known you since the first day you began working at Mercier’s. I think we’ve progressed beyond Mr. Barnes, don’t you? Call me Greg.”
“But Mrs. Mercier—”
“Has known me since God was a boy. And knows I don’t give a damn for formality. When you’re working, I’ll understand the need for professional courtesy, but otherwise, it’s Greg.”
Nice man, but clearly out of his mind. Because there was no way. I simply couldn’t. But I also knew arguing would be a waste of time. Not that he gave me opportunity.
“Second. You’re clearly exhausted.” His hand moved from my shoulder to my chin, tilting my head back while his other hand reached up and turned on the domed ceiling light. His brows drew together. “Clearly.” Releasing my chin, he flicked the light off, the sudden darkness doing little to obscure his frown. I could practically feel it across the seat. “I know Darby Carmichael. Do you want me to call—”
“No sir, Mr. Bar—Greg,” I stammered. “Really, I’m fine.” No, I really wasn’t, the customary dread making its appearance, right on time, the sight of the distinctive wrought iron scrolls of the gates ringing the campus’ perimeter bringing on the vague beginnings of nausea. However, I did not need him calling the headmaster. It was a day. Just like any other.
“I don’t know why I dozed off, I’m terribly sorry. Perhaps I’m coming down with something—”
“Then I definitely should call. Darby’s only a terror to the boys—otherwise he’s rather humane and would certainly understand if one of his tutors was under the weather.”
“Please. Don’t.” Fully awake now, I was able to assume my usual calm impassiveness. “I’ll be fine and I really do need to meet with this student. It’s disgraceful how little he knows and with his finals a week away.”
Greg released a long sigh. “I’ve had many an acquaintance who went here. Unless things have experienced a seismic shift, there’s not much would surprise me about a Concord student’s academic prowess—or lack thereof.”
Stepping from the car, he extended his hand. “You promise you’re fine?”
“Yes.” During my impromptu nap, the rain had become snow, flakes peppering Greg’s sandy hair and black coat and stinging my eyes.
“Will you be all right getting home?”
“I’ll be all right. I promise. Only the one student tonight, then I’ll be on my way home before it even grows too late.”
“All right then.” From years of practice, I could easily translate his expression and body language. He was leaving; he wasn’t happy about it, because to his mind, the situation wasn’t satisfactorily under control, but what else could he legitimately do in this situation? His wife really did have her hands full with him.
With a wave, I headed up the brick walk to the scrolled gate. After exchanging a quick pleasantry with the gateman, I turned back to wave once again, knowing Greg would still be standing there, waiting until he saw me safely through. I took steadying breaths as I approached the library. Hopefully, my student would be here, would be prepared to study, and I could make a relatively quick session of it.
Wishful thinking, but it’s what I held onto—what kept me coming back. That hopefully, one time—just once—it would be different. As I signed in at the desk, the pale Columbia student who served as the evening librarian handed me a key.
“Study room three. He’s already there.”
“Thank you.”
As our gazes met during the perfunctory exchange, I caught the look in his eye—I wasn’t quite sure if it was pitying, mocking, or some combination thereof. Truthfully? It wasn’t as if analyzing would make any difference so why concern myself with it? Climbing the wide marble stairs, I made my way around the bronze-railed rotunda and entered the room where I found my student—a junior basketball player the team couldn’t afford to lose, or so I’d been told—sitting in a chair, endless gray flannel-covered legs ending in burnished loafers propped on the table in front of him as he skimmed through The Grapes of Wrath.
“Hello, um …” I glanced down at the piece of paper I’d fished from my coat pocket. “Derek? I’m Natalie. Your tutor.”
“Yeah, I figured.” The legs swung down and the book landed on the floor.
I forced a laugh even as my stomach clenched and bright lights streaked across my vision, threatening my equilibrium. “Ready to be quizzed already?”
“No.” Standing, he crossed to the door and pulled the privacy blind down over the window and turned the deadbolt. “Ready for you to be of service though.”
Two
He smiled and ran a hand over dark, close-cropped hair, exuding a palpable sense of casual confidence—an attitude he’d done nothing to earn—that started a familiar burn, deep within my chest. No matter what his athletic gifts or his family’s background—there was no way he’d earned the right to that smug, overbearing countenance at—what? Sixteen? Seventeen, at best? God, but I despised that attitude. I despised all of it.
The bit of Pollyanna that refused to die tried appealing to the shred of human decency I hoped lurked somewhere in him. “Derek—”
“Coach has had us on a short leash. It’s been a hell of a dry spell. You’ll be a good girl, right? For me …” he cajoled in silky tones far beyond his years. “Uh, what’s your name again?”
I’m sure he thought his smile was charming. And he had that odd, grating way of speaking—as if he had marbles in his cheeks. Gritting my teeth for a brief, painful moment, I tried again, ignoring his request for my name. Not as if he’d remember it. “But—your test. You have to pass—”
Dark eyes rolled as he yanked the navy blue pullover with its embroidered school crest over his head. “Yeah, yeah… Dust Bowl, Depression, poor people, Tom Joad. All that crap. I’ll pass. You’ll make sure of it—” He paused with his hand on his fly. “But afterwards. I can swear I won’t be any good otherwise,” he drawled, the threat implicit.
No choice. As usual, no damned choice.
Admittedly, I could make the choice to walk away. But it would spell the end of this job as definitively as not giving in to this spoiled brat would. And while in those rare
glib, optimistic moments, I told myself I could get another tutoring job with little effort, the simple fact of the matter was there was no real way. Not one of this magnitude.
Once upon a time, my great-grandmother had had a Japanese puzzle box sitting on a table in her parlor: smooth, deceptive, red and black lacquer with many moves and only sure way to solve the dilemma. It felt very much like this.
“You don’t have to take the dress off.” I felt the mass of him hovering just behind me. Turning my head slightly, I glimpsed his fly gaping open, the fabric of his boxers tented.
“Yes, I do.” I forced my voice to remain cool and steady as I slid the zipper down the side of my favorite black wool sheath and pulled it off along with my slip, carefully laying both over a chair, shivering as the sudden chill raised gooseflesh on my bare arms and along my back.
“Oh man.” He took a step closer, the heat of his body invasive. “Oh man… Leave the girdle on. And the bra.”
My eyes closed at the feel of his breath, damp gusts that made my skin crawl. “Do you—” I swallowed hard as his hand grazed my hip. “Have anything?”
“What?” His voice was thick and stupid—a slow wet noise beside my ear.
“Never mind.” I pulled my handbag—always kept within easy reach for just this purpose—close and removed my cosmetics bag. Unzipping it, I pulled out a small, square packet that I handed back to him.
“I don’t want to wear this.”
The whine told me I had as much of an upper hand as I was going to get. Without a word, I reached for my dress.
“Wait—wait.” His voice remained petulant, but with a definite note of surrender. “Okay, fine.”
Paper tore behind me as I closed my eyes and breathed deep. Large as he was, he could have easily overpowered me. They so rarely did, however. While the outward trappings may have been those of full grown men, they were little boys, really. Easily reaching a point where they were so eager to get what they wanted they’d do whatever was required. It was the one tiny advantage I maintained.
“Bend over.” A large clammy hand pushed between my shoulder blades until my cheek rested on the pale wood surface. This close, if I opened my eyes, I knew I would see years’ worth of gouges and ink stains and youthful declarations of loathing and infatuation and lust. If I opened them.
I never did anymore.
One hand tight on my hip, he used the other to manipulate himself, shoving aside the modesty panel between my legs and pushing. And pushing again, his grunts overriding the quiet whimpers I muffled further by biting into my palm; shoving until I could feel the metal teeth of his zipper digging into my thighs, snagging the tops of my stockings.
“Yes,” he groaned against my shoulder, his hands rubbing in rough circles over the tight black nylon and lace encasing my hips and buttocks. “Oh yeah.” Groans devolved into a high-pitched whine as he began moving in short, jerky thrusts, his hands rubbing, snapping at my garters, rubbing some more. “Yes, tell me I’m good … tell me I’m a good boy—tell me.” The fact that he kept shoving further in, that his hands pressed down on my shoulders, forcing my head to remain down meant he neither needed nor expected a response. Thank God.
It burned, the physical violation—the humiliation hot and acid in my chest as his thrusts grew faster and harder, my pelvis slamming into the table’s edge with painful intensity. There would be visible reminders—would be more difficult to block this one. And then he was gone, blessed relief and cool air washing over my heated skin until seconds later, I heard him grunt again and felt heat soaking into the fabric across my backside, another hot splash along my spine.
“So pretty. So fucking pretty.” Then his hands again, rubbing, massaging the sticky, wet mess into my skin, my undergarments, the damp heel of his palm grinding between my legs, his fingers probing, and I couldn’t even protest this new, this … unspeakable violation.
I wanted to. I wanted to stand up and say enough.
But I was just too tired.
An hour later, I returned the study room key to the librarian, not caring if it was pity or mockery that I saw in his eyes as I met his gaze. One simply did what one had to. That knowledge is what made it possible to ignore the residue that had nylon clinging to my skin; that kept me from wincing with every step at the burn between my thighs as I said my goodnights to the gateman.
It was only once I was clear of the gate and in the shadows beyond the lamps lining the walkway, that I finally allowed my head to drop, keeping it resolutely lowered the entire subway ride home, refusing to meet anyone’s eyes.
Grateful beyond belief that Helen was on another one of her endless dates, I went through the ritual of undressing and taking a cursory hot shower, wincing at the sting as I carefully washed between my legs, douching just to make doubly certain all traces of him were gone. Tightly wrapped in my heaviest robe, I moved on to the clothes. The lingerie had to be washed, of course, and one stocking was ruined, the teeth from the little idiot’s zipper having created a wide ladder run that couldn’t easily be mended. This was precisely why I continued to use stockings when everyone else was moving to the more convenient pantyhose. Not that such details were ever liable to come up in polite conversation.
Spot cleaning and a light spritz of diluted Jean Naté would ensure I could wear my dress at least once more before a trip to the cleaner’s—distasteful perhaps, but when every penny counted, one did what was necessary.
After preparing a pot of tea, I sat at our battered dinette and wrote the check for my share of the rent, blowing on the paper until the ink was dry. Buying those few extra moments as I sipped tea and watched the still-alien snow drift and swirl past the window. Finally, I picked up my pen once more and with the penmanship perfected under the watchful eyes of the nuns, wrote out the amount for my one other large monthly expense.
Just as carefully, I addressed an envelope, affixed a stamp, and slipped the check inside, wrapped in a plain sheet of white stationary. No note, or salutation. None was really needed. Or wanted if I had to hazard a guess.
A shrill ring echoed throughout the apartment, its immediate, demanding call cutting off memory before it had opportunity to take root. Thank God. Even if it was no doubt for Helen—another one of her many paramours. The idiots often had no concept of time or propriety, calling at all hours, expecting her to be available and all too often, she complied, hurriedly throwing on a dress and applying a quick slash of Cherries in the Snow before some young man would appear at the door, reeking of whisky and smoke and sometimes, expensive perfume. No wonder the girl had yet to “land one of those yummy dishes,” as she referred to the bevy of young professionals. She had no sense of playing hard to get.
“Because really, why should they pay for a hamburger if they’re getting steak for free?” I muttered as I pushed myself away from the table. Cradling my teacup, allowing its warmth to bleed into my skin, I took my time about strolling into the living room, hoping whoever was on the other end of the ringing phone would give up since I wasn’t quite in the mood to insist that no, I had no idea where Helen was or with whom or when, or even if, she’d be back this evening. Well, I wasn’t quite so indiscreet as to include that last bit, but there were times it had been tempting. Finally, on the seventh ring, I gave up and picked up the receiver.
“Hello?”
“There you are. You just now getting home?”
I smiled at the familiar kitchen sounds in the background. “I’ve been home for a bit, Remy. I was just having some tea.”
“Didn’t get too wet in this mess I hope?”
I flinched at the unwitting reminder. “Only a little, but I took a hot bath the minute I got home.”
“I’m about done here—you want I should bring you by some more soup? I got some pecan pie leftover, too.”
“You don’t need to go to any trouble on my account.”
Even with the muzziness crackling along the connection due to the bad weather, his short explosion of breath carried clearly. �
��If it was, I wouldn’t offer chère.”
“Really, you—”
“I’ll be there shortly.”
He hung up without saying goodbye. He never did, not that it bothered me. Wasn’t a word I was overly fond of either. Setting my battered espresso maker on the range, I went into my room, donning a heavy flannel nightgown before belting my robe once again. I grimaced at the image in the mirror as I brushed out my still-damp hair and worked it into a braid. Like I was one to scold Helen, even if silently, about propriety, given I couldn’t even be bothered to fully dress for a male guest. But it was Remy.
A single sharp knock sounded just as the espresso maker emitted its final gentle burbles. After rapidly winding an elastic around the end of my braid, I opened the door.
“I brought a sandwich, too,” he said as he dropped a quick, snow-chilled kiss to each cheek. “Made it with some of the peppered steak I had leftover. Tell you what, I’m so hungry I’m ’bout ready to gnaw my own arm off. Felt like everyone and their mama came in tonight—didn’t have half a second to scratch my watch or wind my behind.” Moving as easily around my tiny kitchen as he did the larger space at Mercier’s, he pulled a saucepan down from the shelf above the small range, lighting the burner and pouring the soup from a thermos. “Coffee smells wonderful bebe—you got some milk? I got a taste for an au lait.”
I smiled as I locked the door behind him and followed him into the kitchen, discreetly sliding the white envelope from the table and into my pocket. “I’ll get it.”
“Never you mind.” He waved me toward the table, reaching into the battered Frigidaire for the bottle. “No room for both of us to be moving around here. You just sit there and tell me about your evening. How was this one?”
“As stupid as all the others.” I suppressed a shudder as I sank back into my chair.
Between Here and Gone Page 3
