by Joy Fielding
He never said he was sorry anymore. Instead, she was the one who was always apologizing. How had that happened? When had that happened? When had she begun accepting the blame for what he did to her? When had his temper become her responsibility?
How could she have let this happen? She, who had all the answers, who’d openly disdained and disparaged her mother for permitting all-too-similar abuse, she who’d sworn it would never happen to her, who thought she was so smart, so tough, so in control, when she was nothing but a pale carbon copy of her mother, the carbon evident in the black-and-blue smudges on her face.
She’d read somewhere that people choose what is familiar to them, that they seek out patterns, however heinous and ill advised, repeating them, often to their detriment, because they are unconsciously comfortable with them. They know what to expect.
The devil you know, she thought.
Had her subconscious known exactly the kind of man Dave Bigelow was all along? Had she married him understanding who he was, what he was, but pretending not to, pretending that if she was good enough, kind enough, diligent enough, woman enough, not her mother enough, she could change him, she could rewrite her sad history, effect a happy ending? Was that what she’d fooled herself into believing? Was that why she was so busy apologizing now?
Except she was through apologizing.
The light at the next corner turned yellow, and she pressed down on the accelerator, speeding through the intersection and almost colliding with a car that was making a left-hand turn. She gasped, swerved to her left, pulled her foot off the gas pedal.
I can shoot her in the foot, if you’d like, she heard Tom say.
Or you could shoot my husband instead, had been her quick response.
Had she really said that?
Had she meant it?
Could she go through with it?
“What’s the matter with me?” she asked out loud, realizing she’d been driving for the last ten minutes with no clear idea where she’d been going. Rather like the last ten years of my life, she thought, turning east toward Biscayne Bay.
She soon found herself in the section of downtown Miami known as Brickell. Brickell was famous for its futuristic-looking condos and towering glass office buildings that made South Beach look downright quaint. Constructed in the eighties, financed by what was rumored to be laundered cocaine money, and pulsating to a distinctive Latin American beat, it was a paean to all that might be considered excessive anywhere else. Here, extravagance was the norm.
Everything was oversize, from restaurants like Bongos Cuban Cafe, which comfortably accommodated 2,500 people and whose bar stools were shaped liked giant bongos, to Duo, an American bistro with a wine list of more than 600 bottles. Then there were the nightclubs. At least a dozen at last count, all competing for the title of Biggest, Loudest, Most Happening.
Suzy drove by the warehouse that was Bricks Nightclub and Sunset Lounge, a recent addition to the Brickell nightlife scene. She’d come here with Dave just after they moved to Miami, but they’d never bothered going back. The promoters liked to trumpet its “kinetic color lighting system,” under which club-goers danced to a mixture of house music, Latin, and hip-hop, but Dave said he preferred the clubs on the other side of the river, north maybe a dozen blocks. There was Metropolis Downtown, 55,000 square feet of young, intoxicated, drugged-out space cadets swaying to the deafening blare of electronic music under a circling succession of colored beams and flashing strobe lights; and Nocturnal, 22,000 square feet over three floors and a terrace that had cost roughly twelve million dollars to build. There was also Space, a cavernous, multilevel labyrinth of ear-splitting energy, where dancers indulged in high-end drugs and big-name DJs spun vinyl into gold. They’d gone there a couple of times, even though the action didn’t really start until the wee hours of the morning. But then Dave had accused her of staring too long at a passing waiter and dragged her out of the club by the scruff of her neck, like a puppy that had misbehaved. A smattering of applause had followed their exit. Outrageousness was to be encouraged after all. No one had chased after them to see if she was all right.
Would anyone notice if I just disappeared off the face of the earth? she’d wondered over the years. Would anyone care?
Will, she thought, seeing his sweet face flash across her front window. Will would notice. Will would care. She touched her mouth, relived the softness of his kisses, the tenderness of his touch.
Which was exactly the problem, she realized, pulling the car to the side of the curb in front of the Pawn Shop Lounge and stopping, staring at the original WE BUY GOLD sign that graced the nightclub’s slummy-looking exterior. Will was too sweet, too tender. His soft, patient kisses told her he was incapable of deliberate cruelty, that he would never be able to kill another human being.
Tom was a different story altogether. Cruelty fit him like a second skin. It flowed effortlessly through his veins, accompanied by equal doses of anger and entitlement. He was itching for a fight. And he had a gun.
But while Suzy knew Tom would have no trouble taking a life, she also recognized he was, in Will’s words, a loose cannon and that she could never depend on him to do what needed to be done without messing up or demanding too much in return.
And she wasn’t about to exchange one psychopath for another.
Which left Jeff.
Tough-talking, cynical, and not quite as smart as he liked to think he was, Jeff was exactly the man Suzy had been wishing for. Almost painfully proud of his sexual prowess, he was also full of wounded pride. Desperate to prove himself—to women, to men, but mostly to himself—he was full of the kind of false bravado that barely masked the scared little boy inside. And scared little boys were easy to manipulate.
Could she do it? Suzy wondered, watching a dark-haired couple weave by in each other’s arms. The man was at least a head taller than the woman and maybe two decades younger. She saw them stop at the corner, the young man’s right arm reaching down to cup the woman’s buttocks, which pressed against her brightly patterned jersey dress. She watched the woman’s head tilt back between her shoulder blades and laugh as the man covered her newly exposed throat with kisses. Who’s using who? she wondered.
Who’s using whom ? she heard Dave correct.
Suzy groaned, long and loud.
Yes, she could do it, she decided in that instant, opening the car window and breathing in the rush of warm, humid air. She could use Jeff, use Tom, use Will—hell, she’d use all three, if necessary—to help rid her of Dave. She pulled away from the curb, speeding down the street in the direction of I-95.
Only two questions remained: when, and how?
“OKAY, NORA. ONE leg in front of the other, not so far apart, that’s right. Keep your back straight. Good. Now, squat. Ten each side.”
“I hate squats.”
“I know,” Jeff said, looking toward the clock on the wall opposite the mirrors. It was almost four o’clock. Was Suzy still with Will in his apartment? Had anything happened between them?
“They don’t do any good,” Nora Stuart whined.
Another five minutes and she’ll be out of my hair, Jeff thought, praying for patience. Nora was one of his least favorite clients, a pear-shaped harridan, always complaining about something: the room was too warm, the music too vulgar, the exercises too tough.
“Trust me, squats are the best thing for your glutes,” he said, picturing Suzy standing beside the reception desk, remembering the way she’d looked at him in the bakery.
You think I’m here because of you? she’d asked.
Damn right he did. He knew enough about women to know when they were interested. Suzy was definitely interested. And no matter what she said, or how much she protested otherwise, it wasn’t in Will.
Nora Stuart rolled her heavily shadowed brown eyes toward the ceiling, her large, red lips stretching toward her chin in a pronounced frown. Her unnaturally black hair hung limply past her rounded shoulders, making her look every one of her fort
y-three years. “If squats are so damn good for you, how come my ass is still two feet off the ground?”
“That’s a foot higher than it used to be,” Jeff said, hoping for a laugh.
“Is that supposed to be funny?” Nora asked instead, hands on her wide hips. “Larry, I think I’ve just been insulted.” Her tone made it difficult to determine whether or not she was joking. Kidding on the square, his sister used to call that.
Larry glanced over from his position on the other side of the room, where he was loading four twenty-pound steel plates onto a hundred-pound bar. He pulled his iPod out of his ear. “Sorry. Is there a problem?”
“I don’t know,” Nora said, looking at Jeff. “Is there?”
“What say we skip the squats for today?” Jeff said.
“Good idea. Squats don’t do squat.” Nora laughed at her own joke.
She was still chuckling as Jeff threw a mat across the floor and instructed her to lie on her back.
“What? That’s it? You’re going to stretch me out already?” Nora asked. “We’re done?”
“It’s four o’clock.”
“So? We didn’t start till ten after three.”
“That’s because you were ten minutes late.”
“I told you—that couldn’t be helped.”
“I understand, but I have another client waiting.” Jeff nodded toward Jonathan Kessler, already warming up on the treadmill.
“I pay a lot of money for these sessions.”
“I appreciate that.”
“I don’t think you do.”
“Is there a problem?” Larry asked again, ambling toward them.
“I’d like to make a change,” Nora told him. “Starting next week, I’d prefer if you were my trainer.”
Larry looked from Nora to Jeff and then back to Nora. “Did something happen?”
“Just not a good fit,” Nora said.
Larry nodded, as if he understood, and smiled. “Talk to Melissa. She has my schedule. I’m sure we can work something out.” When he looked back at Jeff, his smile was gone. “We’ll talk later,” he said.
FIFTEEN
“YOU WANT TO TALK about it?” Kristin asked, leaning across the bar, her impressive cleavage on full display. A bountiful bosom, a sympathetic ear—normally a winning combination, guaranteed to produce a generous tip. Yet the middle-aged man sitting on the stool at the far end of the bar, nursing his glass of single-malt, seemed curiously unimpressed.
“Hmm?” he replied without looking up. He was pasty skinned, balding, and perspiring into his pale blue shirt. He’d been sitting at the bar for the better part of an hour, his pale jowls sinking despondently into the palms of his nervous hands.
“Thought you might like that drink freshened,” Kristin said.
“Good idea.” He handed over his glass without lifting his head.
“Any particular preference?”
“Whatever,” the man said.
Kristin retrieved a bottle of Canadian Club from its glass shelf and poured the man another drink, giving him a slightly more generous serving than required. Poor guy, she was thinking. He looks like he could use it. She filled a bowl with peanuts and pushed it toward him. “Everything okay?”
The man looked from the bowl of peanuts to the fake Rolex on his wrist. “What time do you have?”
Kristin checked her watch, an old Bulova she’d been wearing for more than a decade. “Five after six.”
“That’s what I’ve got.”
“Somebody’s late?”
“Somebody’s been stood up,” he said, his eyes reaching toward hers.
Kristin gave the man her most sympathetic frown. “What time were you supposed to meet her?”
“Five thirty.”
“Well, she’s not that late. Maybe she got stuck in traffic. Or maybe she’s having trouble finding a place to park.”
“Or maybe she’s not coming,” the man said.
“Have you tried calling her?”
“I’ve left three messages.”
The front door opened and a gorgeous woman with long red hair walked inside. She was about thirty, tall and willowy, wearing black satin shorts and thigh-high, black leather boots. “Is that her?” Kristin whispered, trying not to sound too surprised.
“God, I hope so,” the man said, sucking in his stomach and preparing to stand up when the front door opened again, and a curly-haired man with slim hips and a sly smirk ambled inside, slid his arm around the redhead’s waist, and kissed her full on the mouth. They were laughing as they walked—seemingly joined at the hip—to a table near the back of the room. “Guess that wasn’t her,” the man said, sitting back down, letting his stomach relax over the top of his gray slacks.
“You don’t know what she looks like?”
“We met on the Internet,” the man admitted. “Her name’s Janet. We’ve been exchanging e-mails for months. This was supposed to be our first date.”
“She might still show up.”
“Nah. She’s not coming. I’m an idiot.”
“You’re not an idiot,” Kristin said. Yeah, you are, she thought. “What’s your name?”
“Mike.” He tried to smile. “She calls me Mikey.”
Kristin looked toward the entrance, willing the front door to open and Janet to walk through, looking for her Mikey. But the door stayed resolutely closed. “I’m sorry,” she said after another minute had passed.
Mike shrugged, as if to say, What are you gonna do?
Half an hour later, the bar was filling up, and Janet still wasn’t there. Kristin poured Mike another glass of whiskey. “On me,” she was about to tell him when the front door opened, and a stylishly dressed, middle-aged woman with frosted hair and tortoise-shell-rimmed glasses walked up to the bar. “Could I have a gin and tonic, please?”
“Your name wouldn’t be Janet by any chance, would it?” Kristin asked hopefully.
“No,” the woman said. “It’s Brenda. Why—do I look like a Janet?”
“Just a little game I sometimes play with myself,” Kristin told her, trying to signal to Mike with her eyes. “One gin and tonic coming up.”
“I’ll be over there.” Brenda pointed to a nearby table.
“So, what do you think?” Kristin asked Mike as soon as Brenda was gone.
“What do I think about what?”
“Brenda,” Kristin stated, pouring several ounces of Beefeater gin into a glass.
“What do you mean?”
Kristin lifted her eyes toward the ceiling. Were men really this dense? “You’re alone. She’s alone. She looks very nice.” She added the appropriate amount of tonic to the clear fluid. “You could take this over to her. . . .”
The man glanced in Brenda’s direction without lifting his head. “Not interested.”
“Why not?”
“Not my type.”
“Why not?” Kristin said again.
“Too old for me.”
“Too old? What are you talking about? How old are you?”
“Forty-six.”
“So? She can’t be more than forty.”
“Too old for me,” he repeated. “Thirty-five’s my limit. Besides, she’s hardly a beauty.” He reached for his glass of whiskey.
Are you kidding me? Kristin demanded silently. Have you looked in the mirror lately? What is it with men? she wondered. Were they innately programmed to see only what they wanted to see? “That’s twelve dollars,” she said, bristling.
Mike pushed a twenty-dollar bill across the counter. “Give me six back,” he told her.
Figures, Kristin thought, counting out six one-dollar bills. And to think I felt sorry for the weasel. She handed Brenda’s gin and tonic to a passing waitress. “Table three.”
“So,” Mike said, raising his glass. “What time do you finish up here?”
“We close at two o’clock.”
“That’s a little late for me. Think you could beg off early?”
“What?”
“
I asked if you could leave early.”
“Why would I do that?” Is he coming on to me? Kristin wondered, a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. This is what comes from being nice to people, she thought.
“I thought maybe we could grab a late bite somewhere.”
“Sorry. I can’t do that.”
“Another time, maybe?”
“I don’t think my boyfriend would be too happy about that.”
Mike downed his scotch in two quick gulps, then pushed himself away from the bar and stood up. “Yeah, well. Can’t blame a man for trying, can you?”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Kristin said. “Take care.”
She watched Mike weave his way toward the exit and hoped he had enough brains to take a cab home. She glanced over at Brenda, sipping gingerly on her gin and tonic and staring wistfully at the empty seat on the other side of the table. Nah, she thought. Mike’s brains were all in his pants. Why were men smart enough to rule the world yet too stupid to know what was good for them?
“You handled that very well,” a man’s voice said, breaking into her reveries.
Kristin snapped to attention.
“I guess you get hit on a lot,” the man continued. He was in his late thirties, maybe forty, bookishly handsome in his seersucker suit and navy blue tie. She hadn’t seen him come in, wondered how long he’d been sitting there.
Kristin ignored the remark, which was generally a come-on of its own. “What can I get you?”
“Vodka, rocks.”
“Vodka, rocks, it is.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
