by Rick Pullen
“The thought had crossed my mind.”
“This is serious.” She glared at him with a raised, well-manicured eyebrow. “I know this happened suddenly, but I don’t regret it. I’m sure you’re worried about us being found out, but you needn’t be. My husband and I have an understanding. We’re free to pursue a sex life outside of our relationship.”
She said sex and not love. That was substantial. The muscles in the back of his neck relaxed.
“My husband is no longer interested in sex with me. He’s found someone else. We’ve been married for twenty years, and we’ve spent the last four in separate beds. He doesn’t want a divorce. Politically, publicly, that would hurt him. And quite frankly, we are still both very fond of each other. We love each other. But he has his life on the Hill, and I have mine. We appear together at public events and still make the gossip pages in your newspaper and the News-Times. We keep up a good front.” “That sounds like half of Washington.”
“We wondered when we got married if the twenty-four years separating us would become an issue. But I have to hand it to Harv, until the past four years, he was very young at heart and kept me very satisfied. We had a great marriage, but then the relationship faded.”
“But last night—” She paused and slowly shook her head, never taking her eyes off his. “I hadn’t had sex in more than three years.” Her eyes were pleading with him. “Beck, I’m only forty-two, and solo sex just doesn’t cut it. I’m not dead yet, and you’re a very, very attractive, intelligent—and as I found out last night—an extremely sexy man. I don’t want to give you up. Maybe we have a chance at a relationship. Maybe not. Right now, I’m willing to settle for one of those friends-with-bene-fits sexual relationships. All I ask is that you give us a chance.”
Beck looked into her eyes. For the first time, he realized they were amber, not brown. Her irises sparkled with hints of yellow starbursts, almost transparent. She slowly blinked her long, black lashes twice, attempting to stop a tear, awaiting his reply. He felt himself giving in. “Before you arrived, I asked myself, ‘What the fuck am I doing?’ And I still don’t have an answer. I was convinced that ending this before it began was the best option for both of us. I don’t know. I just don’t know.”
“Then let’s give it a try.” She walked over to the living room couch and dropped her jacket on the arm. Her back to him, she paused and looked at a painting of palm trees by the water’s edge he had hung above his couch. It was mounted behind a rustic white window frame giving the impression of looking through a window at the beach.
She stood, fiddling with her blouse, and then turned and dropped it to the floor. He gasped at her nakedness. She knew she had his number. He was defeated before this battle began, and right now he was more than willing to give in.
“You’re manipulating me.”
“I would certainly hope so.”
GENEVA DIVIDED MEN into many categories over the years. Some liked asses, others legs. Some went strictly for the eyes.
Beck was a breast man. Most men were. She had Beck pegged immediately and delivered what he wanted. If she wanted him, it was important to know what bait to dangle.
Throughout years on the party circuit, she had grown used to men’s furtive glances at her low-cut cocktail dresses. A few of her gowns even made the gossip columns. She enjoyed the attention. It gave her power over her male counterparts, power she learned to use as a lobbyist.
Geneva slept with none of the men she lobbied. However, she had had many offers and had been tempted in her last few years of celibacy. She knew instinctively if she ever crossed that line with any of them, her influence would vanish. Instead, she flirted and watched their reaction, which only enhanced her influence.
Beck seemed different. And yet, in other ways, he was just like all of the other men. He had an air of confidence that nearly all men in Washington possessed, but he also had a quirky boyish charm. He showed a glint of vulnerability, of decency, that she didn’t come across very often in the nation’s capital.
The more they talked last night, the more she wanted to talk. He had a way of drawing her out. He listened. Was that just a reporter’s trick or was he truly engaged and nonjudgmental? She wanted to believe the latter.
Their second round of lovemaking was less desperate. They took their time exploring each other’s body, finding the other’s pleasure zones and exposing their own. They took turns giving massages before consummating their passion.
Geneva enjoyed his hands wandering over her skin. She also enjoyed feeling every one of the muscles in his back ripple as she touched him. She enjoyed letting go and allowing him to take control. She especially enjoyed his desire for her, something she had missed for a long time.
Beck was not the bulky athletic type, but he was strong and fit. He had no six-pack across his abdomen like those magazine models, but his stomach was flat and firm. And he seemed to lack vanity.
To her, he seemed more in tune with himself than other men. She wouldn’t quite call him overly sensitive, but she did think he was kind. Maybe even thoughtful. Men, she realized, just didn’t get women. They had no idea how women manipulated them to their will.
She watched her power at work as she touched his thigh. She liked that she could make him so helpless. Beck brushed his fingers across her nipples. A tingle surged through her body. He rolled on top of her. She spread her thighs and welcomed him with open arms.
They made love for more than a half hour. Beck made sure she was satisfied before rolling over and falling asleep with the evening sun spilling through the blinds. Geneva could not sleep and rose to go to the bathroom. She looked at him naked, partially wound up in the sheets. God, he was good-looking, she thought, even with that silly mustache that tickled her thighs. She felt her emotions taking over. Senator Bayard could wait a while.
BECK AWOKE TO AN EMPTY BED. He stumbled into his living room in search of Geneva. He spied her through his French doors lounging naked on his patio sofa, a bottle of his wine on the side table. That reminded him he was still naked. He felt silly walking around his apartment in the nude, so he went back to his bedroom, slipped on his boxers, and joined her.
The laughter of distant children filtered through the trees that hid Beck’s balcony from the neighbors. The only outsiders to see them were small birds that hopped from branch to branch chirping furiously at his presence. Beck stood, watching. He could almost reach out and touch them. One jumped to his bird feeder, which hung by a wire from the ceiling in an effort to fend off his pesky squirrel neighbors.
“This is almost like your own tropical rain forest,” Geneva said. “Come join me.” She patted the cushion on the yellow sofa.
“Am I properly dressed?”
“Don’t ridicule me, Mr. Boxer Shorts.” She shook her head in mock disgust. “When I have the opportunity, I always ditch the outfit. I’m more comfortable this way. Does that bother you?” She sat on a large, white bathroom towel spread across the cushions. He sat down beside her.
“I have a beautiful naked woman next to me and I’m uncomfortable? Does it bother me? Maybe a little. I’m just not used to women lying around so casually naked. I hope you don’t mind if I stare.”
“Stare all you want. Didn’t you know that nude is the new black?” She looked at him with a smirk and then turned serious. “I think I told you I’m a military brat. My dad, I really do think, was some sort of spook. But whatever his job, we moved around the world from embassy to embassy. When I was young, my mother would take my brother and me to the beach. As you know, much of the rest of the world isn’t as hung up on nudity as we Americans. So I was maybe four or five and my brother a year older, and we would play on the beach nude and think nothing of it. My mother would always go topless, and nearly all of the women on the beach were topless or completely naked. It was normal.
“The locations changed as we got older, but the beaches never really did. It was the most wonderful time of my life. My brother and I were playing in the su
n and swimming in the sea till we were exhausted. We then slept on our towels on the sand before we would play in the sea again. Not a care in the world.
“My dad’s last assignment was in the Middle East. They are not quite so forgiving about nudity, so our beach fun came to a halt.”
Beck laughed. “I’ll say. So what happened next?”
Geneva frowned. “My life took a bad turn. Dad had another year to go on his tour before returning to the States, so my brother decided to delay college for a year and stay over with us. The local butcher had some special cuts for my mom. My brother went into town to pick them up. A political protest spilled out of the main square. Protestors threw rocks at the police, and they returned fire with rubber bullets and tear gas. My brother got caught in the middle of the crowd and was killed when a rubber bullet struck him in the temple.”
“Oh my god. That’s awful.” Beck placed his hand over hers.
Geneva looked at his balcony floor. “My family was devastated. I was scheduled to attend George Washington University that fall, and my folks had another year of their tour, but the State Department quickly shipped us all back to Washington. They wanted to minimize any political fallout. We buried my brother here in Virginia, and I’ve been in Washington ever since.”
“I’m sorry.”
Geneva pulled her hand away. “My mother was never the same. We never went to the beach again. She drank. She took antidepressants for years. My dad tried to carry on as best he could, but he couldn’t hold it all together either and died shortly after they retired to Florida. I lived on campus here and discovered Washington nightlife and politics. It was the only thing at that time that gave me a thrill and took my mind off my brother and family.”
Their eyes locked on each other. “That’s terrible about your brother. It must have been extremely painful.”
“It was. He was fun and so full of life, and I felt so bad. I had trouble fitting in at college. I spent six months in therapy trying to figure out why I was different from all of the other college girls—why I didn’t like to wear clothes. Finally, my therapist pointed to my time on the beach with my mom and brother. Subconsciously, she said, I was trying to relive my happy youth. Honestly, I just enjoy the freedom and comfort of being clothes free—that’s what the real nudists call it—in the privacy of my own home.”
“Do friends and family know of your habit?”
“A few. Harv, of course. He sees me all the time. And a handful of girlfriends. But it’s not like we sit around naked together. This is America. I wear a bathrobe or lose-fitting blouse and skirt when they are around. They know I have an overall tan and how I get it. I’m not embarrassed.”
“I must admit, I’ve never met a woman like you. You smoke cigars. You prance around the room in the buff. I’ll bite. Let’s see where this relationship goes.”
Two chirping birds interrupted them, one on the roof of Beck’s small hanging birdhouse, the other on its perch. Beck and Geneva looked up at the noise. They seemed to be having a conversation.
She turned back to him. “Now what about you, Mr. Rikki? I’ve laid myself bare.”
“Literally.”
Tiny crow’s-feet were lightly etched at the edges of Geneva’s wide eyes as she grinned. Her dimples accentuated the corners of her mouth. “No, really. What is your story?”
“Nothing really. Grew up in Richmond, Virginia. Went to college in Tennessee where I met our friend Ellen Elizabeth. Began work at a couple of suburban newspapers outside of DC before I landed a job at the Post-Examiner.”
“How do I get a man to talk more about himself? In this town, I usually can’t get them to stop blathering on and on about how great and powerful they are. You, on the other hand, have a two-sentence history.”
“I’m a journalist. We’re all about brevity.”
“Come on.”
“No girlfriend, if that’s what you mean.” “I wasn’t probing.” “Oh, there’s Red.”
“Red?”
“My chair.” Beck pointed over his shoulder. “She’s about as close to a girlfriend as I have at the moment.”
“A chair? What makes Red so special?”
“That’s between Red and me.”
“Why the reluctance to talk about a chair?”
Beck hesitated and looked into her eyes. Should he tell her? It was just so damned embarrassing and made him feel so vulnerable. Finally, he got up from the balcony sofa and stepped into his living room. He returned with a book, opened it to the acknowledgments page, and handed it to Geneva. “This is my latest.”
She read aloud. “I must first thank Red. Without her help, not a word in this book would have appeared on the page.” She put the book down. “I don’t get it.”
“Promise you won’t laugh.”
“Promise.” With her index finger, Geneva swiped her finger across her tongue and made a small cross on the bare skin above her breasts.
“I’ve never told anyone this. I’m not quite sure why I’m telling you . . . it’s a long story . . . but I talk to her.”
“Your chair?” Geneva did not change her expression but gazed directly into Beck’s eyes.
He turned away. Now he’d gone and done it. He could feel her ridicule coming. “It’s complicated.” He hesitated. “When I was a kid, I was dyslexic. I was a very slow reader. I didn’t read an entire children’s book until the fifth grade. So reading and writing were always difficult for me. My parents—God bless ‘em—began shoving the newspaper in front of me. I started with the comics and progressed to the sports page. I later graduated to the advice columns, where I learned about sex and dysfunctional families. And even later, I started reading the front page and became a news junkie. By the time I got to college, I gobbled up books. But my writing was rudimentary, probably because I came to reading so late.”
Geneva’s eyes glistened. Beck saw empathy in her expression instead of the ridicule he had expected. There was an awkward silence.
“So there I was, a news junkie who wanted more than anything to become a newspaper reporter, but I couldn’t write worth a damn. So I became the next best thing, the best goddamn investigative reporter ever. You didn’t have to be a great stylist if you created stories that blew the doors off City Hall. Editors always compensated for my lack of skills in exchange for the big score—until I came to the Post-Examiner.”
He turned to her. “I had some good stories early in my career, but they still put me on probation and told me to find a writing coach or I’d likely lose my job or end up on some suburban beat forever.”
“Did you?”
“Lose my job? Course not. I’m still there.” “You know what I mean.”
“Do you know how embarrassing that would have been? Me, a reporter at one of the best newspapers in the nation, working with a writing coach? I’d have been the laughing stock of the profession. So I tried to self-medicate. One thing led to another, and I began talking out my stories, which helped me organize and polish them. It’s how I write my big stories today. I pace the floor and, well,” Beck stammered, “and I—I talk it out with Red. So you understand my need to keep this between us.” He felt like he was pleading with her. “I don’t wish to be mocked. Not in this town.”
“You’re serious? So you’re telling me your chair proofs your stories?”
They stared at each other. Beck bit his lower lip and then spoke. “Not proof. Just helps to write and rewrite my drafts.”
Geneva leaned over and wrapped her arms around him, burying her face in his bare chest. Beck felt tears against his skin. He hugged her hard for a long time.
Finally, he pushed her back and looked at her again. “So you’re okay with this?”
She gave him a broad grin. “Every artist needs his muse. I admit I’m a little jealous. I don’t like sharing you with another woman. But I’ll let it go just this once. But why the name Red? She’s a brown leather chair.”
“Oh that.” Beck shook his head. “It’s a joke. Red is my reading
chair. Red, or r-e-a-d, is the past tense of the word read. Red is female because I enjoy sitting in her lap. For that reason alone, I almost named her Luxury.”
“That is so cornball.”
“Writer’s joke.”
She leaned in and kissed him. He kissed back even harder. He did not want their embrace to end. He liked the feel of her in his arms and her skin touching his. His hand slipped down to cup her bottom, and his body hardened against her. Finally, she pushed back.
“I can’t. I’m really sore,” she said.
Beck hesitated. “Share that bottle of wine?” He nodded at the bottle she had left open and her half-empty glass.
She smiled, picked up her glass, and offered it to him. “I’ve got several in the kitchen,” he said.
THE EVENING SUN HAD FADED to night. Beck flipped on the balcony light as he returned from the kitchen and filled his glass. Geneva felt a slight chill as the air began to cool. She had not intended to tell her life story tonight or to learn his. Now she was torn. She liked this man, liked him a lot. But she knew she needed to circle back and discuss her suspicions about Senator Bayard. But when? She needed the right moment.
“You and Red working on any big stories together?” “Just started a new investigation. Don’t know where it’s going. But I’m on a tight deadline.”
“Anything you can talk about?”
‘Just a member of Congress. Don’t know anything yet.” “How do you investigate someone?”
“I just dig into documents. Interview people. Call sources. It’s not rocket science. But you have to be good at seeing how disparate things may be tied together.”
“Well, I hope it doesn’t interfere with us getting to know each other.”
“It may. I’m leaving on a business trip tomorrow.”
“Bummer. Where to?”
“I’ve got to go to Grand Cayman in the Caribbean, of all places. Usually I go to exotic locales like Indianapolis or Billings, Montana. So this will be a nice break.”
“Going to get any real work done?”
