Exasperated by the grating sound of her voice, and her overall attitude, I push her feet from my thigh, and turn to her. “Let’s go fuck.”
Denae blinks rapidly before polishing off her wine. “Ok.”
It takes less than sixty seconds to get her in my bedroom and naked. There’s no sexy shimmy out of her panties. No dirty talk, no roleplaying, no costumes. Shit, there’s hardly any foreplay. I push her gently onto the bed, and position myself between her thighs. My tongue teases her nipples briefly just before pushing into her without prelude. I’m immersed in her to the hilt in one swift, unapologetic thrust, causing her to scream out with shock and pleasure.
“God, August, you’re ruthless,” she shrieks, pulling my hair.
I grab her hands at her wrists and yank her hands up over her head. “Shut up.”
“What?”
“I said shut up,” I grit between clenched teeth.
“Ooooh, you wanna play Dom tonight, huh? Oh, yeah, I’m into it.”
Without warning, I pull out and flip her onto her stomach. She squeals with delight just before I cover her mouth with my palm and reenter her, just as viciously as before. At this angle, there are no words. No taunts, no praise, no judgment. No shrewd stare picking me apart. No soft gaze falling in temporary love with me.
I fuck her hard and fast, all with my hand muting her muffled moans. I crawl to the deepest part of her and bury my shame again and again, wishing it would go away. But even as I release myself into the sheath of latex while her body quivers and convulses around me, it still doesn’t relieve the sense of overwhelming failure that trembles my frame. If anything, I just feel even more disgusting.
I roll out and off of her, and trudge to the bathroom to take a shower. I take my time to wipe away the remnants of my deep-rooted depravity, but I know I’ll never be clean enough. I secretly hope she’ll be dressed when I return, but of course, she’s made herself at home under the covers with a cigarette. How very Mad Men cliché.
“You know, you should really get an iPad,” she remarks as I reach over for my notebook after throwing on some sweatpants.
“Huh?”
“An iPad. Or a Kindle,” she explains, tipping her head toward the pages in my hands.
“I’m writing, not reading, Denae.”
“I know that. I’m not stupid. You could get one of those stylus thingies. Would make your after-sex ritual easier. I don’t even know how you can form coherent sentences, let alone write them. After that, all I want to do is sleep for a solid twelve hours.” She yawns right on cue to bring her point home.
“I’m not tired.”
“Of course, you’re not. You’re Superman. And let me tell you, you seriously proved you are the Man of Steel. Where the hell did that come from?”
“I don’t know,” I reply absentmindedly, scribbling my disjointed thoughts onto paper. “Wanted to switch it up a bit.”
“You certainly did,” she coos, scooting over to curl into my side. She rests her head on my shoulder, causing my pen to leave a jagged, black line down the page. I resist the urge to push her the fuck off the bed.
“What are you writing?” Denae asks, trying to peer over and read my messy scrawl. I quickly close the notebook and toss it on the nightstand with an annoyed sigh.
“Nothing.”
“Didn’t seem like nothing. Did I just read my name?”
I scrub a hand over my face. “I write about people and things in my life. Coincidentally, you’re in my life.” For how long, that’s the question.
“Oh, so it’s like a diary?”
“I don’t write in a fucking diary,” I deadpan.
“Ok, ok. So a journal.”
I roll my eyes. At this point, I’d say just about anything to get her to shut up. “Sure.”
“Cool.”
“Yeah. Hey, do you want something? A glass of water?” I offer, sitting up. Water means we’re done. Alcohol means keep the party going.
“No, I’m fine.”
I grab my phone from the living room before padding into the kitchen to grab myself a few fingers of scotch and some ice water. Of course, there are about two dozen new text messages, voicemails and emails. I’ll check them when I check them. They’re all the same anyway.
-Call me.
-Need to talk to you.
-When can I see you?
-I miss you.
-Let’s hook up.
-Where are you?
Blah blah blah.
It’s funny how so many people want a part of you, yet they don’t even know you. And if they did, they wouldn’t want to.
I return to the bedroom with my drinks and a still naked Denae, who looks at me with exuberant expectation. If she’s hoping for a double header, she’ll have to wait for a few minutes.
“So… you said I was in your life,” she remarks out of the blue. Dammit. Not this shit. I haven’t even had a chance to hydrate yet.
“Uh. Yeah.”
“So what does that mean exactly?”
I turn to her, trying to conjure my most sincere, earnest expression. “It means that we’re close. That we see each other.”
“And is there anyone else in your life that you see?”
Fucking hell. I guess I just stepped right into this steaming pile of shit, didn’t I? “You know I’m a busy guy, Denae, and you’re a busy girl. We both have so much on our plates. If I could, I’d see you on a more permanent basis.”
“I know, I know. I’m just thinking… we’ve been hanging out for a while, and we have a lot on common, and the sex is phenomenal. It’s just…don’t you ever wonder about giving it a shot? You know, trying to make it work?”
“Well, uh, like I said, it’d be kinda hard considering—”
“I know we’re both crazy busy, and our schedules are insane, but maybe if we tried to take a little time every week, just the two of us…”
“I can’t.”
Denae flinches as if I’ve just slapped her. “You can’t or you won’t?”
“Both,” I shrug. “Look, you’re a great girl and—”
I’m just about to go through the whole “you’re awesome and any man would be lucky to have you” spiel when an even better segue presents itself.
“Is that the door? At this time of night? Are you expecting company?”
I damn near jump out of my skin. “You might want to get dressed. Excuse me.”
I’m completely calm and cool as I open the door and greet April with a kiss on her shimmery candy apple lips. She’s dressed in barely a fraction more than a bustier and garter. The only thing that makes it Halloween-ish is her dramatic makeup and fake fangs.
“I came,” she grins, stepping inside and removing her coat. She takes in my naked torso and swallows. “You look…comfortable.”
“I am. Drink?”
“Sure. What do you have?”
“Let’s see… wine, scotch, I probably I some vodka left, soda—”
“What the hell is going on?”
April and I both pause just before hitting the kitchen and turn around to a fuming Denae. She didn’t get dressed like I told her. Instead she wrapped a sheet around her body like a bath towel.
“Well? Someone want to tell me what the hell is going on?”
I step towards her, putting myself between the two ladies. April looks confused and even a little frightened, even though she has at least half a foot on Denae. But the shorter girl has psycho in her eyes as she sizes up the tall, leggy blonde dressed in black lace and satin.
“Denae, this is April. She’s a makeup artist. April this is Denae, a law student. April and I were just about to get a drink and watch some TV. Join us?”
“Join you? Are you fucking kidding me?”
I play clueless. “No. You’re welcome to. Want another glass of wine?”
Poor April looks like she’s contemplating grabbing a broomstick and pole-vaulting to the door. “August, maybe I should go, and we’ll talk later.”
; “Yeah, maybe you should,” Denae spits, edging closer. I pin her with a stern look.
“Excuse you, but April is my guest. She’s not going anywhere. Now I said you could stay too, but if you’re going to be hostile, maybe we should say goodnight.”
Denae stares up at me with angry tears brimming her eyes, searching for a reason, an explanation. I give her nothing.
“Wow,” she whispers in disbelief. She shakes her head. “Wow. You are…unbelievable.”
“So is that a no on the drink?” I ask, my demeanor the perfect picture of peace.
“Oh, I wouldn’t want to intrude,” she says slowly backing up. “I’ve had my turn, and my time is up. Please…go have your drink. I insist. I’ll just get dressed and be on my way.”
Her voice is cold, yet her ire is palpable. Still, she disappears into the room to dress. I try to remember if I have any sharp objects lying around back there.
“August, I should go,” April insists once Denae is out of earshot.
“You just got here. At least let me pour you a drink. We didn’t get to talk much Thursday.”
Denae emerges fully dressed just as April and I make some lackluster toast. She almost appears bemused, yet I can clearly see she’s pissed. However, she grabs her purse, and leaves quietly.
“Well, that was awkward,” April remarks.
I shrug. “It happens.”
“So…who is she?”
I step in close to April, close enough that the bare skin of my chest and abs grazes the soft satin of her bodice. “Nobody special.”
No one is. Myself included.
“HOW LONG?” HE ASKED, LOOKING out at the sparkling city spread out before them. “How long have you been going to Joseph? How long have you been selling your body for my freedom?”
She paused at the doorjamb, her shaky legs unable to carry her any further. “Darling, please understand, I didn’t—”
“How long have you been fucking him? Tell me!”
The silence felt like a splinters on their tongues. She knew of his transgressions, and he knew of hers. He was just unaware how deep and depraved they festered. She had committed the ultimate act of betrayal, yet she didn’t even know it.
“You know I never meant to hurt you.” But she did it anyway. She was his wife, his heart, his soul, and she had given away the part of herself that had been reserved for him and only him. Yet, she was comforted in the fact that she was not alone in her transgressions. “You’re no saint yourself, Adam. You are just as responsible for this as I am.” Maybe even more.
She’d found out about his affairs long before she met Joseph. Long before Adam’s business dealings had gone sour and he had to borrow money. Long before Joseph had to bail them out from the threat of prison, or worse, murder. Adam would undoubtedly argue that the stress and pressure had pushed him into the arms of another woman. He was still good to her, still loved her, still fucked her crazy. He just failed at fidelity.
She wanted to leave him. She wanted to separate herself from the predicament he had put them in, but she couldn’t. She loved him still. And he wouldn’t survive without her, she was sure of it. No matter how he had hurt her, she could not turn her back on him in his desperate time of need.
With his back to her, and his hands gripping the rail of the eleventh story balcony, he uttered something she could not quite understand. His voice was low and broken, much like her spirit.
“What?” she asked, finding the strength to take a step forward. She had never been afraid of her husband…before now. Still, she loved him in his madness. She wanted to shoulder the very same pain she had caused.
“And the Lord said unto Cain, Where is Abel thy brother?” he uttered, each word a piercing dagger in her heart. Ice-cold dread began to race in her veins. “And he said, I know not: Am I my brother's keeper?
“And he said, What hast thou done? The voice of thy brother's blood crieth unto me from the ground.
“And now art thou cursed from the earth, which hath opened her mouth to receive thy brother's blood from thy hand;
“When thou tillest the ground, it shall not henceforth yield unto thee her strength; a fugitive and a vagabond shalt thou be in the earth.
“And Cain said unto the Lord, My punishment is greater than I can bear.”
The gravity of his diatribe hung heavy in the cold air. He turned to face her, his expression unreadable. He waited…waited for her to realize the weight of her sins. The weight of their sins.
“He’s…he’s your brother. Joseph is your brother.” Her voice was merely a strained, raspy whisper.
“Yes.”
“What? How…? How is that possible?” She couldn’t believe it, couldn’t accept it. There were no pictures of Joseph at his parents’ home, no recognition of him during family functions. He had never mentioned having a brother. How could they be related by blood?
“Joseph is the product of my mother’s affair years ago. My father couldn’t stand to raise another man’s child, so he was given to his own, and my mother relinquished all parental rights. I watched her suffer every day for her choice, but she never spoke of it. She felt it was her punishment, her penance for her infidelity. She was never whole after that.”
She tried to think back to all the times she had interacted with Adam’s mother—Joseph’s mother. She never seemed particularly forlorn, although a bit flighty. Nothing in her demeanor indicated she was an adulteress. However, the same could be said for herself.
“Joseph’s father is Cosimo Fanelli.”
It felt like a bucket of ice had been dumped over her head. Terror seized her joints as she realized just how far she had fallen. Cosimo Fanelli was the crime boss her office had been investigating. She had been a DEA agent for almost a decade and most of that time had been spent chasing the infamous criminal’s ghost.
“No,” she whispered.
“Yes. The man you know as Joseph Farris isn’t some mysterious businessman from overseas. He’s Jiovanni Fanelli, son of the most notorious mafia boss on the east coast since Gotti. You’ve been fucking the main link to solving the biggest case of your career, and he happens to be my brother.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she shrieked, suddenly furious. He knew. He knew all along, yet did nothing to stop her…did nothing to save her.
Adam stalked toward her, allowing the overhead light to fall over him like freshly fallen snow. That was when she noticed the gun in his hand. “You never asked,” he muttered. Then he brushed past her without a second glance. She didn’t breathe until she heard the front door slam.
I sit back in my chair and release a breath. I even almost smile. I’m here…that sweet spot in a story where words are flowing and everything is aligning as it should and the characters are creating just the right amount of friction as to not seem fake or overdone. This is the part that I live for. The part I kill myself for every day that I sit down and spread out my soul like an All-You-Can-Eat Buffet.
What is it about anguish that makes us thrive? That makes us see beauty in the bleakest of places? How can I possibly twist intricate tales of spun sugar and gold when my personal life was going to hell in a hand basket?
I haven’t spoken to Fi in nearly two weeks, ever since I humiliated and disgraced myself in my living room with the scent of another woman’s sex embedded in my skin. I haven’t spoken to the Colonel since our frosty, yet brief encounter two Thursdays ago. I made up some sketchy excuse as to why I had to skip Sunday afternoon football, and he decided to pass on meatballs the following Thursday. I didn’t ask why. I was just grateful I didn’t have to pull another explanation from my big bag of lies.
This is the longest I’ve gone without any interaction from the outside world. Even my parents had tried reaching out after I sent a short email about flaking out on Thanksgiving in Florida. They offered to come here, but I was armed and ready with an ironclad alibi as to why it wouldn’t be a good idea. Because when it really comes down to it, I just don’t want to see them. I
don’t want to see anyone really. I am very nearly done with my manuscript for my publisher, titled The Good Girl, and I’m making serious headway with the idea I had started toying with in Los Angeles. It’s no wonder I’m kicking ass professionally. I have nothing else.
Days pass in a blur of unanswered text messages, rumpled notebook paper and empty takeout cartons. I don’t even know what day it is until an alarm goes off on my phone, alerting me to the signing I agreed to do for Auntie’s Bookstore. I set the alarm because I knew I would forget, and while I would rather not subject myself to any more deprecation, I won’t let them down. When no one else in town would carry Tears of Glass, Auntie’s didn’t hesitate, and for that I am genuinely grateful. I may have failed everyone else in my life, but I won’t fail them.
Getting ready takes more effort than usual. In the words of the Colonel, I look like shit. I’m one unshaven day away from yeti, and my hair is way too long to be combed into any particular style. While beards and longer hair might be considered fashionable now, it’s never been my thing. I guess I always wanted to debunk the writer stereotypes. No full tattoo sleeves (although I do have one on the inside of my arm—a single bluebird as a nod to Bukowski. Fi has the same one on her hip). No crazy, eclectic wardrobe or neon-colored hair. And believe it or not, I won’t burst into flames or twinkle like a disco ball if I step into the sun. Some people have actually questioned whether or not I was being honest about being a writer. Said I looked too normal. Go figure.
I’m greeted by the comforting scents of aged paper, fresh coffee and nostalgia when I step into the sanctuary of Auntie’s Bookstore. I’m early. Amazing, since I’m never early to anything. But there’s something exhilarating about being among those dusty shelves and cluttered tables. I feel at home. I feel like this is the only place on earth where I belong.
“August! You made it!” Delores exclaims, bounding towards me with all the exuberance of a kindergarten teacher. She waves towards a row of foldout tables and chairs that they’ve set up in the periodical section across from the cash registers. “We’ve got you seated right over here. Want to grab coffee first? It’s on the house.”
Ink and Lies Page 17
