by Rick R. Reed
“I don’t think I can help you.”
Beth watched as he walked away. Why? Didn’t he understand the signals she was sending?
She watched his ass, encased in worn Levis, and thought she’d be damned if she let this one get away. Not without serious pursuit.
“Wait!” Beth caught up with him, placing a hand on his arm, squeezing the bicep beneath the black cotton T-shirt. “Is that how you take a compliment?”
“What?” That surly expression again. Didn’t he know how alluring it looked? “A man should know how to take a compliment a little more gracefully.” Beth winked. “One never knows which one will be the last.”
“Listen, I’ve got an appointment in about fifteen minutes. I gotta buy these jeans and get outta here.” He sneered. “Thanks so much for the kind word.”
He turned his back on her.
* * * *
Abbott felt her eyes boring into his back as he scanned the rack of jeans for his size. Distracted—none of the sizes made sense. Anger, hot, began to grow inside, buzzing like an insect, growing, growing.
Why the hell doesn’t she go chase some other guy? There are plenty around who’d be more than happy to give her what she wants.
Plus herpes…or maybe the clap…or syphilis. Even AIDS. It’d be what the tramp deserved anyway.
Abbott shivered as he felt her fingernail trace its way down his spine. Where did she get the idea? She leaned close and whispered, “I think you’re one of the hottest men I’ve ever seen.”
Abbott thought for only a moment. The last comment had enraged him. Little fucking tramp. Why doesn’t the bitch leave me alone? I made it clear, didn’t I? What do I have to do, hit her? Take that fine little neck and snap it?
* * * *
She watched as he turned. The scowl had vanished, gone, replaced by a smile. Now we’re getting somewhere.
“That’s the kind of compliment I’ll take.” He spun from the jeans, giving her his full attention. “I can’t find anything I like on these racks.” He put emphasis on the last three words.
Sooner or later, even the biggest ones topple. Beth wetted her lips. A blush rose to her cheeks.
“I know what you mean. The only thing in this store I want isn’t for sale.” She giggled. “At least, I hope not.”
Abbott finally met her green-eyed stare. “C’mon, let’s get out of here.”
“Where are we going?”
“What’s that matter?” He started toward the exit. “We can just go to your place.”
Beth swallowed, the heat of the hunt rapidly cooling. She never brought people home. Cardinal rule. Of all the encounters she had chronicled in the black journal she kept hidden in the bottom of her lingerie drawer, not one of them had taken place in the home she shared with Mark. Not only might he come home unexpectedly (unlikely…but bringing someone home was still not worth the risk), but she didn’t want any of her encounters knowing where she lived. How would she explain an unexpected visit from one of her suitors, lovesick and wanting more? What would Mark say if he should open the door to a handsome stranger asking for her?
What would she say?
Besides, what she really wanted to avoid was sullying the place she and Mark shared. Their nest. Their home. The place they had made together. “I can’t bring you home.”
“Why not?”
Beth shrugged. “Just can’t. Don’t you have a place?”
* * * *
Abbott watched her squirm. This wasn’t just a whore. This was an adulterous whore. Bad enough she fucked around—hell, he hadn’t even asked her name yet—but she fucked around behind some poor schmuck’s back. Some poor schmuck who was probably out right now bustin’ his balls to pay for her alley cat clothes.
It made him sick.
Abbott grinned. “I live with my ma right now. She don’t approve of me bringin’ girls home”
* * * *
Beth glanced at her watch. It was getting to be too late to hunt for someone else. “How about a motel?” she whispered, wishing she could clear her voice of the hint of desperation.
“Can’t do it. C’mon, let’s just go to your place.” He started toward the exit.
Beth stood, rooted. “I can’t.”
He stopped. “What’s the matter? You married?”
“Well, I, no…” Beth laughed, too high. She sighed. “Yes, I am.”
He shook his head. “Then what the fuck are you doing?”
The guilt rose up, hot. She didn’t need this. She should have stayed home, which was where she was going right now. She’d toss out these clothes and all the others like them and never do this again.
Maybe she had been spared. Maybe this was some kind of message. She hurried from the store.
And stopped. There she was, in the mirror before her: color high, eyes shining. She wanted—no, needed—to be appreciated. She couldn’t bear going without.
And he wanted her.
She turned. Just one more look. I’ll go home after that. I promise.
At first, she thought he was gone, and the prospect made her gasp. But then she saw him, near the door, his face filled with longing.
How could she say no?
* * * *
The whore. Abbott watched her, thinking maybe he had shamed her into behaving herself. And he had…for maybe two minutes.
He smiled, then turned toward the revolving doors.
He knew it would be only a fraction of a second before he heard the click of her high heels…faster, faster.
Chapter 2
Heading up the outer drive, Beth was at odds. Her hands on the steering wheel were damp, her heart pounding with discomfort, making her breath quicken. Abbott sat next to her, watching her profile as she drove. Beth couldn’t deny that his focus on her was causing a wave of sensation: guilt, desire, nausea, euphoria. It wasn’t only her hands that were damp.
As she pictured pulling up to her graystone, she felt both dread and an overwhelming excitement. She imagined going through the front door with him, pushing him up against it, running her hands over that hard, defined body. And the thought made her stomach twist in a knot.
Why was she doing this?
It would be easy enough to take the next exit, give him some money for cab fare, and just forget the whole thing. You really haven’t crossed the line yet, even though Mark wouldn’t be happy that you’ve come this far.
Beth pressed down harder on the accelerator. With a trembling hand, she reached into the compartment in the center console and took out an old CD: Dirty Vegas.
Appropriate.
“What did you say your name was?” Beth adjusted the volume, turning the throbbing beats down just a bit.
“I didn’t.”
Why am I doing this?
“Names aren’t really all that important, are they?”
Beth glanced at him; he looked even bigger squeezed into the Kharmann Ghia’s bucket seat. He was what her mother would have called “strapping.” She took in his thighs, the denim straining to cover them, barely concealing the muscles tensed beneath.
As she signaled for the exit at Fullerton, she pictured the home she shared with Mark and completely unbidden came the memory of the first time she had seen it. It was shortly before they were married, on an autumn day much like this one. They had pulled up in front of the building, and Mark hadn’t said a word. The “For Sale” sign, with its “contract pending” addendum had said more than enough. The building’s rough stone, its leaded glass windows, and the sky’s impossible blue promise as a backdrop had said everything else.
They had hurried up the stone steps and once inside, the empty condo, with its gleaming floors of polished oak, its clean white walls, and the patterns the shadows made on the floor transported her.
“Home?” Mark had asked. “It’s not too late to turn back.”
“Home,” she had whispered and took his hand, leading him into what would be their bedroom, cool and dark from the ivy-shrouded windows, and pulled him d
own to her on the floor.
It’s not too late to turn back.
“So, what it is it? I want to know what to scream when I come.”
“Abbott.”
“Nice. I’m Beth.”
“Beth. That’s about right.”
She laughed, but felt a twinge: what did he mean? Was he mocking her?
Stop it. Beth glanced at him as they stopped for light at Clark Street. She’d had her share of handsome men, but this Abbott was a standout (even though a weird, high-pitched chorus sang a litany of warning in her mind). Looks like his were too much to resist. No one, Beth mused, in her little black “appointment” book could rival him.
Or was this the way she thought every other time? Were they all too beautiful to resist?
No. Abbott was different, a benchmark.
It would be worth violating her principles just this once. Wouldn’t it?
“Why so quiet?” Beth gunned the car across the intersection of Clark and Fullerton, and began the hunt for a parking space.
“Nothin’ to say.”
“A man of action.” She wished he would touch her thigh, her hair, whisper dirty nothings in her ear, do something. Usually, the guys couldn’t wait…and their desire impelled her, kept thoughts about her wrongdoing firmly in the back of her mind, where she could deal with them later. But Abbott simply stared out the window. At what? The neighborhood? Memorizing where she lived so he could come back, unannounced?
There was a brooding quality to his silence, and Beth tried to put it in a romantic light. She tried to fast forward: feeling the stubble against her check, their first kiss, his arms encircling her…
* * * *
Abbott tried to stay calm. But there was no discretion to this slut. It was obvious how much she couldn’t wait to get him inside (in both senses). Well, she would have a long wait. She was a fuckin’ animal (also in both senses).
He couldn’t bear to look at her.
Today, she would learn a little lesson. Earlier, in the parking garage, she had said, “I can trust you to be discreet, can’t I? I’m bringing you back to my place only because you’re so special.”
Abbott had wanted to gag on the words. “If you’re so worried about it, why even bring me home?”
“Look, I love my husband, okay? This has nothing to do with my feelings. This is just a little something extra, a little diversion. I don’t know if you understand that, but it has nothing to do with how I feel for Mar—my husband.”
Abbott’s stomach churned. She went on to explain how she never wanted to do anything that would hurt her spouse.
Then what the hell was she doing bringing Abbott home to fuck in the afternoon? Wouldn’t that hurt?
Beth circled the car-clogged streets, searching for a place to park.
“Fuck it,” she whispered, throwing the car into reverse and pulling into a spot in front of a fire hydrant. She smiled at Abbott. “I’ll move it later.”
He followed her inside the apartment. He figured she would live in a place like this. Yuppie wonderland. Looking around, he wondered how much the poor slob she had married paid for all of this.
The poor, poor bastard…
“How about a drink?”
Abbott would take anything that would get rid of her for a few seconds. “Got a beer?”
“Sure. I think there’s some Sam Adams out there. That okay?”
“Great.” He watched as she disappeared into the kitchen, thinking how he wouldn’t be surprised if she returned, naked, with his beer.
She came back after a couple of minutes with the drink. It looked like she had fluffed up her hair and unbuttoned the top couple of buttons on the vest. Christ, how many guys fell for this? When she handed him the beer bottle, she made sure their fingers touched.
Abbott took a long swallow. Its cold made his head ache even more, made her presence, as she moved nearer, all the more irritating. To get away, he went and sat on the leather sofa, resting his elbows on his knees.
Like a cat, she was right beside him.
“Nice place,” he said, because she was staring at him, as if ready to pounce. He took in the hardwood floors, the green marble fireplace, the oak tables with their carefully rusted mica-shaded lamps, the jade-and-cream Oriental rug. Everything looked expensive. Wildly.
And that was probably all that really mattered to this bitch.
“I did all the decorating myself.” She said it like it was some accomplishment. Like it was really hard work to go out and have some fag help her pick out a $10,000 sofa and an $18,000 rug. “I might make some changes after the winter, freshen things up a bit.”
Abbott sipped his beer, staring ahead. “Nice. For you, I mean. Your husband must rake it in.”
“He’s kind a whiz kid…an attorney. He’s already a partner in his firm, probably because he’s just about tripled their family law business.”
Family law, Abbott thought, doesn’t that mean divorce? He wasn’t a smart guy, but he knew irony when he heard it. You must be proud of him. Bustin’ his balls for you downtown to get bigger alimonies for his clients while you fuck around behind his back. That asshole should be working on his own divorce. Abbott gripped his beer until his fingers went bloodless. He wanted to swing out at her, watch that pretty face turn bloody as the beer bottle made impact with it. Cool. Stay calm. You’ll get nowhere if you lose control.
“But we don’t need to talk about him.” If possible, she moved even closer, so that he could feel her heat. He tried to breathe through his mouth, so he wouldn’t smell the perfume in which she must have marinated before heading out. The scent even seemed to seep into his beer, making it taste bitter.
She lightly touched his chin and cheek, and he tried not to flinch. She ran a hand over his biceps. “What do you do, Abbott, that keeps you so big and strong?”
He jerked away, trying not to glare, to show his contempt. Her touch had heightened his pulse, made the blood roar. He forced himself to take a slow breath. “Construction work.” He leaned away. “It’s hard, but it definitely keeps you fit. I also work part time, tendin’ bar, down at Bennie’s, on Clark.” He snorted. “I see a lot of women like you down there.”
Careful.
“What do you mean?” She smiled, but something wounded bloomed in her eyes.
He took another sip of his beer. “Nothin.’ Pretty women, I guess.”
“Oh.” Beth settled back into the couch.
* * * *
Beth didn’t think she could take much more. She hadn’t brought him home for chitchat. And the longer they delayed here, on the couch, the closer Mark would be to coming home. And that would truly be the end of the world.
The scenario for other encounters was never like this one. Usually, it went like this: the men she hooked up with tended to have her up against the door of their apartments or motel rooms within seconds of closing them. There was seldom any talk, other than a guttural moan, admonition, or encouragement. It was always a race to see who could get undressed first.
And that’s the way Beth liked it. No time for thinking. No time for guilt. Just raw lust. If you talked to them, they became people.
This one, for all his macho good looks, was beginning to be a disappointment. Beth liked a man who knew how to take charge (perhaps removing some of her responsibility). She didn’t want to be the one to make all the moves. And that feeling caused her passion to wilt, just a little.
Wasn’t she beautiful enough?
Didn’t he want her?
When she had got Abbott his Sam Adams, she’d poured her own glass of Pinot Grigio. She took a sip of the wine now, held it in her mouth for a second, then leaned close to him, pressing her lips to his and attempting to transfer some of the liquid into his mouth.
Most of it ran down their chins as he spat it out. Beth recoiled. “What did you do that for?”
Abbott’s blue eyes flashed as he stared at her. If she didn’t know better, she would think his frown one of disgust.
“I just wasn’t expecting that. I guess I…” His voice trailed off and he looked out the window, then back at her. “I guess I’m really not into shit like that. You know?”
Had she made a mistake? Beth took him in once more: the heavy dark eyebrows and lashes throwing into sharp relief the pale blue eyes, the thick mane of black curls, the dark stubble on his chin. Maybe to give up just now would be the real mistake. “Well, then, maybe you’d be into something like this.” Beth stood, turned toward him, then sat on his lap, straddling him, her face inches from his. She grinned, glad she had removed her thong panties in the kitchen. If this didn’t work…
She leaned in and kissed him. He held his lips firm, though, refusing to part them to admit her flickering tongue.
He doesn’t want you. He doesn’t like you.
The thought made her push all the harder at his unyielding lips.
Maybe he’s just a bad kisser. Embarrassment and shame produced friction that caused Beth’s face to grow hot. Hot enough for a line of sweat to break out at her hairline.
She pressed her breasts against his chest, squeezing against him, feeling nauseous and disgusted with herself, but unable to stop.
She moved down her hand, desperate for the erection she hoped to find trapped in his jeans. His softness, however, disappointed her. Maybe he was gay, she tried telling herself, while another part countered: he just doesn’t find you attractive. Or maybe he’s just nervous, having a little performance anxiety. Well, she knew how to take care of nervous men, make them forget their anxieties. Nervousness could actually add something if handled right.
She reached for his zipper.
* * * *
Abbott would be damned if he’d let the slut go further. She’d already tried sticking his filthy tongue in her mouth. God knows where it had been. And now, before they were barely acquainted, she was groping for his dick.
No surprise there, but it still sickened him.
Just like all the rest…
He jerked so her hand came off his fly. She panted, and he could smell her. Disgusting. Unclean.
