by Rie Warren
“Zurich, Paris, London. Wanna come?” He cocked his head.
I blushed in surprise. “Really?”
“Of course.”
“I can’t, you know that. Not this time.”
“Rain check, then,” he said, matter of fact.
At my car, he lowered me inside with all the chivalry of a knight putting his lady into a coach and four, not an exhaust-farting Honda. After a deep kiss–the kind that would include a feminine heel kick if I’d been standing–he smiled and gave his habitual knock on the roof. “I’ll miss you.”
I gulped away the sudden sad swell in my throat. “Me too, Reardon.”
“I’ll call you.”
“Oh, so now you want me turn my phone on?”
Chapter 13
Clause and Effect
“What about your partnership with Shepperd and Radaman-Slaughter?”
Three days after Reardon had left on his Grand Tour, I was shooting the breeze with him. Out on the patio, the phone to my ear, I squished the aphids eating my rosemary bushes between the fingertips of my free hand. Gotcha, you parasitic little bastards.
“I stopped living when Will did.” His voice gritty, emotion swallowed down his throat. “Slaughter was the only one who knew what would get me out of this hole, work instead of worry. We have a similar drive. He dug me out business-wise, and he had no qualms about the mistress clause. Because it was some semblance of living.”
My eyes snapped shut.
“Shay?”
I remained silent, thinking Slaughter was as much a parasite as the aphids, only more dangerous to his host, encouraging Reardon to siphon his life away.
“Talk to me, Shay.”
I dropped into my sun chair. “What you did, it wasn’t living, Reardon.”
“You think I don’t know that now?”
“Do you?”
“I wish we were talking about this in person, darlin’.”
“Me too.”
“With you, I’m living.”
My heart galloped. I pressed my fingertips to the receiver. “Me too.”
His tone sharpened. “But one thing you’ve got to understand, I’m as ruthless as him. I’m the deal closer, nothing gets past me, and there’s no sob story any SOB CEO can give me to make me reconsider my price.” He paused. “That bother you?”
“You bein’ successful? No.”
“I mean my business practices.”
I snorted. “Oh, believe me, I’ve had firsthand dealings with your business practices, if that’s what you’re callin’ it now.”
He joined in my laughter.
I asked, “Why do you do it?”
“I like making money.”
“There’s more to it than that. Don’t blow me off.”
“I like knowing I’m in control of something,” he admitted almost too low for me to hear. “I can barter and trade, create and destroy by my abilities.” He sobered even more. “I want to have enough for my family. I want to take care of Ransome and know he will never need for anything. I wish all the money I gave away actually made a damn difference somewhere, to someone.”
“So, you’re a back-stabbing, boardroom-invading idealist?”
“And you’re a foul-mouthed romantic.”
“Touche.”
I crossed my legs, scowling at the undeterred fire ants joining the fray with the aphids, running riot on the brick pavers below, attempting their own takeover. “And your peccadilloes?”
“I assume you mean my former mistresses.”
“Yeah.”
“Companionship without intimacy.”
I didn’t break my silence that time.
I didn’t have to. Reardon’s voice caressed me. “And you know you mean much more to me.”
* * * *
Days later, I was scouring the want ads.
Not that I wasn’t getting my paycheck. No siree. Junior texted to make sure the coast was clear before he showed with The Envelope, all gangly and lantern-jawed, shuffling his big feet with awkward Aw Shucks charm. I invited him in for a glass of sweet tea, which he bashfully declined.
Bankrolled, bed-rolled, back to the classifieds. Pooch Pooper Scoopers still had a position available. As well as Critter Go-Gitters. Then there was Grinnin’, Skinnin’-N-Sinnin’.
Now, that had some possibilities. I’d already proved myself handy at sinning. And the amount of money I was raking in just from being with Reardon–which certainly wasn’t a chore–was purely indecent. I needed to upgrade from my bursting cookie jar, the one holding my walking-around-money, find a loose floorboard for the loose woman and her ill-gotten gains.
Another six days he was gone and September rolled in with no northern, crisp Indian summer in sight, melting us with more muggy heat, moist as Spanish moss.
Racking up the minutes on my cell that had become Grand Central Switchboard, I plucked my perspiration-plastered tank top and mentioned to Reardon, “You know I’m not an easy lay.”
His naughty laugh clung to my skin, so much better than sweat-dampened cloth. “Would that you were.”
“I need a job.” I shrugged off the thrill his voice always accelerated in the pit of my stomach.
“You have one.”
“One that doesn’t include sex.”
All his frustrated gestures were visible in my mind. He rubbed the back of his neck, rummaged through is hair, loosened his tie. “I want to give you financial freedom.”
“I’d like to do that myself.”
“Obstinate.”
“Pigheaded.”
Reardon was in Italy, an added stop on his overseas trip, which had lingered from one week to two. Even with the time difference and his busy schedule, he still found a minute to fight over the ridiculous unearned bonus he’d added to my latest check.
“You’ve got to understand, it’s the one thing I’m certain of.”
I inhaled from my cig and hummed a tune. “Can’t buy me love…”
“You quoting The Beatles to me now?”
“When in Rome.”
“Instead of downhome, huh?” His shaky indrawn breath was at odds with his light words.
“I don’t want to be dependent on you, not this way.”
“Don’t ask me to agree to this. Not right now, not when I can’t get to you.”
“Why?”
“Because I like you needing me.” I had to listen real hard to hear him.
“I do need you. But I can’t have this money thing hanging–”
“It’s not about the goddamn money, Shay!”
“You don’t believe me. You still don’t think I could want you. Just you.” My face was stiff with hopelessness.
His quiet words ripped through me. “I’m not sure you should.”
“Well, that’s your own tough luck, buster. My emotions aren’t up for negotiation. I know who I want, and I want you.”
“Not Palmer? Not the man you’ve spent close to twenty years with, building a life from the time you were in high school?” His hollow laugh echoed. “We can’t ever start from scratch, you know?”
“I don’t want to start from scratch, and I’m not simply scratching an itch with you, baby.” I sighed. “What have I gotta do? Get a tattoo on my rear that reads Reardon’s Woman?”
He chuckled. “No.”
“You sure? ’Cause I’ll head on down to Holy City Tattoo soon as you hang up.”
“Trust me, your ass doesn’t need any embellishment, darlin’.”
I demanded, “So, you get it now?”
“You’re cursing me out inside your head, aren’t you?”
“Yeah. And also imagining stripping you naked to make full use of your Playgirl playground.”
“I don’t like this, being apart from you.” The brief teasing turned deadly serious.
He wasn’t referring to the trip. He was referring to my marriage.
“Me either.”
* * * *
I watched the calendar. Watched my back and waited
for Palmer to say something. I beat myself up because I was too chicken shit to say anything myself.
Only thing he’d mentioned was he was taking me out, overnight, and I needed to pack a bag. The distance between us increased. We lived in the same house, used the same bathroom, and sat across from one another, but we never touched, we hardly talked.
The international divide between Reardon and me brought us closer. A text, a nightly note to say I miss you or I wanted to show you, tell you, touch you like this today strengthened the bridge between us until it was strong as the new one suspended over the Cooper River. Even so far apart, we were tethered together.
I liked it best in the mornings, when I cajoled my cell to life to the tune of Reardon’s text: Good morning, darlin’.
I liked life with Palmer least when I anxiously threw a few things into a bag, pacing, smoking, adding something else to my bag, taking items out, heading to the bathroom for another puff from my cigarette.
Three re-packs of my overnighter and a quarter pack of smokes later, the cheap chirp of my cell interrupted my huffing and puffing.
Wanna sext?
Reardon Boone
CEO Radaman-Slaughter
Sent from my iPhone
Lookin 4 a playcation from all the bizness?
Shay
Sent from my Neolithic Nokia
Was that a yes?
Want my fingers to do the walking.
Reardon Boone
CEO Radaman-Slaughter
Sent from my iPhone
Mmm, maybe. You bored with boardroom, baby?
Still shitty cell.
Miss you. This trip is making me lose my mind. Take your clothes off.
Reardon Boone
CEO Radaman-Slaughter
Sent from my iPhone
*laughs* Me naked gonna make you feel better?
No. You spreading your legs and opening yourself, pretending my fingers are fucking your lush pussy will. Clothes off, sit down, legs over the armrest. Touch your pretty tits for me. Now.
You following directions for me, darlin?
Reardon Boone
CEO Radaman-Slaughter
Sent from my iPhone
Yes! Ohhhthisnfjdkhf!.?!!
Damn. Calling you now.
Reardon Boone
CEO Radaman-Slaughter
Sent from my iPhone
When AT&T said reach out touch someone, they weren’t fucking kidding.
* * * *
Palmer took me to dinner at the incredibly swank downtown restaurant, Circa 1886, to be followed by a night in the even more expensive adjoining inn.
It was so completely unlike him–not to mention the entire outing would probably blow close to a mortgage payment–I had to bite my tongue, remembering the old adage about the gift horse and the big mouth.
Looking at him while he sat on one of the oval-backed chairs with a full dinner service laid in front of him, I suffered the grief of losing him, the regret of how I’d gone about it. Cleanly shaved, his jaw and cheeks were sharp and pink. His hair shone in a long flaxen ponytail. Catching my eye, he fiddled with the wine list and shrugged self-deprecatingly.
The sommelier decanted the wine for his approval and he wrinkled his nose and sniffed suspiciously before downing it in one with a slight nod to the server.
Left alone, I touched his knuckles. “You can order a beer, you know.”
“Yeah, but they’re all foreign made.”
I laughed, until my giggles petered out, and we were left with a four-course dinner to survive. Silence filled the gaps between the wait staff coming and going bearing unpronounceable dishes arranged in some sort of minimal artsy-fartsy manner.
“This was a bad idea. I shouldn’t have brought you here.” He focused on his napkin, the crisp clean linen too pretty to use.
“No, it’s lovely. Don’t apologize, Palmer, let’s just enjoy our meal.”
He attempted to make conversation. “How’s the job going?”
I swallowed with difficulty. “Good, yeah. I do a lot of...filing.”
Constance peeped from under the tablecloth, having a fling, you mean.
I gave her a good, swift kick.
“Agrees with you, this workin’ thing.” Palmer smiled quizzically at me.
“It’s okay.”
“Your dress is attractive.” A faint blush colored his cheeks. “Yeah, you look good.”
Oh, Palmer.
I reached over, softly patting his hand. “Thank you.”
We relaxed enough to finish dinner without the usual tension, even sharing a few jokes and laughs, as though we were old acquaintances trading small talk. But up in the B&B–in our room filled with chintz and antiques and ruffles–the bed taunted rather than tempted.
We hadn’t slept in the same bed in over a month and, horribly, the idea of doing so made me feel like I was cheating on Reardon.
Turning to the bathroom, Palmer meant to hide his drooping mouth. The sloop in his shoulders all but shouted he was giving up when he cast back, “I’ll take the couch.”
I wanted to tell him to take me home, but I couldn’t. We spent the night like we spent our days. We inhabited the same room but were so far apart, our hearts in such disrepair they could never realign.
Palmer had lost sight of me, and Reardon was only beginning to discover me.
The disparity was stark and troubling.
* * * *
“Dress down,” Reardon said when he called to arrange our reunion after his trip abroad.
“No skirts?”
“No.”
“What about…” I whispered, “my underthings?”
“Go without.”
Typical. But highly unlikely.
“Tall spiky heels?”
He growled. “Shay, much as I like you in a pair of nice heels and nothing else, I had planned on doing more than simply taking you to bed.” Bummer. “So stop toying with me, and do what I ask.”
Oooh, the return of Mr. Bossy Boone.
“Well, you know what they say about best laid plans.” I was giddy by the time our call ended.
I met him at Walterboro Motorsports, parking beside a humongous pickup truck decked out with wheels that topped my chest and massive fog lights strapped to the Oh Shit bar on top.
I barely got out of the Honda before his arms surrounded me, and Reardon swept me off my feet. “I missed you.” He sunk his face to my neck, spinning me around.
I grinned, swelling with pride at this man who couldn’t keep his hands off me. “You look good, baby.”
“You want to tell me why I couldn’t get in touch with you the other night?” Holding my chin, he searched my eyes.
Hell no, I didn’t want to tell him, but he wouldn’t let me squirrel away. I figured I should come clean with someone in my life. “Palmer took me out to dinner.”
The easy confidence he had in any setting from boardroom to bedroom to big-time soiree drained away. Jaw tight, lips hardly moving, eyes on the ground, he asked, “Anything else?”
“He sprang for a night at Wentworth Mansion.”
He turned his back.
Pushing myself in front of him, I grabbed his hands. “Nothing happened, baby. We haven’t had sex of any kind in over a year, and we certainly didn’t end the drought that night. It was uncomfortable, and this whole damn thing I gotta deal with is...it’s unfortunate. It is heartbreaking for me and Palmer. And it’s over. He took the sofa, I had the bed. We checked out as soon as the sun rose.”
Eager for truth, he searched my face. “It’s just–”
“I know.” My kisses were buoyant, down his cheek to his jaw, along to his strong chin.
He dipped his knees and dipped his head and let me lavish his lips until the weight that began our kiss became light enough to part us with smiles.
“You gonna tell me what we’re doing here?” The motor-cross track beckoned with the wail of dirt bikes and shouts of mud-crusted riders.
Strapping a helmet o
n my head, he gave my rear a quick squeeze, then motioned to two four-wheelers Junior drove off a trailer. “Which one do you want?”
Bubbles of laughter erupted from me. “Why? You gonna drive the pink one if I choose differently?”
He shrugged, his shoulders lifting to his ears.
“When did you get it all girlied-up?” I pointed to the pale pink and gray camo ATV.
“Had it for a while.”
“Uh huh. How long of a while?”
“Junior picked it up from detailing yesterday.” He didn’t look a damn bit chagrined.
“I love it.”
“You do?”
“’Course. C’mon. You gotta know by now the way to every girl’s heart is a custom camouflaged four-wheeler.”
Lowering himself into the leather saddle of his ride, he pulled me across for a kiss exactly when I pushed against his chest. “You know, I’m still not letting you off about that bonus stuff.”
He was one hundred percent pure wicked, sitting there with legs spread as if over a pommel. His hand braced on the throttle, gunning the motor and shredding the swamp as if to deafen my hassling. An old light blue tee over jeans sat low on his hips, he hadn’t shaved in a day or two, and his perfectly overripe lips made my legs quake.
Biceps punching up, his forearms burdened under lean muscles. “What you gonna do about it?”
“Haven’t decided yet,” I said tartly.
He gave me the Boone brow.
“Maybe I’ll give it to Junior.”
“You accept one dime from Shay, and I’ll fire you!” He hollered to Junior.
“You wouldn’t.”
“I would,” Reardon dared me.
“Then I’d give him all my paychecks.”
“You’re incorrigible.”
“And you are insufferable.” I crawled onto his lap, pulling his bottom lip between mine and stuffing my hands into his hair. His groan melded with my moan. Letting go, I suckled his kiss-swollen lips from one corner to the other. “And sexy, and crazy hot stuff.”
Reardon brought it on with a swat to my bottom. “Why don’t we settle this over a race?”
Enveloped by the lingering musk of his cologne de man–the scent of cedar and seashores–I mounted my four-wheeler, taking off in a cascade of dirt and my own challenge, “Think you can keep up?”
