by Jess Bentley
“I wish you all hadn’t gone to the trouble,” Mama says about the bill, which the hospital kindly sent her home with. “I didn’t know it would be so expensive.”
“Don’t worry about that right now, Mama,” I tell her. George looks uncomfortable. Good. He should be. I just hope he can manage not to treat Mama poorly for long enough that she can get used to being home again. The new meds seem like they’re working well, but there’s no telling when she’ll stop taking them, or whether George will re-fill the prescription when it runs out.
All of that, though, just has to be carefully monitored. Trying to predict and plan for it is pointless.
My phone chimes, and I take a quick peek in case it’s trouble at the restaurant, but instead it’s Jake.
“Want to get a drink?”
In the mix of emotions that well up, the more carnal ones are the loudest, and my cheeks heat up. A smile pulls the corner of my mouth up before I can suppress it, and when I put my phone away I see George watching me curiously. He drops his eyes when he meets mine, though. It’s refreshing that he hasn’t quite gotten back into full asshole mode just yet. Probably hard to do that when we both know he wasn’t able to take care of his own wife.
I’m sure it will pass, though. It always does.
A few minutes later, I can’t bring myself to wait anymore. So I kiss Mama on the forehead. “I have to get back,” I tell her. It’s a lie, but a small one, and she seems tired anyway. I look up at George. “Make sure she gets plenty of rest.”
George looks momentarily offended, but it gets smothered quickly before Mama can see it. “Of course I will,” he says quietly.
Mama’s watching us both, and she looks concerned. So I force myself to give George a brief hug — it isn’t pleasant for either of us, I can tell — and mutter a goodbye.
“Yes,” he says stiffly. “Have a… good afternoon.” It’s somewhere between a well-wish and an order, but maybe that’s as good as it’ll ever get.
On my way to the car, I text Jake back. “I’d love to. Can’t stay all day. One drink. Busy busy.”
I get back a winking smiley face from him, and can’t help but wonder if there’s some part of this plan I don’t know about. I kind of hope there is, and can’t help smiling the whole way back downtown.
I manage to make it almost a full fifteen minutes in the bar. At that point, Jake springs the surprise.
“So… I realize you’re busy but… the beach house is free for the next month or so.”
I level my eyes at him over the drink that I realize, after it arrives, I’m not terribly in the mood for. What I am in the mood for, the moment I lay eyes on Jake again, is to be back where we were a few days ago. Whatever distance he had before seems to be gone now, and just the suggestion of going back makes me blush.
But I have to do the responsible thing, right?
“We’re in the middle of preparations for the big launch party,” I tell him.
Not convincingly enough, though, to either of us. Already I’m mapping out the problem in my head. Lacey doesn’t really need more of my input on the dishes. We have them planned and all that’s left is to order, which is something I can do from anywhere. Chester has some plans for cocktails to pair with each dish, but there’s nothing in his playbook that we don’t already have behind the counter. Gloria isn’t causing any trouble lately — probably for fear of losing her job, and rightfully so. The bottles and labels have been designed, approved, and ordered. Do I really need to be there?
“You’ve done a lot of work on this hot sauce launch,” Jake says in that urging, cajoling way he has. “Surely you can take a little time off. Just today.”
I want to put up more of a fight, but he leans over and kisses my earlobe, and then my neck, and whatever defenses I have melt away like the rest of me.
“I… can probably send a few texts…” I struggle to say as he slides a hand up my thigh beneath the white tablecloth that covers our laps. “Jake…”
“Let’s go, baby,” he mutters quietly, as his fingers graze my clit through my panties.
And I’m beat. “Okay… yeah…”
He chuckles, a low, rumbling sound of approval as he tugs the edge of my panties down and gives me a gentle pinch and a few slow circles. No one’s staring, but I have this feeling like everyone here knows what’s happening to me. Somehow, I can’t bring myself to care.
Just before I make a real scene, Jake withdraws, and lays a hundred-dollar bill on the table. He doesn’t bother to ask for the check. Some waiter just had a lucky day. We make our way hastily out of the place and to Jake’s car, and then we’re off to paradise again.
It’s everything the last trip was and more. This time, I get my mouth on him first, kneeling between his knees while he reclines on the plush couch. Every time I feel his cock swell and begin to trickle, I give his heavy balls a tug, and grin at the sound of him gasping. I manage to keep him on the edge until he’s groaning my name and begging.
He tries to stop me when I’m ready for him to come. “I’m close, Janie. You gotta stop, babe,” he moans. He’s careful not to pull my hair, but there’s a tug. “Fuck… you’re gonna make me come…”
Which is the point. And the moment I swallow down the last spurt of it, I climb up and settle onto his lap.
The look on his face is priceless, his eyes wide and his mouth open. His body twitches as I envelop him, giving him a taste of his own medicine — he almost tries to wrestle me off him, he’s so sensitive now, but I have him pinned by the arms. Even though he could probably push me off if he really wanted to, he suffers through it while I ride him.
Normally I need a little stimulation to get off like this, but something about having the power right now is so hot, and the angle of his cock is just right, and in a few minutes of watching his sweating face contort with alternating amazement and lust, I’m clenching and sweating as my own orgasm breaks. We spend the next twenty minutes teasing one another before we finally rest.
During that time, he pours me a glass of wine and hands it to me, raising his own glass. “To the best fucking orgasms we’ve ever had,” he says confidently.
I laugh and start to take a sip, but maybe it’s gone bad because the smell of it nearly turns my stomach. It’s insane to me that he can tip his glass up and drink this swill at all, but maybe being rich doesn’t mean you have a palate. Still, I don’t want to be entirely rude, so I take a tiny sip and then put the glass down. “The best orgasms we’ve ever had?” I ask, one eyebrow up. “That’s bold.”
“You’re saying it isn’t?” he asks me, sinking onto the couch with that feral, hungry grin of his, eyes sparkling at the thought of a challenge.
“I decline to comment,” I tell him, but I’m already having a hard time suppressing a delighted giggle as he nuzzles around my thighs with the promise that if it’s not the best yet, it soon will be.
“You know, I think we fit together pretty well,” Jake says, his lips grazing my bare thigh.
“We’re not a bad pair, I suppose.” I stroke his hair. What’s he saying, exactly?
“We look good together, too,” he says.
It sounds like a familiar line.
“Is that so?” The humor is out of my voice, and Jake can hear it. He sits up, looking sheepish as hell, and I can tell it’s to cover up something else.
He sighs, and looks me over. We’re both naked, so I do the same. Why can’t he just be pretty and fuck my brains out and let that be enough?
“What would be wrong with people knowing we’re… you know, involved?” he asks softly.
“We’re having sex,” I tell him. “Which is a degree of being involved, but not the sort of thing I care to air out in public.”
“Sure, yeah,” he says, as if it’s a given; so obvious it doesn’t need to be said. Apparently. I can tell he’s either guilty or hurt, one or the other.
As always, I look for the good. “I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I didn’t mean it like that, I mean…
I’m just not really sure what we have…”
“That’s fair… just…” It’s odd to see Jake Ferry squirming, but that’s definitely what he’s doing.
“Spit it out, Jake,” I tell him.
“Look, if… if it seemed like we were a couple — like a real couple — and we let people think whatever they want, you have to admit it wouldn’t be bad for Red Hall. For that matter I might have a shot at — ”
“Stop,” I tell him. Whatever heat was in me is gone now. Ice courses through my veins and now I think I really may be sick. “Just stop.”
“Janie, I didn’t — ”
“I cannot believe this.” Ice melts, starts to boil. I think I am going to be sick. “This whole… Jesus Christ, you’re a fucking impressively dedicated bastard, you know that? I cannot believe I fell for your bullshit…” The world spins around me. It’s hard to breathe.
“Listen to me, Janie,” Jake says, and reaches for me.
But I’m up and out of his reach before he can lay some more of his alligator charms on me, getting dressed. The guilt on his face is plain, but it’s not enough. “All this time, and I actually thought you just wanted… fuck, I don’t even know what I thought.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, standing.
“Put some clothes on,” I snap.
“Sure, yeah,” he says. “I’ll... ah… I’ll drive you back.”
I laugh, already headed for the door. “No, no, no. You can hang out here and fuck yourself. I’ll get a cab.”
He’s coming at me like he wants to prevent me from leaving, but stops when I round on him. “Jake, I swear to God if you take another step toward me you’ll regret it. We. Are. Done. Fuck you, fuck your father, don’t ever fucking talk to me again.”
I slam the door on my way out. Luckily I’m still too furious to cry. I have no fucking clue how to get home. Thank God for Uber. By the time I make it to the road to wait, I’m not exactly calm so much as numb.
Hell, I knew he was a scorpion. Am I that surprised I got stung?
Jake
For a full minute after Janie leaves, I’m able to keep it more or less together. I try to go numb — God knows I’ve got enough practice at it. But the numbness doesn’t come quick enough and before I know it I’m imagining my father’s face when I tell him I blew it, and I can hear him already coming up with some other plan.
My hand aches, and it’s not until that moment that I realize I put it through the wall. The thick plaster and drywall topples out of the hole when I pull my hand out and falls to the floor, shattering.
I shouldn’t have said anything. I shouldn’t have lowered myself to take part in Reginald’s delusional “grand plan,” and I shouldn’t have kept myself closed off from Janie like I did. All the guilt and anger just serves to illuminate what I already realized.
What I had with Janie wasn’t an act. I didn’t need to put on a mask to make her fall for me — I just fell for her and that was all I needed to do.
Flexing my hand, I sink down onto a stool at the bar, staring at my scraped knuckles. My whole life is told in that one image. Daddy says jump, and I ask how high, and deal with the injuries afterward. And what does he have to offer me? Money?
I don’t need it. I don’t need him, I don’t need the company. It’s not worth giving up Janie just to get a slice of the Ferry fortune — or even the whole goddamn pie.
Janie’s right; what she said before. Standing on her own two feet — she’s more alive than any woman I’ve ever known, and for a moment I managed to convince myself that I could have some kind of a future with her.
I could have.
Despite the fact that I know she doesn’t want to hear from me, and I want to give her that, I can’t help trying to make things right. I send text after text, and call her. No responses, and my calls go straight to voice mail.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her.
“Let me explain.”
“I need to make this right.”
“Forget about the PR shit. I want to be with you.”
I stop short of telling her how I really feel — or, how I think I feel, anyway. How am I even supposed to know?
The afternoon comes and goes, and finally I get a response. When the phone goes off, I practically fall over myself to get to it, momentarily intoxicated by the hope she’s cooled down.
But, no. Of course not.
“Leave me the fuck alone.”
Reginald has no idea what he’s made me give up. I plan to tell him. But not sober. Jesus, what the hell is wrong with me? I want to throw my phone into the ocean outside and disappear. Could I? Is there any place I could go he wouldn’t find me? Or would he even bother?
Probably not.
It’s not in me to run away, though. I need something to distract me, to get me out of this hole. Previous experience has taught me that the best way to crawl out of this hole is to get into a different one.
I finally leave the beach house. Probably I’ll never come back here. As I stand beside the Benz I took from the garage to get out here, I consider burning it down.
No. Even if I was inclined to risk it — it’s been a hot, dry summer — the thought of destroying the memories that are in the place now is painful. Instead, I promise myself that I won’t come back here until I can come back with Janie.
When I pull away from the place, I fully expect it to be the last time I lay eyes on it.
A short drive and half a bottle of cognac later, I’m at a bar even farther north. I can’t go home yet, and going to Ferry Lights means being across the street from where Janie is probably seething hatred in my direction. Not sure I ever want to go back there.
Instead, I’m staring into the mirror behind the bar, at myself, just to see if I can still do it. Just barely. Maybe there’s something wrong with me. Maybe the cognac’s dulled my emotions to the point where I can stomach the sight of myself.
There are beautiful women here. Objectively, I mean, they’re gorgeous. We’re right on the ocean, and these women are the kind that never get into a two-piece unless they can rock it, and they are. A few of them pick up on my mood, I guess, and come by to ask what’s wrong. The first few I can’t even talk to, and in short order they leave me alone, casting nervous looks at me. A guy my size with an expression like the one on my face — I’m probably terrifying.
One of them, a tan brunette in a sarong and a bikini top, though, isn’t so put off. She watches me silently after she orders a drink, and I know the game she’s playing. “I’m not interested,” I tell her. “Sorry.”
“You look like someone just pissed all over your parade,” she says. “Come here to lick your wounds, big boy?”
I can’t even muster the energy to sneer at her. I just shake my head slowly.
“Must be girl trouble,” she sighs. “I can always tell. Or, is it boy trouble?” She arches an eyebrow.
She purses her lips when I finally turn my head to look at her, and drums her fingers on the bar. “Definitely girl trouble. What she do? Cheat on you?”
“No,” I tell the girl. “I fucked her, fell in love with her, and then told her she was worthless.” May as well have, anyway.
The brunette whistles, and finishes her drink.
“Wow,” she says when she puts the glass down. She stands from the bar, and the look on her face is a mix of pity and disgust. “I guess you deserve to be right where you are, then, don’t you?”
She walks away, hips swaying, and I can’t find a single fault in her assessment of me.
And I realize with a flash that I was never doing it for my father. That was only an excuse for my heart in case Janie didn’t want me.
Janie
The launch party is looming ever closer, and between being torn up over Jake — no matter how many times I remind myself he’s not worth getting torn up over — and stressed beyond belief, it doesn’t occur to me to panic about the fact that I’ve started throwing up my breakfast until I’m a week late for my cycle.
Stress does that, though, right? Messes with your rhythms, makes it difficult for your body to regulate the heinously complex chemical cocktails it’s constantly shaking up. Right?
For that week, I can believe that. I’m short on tampons, so I even go and buy a variety pack. I’ve been late before, and it always arrives with a vengeance.
After the next week, I panic.
I’m on the phone making an appointment with a woman I never expected to see in a professional setting. My friend Annie is a doula, and I’ve referred lots of my own clients to her. She’s fantastic. She’s also a calming presence.
Almost the moment I walk in, Annie sizes me up like the village wise woman, both eyebrows raising just a hair.
I’m not superstitious, and I don’t believe in half the stuff she sometimes says, but that look makes my heart ache in my chest. “Oh, fuck,” I whisper. “Fuck, no…”
Annie winces, and comes to me, pulling me into a hug. “Come on,” she says gently, rubbing my back. “You’re fine. You’ll be just fine, okay? Come sit down.”
“I’m so stupid, Annie,” I mutter, barely keeping myself together. “I’ve been so, so fucking stupid.”
“Hush,” Annie says as she lowers me into a comfortable chair like I’m already eight months along. She speaks in this gentle, calming way she’s mastered from years of practice as she fixes us both a cup of tea — very likely something herbal and caffeine-free. Oh shit. How am I going to even live my life without four cups of coffee a day? For nine months?
“I’ll order you a blood test,” she says. “We don’t know anything yet, right?”
“What’s that mean?” I ask, and immediately regret it. “Sorry… sorry. I’m tense.”
“Take this,” she says, pushing a warm mug into my hand. “It’ll calm you down and it’s good for the… well, anyway. So… what happened?”
