During the weeks that followed my first fantasy, I was as busy as I had ever been. I even took on a couple of night shifts so Tracina and Will could go on dates. When I waved goodbye to them one of those nights, I couldn’t detect an ounce of jealousy or bitterness in my bones. Well, maybe a droplet of jealousy, but no bitterness. No longing. No detectable sadness. I had made a vow to be nicer to Tracina, to try to see what Will saw in her. Maybe we’d become friends, too, I thought, and Will could make another attempt to set me up with someone—after I’d completed my Steps, of course. At that moment, while I was thinking about double dating, Dell caught me whistling in the walk-in fridge. I sometimes stood in there for a few minutes to cool down, all the while pretending to look for something.
“What are you so happy about, girl?” she asked, lisping through her missing tooth.
“Life, Dell. It’s a good thing, isn’t it?”
“Not always, no.”
“I think it’s pretty grand,” I said.
“Well, goody for you,” she said as I headed back to the dining area. I left her scooping out ice cream for a small birthday gathering of bankers.
My couple, my favorite fawning duo, hadn’t returned since the night Pauline dropped her journal. But thoughts of their caresses were now replaced by lightning flashbacks, my own memories of that man’s beautiful face between my thighs, of the hungry way he looked at me, so deliberate, so keen. I thought of his fingers, how they engaged at just the right moment, and how his firm hands guided and moved me, like I weighed nothing, like I was made of feathers—
“Cassie, for crying out loud,” Dell yelled, snapping her fingers in front of my eyes. “You keep on leaving the planet.”
I almost jumped out of my boring brown shoes. “Sorry!”
“Table eleven wants their bill, nine wants more coffee.”
“Yes. Right,” I said, noticing the two girls from table eight blankly staring at me.
Once I’d served the two tables, I went back to my thoughts. Dell had it wrong. I hadn’t been fantasizing. I was remembering. Those things had actually happened. I was recalling things that had been done to me, to my body. I gave my head a healthy shake. If this is what it felt like after Step One, what would it be like with a few more fantasies under my belt?
One day in early April, on my only day off that week, a cream-colored envelope arrived in my mailbox. There was no stamp on it. It appeared to have been hand-delivered. My heart leapt to my throat. I glanced down the street. Nobody. I ripped open the envelope. Inside was the Step Two card, and the word Courage. There was also a single ticket for a jazz show at Halo, a bar on the roof of The Saint Hotel, a newly built boutique hotel that was making its debut during this year’s festival. Though I was no big music buff, even I knew these were hard tickets to get. I looked at the date. Tonight! This wasn’t enough notice! I had nothing to wear! I did this all the time, excuses, one after the other, building and building, until the fear got so big it toppled any plan for adventure. That’s how it had always worked for me. Somehow opening the door to my apartment to a stranger seemed easier to contemplate than venturing out into the hot night on my own, walking into a bar by myself, and sitting there alone, waiting for … what? What would I do while I waited? Read? Maybe three or four weeks is too much time between fantasies. Maybe my courage had retreated. Yet Step Two was about Courage, so I decided to concentrate on that, on staying open, the opposite of my usual way, which was to begin my day with the word no on my lips. That’s how, hours later, I was trying on little black dresses, and an hour after that, sitting very still while coats of red lacquer were layered on my fingers and toenails. The whole time, I told myself I could always back out if I wanted to. I didn’t have to go through with anything. I could change my mind at any time.
That evening I grabbed my fantasy folder from my night-stand. What is it about going out alone, seeing a movie alone, or enjoying dinner alone, that is so difficult? I could never bring myself to do it, preferring to rent a movie at home rather than sit alone in a darkened theater. But the alone part wasn’t what I was afraid of. The alone part was easy; I’d felt alone my whole life, even when I was married. No, I was afraid that everyone else, all those people, coupled and cozy, would see me as one of The Great Unpicked, The Sadly Unselected, The Sexually Forgotten. I imagined that they would point and whisper. I imagined that they would pity me. Even I treated lone customers at the Café with extra care, like they were a little hard of hearing or something. I may even have been guilty of hovering around their tables too much, in my attempts to keep them company.
But maybe sometimes people who went out by themselves wanted to be alone. There are people like that: confident, solitary, secure with their own company. Tracina, for instance, pays someone to take her fourteen-year-old brother for ice cream every Saturday afternoon so she can lie on the couch and watch TV uninterrupted. She once told me that going to the movies alone was one of her singular pleasures.
“I get to watch what I want, eat without sharing, and I don’t have to sit through the credits like Will makes me when I’m with him,” she said.
But it’s easy to be alone when it’s a choice, harder when it’s your default position.
I was feeling pure terror about entering that jazz club, when Matilda’s Step Two advice rang through my head. During a pep talk over the phone, she told me, “Fear is just fear. We must take action in the face of it, Cassie, because action increases courage.”
Damn it. I could do this.
I called Danica to send the limo.
“It’s on the way, Cassie. Good luck,” she said.
Ten minutes later the limo turned the corner at Chartres off Mandeville, stopping in front of the Spinster Hotel. Ah! I wasn’t ready! Shoes in hand, I took the stairs in twos, running out barefoot past a very puzzled Anna Delmonte.
“It’s the second time I’ve seen that limousine parked in front of the house,” she said as I whizzed by. “Do you know anything about it, Cassie? It’s so odd …”
“I’ll talk to him, Anna. Don’t worry. Or maybe the driver is a woman, right? You never know.”
“I suppose …”
Without listening to the rest of her reply, I hopped into the limo and then put on my shoes. I had a funny thought: imagine if Anna knew what I was up to! I wanted to yell out: I’m not a spinster! I’m alive for the first time in years!
As the limo sped me to Canal, I looked down at my dress, a snug black number, tight at the bodice, flaring out at the skirt, leaving off just below the knee. The top held me up in the right places and did a few favors for my breasts, which even to me looked full and appealing against the black contour of the halter. My shoes pinched a bit, but I knew they’d ease up as the night went on. Black pumps will go with just about everything, I told myself, rationalizing how much I’d spent on them. I had parted my hair to one side and dried it straight, holding the front in place with a gold barrette. That was the only piece of jewelry I had on, except, of course, my S.E.C.R.E.T. bracelet with its singular charm.
“You look lovely tonight, Miss Robichaud,” the driver said. I had the impression S.E.C.R.E.T. staff members were told to keep a professional distance, something I imagined Danica found hard to do. She seemed so irrepressible. My “thank you” barely made it through the window opening before it closed between us.
My heart beat faster as we made turn after turn. I tried to clear my mind as Matilda had instructed. Try not to anticipate. Try to be in the moment.
The limo came to a stop in front of The Saint. My hand was so sweaty it slipped on the door handle, but the driver was already on the job, getting out and coming around to open the door and help me out of the back seat.
“Good luck, my dear,” he said.
I nodded my appreciation and then stood for a moment, watching the beautiful people of the city stream in and out of the main doors—leggy, bold women, trailing perfume and confidence, the men, looking so proud to be seen with them. Then there was me. I realized
I’d forgotten to wear perfume. My hair, pulled straight an hour ago, was starting to frizz up. The thought that this fantasy would play out in public made my fearful heart drop. That’s where hearts should sit, I thought, deep in the gut, where there is more insulation to hide their anxious beating. And yet, nervous as I was, I was also … curious. I took a deep breath and headed inside and straight for the elevators.
A small man in a hotel uniform appeared on my left.
“Can I see your ticket?”
“Oh, yes,” I said, digging in my clutch. “Here.”
He eyed the ticket, then me, clearing his throat.
“Well, then,” he said, pressing the up button. “Welcome to The Saint. We hope you’ll enjoy your stay.”
“Oh, I’m not staying here. I’m only meeting … well, seeing … hearing, just hearing the music.”
“Of course. Have a lovely evening,” he said, bowing and then backing away from me.
The elevator swallowed me up, its ascent wreaking havoc with my already churning stomach. I closed my eyes and leaned up against the cool mirrored wall, holding tight to the rail. As the elevator car neared the penthouse club, I could hear muffled music, many voices. The doors opened to dozens of smartly dressed people clustered in the dim lobby, more still in the dark bar beyond the glass doors. It took superhuman strength for me to peel my fingers from the rail, leave the safe confines of the elevator and launch myself into the crowd.
Each person was holding a glass of champagne and was engaged in what seemed to be an interesting conversation. Some women glanced over their shoulders at me the way you’d look at a potential opponent. Their male companions assessed me too. Were those looks of … interest? No. Couldn’t be. No way. I moved slowly through the crowd, keeping my eyes lowered, yet wondering what the hell I was doing in such a swishy place. I saw some local luminaries, Kay Ladoucer from city council, who also chaired several prominent charities. She was carrying on an animated conversation with Pierre Castille, the handsome billionaire land developer known for being a reclusive bachelor. He looked my way and I averted my eyes. Then I realized what he was actually looking at. Beside me were gathered several young and coltish daughters of Southern gentry, the kind of girls whose photographs you see in the Times-Picayune society pages.
The Smoking Time Jazz Club band was going to be playing tonight, but they hadn’t yet taken the stage. I had heard them before at the Blue Nile. I loved the lead singer, a quirky girl with a partly shaved head and a powerful, hypnotic voice. But I wasn’t here just to enjoy the music. Who was I meeting, and how would things unfold? Despite my nervousness, I could not avoid noticing a tall, attractive man talking with a long-legged woman wearing a brave red dress. As I watched (discreetly, I thought), he dismissed her and made his way over to me. All the air left my body as he blocked my path to the bar.
“Hello,” he said, smiling. With his green eyes and blond hair he looked as though he’d stepped out of a magazine. He wore a beautifully tailored charcoal gray suit with a white shirt. His tie was thin and black. He seemed a little younger than the masseur, and more muscular too. I glanced over at the woman in the red dress, whose posture seemed to suggest defeat. He had left off talking to her to cross the room and greet me? Was he crazy?
“I’m … I’m Cassie,” I said, hoping he couldn’t sense my anxious thoughts.
“I see you don’t have a drink. Let me get you one,” he said, placing his hand on the small of my back and guiding me through the thickening crowd towards the bar.
“Oh. Yes. Why not?” The band was taking the stage. I could hear them warming up.
“What about your … companion?” I asked.
“What companion?” He seemed genuinely puzzled.
I glanced over my shoulder to where the woman had stood. She was gone.
He pulled out an empty stool at the bar and gestured for me to sit. Then he leaned towards me, moving a strand of hair behind my ear so that he could put his mouth close to it. I felt his warm breath. I couldn’t help but close my eyes and lean into him.
“Cassie, I’ve ordered you some champagne,” he said. “I’m going to check on something. While I’m away, I want you to do me a favor.” He put a finger to my jawline and gently traced it. He was looking deep into my eyes. The man was beguiling, his beautiful mouth just an inch away from my own.
“While I’m gone, take off your panties. Drop them on the floor under the bar. But don’t let anyone see.”
“Here? Now?” I caught my reflection in the mirror over the bar and saw my eyebrows shoot up.
A wicked and perfect smile played across his mouth. Two days’ worth of stubble didn’t take away from his polish either.
I turned and watched him walk away, passing the bandstand and the pretty lead singer. I looked around at the oblivious crowd now craning to watch the band begin. The opening riffs were brassy and loud, the bass reverberating deep in my body. I looked towards the women’s washroom. If I left my stool, I’d lose my place at the bar. Then he wouldn’t find me.
The room was filling up. The lights were dimmed a bit more. A cold flute of champagne was placed in front of me. I was alone, at a bar, contemplating removing my underwear because a hot, young man had asked me to. What if I was caught? Surely I’d be thrown out for lewd behavior. I tried to remember what panties I had on. A black thong. Simple, silky. How to squirm out of panties in public, unnoticed, wasn’t something I had learned at Girl Scouts.
I pulled the stool closer to the bar. Then, watching myself in the mirror, I did a practice run, moving my forearm and hand across my lap, while above the line of the bar my upper arm and shoulder appeared still. Good, it could work. I moved quickly, my hand under the bar gathering the front of my skirt. I slipped the other hand up my thigh, wrapping a finger through my thong and lifting my buttocks off the stool ever so slightly, hooking my heels into the base of the stool to get leverage. Just as I yanked hard, the song came to an abrupt end. I thought I was the only one to hear the rip, like a needle skipping across a record. But a man with a shaved head, who’d been standing with his back to me, turned to see what had made that sound. I froze. Oh no.
I smiled at him awkwardly and let out a nervous laugh. This man was riveting with crinkly eyes like Will’s, but his were icy blue. He had on a black suit, with a black shirt and black tie. For a man who was probably closer to fifty than thirty, he had the lithe build of a soccer player.
Leaning towards me, he said, “Got them off yet?” He took in my expression of shock with a bemused smile, then took a sip of his scotch and plopped the empty glass down, wiping his mouth with the back of his wide hand. “Your panties, I mean. Are they off?” he said in a British accent.
I looked around in case anyone had heard him. But the music had started up again.
“Who are you?”
“The real question is, do you accept the Step?”
“The Step? What? You? I thought it was going to be with the other guy.”
“I can assure you, Cassie, you’re in good hands with me. Do you accept the Step?”
“What’s going to happen?” Panicking, I looked around. But no one was watching us; they were watching the band. No one cared what we were talking about either. It was as though we were invisible.
“What’s going to happen?” I asked again.
“Everything you want, nothing you don’t.”
“Is that what you’re all trained to say?” I said, with a hint of playfulness. I could do this. I could definitely do this with him. I yanked my thong again and this time the waistband cut across the tops of my thighs, leaving me in a deeply uncomfortable position.
“Do you accept the Step, Cassie? I can ask only three times,” he said patiently. His eyes traveled down to my skirt.
“Maybe if I went to the ladies’—”
He turned and summoned the bartender.
“I’ll take the bill, please, and put her champagne on it, would you?”
“Wait. Are you going?”
“Don’t go,” I said, lifting my arm from beneath the bar and placing it on his firm forearm. “I accept the Step.”
“Good girl,” he said, shoving his money clip back in his pocket.
He removed his dinner jacket and asked me to hold it in my lap. Standing beside me at the bar, he turned to the side, as if to watch the band. When he jolted my bar stool backwards a little, and my stomach took a second to catch up. He pressed himself against my back, his hot mouth next to my ear. I could feel his erection against the small of my back, where the first man had put his hand.
“Cassie, you look beautiful in that dress, but those panties need to come off, right now,” he whispered hoarsely. “Because I’m going to play with you, if that’s okay with you.”
“Here? Now?” I swallowed.
“Oh yes.”
“What if someone catches us?”
“No one will. I promise.”
My back to his chest, both of us facing the band, he slipped his right hand under my skirt and followed the crevice between my thighs to my thong. With expert ease, he dipped a finger inside me. I was wet. This was crazy. The band kicked up the tempo and the singer’s voice was like a musical instrument, her words pouring out at the exact moment that two of his fingers secured themselves around my thong’s waistband.
“Lift, my love,” he commanded, and with expert timing, he slid the damaged thong forward to my knees. I quickly shimmied it down to my ankles and let it fall discreetly to the floor. The place was dark, loud and crowded. Even if I screamed, it wouldn’t cause a commotion.
I felt his hand slowly circle my inner thigh, teasing me just enough, as he continued to breathe into my ear. I imagined what we must look like: an affectionate couple watching the band. Only the two of us knew that his right hand was ravaging me. Secure that no one was watching, he got bolder and glided his other hand across my right breast, letting it linger there for a moment. Then he circled my breast with a wide palm until he could feel my nipple harden.
S.E.C.R.E.T.: An Erotic Novel Page 7
