by Adam Gittlin
“Is this an early or late start for you?” I answer.
“Depends on the morning,” she responds. “But today has been like most—my first cup of coffee was at five fifteen.”
“You mean you actually sleep? Not us Dutch. We save sleep for the weekends.”
“Not surprised,” she counters. “You all have a lot of catching up to do.”
“Interesting. Is that your insight—or have you been using the euro versus the U.S. dollar as your basis?”
Raspy giggle.
“Point taken, Mr. Janse.”
“What can I do for you this morning?”
“There are some security deposit specifics we still need to cover regarding a few of the tenants. I think it may be a good idea to sit down and go through these items before our respective days get going as the two teams won’t be getting together until the luncheon at Alessi’s.”
Right. The big dog-and-pony show luncheon at Alessi’s new Midtown showpiece.
“And we both know there won’t be much shoptalk occurring at that function. We’re really rolling downhill into this closing at this point; each minute we can find counts. I want to make sure we have the details buttoned up.”
“Well, I have breakfast with my team at eight thirty, so perhaps—”
“Perfect,” she cuts me off. “I’ll make some fresh coffee. You meet me at my apartment at seven fifteen and we can run through this. I live Midtown on the west side—One Sixty West Fifty-Ninth Street. You’ll easily be back to your hotel by eight thirty. And I’d rather not put these punch list items on hold until late this afternoon. Sound good?”
Good?
About as good as a punch in the face.
But business is business.
And I’ve got to sort this one out.
Now.
“Sure. Sounds good. See you soon.”
After sucking down a cup of coffee I had delivered to my room and having a world-record speed shower and shave, I step off the elevator and look for apartment 22A as instructed by the concierge. I locate the proper door immediately. It’s open a couple inches.
Thinking this was done to tell me to come on in, I still knock gently out of politeness.
“Come in. I’m in the kitchen,” her raspy voice calls.
The apartment is bright from the newly awakened sun forcing itself in through the large picture windows in the living room. From the décor to the furniture to the artwork, Julia’s home is sleek, smart, contemporary, intriguing, like the woman who lives here. There are no moldings; the cloud-white walls and ceilings run seamlessly into each other. The floor underfoot is wide, dark planks of smooth wood finished in black. Beautifully appointed recessed lighting is throughout, some strategically placed for artwork, the rest for evening or gloomy day illumination.
I notice a bunch of photos on a shelf just a few feet into the living room. I check them out quickly, interested because I notice one of them is of Julia, Brand, and Scott Green—Houseboat Guy. The same Houseboat Guy she said she didn’t really know. I move down the central corridor. I pass a small den, a bathroom, a laundry room—the apartment is not overly large, but large. Probably a couple bedrooms as well for a grand total of a couple thousand square feet worth a couple million bucks. Not bad for a young, single, hotshot woman.
I must be approaching the kitchen. The smell of coffee is getting stronger by the step, and I need another huge cup immediately. My eyes are heavy. I’m fighting fatigue harder perhaps than I ever have in my life.
I turn into the kitchen, which is nouveau, yet traditional. The walls are comprised of perfect rows of brick-size white tiles. There’s a pot rack hanging from the ceiling with shiny stainless steel cookware. The appliances are all Sub-Zero and Viking and look like they were installed this morning. Guessing not very much actual cooking goes on in here.
Standing across the room, by the sink, is Julia. She’s facing out the window, which looks east out over the city, and drinking a cup of coffee. I’m surprised that she isn’t exactly dressed for her day. Unless there’s something underneath it—which I’m guessing there isn’t—all she seems to be wearing is a black satin robe with pink lace trim around the edges that stops just below her ass.
The space is quiet now that my footsteps have stopped, aside from the faint sounds past the walls of the city coming to life down below. I squeeze my eyes closed. I see Perry. My gorgeous Perry who I miss so much, who I vow to return alive to her son. I see the exact image of the perfect physical specimen that is Julia on the other side of my eyelids. I’m praying this is a dream.
Or am I praying it’s not?
I open my eyes. And as my sight spills again from my eyeballs, emotions, urges, cravings, feelings I haven’t felt in three years—three lifetimes—drain from my soul all over the floor.
“So, Ivan,” she says, placing her blue ceramic coffee mug on the white marble counter flanking the sink, “you ready to get to work?”
I say nothing. She turns around. She leans back casually against the counter, her hands behind her. The black satin tie around her waist is barely holding, her robe one movement away from coming completely undone. I see the top of her six-pack abs and, inside, half of each of her perfect breasts. I see the birthmark running farther down her neck and shoulder than I’ve previously seen.
I look her up and down, I drink her in.
Those legs.
This is wrong.
Right.
Fuck.
“You don’t seem surprised,” she says. “And that doesn’t surprise me.”
The coffee, caffeine. I’m craving it. Like I’m craving what the sweat on her neck will taste like once she’s heated up.
No.
Stop.
“Why now?” I ask.
“Because I’m a girl who knows how to make shit happen, Ivan. And I don’t know when else I’m going to get my shot with you since you’re here to close a deal within a couple more days before flying back off to Amsterdam.”
Cravings. Urges.
For Perry.
For gratification.
From sex. From substance.
Fuck, that coffee smells good. I know this feeling. I want it like I used to want coke. Which wouldn’t be so bad right—
Stop.
I’m so tired. As I stand here, at this very moment, I have no idea where the desire, the need, for sleep begins or ends.
Damn my body might drop. Or start running.
Damn her body is insane.
Like Perry’s. Which I haven’t touched or seen aside from in my dreams in so long it feels like I’m about to explode.
“I’m committed to someone,” I say.
“That’s not what your eyes say when they lick me every time I walk into a room.”
I don’t flinch. But I feel my teeth clench a bit.
“No,” I respond, matter-of-factly, “I’m committed. But that doesn’t change whether I destroy your body right here and now in this kitchen or not.”
A sexy, scandalous smile creeps onto her face.
“That’s more like it, Ivan.”
It’s been so long. Until this moment I had no idea how much I’d been suppressing. Out of love.
Out of guilt?
I should walk away.
I need this.
Don’t I?
Fuck. I can’t help thinking, I need this more than I even know.
I feel myself reach for my tie, my eyes never once leaving hers. She, with barely a tug, releases the tie around her waist, the robe sliding down her back to the floor. I toss my tie onto the island, topped with the same white marble as the rest of the counters. Again, my eyes never leaving hers.
Hers never leaving mine.
I’m on autopilot.
I move on to my shirt, slowly unbuttoning from the top down. Once completely open, I remove and it toss onto the island as well. At this moment beautifully naked Julia gently lifts herself onto the counter behind her next to the sink. She gently parts her legs, reaches d
own, and starts pleasing herself while I keep undressing.
“You see the color of this birthmark?” she purrs. “Think you can make the inside of my thighs the same color?”
“It’s been a while,” I admit.
“Which means what? This might not last as long as we’re both hoping?”
“Which means just the opposite,” I counter. “Which means you may not get out of here alive.”
Once all my clothes are in a pile on the island, my shoes clumsily off to the side on the floor, I make my way over to her. I ease myself right in between her legs excited by the way the skin just above her knees feels against the skin of my waist. I move in to kiss her but stop an inch before her lips. Her breath is warm, faintly bitter from coffee. I finally move my eyes. I move them to the birthmark running down her face, her neck, her shoulder, her arm, and upper torso farther than I previously realized. I trace it with my finger, taste and kiss it with my lips.
I reach up with my left hand, behind her, and take a handful of her hair in my fist. I pull her head back, surprising her, arching her back. I move my eyes back to hers.
“You ready, Julia?”
CHAPTER 27
AMSTERDAM, THE NETHERLANDS
2010
One evening, after cocktails with the owners of a half-built Class A office tower going up in the South Axis market of Amsterdam, Cobus’s Maybach made its way through the city. The night was chilly, damp. Cobus and I were in the backseat.
“What do you think?” asked Cobus. “Do we really want the responsibility of finishing the construction? We’re talking about the tallest building ever built in Amsterdam, Ivan.”
“Diepenbrock’s group is in trouble, Cobus, and we’re talking about pulling the property for peanuts on the euro. We make money on this deal the second we sign the paperwork.”
Cobus was nodding his head as he added, “And the construction has been spot on so far. Gropius is doing a flawless job.”
Gropius & Immendorf was the German engineering firm handling the construction.
“There is a reason Diepenbrock came to you first, Cobus.”
“To us, Ivan,” Cobus went on. “To de Bont Beleggings. A firm you are essentially helping me steer at this point.”
Cobus changed directions. He leaned forward and said to his driver, “Alex, let’s head over to Keizersgracht Straat.”
He leaned back again.
“What’s happening on Keizersgracht?” I inquired, looking at the time on my iPhone. “I thought we needed to meet van Buuren at Vermeer at eight o’clock.”
“There’s no meeting with van Buuren tonight, Ivan,” Cobus responded. “No dinner at Vermeer. I canceled.”
“What are you talking about?”
Cobus turned his attention away from me, out the window.
“I love how Amsterdam looks passing by from inside the car. The people. The buildings. We have so much to do with both of them. It’s a lot, Ivan, no?”
“What’s a lot?” I responded, puzzled.
“Holding it all together. Maintaining life. Working hard, but doing it in an honest way. Really spending each day not only attacking this world, but doing it in a way one can be proud of. Doing it in a way that is—”
Cobus returned his attention to me.
“Honest.”
Something strange was happening.
Fuck.
Cobus had never even used the word honesty in relation to me.
Was he on to me?
I thought of Perry. I thought of Max, Neo.
“I knew from the moment we met, Ivan, that you were different. That there was more there than one could see. I just never could have imagined knowing what, well, I now know.”
I was ready. I subtly moved my hand to the armrest on the door near the door handle. Before he said another word, I was prepared to open the door, tuck my chin, pull my arms and legs in tight, and roll for however long was needed until I could spring back up and head back the other way. Under my polished new façade, I was still Jonah Gray. I was still, and would always now be, a warrior who could flip a switch.
“Is that right? And what is it you now know?”
Could it be? Could Cobus have stumbled on to my real identity and turned me over?
I could feel my jaw stiffening. I was ready for combat.
His face became serious. He reached inside his jacket pocket. My hand slid to the door handle. Just as my fingertips started to grip it, he pulled out a gold Gucci keychain with two keys hanging from the ring.
“That you are one of the brightest real estate minds I have ever been around. That you are as humble as you are filled with integrity. And that this company could have never flourished this much, this fast, without you.”
I relaxed again.
“Our numbers for this year are going to be extraordinary, Ivan. Do you realize this?”
“I do.”
Did I ever. Cobus’s foresight and positioning had put de Bont Beleggings, flush with cash and strategically aligned up the ying-yang, to capitalize big-time in the face of something like a global commercial real estate meltdown. We had spent the better part of two years kicking the overleveraged, already down, square in the teeth and taking names.
Cobus flipped me the keychain.
“What’s this?”
“My way of saying thank you,” Cobus said. “And also your bonus for the year. In fact, I probably wouldn’t count on one next year after this.”
Just then we rolled up to a magnificent five-story canal house on Keizersgracht Straat.
“A little something for you and Tess. You’ve earned it.”
Funny. One look at the canal house reminded me of the townhouse I had grown up in on the Upper East Side of New York City. The one my father was gunned down in front of.
The car stopped. I looked at Cobus.
“I’m not quite sure what to say. This isn’t at all necessary, Cobus. As you know, I’m not one much for luxury. I’m more the simple type.”
“I know you are. That’s why I think you’ll love how the place was decorated...”
As I mentioned earlier, the ultracontemporary and immaculate interior of the home was predominantly white and state-of-the-art. We stepped into the kitchen where a bottle of Perrier-Jouët 2002 Fleur de Champagne Rosé was on ice. There was a woman in the kitchen—a fifty-something housekeeper type—who reached for the bottle upon our arrival.
“This is Laura,” Cobus said. “Her quarters are at the north end of the second floor. And as part of the gift I have picked up the first year of her salary.”
“Cobus, I really need to say that this is too much. I mean how—”
“Stop it, Ivan. Really. For the amount of profit you have helped this firm generate, I’m probably going light here. Especially since—I must tell you—the owner was getting foreclosed on. I had mentioned to Marco—”
Marco Oud—a banker we often deal with.
“—a little while back what I intended on doing for you and told him to keep his eyes open. Once I saw this, I knew it was perfect. I figured that little dog you adore so much would feel right at home with all of the white.”
Laura handed us each a glass. We clinked, and each took a sip.
“Thank you, Cobus,” I said. “This is quite overwhelming. And quite the motivator to keep at it.”
I had called Perry to let her know what was happening. At three a.m., Max asleep in his new enstig kunnen—Dutch for seriously awesome—room, I heard the whir of our new elevator out in the hallway. I heard Perry’s heels click as she made her way down the wide-plank, white, light bamboo hardwood floor. Without stopping, she entered the bedroom. The click of her heels, now absorbed by the plush white carpet, was gone.
Our new bedroom was sleek, minimalist. I was laying on our new low-to-the-ground platform bed, arms behind my head, waiting for her. Lorna Lee’s “La Lune Foncée” played faintly in the background, blending beautifully with the sounds of the Amsterdam night as I had left the windows open.
The lights in the room had been set to a soft glow.
Perry stopped in front of the bed. The owners of the supperclub liked the female staff—especially the hot bartenders like Tess Beel—looking sharp as a Kasumi knife. She wore Helmut Lang stretch leather skinny pants and a black, skin-tight, scoop neck Burberry matte jersey tank finished off with popping royal-blue suede, Giuseppe Zanotti colorblock platform sandals.
Another perk for Perry of her new life. All the great fashion—only now it was just the fun stuff.
“Pretty nice digs you got here, Mr. Janse.”
“Glad you like them,” I tossed back.
She slowly peeled off her top, enjoying me enjoying her. She tossed it aside, as well as her black satin bra. Then she kicked off her six-inch heels. She crawled up on the bed on top of me. Above me on all fours, staring into my eyes, our noses—our faces—gently caressed each other. Then we kissed deeply.
“You seem to have left something on,” I whispered.
“I wanted you to peel them off me yourself.”
She sat up on top of me. I unbuttoned and unzipped the leather pants. Then in an instant, I lifted her off me and I circled around back of her. Feeling both of our excitement, and only wanting that excitement to get hotter, I slowed down. My left hand enjoyed the skinlike leather covering her perfect ass. My right hand gently grabbed the front of her neck from behind and lifted her up. I put her left earlobe in my mouth. Her left hand reached back and played with my hair. Her right hand started playing with her right breast.
Finally, I reached down with both hands and slid her pants off. I dropped them off the bed.
“Did you ever wear panties when we were at PCBL?” I joked.
Perry sexily crawled forward over the silky white sheets, her torso low and her ass high, and crawled up the wall behind our new pillows. Once she was at a ninety-degree angle, she turned and looked at me, her hands still in place.
“Get over here and take care of me, Ivan Janse. Now.”
Sixty sex-soaked minutes later, both of us exhausted, glistening with sweat, we were on our backs. Our legs were tangled like a pretzel as we looked at the ceiling. My left hand, reaching across my body, tickled the crease on the inside of her left elbow.
