by JR King
“Feels like we’ve met before.” She smiled a puckish smile.
I winked. “Maybe we have. I’ve been spying you since years?”
“Then I was offered to you on a silver platter in your suite? Too much of a coincidence, pal. A judge would hesitate to take this case.”
“Dockets do move fast.”
“Where are we going to eat?”
Realizing I’d painted myself into a corner, I looked out the window. The rain had stopped.
I never enjoyed making decisions about what to do for dinner, ever. I had no talent for organizing a good date night; I only had talent for hiring a top secretary who organized one. I dined out often. I was typically familiar with all the restaurants in the Beacon Hill and Back Bay area, and preferred it to remain that way. By now you must have caught on, living in the city was a duty, a fleeting pleasure at most. Weston was home, but being alone in a mansion drove me bonkers at times.
“What do you crave?” Elena continued.
Back to restaurants and food. I had no strong preferences or occasional cravings, and in general, I ate practical, healthy food. I craved sustenance, basically. When dining with a girl, what I hated was being responsible for bad decisions, which resulted in bad food, uncomfortable surroundings, laidback service, and strained conversation over poor acoustics and packed tables. In general, my mistresses preferred that I decide, and I preferred not to, so Meredith arranged everything. The thought of bringing Elena to No. 9 Park or going to Catwalk—a VIP lounge on the third floor, crossed my mind, but then she’d have to lose the Forty Winks attire in favor of formal designer togs.
“Room service?” I attempted, unsure. How ingenious.
“Okay. I’m not choosy, I’m not picky, I eat everything.”
“Even thinly sliced raw cobra heart and crispy cockroaches and sautéed worms and—,”
She gave me the cutest sourpuss expression. “Eww. Red meat proteins, that’s my fave.”
“And mine. I like you already.”
Elena’s eyes, usually frosted blue, like chilled cobalt, now were liquid cobalt. She kept staring at me, and we became oblivious to everything except our faces and who would take initiative to approach the other. Even when the landline rang, we didn’t move.
Subsequently, irritation sprawled across my face. I was too old for this shit. “Must be the kitchen. I should place the order. The pasta might take a while.”
“My phone?”
“Use the fixed line when I’m done. Ransack my closet afterward.”
Osetra caviar was the perfect protein to go with the champagne I requested, and for the main dish I played it safe with spaghetti and a homestyle pasta sauce, courtesy of the chef. Smoking a Cohiba Behike, I waited in the evening gloom of the open-air terrace while Elena called her grandparents. I watched her talk and laugh and use her delicate hands to explain her dilemma, and blew smoke out in a steady stream that danced trails in the wind. When she traipsed off to get changed, I contemplated following her. I had an erection, I realized, the first genuine hard-on I’d had today.
I nixed the thought. Like a good boy, I plopped into an armchair in the wood-paneled library, phoned the Wilkinson’s official residence, thanked Jane for fleshing out our relationship, and endorsed Daniel. I was really grateful for this ringing momentary distraction, because I had no idea what to do next. As I’d demonstrated, there were many things I knew a lot about, some things I knew a little about, and a few things—read: dating—I knew nothing about.
Alexander Turner
The First Supper
She likes me…she likes me not. If you’re still here, let me tell you how smart men manipulate women. Any way you look at it, we all do it; life isn’t a goddamn Harlequin novel. A man and a woman attracted to each other are either overzealous lovers; desiring to be lovers; trying not to be lovers so they can be friends; decidedly friends as they can’t be lovers because of circumstances of life.
This next part is big. I’ll cut the bullshit. Usually when I met a bedroom prospect, I used a breathy, confidential voice—yet slow and modest enough to indicate an average IQ—that brushed against her skin like a Hermès scarf. Forget about the bulge in my pants, useless bait. What are you thinking? Women want to be in a man’s head, uncoupling the concentric transmit coils, trying to read and control his thoughts. So, even while sipping hard liquor, I kept being concise, slowly designating my above-average IQ with smart observations, smiling charmingly at times, tilting my head vulnerably at times. It’s a rich quality to have, to lead with that touch of pseudo-shyness that said look at my sad state. I had this quality. Look at the pathetic, flake of a man that I am, baby. With my intelligence, my money, my beauty, I’m far from perfect, broken might sound too harsh, so be gentle with me, won’t you, please? I’m full of fucking flaws. I’ll let you fix me.
To make me whole again, I explained, she’d have to hug me, because mommy never had—a lie, and after the Oedipus-enameled moment she’d have spread her legs wide for one night and cure me. If executed with much taste in a complex atmosphere, this tactic never missed. Don’t look at me like that. None of this made me a bad guy.
The question becomes: would I use it on Elena?
No thanks to my practical knowledge, I decided to go fucking bareback. That’s it, end of discussion, period. Elena was the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen. Whenever I saw her, I bristled, and with good reason. She was a challenge, that’s partly why I wanted to go bareback, and partly because she deserved the respect.
“Earth to Alexander! Food’s here. Go open the door.”
Hearing her sensuous voice tightened my chest. I swiveled my head and looked up, only to find Elena standing lounged against the doorjamb, hot to trot and wearing one of my white button-downs. She was barefoot, her hair plaited into a careless braid.
Her smile swallowed me whole. “Am I presentable for dinner, sir?” She tapped her finger to her slightly parted lips, searching for my approval.
I grinned. The little girl was all grown up. “Earns you ten bennies in tips.”
“We’ve talked about this.”
“Not in dollars. When my ego writes checks my body can’t cash, I pay in bitcoin.”
“Top Gun? You’re such a dork. A dorky dork.”
I was a lot of things, dorky wasn’t one of them. “I am? I think I’m falling in love. Scratch that, I’m in love with you. Would you happen to be free four months from now so we can marry?”
“Four months? Why not three, or five?”
“Five, then. It’s a good number.”
“How can I touch you…I mean get it touch with you?”
Feeling my softened member twitching to life again, I let out a choked groan. Because she was barefoot, I towered over her. “Where would you like to touch me?” Even though I reached out to stroke her glowing cheek, my voice never betrayed my horniness. “Would you like to feel it?” I bowed and pressed a tiny, careful kiss to her shoulder.
She slipped away. “I’m hungry, you must answer the door.”
I cracked my knuckles. Let’s get the wheels turning.
I opened the door and over-prepared hotel staff entered the room as if it were sacred ground for an official powwow. The table that seated eight was efficiently set up for two. A beat later, the headwaiter asked, “Is there anything else I can assist you with, sir?”
I smiled and discreetly pushed a fold of hundred-dollar notes into his gesturing hand. “Thank you. I think it’s perfect.”
“Mr. Turner, that’s really very generous of you.” He looked at Elena. “Miss, I wish you a wonderful evening.”
Elena worried her lip, and nodded as if everything made sense now. “Turner. Touché. That’s what I’d figured out.” The left corner of her mouth crooked upward in a devastatingly sexy smile that warmed my insides. “I’ve heard of you.”
“Good things, I trust.” I gnawed at my own lip, feeling its plumpness, wanting it to be Elena’s lower lip. “I believe it isn’t germane to having
dinner, is it, Ariel?” I lobbed the conclusion at her, delivering it with a genuine how’s that relevant? look.
She giggled. “Whatever you say, Eric.”
First thing I did was working on popping the magnum bottle of Armand de Brignac Brut Gold champagne, colloquially called Ace of Spades. And no, I wasn’t going to spray any foam on Elena for dramatic effect. I would have loved to, but that might scare her away from this sit-down affair, don’t you think?
I unwrapped the foil, wrestled out the cork, and started pouring.
“That’s a special cuvée from Cattier, isn’t it?” asked Elena, suspect. She squinted at the gold bottle with pewter labels. “Is it to show off? A kir royale would have sufficed.”
I stiffened, took a step back from the table, and stared at her. It was a simple observation, but a hurtful one at that.
I asked, “What do you think?”
She was silent for a long while. Her silence made me feel unaccountably fretful, I would have loved to know what was going on inside her head. Humored? Intrigued? Titillated? When she spoke again, it was in a low, blank tone. “Whatever. It’s not like I care anyway.”
It is what it is; I was playing with fire. Hence, I almost, almost screamed out, “Fuck you, Elena.” Closing my mouth, I reined in the fury flashing in my eyes as quickly as it came.
“Cat got your tongue, Eric?” Something akin to amusement began playing at the corners of her mouth.
Mercifully, my tone was gentle, tentative, “Why’d you say that, sweetheart?”
“Just like that…,” her voice broke while telling me off.
Not much of a bone. If only she belonged to me, I would have been proud of the move she’d made. “I’m not showing off. I felt like doing something different for a change.”
“It looks great.”
“Proof is in the pudding.” I picked up a flute and held out my hand. “Go ahead, make the toast.”
Pursing her lips, she nodded. “Proost!”
I already knew the answer, but still asked, “Do you speak Dutch?”
“Ja, meneer.”
I lifted my flute a few inches higher. “But concretely, what do we drink to?”
“To girls being tied up by incriminating perverts.” She touched her flute to mine and brought it to her lips.
I smiled, despite being offended by her response.
Nitpicking went out the door, her rudeness came out in full force. “I presume the gold bottle is supposed to bring out the subtle notes of the pale yellowish-orange tinted liquid?”
I was practically breathing fire, ready to spank the living shit out of her.
“Subtle notes?” I managed to tease, feeling shitty and lost, “you mean to say you can taste the different color notes in the champagne?”
“But of course, my good man. Only the most refined palates in the world can taste the color notes in champagne.”
“I got it, sweetheart. You don’t like the gold bottle. Sit. Let’s eat.”
Silent treatment in tact, we sat beside one another, askew enough to face each other. Taking her cue from me, she tucked into the caviar. The irony, instead of me on her she was having caviar on a silver spoon.
“It’s all really good,” she offered after a while.
There was nothing useful I could add to that observation, so I remained silent and gave her a disingenuous smile. Way to keep it together. Being confronted with the fact that I had little dating experience unsettled me. Even pat lines would be better than this silence.
Another long moment went by. I took a bite of pasta and thought more about what she’d said about me showing off. I kept repeating a mantra in my head: I’d waited twelve years for this moment, so fuck no, it wasn’t about showing off. Though, to strike a balance, however lax, it would have been wiser of me to choose the standard size opaque metallic bottle of Blanc de Blancs.
Elena dove in forkfirst, continued talking. “What are you thinking about?”
I flashed my teeth in a quick smile without meeting her eyes and contemplated for a moment, prodding the food on my plate with the modern-designed silverware. I tacked on with far more confidence than I possessed, “Bolognese pasta reminds me of Busua, a resort I stayed at while visiting Ghana. The European Commission finances the road to it, and a local businessman invited a British couple I’m friends with, and me. A bulk of my weekend was spent eating spaghetti alla bolognese.”
“Did you visit the Elmina Castle?”
I stopped myself, feigned, “Funny you should ask. Have you been there?”
“Nuh-uh. My grandparents and I have an agreement, I watch documentaries with them and they watch sitcoms with me. Necessary evil, yuck. I keep telling them to watch more cable.”
An awkward silence followed that was, on my behalf, born out of caution, not knowing what to do, and not being on the same page with her. I was the first one to finish eating. Waited for Elena to place her cutlery in the 4:20 position before asking, “Are you done with dinner?”
Beaming at me, she got to her feet wordlessly.
I topped off our flutes, trading the barren wasteland for the living room.
“I’m sorry I said something stupid earlier, Mr. Turner,” I heard out of the blue. “I shouldn’t have made a stink about the bottle in the first place. It’s just…the evening seems very special. I got uncomfortable.”
I was struck with equal parts of relief and gratitude. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Am I a good cook? How was dinner?” she quipped rather playfully now. She reached for my hand and pulled it to her, urging me to talk more.
“Delicious.” I looked into her eyes. “And if there’s any dessert, I think I could manage to devour it in seconds.”
She stroked her belly and smiled mischievously. “Don’t eat too much of the sweets, darling. You’ll never be model-thin.” Her deep, catlike purr slipped and curled itself against me.
Jesus Christ, she was such an adorable thing. This was more than I could bear; I was starting to melt the way plastic reacts to fire. Only now I began realizing that translating fantasy into fact would be tricky. Over the past years, the closest I’d come to spending time with her was at a masquerade ball six years ago, and I hadn’t kissed her. In my muddied fantasy, she was a simple vessel that looked and sounded like the girl sitting in front of me. I’d failed to consider that in the flesh things would be different. Intimate. Magnified. I also realized that in the flesh she was what any dominant man dreamt of possessing.
Besides revisiting priorities, I had but one thing to do. “Promise you’re done with the agency, Ariel.”
She raised an eyebrow, a ghost of a smile appearing on her lips. “I’m done, after tonight.”
“Hey, if I contacted them, saying you bungled this assignment, would that muck up your pay? I could lay it on thick about your behavior. You were rude to me.”
“You wouldn’t do that, would you?” she pleaded with a face that had surely gotten her out of the two speeding tickets she’d managed to dodge.
“I won’t, babe. Not if you answer my questions.”
“You’re evil.”
I inclined my head and shrugged. “You’ve no idea.”
“What kind of questions?”
“The usual back-and-forth. I’d like to get to know you.”
“My favorite color is red and my favorite movie is Forrest Gump. There. Done?”
“Not quite. Top Chef or Iron Chef?”
“They’re very different shows, you know?”
“I know. This is why I’d like to know which one you prefer watching. Does the concept of amateur chefs participating in a TV reality show entice you more than the concept of professional chefs battling it out?”
“Top Chef is my favorite. I like Iron Chef, too, it’s a good quickie for a TV dinner night.”
“Now that we’re on the subject of quickies, I haven’t gotten laid—,”
“Mr. Turner, you’re such a pervert,” she cut me off. “Edward Lewis was classier.�
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“Fine, fine, I’ll behave. Red Sox, Patriots, or Celtics?”
“Bruins.”
I gave her a frank look, then my shoulders rose in a shrug. “You’re not serious.”
“The ice-skating makes it sexy. And they look so pink and cuddly in those outfits, perfect teddy bears. Don’t you want to hug them?”
“You are a vision, babe. Prettiest puck bunny. I want to hug you.”
“Derailing again, aren’t we?”
“Alan Shore or Denny Crane?”
“Both.”
“You must pick one.”
“That’s unfair! You can’t separate them.”
“Those are my rules.”
“Uh…okay…Denny…guns and babes, right?”
“Yeah,” I told her with a knowing nod. “Star Trek or Star Wars?”
“Ha! Stargate SG-1. Me. Fan. Jack’s great and Daniel’s hot.”
“Good one,” I agreed levelly. “Favorite movie scene?”
“The masquerade ball in Eyes Wide Shut.”
“Masquerade ball, you say? That begs another question, have you ever been to one?”
She shifted her eyes, nodding the tiniest of nods.
“How’d you like it? It wasn’t an unimaginatively themed orgy, was it?”
Lowering her spaced-out gaze, her chin sank even deeper into her chest as she spoke. “Not an orgy, definitely not an orgy. It was perfect.” The words came out in a rushed mixture of excitement and embarrassment. “My friend—Sara, whose father received an official invitation, dragged me along to a mansion in Dover. Some pharmaceutical company’s genius boss was celebrating something unimportant.”
“Give me the deets. Did you meet anyone interesting?”
She shook her head slowly, as if underwater.
“Liar. You’re not good at it, babe,” I patronized, tapping her cheek.
She snorted, a lovely little sound.
Did she remember our dance? Your guess is as good as mine when it comes to that. “Don’t be a spoilsport, tell me.”
The corners of her mouth twitched, almost as if she was pushing back a smile. And then she let it drift off.
“Why are you still single, Ariel?” I pressed on.
