Shades Of Obsession

by JR King

  “Richer than Michael?” Sara looked at me, goggle-eyed. “Pot of gold at the end of the rainbow? Who?” A throw pillow flew past my head. I narrowly managed to avoid it as it whizzed past my ear and hit the wall behind me. “Happenstance or intentional?”

  “Richer than Michael. Don’t be pushy, I’m not going to say his name.”

  “Whoa!” Her eyes popped, a malicious twist settling at the corner of her mouth. “As you can appreciate, I’m mint green with envy because he’s tall.”

  I laughed at her non sequitur, watching her cornflower blue eyes roll.

  “FWB or a mainline fuck buddy? Fucktastic? Well hung?” she rattled.

  “None of that. Don’t be icky. He was the perfect, salt-of-the-earth gentleman. Neat as a pin.”

  “Should I posit he’s impotent? Fits the stately pattern. Many rich men suffer from performance anxiety. Women set the bar high these days; we’re independent and less googly-eyed by wealth. His name?”

  “Blech. Suit yourself.”

  “I always do.” She rolled up her sleeves in an excruciatingly slow manner then grabbed the bottle of Krug Brut. She twisted the cork free and poured herself a glass, taking a noisy swill of it when the foam settled down.

  I had to react dramatically. “Oh no you don’t! Uncultured swine!”

  Tucked in between papasan cushions, we sat seiza-style on the floor, passing on different types of flatbreads.

  Listening to her, I dipped some onion bread in the red curry.

  “Alas, highbrow men like that keep tight tabs on their girls.” She miscarried her smile, in all probability caused by the sharp taste of the curry. The muscles stretched out in uneven lines that ruined the curl at the corners of her mouth, and a lank strand of blonde hair obscured her right eye view. “Don’t trip up, someone’s prolly watching and wiretapping you to backchannel particulars.”

  I almost giggled with a mouthful of champagne, so I covered my mouth. “I don’t think I’m a project. That would be a case of stalking.”

  “Everyone needs a project, especially people with big brains. There are men above the law in this city. One-percenters.”

  Had it been any other girl telling me this—say Maria, for instance—I would have been prone to disagree. There we sat, all cozy-like, my best friend begging to be clued in on my mysterious rencontre. Grinning, I wondered what Alexander was doing right this instant.

  Sara reached for the naan, and I watched as she scooped up some yellow curry and neatly put it into her mouth. I watched her chew. She was probably one of the few people in the world who I could stand to watch eat for hours. So neat and surgical, she never spilled a drop. Sara bested me by far. She was very pretty, in her early-twenties, full of energy that I could never posses. Strawberry blonde hair, unblemished olive skin, deep blue eyes. A no-nonsense type who flirted more easily than I did, which says a lot. She was so captivating that sometimes I stared at her in awe, wondering how I was so lucky to be friends with her—how she could stomach a cold person like me.

  I went in for a rich bite of my own, which wasn’t nearly as elegant in comparison. “Just a passing fancy, Sara.” I sounded far from convincing.

  “Don’t be like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “A self-deprecating smitten kitten. Takes a friend to tell it like it is.”

  My pride fractured, a yowl of choked misery rose up my throat. “Am I that bad of a liar?”

  She steepled her fingers, forearms resting on the edge of the table. “The worst.”

  “What gives me away?”

  “Your face. It tends to pucker. Dead giveaway.” She went for another bite. Holding a mouthful of bread in mid-chew, she said, “Ow, this doesn’t pull any punches.”

  “He’s asked for taking it slow.” I giggled self-consciously.

  After wiping her hands meticulously, Sara put her serviette down and fished out paper napkins from the delivery bag. “Stop beating your head against the wall. Go for it.” She poked at my solar plexus.

  I rolled my eyes coolly as my cheeks colored at the mention of going for it. Problem is, men like him invited you into their lives with smooth talk, and all the time you were being cherished and swaddled in exclusive love, you knew it was going to hurt when you hit the bottom. A wake-up call would reveal your body lying face first in the polluted landscape of stupidity. What to do?

  My mouth was on fire. Munching on potato stuffed flatbread, I swallowed before replying, “We’ll see as soon as he calls.”

  “Didn’t the Adonis give you his number?”

  Whether it was the heat of the spices or not, I couldn’t say why my mind did a topspin.

  “Did you hear me, El?” She leaned over her place setting.

  I got with the program. “I still have ears, don’t I?” Surviving the taunts and ribbing of girlfriends wasn’t different from appearing in front of a judicial panel. “It was nice of him to make time to have dinner with me, and totally unnecessary.”

  “The best things in life are not free. He’s a troll, you stupid cow. What’d he say? Don’t tell me his famous last words were: I’ll call you.”

  A wave of uncertainty washed over me. Educated, experienced men like Alexander Turner always had a somewhat compelling narrative that served the dual purpose of luring girls in and possessing the perfect excuse for whatever mess they left behind. “Don’t be so dramatic.” I paused only to take a breath. Any longer and Sara could have interceded and prevented me from talking. “It’s not like that.”

  “What’s it like? Wealth blinds, doesn’t it? I should know.”

  I gagged, almost choked on a saucy morsel of chicken. I dabbed at the corners of my mouth with my serviette and wiped my hands. “Thank you for that infinite pearl of wisdom. Up yours.”

  “What the hey, did you just curse?”

  “Did not! Dunno what you’re on about. Maybe your bad manners are rubbing off on me.”

  Rubbing at her nose, she gave a quick shake of the head and flicked the mess of blonde strands off her face. “Got to split fast, Michael’s flying back tonight.”

  We got drunk and teased and laughed until we cried. After she went home, I typed Alexander Turner into Google’s search engine. It pulled up over 20,000,000 results. I slammed the MacBook shut and stood up, trying to pin down why it felt like I’d just committed a felony.

  While the luxurious mother of pearl clamshell Jacuzzi was filling, I got on my knees, doubled over, and emptied the contents of my stomach into the toilet. I waited for a few minutes before a second wave came and I violently retched again.

  That night, I slept fitfully. Here in my old room, at first, I couldn’t see a hand in front of my face. After a couple of blinks it was all right. The damask curtains were fully drawn, so I flicked on the lamp on the nightstand. My room had monumental paneled accent walls, linens were from Sferra, and soaring windows and skylights illumined dramatic loft-like open living spaces. I spent the next moments in a mental fog, trying to analyze what woke me.

  The stomachaches were getting worse.

  Alexander Turner

  The Road to Hell

  The drive home was tiring. Fall weather bullied the city with a series of cold winds that whipped around half-dead yellow and red leaves of the oak and maple trees. Still, over here, autumn was milder and far more sufferable than northern New Hampshire or Maine.

  I passed the same streets I always did, and checked out women whenever the car braked. “Fuck life.” I slapped the steering wheel with an open fist.

  Nothing significant happened, I was watching the same average employees leave their job at earliest convenience, at the same busy intersections I listened to cars honking and, I fixated on the same traffic lights that led me to my upstate neighborhood.

  In the coming days, I learned that Elena was in sad-country. On dad’s orders, I didn’t call her. I’d just left work one fall afternoon when I heard my phone go off. Unknown caller, I read on the dashboard screen. Robert. Probably Elena was of
ficially dating some pimp now. In love?

  “Aleks, regarding one-night-stands, I need to know where you stand.”

  “I don’t want to know.”

  My bed still felt frighteningly empty and cold, and Elena was already getting her brains fucked out. Suddenly I longed for a body to warm up to, my cock wanted a pussy to slide into.

  She was pretty, so I held her hand a little too long, and she gave me a smile when I let go. No wedding band. Not that it would have stopped me. Heck, nothing would have stopped me.

  Because I was on a fishing expedition, I let her table the discussion.

  “What brings you to this dull gathering?” She spoke with a heavy Southern drawl, confidence wafting off her.

  “I had to make a small donation.”

  “You have altruistic obligations?”

  “I’m a proponent of capitalism, so yes.”

  Her laugh was like a cool breeze. “Good for you.”

  “And what brings you to this dodgy place?”

  “Carpe diem. I’m Richard’s sister. The host.”

  Richard was an ass, so I couldn’t charm her with a compliment about him. Business it was: “Do you have dinner plans?”

  “I believe I do now,” she giggled. “You’re not wasting any time, are you?”

  “Not if I can help it.”

  That’s all it took. That and a donation to some fucking charity, a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do to get laid. I’ll give you a bonus, dear one. That’s also all it took to realize my dick wasn’t working properly. Richard’s sister had a metal-meltingly hot body, its machinery ready for function, yet the rigidness of my shaft had decayed. Decrepit old bachelor. It wasn’t a case of whiskey dick. By the time I exited her suite, I felt so unsettled that I started to wonder if I was developing an ulcer.

  Days later, I found myself sicker than I’d ever been in my entire life. The flu like I’d never experienced before, nonstop hot and cold streaks. It was malaria, the fever had wholly ravaged my body and I was close to dying. My wits were scorched, sexual skills atrophied from a malfunctioning cock, just waiting now for the other organs to stop functioning.

  Mostly I rested in bed, counting my last days, texting my friends and even family to announce my demise. Truthfully, the illness was a respite from being cut into pieces, stomped on, sliced sashimi style.

  I kept telling Meredith about my medical condition, but she refused to listen to my excuses. How could malaria be an excuse? Hadn’t she heard about organisms and dormant parasites? I had gotten infected during one of my travels and, the virus had overwintered for months—years in my liver. Man, I was prostrated by an exotic sickness. Bostonian doctors had no clue, most likely because they hadn’t treated many patients with this disease. I had a higher chance of survival were I to be treated in Asia, or Africa. It was too late for any of that now. Malaria. Mumps. Potato. Tomato.

  I could call her. Give her my last confession. Fusty publicists and fathers are absolute pains in the asses, I mused to myself as I scrolled through my address book on my iPhone. Rolling past Elena Anderson, I paused. Even though I was smiling, I was really dying on the inside because all I wanted was to see her pretty face before taking my last breath. But, a slimy fear snuck up on me, suggesting in a snakelike whisper that she might reject me. “Little Elena,” a strangled little gasp leapt from my mouth. Her name tripped off the tongue so easily, didn’t it?

  Convinced that I was going to kick the bucket any day now, I was thinking about work. I swung my legs out from under the comforter and placed my bare feet on the cold floor. I stared out the window at the garden lamps, which illuminated the falling raindrops. Somehow I managed to get my shit together, gathering the fortitude to stand, to wash, to dress. All my good features were scrunched up because of some war going on inside my mind. Unjaded, I wished I were offspringed. No sane person wants to die leaving behind material, it’s pretty stupid to think that that’s an accomplishment.

  I had breakfast, grabbed my wallet, my iPad, and my Gucci briefcase. I did all these mundane tasks that filled everyday life with a smile, but it felt like my heart had stopped beating. My body operated on autopilot.

  “This malaria thing is just a stalking horse! Alex, you’re living in denial!” Meredith and her shrill cry.

  I whistled a sigh. “Am not.”

  “Someone’s got it bad.” Her gruff laugh was a bark, maybe even a happy one. “You’re such a child. Did you pout at me?”

  “Who, me?” I played the fool by giving her a soft laugh. “Did not.”

  “Did too!” She pulled a face at me.

  I removed my jacket, tossing it onto a barstool. I waited for the Quench ice dispenser to eject three cubes, and capped with a double shot of a cask strength whiskey. In an unalterable fashion, I swirled the delicious malt around in the thick sham of the tumbler to unleash the peat of its aroma.

  “Happy hour at eleven, boss?”

  “I’m sure it’s five o’clock somewhere. Faux British elevenses?”

  She grabbed a highball glass embossed with rings. “I love you, boss.” The celery stalk looked so thick that when you lifted it out of the Bloody Mary you’d be in dire need of a refill.

  “Nathan needs capital.”

  “I don’t give a rip.” I splashed more whiskey into my glass, making sure not to slosh any of the precious liquid over the rim of the glass.

  She snapped her fingers in front of my face, “It’s clear as mud. You’ll be laughing all the way to the bank.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  Hot trays kept our meals heated. Armed with a second Bloody Mary, Meredith lifted the dome-like salvers from the platters. Crispy, hot, rustling fries smiled at me. Glistening golden sticks of starch and oil was what I needed to fight off malaria, and these fries looked ideal to accompany a drink. They were light and airy, nowhere near dry, mealy fast-food fries that sucked the oaky moisture from my mouth. I sat down on the highboy barstool, folded open my napkin and carefully laid it over my lap.

  Meredith placed lemon-scented towels in the middle between us.

  First, I scoffed a dozen of fries in seconds, gorging the bits. Then I picked up my cheeseburger, making sure not to squish any of it, and took a huge bite. I savored the meaty juices soaking the warm brioche. Washed it down with another swig of whiskey.

  “Who is she?” Meredith blurted, studying me every bit as intently as I studied her. I wiped my hands and the corners of my mouth before attending to the dabs of juice and ketchup smothered across my cheek. She continued, “I thought the only time I’d be compelled to whack your pretty head would be if you asked me to cook the books.”

  I was already down to half of my cheeseburger, so I paused. “Elena.”

  Meredith leaned back just far enough to fix me with a disbelieving look, one eyebrow quirked. “Is she the one?”

  I blinked at her, raising my eyebrows, summoning up sarcasm despite my watery eyes. “She’s a he. A tranny.”

  That got a laugh out of her. Surprisingly, she’d seen the Derrick Comedy sketch about painful oral sex, and gave me an interpretation. Funny how something so simple can make you smile.

  One glass of whiskey didn’t do jack shit. I hardly worked, and images of sexual acts in various stages of undress interrupted what little I tried to accomplish.

  My desktop intercom beeped around six o’clock, followed by Meredith’s voice projecting from the speaker. “A couple of things, boss.”

  Nathan Cooper was on hold. I picked up the receiver and hit the rapidly blinking button, and listened to him. After I set the receiver back in its cradle, I fucked around with pending projects, had another drink, and at some point I found myself sitting at home, watching old footage of Elena. As if to demonstrate my point, after seeing her cry over me, I had a celebratory drink, danced a little to The Pointer Sisters’ Jump à la Hugh Grant in Love Actually, had a big I’m so sorry, Elena drink, then passed out a short time later. Not to get ahead of myself, but I was on the r
oad to hitting rock bottom, I just didn’t know it yet.

  Alexander Turner

  The Road to Recovery

  The sound of clinking woke me. The room spun nauseatingly as I opened my eyes. Tony stood beside the bed, pouring the contents of a San Pellegrino bottle into a highball that had a painkiller tablet in it.

  “Get out of bed, schlomo. This isn’t how we roll.”

  I wanted to move, but I was too cold and clammy.

  Within the span of two seconds he came closer and slid a firm, muscled arm beneath my neck. For a moment I thought I should bite him, but the arm beneath me pulled me forward faster than I could process thoughts, positioning me.

  He held the glass to my lips and smiled warmly. “Drink up.”

  I drank like a man dying of malaria, tilting my head to let the cool liquid flood my mouth.

  “Well done. Hold on for dear life, buddy.” He put an arm around my back and pulled me to my feet. I stood unsteadily, trying to roll my eyes dramatically, trying to make him understand I had a bad case of malaria.

  “We’re painting the town.” I wanted to jump back underneath the covers, but Tony stood directly in front of my path, blocking my way. “Blood red.”

  I was loath to go out. Bleary-eyed, I beckoned toward the door. “My bedroom, my house, my life, get the fuck out of here!”

  “Friends for life, Alex. By association, this is my house too. Wash up, we’re going to a shindig some Harvard alumni are throwing.”

  “I’m fucking tired, haven’t slept in days.”

  “Aw, you’re stuck in a rutty rut. You know what you need to help you sleep?” He swaggered to the panel for the motorized drapery system and activated it.