Shades Of Obsession

by JR King

  A smile cut across my face as I watched Carina sleep. Her naked body was lean and defined, probably from hours of physical exercise under the watchful eye of a personal trainer, her skin smooth as a baby’s butt. This might come as a surprise to you; I hadn’t come over to fuck her to get back at Nolan.

  Stepping softly on the tongue-and-groove oak flooring of the hallway, I went downstairs and loitered in the lushness of the living room. I didn’t bother to turn on the lights, just stood before the windows spanning across the back wall, staring out into the garden and the screened-in pool. I opened one of the doors to the outside, inhaled the cooler air and let it go. My silhouette was reflected in the ripples from the pool and I saw it staring back at me.

  I don’t know how long I stood there, but when Carina appeared, the cold touch of her engagement ring’s band on my wrist sent goosebumps up my arm. “Why didn’t you wake me up?” She was wearing a Vera Wang crinkle chiffon robe, curled her arms around my waist and pushed her face into my chest with a cute, mewling noise.

  “Carina, I’m sorry. Having you under my thumb to use you against Nolan was distasteful.”

  She gasped and turned her face up to look at me. I stared back at her. She tiptoed to kiss my cheek, her robe splitting open a little as her arms twined around my neck. “Please don’t mention any of this again. The indebtedness of what you’ve shown me is unpayable.”

  That lifted the worst of my fear. No longer of two minds, my hands ran down her body, cupping her breast, stroking her side. I clutched her behind and hauled her up against me to kiss her mouth—hard. The brutal insistence of the kiss, the unrepeatable rhythm, the vulgarity of her spired nipples poking me, it all wetted my appetite for sex. I kissed her with testosterone-laden passion, her tongue fluttered artfully and my tongue probed ungentlemanly.

  You know what happened next. That’s right, I left.

  I wasn’t inclined, but on a few rare occasions, I did the right thing.

  Elena Anderson

  The Only Choice

  Remaining silent, I shot Sara a kind look of appreciation for footing the bill. “Are you jealous, El?” she persisted.

  The snarky question she delivered was intended to get me to say something, but speechlessness had taken hold of me. A barista dished out meaningless platitudes. Sara went on to order for herself a designer cappuccino and for me a tall coffee, and a cream doughnut to share between us.

  Someone who had neglected the use of deodorant stank up the queue. A man shifted in his seat and the chair squeaked against the floor. A woman upended her coin purse, and the plinking sound was the one that snapped me out of my reverie, the walloping revelation still fighting to register into my mind. Gucci leather cage ankle boots on bamboo floors, I stood still for another brief moment, blinked, and tried to move my weak legs. In embarrassing glory, I tottered to the end of the counter.

  “Next,” a hipster barista with an unruly crop of black hair announced in a surprisingly strong voice. She must have been high on caffeine.

  “Here you go.” Another barista put down Sara’s cappuccino rather haphazardly, and the frothy milk spilled down the sides of the venti and seeped into the cardboard sleeve. Seriously? If I were the manager of this establishment, this type of sloppy coffee presentation would have earned the employee a sacking. In addition, her eyes were blackly circled like eyes of a raccoon.

  “We’ll surely meet Alexander Turner, can you imagine that? I’ll ask Michael to add you as my plus one to the Christmas Party guest list.”

  “I don’t think I’d be comfortable with that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Okay,” I replied thoughtfully, pushing back the revolt deep into the recesses of my stomach. “Okay. But tell me how Michael got the job.” It came out whinier, needier than I’d intended.

  “You know him. With Frederic and his brother running the family company, he wants to make his own name in the private sector. Michael plays squash with Tony Elliot, who introduced him to Alexander and his lawyer for a double game. Good old system of jobs for the boys. Why do you ask?”

  I hesitated. The alarm bells I’d suppressed thus far were now jangling loud and clear. “Just curious. I’m really happy for you both.”

  “Wait…wait. This rich guy you had dinner with, it wasn’t Alexander, was it? Because that would be weird.”

  I was unable to smother the laugh, and gave a, “Oh, that’s easy,” rejoinder. Knowing full well how asinine the idea of lying to Sara was, I didn’t finish.

  “Before I forget.” She punched out her favorite contact with an expensively manicured finger. The line must have gone dead or to voicemail, because her brow furrowed, her dark eyelashes that curled appealingly at the tips fluttering twice as much.

  I gave her a conspiratorial wink, tossed out with a semi-contralto voice, “You win some, you lose some. High rollers are busy.”

  Her eyes ran over my face. “I’m ecstatic, but also hamstrung…,” her voice trailed off.

  “Because a CFO position is contingent upon a heavier workload,” I finished for her.

  “The sex…isn’t what it used to be.” She picked at the lid on her coffee cup, looking at it like it held all the answers. Her eyes swept back to mine and she laughed bitterly. “I’m sorry to dampen the mood. This was killing me.”

  “It occurs to me that he’s had pressure at work.”

  “We need holidays,” she continued heatedly, as if that would fix everything. “Bahamas. Maui.”

  I glanced at the time on my phone. “Look, I’ve got to head back to work. Tell me more at dinner.” I got up, fastened my gabardine trench coat, and put my bag over my shoulder.

  She said, “I’ll walk with you.”

  The cool breeze teasing and playing with my hair, I munched away on my half of the confection as Sara and I rounded a corner. We drifted down the sidewalk, crunching leaves below our feet. I felt my bag vibrate while we crossed the street and gave the middle finger to a taxi that ran through the red light. I fished out my iPhone when we arrived safely at the other end. Glanced skyward as I gave it some thought.

  I answered after an additional two rings of Mitchell’s private line. “Hello?”

  “Elena.”

  I put the phone closer to my ear. “Hey, hi.”

  “You’re outdoors, from the sound of the wind against the phone.”

  “I’m having coffee with a friend.”

  “I’m a jealous person, baby.”

  “It’s a she. Still jealous?”

  “That depends. May I watch?” His voice was evident with pleasure.

  “Scoundrel!”

  “Dinner tonight?”

  “That ship just sailed away. I’m having dinner with Sara.”

  “After dinner drinks, in that case. I can’t stop thinking—,”

  “Going through a tunnel. Caaan’t…hear…you. Be there in ten,” I terminated the call, totally cutting him off.

  “Is that how you banter with Frederic?”

  The inapt remark caused me to squint. “I’ve never given you a reason to believe I bantered with Frederic.”

  “I’m a little stressed. We’ll talk tonight.”

  Sara wasn’t interested in a career. She volunteered at the Museum of Fine Arts, and enjoyed being a homemaker. For dinner that night she’d made authentic Spanish paella.

  “You’re like an old spinster, the nun type. Or a distraught widow,” Mitchell hissed through the phone.

  “I’m not. I just don’t want to have drinks.”

  “That’s exactly what you’re like!”

  “Thank you for your diagnosis, but you’re wrong. I’m quite insatiable,” I joked. “Salty-tongued lovers galore.”

  “Prove it. Have a drink with me.”

  “You’re begging. It’s unbecoming.”

  “I’m not begging—I’m hoping you’ll change your mind. You live in a fantasy. You’re waiting for some prince charming to come find you. Stop waiting. He’s not going to come. I’m here, a
nd I won’t take no for an answer.”

  “I’m not waiting for anyone! Drinks at ten, asshole!” I hung up and spun around to face Sara. I only had another thirty minutes left before I had to meet Mitchell, and I still had no clue why she’d been crying.

  “True. Definitely not Frederic,” she said.

  “No, just this guy from work.” I gave her my finest compassionate smile. “What’s going on with you?” I cornered her, dropping back on the sofa.

  We were silent for a few minutes. She opened her mouth, then closed it again, and stared at me. I studied the coffee table. Eventually, I couldn’t take it any longer. “Did Michael mess up, or was it you?”

  “Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans,” she sighed, rubbing her face. “There are always signs, El. Answers that make you speculate, gestures that drop clues. How convenient that he has a new job, and it seems to be tied to the New York office.”

  It was baffling and more than a bit annoying to hear this.

  I expected her to cry, but what happened instead was a hug.

  “Sara, I’m sure Alexander isn’t a total monster. He’ll understand that you guys want to live in Boston.”

  She sat up against the arm of the sofa, her knees folded up to her chest. Because Sara was usually loud and confident, seeing her sad and subdued was unnerving in a novel way. Terrifying, even.

  “And what if he’s cheating on me?”

  I shook my head and raised my eyebrows, the picture of friendly reassurance. “He isn’t. He wouldn’t. Focus on the bird in the hand, Michael loves you.”

  *

  Even with the Mini’s heater turned up high, the cold pricked and pawed at my skin during the drive home. I pulled into the driveway at 7:30 PM, as I had more or less every working day for the last week. Working as a high-level associate to a prominent investment banker had its pitfalls and plus points.

  I switched off the driving lights. Opening the car door felt like stepping into a walk-in fridge. Shivers rattled my teeth, iciness settling deep into my bones. The house, as usual, was quiet, and warm compared to outside.

  “Hello?” I called. There was no answer. My grandparents were most likely in the den upstairs.

  I walked into the kitchen and dropped my messenger bag onto the kitchen island that took up most of the center’s space. I looked out the window, beyond it was a granite patio that led into a wide, groomed lawn, manicured trees dotted about. I couldn’t wait to laze on a wicker chaise longue and soak up the summer sun. I wasn’t pale like an albino ghost, I was lucky I had mixed genes.

  The big station clock that grandma bought at some charity auction ticked solemnly as I opened the refrigerator and took out a bottle of Sancerre. I half-filled an oversized wine glass and then greedily swallowed the buttery, slightly icy liquid. As I closed the stainless steel refrigerator door, I heard footsteps coming down the hallway.

  “El?”

  “Honey, I’m home,” I crooned in falsetto.

  “There you are, Lucy,” said grandpa, spreading his arms wide open for a hug.

  I stepped into his arms and enveloped him with my own. “How is she?”

  “Full of energy today. We cooked together. May the good Lord bless Michael for getting her the best care.”

  “May he bless Tony Elliot for opening the largest center for cancer treatment as well.”

  “A package arrived for you. Theresa put it in your bedroom.”

  Package? I nodded warily. Feeling all sorts of strange feelings rush up in my body, I swallowed hard. Could it be?

  “Kiddo, is it from a…boyfriend?”

  I muffled a giggle. “Must be work. DHL, UPS, or FedEx?”

  “Private hire made the pilgrimage.”

  I began decorticating fresh pistachios, guzzling a few before grandpa smuggled them away with that compelling grin of his.

  “The Rawlings’ have a grandson. He’s your age.”

  “True enough—Mark Rawlings. I saw him when I walked out of Mass.”

  “Should I invite them over?”

  I shooed him away with a flick of the wrist. “Am not interested, gramps.”

  “One of these days, you must bring home a nice young man.” He gave me a look of warning and swatted my hand. “I want to see grandkids.”

  I bamboozled him with a quick, engaging grin. “One of these days.”

  He flicked his eyes to the hallway. “Go get changed, little lady. What did you have for lunch?”

  “Fried lemon infused salt and pepper squid.”

  “Fried?” The look of disgust on his face seemed like I’d just told him I ate spam toast.

  Darkness bloomed over the city. The wine was still cool, but a little chalkier now. I finished it and placed the glass in the dishwasher, then ran upstairs and stripped myself naked. Got dressed for dinner, and after it I stepped into the shower and turned the temperature as high as I could bear. I washed my body thoroughly, a sense of washing away the glacial remnants and the putrid smells of the city. As I moisturized myself in front of the full-length mirrored wardrobe, I checked my skin for signs of dry patches. There were none, making me sigh with relief. After rubbing, massaging Kiehl’s soymilk and honey whipped body butter into my skin, I wrapped myself in a soft silk kimono and sat down on the edge of my bed. I toweled my hair. A while later, I reached out for the package placed in the middle. I couldn’t fathom why someone would send me a personal packet at home. Could it be…from him?

  Opening it, I felt a thrilling anticipation, alike opening presents on Christmas Day. Ripples coursed down my spine. Inside, there was a Notre Dame lithograph swaddled in red velvet cloth, the contrast in colors on the canvas startling. I knew Mitchell had sent it. Once the disappointment died down a bit, my eyes flicked to the personal note, written crisply in black ink against the stark white of the companion card. The neat cursive read: Voilà Notre Dame. I kept my end of the bargain. I’ll be back tomorrow. I need to see you, not just fuck you, do you understand?

  I ran a single fingertip along the note. It was silky smooth, soothing, warm. Warmer than it ought to be. I kept stroking it, relishing its warmth, feeling it getting warmer, if anything. Though the sudden bloom of warmth within me might have been deceiving my perceptions, Mitchell was the perfect contender. Alexander had long since forgotten me, hadn’t he? I couldn’t seem to shake off the image of him living in a bell jar with swimsuit models.

  Feeling foolishly sentimental, I put the tips of my fingers to my lips and brushed them against the lithograph, transferring the kiss. “You win, Mitchell.”

  While having drinks at The Ritz-Carlton last week, Mitchell and I had had a lengthy discussion about Paris. The Seine, the Arc de Triomphe, the Place de la Concorde that beheld the Luxor Obelisk and its fountains—standing right where a guillotine had beheaded a King and 1300 other people during the Reign of Terror—and, not to forget, the Champs-Élysées. Mitchell told me he’d bribe me with gelato to admire the Haussmannian architecture and enjoy the tranquility of the Jardin du Luxembourg, and I told him I’d bribe him with kisses if we went to high-end shopping districts and the Louvre. We’d also bickered about the Palais Bourbon and the Assemblée Nationale, which apparently were on his bucket list. The compromise: he’d accompany me to the Musée de l’Orangerie and I would clown around the Tuileries garden and Champs-Élysées garden with him…

  Blood started pounding in my ears. My face blanched, and I suddenly felt sick. I lay still for a short time before finding the strength to get up, and then, to run. I sprinted toward the bathroom, flung the door open and rushed to the water closet.

  A long moment later, I raised my head to contemplate what’d just happened. There was much dimness in the full spectrum of grey that sparkled at the edge of my vision. Another wave of vomit made me retch again, emptying my stomach that was in knots some more.

  I looked at myself in the small beaded edge framed mirror and saw my red eyes and tousled hair. “It’s okay,” I reassured myself. “It’s
okay, it’s only food poisoning. I can still hold food down.”

  Elena Anderson

  The First Date

  Friday came. The day of my date with Mitchell. An app on my iPhone activated the countdown. The traffic was light, facilitating the drive, but I also began second-guessing myself.

  I’d left work early to prepare myself. I could have clocked out at seven o’clock as usual, but the lack of pressing work and the butterflies flitting about my stomach prompted me to call it a day. I took extra care with my grooming, all the while reminding myself that it didn’t matter, it’s not like I was going to sleep with Mitchell. The Anne Klein dress I chose was sleek and formal, a black strapless dress in layered silk, with a matching blazer and pumps. I knew it made the most of what little cleavage I had without being overtly, or obscenely, flirtatious. I chose a Donna Karan coat to go with the outfit.

  In the bath, and without making any special efforts for the date, I made sure I was still epilated smooth everywhere. When I finished, I toweled off and attended to my nails. While waiting for the freshly painted toenails to dry, I filed and buffed my fingernails to a high sheen and admired them. For a moment, visions of scratching Alexander as he untied me came to my mind. Shaking away the memory, I reached for my nail clippers and carefully cut each fingernail down to fingertip level, using the emery board again to smooth the edges until there was no sharpness left. Nude nail polish was a huge fall trend, and it looked less provocative than flashy colors. I appreciated that.

  Primping and preening in front of the mirror, I let out a strangled bark of frustration. I tugged at the hem of my skirt and straightened the dress. I was alert and anxious. It wasn’t really the prospect of going on a date that made me relent. It should have been, I needed to socialize more, but it wasn’t. What finally prompted me to dress up, slap on a little more makeup than usual, and coil my hair in the perfect bun was remembering the kindness in Mitchell’s eyes. I always loved a good puzzle. I was curious as to what a man like him could want from me, besides going to bed with me. And, I wanted to know if the sex would be any good.