Shades Of Obsession

by JR King

  Elena Anderson

  The Inevitable Breakup

  Darkness bloomed over the city. I briefly talked to Mitchell on the phone, my hand quivering with excitement as I pressed the iPhone against my ear. He’d be home around 9 PM. The long day weighed on me, but I still wanted to serve a home cooked meal at dinner. His favorite dish was set in stone; baked beans. My secret ingredient was hiding caramelized bits of bacon within the layers of the Le Creuset cocotte. While browning the bacon in a skillet, I turned the oven on and chopped up some onions. I hummed to myself as I stirred the bacon bits. Being grandpa’s protégée aside, I cooked for its own sake. It calmed me down, maybe because the task called for discipline, it’s methodical, and at the end I was left satisfied.

  Soon after I’d placed the casserole in the oven, the aroma of roasting pinto beans filled the kitchen. I pranced about, wiping the counters clean and stocking leftovers in Mitchell’s Sub-Zero. Putting the finishing touches to dinner, my pessimism intenerated.

  What if Alexander hadn’t lied?

  After a quick shower, I slipped into an amethyst Marc Bouwer draped dress with a pleated, crossover neckline ending at the beaded waist. Mitchell came home as expected. Lovely devil’s grin on a sinner’s face, I expected a kiss but received his gimlet gaze.

  “I have a very special treat for you,” I began. “How was your flight?”

  “Marcia messed up, I had no town car waiting for me,” he snorted softly, his voice tinged with disapproval. “This Haitian or Ghanaian cabbie got on my nerves, inept and talkative. The last fucking thing I want when I get off an Airbus from Shanghai is a taxi driver who doesn’t know Boston from a hole in the ground!”

  I gave him a shady grin. “Guess what I scrounged up for dinner?”

  “You.” His eyes danced, and he looked like a young man, mischievous and happy. It endeared him to me all the more.

  “Behave, Mitchell.”

  From the mischievous smile, he now looked positively annoyed. “You want me to behave? What about you?”

  Defeat hung around me like a cloud. “It was a short lunch. Nothing else. I don’t want to have words with you about it.” Threatening tears perched precariously on my lower lids.

  He glared at me, irate. “A lunch? A goddamn whore is what it sounds like!” He hurled this with so much venom that I flinched. “Women don’t just lunch with men like Turner. You’re nothing but a whore!” His rough intonation made the labeling sound earnest; if he’d have called me a filthy cunt he could hardly sound more hateful.

  No one had ever blatantly and repeatedly spoken to me like that, and now, I just couldn’t think of a smart retort as the words sank in.

  “Why was your phone switched off yesterday? I called you ten times in an hour!”

  “I haven’t known that,” I answered passively. “Battery went dead.”

  “Why’d you do a one-eighty?”

  “Work stuff,” I lied feebly.

  “Turner will never sign with Cross Investments, his pension pot is a fucking nuclear bomb. You were saying?”

  “Can’t talk about work.” Too proud to admit just how panicked I was, my voice rose a little.

  “Be that as it may, permit me to outline that you knew it was risky business.”

  “What do you expect? To keep me barefoot and pregnant?” This was the most false bravado I’d felt tonight.

  Mitchell looked baffled. Not to the point to have swallowed his tongue, though. “I don’t know whether to fuck you, beat you, or piss on you,” he rasped, spittle flying from his lips and onto my cheek. “Go on, you may serve dinner.”

  Even if his disciplinarian tone was plain rude, I did as asked. The room sat in perfect silence as we ate, thoughts rattling around in the back of my head. Mitchell hadn’t said a word. He always commented about the greasiness of the pork, whether or not it’d made the bean casserole moist.

  Then, all of a sudden his head turned inquisitively at me. “Did he fuck you backstage?”

  My heart cut a caper, thighs trembling so badly they tapped together of their own volition. Shit. I mocked my despair, “Splitting hairs? How’s Anna? When did you see her last?”

  “She’s a consultant, Elena. Paths cross.”

  Feeling his eyes burning through my flesh, I couldn’t take it anymore. “Well, that changes everything, doesn’t it?” I exploded.

  I didn’t finish dinner. Mostly, I found Mitchell’s self-possession seductive, but now it disgusted me. I was in pieces, and he remained insultingly standoffish. You see, I knew the telltale signs of an inevitable breakup were blaringly obvious, I just chose to disregard them.

  Hands flat on the bathroom countertop, I stared at myself in the bathroom mirror. Lit by the thick gleam of vanity lamps, my eyes appeared almost evil in their obvious intent. Instead of reaching for the drug, I reached for a makeup removal cloth and scrubbed my face clean, making a pink mess of my face. Tears had left my eyes rimmed with a little red, and stupidity aged me well beyond my years. After a call of nature and a douche, I plopped down on the bed and logged on to rape the Horde. I drifted out of consciousness an hour later. During a midnight bathroom visit, I realized Mitchell never came to bed. I trundled down the main hallway, which was long and dark, a stripe of yellow light coming off the ground glaring at the end. From the threshold of the study, I marveled at Mitchell. Lazed up in his office chair, one arm tossed crookedly over his head, the other one draped precariously across his pectorals.

  “Come to bed, Mitchell.”

  Cracking his eyes open, he started massaging his neck. “Fuck. What time is it?”

  Stepping closer, I held out my hand. “Late. Come.”

  “Be right there.” He started typing with smashing fervor. In seconds I bridged the gap of ignorance between us to straddle his lap. He shifted but accommodated me. It was neat; he was caught up in the business of creation, so I made myself busy with the business of seduction.

  “I see the devil finds work for idle hands.” His attention stayed fixed on the screen, fingers typing as swift as an arrow.

  I swept my hair back and pressed my face to his throat. “Mmh.”

  His chest expanded, and through the thinness of his white T-shirt I felt his muscles ripple. He held me up by the waist and sauntered to the bedroom. All he wanted was his release, all he wanted was to work out his anger on me. To me it felt as if he thrust forward with all his might. It was easy to give in, to go soft and pliant and try to enjoy myself. Fifteen minutes later, his face was all red. I stared back at him while he throbbed against me, his cock still inside me.

  “I’m sorry,” I mumbled with a grim half-smile.

  I waited. It took him half an age to wave off my apology. “Was it a date?”

  I knitted my eyebrows to stifle my anxiety. “Definitely not a date.” It was a miracle that my voice came out as steady as it was.

  *

  With the dawn barely broken outside, the bedroom was still full of shadows. Usually on workdays, I hit the ground running. Today I felt like an empty sack. I couldn’t fully remember my latest nightmare, but it’d left my body overheated and sticky.

  I didn’t wait for the water to heat up, I closed my eyes and stepped into the spray, clenching my teeth as ice-like needles of water bombarded me. While I lathered, gently washing away the stress-triggered sweat I’d woken up in, my thoughts drifted to Mitchell. His schedule was increasingly at odds with mine, he had emotionally distanced himself from me, the frequency of our arguments had increased and the physical intimacy had dropped to an all-time low. Most of all, I had completely stopped caring altogether. You know it’s over the moment you realize you rather fake the orgasm than work on achieving it with your significant other.

  Torrents of rain blanketed the windows. I made shirred eggs for breakfast, and by then my typical case of denial had evaporated. A sneaking suspicion told me that Alexander hadn’t lied to my face. A breakup was on the cards. Mitchell looked laidback and relaxed in a white button-down shirt and bl
ack boxer shorts, his hair still damp from the shower, a small smile on his face.

  I asked, “What’s going on with Anna?”

  “She’s pregnant,” he answered through a mouthful of toast, almost giving me an aneurysm. He took a swallow of his coffee and set down the cup noisily on the saucer. “First trimester.”

  At a loss for words, I tugged painfully at a few strands of my hair. “Is it yours?”

  “Likely.” His huffed answer sounded like pebbles clattering allover the tiled floor. He looked glum, no trace of scorching passion in his eyes. “We hadn’t met—,”

  “Don’t even think about saying it. I respect your past, Mitchell. I don’t like being kept in the dark.”

  As he got angrier than I’d ever seen him, his face turned red. “Want to reform? Look at yourself first. Wine and dine for sixty-nine, that’s what you did with Turner in the Ebersol suite. Must have been memorable if he wanted an encore.”

  Bouts of bullying never detracted my spirit, but I’d had enough. At least Alexander was solicitous. I remembered the dead bird. It looked grey and lifeless, its feathers matted down, its feet stiff in the air, its beady eye staring into nothingness. “I’m done, Mitchell.”

  “You hardly touched anything.” His laugh was like a seal’s bark. “Are you having breakfast with that Viagra-popping dirtbag before going to the office?”

  I, too, laughed, but somewhere on the inside. My face remained untouched. “It’s over between us.”

  “You fucking whore.” His lips pressed together into a grim line. “You’re fucking him, aren’t you?” His voice was taut, thrumming with unconcealed rage and, also a trace of disgust.

  “Stop calling me a whore, Mitchell. There’s no need for ugliness.” I didn’t dare touching him because he had turned cold, staring at the kitchen cupboards, his eyes hiding his thoughts. It was the first time I sensed him far away, as though I was his enemy.

  I turned away, and he drew my face up to his, petting my cheek. “I fucked up, didn’t I?” He had this wry look on his face, like he doubted himself.

  I forced my hand up to cup his cheek. He actually flinched at my touch. “I fucked up too, Mitchell. Some people just aren’t meant to be. You should be there for Anna.”

  His face softened, and he gave me a little smile, almost apologetic, his bright eyes creasing at the corners. “I’m hoping it’s mine. Is that a bad thing?”

  I shook my head mutinously. “It isn’t.” With effort, I offered him a curt nod of respect. “Thank you for everything, Mitchell.”

  “Don’t go. I can make this work.”

  “But I can’t.”

  Wild horses couldn’t bring me about to stay in this relationship. I was a broken person myself, hardly able to fix me. The last thing I wanted, or needed, was a man that wanted to be fixed, or worse; he expected me to fix him.

  Elena Anderson

  The Rebound Guy

  There was a smell of roasting chestnuts in the air. After I got back home, I took down the vermeil framed lithograph, my last tie to Mitchell.

  Letting my weight carry me down to a crouch, I propped myself up on elbows and went through a thick slur of breathless cries. It quickly degenerated into a crying fit when I shuttered my eyes. Facing a haze of misery, I felt sick. That overpowering kind of sick that extreme dread engenders. It was without locus. I let it take over until I was clutching at the lip of the toilet and ridding myself of all the food I’d consumed at breakfast. For some inexplicable reason, it felt like I was purging my soul. The bitterness of failure that festered within me was gone, at least for the time being. I washed my face of any remnants and looked at my reflection in the mirror. No more. No more falling for wrong guys.

  I took a shower and dressed for work. I couldn’t bring myself up to throw together a nice outfit; I’d lost my enthusiasm. I put on a pair of Ralph Lauren skinny ankle pants and a Tory Burch cardigan. I scraped my hair together and plaited it in a loose braid, then went to the get a glass of ice water.

  “Hit a snag, kiddo?” Grandpa rested his hand on my shoulder. I stiffened. He leaned down and—with his lips close to my ear—spoke quietly. “You left the boy. It’s okay.”

  I exhaled slowly and quietly so he wouldn’t see I’d been holding it, but he knew.

  He jarred against me, sliming with a honeyed voice. “Will you go get yourself a man now? The man?”

  I halfheartedly smiled and tilted the highball, looking at the melting cubes from my ice water. “I need to be alone, gramps. Need to figure out what else I want to do with my life.”

  “You’re not leaving this house, are you? I know we can be intrusive, but we mean well.”

  “I can afford a studio now—expensive one,” I revealed with a soupçon of conceit. “I don’t like being alone.”

  Before going to the office I stopped by Mike’s Pastry for biscotti and cannoli. Since the penis-shaped pastry feast, Frederic and I made a point of doing something like elevenses twice a week. The main conference room was breathtaking: floor-to-ceiling windows looking out on midtown Boston, a polished mahogany table that seated twenty, a travertine sit-down area, and state-of-the-art, cutting-edge technology for presentations. My fingers, which were busy removing the iconic blue-and-white pastry box from a reusable cloth bag with handles, stopped. I wished I wasn’t wearing a simple outfit; the set of grey eyes that flitted over it seemed to laugh. It was the kind of grayness in which lust swam and virtues drowned. The face had features of the artistry of a sculptor, and the smirk dominating them made me wish I had a chisel so I could ruin it all. There he sat on the chesterfield sofa, exchanging witty repartee with Frederic, encroaching on my personal space again. Literally, Alexander was sitting in my spot.

  I caught my breath and held it in for a moment, so I could calmly control my voice again. “Good morning, Fred.” I was sure Frederic couldn’t see the worry that wrinkled my forehead.

  “Elenahhh! Look whom I ran into at the Harvard Club.” High-pitched and squeaky, Frederic’s laughter bent toward being hysterical.

  I glanced at Alexander, a small smile curving his lips. He watched me, pensively, as if studying a little insect under a laser microscope. It wasn’t polite to stare like he did at me. Seconds passed before he answered, a hint of intrigue in his voice, “Droll, isn’t it, Elena? Frederic told me something about an elevenses practice? Brilliant, really, I couldn’t have thought of something more appropriate at this hour.”

  Fearing my annoyance was written across my face, I tried, “Brilliant, yes, let ‘em eat cake,” and resumed unpacking the sweets.

  He walked over to me and, without warning or hesitation, kissed my temple. “Good girl.” Warmth blossomed in my chest and jolts of pleasure snapped down my spine, fizzling out in my toes.

  “Please don’t do that again.” My voice was broken and breathy. He pulled away with a strange smile as I pressed the button on the Jura coffeemaker.

  Frederic poured sparkling water and I arranged slices of Boston brown bread on a serving tray while Alexander watched us going about our sacred routine. It felt as though his presence slowed the torrent of thoughts whirling in my mind, his unrelenting gaze robbing my body of the oxygen necessary to go on. To quench the desert in my mouth, I glugged down a huge swallow of my espresso, still being careful. It was a time-consuming crawl to grasp the niggling feeling I had in my belly; harassment or not, I hungered for his touch.

  My nails scoured the armrest of the overstuffed single seater while I was trying to repress flagrant, teeth-sucking lust. I rolled my eyes, hoping Alexander wouldn’t notice, but when I looked at him, I knew he’d seen it.

  Frederic was doodling on his iPad. “Gotta call him. This is some big shit. BRB.” The only sound in the deafening silence was the thud of a door closing.

  Alexander began, “Good, you’re single again.”

  I found my breath imprisoned in my throat when our eyes connected.

  “Nice tits, babe. Can’t wait to suck on them.”

 
In response, I glanced down the line of my body, and instantly got reminded that the cups of my brassiere were diaphanous. When I got dressed earlier, unlike most mornings, I was chasing the clock. In my effort to claw back vital minutes I’d lost, I absently reached into the drawer that held all of my bras and pulled out the first one that came to hand. With hardening nipples clearly visible through the scantiness of the lace cups, I regretted my actions.

  “Say something. Hit me. Make me bleed, cara. I’ll savor what I can get.” The rasp of his voice grated over me like sandpaper.

  “Stalker. Creep. Pervert. But not a liar.”

  “You don’t say.” He laughed with a syrupy growl that wasn’t shy of lust.

  I staggered to my feet. “I’ve got work to do. Have a pastry.”

  “Wait.” He walked up to me. Trying to gain distance, I took a step back. I couldn’t see him, but I felt his eyes boring into the side of my face while he decreased the gap. I tried to keep my face away.

  He wouldn’t allow it. A fist tightened around my hair and forced me to look at him. “All the legwork for what? Sweetheart, you should be getting pampered and pleasured,” he said, his voice warm and husky.

  Anger seeped into mine. “Jesus, you’re an obtuse, obstinate—,”

  “Bastard? Yes, my dear, I know,” he spat at the ceiling in a kind of wondering way. Then he stooped and breathed against my neck. “Immature caprices never sit well with me. You’ll be obedient to my orders and conformable to my directions.”

  “I don’t have time for this. I’ve put an important meeting on hold to see Frederic.”

  “An associate isn’t indispensable.”

  Try to picture the rich amusement in my voice as I slipped away. “Whatevs.”

  Of course he followed me, entering my office sans invitation. He remained silent and stood lounged against the hull of the windowsill rimmed with fluted rosette casing like a high-end model, not moving an inch while I stumbled through files. His snooping eyes and his authoritarian demeanor making me more nervous by the second, I tried my best not to trip over my own feet.