I threaded my way between the tables and silver wine buckets and glanced at the food. Despite the coke, I was starving. Boots had secured a booth back in the corner. She and I used to hang out here occasionally and we often wound up in the back. I felt awkward sliding onto my bench but managed it without meeting her eyes. I mumbled my apologies and looked at her. She was wearing a midnight blue cape with matching gloves. Her hair hung straight down and was held close to her head with a gypsy cloth wrapped around her forehead. She looked like Amalfi’s felt; same place but very different. “You look terrific. I’m surprised the other place let you in.”
“I haven’t been anywhere else tonight.”
I felt my forehead scrunch. “I thought you had a date?”
“I lied.” Her eyes sparkled. I felt a dime short, a step slow. She smiled and said, “At least you showed up. Is that why you picked Amalfi’s? To make up for the last time?”
For a moment I didn’t know what she was talking about, then it registered. I had been pretty erratic during the time we spent together. Especially about time. I was always late, sometimes outrageously so. Occasionally I didn’t show at all. I was always contrite, she was usually forgiving. What I had forgotten was the last time I didn’t show we were supposed to meet at Amalfi’s. She wasn’t unforgiving; we just never saw each other again.
I remembered the night. I was in the process of renovating the building and we were going to meet for late-night drinks. On the way over I sat down on the stoop by the Arch and watched the street begin its nighttime undulations. Every twenty minutes or so I’d think about leaving, but something held me to the spot. I didn’t want to talk about Boots’ civilized world. I wanted to watch the street’s primitive, sweaty transactions. It was remarkable—I had completely repressed the memory, but still chose Amalfi’s for tonight. It was the kind of thing I would tell Dr. James—if I still had a Dr. James.
“I had forgotten.”
For a moment she looked annoyed but it quickly passed. “The sad part of it all is that I believe you.”
“I remember now.” I tried to smile but it wouldn’t work.
The waitress came by and I wanted to ask her to join us. Instead I ordered Amalfi’s version of the seven-dollar hamburger, and a Bass. Boots ordered the exact same thing, then turned her attention to her hands. The way she stripped off her gloves turned me on despite my embarrassment. I changed my mind about the waitress.
The interruption eased the tension between us. I lit a cigarette. She sat back in her seat and put her feet between my legs on my bench.
“I’m glad you remember now.”
“When we talked on the phone after that miss you said you understood.”
“At the time we both said a lot of things that seem different now.” She waved her arm toward the rest of the room. “Look,” she challenged, “we’re at Amalfi’s again; does it seem the same? Do I?”
The food arrived quickly and tasted like it. I lost my appetite, but Boots tunneled into her plate and barely came up for air. When she finished I wondered whether she was going to ask for mine. Instead, she put her feet back up, this time without shoes. I knew because one of her feet rested on the inside of my thigh. She rummaged through an oversized bag and withdrew a pack of cigarettes.
I leaned forward to light our cigarettes. When I did, her foot pressed against my crotch. I felt myself get hard and nervous at the same time. “I didn’t think you smoked.”
“I don’t,” she said and inhaled deeply. She kept her foot where it was.
“Why do I keep thinking that you’re fucking with my head?” But I didn’t ask her to move.
She looked directly at me. “You keep thinking it’s a couple of years ago. It’s not.” She moved her foot back to my leg. “Even you are different.”
I was spared hearing how while the table was cleared and coffee poured. I took the opportunity to go to the john and snort more coke. When I returned I found Boots had removed her bandana, her hair falling loosely around her head. I slid back into the booth and drank some coffee.
The snow was starting to work its way to the back of my throat when she lit another cigarette and asked, “Did you use up the last of the coke in the bathroom?”
“No,” I paused, “just a little.” We both laughed.
She signaled for the waitress. “We better leave before it’s all gone.”
“Fine.” I finished the rest of my coffee, then stood by the side of the booth and watched her slip into her shoes. I wondered what she was wearing under her cape and felt a rush of desire. Maybe it was the coke or the length of time since I last had sex, but the intensity of feeling was unlike anything I’d felt for Boots before, or ever imagined I would.
She grabbed my arm and aimed us toward the exit. Walking through Amalfi’s that wasn’t really Amalfi’s with Boots who didn’t seem like Boots was the answer to the Firesign Theater’s question: “How can you be in two places at once when you’re not anywhere at all?” I was glad to get out the door.
Once outside I looked at her with less desire and more jumpiness. “Where to?”
She took my hand and silently headed toward Symphony Hall. We walked all the way up Mass Ave. to Commonwealth, then strolled in the direction of the Gardens. When we passed 290 I had the uneasy feeling that Dr. James was at her office window. I repressed a desire to peek but carefully looked around the area. All I saw was a Friday night.
Boots’ voice interrupted my concentration. “What’s the matter? All of a sudden you seemed to disappear.”
“It showed?”
“Not very much.” A hint of a smile flashed across her face. “At least I hope not. I like to think I can see you more clearly than most.”
We were off the block and the fantasy of being watched receded with it. “I just got distracted for a moment. I’m working on something back there, that’s all.”
Boots kept her steady pace. The humidity had, if possible, increased, and our joined hands felt bathed in a warm salt sea of sweat. “Fran told me that she saw you at her doctor’s building. Were you working then?”
I dropped her hand and shrugged. I almost asked whether Fran was pregnant but I didn’t really want to work tonight. “What’s the difference?”
“Working as a detective gives you an excuse not to talk?”
I grinned. “No, it just gives me something to do. I’d take your hand but I don’t know where we’re going.”
“We’re going to bed.”
“I don’t remember you as this forward.”
“You still can’t get out of the past. I change. Even your work changed. You’re not just a social worker anymore.”
“Just a social worker? Your nose is starting to tilt again. Some things don’t change, huh?”
She didn’t say anything until we turned down Exeter toward the river. “I live here now. Don’t say it; it goes with my nose, right?”
I didn’t say it.
We walked to Back Street, turned right and continued silently to the rear of a tall modern building squeezed between the traditional brownstones. At the service door she pulled a plastic card out of her bag and stuck it in a slot. The door clicked and opened, and we went inside. I stood at the back of the service elevator and sweated while she pushed the uppermost button. Halfway up the row of floor markers I wondered why we came through the back, but before I had a chance to ask, the doors opened. Boots led us through a spacious corridor painted a handsome gray with pale lavender accents. We stopped in front of a doorway with no handle, knob, or number—just a box of lettered squares to push. Something like this would give Julie fits.
The door opened with pneumatic ease. I followed Boots inside and was stunned by the panorama spread out before me. The entire wall facing the river was glass, extending a third of the way across the side walls like a pair of wrap-around sunglasses. For a moment, standing there with the city’s light pouring in from the right, I felt like an explorer with a sea of flickering jewels at my feet.
“This is gorgeous.”
“Not too rich for your blood?”
I grinned and looked at the minimalist furnishings in the room. “Maybe too high for my vertigo.”
She pointed to a cabinet in the kitchen alcove. “The liquor is in there. Why don’t you find something for us to drink. I’ll be right back.”
She went through another door on the right while I dug through the bottles to find bourbon for me and wine for her. I was about to pour her wine when she returned and said, “I’ll drink what you’re drinking.” I didn’t remember her as a liquor drinker. I poured the bourbon and walked over to the unrolled futon where Boots was sitting. I put the drinks on the low glass table in front of the mattress.
The zipper on her cape was lower and it was clear that she was wearing only a black slip underneath. She smiled and said, “I couldn’t count on your saving any so I got some more.” I pulled out the little bottle in my pocket and put it down between her open legs alongside the flat rectangular piece of glass she was chopping on.
“See, everyone changes. Two years ago there wouldn’t be a chance that you’d have any left.”
“Don’t be so idealistic, doll, I haven’t had the time.”
She looked up at me and fingered the zipper on her cape. “Two years ago you wouldn’t have had the time for anything else.” Her hands played with her zipper. In the old days sex had been more friendly than hot. I told myself to believe in her theory of change. That was then.
I waited and watched as she finished spreading the coke into four ripe lines. When she finished she positioned herself on her knees and swiveled gently until she sat with her feet tucked under. As she leaned forward to snort the dope with a metal straw I looked down the front of her cape at the swell of her breasts. As usual, the minute I finished my lines and put the tool down, I wanted more.
Before I had a chance to say anything she reached for her drink, took a long swallow, and put the glass back down. I felt the hairs on my legs grow damp and it wasn’t the humidity.
She lifted her arms and stretched. With one movement she stood—I watched the muscles on her legs tighten and release—then she walked over to the console of buttons by the door, and pushed one. The light in the room, already dim, disappeared entirely and we were suddenly awash in a kaleidoscope of urban night sky. The bare walls became screens upon which the city lights danced with patternless abandon. Boots moved softly around the room as neither of us spoke. She unzipped the cape, let it drop, and turned to face the river. She was framed in the graffiti of light and shadow as she ran her hands down the front of her slip. I began to unbutton my shirt.
“No,” she said, “let it be.” She walked to the futon, dropped to her knees, and pressed my hands against the front of her face. She drew my hands down and licked where they crossed her mouth, then she dragged my hands across her chest and belly. She began to unbutton my shirt and scrape her teeth along my chest. I could feel the coke hit the back of my throat as my skin came alive wherever she touched. She was pulling the tails of my shirt out of my pants when I said, “I need a cigarette.” She nodded but kept her face pressed up against my belly.
I reached over her head to the table and fished for my cigarettes and lighter. While I fumbled, Boots rubbed her face against my pants and began to undo them. I stayed still until she had them open, then I sat back down and lit the cigarette. She got up and brought back a couple of oversized pillows and an ashtray. I finished taking off my pants and sat yoga-legged, smoking.
“I was going to do that,” she said. “Give me a cigarette.”
I lit another smoke and passed it to her. She put the pillows behind her and leaned her back and head against them. She put her feet on the front of my legs and spread her knees. She wasn’t wearing any underpants and even in the shadowdance of light her pubic hair glistened with dampness. I felt myself harden as she watched me look at her.
I reached into my pants pocket for the joints, lit one, and turned to pass it. She was lying on the pillow with her legs spread, caressing herself. Her eyes were open, looking directly at me. I offered her the marijuana but she shook her head and kept rubbing. She put both her feet on my legs while I smoked and watched. I took a couple more hits of the dope then put it in the ashtray next to my burned out cigarette.
When I stretched out beside her she kept her hands where they were but turned her face toward me. I pulled her head next to mine and began to kiss her. My fingers ran lightly over her body until they rested on the hand that was moving between her legs. Squeezing her upper thighs, she pressed both our hands hard into her wetness.
I slid my body down toward her feet, while she lifted her buttocks and pulled her slip off. I tongued the brownish pink sides of her lower lips while she cupped her breasts. Her eyes were closed and she had her fingers around her nipples, pinching them. Hard. The sight sent a surge of excitement through me and, as I lowered my head, I had to restrain myself from biting. I felt her body shift, and suddenly her hands were pulling at the hair on the back of my head.
She ground her groin into my face and hissed, “Harder, dammit, harder.” Her hands pulled my hair until I was looking right at her. Her mouth was drawn wide across her face and through clenched teeth she said, “Fuck me, Matt, fuck me!” I moved up her body and slid inside.
Her hands were back on her breasts, pulling at her nipples. I was both excited and angry; part of me felt like a dildo. I closed my eyes and concentrated on moving rhythmically but suddenly her hands were pummeling me on my back.
“Stop holding back, you bastard!” I opened my eyes in surprise; there was genuine hostility in her voice. “You pick Amalfi’s and now you pretend to be sweet and gentle.” I felt my own anger grow but tried to push it away. “I’m not interested in your phony niceness, you prick. Just fuck me. You don’t have to bullshit, I’m not your dead wife.”
I slapped her across the face. Almost instantly I felt her shudder. She gritted her teeth and looked at me triumphantly. I hit her again, her words still ringing in my ears. She wound her legs around me, pushing me in deeper and trapping me. I tried to peel her off and felt her whole body twist with excitement underneath me.
The walls in the room were diving at me. I pushed her shoulders into the mattress, broke her grip on my back, and pulled out to keep from coming. Her hand was back at her breast. It made me angrier. I bit hard into her other nipple. I heard her groan and felt her clench her legs. She scratched at my face with her hand. I yanked my head away and grabbed her around the throat.
I crawled up her body until I was hunched over her chest. She lifted her head but I pushed her down. I didn’t want to be blown; I wanted to fuck her face. I stabbed at her mouth. We stayed like that for awhile, me angry and humping, sweat flying off both of us. Then she jammed her finger in my ass and I instinctively tried to pull away, but she felt me move and sucked harder and dug her finger in deeper.
I saw myself raise my hand and ball my fingers into a fist. She saw it too and loosened her mouth but there was no fear in her eyes. I pulled my dick from her mouth and twisted away from her finger. I forced her onto her stomach as she reached back and struck at my face with her fists, trying to claw me with her nails. Part of me was sorry that she missed. I teased her vagina from the rear and listened to her moan. It only made me harder. She got up on her knees and tried to back into me, but I pushed her flat on her belly and pulled her legs wide apart. I spit in my hand, wet my cock, and pushed inside her small opening. She was biting on the pillow by her face. I closed my eyes and pushed in deeper. The inside of her ass seemed to open just ahead of me. I heard her crying and I opened my eyes. She was on her elbows looking back at me. Her eyes were streaming and the light spun off her tears and our sweat, and her hair spun wildly in the carnival of strobe lights. Her body was trembling and coming and shaking, and her mouth opened and she spat, “Who’s slumming now?” as I exploded inside her.
There was more. More coke. More sex. Little talk. The night was filled with shadows t
hat played along the walls in a dance of clawing hands and hungry mouths and aching genitals. All of my violence drove me to mount her again, or suck her again, or just cling to her and rub a soft and empty dick against her. Boots matched me need for need, hate for hate. By the time the walls began to look plain and unadorned, but before the morning light completely canceled the nighttime’s trail, I discovered why we had used the service route. The boyfriend who paid for this place wouldn’t like the concierge laughing behind his back.
I left the building depleted and depressed. The images of hitting, hating and loving it, choked me. The morning was unseasonably hot, but my perspiration was cold and clammy. I stayed inside the Emerald Necklace and ran panic-stricken with a pounding heart and sick stomach. Finally I was there. I stood and panted and felt my body shake with fatigue. But it was all right now. I was in my alley. I was home.
The rest of the weekend passed in a walking nightmare. Awake, I was sick with myself as images of my misogyny burned across my eyes. Asleep, I loathed everyone else. I would sit on my bed sweating and shaking, but with rage, not fear. Then shock, when faces of those whose spirits I tortured and murdered flooded my initial wakefulness. There were no sacred cows. Not even my dead wife. My stomach would turn with shame, humiliation, and guilt, then the whole cycle would repeat. Julius’s Friday morning lecture sang like Muzak, awake and asleep.
By Sunday night my upheaval slowed enough for me to think as well as ride. It was sad and ironic; Boots wasn’t one of my dream victims. I couldn’t allow myself the idleness of the damned, I had to face her and face her honestly. And not just her. I had too much spinning to pull an ostrich now. Julie had been pretty accurate. Although I might not have to do it all, I sure had to do a fuck of a lot more than I was accustomed to. Only I wasn’t going to do it the way I did Friday night. Out of control, to people who didn’t deserve it.
The Complete Matt Jacob Series Page 15
