Maybe he’d be in far-flung Asia, exotic spices, red and gold, technology and population and tradition compressed together into a powder keg of potential, about to blast its way into a new future. And she’d be, say, in a European city of filigreed gold inlay and curling architecture, thousands of years of progress in a different direction. How could they find each other in the midst of the rubble and noise of their lives?
It wasn’t so strange, then, to come together for a brief moment. She just had to be careful to guard her heart, so when he left, he didn’t rip it apart.
* * *
“Cleo?” Laska waved her hand. “Mini stroke or deep concentration?” It was late afternoon in their favorite coffee shop, and the lazy Sunday atmosphere matched the broad beams of light that intersected from various windows, lighting up motes of dust and making the scent of coffee seem more pungent. Cleo, thinking of Axel’s stern face and his smile, his hand and her ass, was lost in the undulating spangles of light and shadow that played out on their table, courtesy of the maple tree outside the café.
“Some doctor you are,” complained Cleo, giving her friend a smile. “I thought that was covered in basic training 101.” She touched her lip.
Laska smiled, then it faded. “Sorry! I thought it would be funnier.” She sighed. “Someone I care about, a long-term patient, had a stroke. I thought joking about disease would make it easier to bear.”
“Did it work?” Cleo patted her friend’s hand.
“No.” Laska shook her head. “No.” She sighed again and wrapped both hands around her mug.
“I’m sorry. Were you close?” Cleo lowered her voice, even though a grinder tore up the air with a sudden surge of power, sucking in all the ambient sounds, then spitting them back out a second later.
“Yeah. I mean, as close as you can be to a patient.” Laska nodded, her brown eyes glossy.
Cleo knew that Laska was a different kind of doctor than most. People flocked to her, like birds to a child with a magical flute. Her warmth and accessibility made her a favorite in the community, and her bedside manner got people raving about her and travelling for an hour, taking three busses sometimes, to have her as their primary care physician.
“It’s hard to say goodbye,” Laska mused. “She’s not dead, but she’s not alive, not the same way she was. The part of her that made her, her? It’s gone. She’s not inside her eyes, anymore. It’s—God, it’s the kind of thing you never get used to.”
Cleo shuddered. “I could never be a doctor,” she said immediately. “Could never have been, I guess. I couldn’t deal with death all the time, and sickness.” She sipped her coffee rapidly, fingers a little unsteady, and put the mug down hard. “You have to make the most of life, then. Maybe you know that more than other people. Maybe that’s the gift you get even in the middle of something sad.”
Laska’s voice, although not testy, held a note of defiance. “What I know more than anyone is the frailty of life. The utter hopelessness, sometimes. The fact that even though we’re so advanced, there are things we know nothing about. Diseases so small you can’t see them, and yet they’re more powerful than our most advanced armies. That’s what I know.”
“Laska? You okay?” Cleo leaned in, concerned. “You sound so sad today. What’s—is something going on besides your patient?”
“What’s going on is that I think I might be headed for a divorce,” Laska said, looking at her coffee.
“What?” Cleo was unable to process. “But just a day ago, you were telling me how you and Derek are kinky! How it’s fun! And trusting. And getting Thai food! And—why? Why would you get a divorce?”
“I don’t know. We didn’t say it, or anything. And yeah, the sex is good. It’s just—he’s never happy, Cleo. He’s fucking never happy. He’s stressed, he works too many hours, he gets annoyed and irritable over stupid things, and then when I call him on it we argue and it escalates into an ugly fight. Then, you know, we apologize and things are good for a week. Then the cycle starts again. And it’s exhausting.”
She wiped her face. “And he’s not sympathetic about my patients. He never wants to hear about stuff like the patient I mentioned. Her name is Irene. I need to get it out, and he says he can’t hear it. I can’t deal with that! He talks all the time about his patients in the cardiac unit, blah blah fuckin blah, and I listen. About their surgeries, and their prognoses, and everything. Okay? I listen and I console and I care. And then when I need something? He’s not there.”
“I’m so sorry.” Cleo had no advice. She wanted to give some, wanted to help, wanted to pour out words in case they could heal this gash in Laska’s life. But all she had was sympathy. “I’m sorry.”
“Me too.” Laska gave her a tremulous smile.
“You know, you can talk to me about Irene, or other patients, any time you want. I mean, if you get into too much scary medical stuff I might need a Xanax. Not gonna lie, that stuff makes me squicky inside. But I will do it for you. Okay? Seriously.” She took Laska’s hand in hers. “I’m here.”
“I know. Thanks.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“I don’t know what I’m going to do. I’m going to go to work, I guess, is what I’m going to do. And then I’m going to go home, and then tomorrow I’ll get up for work again. And right now, Cleo, God, right now? Doing the stupid set design artwork is the only little bright spot in my life. Is that pathetic? Here I am, a doctor, a woman, a wife, and the only thing that makes me smile is painting shit for a play with people who—have more metal in their nose and ears than in my whole stupid fucking Volvo. I hate that car. Derek picked it.” A second later she added, “I don’t hate nose rings. I’m just saying, it’s not my usual social circle. Fuck.”
“But do you still love him?”
Laska shrugged. “I don’t feel like I even know him anymore, not really. We have sex, we have dinner, and that’s about it. And yeah, lately the sex has gotten phenomenal. But it’s like we’re both working really hard at that, because we know the rest of us is broken. And good sex alone doesn’t make a good life. And I’m pissed at him for thinking it can, or does. Fuck. I can’t remember the last time he asked about my day and was genuinely interested to hear the answer. Not, God, I have to pretend to listen while subtly checking my watch because I need to get shit done, but real, honest, I care about this woman and I want to know what her day was like. I miss that.”
“Well, what do you think would help? I mean, talking? Counselling?” Cleo’s voice trailed off. “I had no idea. You seemed, seem, so happy, all the time.”
“I want to be happy.” Laska wiped her eye. “So I act like it. But acting isn’t enough. It needs to be the real thing now.”
“Yeah.” Cleo nodded. Acting was never enough.
“Just being here for me is a help.” Laska smiled, a tremulous smile. “I don’t want to give up on him. I mean, I don’t really want a divorce. It’s just, I was thinking last night. If what we have is so hollow, then what’s even the point? You know?” She shook her head. “I only hope that he wants the old us back, too. Otherwise, I just don’t know what will happen.”
“I hope…” Cleo didn’t know what to say.
But Laska understood. “Me too.” She reached out and squeezed Cleo’s hand. “Me too.”
Chapter Twelve
“Okay, everyone! Let’s take an hour for lunch, then meet back here at 1:30 sharp.”
“There’s no time to waste, Cleo. My office, please.” He pointed.
Cleo’s heart skipped a beat. “Sure,” she said, trying to sound casual.
“Get out the blocking instructions for the last scene because I want to review some changes with you that I’m making,” Axel added.
“Okay.” Cleo kept her voice neutral as she headed backstage. Laska and the scene set people weren’t here today; the design work was mostly done now and they didn’t come for all of the rehearsals. But the theater felt fuller, not emptier; the anticipation and eager enthusiasm of the
cast made the vast hall swell with life.
A few people cast curious glances at her, but lost interest, all except for Chelsea. The blonde gave her a long, meaningful stare, ending with a nose wrinkle as she turned her head.
“Whatever, bitch,” Cleo murmured under her breath. “Fuck you too. Bitch.”
Chelsea had been surly from the first time they met. Her monosyllabic responses, raised eyebrows, crossed arms, and lack of eye contact let Cleo know that she was disliked. Later, Cleo found out that Chelsea had expected to get the lead role and was pissed that Axel had brought Cleo—a less experienced actor—in for a last-minute audition.
She understood; probably would have felt jealousy herself in the same situation, but fuck. What was she supposed to do? Give Chelsea the part? “Oh, Chelsea, I’m so sorry I made you sad. My bad! Let’s just switch roles. I’ll be the shitty understudy, and you be the lead. Happy now? Can I wipe your ass too, with my tongue, maybe?” God. What did the woman expect?
She’d tried to reach out, asking Chelsea to talk over coffee, trying to engage her in discussions about the role, even offering—something she wasn’t sure was a good idea—to let her do an extra two performances out of the entire set they had planned. She felt like that was a thoughtful and generous offer, but Chelsea gave her a scornful scowl.
“Thanks for your scraps, Cleo,” she’d joked, after Cleo told her she had Axel’s approval to offer the extra nights. “You’re such a Mother Teresa.” She giggled, like she was being super cute and funny, but her eyes were cold behind her smile. Of course, she took the days. And she was sweet as fucking stevia extract to Axel, although he didn’t seem the least bit interested in her. Anyway, surely Chelsea with her ironed khakis and perfectly pressed blouses, her lipstick that stayed on for twelve hours, couldn’t be into something as messy and crazy as kink.
She was pretty, though. And determined. “Axel, should I stay to do the blocking, too, with Cleo? Since I’m doing the performances as well?” Chelsea put a hand on his arm.
“Not this time.” Axel’s voice was pleasant but firm. “I’ll work it out with Cleo, then have her show it to you at next rehearsal. Thanks.”
“I just think it would be easier if we did it together.”
“Noted, but this time I’ll work alone with Cleo. I’ll see you after lunch.”
The dismissal in his tone was evident, and although Chelsea gave him a sweet smile, the look she shot at Cleo was full of venom.
Cleo frowned as she walked back to Axel’s office, but after she got a few feet into the maze of passageways she forgot all about Chelsea and focused instead on what was coming. Was he going to spank her and fuck her in his office, like he’d promised? She felt a surge of moisture between her legs at the thought. She touched her ass reflexively—was she ready for another spanking like the first? It had hurt. But she’d loved it, and loved the sting it left behind.
She sucked in her breath when she got to his office, because on the side table next to the couch was a plain manila envelope with her name on it, and a lumpy item inside. Next to the envelope was a tube of aloe lotion.
When she ripped open the envelope, her heart hammered: It was a hairbrush. Long and thick, made of wood, with a broad, wide base, it looked almost too big to brush hair. And, of course, it wasn’t going to be for her hair… she could tell, because the note said: “I liked your idea about being naked on my desk, hands and knees, waiting for me. I’ll be here in five minutes. Make sure the brush is right beside you.”
She gave a small squeak of dismay and desire. No! She couldn’t! What if—what if someone came down the hallway and entered his office? I mean, it wasn’t locked. Anyone could come by to talk or ask for help, with a question. God! There was no way she could get up there naked and point her pussy to the doorway.
She flushed just thinking about it.
But then, she remembered how he was careful of her at the meeting with Monica; how he’d listened for steps, pulled her down in time to avoid being seen.
It was risky, though. If he was out there right now, and not back here, what if someone came in during the meantime? Fuck.
Of course, she didn’t have to do a thing. She could walk out of the office, say, “I’m going to Salad King, see you in an hour,” and let the whole thing go. And then, later on, it would be a new time, a new situation. They’d fuck, if they wanted. He wouldn’t throw away a perfectly good encounter because she called ‘red’ on a dubious office liaison.
But damned if she didn’t want to do exactly what he said. He probably didn’t think she was brave enough to do it. She wanted to see if she was.
She opened his door, peered out; nobody, of course. She closed the door and wiped her sweaty palms on her jeans, checked the hallway one more time. This time she slid out of her shoes and rolled down her jeans, in disbelief at her own daring. It felt strange, undressing in his office, in this semi-public place, like she was doing something wrong: driving the wrong way down a one-way street. At any minute she’d wake up into reality and stop, turn back, put her pants back on.
As she thought about this she took off her shirt, then paused. The next step, taking off her bra and panties, involved more courage. At this point she was still technically clothed, with even more on than some people wore to the beach. Sure, not traditional garb for the backstage area, but hell, she could say she was going to try on her costume or something, if a person happened to come in. But if she took the next step and got naked in a compromising position, there was no way she could convince anyone that this was anything other than hot, dirty sex with her and Axel.
As if in a dream, she removed her bra, and then decided maybe the panties would stay. She’d pull them up though, tight between her ass cheeks, and really give him a good show. He’d see that and go insane with desire, she hoped.
His desk was kind of cluttered. Working quickly, she gathered the papers together into a sloppy pile, evened the edges by tapping them on the desk, and placed them onto the nearby bookshelf. Pens, on the shelf. Coffee cups, carefully into the trash can, careful not to spill the half-full one, not that it mattered, probably. She laughed and took a deep breath to calm her nerves and her hands, which felt a little shaky.
When there was a large empty space on the wooden desk top, she clambered up easily, feeling nimble, sort of like a gymnast mounting a beam. Seriously, she should get some points for the way she pushed up with both feet, bracing with her arms on the table, gracefully got one knee up, then pulled up the rest of her body, making it look (she was pretty sure) painless and easy.
She got onto hands and knees, wincing briefly at the hard wood on the skin of her knees. “Ow,” she whispered, adjusting her legs so the skin would not pull when she leaned forward. Hopefully it would be worth it when Axel saw her and rewarded her for her ingenuity and initiative.
She reached back and tugged her panties so they rode higher up her ass crack, then pulled at the front, so the fabric pulled into her pussy. It was a little uncomfortable, but also sexy, feeling the pressure. When she wiggled her body, the fabric pulled taut against her clit. She imagined that if Axel took more than a few minutes to arrive, she’d already be hot and ready for him… which was probably part of the plan.
Lance had never created a plan.
She didn’t want her ex in her head, but there he was, in faded images, like a 1980s Ken doll with perfectly sculpted hair. If somewhat unimaginative, he had been pleasant and generous in bed, letting her come first, asking politely if she wanted to go for number two. Sometimes when they got started, it took her a while to get warmed up, and this seemed to disappoint Lance. He’d touch her, find she wasn’t that wet. “Oh… you’re not turned on yet,” he’d say, his voice even, but a trace of judgment implicit in the fact that he said anything at all. Of course he’d ask, “What do you need me to do?” While she appreciated his willingness to do what it took, she sometimes got pissed at him for not knowing, or not trying to guess.
But that wasn’t fair. Lance
had never been the kind of guy who demanded, “Take off your panties and get on the bed,” and she’d never been the kind of girl who thought she wanted or needed that kind of play to get turned on. If he never offered? Well, she’d never asked, or suggested, or honestly even dreamed about it while they were together.
Sex was just… sex. Pretty good, acceptable, something she tried not to think about too much. She was working on her career, and if things weren’t too exotic in the bedroom, wasn’t that just the stuff of romance novels and Hollywood, anyway? She had a good guy, a good thing going, and she’d be an idiot to break it off just because things weren’t porno quality every night. Or ever.
They’d split abruptly, when Lance had come to her with worry in his face. He’d met someone. He wasn’t going to cheat, but he knew—it was over with him and Cleo. She moved on fast, surprised at how easy it was, how little she missed him in her life, her arms. And what made her uncomfortable was that orgasms without Lance, now, the ones she gave herself, were better than the ones from him. Now that was sort of sad.
But enough about Lance. She’d rather daydream about Axel… and the orgasms from him, the ones that made her believe, at the pinnacle of pleasure, in every God that ever existed or would exist. She could barely wait for him to arrive, touch her, spank her. She moaned a little, alone in the room, and shifted her hips.
The realization hit her: This was what she needed, what she’d always needed—time to prepare and think sexy thoughts. If sex was in her mind, as it was for many women, she should be taking advantage of that, treating it like a feature, not a flaw.
Her arousal grew with each second that passed on that hard table, the lights burning down onto her body, the silence of the room pressing into her like an embrace. She twisted her hips from time to time, enjoying the pull and tug of the cloth against her body, allowing herself to slowly get turned on to the point where she was starting to really feel it, when she heard a short knock on the door.
His Firm Direction Page 14
