by CD Reiss
“Yes.”
“What do you want to say?” he asked.
“Let me come?”
“No. What else?” He slammed into me and ground against me, pushing all the way in, his face by mine, his scent of leather and earth and clean laundry overtaking me. “Why did you shut me out?”
“I’m scared. You scare me.”
He cupped my cheek. “Why?”
The room wasn’t well lit, but I saw the green in his eyes where the lights from the parking lot cut through the window blinds. “You can hurt me, Jonathan. You can do damage.”
He stroked my bottom lip with his thumb. “Your honesty is beautiful.” He pulled out and pushed into me again, jamming himself against my wide-open sex.
“Again, please,” I begged.
He thrust into me again. And again, until I thought I’d explode from the crotch out in a spray of screams. My breath got raspy and hard, my chest hurt with the effort to move air through my body when I wanted to stop breathing completely. He put his hand over my mouth and took me fast and hard. I came, crying out into his palm. He put his chest to mine, his cheek against my face, and with a long groan, he filled me, jerking and rocking. I felt his warm breath on my neck, his hand sliding down my sweat-coated face, whispering my name. We leaned against each other for a minute, breathing together, until he kissed my cheek.
“You’re staying with me tonight, at least,” he said softly.
“Why?”
He kissed my mouth again and said, “Your house and your car need to be swept for cameras. I can’t let you go back there until it’s clean.”
“What if whoever put that there was really after you? How do you know your house isn’t full of cameras?”
“It’s getting checked right now.”
We kissed as he pulled out of me. He let my legs down. I was still short of breath, still sensitive between my thighs. My lips hurt where his late-day scruff had rubbed me, and my spine ached from being pushed into a brick wall. As usual, I felt as if I’d been beaten near death with a fuckstick.
Jonathan kneeled before me and helped me get my lacy underpants back on, kissing a trail up my leg. When he’d straightened my dress, he kissed me.
“We have to talk,” I said.
“About Jessica. What did she say?”
“About that, and—”
There was a loud knock on the door. The handle jiggled. “Monica,” Rhee called, “you in there?”
“Yes.”
“Bernie’s here.” Bernie was the guy who played after me.
“Out in a second.”
I hoisted my bag. Jonathan ran his fingers through his hair and took it from me. We got outside into the crisp, autumn night. The valet went for Jonathan’s car. Mine was parked on the street. He walked me to it, our fingers linked. “People are waiting at your house to sweep it for cameras and mikes.”
“This is so weird.”
He held my chin when we stopped by my car. “It’s probably nothing. We need to go there so you can let them in.” He put his arms around my waist. “You, darling, will gather clothes and things. Then I shall bring you back to my bed, and I will have you again. And maybe again.”
“We have to have an unpleasant conversation.”
“Do you believe I’m not spying on you?”
“Yes.”
“Did you fuck someone else?”
“God, no!”
“Are you leaving me because I interrupted your work?”
“No.”
“Are you leaving me at all?”
“No, Jonathan, really—”
“Then I fail to see the urgency. Let’s take care of business and let unpleasantness take care of itself.”
eighteen
JONATHAN
I didn’t want to hear a word about what my ex-wife said. I didn’t want to navigate her labyrinth of lies and half-truths, and I didn’t want to explain anything to Monica while my mind was on Kevin and the cameras. We needed to hand off keys, pack her for the night, and get her into my bed. Then I would explain or fuck away whatever Jessica told her. Jessica was going to the mat. I couldn’t deal with her shit for another minute. Her worst nightmare was seeing me happy, apparently, because I hadn’t seen her as much in the past half year as I’d seen her in the past month.
I got to Echo Park first and parked across the street from Monica’s house. The green minivan was gone, replaced by a black van. Margie’s guys. I walked up to her chain-link gate. A man greeted me. Late twenties. Suit and tie. Pinkie ring. My eyes adjusted and I saw two others shaking the bushes.
“Jonathan Drazen?” he said, holding out his hand.
“The same.” I shook it.
“Name’s Will Santon. You look exactly like Margie.”
“Tell her she looks younger.”
He smiled at me. “This place yours?”
“Girlfriend.”
“We found a wireless minicam on the porch. Not the best, but good enough. Middle-class work.”
The porch. What had we done on the porch? Anything? My mind was a blank. I was blinded by the lights of a little black Honda tearing up the hill and into the driveway.
“Don’t tell her,” I said. “Let me take care of it.”
Monica got out, all legs and hair, looking like a force of nature, a wild animal entitled to her own sovereignty. Her sexuality wasn’t coy or cute. She wasn’t saucy; she was feral. Her very presence on the earth stirred me.
“Hi,” she said, smiling.
Santon smiled back at her. “Miss, is this your house?”
“I live here.”
“I’m Will Santon. I’m a licensed private investigator in the state of California.” He showed her an ID card. She looked at it, back at him, and back down to the card. “I’ve been hired by the law firm of Bode, Drazen, and Weinstein to check your house for surveillance devices. Do I have your permission to enter?”
She glanced at me. I nodded.
“Yes.” She flicked her keys and headed in. We followed her, a line of four suits. The other two fanned out, glancing at everything, as Santon gave Monica papers to sign. I stood behind her and prayed that whoever watched her did so only from the outside. If they got inside, I would have the strong urge to burn the place down.
Finished with Santon, Monica turned to me and whispered, “I’m uncomfortable.”
I kissed her forehead. “Go get your toothbrush and whatever, and we’ll get out of here.”
nineteen
MONICA
I found a bag in the closet and threw it on the bed. My drawers were a mess. My closet was even worse. I took whatever I touched first and threw it on top of the bag. I needed work clothes and after-work clothes. Shoes. Underwear. Lacy Jonathan shit seemed absurd. Would his rule still stand? Garter belts and stockings felt frivolous and ridiculous with men in my house looking for cameras and microphones.
I threw both options on the bag. From the bathroom, I got makeup, a hairbrush, ties for braids, and my toothbrush. I was sure I was forgetting something, but I wanted out of there. I’d buy whatever else I needed.
I stuffed everything in the bag and picked it up. It had covered something: a manila envelope labeled Jonathan S Drazen III in Sharpie. One of Gabby’s files. Darren must have found it and left it for me. I picked it up. There was enough inside to give it some heft, but it wasn’t as big as the envelopes she’d created for people in the music industry. Twenty pages, tops. Probably a bunch of friends highlighted in orange and family in yellow. Jessica in pink. The corners were curled and the color faded. I almost slipped it in the bag. But no, I wouldn’t bring it to his house. That was crazy.
“How you coming?” Jonathan leaned in the doorway, his jacket falling on his shoulders in a perfect expression of some kind of victory over gravity. Over everything. If owning a doorway just by standing in it was possible, or beating the shit out of a space by existing within it, he did. His concern over what was happening in my house had a physical presence. It emanated from
him in a dense aura of worry, making him seem bigger, more present, more powerful. I was suffocating under the weight of it.
I glanced down at the envelope. His name faced down. “Thirty seconds or less,” I said. He didn’t move, making me nervous. “Shoo. Girl stuff.”
He slipped out of the doorway, and I breathed again. I slipped the envelope into my top drawer, slung the bag over my shoulder, and walked out of my room with my head down.
twenty
MONICA
Telling him about my conversation with Jessica, and the song, weighed heavily on me. I couldn’t think about much else. I couldn’t do it in a neutral space. I couldn’t just tell him and walk out. It was late. My house was overrun.
Jonathan put his hand on my thigh as his other hand rested on the steering wheel. “They’re going to be out of there by tonight.”
“Yeah. It’s a small house. Yours took how long?”
“Couple of hours.”
I looked out the window. I still felt invaded. “If there’s nothing there, you’re in trouble for making a big deal about it.”
“We’ll work out a suitable punishment.” He didn’t look as though he expected to be punished, though. He looked as though he was placating me. I didn’t care for it. I would have given anything for it to be yesterday again.
We waited as the gate opened. It seemed to take forever, rumbling and clacking in a way I didn’t remember it doing before. When Jonathan took my hand and looked at me, he seemed tired. Gorgeous and powerful as always, but wrung out.
“I don’t want you to worry,” he said.
I squeezed his hand. “I’m fine.”
“But I want you to think about who might have done this.”
“Something tells me you have an idea.”
He didn’t say, but I knew he thought it was Kevin. The fact that Kevin had nothing to gain from watching me notwithstanding, anything evil in my life, and stalking me was truly evil, could only be one person’s responsibility. Career going poorly? Kevin. Art show hits a snag? Kevin. Bad day at work? Kevin. Camera trained on my front porch? Kevin.
When we got inside, he dropped my bag and put his arms around me. I rested my head on his shoulder. We rocked together, entwined, fitting together like puzzle pieces. He kissed my cheek, my jaw. A tingle of heat pooled between my legs. I looked up, giving him access to my neck. He was going to take me again, and it would be slow and sweet and generous. His hands worked up my back, and I put my fingers in his hair as he kissed my shoulder.
My body screamed for him. Just once. Before telling him anything about Frontage. Just a little bit of comfort. Just to be enveloped inside him. I didn’t need a fuck. I needed to make love, and the way he touched me showed me he understood.
“Jonathan.”
“Monica.”
“Wait,” I groaned.
“No.”
“Please.”
“You’re mine.”
“Tangerine.”
He stopped and stood back, looking me in the eye. His hair was mussed, and his eyes hooded with heat. “Okay, little goddess. What is it?”
“I have to tell you things. I can’t put it off anymore.”
“All right. Let’s get some fresh air.” He took my hand and walked me out to the backyard.
We sat on the outdoor couch, in the near dark, which I appreciated. I didn’t want a bright light shining on our conversation. His hands stayed on me, stroking my palm, my thigh, soothing me.
“So, you saw Jessica there tonight,” I said. “I don’t have to tell you that part.”
“Yes.”
“And you saw us talking.”
“Yes.”
“She gave me her card and offered to tell me everything about you.” His expression didn’t change. “I said ‘no, thank you, if I need to know about Jonathan, I’ll ask him.’”
He squeezed my hand. “You’re perfect.”
“Well, maybe not. She asked if you told me about Rachel, and I said yes. She asked if you told me all of it, and I kind of went off on her.”
“Really?”
“I told her I didn’t know what she wanted, but she couldn’t have you back because you were too good in bed.”
He laughed good and hard, throwing his head back and showing the night sky his face. His laughter filled the huge yard, and even I smiled a little, because really, what man could be upset at that? I wanted to end the conversation right there. If I crawled into his lap, he’d put his arms around me, take me upstairs, and we’d make love so sweetly. Just the thought of it made my arms tingle.
“I haven’t gotten to the really uncomfortable stuff yet.”
He wiped the tears from his eyes and leaned back, smiling, totally relaxed, his arm draped over the back of the couch. “Go ahead, then.”
“You really are good in bed, you know.”
“Thank you. It takes two.”
“Right. Okay. There’s a song.” I said the last sentence as if I’d jumped off a cliff. There’s a song. Three words, and I was committed to finishing. I stared into my lap. I couldn’t look at him. “Jessica heard it.” I cleared my throat. “I wrote it after you called me submissive and before I gave you the list.” I glanced at him. His smile was gone. “I recorded it as a scratch cut, which is something passed around the industry as a sample. I hadn’t written a song in a while, and it was all I had. So, it came out good. One of the acquisitions guys heard it and wanted to hear me sing it. They came tonight.”
“What was his name? The acquisitions guy?”
“Eddie something.” Jonathan’s eyes closed slowly, and his mouth shut tight. “What?” I asked.
“Let’s hear it.”
“Hear what?”
“The fucking song.”
My heart beat so hard my ribs were going to break. My lungs quivered, filled, and seemed to empty only part way. I didn’t have an instrument to hide behind or a piece of paper with my requirements for him to read. I just had two minutes of pure, raw, fucking vulnerability in his backyard while he pondered not only what he thought of the song, but me, what he felt about me, what his ex-wife heard, and what she thought.
“It doesn’t have a title yet.”
“The song, Monica.” His voice was like a brick, blunt and hard, without nuance. He waited. I didn’t know what he was thinking, but I realized the more time I took to start, the more crap would run through his head, and maybe that wasn’t a good thing.
I sang it in my soft, jazzy voice. I didn’t look at him because I didn’t want to see his reaction. I just wanted to get through it. I started to crack in the last bridge, where I asked if I’d do the things to him he did to me, because the questions weren’t about sex anymore. The song revealed too much. Fuck. I hated music right then, as I sang the last line. I wished I’d never heard a note.
His face was in his hands, and his elbows were on his knees. “What were you thinking?”
“About you.”
He looked up. “When you recorded it? What the fuck were you thinking?”
I couldn’t answer. I had been thinking about myself. That it could be an opportunity. That it was a good song, and once it was a song, it was mine, no matter what it was about.
Even in the dark, his face frightened me. I’d seen that expression before. On my father, just before he threw something or tore apart the living room drapes.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
“I’m glad you’re sorry. But what are you sorry for? Exactly? Are you sorry you had to tell me or sorry you were so selfish in the first place? Because it’s not about you. It’s about us, and we’re not a big secret. Unless we split tomorrow, that song is about me and it will follow me wherever I go. Fuck, Monica, I know you’re ambitious. I don’t expect any less. What I didn’t expect was that you’d do something so stupidly self-centered.”
Even though we were outside, I felt as if a box closed in around me. If he’d been wrong or if I had a leg to stand on, the box might not have felt as though it was fillin
g with water and I was three seconds from drowning. But I had done wrong. I didn’t realize it when I first recorded the song, but I knew it when I played it in front of Jessica. I’d chosen my ambition over my respect for him, and there was no denying it.
His expression was impassive, walled off. The box filled further, and I felt not only trapped, but alone and scared. If he said another word, I would lose my shit.
“Okay, I get it,” I said before walking back into the house.
twenty-one
JONATHAN
When the screen door slammed behind her, I kicked over the glass-topped coffee table. It shattered. I considered doing more violence to the furniture, but I wasn’t angry at the furniture. I was angry at myself. I had no business feeling what I felt for Monica. I had no business getting involved in a kinky, emotionally charged relationship with an unpracticed submissive. Stupid. This, I’d earned.
When I’d held Jessica’s hands down during sex, she told everyone I wanted to rape her. One slap on the ass, and I was an abuser. It hurt badly enough when she called me those things to my face. When she did it behind my back, it was worse. Later, I realized she’d had a rough time with men before me. I should have been more understanding, but it wasn’t like I didn’t have my own shit.
When Monica sang her song in the husky voice of a fallen angel, I knew her intentions were pure. I also knew the results would suck. Enough of our social circle hated me already. Who knew what or whom her performance would affect. My business? My family? The possible repercussions came in flaming scenes of scorn and derision. Lost deals. Uncomfortable dinners, come-ons from the wrong women, bruised ribs from jocular elbows of men thinking Monica was my whore, or worse, available to share.
Jessica had added humiliation to my confusion by confiding in our whole social circle and enough of my family to make Easter dinner a nightmare. I never dug out of it, and the song could just bury me further in a reputation I didn’t earn and didn’t want. I didn’t want an entire lifestyle of bondage. I didn’t want the clubs or the costumes. I wanted to be normal, except when I wasn’t. Yet again, I’d be branded.
