The Company of Demons

by Michael Jordan

  I thumbed through the last set, a compilation of savings account statements, and looked up at Jennifer. “Sorry, nothing new here.”

  “Well, at least now I know. Thanks.” She took hold of my forearm, drew me up. “Let’s make a cheese tray and visit for a while.”

  I stood, facing her, and she handed me my wine glass. “I really should get going.”

  “I’m not going to have you drive all the way out here and spend just fifteen minutes. Let me be a proper hostess.”

  She turned and went into the kitchen. I followed. She opened her refrigerator door, then bent over to gather some provisions.

  Any of my lingering thoughts of bank statements and insurance policies quickly evaporated. The jeans hugged every one of her delicious curves. I knew that I needed to set down the glass of wine and say good-bye and walk out the door. But I stood, frozen in place, as she straightened, cradling some wrapped cheeses in one hand and a roll of white butcher paper in the other.

  “Here.” She handed the roll to me. “Be a dear and slice some of that, would you? Summer sausage. Oh, and grab an apple, too.”

  I followed her gaze toward the sink and a large chef’s knife atop a wooden cutting board. A bowl of fruit, apples and oranges, was nearby. As I unwrapped the thick sausage and made the first cut, Jennifer sidled up next to me and peeled away the thin plastic that encased Gouda, goat milk, and a thick cheddar cheese.

  “Am I doing better than Ed’s Eggs?” She looked up at me and grinned.

  I shrugged. “Have a Formica table somewhere?”

  She playfully slapped my arm. While she arranged the cheeses and some crackers on a silver platter, I added several slices of sausage. The sharp knife made quick work of the apple; I arranged the sections along the edge of the tray.

  “Not bad,” Jennifer said as she gathered a few spreading knives and napkins. “If Ed ever needs a sous chef …”

  I followed, tray in hand, as she flashed that smile again and strolled out of the kitchen. I sank into one of the padded leather chairs. Jennifer nestled into the couch, near my chair, and our knees were inches apart. She seemed to become more beautiful with every moment that passed.

  “I’m glad you stayed, John.” She spread some of the soft Gouda on a cracker. “I’ve wanted to ask: what did you mean the other night? You said, ‘If things were different … ’”

  I took a sip of wine and examined the bright lines in one of the abstracts on the wall. She could be direct, for sure. “I … I don’t know what to say, Jennifer. When I’m with you … but, Jesus, I have a wife and kid. I shouldn’t even be here.”

  “But you are.” Jennifer leaned forward, took the glass from my hand, and stood. She stretched languorously along the leather armrest on my chair, tilted her alluring face toward mine, and our lips met, our tongues caressed. Her mouth moved against me firmly, forcibly, and I longed for her, to taste her and feel her and plunge inside her. I lifted my arms to embrace her, but she broke away with a throaty chuckle and stood before me. Her breasts were taut against the yellow blouse.

  I felt glued to the chair, and not just because of a raging hard-on. There was no turning back, and I was prepared to break every promise to Cathy and Father McGraw. The ethical prohibition against sleeping with a client lost all meaning, and the fact that Bernie Salvatore would detest me mattered nothing. Jennifer wanted me. She wasn’t telling me how to live my life, wasn’t calling me an ass.

  She took my hand and led me to the bedroom. A cream-colored bedroom set was barely illuminated by the dim glow of an accent lamp. We kissed with the hungry abandon of teenagers. She undid the buttons on my shirt one by one, pausing only to nibble at my lips, my throat, my chest. Soon, I was naked and erect and had managed to slip off her blouse and jeans. Her taut skin was warm to the touch and impossibly smooth. A whiff of perfume was floral, enticing.

  She stopped me from unhooking the clasp of her bra and guided me onto the comforter. She posed, in pink lace panties and bra, and allowed me to take in her voluptuous body. When she at last unclasped her bra, the straps dangled on her shoulders until she shimmied, and the garment dropped to the floor. She haltingly lowered her tight panties and unveiled a Brazilian bikini wax, the first I’d ever seen in person. The Pope himself would have forgiven me had he seen what stood at the foot of the bed.

  With an undulating feline crawl, she drifted across the comforter and up my body, her breasts brushing my stomach, my chest, until her lips reached mine. She cradled my face in her palms and whispered into my ear, her breath hot and guttural. “I’ve wanted you, John. Wanted you from the moment I saw you.”

  She took a foil packet from a nightstand drawer and playfully rolled a condom down my cock. Soon, she was straddling me, her erect nipples brushing against my eager lips. Her back arched as she rocked to a rhythm of her own. Her breathing quickened and, when she at last cried out and collapsed on top of me, her fingers entwined in my hair, I came with her. My body shuddered until I felt completely drained. We clung to each other as our breathing slowed.

  As Jennifer rolled onto her back, next to me, my eyes drifted to a picture in a gold frame on the dresser: Martha. Hell, it was like she’d been watching us.

  “Wow.” Jennifer leaned across my chest and flicked her tongue against my lips. “Freshen up; I’ll be right back.”

  Jennifer likely expected another go-round, but twice in one night was a distant memory. I sat up, gathered myself, and went into the bathroom. I flicked on the lights, which bordered the mirror above the sink. The disappointing results from my half-hearted effort at jogging were on full display. I sucked in my gut. Then I washed, killed the light, and crawled back into bed as Jennifer came down the hall.

  Still wearing nothing more than a big smile, she paused in the doorway, holding a can of whipped cream in one hand and a jar of strawberry jam in the other, her breasts poised between them. “I’m not a very good hostess. Would you like dessert?”

  Getting hard again was definitely not going to be a problem.

  We took turns making each other come, and I knew that whipped cream would never taste the same. After I burst the second time, she drew herself up, draped a leg across my thighs, and rested her head on my shoulder. I licked a trace of strawberry jam from her cheek. We barely said anything.

  When I finally stole a glance at the clock on the nightstand, it was well past dinnertime. Hell, I wouldn’t arrive home until after ten o’clock. If I’d wanted to send a message to Cathy, I’d sent a damn strong one. I closed my eyes for a moment, trying not to think about her. Or my little girl.

  I rolled out of bed. “Time to go … sorry.”

  She eyed me as I went into the bathroom, my legs unsteady. “We never touched the cheese tray.”

  “Somehow, I forgot all about it.” I washed and then gathered my clothes. I needed to leave.

  Jennifer watched as I dressed. Her neck was still flushed and her nipples erect. “Eres muy guapo. Know what that means?”

  My mind wrapped around the words as I finished buttoning my shirt and slipped on the slacks. “All I know is muy.”

  “It means you’re very handsome.”

  I hadn’t heard the word in a while, other than when Cathy said it to reassure me as my hairline receded and the wrinkles on my forehead became more pronounced. “Thank you.”

  “You okay, John?” She sat up and draped her arms over her knees. “This was special. We both know that.”

  The only words I could manage were, “Yes, it was wonderful.”

  I watched as the light seemed to wash from her eyes. She was silent for a moment, then said, “So where do we go from here?”

  I took a breath and fastened my belt buckle. “I’ll call you tomorrow; we can talk.”

  She lay back against the pillows. “That sounds like you’re already thinking of a way to let me down easy.”

  “No. I mean, I need some time. It’s … it’s complicated.”

  “It doesn’t have to be, John. Don’t make it sound
like a movie.” She sat up quickly, her blonde tresses falling forward. “If you were happy in your marriage, you wouldn’t be here.”

  “And there’s my daughter, Molly, to think about.” I rested my hands on my hips. “Now, I feel guilty even saying her name.”

  “Sounds like you should have thought a little more before we jumped into bed.” She looked away from me.

  “Jennifer, I’m sorry. You’re amazing, but …” Suddenly, thinking about my marriage, about Molly, felt like lead in the pit of my gut. “I will call, and we can talk this through. I do think you’ll need to get another lawyer, though.”

  She laughed and faced me again. “I’m happy with you.”

  I raised my hands. “It’s not—”

  “Are you worried about the ethical problem, John? That having sex with a client thing?” She shrugged and smiled.

  Either, ethically, what we’d done didn’t bother her, or she was conveying a subtle threat. I just couldn’t tell.

  “Don’t worry. Our little secret.” She lay back again, her cheeks flaring, and drew the comforter up to her chin. “And do think about it, about us. Make sure to lock the door behind you.”

  I didn’t want to end the evening with her upset. “Jennifer …”

  She reached over and switched off the light. In the dark, her voice drifted to me. “I’ll look forward to your call.”

  I shuffled down the hallway and scanned the table full of documents, the untouched cheese tray, the chair where I’d let it begin. By the time I reached the Buick, my thoughts were a jumble. Draping my arms over the steering wheel, I leaned forward to rest my forehead on the back of my hands. If Cathy hadn’t pissed me off, I might never have driven to Parma. I pictured Jennifer, on display in her pink underwear, and knew that no man could have resisted her. I’d been caught up in a bad combination of circumstances.

  I leaned back and stared at the roof of the car. Then I bit my lip and launched forward, my fist pounding the steering wheel. Blaming anyone but me was just dishonest. I had committed adultery again. From the moment I’d agreed to meet at Jennifer’s apartment, I’d known what might happen. I sat in the muted light of the parking lot for at least another ten minutes before starting the car. I shifted into gear and drove below the speed limit all the way to the highway.

  The garage door seemed to rumble particularly loudly, as if to signal my late arrival. As usual, Cathy had left the kitchen light on. Even though I’d washed at Jennifer’s, I used the bathroom next to the living room to scrub myself again. I checked for any trace of jam, then examined my cheeks and earlobes for any hint of whipped cream.

  I tread quietly upstairs. The light on the nightstand was on. She was in bed, lying on her side, the covers drawn about her waist, and her back to me. She seemed asleep, thankfully. I undressed quietly before slipping between the sheets.

  “Good time?” She kept her back to me.

  “I wish.”

  She rolled over and sat up. “Chasing the Butcher around town?”

  “I’m sorry, Cathy. Lost track of time, then stopped for a drink.” Every word sounded lame.

  “You missed dinner, wanting to make a point. Screw you.”

  Knowing where I’d been, instead of being home, with my daughter, made me squirm. “I should have called, but it was already late …”

  “Do you really think I’m stupid?” She wrenched her face toward mine. Tears glimmered on her cheeks. She kept her voice low, like the hiss of a snake, to keep from disturbing Molly. “You’re running around and lying to me.”

  I rose up on my elbows. I didn’t recall when I’d seen her so angry, so hurt. “Don’t …”

  “If it’s over, John, it’s over,” she said without regret, only resignation. “I can’t keep doing this, please. I’m done.”

  She turned away and switched out the light. Her muffled sobs meant that further conversation was shut down for the night, which was fine by me. I lay there, thinking of our years together, the things we’d done. And then my thoughts drifted to Jennifer Browning and her dimly lit bedroom.

  Soon, those thoughts caromed to Molly. I got out of bed to head for the bathroom, but my legs seemed to falter. Cathy was livid, and I’d hurt Molly by not being there when she wanted her dad. And Jennifer? I had no idea how to handle her or her promise to keep “our little secret.” If she felt wronged and filed a grievance with the bar association, my career and marriage would unravel slowly, painfully, and publicly. Jesus, what if Frank wasn’t a total nutcase and his warnings about Jennifer had some substance?

  Downstairs, in my kitchen cabinet, whiskey beckoned. And sleeping on the couch, in the solitude of the living room, seemed like the right thing to do.

  16

  “Looks like nothing important,” Marilyn said, sliding a couple of letters onto my desk.

  I barely acknowledged her. Sleep had been a few hours of a whiskey-induced stupor. A graphic vision of Jennifer’s Brazilian wax still hovered in front of me like a hologram. My eyes fluttered to my desk and the photo of Cathy and Molly.

  “Thanks,” I murmured.

  Marilyn placed her arms akimbo, long turquoise earrings framing her face. “So, what’s going on? You look like you’re lost in space.”

  “Still thinking about getting beat up by that punk.” Actually, the experience with Jennifer had been far more profound. I’d been beaten up before, but I’d only had sex like that once.

  “Well, you can hardly tell. I mean, you look almost human.”

  “Only because I went down with the first punch.”

  “Lucky you.”

  I forced a laugh, and Marilyn walked back to her desk. Physically, I wasn’t in bad shape, although my ribs remained bruised and painful. But, try as I might, I couldn’t forget the image of Jennifer Browning’s lithe, naked body. I tried to pretend that our evening together had not happened, that I hadn’t actually driven to her apartment. I’d been called to court. I’d had a flat. I’d suffered a heart attack. But I couldn’t escape the vision of her pink panties or the taste of whipped cream. Nor, despite my responsibilities to Cathy and Molly, could I deny the lure of Jennifer’s delicate application of strawberry jam.

  That morning, when Cathy had commenced her morning routine in the kitchen, I’d retreated upstairs and lingered in bed until the garage door had squeaked open. I knew that she would be on her way to drop Molly at school, then she’d take off to work. She would need time to calm down, and I needed to corral my rambling thoughts. If I failed to reassure Cathy, my marriage would be in real jeopardy. As would be my relationship with Molly. Yet Jennifer expected a call.

  The telephone rang. I heard Marilyn’s chipper greeting, then she quickly buzzed my extension.

  “It’s Frank Frederickson.” Her words came in a flurry.

  My hand shot for the phone. “Hello, Frank. Glad you called.”

  “I’ve got it figured out.” His words were rushed.

  “I’m listening. Frank?” Just talking to the guy made my office seem uncomfortably warm.

  “How we’ll play this. I want witness protection.”

  I looked out my window, at the tan brick building across the street. “For what?”

  “You’ll see.”

  “I’m not your lawyer, okay? And I’ve never handled this sort of thing. I can—”

  “They’ll wanna hear what I have to say.” He coughed, then caught his breath and inhaled something.

  The edge in his voice was making me nervous. “I’ll get you a lawyer, or you can just tell the cops.”

  “No. I’m not going anywhere, not talking to anybody else.”

  And I had thought this would be a simple estate case, a great fee. “I’m not the one you should be talking to, Frank, not about this. Now, the estate—”

  “We’ll talk about everything. You need to hear me out and help me work a deal. I need you to figure out how to get me my inheritance.” He inhaled again, and I half expected the scent of marijuana to waft through my phone. “I’m stil
l not sure I can trust you, lawyer man, but we need to talk before it’s too late.”

  “Jesus, you’re confusing me. Too late for what?”

  He laughed—a smoker’s laugh: I heard the phlegm gurgle in his chest. “Too late for me, for the love of God. She’ll stop at nothing.”

  I paused, listening to him breathe. “Listen to me, okay? You—”

  “No, you listen to me. Watch for a text from me, later, with an address and a time. Tonight. Just you—nobody else. I can see the street, easy. Anyone else shows up, I will not be here.”

  I rested the phone on my cheek and stared at the photo of Cathy and Molly.

  “Make a decision, lawyer man. I talk to you, or I talk to nobody.”

  What had I gotten myself wrapped up in? “Whatever you tell me, I’ll take it to the cops, see what can be done. Understood?”

  “That’s why we’re talking.”

  “C’mon, Frank. Give me some idea. What the hell is going on?”

  He was silent for so long, I thought he’d hung up. Then he said, “Let’s just say that the hit-and-run with her husband? The import/export business? Bullshit.”

  All I heard was his raspy breathing over the line, and then he hung up. Sweat was making the receiver slippery in my hand, and my temples throbbed. I stared at the phone, as though summoning Frank to call again. What the fuck was he claiming was bullshit? Jennifer’s story about her husband’s death had sounded legitimate. She had teared up, for Christ’s sake.

  I thought about phoning Bernie, but immediately dismissed the idea. What the hell was I going to tell him? If Frank did text me about where to meet, Bernie might want to take over, and Frank would run or clam up. I’d rather face an ass-kicking by Bernie than lose Frank.

  Deciding what to do about Jennifer was more difficult. I had not expected that our first conversation after making love would be about her brother. But if I met with him without telling her that he’d called, she’d be livid and might march down to the Bar Association with details of our tryst. Besides, I was curious about what she would say when I mentioned Frank’s oblique comments about the hit-and-run and the import/export business.