She upended her drink and drained it, then held the glass out for a refill. He took it from her, careful not to touch her fingers in the process, then went to the bar.
That little knife sliced through the lime like a laser. A shiver zipped through Joseph just as cleanly.
“He’s trying to ruin me. He’s trying to ruin my chances for the appointment.”
“This is the DA, right?”
“Assistant DA. Right. He wants to be governor.”
Joseph splashed a little extra scotch into his own glass, then brought the refreshed drinks back to the couch.
“He wants to be fucking President.” Irene gratefully took her drink, then gulped half of it down. She heaved a sorrowful sigh, then leaned back into the corner, grabbed a pillow and held it to her belly.
Joseph couldn’t help himself. He leaned toward her, picked up one of her hands and began to rub it. She seemed not to notice, but Joseph knew she did.
“He’s got the judicial investigator looking into my personal, private life. Things that have nothing to do with my appointment.”
His fingers moved up her forearm, massaging gently. Her skin was so cool, so white, so pale. “Like what?”
“Like my social life. My sex life. My travel plans. They want to see my credit card receipts. They want biographies on my family members.”
“This is all because of Cynthia’s arrest,” Joseph said. Her bicep was small but hard. She was strong. She worked out.
“They may want to talk to you, Joseph,” Irene said softly.
“That’s fine. I’ll tell them that insanity runs in families.”
He didn’t see the pillow coming until it hit him in the face. He grabbed her wrist and she laughed, their faces only inches away. What was momentarily a laughing release of tension had turned serious. “It’ll be all right, Irene. It’ll soon be over.”
We’re too close here, Joseph thought to himself. He watched Irene’s eyes watch his lips as he talked, and he wanted to kiss her so much that nothing else existed in the universe except her face, her lips, tasting her, feeling her, holding her.
She started to say something, but Joseph leaned forward just a tiny bit, and their lips met.
She smelled like flowers.
He pulled back, leaving that kiss as a tiny little thing that could be explained away, suddenly very self-conscious about the heat he was beginning to generate.
She was distraught. She was vulnerable. She was his sister-in-law.
He pulled back, but she moved in, her lips warm and soft, and she sucked on his bottom lip, and that was all he needed. She was a ready, willing and able co-conspirator, and he was beyond reason.
He returned her kiss, their tongues meeting, tentatively at first, then boldly. Her face was so small he covered it with both his large palms. Her fingers were working on the buttons of his shirt, and as she sat up, he slid his hands inside that satin robe and felt her tiny ribs, her minuscule waist that swelled into slim hips and an athletic butt, her succulent little teacup breasts.
She shrugged out of her robe, and with his help, pulled her slip up over her head. He got out of his shirt and pants, and then, naked on the living room sofa, with all the lights on and legal papers strewn about on the floor, Joseph made love to her, slowly and gently, as tenderly as he had wanted to since the moment they met.
Chapter 17
“More wine?” Irene was tucked safely under his arm, her head resting on his shoulder, both of them surrounded by a half dozen voluptuous down pillows. She toyed with the hairs that curled into clumpy knots on his broad chest, he stroked her arm with his big hand. The dramatic contrast between the colors of their skin stimulated her, like hot chocolate on a snowy day, or eating salty pretzels with ice cream. Contrasts complement, she thought. Yin and Yang, Odd and Even, Male and Female, Black and White.
“Yes,” he said, “please.” His voice was a deep rumble compared to her high, soft question. Contrast.
She slipped out of bed and felt him watch her walk out of the bedroom. She had not an ounce of self-consciousness, in fact she liked having him watch her walk. She spent a lot of time on her body, and it served her well. Witness the rapid-fire orgasms his sensitive touch had evoked in her. Witness the ease with which she lay with him, before, during and after their stupendous lovemaking. Her body was a major source of her confidence. It was worth working for.
She grabbed the half-empty bottle of wine they had opened after he had made love to her on the couch. Before she had taken him to her bed. Before she had made love to him.
She watched him watch her walk back into the bedroom, tiny breasts lightly jiggling above taut tummy, wine bottle swinging by her side as she held it casually by its neck. She liked having him watch her.
Glasses refreshed, she slipped back into bed next to him. He was big, warm and protective, and she felt small and feminine next to him. She snuggled up to take the chill off her skin.
“Why haven’t you ever married?” he asked, the question taking her by surprise.
Bobby.
“I was... once,” she said.
She heard the surprise in his voice. “Really? When?”
She reached across him for the wine glasses on his nightstand, smiled as he kissed the breast she dangled in his face, then handed him his glass of wine with a warm kiss of her own. “It was a long time ago. One of those stupid things teenagers do.”
“A quick one, eh?”
“Real quick. When we realized what we’d done, we ended it. It was stupid.” She tapped a fingernail on her wineglass, and hoped this was the end of the conversation. She didn’t want to talk about Bobby. She didn’t want to ruin the sweet afterglow mood they had created. But being secretive would only make him more curious. “No harm done,” she said. “No kids, no real damage.”
“Some damage?” Joseph set his glass on the nightstand, and turned on his side to look at her. He toyed gently with the feathery blonde wisps of hair around her face.
“I guess,” she said, studying his strong face. “There’s always some damage, isn’t there?” Commitment panic, for one thing. She had never thrown up at the thought of commitment before marrying Bobby. Married too fast. She threw up every morning between the time the state of Nevada pronounced them husband and wife, and the time she filed the divorce papers. She couldn’t get out of that arrangement fast enough. Poor Bobby. He never knew what hit him.
Unfortunately, in retrospect, and with the perspective of the years, she had come to suspect that Bobby was more than a superb good time and fantastic fuck. He was probably the love of her life, her one and only chance, and she had blown it.
“What was his name?”
“Bobby.” She huffed a tiny, bitter laugh, then looked away from him. “I never even told my family.” She sat up, finished her wine, and set the empty glass on the floor. She didn’t want her anxiety attacks to keep her from any of the other good stuff in life. She refused to let them control her. Bobby was a closed book on her shelf of experiences, and she didn’t want to talk about him any more. The thought of him still made her a little bit achy. She wanted to put her hands on Joseph who was present, immediate and warm.
“Here,” she said. “Turn over. Onto your other side. We’ll play a game Cynthia and I used to play when we were little girls. I’m going to write something on your back with my fingernail and you try to figure out what I’m spelling.”
Joseph slid down in the bed, turned his back to her, and she began to rub her smooth hand lightly over his back. His skin was like no other. Finely-grained, with a network of tiny lines like no white man’s skin she had ever seen. It was a dark, rich brown, blemish-free, except for a few little stretch marks around his waist. He was magnificent.
He was so much like Myron. She’d never inspected Myron’s skin like this of course, he was her father, not her lover, but she’d like to have inspected his skin. She’d like to have taken a closer look at the “meteors” as he called them.
One day when I
rene came home from school, Cynthia met her at the doorway, dancing with excitement. “Daddy’s got meteors on his chest,” she announced, breathless with the discovery of something her big sister didn’t know about.
“Meteors?”
“Come see! Come see!” Cynthia grabbed Irene’s hand and they ran up the stairs. Cynthia knocked on their parents’ closed bedroom door. “Can we come in?”
“Yes,” their mother’s voice said, and Cynthia opened the door.
Irene, still carrying her jacket and school books, hesitantly followed. She didn’t know what was happening, this was all so odd. The girls didn’t normally go into their parents’ bedroom.
Their mother was fastening earrings and checking her face in the dresser mirror. Myron was buttoning up a white shirt. They were getting ready to go out.
“Show Irene the meteors! Show her! Show Irene!” Cynthia was beyond excited.
Myron looked at their mom who shrugged.
“Okay,” he said, “but quickly. We’re late.” He unbuttoned his shirt as he walked toward Irene, and her mouth grew dry and cottony with the sight and smell of him. Then his shirt was open and she saw the scars. They looked exactly like a series of small comets, a half dozen nickel-sized white spots, each one followed by streaks of smaller splashes. They were clumped on one side of his chest, their tails lost in the line of hair that grew down toward his navel.
Irene couldn’t take her eyes off him. She reached out a finger to touch them, but Myron took a step backward and began to button his shirt again. She looked up in time to catch a glance pass between him and their mother.
“Meteors, Irene, I told you,” Cynthia said.
“What is that?” Irene asked Myron.
“Acid splash in chemistry class a million years ago,” he said, then tucked in his shirt, dismissing the episode. “Got homework?”
But Irene couldn’t concentrate on the question, she was still thinking about him walking toward her, unbuttoning his shirt, giving her the barest glimpse of all the secrets of his maleness. She wanted more. She wanted to know more.
“Spanish rice for dinner!” Cynthia said, still high from her one-upmanship discovery.
Irene’s hand traveled back and forth across Joseph’s broad back, from his shoulder down his arm, to his neck, back across his back, down to his waist, up over his smooth, lightly furred butt. The more she touched him, the more aroused she became. She pulled the covers down so she could see him while she touched him. Then she slid down and pressed herself against him, her hand moving slowly and lovingly across his skin.
She had still been awake when their parents came home. She lay in bed and listened to them climb the stairs. They came up slowly, tiredly.
“Have you had that talk with Irene yet?” Myron asked.
“No,” her mother sighed.
“It’s time, Ellie. She’s growing into puberty. She needs information.”
“Could you?” her mother asked, the fatigue evident in her voice. Another chore. Another impossible chore.
“Absolutely not,” Myron said. “She’s already having—” and the bedroom door closed on their conversation.
They’d never had that conversation, Irene and her mom, whatever it was supposed to be about.
Irene could feel Joseph’s arousal in the tension of his skin. He was getting edgy, anxious to turn around and take charge. He didn’t want to play any stupid game, he wanted his hands on her, too. He wanted to lie there and watch his big, black hands cover her pale breasts. He wanted to see his dark fingers pinch her tiny pink nipples. That was good. She’d make him wait.
“Hey,” he said.
“Your skin is so beautiful,” she breathed.
“That feels good.”
Finally, the fingernail. She knew how that felt. She knew how, when done lightly, it felt like being scratched in places that didn’t yet itch. Goosebumps came up on one side of his back as a lone fingernail traced a curly design around his shoulder blade.
“I love... this,” he said, his voice heavy with restraint.
She smiled. “You’re like warm wood. Aged to perfection. Ready to be carved.”
He twitched. She kissed his shoulder, nipping gently at the skin. He tried to disguise a shiver by turning around and abandoning the game. He slid an arm under her and brought her up on top of him. Their lips met and held. Her breath rushed out as his penis filled her, and for a moment, she verged poised on the lip of a tiny, unexpected orgasm. He held her steady, and she shuddered through it, silently, then began a small movement to prolong the exquisite sensation. He picked up on the rhythm and gently, they worked it together, passing sensations back and forth. Merging. Pulling each other back from the brink, time and time again.
Irene closed her eyes and told herself that she wasn’t in love. She couldn’t afford to be in love, she didn’t have time to be in love, she didn’t want to be in love.
She wasn’t in love.
But oh, God, did she love what he did to her.
Chapter 18
Every time Cynthia saw Joseph, she wanted to cry.
The guard opened the door and she walked through into the secure visiting room, and there he was, sitting in one of those stupid molded plastic chairs behind the cleanest glass partition. He was the only one there; and she was certain that he went down the row looking at all the glass cubicles, searching for the cleanest. He may even have switched chairs while he was at it, so he could sit in the least objectionable chair in the place.
Cynthia hated the way she felt. Weepy, needy, repentant, dependent. There was a time when she’d had self-esteem, but prison walls sucked the last of it from her the instant she walked through the doors. There were women inside that had developed a perverted sense of power, and they made it look like self-esteem, but it was warped ego, not sense of worth. Nobody in prison had a sense of worth. Prison leached everyone’s value like thirsty brick absorbed moisture.
And seeing Joseph just confirmed it.
He looked like he had bad news.
No matter how bad she felt, no matter how dour his expression, her spirits lifted when she saw his familiar face. Her spirits lifted, and that’s what made her want to cry.
She sat down, but he didn’t smile. He didn’t even look her in the eye. She picked up the telephone.
“I have news, Cynthia,” he said. He hardly ever called her Cynthia. Her heart began to beat harder.
“Sounds bad.”
“Not necessarily. Owen Crowell called. Irene has won a change of venue. You’ll be tried here in San Francisco.”
Cynthia couldn’t assimilate this information. She knew she ought to understand what he just said, but somehow it didn’t quite compute. “What?”
Joseph looked up into her eyes for the first time. His eyes were bloodshot, like he hadn’t slept. His face looked terrible. “Owen thinks she pulled in a big political favor from somebody. You’re not going to Los Angeles. You’re going to be tried right here in San Francisco. I guess the Los Angeles people are furious—”
“They’re furious? They’re furious!” Cynthia stood up and looked down on Joseph, but she could see the guard out of the corner of her eye and sat down again before he cut off the visitation. She sat down, took a deep breath and lowered her voice. “I can fire her, can’t I? I can just fire her.”
“You can, but you’ll have to answer to the press. This is a high profile case, Cynthia.” He grit his teeth and spit out the words: “This has become a race issue. The Navajo nation is now involved and—”
“I don’t give a shit.”
“Listen to me,” Joseph said, his voice low and deep with conviction. “I don’t care who did or did not kill Warren Begay or his brother. I care that you get out of here. I care that you are found not guilty instead of being sent to prison for the rest of your life. Or, Cynthia, death row. You need the best attorney you can get, and you’ve got her. Irene is the best, Cynthia, and she’s free. I don’t have money to hire another high powered trial attorne
y.” He paused. “Do you?”
Cynthia didn’t know what to say. He was right, of course, she had no money, and money won cases like this.
“You have to be on your best behavior from now on,” Joseph said. “The press is about to explode the racial implications about you and me—”
“I don’t give a shit about the fucking press. They’re not inside here. I’ll tell them she did it. I’ll tell them. I swear to God I will.” She was about to cry, and she didn’t want to cry in front of him. She was powerless, did she have to show him she was weak as well?
“You can’t go around making accusations that could destroy a person’s professional life. That’s illegal.” He spoke softly into the telephone without looking at her.
“What the fuck do you care what happens to her, that’s what I want to know, Joseph. Joseph?” She moved her face close to the glass, moved it down within range of his downcast eyes.
He looked at her then, and the thundering realization of why he couldn’t meet her gaze slammed her right in the forehead. He was ashamed.
Irene. Irene had got to him.
“You fucker,” she said softly into the phone.
“Cyn...”
She stood up, her muscles so pumped full of anger that she couldn’t sit any longer. “I’ll destroy both of you. Talk about accusations that will destroy a career, Mr. Schneider. I’ll fucking ruin you.”
“You’re beginning to act a little unstable, Cynthia. Take a deep breath—”
Hollowed out by a pain so huge she couldn’t imagine the enormity of it, Cynthia threw the phone at the glass. It made a pitiful sound before jerking back on its short cord and knocking on the laminate ledge. Her chair fell over backwards as words screamed out of her mouth and throat, seemingly without her volition. Joseph’s face remained passively concerned, and that enraged her even further.
She felt the two guards grab her arms and pick her up, and her legs kicked out, kicked chairs, kicked the table, and she heard herself screaming and yelling, but while all that outward violence went on, inside was a calm little tattletale voice, saying that Joseph didn’t love Cynthia any more.
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