by Lolita Files
Beryl’s cooch was burnt up. Fried. The friction from the ancient rubbers, coupled with her dryness, had torched her hole to cinders. She didn’t have a lot of mileage in it anyway, what with the way her medication tended to affect her sex drive. Her physical enthusiasm had been, for the most part, a means of expressing overwhelming elation at meeting Penn, knowing he was the One she’d been waiting for, having him seem to mutually agree, then being able to commence with it all right away. She instinctively tried to convey that elation via sex, and she meant it, at least during the first two sessions. By the third round, however, her lower half was just going through the proverbial literal motions. She dried out somewhere between kingdom and come. Kingdom and ten comes. That’s how many he got out of her, then the well ran dry. She didn’t have any lubricants on hand to keep the show going. So somewhere around nineish that morning, a white flag shot out of her pussy and he eased up. He slid down, down, back into the abyss to offer her desiccated canyon the cool, comforting relief of his tongue, but once he got an up-close glimpse of how hideous her box looked postfuck, he eased back up with infinite grace and cuddled her into distracted conversation.
They talked of many things. He spoke a little, very little, of his college years and his best friend Mercury. She explained that she’d never had a best friend. He seemed moved by that confession and held her with heartfelt sympathy. He described meeting the Dalai Lama when he was twelve. She told him about the bestseller she’d done with Snoop, a book called D-O-Double Deeds. She said he’d taken her cruising through the streets of the L.B.C. when she went out to Los Angeles to go over the edits with him. Snoop had introduced her to Pharrell Williams from the mega-hitmaking producing team the Neptunes. Pharrell had been great, an instant buddy, and the two had maintained contact once she returned to New York. One night at a party for Donald Trump, Pharrell introduced her to On Fiyah, the wildly popular rapper/actor/mogul/fashion overlord who was the head of WifeBeater Records and W.W.B. (Worldwide WifeBeater, his global entertainment empire).
Beryl had liked Fiyah at once, she told Penn. He was funny, ambitious, intense, and much smarter than she’d expected him to be. The next day he sent over a gorgeous velour sweatsuit with real flecks of diamonds down the front and around the hood. It was from Rich-Bytch, the upscale line of his womenswear division, BurntBytch. On Fiyah, Fiyah, O-Fi, Yah—whatever he chose to be called at any given moment—seemed to have the magic touch with everything he attempted. When he made his foray into the fashion world under the brand name Skorched, he had exploded onto the scene with immediate success. In less than five years, the Skorched name and products were everywhere. A wide range of clothing, shoes, and bags for men, women, and children, plus home furnishings (Skorched sofas! Skorched beds!). Gross sales for Skorched International had reached an astounding five hundred million the year before, and the current year’s sales were expected to swallow that number whole. Bentley Motors announced a limited edition Skorched version of their Continental Flying Spur. At the tricked-out yet reasonably affordable price of one hundred and eighty-five thousand dollars, it was a hip-hop wannabe’s dream. The metal monster was already back-ordered, even though it hadn’t even gone into production. Fiyah was big business. Beryl wanted to do a book with him.
Penn listened with great interest, eager to step inside her world. Penn asked about the African violets. Beryl explained that they reminded her of herself, her life. They thrived indoors and, despite their delicate appearance, the flowers were tough and had the capacity to flourish on very little. An African violet would last for decades, she said, if it was treated right. All it needed was a little light, not much water, and a gentle splash of love. They were hard to kill, having been used to living in the crevices of craggy rocks in their native East Africa, and were natural survivors. But a green, surviving version of the plant was the lowest denominator of its existence. A truly happy African violet was a blooming one.
“Yours are all in bloom,” Penn said.
“That’s because I love them. I talk to them.” Her voice took on a softness, as though she were speaking of a child or a lover. “I have a friend, a business associate,” she lied. “Every year, I give him an African violet. He’s got them all lined up in a window in his office. All of them are green, but there isn’t a bloom in sight. Not a single bloom. It’s so tragic. He claims he likes them, but I’m not sure.”
“Maybe he doesn’t talk to them.”
“He was talking to them the last time I dropped in at his office.”
“What was he saying?”
“It sounded like he was threatening them,” she said, her face scrunched serious. “He said they were blocking him from being able to jump out the window. It’s no wonder they don’t flower.”
Penn laughed.
“What?” she said.
“C’mon now, babe, that’s pretty funny.”
“I didn’t think so. He’s British. I guess I don’t always get their sense of humor.”
“Right.”
He could tell she had become defensive about the plants. Plants, of all things. She was turning out to be a real layered piece of work. She grew quiet. He could feel her body tensing.
“Don’t you think this is all a little unrealistic?”
“What’s that?” he asked.
“This.”
“This what?”
“Us,” she said, sitting up and looking into his eyes.
“I don’t get what you’re saying.”
“I mean, this is ridiculous, don’t you think? I had this, this freaking one-night stand with you”—her cheeks were flushed, her right knee was shaking, she was waving her skinny arms in the air—“and then you say you love me and now just called me ‘babe’ like I’m really your girl and here I am skipping work and I’m probably never going to see you again after this and it’s just, it’s just…it’s insane is what it is. You know my secrets, you could hurt me, it’s too perfect. It doesn’t make sense!”
She was flipping out. Had his lighthearted remark about the plants set her off?
“Relax, Beryl,” he said, reaching up and grabbing both of her flailing arms. “I told you, this wasn’t a one-night stand for me.”
“How do I know that?” she demanded.
“You don’t,” he said, now somewhat irritated. “You’re just going to have to take my word for it.”
She clamped her lips together. Her eyes were scary large, which made her sort of scary face even scarier. Her cartilage-lite nose was twitching. Her eyes began to fill up.
“Aw c’mon, babe,” he said. “Don’t cry. Please. It’s all right, really.”
The tears splashed out anyway.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t help it. I feel so vulnerable.”
“So do I,” he whispered, pulling her to him. “I’m scared, too. I wasn’t looking for a girlfriend. I’ve got things I’m trying to do, things bigger than bookkeeping. I wasn’t expecting you, but you’re here. So what do you want me to do, just act like it didn’t happen?”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” she said.
“C’mon, man,” he said. “Is it because we had sex so quickly? Or maybe you think I’m not good enough for you or something? I know I’m kind of crass and I have a tendency to swear a lot, but I believe in being who I am, right up front. I’m sorry if the way I talk and the way I am is freaking you out, but I’m not going to hide—”
“No, no, no. You’re great. I think you’re wonderful. Everything you did for me last night. The way you made sure I got home, and then you stayed here with me, and you’ve been so kind and good and—”
“Beryl, you think this is about you having something to lose, but that works both ways. It’s not just you letting me into your life. I’m letting you into mine. I don’t do that too easily. It’s been hard for me to get close to people after my parents died. I have this fear…this thing, you know, where I feel like—”
“Like as soon as you get close to them,” she whispered, �
��they’ll leave?”
“Yes.”
“Or…they’ll die?”
He paused, dropped his head.
“Yes.”
“Oh, Penn.”
She threw her arms around him and began to bawl. He clutched her to his chiseled pecs and abs, letting her have her moment, a moment she assumed was also his.
“I’ve been the same way,” she sobbed. “I’m always so afraid. There’s so many reasons for someone to leave me…”
“Don’t say that, babe.”
“It’s true. I’ve got narcolepsy. I’ve got o—”
She caught herself.
“You’ve got o-what?”
She breathed in a few times, sniffling back embarrassment.
“I’ve got old issues when it comes to my parents. I’ve got a really big fear of abandonment. It’s why I’ve never had a best friend. I have lots of acquaintances and plenty of great business relationships, but I’ve been afraid to let someone get close.”
He rocked her in a tight embrace.
“Then let it be me,” he whispered. “We’re both dealing with the same fear. That’s not an accident. There are no coincidences.”
“I know.”
“Maybe we were brought together like this so we could help each other out.”
He leaned back from her, lifting her chin with his forefinger.
“It’s possible, you know,” he said. “I believe in that kind of stuff.”
“Me, too.”
She rested her head against his shoulder.
“You said no one knows about your narcolepsy.”
“No one except the doctor who prescribed the medication.” She took great care not to mention Ripkin by name or note that he was a psychiatrist. “That’s it. And the pharmacist, I guess.”
“Okay, outside of them, you felt safe enough to trust me. That was bigger than sex. It’s not like we met at some bar and hooked up. This was nothing like that.” He breathed deep, in and out, rubbing his hand across his golden hair in frustration, seeming to speak more to himself than to her. “Of all the things I hate about the world, I think this is the thing I hate the most.”
“What’s that?”
“This. What’s happening between us. Once upon a time, in my parents’ day and my grandparents’, people could meet and fall in love in an instant. Just like that. One conversation, one look, and that did it for them. The love would start right then, and would carry them forward for the rest of their lives. There was none of this hesitation and mistrust, no endless stream of lovers. Love was love. Simple. Honest.” His gaze seemed somewhere far off, not just beyond the room, but beyond time itself. “My dad felt that way about my mom. My granddad was that way about my grandmother. I always imagined it’d be that way for me. I’ve always believed in it. And, lo and behold, it is. Right now. Just like I imagined it. But most people are too fucked up and fucked over to accept that something beautiful, something like this, can happen. It’s become mythical. And scary. The world is full of danger and dangerous people. No one believes this can happen anymore.”
She lifted her head, her eyes, nose, mouth close to his.
“I believe it can happen.” She pressed her lips to his, tears of gratitude streaming down her cheeks. “I’ve been looking for you for most of my life. I was hoping, praying, that one day you’d appear.”
They’d been napping for more than two hours, complicated origami folded into each other. The phone had rung several times, but Beryl let the calls roll over. When she said hooky, she meant it.
“I’m starving,” he groaned, sequeing into a wide-mouthed yawn.
“Me, too.”
“Wanna get something to eat?”
“Sure. We could order in. There’s lots of places around here that deliver.”
“I feel like getting out and stretching my legs. I’m not used to being in bed this late. Not that I don’t like it, but—”
“But what?”
“But it’s a bit much, don’t you think? I was hungry earlier, and somehow I managed to fall asleep again. Do you usually sleep this much?”
“Not at all. Especially not with my medication. I’m usually up way early, then I’m off to the gym.”
“Me, too,” he said.
“This is the most relaxed I’ve been in a long time. It’s like a burden’s been lifted. Maybe that’s why I slept like this.”
“Do you need to take more pills?” Penn asked.
“No, I won’t need any more today. The ones you gave me earlier will last me until later tonight. I can start from scratch tomorrow morning at my usual time.” She stroked his hand. “But thank you for being so caring. I like that. I never knew I’d like it this much.”
“That’s what I’m here for,” he said, sitting up and stretching. “Now let’s get moving.”
She pouted.
“But I wanted to just lie here with you for a while. I never get to have days like this.”
He glanced down at her there, lolling amid the sumptuous pillows.
“If we lie here any longer we’ll have bedsores.” He threw the covers back and swung his legs over the side. He stood, then stretched again, his arms raised toward the heavens as he groaned. He leaned from side to side, knowing without seeing that she was drinking in the full span of his magnificent body. He turned to face her. She stared up at him like he was a dream. Penn reached for her hand and tried to pull her from the bed.
“C’mon, lazybones. Get up.”
“Penn,” she whined.
“We can always lounge around later, if you want,” he said.
“Can we?”
“Sure, babe. But I need to get some coffee in me. I can’t function without my Starbucks and my morning papers.” He checked the time on the big red readout. “Though it seems the morning’s shot to hell. It’s after one o’clock.”
“It was a good way to ruin a morning,” Beryl said.
“Yes, it was.”
She smiled. He wondered how it would feel inside that wide mouth the first time he shoved his dick into it. He’d given her a pass this morning, but she would be sucking some dick in short order. No question. There was no getting around that cardinal rule.
“I need to go home and get a shower.”
“You can shower here.”
“I don’t like putting on the same clothes afterward. That’s pretty gross. I had those clothes on all day yesterday.”
She was pouting again.
“You wanna come home with me?”
She grinned.
“Sure.”
“Awesome. All right, why don’t we get out of here, pick up some Starbucks, hit the newsstand, and head to my place. I’ll grab a shower and change, and then we can get something to eat. Cool?”
“Cool.”
“Excellent.” Penn grew quiet, glanced down at his hands, then looked up at her. “Just so you know, my place isn’t all tricked out like yours.”
“That’s okay, baby. I don’t care about stuff like that.”
Put a fork in her, he thought.
“Well, you should. You should want to be with someone who equals you in every way. I’m talking intellectually, physically, emotionally, and he should have the same level of ambition as you. Or more. I just thought I should warn you about my place beforehand. It’s modest, but that doesn’t mean I’m content with it. I’ve got some big projects in the works. I expect in time all the hard work I’m putting in is going to start paying off.”
“I’d like to hear about them sometime,” said Beryl.
“I love this room,” he said, looking around, deliberately not responding to her remark. “It’s so cozy. That’s probably why I keep falling asleep.”
“Really?” she said, following his eyes, taking in the room herself. “I was thinking of redoing it. The whole place, actually. I haven’t been here long. I just kind of moved my things in without much ado, but I’d really like to get a good contractor in here and do some things. Put my signature on the place,
you know? It’s my first apartment. The first place I’ve ever owned, that is.”
“You did good, little one.”
Beryl looked up at him quickly, her cheeks flushed with pleasure. She glanced away, shy, thrilled out of her mind at any indication of meeting his approval.
“So let’s get outta here,” Penn said. “Bad things happen when I don’t have my coffee.”
He loomed over her, his arms raised, fingers crooked in a mock attempt at terrorizing her.
“Oh please, Mr. Hamilton,” she squealed, “don’t hurt me, please!”
“Then get me to Starbucks, and get me there now,” he said with a fairly good pirate brogue.
“Whatever you wish,” she said. “After I bathe first, of course.”
“Suppose I want my woman dirty?” he said. “I like the way I smell on your skin.”
She giggled.
“Be serious. I’m going to wash myself now.”
“Fine,” he said. “Then get to it, or I’ll have to take my hand to your backside again!”
Beryl was taking a shower while Penn spent a few moments alone relishing the comfort of the great McRoskey. He could hear her humming a tune, but couldn’t make it out over the roar of the shower.
He ran his hands across the duvet, breathed in deeply, relaxed. He took a longer look around the room. There was so much more to notice, now that the sun was fully up. There was an impeccable order and detail to everything. Colorful blankets, folded with military precision, on the seat of a cushy chair. Photos on a side table. Her with Canon Messier, a picture with Bill Clinton, her alone in a lovely black cocktail dress. More well-tended happily blooming African violets lining the sill. The most striking thing was a large portrait on the left wall. How had he missed it before? It was one of those hand-painted reproductions of the work of a famous painter—Peter Paul Rubens’s Head of a Girl. There was a baleful innocence about it, something sweetly threatening in the way the flaxen-haired, rosy-cheeked kid with her wide Vandyke collar monitored him from across the room like a cherubic gargoyle. He stared at the girl’s almond eyes. Her eyes stared back. She seemed to be withholding judgment for the nonce, even though she’d witnessed a great deal of debauchery within the past few hours.
