Authors: Gregory Shultz
“Then your plan is to keep me as a lover?” I asked.
“Baby, I’ll be doing it for the both of us. I’ll take care of you with the money I get. Then you can work doing what you really love to do, which is writing.”
“You don’t even know what kind of a writer I am,” I said. “I haven’t even showed you my manuscript.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “It’s what you love to do. And with the right amount of money you can do whatever you want. I’ll make sure you get published. There is nothing that money can’t buy. Do you really doubt me on this? Do you think there isn’t a way to do something that simple?”
I had this horrific vision of my manuscript hitting the market without being properly edited, critiqued, and revised, just like all those horrible electronic books that are on the market these days. I wanted to become a writer on my own terms, even if it meant that every agent in New York passed on my work. If I sucked at writing, I’d just keep working to improve my skills. One way or the other I was going to get that book out there. When it happened, it was going to be because of my own efforts and not owed to Samantha’s ill-gotten gains.
Just then, from down the hall, I heard the animalistic sounds of two lovers really getting it on, a young female voice howling:
“Fuck me hard, baby. Fuck! Me! So! Hard!”
“What the hell is that?” I said.
“Oh, that’s just my son boning his hussy girlfriend,” Sam said flatly. She said it as if it were something that happened all the time, and I told her so.
“That’s because it
does
happen every day,” she said. “You just haven’t been here at the right time to hear it.”
“The kid’s sixteen,” I said. “Go in there and stop it.”
“Are you fucking kidding me? He has just as much right to use this house for sex as I do.” She looked at me as if I were someone who needed to be put in a straitjacket and committed.
I didn’t get the best moral rearing in the foster homes I grew up in, but this seemed wrong to me, just on the face of it.
“You’re such a goody-two-shoe,” Samantha said condescendingly. “We have no hang-ups about sex in this house. Hell, Devin and I both walk around naked and we see each other that way all the time. It’s no big deal to us. We’re very European in that regard. Settle down and just roll with it.”
Fuck this
.
I hopped out of bed and quickly got dressed. “I’m not staying in this house while two minors are humping down the hall. I’m out of here.”
And I got out of there.
…
On the way home, I didn’t answer when
Bolero
played from my cell phone. I turned the damned thing off and drove around to do some thinking.
Samantha had a screw loose. She definitely had some different ideas about life, some ideas that I was even enthusiastic about. Caitlin may have been sexually repressed beyond healthiness and reason, but at the opposite end of the spectrum was Samantha. The woman had no sexual taboos to speak of. She had knocked down a lot of sexual barriers for me—that much was for sure. But the thing with her son, and walking around the house naked . . . it was all just too weird. And the whole business of trying to snare an old man with money really bothered me. It didn’t seem right to squeeze any man out of his hard-earned dough just so he could unwittingly finance an affair between me and Samantha, not to mention my fledgling writing career.
We had been together for less than a week, but it felt like it had been months. I had attempted to stir up discussion with her on politics, religion, literature, and art, but she would just clam up and take me down for another roll in the sack, or wherever else we happened to be at the time. Same deal if I broached the subject of her background, including her family and her childhood—she especially hated those topics. It seemed that the only time she wanted to talk about anything at all was during post-coital rapture. It was painfully apparent she didn’t want to interface with me in any other way.
I’m not a saint. I’m sad to say in my life that I have used women for sex, and I have let them use me just the same. It works both ways. But I was at the point of wanting something more solid than that, something more meaningful.
The saddest part of it all was that I really was fond of Samantha Fleming. I wanted to get to know her in other ways, apart from the sex. Maybe with the Friday night dinner party coming up, things could begin to change for us. Maybe the relationship could branch out beyond the physical realm.
But while gazing into those beautiful blue eyes of hers, it had occurred to me that there may not have been much there. She seemed empty in some way. I loved her playfulness and her ribald sense of humor, but there wasn’t much tenderness or real caring between us. It was like she wanted us to become Bonnie and Clyde, the two of us against the world, a world she was madder than hell at.
I wanted to make her pain go away. As I pulled into my driveway I resolved to attempt just that. I wanted to see if there was something else inside of Samantha Fleming that I could touch.
God knows I really wanted that to happen.
13
T
HERE WAS A NOTE on my dining room table. After the day I’d had I wasn’t in the mood to read it. There was nothing Caitlin could have written that was going to bolster my spirits now. I folded the note and slipped it into the back pocket of my blue jeans. I didn’t understand why Caitlin hadn’t left my house key with the note. I decided to call the locksmith in the morning.
Just as I grabbed a beer from the fridge, Sidebottom came blazing through the front door and straight into the kitchen. I hadn’t closed the fridge yet, allowing him to swipe my last brew. Without saying a word he twisted off the top and dashed into the living room, where he quickly settled into my recliner. He flipped on the TV to a late night edition of
SportsCenter
, and then he just sat there with a blank expression.
“What’s on your mind?” I asked him. I sat on the couch and waited for him to respond. He just sat there ignoring me. I drew a sigh, and finally he spoke.
“I want to see if the Magic won,” he said. “Hold on.”
I asked, “Is the cable still out at your place?” He didn’t acknowledge the question. After the Magic highlights were shown Sidebottom turned off the TV.
“Whew,” he said. “They pulled it out. I had money on that game. I scooped up a few hundred bucks, bubba. I’m fat on cash for a while.” He squirmed in the recliner until he was facing me directly. “I’m really catching on to the art of the pickup, but I’ll be damned if it doesn’t cost an arm and a leg to do it.”
I knew without asking where a lot of Sidebottom’s money was going. His hair was actually styled, not at all resembling the unkempt dirty mop it normally did—definitely not the handiwork of a sixteen-dollar-a-cut barber. His teeth were ultra-white, much more so than when I had last seen him. Some miracle of modern science had eliminated the laugh lines and other signs of aging from his mug. And though he’d always worn glasses after dark because of a night vision problem, he didn’t have them on tonight.
He flashed two fingers in front of his eyes and said, “I got my eyes lasered to absolute perfection today.” I then noticed that his fingernails were painted blue. “And yeah, I had my fingernails done—my toes, too. It’s how I start conversations with my targets. How can you
not
talk about something that sticks out like that?”
“Wally, what the hell are you doing here this late? I’m tired.” And I really was. I just wanted to be left the hell alone.
“Sorry,” he said, “but you’re my best bud, and I had to get over here and tell you about my greatest achievement since I started with this. You weren’t answering your phone. Anyway, using all the stuff I’ve learned, I finally closed on a really hot babe tonight. I’m telling you, this girl is about as hot or hotter than any girl I’ve ever seen you with. Within half an hour we were making out, and out in the parking lot I balled the
daylights
out of her.” He leapt from the chair and pumped his fist. “Hot dog! I am walking on air. I outdid you tonight, bubba. I have topped you at long last.”
“I bet this poor girl isn’t nearly as hot as Samantha Fleming,” I cracked. Okay, maybe that was uncalled for, but I wanted to deflate him a bit. He was annoying the piss out of me.
“Sam is like a sister to me,” Wally said defensively. “She doesn’t count.” He sat back down with a pouty look. “Christ, I’d never compare a chick to your sister if you had one. Why can’t you just be happy for me? This is really important stuff. It’s a complete personality makeover. Come on, be happy for me! Everything is falling into place for me. I’m also winning big at the poker games, both the home games we have and over on the reservation. I’m nailing my sports bets too, and now I’ve got the women.”
“You’re on the road to hell,” I said. “You manipulated a girl right out of her panties using your methods.”
“Whoa! Stop right there!” he shouted as he bolted from the recliner. “I remember several years back you did the same thing. I’ll never forget it. There was this beautiful blonde at the bar. She wasn’t giving
anyone
the time of day, and then she just walks over to you and asks for a ride home. Remember? And you nailed her, Smith. You told me so, just like I’m telling you about my proud conquest now.”
“That was a long time ago,” I said. “I wasn’t proud of it then and I’m not proud of it now. Besides, I didn’t do a damned thing but sit there that night and drink beer during a football game. I didn’t employ any tactics or tricks of any sort.”
“Yeah, you’re just a natural,” he said sarcastically. “You always have been.”
I threw up my hands and said, “I’m not in the mood to talk about this. I’m happy that you got laid, Sidebottom. I really am. But I’m tired now and I want to go to bed. I’ll pat you on the back, and then your ass is out of here.”
And then, from out of thin air, Samantha materialized at the entrance to the foyer. She was wearing . . .
pajamas
—red silk pajamas that didn’t prevent her from looking every bit as authoritative and powerful as when she wore anything else.
“Dammit to hell,” I said. “Doesn’t anybody fucking knock anymore?”
Samantha looked sternly at Wally and said, “I told you not to share your victories or setbacks with Smith. He’s not as sexually liberated as you and me.” She snapped her fingers and pointed to the front door. “Out, Walter. We’ll talk tomorrow about the next step in your development.”
And, just like an obedient puppy, Sidebottom dropped his head and sauntered away. On his way out he shouted, “Smith, you owe me an apology,” and then the door slammed shut behind him.
Samantha placed her hands on her hips, and then pointed a finger at me. “You have to get over your sexual hang-ups, Smith. That is my mission in life with you—or at least
one
of my missions with you.”
“I’m not one of your pupils,” I said. “Have a seat, Doc.”
She didn’t budge an inch. She looked really pissed off.
“At least be a gentleman and stand up,” she finally said. “You have the tact of a grapefruit.”
“Samantha,” I said, “I just broke up with someone for insulting me all the damn time. Don’t test my patience right now.” I stood and waved my hand to the couch. “Please, come here and have a seat.”
“I have a bone to pick with you, mister.” She came to the couch and sat next to me and gave me a kiss. Through her silk pajamas I could see that her nipples were erect as two tenpenny nails. It wasn’t cold outside or inside, so I ruled out that possible cause. “Are you going to fuck me?” she asked coldly. “I’m very wet.”
Now I was really pissed off, mainly because I sprouted an instant hard-on, a hard-on that I thought I was too tired to have.
I ran my fingers through my hair and said, “Good God, don’t you ever take a breather from it? Is this the only way you can relate to me?”
She reached for my crotch. I intercepted the advance by grabbing her wrist. I stood and walked over to the recliner and took a seat.
“What’s the bone you have to pick with me?” I asked.
If she was frustrated by my deflection, she didn’t show it. She looked very composed and confident. She was, after all, the most beautiful woman in all of Orlando, and she knew it.
“I don’t appreciate you flipping all the toilet paper rolls in my house to dispense from underneath,” she said. “I had to go to every bathroom and reverse the rolls so that they would dispense from the top. That’s very obsessive-compulsive behavior coming from you, Mr. Smith.”
“You’re the one who’s fucked up about matters pertaining to the toilet,” I said. “You really should go home and flip them back, because it’s supposed to come from the bottom. You can look it up.”
She groaned and shook her head. All it took was a little toilet paper kerfuffle to elicit some real emotion from her.
“What are you going to do about getting a job?” she asked. Suddenly the proper orientation of toilet paper rolls didn’t matter anymore.
I said, “What business is it of yours?” I could feel my blood beginning to boil. I wasn’t in the mood for the bitchy-wife routine.
“You have a combination of education and experience that should serve you very well, even in this job market,” she said. “You have managed IT departments for very large and prominent corporations.”