Sex and Death in the American Novel (11 page)

By the time I had three drinks in me, my body moved in fluid motions, one with the air around me, channeling the beat and rhythm of the electronics thudding from the speakers. I pushed through the crowd, past a couple I'd seen there a few times before. Leo was gay, and he lived with a girl he worked with, Kate. It was obvious Kate had a crush on him, dancing as close as she could. Leo, always the gentleman, took her hand and spun her
around. She threw her head back and laughed, then fell into him. He touched his forehead to hers and pushed her back. As she lost herself in the dance, he scanned the crowd for a more interesting dance partner.

I was glad I wasn't attached to anyone; I didn't need anything. I got up on the narrow stage that bordered the dance floor; the fabric of my jacket swirled around me, taking every worry to the floor worry with it.

“Go Flashdance,” Vlad yelled in my ear with his thick Russian accent. He stood before me, working his shoulders in time to the heady beat. His chest was bare, displaying a fully defined set of muscles from stomach to forearms. What a work of art. This was a rare opportunity—usually he was off making out with someone, or surrounded by college boys and girls giggling and pawing. He came close, put his arms around my waist, I continued to sway my hips to the deep, surreal, techno rhythm, lay my head back and let him pull me toward him until our thighs touched. I held myself this way, drinking in the sounds and sensations all around me, opening my eyes to find the same pair of eyes on me, hardly moving. The stranger was in the same position, only he had turned his chair to watch me from this angle. The stage was four feet off the floor—I was higher up now, much closer this time, and saw who it was.

I stopped moving, turning my head to get a better look. I must have been losing my mind, or projecting something from the night's events; the schmuck above me looked just like Jasper Caldwell. I knew it! He was gay. What would he be doing here, didn't he have to go to bed early?

Then I remembered the woman in Montana. No matter, what a rush to have this attention on me, if it was him—fuck it—even if it wasn't. The fantasy was fun anyway.

Maybe he was a masochist and enjoyed having women scream at him. How had he found me here if that was the case? I remembered Barbara watching me, but didn't know what she would gain from bringing him here. I felt the small glow one feels when someone says something that makes sense, and you don't want to admit you like to hear it. Part of me wanted to get away, flip him off, go up there and tell him off, but I was feeling too good.

Vlad held me in front of him, and my thighs were screaming from holding myself back this far. I held tighter to his thick arms and pulled myself up as slowly as I could. Cool air washed across my stomach. My top had fallen back and the skin was exposed. Vlad wrapped one arm around my back, then with one hand traced his forefinger along the line of my pants, sending a lazy zing of sensation from my groin to my toes and back again.

A hard beautiful man held me and I was the center of the universe. Unlike these situations with straight men, I didn't have to feel guilty for giving them the wrong idea or anything else that would justify them being
an asshole later on. I straightened the rest of the way up, in time to the beat of the vaguely Latin rhythm until we were both face to face, still feeling the eyes on the back of my head. I slid my arms around Vlad's slick shoulders, moving behind so that I could now face the form watching me from above.

I bore my eyes into the darkness above me. Then when a song came on that I loved from years ago, I broke my gaze and danced with abandon, movement coming from my waist, dictating the movements of the rest of my limbs. At some point Vlad slipped away, and I was on my own again.

For what could have been hours but felt like minutes, I was completely lost. There was nothing like this. A warm pair of hands wrapped around my ankles, I tilted my head down and saw Eric below me motioning with his hand in front of his mouth like he was holding a drink.

The back of my throat and tongue ached, I was actually parched. I hopped down and followed him over to the bar. The crowd had thinned considerably; we only had to wait five minutes. There were tables available, at last. We brought our waters and drinks and, for the first time in hours, I sat. I leaned forward and opened my mouth to tell him that I thought Jasper was here, but at the last minute I decided to keep quiet. He might feel the need to drag me out of there before I did something rash. The specific thought of doing something rash was what lent a special charge to the air. Maybe I could drink enough to give me the guts to tell him to his pale face what I thought of him again, or figure out what he was doing there. Was he plotting something I needed to worry about? I felt a strong surge of excitement at the thought that I didn't care.

After finishing my water in one long, cold gulp, I went back and got another. When I looked back to the table, Eric was making circles in the air, he was ready to go. I thought about my project up in the balcony. I turned my head and my heart sank, the chair he had been sitting in was abandoned, empty, dark…in fact, the entire floor was empty.

I inclined my head toward him, agreement, and then saw a familiar figure leaning against the wall, beside the stairs. One skinny leg was hooked over the other, and his arms hung loose making him seem totally defenseless and the farthest thing from threatening I could imagine. As I watched, he crossed his arms over his front, grasped the bottom of his sweater and pulled it over his head, leaving him with just his sensible dress shirt.

Shaking my head at Eric, I leaned over and said, “Head home kiddo, I'll be here awhile.” He looked disappointed though not surprised.

Eric put his arms around me, held me for a minute, then kissed me on the neck. “Be careful, sweetie.” As Lady GaGa began the vocal lead up to “Bad Romance,” Eric walked away with his head down like he had failed at something.

I moved out to the dance floor. Vlad was still there, as were Leo and a new male friend. I closed my eyes and spun around with my hands above my head. When I opened my eyes, there was Jasper Caldwell, not six inches from my face. I faced him, then turned in a slow circle, inviting him to come closer, though he did not at first. Was he shy, or working some angle? I fell back into my usual rhythm, hands slipping together, running along the length of my forearm, then down to my hips, absorbing the throbbing beat, moving through me, changing me, making me something other: something better, something strange, different, and wonderful.

Dancing to loud music, the right music, was better than sex. A techno-enhanced female voice and the heavy beat pulsed and throbbed through every part of me, hoping the night would never end. I was on fire when the lights shone down on me, and my arms raised above my head, I felt free, so free, just me, nothing holding me back, just rhythm, bass and the limits of my physical strength.

A tentative hand rested on my waist, I did not turn but moved beneath it. His hand was enormous. Pushing beyond a flutter of nerves, I wound my hand over his and entwined my fingers into his, and pulled away when the rhythm got stronger. He followed; I came closer, and at intervals dictated by the music, I pulled away then came back. I placed my hands on his shoulders and circled him, grazing his legs with my hips, arms, and once swept my breasts across his back. When I did this, he tipped his head backward, eyes closed, and a current ran through my body.

The music slowed; I came closer, from behind him, his dark hair inviting me to hide my face there for a moment, the skin at his temples only beginning to wet from his exertions, reminding me how soaked I was. He leaned far back to rest his head on my shoulder; with my fingertip I traced his mouth in one swift movement, then twisted around, touching his forehead with mine, making real contact. He moved forward, following me, chasing me, moving me now with those long-fingered hands, his grip sure on my hips, and sometimes moving up my ribs before I twisted away with a smile.

After some time, he craned his head toward the bar, and I followed. I started off with three waters, getting an impressed noise from him as he watched me gulp it down. We sat and sipped our virgin drinks—basically lemonade—more slowly. It was well after the last call.

He leaned into me, his smell clean, quite a feat for this place especially after dancing this long. “Smoke?”

“Sometimes,” I answered.

I finished my drink and followed him outside, the walls in the alley brightly lit, a different atmosphere from the dark safety inside. A small, dark
man and a tall woman in a red dress were making out in between drags on a cigarette the woman held.

Jasper pulled out a pack of cigarettes, a brand I wasn't familiar with. He lit one and held it out to me and I took it. I eyed the filter end before I took a long drag. He lit another.

“What?” he asked.

“Looking for the dollar sign.”

He furrowed his brow before he smiled at the reference to
Atlas Shrugged
.

We smoked in silence before he said, “Did it help you any to tell me off tonight?”

My mouth went dry. “Yep,” I croaked, hating that the real world had begun to push into my late-night odyssey. I wished my weird dreamlike state would not end yet.

I hoped my eyes communicated the right level of pleading and bravado when I said, “There is still another hour until this place closes.”

He looked at his watch and then studied the grimy brick across the alley. After a moment he looked back to me, eyes resting on my face.

He smoked and I held his gaze, eyes dark like deep inside a Montana forest. Here he was relaxed and this made him much more appealing. I wondered what he would look like in black leather.

We smoked some more, then I took his hand and led him back inside. I could tell he was making an effort for me—I didn't care, I was having fun. When they finally turned the lights up, Jasper didn't let my hand go after the last of the music faded away. “Want to go somewhere else?”

Planting one foot in front of me, I leveled a stare at him.

“So I can talk to you.”

We grabbed a cab and rode over to 13 Coins, a diner that stayed open late. I loved this place with its high-backed chairs and enormous windows that reflected the streetlights outside and gave the illusion that we were up high.

He slid into a large booth next to me and we looked over the heavy, leather-padded menus in companionable silence. After five hours of hard dancing, I was famished.

We ordered, then I adjusted myself in the booth so I could face him. “So what's with the whole OCD deal before you give your talks? And why are you recycling old speeches? My dad at least had the gumption to get Mom to think up something new for him.” In a fit of weird intimacy that comes with spending the night sweating all over someone, I added while leaning toward him over the table, “And what's it like to have some psycho chick blaming you for all her family's problems?”

He paused, opened his mouth and stopped. I smiled at him, knowing how ridiculous I sounded, firing questions off without giving him a chance to respond. All the better to avoid the excruciatingly painful silence I knew would fall otherwise.

“First,” he began with a smile, “I get nervous. You try being up there in front of that many people, in a concert hall no less.”

He wanted a laugh. I didn't give him one. It was more fun to watch him squirm. There is nothing more invigorating than watching a man in this state and knowing I am the cause of it. A worm at the end of my psychic hook. I could almost smell the anxiety coming off of him. He broke the gaze and pulled the napkin off the table and took a sip of water.

I crossed my hands in front of my face and waited for him to continue.

“As for the second question: I was wiped out, long plane ride, and I somehow managed to delete the only copy I had of the speech I had prepared. The best I could do was pull up that old one.” He made an apologetic smile. “Jet lag. I've been going nonstop for weeks. I wish I had something better to say to you.”

Seeing him as open as he possibly could be made my brash attitude seem all the more tired. I missed how it was before on the dance floor. No words, just eyes and hands, and the feel of his breath against the back of my neck.

I held his eyes when I said, “At least you type your own stuff…write your own speeches.”

“Who doesn't?”

“My father didn't.”

“And who was your father?”

“Sebastian Post. He won a Pulitzer prize…”

Jasper leaned toward me, put his elbows on the table to match my posture, and leaned around his arms to address me. “Wow.” Then he said, “Fairly common though from what I hear, with those older guys I mean. I heard about one big old writer whose wife hashed out all his novels with him and typed them up.”

“Never in a million years would he have given her credit on the front of the book though.”

He was close enough for me to smell him again, my faint perfume now mingled with his sweat. I imagined I could feel his warm breath against my forearms as he spoke. I leaned back, considered what to say next.

“So you're here,” I said, and unrolled my napkin and placed it in my lap.

He started to rearrange himself, running his hand through his hair, examining the palm of his hand as if he'd found something fascinating there.

“I had no idea that that guy standing there with all those papers and books was the son of Sebastian Post. You know I used to copy your father's sentence constructions, when I was first learning.”

I winced, unsure what direction the wind of my reaction would blow. Should I be understanding or cold and impassive? I kept my tone even, “Should it have mattered who was standing there?”

“Of course not.”

“Tristan said you were chasing tail and that's why you blew him off. He thought he understood you. He wasn't anything like my father, except for that part. He knew how to chase girls. He had charisma; he was funny and knew all the right things to say…most of the time.”

Jasper looked up, then smiled, and looked down again, scooted forward in his seat. “Yeah.” He shook his head. “You can blame me for that.” He tried a soft laugh. “Slept in the next morning to make matters worse, right? I am not proud of myself.”