CURSING FLUENTLY, PATRICK THREW THE QUILT
over me to protect what modesty I had left—very little—and leaped to his feet. Even then I noticed the beauty of his lean wiry body, the sway of his half-erect cock.
Next to the mirror was a door, which was now half-open, and a dozen or so masked people spilled into the room.
“Nice job,” Harry said again. “Very nicely done, Jo. I—”
I didn’t even see Patrick hit him, just heard a strange, fleshy thump and Patrick standing where Harry had been.
In some sort of gesture of support for Patrick, I rolled off the bed and moved to his side.
He turned on me. “Get away from me!” And then to the people in the room, “Get the fuck out!”
He thought I’d set him up. “Patrick, I didn’t—”
“Shut up.” He pulled on his pants and shirt. I looked on helplessly as he grabbed his jacket and backpack, and shoved his feet into his shoes. In a very short time he’d left the room.
Harry got to his feet and sat on the bed. One eye was swelling up. “Your boyfriend is quite the caveman, honey.”
“I trusted you!” I was wearing a garter belt and stockings, I had semen trickling down my leg and I was close to tears, but so angry I didn’t care. “You asshole! You lied to me!”
One of the women handed Harry a handful of ice from the ice bucket for his eye and snuggled beside him, her hand on his thigh. He shrugged. “The Association comes first, Jo. One of the things I like about you is how trusting you are. Mild bondage and no protection for your first fuck with the Irishman—nicely done. I’ve never heard someone use their safe word for their partner not to use a condom, though. That was a first.”
Someone placed something warm and soft on my shoulders, one of the bathrobes the room had provided. The simple act of civility made my eyes sting and water. I struggled to get my arms into the sleeves, the belt tied. “Will you please all go away?”
“Come on, Jo, don’t be a silly girl,” Harry said.
Another couple settled on the bed, the woman on the man’s lap, her skirt pulled up around her waist. Dimly, I realized they were fucking.
“Wow, look at this,” Harry said, unfastening his pants and exposing his erect cock. “Who’s gonna help out with this one? Jo?”
The woman who’d brought him the ice dropped to her knees to service him.
A guy settled into the armchair to watch, cock in hand.
“Harry,” I said. “This is it. I’m leaving the Association. I never want to hear from you or your friends again. You’ve fucked me over one too many times.”
“Point taken,” Harry said, breathing heavily, his hands on the woman’s head.
I pushed aside another couple fucking against the wall to grab my backpack and left the room. Outside the corridor was quiet and empty. The door closed behind me with a click. The next door stood open and I caught a glimpse of their viewing room, the air heavy with the scents of sweat and semen, and wineglasses and a few garments discarded on the floor. And the two-way mirror inside revealed a roiling mass of half-naked, entwined bodies.
Most of the mirrors are two-way…
Too late I remembered what Mr. D. had told me. How stupid I’d been.
I unfastened my garter belt and rolled the stockings down, kicking them away, then pulled out the jeans and sweater and underwear I’d packed for the next day from my backpack. I dropped the bathrobe and dressed, then retreated into the corridor, closing the door and shutting off the sights and sounds. As I crouched to tie the laces of my sneakers the first tear rolled from my eye.
“Jo.” The voice was deep, familiar. Once it had been the dearest voice in the world to me.
“Fuck you.” I swiped the tears away and stood to face him. “It was you who put the robe on me, wasn’t it?”
He bowed his head in acknowledgment.
Face to face with Mr. D. The moment I’d yearned for and feared. Now I felt only a weary despair.
He handed me a handkerchief of crisp, folded cotton. Old school. I looked at him, at the man who’d fed my fantasies and kept my secrets (had he?) for so long. I knew his voice, I’d seen him that time before to know that he was tall and slender with dark hair flecked with silver. He was unmasked, his eyes deep brown under straight black brows, his skin slightly olive. He was handsome, his bones beautiful and sharp, wonderful cheekbones and a slightly aquiline nose. Not young, pushing fifty, but the lines around his eyes gave his beauty depth and mystery.
And yet, he left me unmoved.
I spoke first. “Don’t tell me you thought I knew. Don’t insult my intelligence.”
“I’ve caused you pain. I cannot tell you how sorry I am.”
“Then don’t even try.” I picked up my backpack and swung it over my shoulder. Too late, I remembered my down coat was inside the room, probably being used as a surface for some enthusiastic screwing.
“Jo,” he said, “don’t you even want to know how our story ends?”
His gentle words hit me where I was raw. I leaned my face against the wall and cried for all I’d lost—Mr. D. and Patrick, everything, even that blob of bloody tissue I’d bled out a year ago.
He had the sensitivity to not attempt to comfort me or touch me. He stood waiting until I’d finished and had scrubbed black smears from my eyes into his pristine handkerchief.
“Our story?” I said. “Not mine. It was your story, you were the storyteller all along but I couldn’t see it. I was just a—a thing to be manipulated.”
“Jo, don’t.” He reached out a hand to me.
“Okay,” I said. “Okay, you tell me how
your
story ends. Meet me on Tuesday at four at the Brown Palace Hotel in Denver. No secrecy, no hidden agenda, no clowns tumbling out from closets or mirrors, just you and me. And that’s an end to it.”
I turned and walked away. I hoped he wouldn’t follow. I took the elevator down to the kitchen, where I called for a ride home, the numbness settling in again. There was no sign of Patrick and I didn’t feel strong enough to face him even though I hoped he’d got home safely.
The night air was freezing, the stars obscured by cloud. Too cold for snow, and dark, so dark. I stepped into the limo and was joined by three people whom I recognized from the Great Room, but whose names I didn’t remember. They took little notice of me, but huddled together, whispering and kissing. I took refuge in the cowl neck of my sweater and leaned my forehead against the glass, arms wrapped around myself for comfort. I dozed a little on the drive back into town, blocking out the moans and sighs produced by my companions.
At my house a light burned in the apartment. Patrick was home. I unlocked the front door and walked into the house, dropping my backpack on the floor. I would have liked Brady to run to me so I could pick him up and hold him, take comfort in the soft touch of his fur and his purring, heavy warmth. But the house was empty and quiet.
I went into the kitchen and turned on the faucet.
“So you’re home.”
I was so startled to hear Patrick’s voice that I almost dropped my glass in the sink. I hadn’t even seen him sitting quietly on the window seat, with faithless Brady on his lap.
“Why are you sitting in the dark?” I said carefully. I hadn’t expected Patrick to be around and I certainly hadn’t thought he would sound so calm. I expected anger, resentment, harshness. I reached for the light switch.
“Don’t turn on the light.”
“Okay.” I sat at the table with my glass of water. “How did you get home?”
“I asked the guys in the kitchen and they called for a ride for me.”
“I’m glad you’re safe.”
“I’m not sure I am.” I shivered at the chill in his voice. “I had unprotected sex with a woman who invited me to a sex club without telling me that’s what it was.”
“You’re okay,” I said. “I—”
“You seem very sure of that. I can’t be.” He shifted and Brady dropped to the floor and made his way over to his food dish.
“I didn’t know they were watching. I swear it. I did not set you up, Patrick.”
A long silence. “I’d like to believe it. Maybe tomorrow I will. I don’t know. What else haven’t you told me about, Jo?” I didn’t get a chance to think of something to say before he said, “Good night,” and started to walk out of the kitchen. In the doorway, he stopped. “How many of those guys have you fucked, or can’t you remember?”
And he walked out, leaving me speechless, hurt by the venom in his voice but knowing he was right. He had no reason to trust me, no particular reason to believe anything I might say now, having left so much unsaid. I listened to the sound of him going up the stairs and into the apartment, the rattle as he locked the door.
I couldn’t blame him for trying to hurt me, but I wished he hadn’t.
I didn’t sleep well that night and finally at six in the morning, when it was not quite light outside, and I had tossed and turned enough, I sent Patrick a text message.
Talk to me?
I showered and put on jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. I ached a little from the sex with Patrick last night, which made me feel extraordinarily sad since I didn’t know whether it would ever happen again. I hadn’t realized how much I’d strained and pulled, first against the restraint, and then to urge myself to an orgasm.
I didn’t look at my cell until after I was dressed, and to my relief there was an answer:
OK.
Not the most eloquent response, and there was little I could read into that terse reply, but at least he was willing to talk, even if it was only to break up with me. I knew it was more than likely.
I went into the kitchen and brewed coffee as a peace offering, then returned upstairs with mugs and the coffeepot and cream. I wedged the tray on my hip as I knocked on the door.
“It’s open. Come in.”
Patrick sat at one of his computers, tapping away at the keyboard. “Let me finish this.”
I unloaded the tray and sat, waiting for him to finish. When he spun around in his chair I was shocked at how tired he looked, eyes reddened and shadowed, face unshaven. I suspected I didn’t look much better. I’d avoided the mirror that morning. He accepted a mug of coffee with a half smile and a nod.
I wondered what I would say to him, but he spoke first. “You look like hell.”
“So do you.”
“I’ve got a hangover. It’s my own bloody fault. I shouldn’t drink. Anyway.” He stared into his mug and then at me. “So here’s where I stand. I’m in love with you. I feel a right idiot for not realizing the Association was a sex club—can you believe a woman asked me at dinner what I was into and I told her I liked jazz? Why didn’t you tell me, Jo? I might have gone along with some sort of group thing if you’d wanted me to. Your turn.”
“I swear, I didn’t realize we’d be the floor show and I’m sorry to have embarrassed you.” I was crying again. I wiped my face on my sleeve. “I loved making love with you. I hate to think we’ll never do it again. I’m so sorry. I’m leaving the Association and that’s nothing to do with you and me. I’d decided the Association wasn’t a smart thing for me to do even before I knew I was in love with you, but I honestly thought last night would be okay.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, don’t cry.” He swooped down from his perch at the computer and put his arms around me. “Don’t, you’ll start me off. I’m a terrible weeper. I feel so stupid. All those hints people kept dropping about ‘seeing us later’ that I didn’t catch on to. And I shouldn’t have walked out on you.”
“It’s okay. Nothing happened.” I sniveled against his chest. “I had—have—some unfinished business there, with the guy who got me into the Association. He’s my complicated love life. He was someone I met on the phone. We used to have phone sex when I was at the station, late at night.”
“Jesus Christ,” Patrick said. He rubbed his face against my hair. “Please tell me it wasn’t Harry or Jake.”
“No. It wasn’t Willis, either, though I did screw him.” I felt sick just saying that. “I think Harry will have a really horrible black eye today.”
“Good. About the black eye, not Willis.” He continued to hold me, but reached for his coffee mug. “So what happens now?”
“I don’t know. Are we breaking up?”
“Maybe we should.”
“I’ll tell you—” I wanted to say I’d tell him the whole story but I wasn’t sure I was ready for that, not so soon after last night.
“I don’t want confessions. I can’t give you absolution. You figure it out on your own, Jo.” He looked angry now and released me, stepped away and banged his coffee mug down onto the counter.
That riled me. I stepped forward and took his face between my hands, his stubble harsh against my palms, and we kissed and kissed. I was terrified and elated, full of desire and anger.
We drew apart and he stared at me, shaking his head. “I don’t think we’re breaking up, are we?”
“No.”
“Come here.” He drew me to him and we shared a sweet, coffee-flavored kiss that sizzled all the way through me, as though now we spoke a different language with our kisses. I stroked the columns of muscle on his back and delved beneath the waistband of his jeans to clutch his butt.
“I’m going to make you come and come.” He sucked at my neck, my collarbone, while his hands cupped my breasts. His erection pressed against my belly.
He led me to his bed, where we stripped off each other’s clothes with fumbling urgency. This was much more like a first time, a discovery of each other’s skin and textures and sensitivities by daylight on a rumpled bed. We were clumsy and shy with each other, aware of the fragility of our truce and the damage we might have done. No fancy underwear today—both of us sported faded cotton, mine rather ragged, his boxers crumpled—and no elaborate choreography. Or not yet.
We kissed and touched and stroked. He didn’t go down on me, and I didn’t ask. I wanted his lips and breath, the closeness of being face-to-face, the intimacy of whispering words of love into each other’s mouths. When he slipped a finger between my legs I opened to him and loved the small sound he made in his throat as he felt how wet I was. He did something magical and extraordinary with two fingers in me—I think—and his thumb on my clit. I came while he laughed softly, and as the spasms died away he put those two fingers into my mouth. I sucked his fingers, tasting myself on him.