Just One Night, Part 2: Exposed

by Davis, Kyra

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” I say as I take the keys from his hands.

  “Well, at least you’re not alone.” He pauses before adding, “That girl I cheated on you with is married now, to some other guy who’d worked at my firm. I doubt she ever told him about me. I haven’t seen her in years, but her husband and I travel in the same circles. I hear things. They have a baby now. Apparently she decided that a career in law isn’t her thing. Too much ugliness and aggression. Now she’s running the Sunday school at his church or something.”

  “It sounds like she would have been perfect for you.”

  “Yeah, maybe she would have been.” He meets my eyes. His sadness is mixed with just a little bit of anger and maybe a few spoonfuls of regret. “I picked the wrong woman.”

  I stand outside my car and watch as he walks away, not to the club but toward some other destination. I’ll never know where. The little minutiae of his day-to-day life is now off limits to me. He’s going to become a stranger.

  Maybe he always was.

  I turn my head, not wanting to see the moment when he disappears.

  CHAPTER 13

  I’VE ONLY JUST opened my car door when I hear him call my name. I turn to see Robert striding toward me. “Where is he?” he asks; his voice is steady but I can hear the undercurrent of aggression.

  “He left. Like I said in the text, it’s over.”

  He studies my face then looks around to see if he can spot Dave. “He’s not going to give up so easily.”

  “Nothing about this was easy,” I say.

  “He’ll talk to Freeland. He’s petty like that. You just have to look at him to see it.”

  “ ‘Petty’s the wrong word,” I say but I can’t think of the right one. The only word that comes to mind is lost. “He won’t talk to Freeland.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he’s like the rest of us, guided by self-interest. There’s nothing in it for him anymore. It serves him better to just walk away.”

  Robert shakes his head, unable to accept that any man would so readily accept defeat. The wind blows, making the trees rustle above our heads; leaves fall among the crumbs. Robert looks down and lifts my left hand. “He took the ruby back?”

  “I gave it to him.”

  A flash of approval, maybe even relief. “Let’s go to my place. We’ll order Chinese food and talk. I know you want to trust him, but we have to be prepared.”

  A dry leaf falls on my shoe. The tree doesn’t need it. It has plenty of other greener and healthier leaves to adorn its branches. This leaf here is dead. It must have died on the vine, well before it detached itself.

  But I wonder if the tree will miss it anyway.

  “I think I’d like to spend the night at my place,” I say.

  “All right, I’ve never been to your place—”

  “No, Robert, by myself.”

  For a moment I can see his confidence waiver, he thought my days of pushing him away were over. Maybe they are, but tonight I need to mourn for a relationship that died on the vine.

  I put my hand on his arm. “Monday I’ll come to you, or you can come to me if you like. But I’m tired, Robert, in so many ways. You need to give me a few days to recover.”

  He nods, understanding. “My car’s parked in the lot on the next block. Walk with me there; there’s something I want to give you.”

  I nod and walk by his side. At some point he takes my hand, rubs his thumb back and forth over my bare ring finger. It feels weird, holding hands in public like this. In fact it still feels wrong.

  But how much time have I spent fantasizing about being in a relationship with this man? Sailing away with him, scaling the Mayan pyramids, making love on the floor of the Musée . . . in my mind Robert and I have been a couple for some time now.

  And yet I never imagined us walking down an LA street holding hands.

  “Was Asha a problem today?” he asked.

  “No, not Asha. Today it was Tom who treated me like a hooker.”

  The words came quickly to my lips before my mind had time to engage, before it could remind me of who I was talking to.

  “Tom . . . Love? What did he do?”

  This is a story that needs to be significantly watered down for Robert. I’m not sure why, but I sense that it would be best if I appear unfazed. Unfortunately I can’t repress a shiver when I recall the interaction. “He’s just being Tom, that’s all. Now that he has confirmation about the nature of our relationship, he . . .” My voice trails off as I try to think of the best way to summarize everything.

  “He what?”‘

  “It’s not a big deal,” I say quickly. “It’s just going to take some time to remind him that my personal life is none of his business. I can handle it.”

  Robert’s grip on my hand tightens but he doesn’t say anything. No verbal response is probably the best response I can hope for.

  We reach the parking lot and I break out in skeptical laughter. “This is where you parked your Alfa Romeo 8C Spider?” The lot is a little run down. Cars are tightly packed together, the wind pushes bits of litter over the gravel surface; it does not speak of luxury.

  “I gave the attendant a little something extra to take care of it for me,” Robert says and gestures to the far end of the lot where only one car is parked.

  I try to speculate on how much “a little extra” is and I wonder if it’s necessary. There’s something intimidating about Robert, even when he’s not trying to be. I can’t imagine anyone trying to test him by screwing up his $300,000 car.

  He walks me over and opens the trunk that is about the size of a hatbox. He pulls out a couple of dress shirts, considers them both before handing me one. “Sleep in this until I see you next,” he says. He throws a fleeting look at the lowering sun. “Put it on as soon as you get home. Wear just my shirt, nothing else. Think of me.”

  I take it in my hands, lift it to my nose. It smells slightly of his cologne. I smile my consent. I will sleep in it, and thinking of him has never been a problem.

  He opens the passenger door for me and tells me he’ll drive me back to my car. I begin to protest, telling him that I’d rather walk, but he insists and I give in easily.

  As he starts up the engine I realize that when it comes to Robert, I quite frequently give in easily.

  * * *

  WHEN I FINALLY get home, it feels oddly empty. I have lived alone since college, but before all of this, I was able to fill the empty space with plans and expectations. On the coffee table are travel magazines to help Dave and me plan our next vacation. And there on the wine rack is the bottle of expensive Merlot I planned to bring to a birthday party for one of Dave’s coworkers. Upstairs is a calendar with each day jotted out in perfect detail with lunch meetings and date nights, next to it a list of potential clients I’d like to promote my firm to, earning their business and impressing the partners.

  I still have the things, but they signify nothing. What was once travel research is now just a few periodicals with pretty pictures in them. What was a gift is now just alcohol waiting to be drunk. The calendar of planned days is now just paper filled with useless scribbles.

  Perhaps the list of potential clients is still useful. After all, I’m pretty sure I’m right about Dave. He won’t talk to Freeland. Maybe he was never going to. I don’t think he can face the shame any more than I can. Asha is powerless without Dave’s cooperation. Evil bitch that she is, she’ll probably find somebody more vulnerable to torture. Tom will get himself in line in time, after he sees that I have everything under control. . . .

  . . . except for Robert. I don’t have him under control. And of course I don’t want to control him, but his unpredictability is unnerving. Perhaps I won’t have time to approach new clients. Maybe he’ll give me more and increasingly time-consuming assignments to fill up my days. He could keep m
e tied to him with ropes made of numbers and mergers.

  I’ve draped Robert’s shirt over a dining room chair but I go and pick it up again. I have nightshirts that are more comfortable than this. Later tonight, when I get tired, I’ll change into one of them. He won’t see me in the shirt, so there’s no real need to wear it.

  Put it on as soon as you get home. Think of me.

  My hand goes to the scarf around my neck and I carefully pull it off, drop it on the table . . . a table not so unlike the one at Dave’s house.

  I do it only because my house is warm. I don’t need the scarf. I don’t need the jacket, either. I pull that off as well, drape it over another chair.

  Think of me.

  I had been laid out for him like a feast, right there on Dave’s table. He had run his hands over my body, kissed me, tasted me. . . .

  . . . as soon as you get home. Think of me.

  I unbutton my blouse. I’m alone here. It doesn’t matter.

  He had pinched my nipples, made them reach out for him. My hand goes to my bra.

  Wear nothing else, just my shirt.

  The bra falls to the floor and he’s there. I feel him in the air, hear him in the stillness; I hold the shirt to my face, breathe in the cologne so that now all my senses are engaged.

  I can touch you with a thought.

  Is he thinking of me now? Is that what I’m sensing? Him, reaching across the distance with a fantasy, like some warlock in a fairy tale? I pull off my belt, drape it over my jacket; my fingers fumble with the buttons that hold my slacks to my waist. He guides me, instructs me, compels me to go further.

  Wear just my shirt, nothing else. Think of me.

  I remove my pants; my panties are next; I clutch his shirt in my hand.

  . . . even when I’m nowhere near you I’m inside of you. I can touch you with a thought.

  I feel the throbbing between my legs. Slowly I loosen my grip on the cotton fabric, slip in one arm, then the other. The fabric is light, almost teasing against my skin. Goose bumps rise all over my body. Outside I hear the wind knocking at my windows, clamoring for entry.

  . . . even when I’m nowhere near you I’m inside of you.

  I feel a jolt of electricity, a small spasm. I reach out for the back of the chair for support. My breathing is irregular. It’s just cotton, just the trace of cologne, just the Santa Ana winds clearing away the haze, encouraging the fire.

  Think of me.

  I close my eyes, try to regain my composure. There are things I’m supposed to pack, a loss I’m supposed to mourn. This isn’t right. It’s crazy. He’s not here.

  I can touch you with a thought . . . think of me.

  I lower myself onto the chair, finger the fabric; I can feel him caressing the insides of my thighs, kissing my shoulder. I don’t touch myself. I don’t need to.

  I can touch you with a thought.

  His teeth graze my neck, his hands run down to the small of my back. I slide down farther in my chair, part my legs just enough. His tongue flicks back and forth against my clit, and I let out a tiny gasp as I writhe in my chair, running my hands up and down his shirt.

  Even when I’m nowhere near you I’m inside of you.

  I feel him enter me; my muscles contract as I lose myself in the ghostly fantasy. The wind quietly howls and I part my lips tasting the energy that’s in the air. He surrounds me, overwhelms me.

  Think of me.

  I feel myself on the cusp of losing control. There’s an aching inside of me that’s both erotic and torturous. It seems impossible that I could orgasm without the help of my hands, without his physical presence. But Robert is so much more than the flesh, blood, and muscles that compose him. He’s a force, a phenomenon. He’s power and intrigue, enticement and danger. He licks the hollow of my throat, strokes my thigh.

  Even when I’m nowhere near you I’m inside of you.

  The throbbing intensifies, I arch my back; his tongue is now on my nipples, his hands are in my hair, his erection fills me. Is this really happening to me?

  I can touch you with a thought.

  When the explosion comes, I close my eyes and give in.

  CHAPTER 14

  THE SPELL FADES slowly over the following days. It stays with me in low degrees as I extricate Dave’s life from mine. I put his things in boxes, making sure everything is neat and well folded. I leave it near the foyer but not in it. I don’t want it to look like I’m pushing him out the door. He can take those steps himself. I pull the pictures of us out of frames and put them into photo albums that will be stored in the back of a closet with the old yearbooks and neglected skeletons.

  But my mind’s not fully engaged in the tasks. This was supposed to be a weekend for good-byes, the last nights for reminiscing, nights to indulge light tears and heavy thoughts.

  But the last few nights haven’t been those things, and that bothers me. What bothers me even more is that I’ve worn Robert’s shirt each night. As soon as Los Angeles turns away from the sun, I slip it on. It’s Sunday night and I’m wearing it now. Why is that? Robert’s not calling to check up on me. He hasn’t even sent me a text. Did he ever really expect me to put it on in the first place?

  Yes . . . yes, of course he did. And he knows I’m wearing it now. That’s why he hasn’t called or texted. He doesn’t have to.

  So as I move from room to room in my lover’s shirt, Dave, the man I’ve spent the last six years with, disappears. Like a minor earthquake that briefly wakes you up at five in the morning. You know you felt something but you can’t quite figure out what that something was, or if it was real.

  I don’t think I want to know what that says about me.

  I eat a light meal, try to distract myself with a little TV, open that overpriced bottle of Merlot, and try to become accustomed to the scent of Robert’s cologne.

  It’s almost ten when my phone rings. Something tells me that it’s not Robert even before I look at the screen. But I am surprised when I see Tom Love’s name.

  Ten o’clock on a Sunday night is not an appropriate time for him to call. My eyes scan the room as if looking for a weapon that will reach through a phone line. It’s not until the last ring that I finally pick up.

  “What,” I say in lieu of hello. Really, considering how angry I am with him, it could have been a lot worse.

  “Relax.” Tom’s voice holds the air of bemusement but I don’t sense the smugness he had on Friday. “I’m calling to apologize.”

  “I should have you fired for sexual harassment.”

  “Probably. Look, I don’t always phrase things right. Ambition keeps me moving forward but it can also addle my brain. I get so focused on what’s to come, I don’t think about what I’m saying in the moment.”

  I shift slightly in my seat, hold my tongue, wait for him to get to the point. I’ve worked with Tom long enough to know that if he’s apologizing, there’s something in it for him.

  “It was wrong of me to ask you to continue your affair with Mr. Dade for the sake of the firm and it was ridiculous for me to suggest that you should do it for my sake. I know I could never pressure you into sleeping with someone you don’t want to sleep with, and even if I could, I wouldn’t.”

  “Bullshit.”

  Again a rueful laugh. “I guess I deserve that. But I am sorry for the way I spoke to you. That kind of talk is only appropriate in locker rooms and strip clubs; I should know, I’ve apparently spent enough time in both.”

  I sigh and pick up the remote, slowly scrolling through the news stations, watching with mild interest as they deftly interweave tragedy with entertainment. People die in the Middle East and a European prince wants to introduce an American-style Halloween celebration to the royal family. A man in New York kills his wife and children and Kim Kardashian gets another $600,000 appearance fee. The anchors slip from one story to the next wit
h barely a pause, their smiles and frowns flickering off and on with the rapidity of blinking Christmas tree lights.

  “I would like you to consider something, though,” Tom goes on, insisting on my attention. He’s been talking for a while now, bumbling through various forms of an apology, but nothing he’s said has been remotely as interesting as Kim’s $500 manicure.

  “And what would that be?” I ask with a sigh.

  “Don’t keep your relationship going for the sake of the firm, but don’t end it for the sake of pride. You like him, Kasie. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t have risked so much to be with him.”

  “I took care of Dave,” I say coolly. “Just like I said I would.”

  “So he’s not going to go running to Freeland, crying about his girlfriend cheating on him with the big, bad Mr. Dade? Well done! I underestimated you.”

  “Which is another thing you should apologize for.” I sip my wine. An awkward young anchorman is relaying true stories of Stranger Danger.

  “You’re right, you’re right,” Tom says. “I’m sorry. But that doesn’t change the crux of what I’m saying. No one is making you do anything, but don’t throw an entire relationship away just to make a point.”

  “You’re doing it again,” I say.

  “Doing what?”

  “Underestimating me. Do you really think I can’t see through this? You’re changing your wording, not the message. You want me to keep seeing Robert Dade because it benefits you. My heart is of no interest to you at all.”

  “Now that’s not fair . . . at least it’s not entirely fair. I do want you to enjoy your romance because I like you. My apologies and advice are as legitimate as your accusations and anger. But at some point you’re going to have to accept that we have a symbiotic relationship. If I advise you to follow your heart and you listen, everyone wins. Yes, my motivations are mostly selfish but I don’t see how that changes anything.”

  This is probably as PC as Tom gets. That’s not saying much, but the fact that he’s trying is telling. “You really want more Maned Wolf accounts, don’t you?”