He was still there when I woke, and I found out that I was to go home as soon as the doctor returned to sign the necessary paperwork. It was now nine in the morning and I discovered an inventory of damage in addition to my fractured arm. A knee that sported an ice pack, and strained muscles and scrapes. After another hour or so, armed with a list of instructions and a bottle of painkillers, we left.
“I told them I’d look after you,” Patrick said, helping me into the car.
“Why?”
He shrugged and didn’t say a word until we reached the house. The storm had passed and the sky was a miraculous bright blue, burning the ice away. “It’s so beautiful,” I said, overcome with happiness and relief. Across the road, my neighbors, installing a string of lights around the eaves of the house, waved. “And look, holiday decorations already!”
“Glad you’re enjoying the pain med,” Patrick said. He unlocked the front door. “Do you want to lie on the sofa or would you like to go to bed?” He looked away as he said it.
“I want a shower.”
He nodded and went into the kitchen muttering about plastic wrap.
The benefits of the shower—cleanliness, heat—were outweighed by my clumsiness and the discovery that even simple tasks were complicated and painful. By the time I’d managed to put on about the only thing I could wear—a short-sleeved cotton shirt and a pair of sweatpants (no way would I parade around in my skivvies with Patrick in the house)—I was exhausted again.
Patrick had changed the sheets, to my chagrin; the bedroom was a mess, with clothes dropped where I’d removed them that week and various plates and mugs around the room. He presented me with a bowl of oatmeal and brown sugar but all I wanted to do was sleep, my injured arm resting on its own pillow. He was reserved but kind in a way that made me think he’d much rather be elsewhere, and I woke up later in the day, horrified at how much my arm hurt, to find Kimberly there.
She handed me pain pills and a glass of water. “Why didn’t you call me for a ride home? I would have driven in the ice for you.”
“You won’t even drive in snow,” I said.
“For you, I would. You scared me half to death!”
“I’m sorry. And thanks. Thanks for everything this week.”
“When I said we should do something fun this weekend I didn’t mean this.” She gestured at my arm. “I’ll fix you something to eat.”
“You don’t have to. I’ll be real happy when the pain med kicks in, but it makes me a little nauseated and I can’t eat.”
“You must eat. Don’t be dumb. And before you ask, Patrick went home. He’ll be back tomorrow. Now you come downstairs with me and I’ll fix us dinner and we’ll watch a movie. I’ve brought us ice cream because you need the calcium for your arm.”
I obeyed. I didn’t have much choice and although I fell asleep halfway through the movie, I liked having her there.
But I was tired of hurting and being looked after and the prospect of several days of being helpless and needing assistance with such simple tasks as squeezing the toothpaste out of the tube made me feel even worse. And I hated the idea of Patrick seeing me helpless and needy and miserable; he hadn’t been Mr. Sunshine himself, and I could hardly blame him.
He arrived the next morning after Kimberly had loaded me and my arm—I was beginning to think of it as an entity in its own right—into the bathtub to wash my hair. I was appalled at my bruises, sporting all the colors of the rainbow, which I was able to see in the bright morning light coming in through the skylights. I’d never appreciated those skylights before, since I was so rarely awake at this time of day, and I suspect the pain med added to my appreciation.
I retired to bed with ginger ale and a book and Brady asleep next to me. Downstairs Kimberly and Patrick talked and then I heard the front door open and close.
Patrick came up the stairs bearing a briefcase and a bouquet of Shasta daisies. “Oh, those are pretty,” I said. “Thanks.”
“From Elise. Can I get you anything?” He put the vase of flowers down and shifted from one foot to another.
“No thanks.”
“I brought some work.” He nodded at the briefcase.
“Use my desk if you like.”
“Thanks.” He sat down and opened his laptop, putting a thumb drive in the side.
“What are you working on?”
He stopped and looked at me. “Where’s your purse?”
“Over there. Why?”
He brought the purse over to me. “Okay. Give me a dollar.”
“Why?” I asked again.
“If I’m to represent you I need a retainer.”
“Represent me?”
He pulled the Association’s letter, now battered and creased from its sojourn in the bottom of my backpack, from a manila folder. “This is total bullshit as you probably know, but you need someone who can speak their language to get them off your back. Now give me a dollar.”
I fumbled my billfold open and handed him a dollar. “Thank you.”
I should have sounded more grateful. He nodded and shoved the dollar into his jeans pocket. “I’ll be coming to that meeting tomorrow although I’ll try to get them to postpone it until you’re feeling a bit better.”
“I feel fine,” I lied.
He reached for a yellow legal pad and a pen from his briefcase and sat on the chair at my desk. “Tell me about it. Tell me everything.”
“About the Association?”
“Yes. How you got involved. Who, when, where. Everything.”
I talked. I told him what I probably should have told him when we were first involved, only now I was a client talking to her lawyer and that made me tremendously sad. At the same time I was ashamed, having to recite a list of my adventures.
Now and again he would stop me and ask a question. With your consent? The names of the people watching? Did they warn you what would happen if you refused? How many times? Whose suggestion was that?
His pen moved across the pad, paper rustling as he flipped to another page.
He stopped writing. “The binder of rules. Do you have it here?”
“No, it’s in my locker.”
“Ah, that’s a pity. Go on.”
I finished at the point where he and I had been invited to dinner.
He nodded, and flipped back through his notes. “You mentioned a car outside the radio station, several times, and last night you said a car ran you off the parking lot. I don’t suppose you know what sort of car it is? Color? You don’t happen to have a photographic memory and can tell me the license plate number?”
“Sorry, no. You don’t think they were threatening me, do you?”
“It’s a possibility. Showing their muscle. Probably nothing I can use.” He laid the yellow pad down. “Why did you do it, Jo?”
He meant Mr. D. “It was like a journey or a story. It had to have an ending. We’d been very close and it was a farewell. That sounds dumb but it made sense at the time.”
He was quiet for a time. Then, back to being brisk and impartial again, “Okay, is there anything more?”
I shook my head. “I need to take my pain med.”
I gripped the bottle of pills between my knees so I could open it with one hand, picked one out and spilled them over the bed.
“Oh, Jesus,” Patrick said and sat on the bed, the vibration traveling straight up my arm.
“Stop it!” I said, reacting to yet another helping hand, but immediately regretted it.
He ignored me and retrieved the pills. His hands shook.
“Patrick, I’m sorry. Are you okay?”
He shook his head, took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. His voice was strained when he spoke. “I can’t bear to be around you but there’s nowhere else I’d rather be. It hurts so damn much, Jo, and that’s the truth.”
“Patrick.” I touched his shoulder and he flinched.
“I—I’m sorry,” I said. “You’ve been so generous and I’m grateful and…”<
br />
“But you don’t love me.”
“Is that really what you think?”
“I don’t know.” His eyes were reddened and he scrubbed at them fiercely. He sat, elbows on his knees, staring at nothing.
I leaned back against my pillows and forced myself not to cry. Yes, I loved him, but it was too late. Maybe.
I touched his shoulder again. “Patrick, make love to me.”
28
“ARE YOU INSANE?” PATRICK SAID.
My face grew hot. “Oh, forget it. I—”
“You’re out of your mind on narcotics. You can barely walk. You have a broken wrist in a cast you’re supposed to keep in that sling.”
“So?” I pushed. “You have something against sex with people with handicaps, or is it just me?”
To my relief his mouth turned up into a reluctant smile. “Heck, I suppose we could manage.”
Thank God. I didn’t realize how tense I’d been. “That’s real big of you, counselor, although I should warn you I have some spectacular bruises.”
“This is grossly improper professional behavior.” My lawyer pulled his sweater over his head. He unzipped his jeans. “Do you need some help with your clothes?”
I wriggled out of my sweatpants and began the arduous, delicate task of unfastening the sling and easing off my shirt. I settled my wrist on a pillow. “Will you kiss me? Please?”
Kissing him was like coming home, sweet and poignant and then hot and sexy, and my whole body, despite the drugs, fired into life, every nerve ending flaring. It did occur to me that the painkillers, which I was enjoying despite the vaguely seasick sensation that accompanied them, might well be helping things along. But mostly it was Patrick, Patrick kissing me and exclaiming over my bruises and touching me only the way he could.
“Wait.” He reached into my bedside table, a lucky guess, and found my supply of condoms.
I didn’t argue with him as he ripped open a foil package. Mr. D. and I had used protection but Patrick was justified in not asking me, or worse, not believing me. Not with my track record.
We settled on an awkward sideways spooning position, which, as Patrick pointed out, would hardly bother me at all.
I gasped, caught between pain and desire, and yelped as he slid home. He barely moved, but let me set the pace.
“Do you like this?” He touched my breasts.
“Yes, more.”
“This?” He reached for my clit. Then, “Did he do this, Jo? Did you like it?”
“Don’t.” I couldn’t bear the sadness in his voice.
“Did he stroke your nipples? Pinch them?” His face was wet against my shoulder. “Did he tell you how pretty your breasts are?”
“Please don’t.” I started to cry, too.
Somehow I expected him to be rough—as punishment or just deserts or something—but he wasn’t. We moved together very gently at first, but restraint and caution added an erotic charge and we broke through into a place where nothing else mattered but touch and friction and heat.
I told him I loved him when I came.
He slid his cock out of me and reached for a tissue. “I’m not sure whether that was the best or the worst sex I’ve ever had.”
“Thanks.”
He sighed and rested his face against the back of my neck. “There’s something I should tell you. I slept with Elise again.”
“You bastard,” I said, without much conviction. “I suppose you’re telling me to hurt me? What’s good for the goose, or whatever?”
“I guess so. It was pretty bad. I don’t think we’ll ever do it again. She faked an orgasm.”
“Too much information, Patrick.”
“I faked an orgasm, too.”
I started to laugh and wished I hadn’t as it vibrated down my arm and wrist. “That’s pathetic, Patrick. If you were going to screw someone else you should have enjoyed it.”
“You should know,” he said.
“Listen.” I turned to face him as much as I could without moving my arm. “I know what I did was unforgivable. I’m sorry. But I can’t keep on apologizing forever and you can’t keep sniping at me forever.”
“I know.” He cleared his throat. “You know, I’m jealous. Not of this Mr. D. guy so much, but of all the stuff you did. The group sex and so on. I don’t know whether I could be that adventurous or brave.”
“Or dumb.”
“I suppose so. I mean, the kinkiest thing I’ve ever done is jerk off over you and I feel embarrassed about that still. I’ve never even had phone sex. That’s why I held off on real fucking with you, because I suspected you were way more advanced than I was.”
“There was the anal and the mild bondage with you, if it makes you feel better.”
He scowled. “Yeah. Mild. I feel inadequate.”
“You’ve no need to feel inadequate,” I said, and now I was the one sniping at him. “And when you ask me for reassurance about your sexual prowess, I feel like you’re setting me up, so cut it out.”
“Okay.” He moved away from me and we lay in silence for a little while.
“I think I’ll make us a bacon sandwich,” Patrick said.
I wasn’t hungry but I accepted. We had a truce; a fragile one, but I had no idea what would happen next. Maybe it was too late.
Neil called me first thing the next morning and sounded almost like a human being—too little, too late. I had the distinct impression Kimberly was standing in front of him, holding up cue cards. He knew about my massive indiscretion, of course.
“You’re on YouTube,” he said.
“Really?” I hoped he’d tell me what sort of video footage they’d used but he didn’t go into details.
“I’m sorry to see you go, but it’s really best under the circumstances, even though we seem to have had very little listener feedback, and not all of it was negative. Some listeners suggested we have more radio drama.”
I made a neutral noise.
“Or call-in shows,” Neil continued. He cleared his throat. The “show sympathy” cue card seemed to be on display. “I’m very sorry to hear about your accident.”
“I’m doing fine. The doctor said it’s a clean break and should heal well.” I ignored the mean thought that Neil was probably immensely relieved the accident had not happened on station property.
“And we’re giving you three months’ severance pay. You’ve been with the station a long time and you’ve done a stellar job. I appreciate you leaving things in such good shape. Your numbers were remarkably good for a late-night classical music show.”
“Thanks. That’s very generous.” I hung up the phone and limped into the bathroom to clean up for the Association meeting, which Patrick had managed to postpone until four that afternoon. I was getting better, it was true. I no longer walked like a ninety-year-old. I walked like a sixty-year-old with a bad knee. In addition, looking at Patrick, who was wearing only boxers and sporting a burgeoning erection, I feared we were both developing an odd sort of fetish for plastic wrap.
He washed my hair with gentle efficiency and helped me dry off. All quite friendly and asexual apart from his hard-on, which we both ignored.
Back in the bedroom I viewed the black skirt suit he’d picked out for me with some trepidation. How on earth would I manage the zipper? And a bra? I rummaged one-handed in my underwear drawer and picked out some nice conservative underwear—cream lace—and a matching bra. And pantyhose, I’d need pantyhose, but the only pair in there had a massive hole. I threw them into the trash and picked out a pair of black thigh-highs.
“I’m afraid I’ll need some help dressing.”
Patrick, in shirt and boxers, sighed heavily. “If I must.”
“Look, I’m halfway there.”
“You are? You look pretty much naked to me.”
“I am wearing panties. That’s not naked. You need to fasten the bra and I can do the stockings but the zipper on the skirt—”
“Okay, okay. In less than an hour I have to play a
ttorney and I’d rather not do it in this condition.”
“Is that some kind of hint?”
“Cover up and I should be fine.” He stepped into his pants and zipped them up.
I’d never realized how sexy being dressed could be. Undressing, well, that was obvious, but this had the mild perversity of covering up rather than revealing. I noticed Patrick’s hands lingered on my thighs as he pulled up the stockings, although he lectured me about not flashing anyone. “And you must keep your mouth shut, please. Let me talk. No smart-ass comments and no smiling.” He frowned at my high heels. “No, not fuckme shoes. What else do you have?”
Flying high on painkillers, I attempted a serious expression. But as we drove to the office where we were to meet I became nervous. “What if this doesn’t work?”
“It will.”
“What are you going to say?”
“It depends.”
“On what?”
“We’re here.” He pulled the car over to a venerable red sandstone building that reminded me a little of the Association mansion. “Wait for me in the foyer and do not talk to anyone.”
“I want another painkiller.”
“You do not.” He got out of the car to open my door. “I need you conscious, on your feet and with your mouth shut. Got it? And limp a bit more, will you? And if they offer you water, don’t accept it.”
“Why? Do you think they’re going to drug me?” But I went inside, my suit jacket and a shawl draped over my shoulders, and turned down the glossy receptionist’s offer of water or coffee.
When Patrick joined me he looked different, stern and distant, although I was amused to see he was fastening a tie, his briefcase tucked under his arm.
“Miss Hutchinson?” He nodded coolly at me as though half an hour ago he hadn’t knelt in front of me pulling up my stockings. “How are you feeling?”
“Okay,” I said in a pathetic voice.
“Mr. Berg and Mr. Seales are ready for you now,” the receptionist said. She flashed Patrick a brilliant smile. He looked her up and down, his expression not changing. We followed her through the office to a conference room. As we entered and the door closed behind us, Patrick took my good arm and helped me into a seat.
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