by Rob Manary
St. Claire wears matching blue jeans and a green turtleneck. Large gold hoop earrings complete her outfit. I don’t need to tell her how hot she looks. I know she sees it in my eyes. I know she knows it when I take her in my arms and with my wrecked hands push her gently to the bed. “How long until our flight?” I half growl, ready to move on top of her.
“Not enough time, Icarus, and I’m not dressing you again!” she laughs. I move on top of her and we kiss. My tongue slides between her lips, then darts in and out of her mouth as she lets the kiss lengthen. She moans from deep in her throat as I move my hips against her. She opens her legs, letting me slide against her jean clad pussy, and we dry hump like teenagers. She breaks the kiss long minutes later and looks to her watch. “Not enough time, we have to get to the airport. Fuck, just fuck. We have to go and now you’ve got me all wet.”
St. Claire and I arrive at the mental institution my sister is a resident of shortly after three. I don’t know what to expect. Each visit is a surprise and not always a pleasant one. They’ve given Elise her bed back which is a good sign. She is sitting on her bed flipping through a scrapbook. I clear my throat. “Hello, Lisee.”
Elise turns her face towards me. I never get used to the look of her mutilated face. I don’t look to St. Claire. I don’t want to see her reaction. “Brandon!” Elise squeals. She makes a pitiful figure with her hopelessly rumpled hospital clothes and horribly scarred countenance. But she makes me smile for recognizing me. It seems she knows who I am less and less as the years go by.
“And Rachel St. Claire. I knew the two of you would visit. I told everyone you would visit. Come. Come. Sit.” She pats the bed beside her. I let go of St. Claire’s hand and move to sit beside Elise. “You too, Rachel St. Claire. Please. Sit.” She pats the bed on the other side of her. St. Claire sits as beckoned.
“My beautiful baby brother!” Elise exclaims. “I’ve been doing so much better. This is a wonderful hotel. I think I shall stay a stretch longer. I have a bed now. I’m eating with the other guests in the dining room, and I walk the grounds each day,” she says with almost giddy excitement. “Oh, but I must show you this, Brandon and Rachel St. Claire.” With a hopelessly scarred and gnarled hand she flips a page of the scrapbook. There are pictures of cookies and cupcakes that look ripped from a magazine and plastered on the page.
“Not that page. Not that page.” She flips another page and there are pictures of St. Claire and me. It looks like a child has torn them from a magazine, but I can’t help smiling. She flips another page and there are more pictures of St. Claire and me. My smile broadens. I look to St. Claire and she is beaming.
“Mother told me the two of you would come see me. I hurried to finish it.” She flips a couple more pages, more pictures of me and the woman I love. “Mother said Brandon and Rachel St. Claire would visit and that I must hurry finish.” Elise looks to St. Claire and puts her hand on Rachel’s. “Rachel St. Claire. You are beautiful, Rachel St. Claire. I used to be beautiful. I was the most beautiful child, Rachel St. Claire. I had the most beautiful golden hair and the fairest skin.” Elise sighs and looks to me. “Mother still had the hole in her forehead and the back of her head was missing. Isn’t that the funniest thing, Brandon?” She grows solemn for only a second. “But she told me you would visit, Brandon and Rachel St. Claire, and here you are.”
St. Claire puts her hand on top of Elise’s hand. “You can call me Rachel.”
Elise lowers her voice as if telling a secret. “You can call me Lisee. No one calls me Lisee but Brandon. You can call me Lisee, Rachel St. Claire.” She closes her scrapbook and hands it to St. Claire. “It’s for you,” she says then grabs both of our hands. “You’ve come for my blessing. Like in the movies. You can have it Brandon and Rachel St. Claire.”
“Thank you, Lisee.” I am warmed. This is a good day.
“You know I have a boyfriend? Down by the pond in the gazebo I let him fuck me in the ass....” She grows crimson red. “Why did I say that? It’s not true! Why did I say that?” She is growing confused and agitated.
I take her hand softly and give it a gentle squeeze. “It’s alright, Lisee,” I assure her.
Elise gives us a tour of her ‘hotel’, and introduces us to the other residents. To anyone who will listen she says with pride, “I told you my beautiful baby brother and his girlfriend would visit. I told you Brandon and Rachel St. Claire were coming.”
Before we leave Elise seems to see my bandaged hands for the first time. Tears fill her eyes. “Don’t be like me, Brandon. Please, don’t be like me,” she pleads.
I always feel guilty that I feel as much relief leaving the mental hospital as I do. St. Claire cradles the scrapbook Elise had given her in her lap. She looks to me with those emerald green eyes. “Thank you,” she mouths the words then gives me a quick kiss.
The car takes us further from Elise and for a moment I feel terrible that I feel better with each mile I put between my sister and me. St. Claire takes my hand gently between hers.
“St. Claire, will you let me take you out on a date?” I ask.
The words surprise her. “Are you serious? Don’t fuck around with me. Are you fucking around with me?” she half stammers.
“Would you stop swearing so much?” I scold playfully.
“You love me,” she says.
“I do,” I say. “So, can I take you out on a date?”
“Fuck,” she drawls out the word. “Yeah!” she squeals, snuggling into my arms.
“We fly to London in the morning. Do you have anything black tie?”
“”Fuck, no!” she laughs.
We go shopping on Fifth Avenue. St. Claire buys two suitable dresses at Saks, and another one at a designer boutique I don’t recall the name of.
“I’ll probably end up wearing one, once, and giving them to charity in a month,” she laughs. “I don’t go on many dates.”
“That'll be handy for all the bag ladies that need to go to gala dinners,” I tease.
We decide to take a room in the city rather than flying home. Home to our condo. I won’t get tired of that phrase... our condo.
We are both exhausted. My hands ache. St. Claire undresses me and gingerly applies more salve to my hands when she changes the bandages. The damage isn’t as bad as I thought.
We fall into bed kissing. She stops me as I leave her sweet mouth and bend to take her hardening nipple in my mouth. “Don’t think just because you’re whisking me away to London that you’re getting into my pants,” she teases. “I’m tired and a little tender. I don’t think you’re getting laid tonight.” She cuddles into me, I put my arms around her, and she lays her head on my chest. Moments later she is asleep.
Friday, Day 19
I realize I seem to start each day’s entry with, “I wake up” or “I am in St. Claire’s arms”, or something similar. We’ll take it as understood, therefore, that I do wake up, and I am in St. Claire’s arms. I have more use of my hands today, but the shock of pain when I do use them is unpleasant, to understate it, agonizing is more accurate. St. Claire dresses me again without complaint. She actually seems to enjoy doing this for me.
I wear black pin striped pants and a white dress shirt. A black scarf is chosen for my neck. St. Claire wears a simple black skirt and a white dress shirt. I tease her that she is dressing us the same. She kisses me to shut me up, I think. The kiss lengthens, but I know she is tender from the hard fucking I gave her, so I don’t push things further than the kiss.
It is a seven hour flight to London, and someone has seen us get on the plane, or a fan from the plane has called friends to let them know St. Claire was arriving in London. Regardless, things at the terminal are, apparently, escalating. The flight attendant comes to talk to St. Claire as we are about to land.
“It seems there are a mob of your fans waiting for you at the gate,” the flight attendant explains. “Would you mind if we took you through the service areas to your car?”
St. Claire forces a sm
ile. “Of course I don’t mind. I’m sorry for any inconvenience. I have a limo arranged to pick me up at the front entrance. If you could tell him where he may pick me up I'd appreciate it.” She sighs heavily as the flight attendant leaves. “This is why I like Toronto. They have a respect for celebrity and aren’t nearly as star struck as elsewhere.”
We disembark the plane first and are met by airport security, almost a dozen burly men. At the gate there are hundreds of screaming fans. Mainly preteen girls, but more boys than I would have guessed at, and a smattering of fans I would think too old to rush an airport for a glimpse of St. Claire. They’ve set up barricades at the gate to hold the mob at bay, and another dozen or more security officers man the barricades.
The police are trying to disperse the crowd with little success.
I have said “screaming fans”. That doesn’t quite accurately describe the scene. Girls are weeping, crying, their faces wet, as St. Claire and I come into view. Others are throwing out their hands and wailing. The volume of the mob is unbelievable. They call Rachel’s name and hold up handmade banners. “We love you, Rachel,” someone cries out. Some of the girls in the crowd look lost in a trance and one girl at the front faints. Security must lift her over the barricade so she’s not crushed as the mob presses forward when St. Claire and I appear.
St. Claire greets her fans with a wave as we are ushered towards the bowels of the airport. The airport’s service areas are a confusing labyrinth of twists and turns. We make our way through the maze-like warren guided by security. Soon we are delivered to an obscure entrance. St. Claire thanks the security guards profusely; going up on tiptoes she kisses one of them on the cheek. He blushes and the others tease him. A limo waits for us. We slide inside.
“This is tame. You should see the fans in Japan. One got close enough and cut a lock of my hair. I think the Japanese fans would rip me apart if they could.” She runs a hand down my toned chest stopping at my abs and cuddles into me, resting her head against my shoulder.
With the flight and the time difference it is nearly 9 p.m. when St. Claire and I check into our suite at the Savoy. St. Claire must dress me in my tuxedo. She laughs to find my bowtie is a clip on and sends the concierge out to fetch a proper one. Once dressed, I’m pushed out of our rooms and told to go to the bar and pick her up for our date at ten.
I order a scotch on the rocks and the ice cubes melt long before I finish it. An unattractive woman at the bar recognizes me. St. Claire is mobbed at the airport and my fan is a middle aged, unfortunate looking woman. She wants to talk about my early work. She is one of those dangerous creatures who knows a little and wants to show it off. She asks if I was influenced by Pablo Picasso. I wasn’t. I tell her my biggest influence was the Group of Seven. I can tell the name doesn’t register with her. She knows about Pablo Picasso and wants to talk about him, it would seem. The conversation is tiresome. At five to ten I excuse myself.
I knock on the door to our suite. I had retrieved something from my suitcase, and slipped it into my pocket, before I had been shoved out the door earlier. I hold the small jewelry box in my hand now. I knock on the door a second time, waiting for my date to answer.
It is a horrible cliché, but I am rendered breathless when St. Claire opens the door, and I had already seen all three dresses. Still, it doesn’t prepare me for how good she looks in the red dress with the plunging neckline. The dress brings out the beautiful red ringlets of hair that fall freely around her face, the dress hugs the curves of her body, and the neckline emphasizes her long slender neck. “Okay, Icarus, you have to say something.”
When she speaks I realize I’ve been staring at her. “Fuck, you’re hot!” I say.
She notices I’m holding a velvet jewelry box. “Don’t you dare go down on one knee,” she laughs. “Don’t you dare.”
I hold the box out to her and she opens it. There is a strip of paper inside. She looks up at me. I can see her curiosity. She unfolds the paper. There are numbers on it. She looks up at me. “What is it?”
“My cell phone number.” I smile. “Don’t give it out, you’re the only one who has it.”
She squeals and moves into my arms, giving me a big hug. “Now I can get hold of you whenever I want to. Where is it? Let me see it?” She holds out her hand.
“What? I don’t have it on me. It’s back at our condo.”
She stares at me for a moment then bursts into laughter. “Icarus! Figure out the problem with that!”
Realization dawns. “You love me,” I say.
“I do,” she answers.
The concierge had delivered the long strip of black silk that will be turned into a bowtie. St. Claire throws it around my neck and draws me in for a kiss. She holds me captive to her lips with the silk ribbon. Standing at the threshold we kiss for a long time, but never long enough for me. St. Claire reluctantly moves her lips from mine. She ties the bowtie. I could never get the hang of the things.
“Where are we going, anyway?” she asks.
“I’ve been acting as patron to a young artist. He is having his first exhibition and I’ve been invited to the opening. There are a couple sketches I helped him with. I’m interested to see how they turned out. Besides, a little culture wouldn’t hurt you,” I tease. “And having Brandon Fahr and Rachel St. Claire at his opening will give him some good exposure and drive up the prices of his work.”
“Are all artists as mercenary as you?”
“Only the good ones.”
Outside the hotel we hail a cab. “Trafalgar Square,” I instruct the cabbie. We steal kisses in the backseat until too soon we are outside the National Gallery. Opening the door I offer St. Claire my bandaged hand. She takes it lightly and together we make our way inside, but not before a couple of teenage girls run up to St. Claire for autographs.
The press captures us entering.
Inside I am the celebrity. It is a refreshing change. I’m sought out by everyone for my opinion on this piece or that piece. I’m a little saddened to learn that I have just missed the Countess. “Tell Brandon he must call me” I’m told playfully by several people, a message from the Countess. She had worked the room.
I’m introduced to a wealthy widow who moans, “I started bidding on “Icarus Falling”, but the bidding got so high, so quickly, by the time I had a chance to catch my breath and realize how much I must have it, it had been sold.”
I realize not for the first time that must is emphasized in a particular way amongst this crowd. It is drawled out to two or three syllables. And the word is given a peculiar emphasis. I smile at St. Claire as I am told by an aging socialite that I must come for a weekend in the Hamptons in spring. I notice St. Claire is smiling at the affectation, too.
“You know, I must suck that magnificent cock of yours, Icarus,” she whispers when we are alone for a minute. “Then I must get you inside me.” We laugh.
I can tell St. Claire loves the fact that she can fade into the background a little. I’m the star here. My ego likes that. A young actress I shared a meaningless night with sees me and crosses the room. She takes me by the arm to introduce me to several newspaper critics who are examining one of the sketches I helped the artist with.
“You can see your hand in the sketch, Brandon. The lines are clearly yours, but the finished work is absolutely unique.” The two critics agree. I am happy for the artist.
“You’re causing quite a stir, Miss St. Claire,” one of the critics laughs. “When I came in there were half a dozen of your fans outside. The National Gallery will have to get more security if you are to visit more often.” St. Claire smiles politely, but quickly steers the conversation back to me.
The actress I had the dalliance with leads St. Claire and me away. “There is someone else you must meet.”
St. Claire and I exchange smiles, and so it goes until I think I have met everyone in the room. The actress flirts with me openly and draws dagger like glances from St. Claire. I am warmed and flattered at how protectively St.
Claire holds my arm, as if marking her territory. I do as much as I can to deflect the flirting. I don’t want to be called a slut again.
The artist is busy. He is the centre of attention, as he should be, but spotting me he sprints to my side.
“Excuse me. Excuse me.” He gets the room’s attention and holds his glass up. “To Brandon Fahr. None of this would be possible without him. May I one day fuck a couple of paint covered models and sell my bed sheets for over a million dollars each.” He laughs, the room laughs. “To Brandon Fahr.” It is the perfect outrageous quote, and will, no doubt, be oft repeated. I smile shyly and shrug as I am expected to, but am secretly delighted by the recognition.
Saturday, Day 20
It is after midnight when we tumble into our suite. My hands are near useless, but St. Claire’s hands are all over me. She can’t wait for me to get into the room, tearing my jacket from me and working on the buttons of my shirt. My jacket hits the floor in the hallway outside our suite and finally we are inside.
“It was so hot watching you tonight,” St. Claire whispers in my ear. Giving up on the buttons, she rips my shirt open. “You were so in control. Everyone in the room was watching you. Fuck, it was hot. There wasn’t a girl in the room that didn’t want to fuck you, and half the guys.” I take her mouth, kissing feverishly, as we make our way into the bedroom. I lose my shirt as we go.
St. Claire reaches for my fly and unzips me. She grabs my cock and I harden instantly at her touch. “That actress. Did you fuck her?” she purrs in my ear, stroking my hardness. “Don’t tell me, I don’t want to know!” she laughs.
Inside the bedroom her dress is a quick casualty. Slipping it off her shoulders it falls to the floor and she stands before me in a purple lace bra and matching panties. I pause a minute to take in her amazing body. I can see the outline of her bald pussy. My pants undone, St. Claire slips them over my hips, they slide to the floor and I step out of them. “Get on the bed,” I growl.