“I was just leaving, Scott,” she says, as she starts to rise.
“Sit down, Kendal.” He grabs her arm and pulls her back down into the spa. “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna attack you. I happen to be a perfect gentleman. And so is Carla,” he adds with a grin. “You’re perfectly safe. Have another brewski.”
The three athletes sit and talk and drink and laugh for what seems like a long time, maybe an hour. At some point, Jillian notices that they no longer have the spa to themselves. In fact, it seems to have become quite popular. It’s taken on the familiar aspect of a cocktail party – everybody has a beer in hand, everybody is relaxed, everybody is talking, everybody is laughing.
At some point, Scott and Carla get into an animated discussion about race strategy, and Jillian loses interest in the conversation. She slides down again, so that only her head is exposed. She rests her neck on the rounded lip of the spa. The warmth and the noise drift over her, envelop her. She starts to slip off into a pleasant reverie…
“Jill?” Carla whispers gently, as if she’s reluctant to intrude.
“Hmmmm?”
“Jill, why don’t you take your shirt off? The water feels so good on your skin. It’s delicious.”
Jillian turns her head to the side, toward Carla, who is also slouched down, almost totally immersed in the bubbling water. “Promise you won’t make a pass at me?”
“Well…” Carla laughs. “Okay. I may look, but I won’t touch.”
Jillian glances around; as earlier, no one is paying any attention to Carla’s semi-nudity. Scott Marcus is busily engaged in a conversation with… with one of the twins, perhaps? Jillian can’t quite see who it is.
She thinks about what it would be like to pull off her T-shirt, to expose herself in public. She’s surprised that she’s even considering it – she’s not a prude, just prudently modest. But somehow, this is different. She’s in the company of friends. She’s surrounded by people she knows and, for the most part, trusts. She realizes that if she thinks about it for too long she won’t do it.
And so with a nervous giggle, a mental shrug, and a whispered what the hell, she pulls her T-shirt over her head and throws it behind her. Somewhat sheepishly, she surveys the scene around her once more. Nothing has changed. The commotion continues to eddy around her, oblivious to the momentous event that has just taken place.
She closes her eyes and relaxes, feeling brave and self-satisfied. And Carla was right; the sensation of hot water on bare skin is – what had Carla said? – delicious. The water swirls around her breasts, circles her nipples, caresses her flesh. It’s only mildly erotic, more soothing than sexual. It feels comfortable, natural, as if this is the way it’s meant to be, experiencing the elements without the contrived intercession of garments. Why has she never done this before? She’s never even been skinny-dipping, not even as a little girl.
She smiles dreamily at Carla, who returns a knowing smile, the secret shared.
For a time, she drifts in and out, perhaps sleeping for a few minutes here and there, perhaps only switching her conscious awareness on and off.
At some point, Scott Marcus begins to make occasional lewd suggestions, which strike Jillian as unfailingly amusing. “Hey, babe,” he says, in a throaty voice that’s supposed to be sexy, “what say we slip up to my room. I’ll show you what being a world-class endurance athlete is all about. And the key word, babe, is endurance.”
And at some point, Carla begins to whisper in her other ear. “Jill,” she says, with languorous indecency, “come upstairs with me. I can make you so happy. I’ll show you things that only another woman would know.”
Now they’re both leaning over her, one on each side. Each has a hand on one of her legs. Each is whispering a lascivious invitation into one of her ears.
“I’m in the prime of my life, babe,” Scott is saying. “I’m at the top of my form. I can take you places that you’ve never even dreamed about. You may never have a chance like this again, lady.”
“I know you’re ready for me,” Carla whispers. “Don’t deny yourself the ultimate pleasure. I can do wonderful things for you, things that no man can do. You’ll never be the same.”
And Jillian keeps grabbing their hands, plucking them off her legs, throwing them back where they belong, laughing the whole time, it’s all so funny. A hand begins to creep up her side, and Jillian shoots a hurt look at Carla that says, cut it out, you promised. And Carla, chastised, murmurs that she’s sorry and unhands Jillian.
But then someone is shouting, someone is very angry about something, but the music is blaring so loudly that the shouts just echo muddily around the room. Nobody seems to care anyway, nobody’s paying even the slightest bit of attention…
But then, suddenly, the music stops.
1.3.4: The Longwharf
Something’s different, Carla decides. She doesn’t quite know what it is, but the room somehow has a different quality than it had just an instant ago. She debates whether she needs to rise to a higher level of alertness to try to figure it out.
“Turn the fucking music back on,” someone demands.
Oh yeah, it’s the music. No reason to wake up just for that.
“You people have no business being in this pool!” yells an agitated voice with an Indian accent. “The pool is closed! You must leave at once! All of you.”
The ultimatum is greeted with a puzzled silence.
“Who the fuck is that?” someone finally asks, more incredulous than irritated.
“It’s the night manager,” Jillian says.
Carla is so impressed by Jillian’s knowledge that she actually opens her eyes. And she’s even more impressed when she realizes that Jillian hasn’t bothered to open hers.
“The pool’s closed,” Jillian adds, without cracking an eyelid. “It opens again at six.”
“Doesn’t look closed to me, Mahatma,” says a voice that Carla knows belongs to Scott Marcus. “You must have the wrong pool. Here, have a brewski, join the party.” A can of beer from his seemingly inexhaustible supply appears in his hand, he flips it toward the night manager, who steps aside and lets it float past. The beer can sails into the pool with a splash that seems unnaturally loud and echoes around the room.
“I am warning you for the very last time.” The night manager’s voice is growing increasingly shrill. “You have no right to be in here. You are disturbing the other guests.” His voice has risen to a comical squeal. “I will call the police if I have to!”
“Hey, c’mon my man, lighten up.” With great effort, Carla stands and begins to thread her way through the crowd in the spa. She walks deliberately up the steps, leaning heavily on the rail. Then she climbs out of the spa and begins to weave her way over to where the night manager stands, suddenly silent.
Carla is dripping wet.
She’s distressingly unsteady.
And she’s stark naked.
The night manager’s eyes grow wide with dismay and apprehension as Carla approaches. His eyes travel up and down her body. He licks his lips nervously. “Go get him, Carla!” someone shouts, and the crowd comes to life, roaring its drunken approval.
The night manager seems to be frozen. Carla gets the feeling that he wants to flee, but he can’t. It’s like he’s bolted to the floor. He tries to speak, his mouth moves, but only a soft groan escapes his lips.
And then it’s too late. She’s upon him.
“Hey, you’re cute, my man,” she says, too loudly. “Come give Carla a big hug.”
The night manager shakes his head and holds his hands up weakly, as if to fend her off. But Carla brushes his hands aside and grabs him in a bear hug, pressing her body against his dark suit, squeezing her breasts against his chest. Wrapping one of her legs around his, she begins to rub her groin against him, like a dog in heat.
The noise level in the room increases dramatically as the triathletes fall over each other, convulsing with laughter. Someone lets out a whoop; someone else yells, “You go, girl
!”
But the laughter stops when the night manager pushes Carla away, and she stumbles and falls to the hard tile floor. Which just doesn’t seem right to her. She’s naked, she hugs him, and he pushes her away? And knocks her down?
It’s just not right. An apology is in order.
But the night manager doesn’t acknowledge that he’s done anything wrong. In fact, he doesn’t even seem to notice that he’s done anything at all. “Look at my suit!” he shrieks to no one in particular. “You have ruined it! I am soaking wet!”
“Not yet you’re not, you son of a bitch!” Carla screams. She struggles to her feet and takes an unsteady step toward the night manager. For the first time, she notices how close he’s standing to the edge of the pool. An opportunity not to be missed. She lowers her head as she picks up speed, and she knows that she won’t be able to change direction quickly enough if he steps out of her way, which is okay, because then she’ll just leap into the pool as if that’s what she meant to do all along…
But the night manager doesn’t move, he just lets out a plaintive wail and covers his eyes with his hands. She hits him dead-on at a full gallop. Her head spears into his chest with a satisfying thud, she actually hears the air whoosh out of his lungs. Then it’s like they’re flying through the air, and it seems to take much longer than it should, like they’ve fallen into some kind of abyss.
She doesn’t really remember hitting the water, but now she’s swimming, and she’s not holding on to the night manager anymore, so she must have landed in the pool at some point. It feels good to swim. She can feel her head start to clear, like the fog from her brain is draining away into the water. She swims to the far side of the pool, where she executes a half-decent racing turn and starts to head back.
I wonder if everybody knows I’m okay, she thinks, as her brain slowly starts to function again. And what about the night manager? How deep is the water? Can he swim? With all of his clothes on?
She reaches the side of the pool, grabs the edge, props herself up on her elbows, and looks around.
The night manager is standing just a few feet from the pool, his back to her. Water drips from his hair, runs off his clothes, puddles in his shoes. He’s holding his arms out from his sides, as if he doesn’t want to get them even wetter by letting them touch his body. He looks over his shoulder at Carla, who’s expecting him to be angry, but he just looks stunned. She smiles at him. No hard feelings.
“You…you…” he sputters. And then he turns away. “You are all in big trouble, all of you!” he shouts. “I am calling the police! You are all going to jail!”
As far as Carla can tell, she’s the only one who’s heard him. Or maybe everyone else has just lost interest. Over by the spa, she can see Scott Marcus holding up two handfuls of beer cans, checking to see if anyone needs a refill. “Turn the fucking music back on,” someone suggests – but as far as Carla can tell, no one seems inclined to make that much of an effort.
In fact, no one but Carla is paying any attention at all as the night manager storms away. So no one but Carla sees the big man who enters the room, his white cowboy hat barely clearing the door frame, the heels of his big boots clacking on the hard tile. Only Carla sees the big man bump into the night manager, who is making a headlong dash for the exit. Only Carla sees the night manager apologize profusely to the big man; she giggles as she watches him try to regain his composure even as water continues to drip from his pockets.
And although she catches only snatches of the conversation, Carla has a fairly good idea of what’s going between the two men. The big man, unfazed by the collision, surveys the scene and sizes up the situation. He says a few words to the disheveled night manager who is again attempting to make his exit. The night manager gesticulates wildly, obviously giving the big man a capsule summary of the events that have just transpired. The night manager keeps trying to leave, but the big man keeps restraining him, gently but firmly, probing further into the situation.
Finally, the big man reaches into his pocket and pulls out a fat billfold. He counts off a few – maybe three? – of what Carla thinks are hundred-dollar bills. The night manager seems confused, maybe even stunned. He keeps looking back and forth from the money to the big man’s face. The big man peels off another bill, then another. And finally, the night manager’s hand begins to move in the direction of the money, tentatively. Then it’s withdrawn, reluctantly.
They stand there and talk for a few more seconds, and the big man rolls off one last bill and puts the billfold back in his pocket – take it or leave it, he seems to be saying. The night manager reluctantly accepts the money and stuffs the bills into his pocket with some difficulty, as the wet fabric clings stubbornly together.
“They’ll be gone real soon,” the big man says, as Carla reads his lips as much as she actually hears him. “They’re just lettin’ off a little steam, is all.” He winks at the night manager, puts a big arm around a wet shoulder, and holds the glass door open to expedite the other man’s departure.
As the night manager walks down the hall, shaking his head and muttering, the big man turns back into the room. His eyes briefly catch Carla’s; she smiles semi-flirtatiously and raises an eyebrow at him, but he ignores her. He strolls over to a counter where freshly laundered blue towels are stacked in neat piles. Grabbing a towel from the top of the stack, he calmly but purposefully strides over to the spa. He assumes a position directly behind Jillian and stares down at her.
Except for Carla, nobody seems to have noticed him at all.
He looks down at Jillian for a few seconds, a curious expression on his face, part concern, part anger. He unfolds the towel, holds it, prepares it for use.
“Jillian,” he barks, the name exploding from his lips like a burst of artillery fire. His voice has so much authority, so much command, that the conversation in the room stops abruptly, as everyone turns to look at him. “Jillian,” he repeats, not as loud, but with every bit as much power. “Time to go.”
The effect on Jillian is immediate and dramatic. Although she’s already slouched way down in the water, she shrinks down even farther, as if she wants to slip beneath the surface and disappear. In the space of just a few seconds, Carla watches as Jillian’s expression changes from one of peace and contentment to one of stunned disbelief and absolute horror. Her eyes open wide in shock and then close again in dismay.
“Oh, my God,” she moans, her voice a pained, despairing whimper.
“Oh, my God,” she repeats. “It’s Daddy.”
1.3.5: The Longwharf
They walk through the corridors in a stony silence, oblivious to the stares they attract from the few people who are up and about so late. They’re an odd couple: the tall, lumbering cowboy with anger chiseled into his rocky features; the slim, wet, athlete wearing shorts and a towel, her eyes cast down, her gait unsteady.
As they wait for the elevator, Jillian begins to improvise a defense. He has no right to be upset with her, she hasn’t done anything wrong. He probably thinks that they were having some kind of orgy, but he’s mistaken. He’s jumping to conclusions.
But then a sense of humiliation overwhelms her. She had been sitting in the spa half naked, in mixed company, drunk as a sailor. It’s indefensible. She’ll simply have to throw herself on his mercy and endure whatever harsh and terrible things he’ll say. It will pass.
She holds on to that thought: He loves her, so it will pass.
When the elevator arrives, she can’t for the life of her remember what floor she’s on. She reaches for her key, and for one terrifying moment she’s afraid that she’s lost it, that it slipped from her pocket, that it’s lying on the bottom of the spa. She’ll have to go back to the desk, her shame written all over her face, a marked woman, and beg for a key so she can slink back to her room. And what if the same night manager is still on duty? Still dripping wet? How can she face him?
But the key is in her other pocket, and she withdraws it with a sigh of relief. But it’s jus
t a strip of plastic, with nothing on it to indicate her room number. Looking at it somehow jogs her memory, and it comes to her in a flash: 723. Press the button with the 7 on it. And up we go.
Why doesn’t he say anything? Is he going to wait until we get back to the room? Or is he just too angry to speak?
The ride up to the seventh floor is excruciatingly slow, and the silent corridor to her room is devastatingly long. But finally they’re at the door. She races into the room and immediately runs into the bathroom, swinging the door closed behind her. Suddenly, her stomach turns, she’s going to be sick. In fact, she wants to be sick, maybe that will grant her a reprieve from the tongue-lashing that she knows she’s about to receive. And that she so richly deserves. She kneels by the toilet and retches violently, her insides churning. And then she’s very sick, heaving up great volumes of disgusting vomitus.
And then it’s over. She flushes the toilet, repeatedly. She swishes some water around in her mouth, then gives her teeth a quick brushing. She runs some cold water over a washcloth and rests it on her face. She pulls off her shorts and towels herself dry. She’s surprised to realize that she feels almost human. Almost.
Slipping into the robe that she had left hanging in the bathroom earlier (thank God!), she opens the door slowly, with trepidation, trying to appear even weaker and less steady than she actually feels. But the act is wasted: He’s standing by the window, looking out over the city, his arms folded, his back to her. She slips off the robe, crawls into bed, and pulls the sheets and blankets around her as tightly as they will go.
For an eternity, neither of them speaks. She’s tempted to close her eyes and drift off to sleep. Maybe he’ll be gone when she wakes up. Maybe she’ll awaken to find that it had all been a bad dream. But realistically, she knows that falling asleep will merely postpone the inevitable.
What the hell. Might as well get it over with.
“Daddy?” A thin, weak voice. Have pity on me, it says. Then, with all the sincerity she can muster: “Daddy, I’m sorry.” And, although the catch in her voice is for dramatic effect, that much is true: She is sorry. She’s made a spectacle of herself. She’s acted like a common drunk, a vulgar, shameless harlot. Words like slut, tramp, and even whore race through her mind, and she shudders in revulsion. Is that what he thinks of me? And I haven’t even done anything to deserve those names, not in a sexual sense.
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