Undertow

by Alessandra Torre

  The help. I bite back a response. “Thanks, Mom. I’ll be there soon.” Movement catches my eye as I end the call as a white SUV pulls up behind me, its roof flashing red and white. I let out a groan, watching the door open and a uniform emerge.

  29

  Beverly Park, CA

  I watch my mother carefully and notice the slight tremor in her hand as she reaches for her drink. She smiles politely at her husband, and it’s the sort of smile you give an acquaintance, not a loved one.

  I don’t mind Maurice. In terms of a husband, she could have done worse. He’s polite, respectful, and puts her on a pedestal her beauty dictates but her behavior doesn’t deserve. Maurice belongs to the proper clubs, has the acceptable balance sheet and gives her complete freedom, not that she uses it for anything other than drinking.

  But he’s ancient. Oxygen-mask, Depends stuffed in his nurse’s apron, might-not-make-it-to-Christmas, ancient. And Mother, despite the tremor in her voice and her inability to do anything other than mourn her past life, is beautiful. Half natural-beauty, half enhanced by the team of world-class plastic surgeons she has employed her entire life. She looks thirty-five, with smooth skin, cosmetically perfect bone structure, and a body that most twenty-year-olds would kill to have, myself included. I don’t know why she fights so hard to keep up her appearance, since she never leaves this house or visits the country clubs or the restaurants they could buy ten times over.

  All of her friends abandoned her when our money ran out. I think she expected them to come back when she married Maurice, welcoming her back into their perfect little fold. But Mom was tainted, and when she fell from grace, it was a drunk belly flop in the middle of a sewage pond.

  A drunken wander through the Spring Charity Gala, eating off of strangers’ plates.

  The eviction notice on the front door of our home, the grass overgrown, our car repossessed.

  My exclusion from the debutante ball.

  They’d seen her at her weakest and wanted no part of her return, despite the new wardrobe and prestigious address that accompanied it.

  “Have you given any thought to returning to school?” Mother’s voice interrupts my depressing walk down memory lane, her critical gaze cutting me from across fourteen feet of fine dining.

  “No.” Short and sweet is the best approach with her. It is likely she won’t remember this meal tomorrow.

  “And why not?”

  “I have a job, Mother. I am doing just fine.”

  “Still single?” she asks, her perfectly waxed eyebrow raised.

  My relationship status is her gauge of my personal success. If I had a wealthy boyfriend with husband potential, she’d cross me off her ‘things to worry about’ list, however short it may be. In her mind, a man who will take care of me is all I need. Whether or not love is involved is a moot point.

  “Yes, Mom. Still single.”

  I’m not going to go into my dual relationship status with her. Not in front of Maurice, and not when our mother-daughter chats are spread six months apart. It’s easier to listen to her lecture me about my singleness than hear her reaction to the truth. And if I only told her about one, then she’d want to meet him. I can barely handle brunch, must less a Chanel-clad zombie, playing the role of Dutiful Mother for an afternoon before being driven back to her alcohol-infused life. I love my men too much to make them go through that.

  “Do you need money?”

  She’s noticed my car. The clean lines of my clothing, the Chanel J12 watch that decorates my wrist. She knows I don’t need money, but I think the offer makes her feel superior. It’s proof she has succeeded, pulled her life together and risen from the ashes of my father’s crash.

  “I don’t need money, Mom. I’m good.”

  Maurice interrupts our awkward exchange, asking about books, and our brunch takes a pleasant turn as we discuss the latest bestsellers and our thoughts on them. Maurice is a reader, his library one that I drool over. I’m talking fourteen-foot ceilings, worn paperbacks and hardbacks filling deep bookshelves that take up three walls and reach to the ceiling. I’ve spent hours curled into the deep leather chairs in front of the fireplace, a stack of books before me. It is where I escape during holidays, parties, and any other occasion that dictates my presence in this household.

  After the table is cleared and Mother switches from mimosas to Arnold Palmers, I help Maurice to his feet, and we make the long and slow journey to the library. I’ve brought a stack of new hardcovers that fit his taste in reading. We sit down by the fireplace, and I walk him through the selection, stacking them in the order that I think he’ll prefer.

  Then we read in companionable silence for two hours, until I notice the time and stand to leave. I walk over to Maurice, who has fallen asleep, his head tilted back at an awkward angle. Tiptoeing around him, I gently place a small pillow under his head and lightly kiss his cheek. I may not love the old man, but I do appreciate him, and am grateful that my mother has someone to take care of her, even if I don’t understand the dynamics of their relationship. At a certain age, I think loneliness is the biggest battle to fight, and I hope my inebriated mother at least provides companionship for him.

  I find my mom in the front parlor, sitting back in a chair, also asleep. I set a book next to her, the last one in my bag, a romance I know she’ll enjoy. I head for the front door and smile at the uniformed maid who holds out my jacket. “Thank you. Please thank them for the brunch.”

  She nods politely and opens the door for me. I take one last glance at my mother and then step out, the cool spring air reminding me of the jacket in my arms. I shrug into it and jog down the steps to my car, ready to get back home.

  Life in luxury can be stifling.

  30

  Venice Beach, CA

  I walk into our home and am greeted by the delicious view of Paul’s backside, a wet suit unzipped and hanging from his hips, baring his upper body and hiding his bottom half in skintight vinyl. He turns, a bowl of Kraft Mac & Cheese in hand, a spoon halfway to his mouth.

  “Back so soon?” he asks through a mouthful of food, setting the bowl on the counter and pulling me into his chest.

  I resist the urge to push him off, the damp feel of him sinking through my clothes, the scent of salt water hitting my nose. “It was a quick visit—one to appease my mom before their trip to Italy.” I smile up at him, and let out a laugh when I notice the insistent bulge in his wetsuit, poking against me. I drop my bag on the floor and wrap my arms around his neck. “God, you are impossible.”

  “What can I say? I’m addicted.” His words are so sweet and sincere that they tug my heart. I tug on the zipper of his suit and drag it down. He pulls my mouth to his and walks me backward until I hit the counter.

  I pull him out, the weight and rigidity of him beautiful, causing a weight in my pussy, a need in my core. His kiss softens, dipping slowly into my mouth as he thrusts forward with his hips, his cock sliding in and out of my hand, the wetsuit’s slick vinyl cool and itchy against my thighs.

  “You’re wet,” I whisper, coming off his mouth.

  “So are you,” he replies, pressing forward and pinning me against the wall as he takes another taste of my mouth.

  It’s a fact I can’t deny, my panties sticking to me as he pulls up my dress, the thin material contrasting with the cashmere sweater that I wear over it. I move his cock, placing it between my legs, my boots putting me at a height that makes us fit perfectly together, the slow in and out of his bare thrusts creating a delicious friction between my legs.

  “I love you.” He pulls at the pins in my hair, loosening the updo and stares into my face as the slide of his cock draws a long pull of pleasure against my clit. “I need you.”

  “I need you, too. Right now.” I’m getting the full brute of his ocean-blue eyes, flecks of gold in his hair, bleach blond brows furrowing as he squeezes my cheeks, pulling my pelvis tight to him, the fit of us causing his breath to hiss.

  “As you wish,” he gro
wls, lifting up with his hands. My legs leave the floor and I shriek with surprise. With me in his arms, he kneels and lowers me to the kitchen floor. Setting me gently on my back, the hard floor cushioned by my sweater, his hands pull my dress up and slide my panties to the side, a finger slipping into me, his eyes lighting up at the touch.

  Then he is back inside me, fucking me on the floor, our legs a mess of boots and bare feet, his wetsuit rubbing roughly against my legs, but I don’t care. I don’t care about anything other than the perfect, slick pattern he is thrusting into me. He stares down at me, his face framed by the flex and pull of his shoulder and chest muscles as he dominates me.

  It’s fast, it’s messy, our bodies bouncing in unrestrained passion, his breath hard on my skin. He rolls, keeping me inside of him, and I’m now hot. I yank at my sweater, getting tangled in it, and he helps me battle with it, pulling my arms free. I grin, his playful smile matching my own, and his length twitches inside of me, a subtle hint for me to move. I lean forward, resting my hands on his chest and ride him.

  It’s work, my thighs burning, my hands digging into his shoulders, my breath coming hard as I slide up and down on him. His hands run lightly over my breasts, a tickle of pleasure, and I stare down at him, memorizing the intense burn of his gaze, the half open gape of his mouth, the strong frame of his body. I come close, then lose it, my thighs tiring and he takes over, holding me in place and pumping his hips up into me. It comes, hard and fast, my body tensing as I babble out a stream of nonsense, one that begs him not to stop, then break into a silent shudder.

  He comes. I love to hear him come. He’s vocal, moaning my name as he thrusts hard and deep, his arms tight around my body, his actions almost frantic in their movements. He needs me. He loves me.

  He stills his hips, reaching up and pulling my hair to one side, his mouth soft against my skin as he kisses my collarbone. I close my eyes, enjoying the trail of his fingers against my skin, his cock getting soft inside me, the cool air from the open window floating over my bare ass.

  I love him, and I need him too.

  31

  Hollywood, CA

  My relationship with Stewart is a catch 22. If he didn’t work, or didn’t have a slave’s addiction to the work, our relationship would be a success. We would have a fabulous sex life and the relationship to accompany it. We would drink champagne in bed and stay up late discussing our futures and pasts. We would spend weekends in bed and vacation on islands. We would have children and argue over bedtimes and house rules.

  But all that isn’t possible because of his full-time mistress: work. And if he weren’t married to his work, if he was a normal man with free time and a clear mind, then he wouldn’t be my Stewart. He wouldn’t have the same intensity, the confidence, and satisfaction that he gets from his job. He is the job. His entire being, the traits that I love, are all cultivated and created on that phone through deals and negotiations. Stewart without his single-minded devotion to deals … I wouldn’t even know that man. He would be a stranger to me. And if I had a full-time Stewart, then I wouldn’t have Paul. A full-time Stewart wouldn’t require Paul. A full-time Stewart would want me all for his own.

  He wakes me with his mouth and interrupts a dream that I gladly surrender. His mouth awakens my passions as well as my body, and he claims me, sliding his warm body atop mine, nudging my knees apart and grinding his body against me, the smooth slide of naked skin causing me to shiver beneath him. His cock grows hard between our bodies, and we are both ready when it bumps lower, thrusting inside of me.

  It is the perfect way to wake up, the perfect way to start my day. Stewart knows what I need, knows the insatiable pull within me. And, wrapping my arms around his neck, I let him fulfill me.

  Fourteen hours later, he drives, his hand loose on the gearshift, the car taking the tight curves of the road with ease. He drives like he does everything else: intently, with an edge of recklessness barely restrained by tight control.

  I lean back, letting my head drop against the headrest and run my fingers gently over his forearm. His mouth turns up at the edges, a secret grin playing over his features. His hand releases the shifter and he turns up his palm, mine sliding into his, our fingers interlocking.

  He won’t tell me where we’re going. He just waltzed in the condo, catching me mid-bite on the white leather couch in the foyer, the couch I’m not supposed to eat near, a Dorito filling up my mouth, Coke balanced precariously on the sofa’s arm. He shot the soda a bemused glance and grabbed my hand, pulling me to my feet, the bag of Doritos dropping to the floor. “I want to show you something.”

  And now we are driving through the dark. Leaving downtown and taking the freeway east, toward the ocean. I crack the window slightly and let a burst of fresh air inside, Stewart promptly rolling the window back up. I sigh, watching as the exterior slows and the car turns into a residential area.

  “Are we visiting someone?” Stewart and I don’t socialize outside of business functions. Unlike Paul and I, we don’t have friends or acquaintances. We exist in our own bubble of two, our time together too short to share.

  “Just be patient.” He pulls out his phone, checks an email, then looks up. “Look for Palm Drive.” The car slows, and he rolls the windows down, squinting down dimly lit streets.

  “Right there.” I point ahead. “To the left.”

  We turn, he looks at his phone again, and then we make the final, undercarriage-scraping turn into the empty driveway of a one-story bungalow, Spanish-style white, blue shutters framing its front windows. He puts the car in park, and I wait, confused, glancing out at the dark house, no lights on inside.

  “Let’s go in.” He unbuckles his seat belt and opens the door.

  The front door opens with a key Stewart produces from his pocket. He leaves me in the foyer and walks through, flipping on lights as he moves, illuminating marble floors, a chef’s kitchen, a fireplace built into the far wall. My sense of unease grows until he finally reappears, standing before me and spreading his arms proudly. “So? What do you think?”

  I step toward him, glancing around. “I’m a little confused. Are you moving?” I know he’s not. He can’t. The ten-minute commute would drive him crazy—thousands wasted in those precious minutes spent on something as trivial as transportation.

  “It’s for you.” His smile falters slightly at my expression. “Don’t you like it?”

  “But I already have a house.” With Paul. The words that don’t need to be said.

  “You rent a house. In a section of town that has the crime rate of Compton.” His tone irritates me.

  “I like where I live.” And whom I live with. Paul would move, but only to make me happy. He wouldn’t want to live in this manicured neighborhood of picket fences and paved drives. We’ve got to be thirty minutes from Venice. “I’m right by my work.”

  “Here, you’d be closer to me. And this is ten times nicer than where you live.” He’s right, though he’s never been to our place. For all he knows, it has twelve-foot ceilings and five bathrooms.

  I try to stay calm. “Have you closed on this?”

  “No. It’s closing in ten days. Sooner if you’d like.”

  No. I would not like. “Stewart, this is a very kind gesture, and I really appreciate the thought…”

  “But you don’t want to move.” His face is unreadable, and I move to him and wrap my hands around his neck.

  “No. I don’t want to move. Can you pull out of the sale?”

  He sighs, his hands sliding around my waist and slipping under the top of my jeans. He squeezes the top curve of my ass. “It’s gonna be hard.” He pulls me forward, pressing the length of my body against him, and my breath catches as he lifts up with his hands, pulling me tight to his pelvis.

  “How hard?” I breathe.

  He smiles against my lips and takes a deep taste of my mouth before pulling off. “Why don’t you get on your knees and find out?”

  I think it hurt his feelings, my refusal
of his gift. But it was too much. Not the gift of the house—I’m not too proud to accept a million-dollar piece of real estate. But it hadn’t just been a house. It would have been a change of my life. I love my time with Stewart. But the everyday with Paul? Waking up next to him in the house that creaks under our feet and has hosted our sex on every available surface? I love that part of my life. And all of it would change if we were to move into a house of Stewart’s. It would shift the entire dynamic of our relationship.

  Sex soothes Stewart’s hurt. It heals his ego, and he earns every ounce of it back. Making me scream his name, my body bent over, gripping the granite countertop, his hard cock claiming me from behind. On my back in the master, my legs spread before him, his hands lingering over my skin as he fucked me to a second, then—legs flipped over and my body on its side—third orgasm. We finished on the back deck, the night air cool on our hot skin, his breath labored as he kissed the length of my skin, his hands following his mouth, making a final exploration of my body, pushing me down to my knees.

  We christen the hell outta the house, despite my lack of future inside it. Then we turn out the lights and Stewart locks the door with one last, regretful look inside. “You sure you don’t want to sleep on it? Ashley will be so disappointed, she thought you’d love it.”

  “Then you can buy it for her,” I tease. “But no. I’m sure.”

  He snags my arm and presses me against the door, taking one more possessive, full-body taste, his mouth aggressive as his hands take a long survey of my body. When he finally releases me, I stay against the door, looking up into his face, partially in shadow, his looks no less devastating in the dark.