The Doxy's Daybook: A Friday in Two Acts

by Jordan, Sable

  I twist my locks in a knot and secure it with an elastic band; stomp into a pair of hiking boots and slip my arms into a heavy pea coat.

  “Room’s yours for the weekend, dinner’s on its way—glazed yellow fin tuna for Tony; filet mignon and a side of garlic mash for you, Mr. Meat and Potatoes,” I say to Thad. “And the pastry chef at FC’s is a friend. She’s sending up a special dessert…off menu.”

  I walk to the bed and give each a kiss on the cheek.

  “Too much food, Roz. Stay for dinner at least,” Tony mumbles. I’m not sure he’ll be awake for the meal when it does arrive.

  Ignoring the pang in my stomach, I shake my head. “No, you enjoy it for me, boys.” Bags in hand, I head for the living room.

  “Hold on a sec, Roz.” Thad wriggles from beneath his partner and hops out of bed, still gloriously naked.

  My eyes drop south, then meet his. “What’s up?”

  A snort at my little joke. Gripping my elbow, he guides me into the living room and toward the door out of earshot of Tony. “Uuhh…I need tuh apologize tuh you…fer earlier.”

  “Not necessary. I know how to bring out the best in people.”

  He smirks down at me, those frosty blue eyes a little bit warmer. “Do ya now?”

  I nod. “I’m very good at what I do, Thad.”

  “Yeah, ya are—”

  “And you should know,” I interrupt, “I was never here just for Tony. It was always about both of you; will always be about both of you.”

  The grin on his face is genuine. I like his smile.

  “So, that means we get tuh do this again?”

  “Filly’s behind on the scorecard.” I tip an imaginary hat. “See ya soon, cowboy.”

  ENCORE

  The elevator music at the Plaza Hotel plays for me—the energetic first movement of Dvořák’s Symphony 9 in E. Minor seeps from recessed speakers. When he first performed the piece at Carnegie Hall, each movement was met with thunderous applause, so much so that Dvořák felt obligated to stand and bow after each succession. It’s been a glorious day for me, and I feel like doing the same.

  I exit the carriage to a lobby full of patrons coming and going, laughing and smiling; step through the hotel doors into the cool New York evening, wait for my car to come around.

  Central Park is always busy, especially on the Grand Army Plaza here at the south end. Horse-drawn buggies pose picturesque against the Park’s verdant backdrop, waiting for the next romantic fare. Horns blare in rhythmic tempo, drivers impatient with a pedestrian couple paused in the center of the street. The man holds his partner firmly at her waist and steals a passionate kiss. She smiles against his mouth, returns the gesture while onlookers and passers-by clap and whistle around them.

  Horns honk for a different reason now, encouraging, thanking the pair for a break from the mundane with a touch of magic from their amorous display. That’s the power of the stage.

  Those claps and horns and whistles are just as much for me, and I take a little bow in honor of the performance I’ve had today. It was demanding, but possibly one of my best shows yet. The applause continues—happiness is a contagious thing—and my phone chirps somewhere in my jacket.

  I fish the device from a pocket and stare at the display. A text message: Are you free?

  The couple has long-since crossed the intersection, but the message on my phone seems to intensify the dissonance around me. I double-check the name and number, read the message again. Yes, I know full well those three words haven’t changed. They’re just…surprising.

  I’m exhausted. At this point I want little else other than to point my car toward the Queensboro Bridge and start the long drive home. But as a professional, I am not one to begrudge my fans an encore. It is the highest honor and possibly the hardest request to fill because, after you’ve given your all, left everything you had on the stage, you have to dig deep into the recesses of your soul and give one more stellar recital. No matter how long or short, it must be moving, must be worthy of their affections.

  For this client, that means more to me than I care to acknowledge.

  Regret at our last encounter constricts my chest and I panic, momentarily unable to draw a breath. A thousand excuses rush through my mind—I’m out of costume already; I’ve nowhere to change. Costume is as important as dialogue and background, and a suitable performance—an encore, no less—requires I be in full wardrobe. I shoot a reply back: I’m not dressed appropriately.

  It’s weak, it’s ungrateful, but it’s true. This costar is specific about costume: an elegant evening gown or a cocktail dress with my hair coiffed atop my head by fancy pins he can take his time removing. And sexy heels and a clutch and jewelry—the more sparkle the better. He always did give great gifts…. At any rate, jeans and boots are not the proper dress for this scene.

  The response reaches me just as my car comes around and a stocky man in a gold and black vest and cap emerges.

  “Thank you for visiting the Plaza, Miss Hayes. Hope you enjoyed your stay.” He takes my tote and deposits it in the rear, and then holds the door to assist my entrance into the car.

  “I did, thank you.” I tip him heartily and he shuts me away, money pocketed and on to the next patron.

  A quick glance at my phone to check the newest message: Come exactly as you are. An address uptown that I don’t recognize follows. I key the coordinates into my GPS and pull into traffic.

  Twenty minutes later I’ve traveled the dozen or so blocks north, landing dab smack in the heart of wealth at a mansion on the west side of the park. A space opens up, and I wheel my car into it and sit for a moment. This performance is one I was very familiar with until about six months ago. That was the last time he and I shared the stage...

  Unsure of what I’ll need I grab my purse and get out. Doors locked, I stride across the street, boots tamping on the asphalt and up the concrete risers. A porch light flicks on when I hit the buzzer. Heavy footfalls echo through the house, get closer, and then the solid wooden door’s open and he’s right there in front of me.

  I’ve missed him—again, more than I care to admit.

  His tall frame fills the entryway, casual gaze roaming over me like he never contacted me at all and did not expect me to be standing here. I’m not sure what to do; the thought of retreating to the safety of my car is overwhelming. I remember who I am, what I am, and the call of the stage bolsters my wavering confidence.

  “Hello, Quintus.”

  “Rosie.”

  It rolls from his tongue, fluid and familiar—and…relieved?—and I smile. He’s the only client to call me that. The name’s too innocent for someone of my craft, which is why he started calling me by it to begin with. It’s also adds to the reason we parted ways.

  He steps aside, welcomes me into his home. I’ve never been here before—we’d always met at a hotel several times a week—and I suspect this invitation into his private life has a lot to do with that last encounter.

  Inside, the décor is masculine; all beautiful, rich cherry wood and dark walls. It suits him, every inch of it infused with his raw masculine scent, but for all its beauty it cannot compare to the sight of him.

  Quintus towers over most, not only in size but presence. A bulky six and a half feet wrapped in dusky skin characterized by a cap of raven hair and piercing coal eyes set deep in his angular face. He has the body of a warrior—not a modern day commando but the hulking mass of an armored champion in the Colosseum during an era where his name would be more appropriate. Seeing him now, I’m reminded of Russell Crowe in Gladiator—not classically beautiful, but the ruggedness of his appearance and the strength of his aura enough to make a woman melt.

  In contrast to his size is his voice, inflected as it is with its Corsican flair.

  Not Italian. Not French. Corsican.

  It is deep but gentle, never rushed, like plucking the strings of a mandolin with bare fingers. His is a voice made for moonlight; romantic and soothing yet no less intense.
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  He is the fourth-born son to a Moroccan mother and a father from the Bastia region of Corsica. Anyone who knows the history can appreciate the irony, but the contradictions of this man do not end there.

  Quintus slips the coat from my shoulders, hangs it in a hall closet, and I feel as though the shield protecting me has been removed. We move into a living room where a bottle of wine, Corsican wine, sits focal to two plates of food, lamb and chutney by the looks of it. It smells delicious. A dish of olives and goat cheese and a plate of figs are also present on the low table. I raise a questioning brow, but follow Q to the sofa.

  “Thought you might be hungry.”

  “Thank you.” I sit, and in awkward silence we eat. He knows I like lamb, and his wine, and as the meal ends my suspicion is at its zenith. “Tell me why I’m here, Q.”

  He takes his time to respond, wipes his mouth with a napkin. “I don’t like the way we left things, Rosie.”

  This sounds very much like we broke off a relationship. We did. At seven years, Q was a longtime client of mine. It was hard to say goodbye to him, but it was my cue.

  “Rules were broken—”

  “Your rule was broken, and you were the one who accidentally broke it. I didn’t ask you to, though I’m glad you did.”

  I glance away, worry my bottom lip with my teeth.

  It’s true. I broke the third rule, one of the worst mistakes an actress of the stage can make. I came out of character. Got so comfortable with Q that I had too much of his delightful wine and stayed the night with him at the hotel.

  Nothing should make you break character. The magic is in the mystery—staying the night is not mystery.

  We awoke the next morning wrapped in each other’s arms, and Q wanted more. Not sex—sex I could give him easily. In fact, that’s what I offered, but he declined. No, Q wanted more of me, without my vocation, and he very nearly got it.

  I love you, Rosie. He said it right before lightly pecking my lips, and with one line he’d completely changed the dynamics of my play. I had no clever ad lib, and the only one I could come up with, while true, would not have been appropriate.

  The phenomenal Rosalind Russell said of our profession, “Acting is standing up naked and turning around very slowly.” And Oscar Wilde regarded theatre to be the greatest of all art forms, calling it the most immediate way one person can share with another what it is to be human.

  Over the course of my interaction with Quintus I had exposed a little more each time, spun more languidly. And in that regard I can continue, because that is acting. I can be that kind of human. Real life—the kind of life Q wants with me—requires a good deal more clothing and hypersonic spiraling so that we are never moving slow enough for anyone to find out just how vulnerable we are.

  I have love for all of my clients, but what I felt for Q was deeper. It pained me when he ended our affair, however, it was truly for the best. I’m not sure if I know how to operate without stage directions. What’s most puzzling is that I know Quintus is not acting, was never acting, but has still managed to spin before me, slowly, sensually, nakedly. He’s been a different kind of human with me. It’s a contradiction I can’t seem to get my mind around, don’t understand the script for.

  “Q…” I say softly, trying my level best to not offend. “I can’t give you what—”

  “What I wanted then is not what I want now.”

  “Oh?” He’s acting now. I smirk a little knowing I’ve managed to knock him off-kilter as much as he does me.

  “I’m lying.”

  Naked again.

  He covers my hand with his. “I took a risk and couldn’t handle when you didn’t feel the same.”

  He’ll never know just how wrong he is.

  “But I’d rather have you, in any way I can, than to not have you at all.”

  I blink. Twice. Quickly.

  Once again, I’m out of lines. A glance off-stage affirms what I already know: there is no understudy, and no crewmember around to whisper the next bit to move this scene along, so I sit for a moment, with my costar and audience staring at me, waiting.

  “I’ll have to think about it.”

  “About us?”

  I shake my head. “There can be no us, Q, not in the way I think you’d like.”

  His dark face distorts. “Why not, Rosie? You think I’d judge you? I haven’t once in our years together. I understand a thing or two about callings, don’t I?”

  He does. Years of conversation have taught me a good deal about Q. He was groomed from a young age to take over the family import/export business. But he’s a natural entrepreneur with a love for wine, so it broke his parents’ hearts when he decided to step out on his own and buy a failing vineyard in his homeland. That said vineyard now produces the best Corsican wine the world has ever tasted does little to soothe the sting.

  Nevertheless, if I give in to his desires I’m not sure how long things would last between us.

  “I’m a doxy, Quintus—”

  “I understand that,” he interjects, “and I understand why.”

  “Do you?” I don’t intend it to be sarcastic, but it is. Q…unsettles me.

  He smiles, continues in that gentle way of his. “We are all called to do something, and this calling is yours. I’m not asking you to change for me, but…you’d be nice to come home to.”

  Sounds nice, doesn’t it? But… “Why, Q? Why me and not some…normal woman who goes to a normal job and—”

  “You’re not normal?” he jokes.

  “I’m serious. Why not someone who’s job won’t break your heart in the long run?”

  “You won’t break my heart.”

  Believing him is tempting, but it would kill me if I hurt him. I take a shuddering breath. “Why?”

  “Because…” He struggles a moment with what he wants to say, pins me with that piercing stare. “Because I see you, Rosie. I’ve always seen you.”

  Another perfect line I don’t have a response for. It makes my heart race. But the scene’s going off track.

  “I’m not the Rosie you pretend me to be,” I snort, the southern sass creeping into my voice. “Not the take-home-to-ya-momma type, am I, Q? You don’t judge me now, but how long before what I am becomes an issue? How long before you’re wonderin’ where I am and who I’m sleepin’ with? Bothered I don’t answer when you call ‘cause you know I’m fuckin’ somebody else?”

  His lips become a hard line.

  I clear my throat, put the polish back on my words. “So to do this, to give you what you want…it wouldn’t be fair to you. You know that.”

  Q gives a firm bob of his head. “Then can we see each other again, like before?”

  It won’t go back to being like before, we both know. But with a man like Q, I can’t simply walk away. Twice. That might be stretching my acting skills to the limit.

  “Like I said, I’ll have to think about it. But I can give you tonight.” I smile, looking into his eyes. “Anything I can do for you tonight?”

  A playful smirk tips his lips. “Anything?”

  It’s a whispered caress. My body trembles from the shivers running through it. For you? Yes. Anything.

  Sliding closer, Q cups my face in his warm hands, presses his lips to my forehead. Then he kisses my cheeks, my jaw, my brow. He takes his time, brushes my face with his lips and soft strokes of his thumbs and I close my eyes, enjoy the sensation.

  A moment passes and I feel him watching me; lids flutter open to see my reflection in the dark pools of his irises. Our faces are so close his warm breath feathers over my lips a heartbeat before he touches them with his. This breaks the rules again and Q doesn’t care. My mouth opens and his tongue traces the inside of my bottom lip.

  Q pulls me to him, rocks back on the sofa and extends his legs, sweeping me along so I’m lying fully on his body. Arms wrap tightly around me, and I ride the wave of his cresting and falling chest. Head tilted, Q explores my mouth with his tongue, slides along mine sensually, and I ca
n’t help but reciprocate, feeling his flesh harden in the cradle of my hips. I writhe against him, and he lightly massages my scalp with his fingertips.

  He tastes wild, strong, like fresh spring water and clean air and damp earth.

  Real.

  I haven’t kissed a man since long before I became a doxy; too intimate, and stage kissing is something that is taught.

  This is not a stage kiss; not lips pressed to chins with heads turned strategically away from the audience’s watchful eye; not imitation or intimation; not a trick of light or illusion, but it’s magical.

  Absolutely magical.

  Any audience can see this is a kiss of lovers. I’d be lying to call it anything else.

  We part, and I gasp for air…for him. I want to taste him again in my mouth, want to savor his hunger for me. My mind is deliciously foggy with thoughts of maybe—maybe I can spin that fast—and I shake my head to clear it.

  Too close to his kind of naked, need to get back to my version of human.

  I work at the buttons of his shirt, but he stops me, gripping my hands.

  “I don’t care about your rules, Rosie.” Lips meet mine again, just a soft peck. “And I know you don’t either.”

  Without another word he helps me up, guides me toward the door. On autopilot, I shrug into the coat he holds, dip when he slides my purse onto my shoulder, unable to keep the confusion from my face. Q has a voracious sexual appetite, one that I’m very happy to feed, so this is…unusual. Off script. None of this is what I expected; not the kiss, not this dismissal, not this unnerving feeling that he’s right.

  His arms wrap around me, and he hugs me tightly to his hard body. I can hear the steady pulsing of his heart in my ear, the rhythmic beat like Q’s own musical score.

  I love this song.

  But the contact isn’t enough.

  The tempo increases, bass drum a little louder.

  I press a bit closer, trying to get more of him.

  Q must agree; releases me long enough to push off the jacket and purse he just helped me into. They land at my feet as he lifts me, holding me against the wooden door with his body, hands coming up to grip my ass. My legs snake around his waist, arms around his neck. Our lips crush together, and I eagerly suck his tongue into the hot cavern of my mouth. A groan escapes his throat, and his pelvis grinds hard against mine.