Slashing Mona Lisa

by D. M. Barr

  “You almost ready to go?” DeAndre rapped loudly on her door.

  “Go?”

  “Work? Benji’s? You gone so long you forgot where you work?”

  “Yeah, yeah, where’s Annalise?” Her roommate would normally have tried on and rejected about five jaw-dropping outfits by now.

  “She’s got the night off. Went out of town to see friends. You coming?”

  So much for her confidante. “Sure, just give me five.”

  She ignored the audible sighs on the other side of the door as she kicked off her jeans and grabbed a simple red A-line dress. While she fumbled with the zipper, she pondered how a famous man like Mangel could get away with treating women like objects. Certainly, she hadn’t been the first. Perhaps they threatened to sue, and he paid them off, or proposed to them. Anything to keep the gory details from being smeared all over the internet.

  “One minute and we’re leaving,” Rachel called out.

  “What, couldn’t think of something better?” asked Camarin, yanking the door open. “Like you’re Perrying?”

  “What the fuck are you going on about?”

  “Steve Perry used to be the lead singer for Journey,” she explained as they hurried out of the apartment. “Journey sings Don’t Stop Believing. Believing rhymes with leaving. Isn’t that how all of this works?”

  “It’s not half-bad. I’ll submit it for approval to the Cockney powers that be. Now let’s get going before DeAndre loses his job for being late and he can’t afford to take me on that cruise he promised me.”

  Camarin bit her lip as she locked the front door. Why warn them to take things slow and ruin all their fun? Life’s too short, and the end comes too quickly. For some, it could be one unexpected trailer visit away.

  Chapter 28

  Camarin was grateful for the subdued atmosphere at Benji’s that evening. A convention of electronics engineers was in town and had selected the Laidlaw as their host hotel. She was always happy to serve geeks like these—they were usually polite, respectful, and always over tipped. But, boy, could they party.

  Not surprisingly, Rachel had planted herself on the piano bench by DeAndre’s side. Any minute now, she expected them to launch into a duet of Heart and Soul. Instead, her roommate delivered a pounding rendition of the Violent Femmes’s Blister in the Sun, joined by guest pianist/songstress Whitney Maxwell. Camarin spied Rachel clandestinely squeezing Dee’s thigh while he fought to retain his composure. At least she was too preoccupied to ask more questions about the Mangel trip.

  Cam was mixing an order of tequila sunrises when she glanced up and saw Lyle Fletcher ambling toward the bar. The delight reflected by his expression mirrored her own. Suddenly, she felt safe, as if a virtual glass dome had just encased them both, protecting them from the outcome of whatever had transpired over the past forty-eight hours.

  “Those drinks aren’t going to make themselves,” shouted Benji from the back of the bar. “And there are three orders laying on the counter. Get to it, Torres, or you’ll be smiling on the unemployment line next week.”

  “I’m on it, Benji! Give me a break!”

  But even Benji’s threats couldn’t dampen her joy at seeing Lyle, sharply dressed in thin-welt tan cords, topped with a button-down, jet-black shirt. The blue in his eyes and the gray in his whiskers aroused her even more than usual, overriding all thoughts of Mangel.

  In his hand he held a single daisy, which he set down on the bar in front of her.

  “I won’t keep you from your customers. What time do you get off?”

  About fifteen minutes after you get me home, she thought.

  “My shift ends at one, but I usually go right home and get into bed. I have this other job, you see.”

  “I’m sure your boss would be more than understanding if you were a few minutes late tomorrow morning. Let me buy you one drink after closing? My way of apologizing for standing you up for our meeting last Friday?”

  She rested her hand gently over his and pressed softly. Now, this was how you wooed a woman, not trying to proposition her in your trailer. “How can I say no to any request accompanied by a daisy? Take a seat. Enjoy the show. Make a request or two. I’ll see you later.”

  The next six hours dragged on longer than a semester of organic chemistry. The audience, while restrained, still drank heavily, and with one bartender short, Camarin didn’t even have time to enjoy an occasional break. She did see Fletcher walk up to the piano twice during the evening, each time wrapping a song title in a twenty-dollar bill. How romantic, she thought, to be romanced by request.

  The first was Eric Clapton’s Beautiful Tonight. Before DeAndre launched the second, Boston’s Let Me Take You Home Tonight, his attached-at-the-hip companion scrutinized the note and grabbed the mic. “This one’s for you, Cam. I think he’s trying to tell you something!”

  Flushed with a combination of embarrassment and lust, she paused from pouring a dozen shots of whiskey to give a thumbs-up to the piano and wave at the audience, who cheered their encouragement.

  Finally, Whitney announced last call and started playing her final set. Exhausted and feet aching, Camarin held up both hands in surrender and retreated to the back room for a short respite. The best thing about the evening was that she’d been too busy to check her phone for any news about Mangel. Now that she had that opportunity, she decided against it. This had the potential to be an amazing evening together. Why ruin it when there was nothing she could do about any information she might find?

  Benji entered the break area, and she gritted her teeth, waiting to be called out. To her astonishment, he patted her on the back and commended her for her hard work that evening. “Why don’t you take off a little early? The other girls can handle things, and I probably owe you the time anyway.”

  “Thanks,” she said, unconvinced. Had Fletcher slipped him a twenty as well?

  She hit the ladies’ room to freshen up her makeup and tried to ignore the stressed-out visage she saw staring back at her in the mirror. The last few days had taken their toll, something she hoped her amorous publisher would overlook as they shared their—ahem—drink together.

  The number of spectators had dwindled as she re-entered the main showroom. DeAndre was playing his last number, REM’s It’s the End of the World as We Know It, his way of telling the audience to settle their tabs and head on home. Toward the back, Fletcher was sitting alone, nursing what looked like a glass of Coca-Cola.

  “You teetotaling tonight?” she asked as she pulled out the chair beside him.

  “I am. Need to have my wits about me.” He reached out and stroked the side of her cheek, causing her to tremble with excitement. “You must be exhausted, Ms. Torres. Are you up for having a conversation?”

  “I am, Mr. Fletcher.”

  The last of the patrons shuffled out the door, and the lights came back on, followed by the entrance of the cleaning crew, hauling their buckets and mops. From the stage, DeAndre waved, Rachel winked and bit his shoulder, and the two disappeared behind the curtains.

  “This place works, if you want to speak somewhere private,” she suggested. “They won’t lock up for another hour.”

  Her smile turned solemn as he removed his palm from her cheek and clasped both hands together, elbows on the table, as if praying. “There’s actually something kind of important I’d like to discuss with you, but it’s been a long night. Are you sure you’re awake enough for this?”

  His change of tone took her by surprise. She leaned in closer. “Of course. What’s wrong?”

  “It’s about that article you turned in earlier this afternoon.”

  She felt her heart sink.

  “Was it written badly?” She spoke loudly, to be heard over the sounds of the janitors moving chairs around to mop the floor.

  “No, it was actually written quite well. Cover worthy, in fact. But I was under the impression you came to Trend expecting to write an entirely different type of editorial. Do you really want to start your care
er by having your byline on something this…inflammatory?”

  “You think it’s inflam—”

  “It’s the type of story that could destroy that poor woman’s career. She needs help for what you made sound like a heroin addiction. She doesn’t need everyone’s scorn to force her into rehab. I’ve known some addicts, seen their struggles. Something like this could push her over the other side, out of the recording studios and into seclusion with her needles and self-pity.”

  His words stung and surprised like a sucker punch to the gut. “I didn’t think of it that way. I felt so awful for her, and I thought that by mentioning the track marks others might wake up and help her. I had to put something down. I couldn’t come back empty-handed.”

  And you were angry she threw you out of her hotel room. Don’t forget about that.

  “I knew you were too compassionate to write something like this without a good reason. Sit down with Hans tomorrow and discuss the incident with him. Between the two of you, I’m sure you can piece together something that’s hard-hitting while still sympathetic. Sound fair?”

  “More than fair.” She was thankful for his intervention, all the while wondering if her motivation behind the article’s focus had been vindictiveness over how rudely Evans had treated her and how she had refused Camarin’s advice.

  “How did the rest of the weekend go?” he asked in an offhand manner, interrupting her disturbing introspection.

  She shrugged. “Pretty quiet. Just trying to write something you’d want to publish. And, of course, resting up for working here tonight.”

  An expression passed over his face that she couldn’t quite identify. Then he reached over and began stroking her hair. She closed her eyes, overcome by a desperate desire for his touch.

  “There’s one other thing,” he said in a hushed tone.

  She nodded, listening but refusing to open her eyes and distract from the electricity his fingers transmitted between her hair and her core. She squeezed her thighs together as her juices dampened her thong.

  “I don’t want you to think that you owe me anything or that your job would be in jeopardy if you said no to me. I have enormous respect for you, and I assure you that would never, ever happen. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.” She pressed even tighter, trying to satisfy the throbbing between her legs that was driving her insane.

  “And we’re clear that whatever I might say to you in private is not as a boss, but as an admirer?”

  “Crystal clear.”

  “Excellent. Then with that understanding, I need to tell you that you are one of the most fascinating, delightful women I’ve met in a long, long time. I can’t keep my mind off you. If you would care to join me upstairs for a drink in a more secluded setting, I’d like to show you exactly how alluring I find you.”

  She opened her eyes and stared into his. “That would be the prudent thing to do. In Chamorro folklore, things do not end well when lovers are kept apart.”

  “You will have to tell me more about that…after.” His fingers wrapped around the lock of hair they’d been caressing and tugged, pulling her face closer to his. She gasped as his lips parted and he kissed her hard, passionately.

  When he pulled away, she murmured only one word. “More.”

  The two strolled arm in arm out of the club and through the mostly deserted lobby to the elevators. He pushed her against the wall that separated two of the banks, again pulling her hair back until she faced the ceiling. As she writhed in desire, he nipped at her throat, his body pressed forcefully against hers. So primal.

  Her moan gave voice to her own intense hunger. She ran her hands up from his belt to his pecs, feeling the muscles that tensed underneath his shirt. She teased slightly, gently pressing him away, only to become even more aroused when he didn’t slow down or acknowledge her mock resistance.

  “Wait,” she whispered, and to that, he did respond, lightening the pressure, pulling away by an inch but not releasing his fistful of her hair. “Upstairs. Please. Where we can be alone.”

  Using his free hand, Fletcher pressed the call button. Nearby, the sound of chatter warned that other guests were approaching. He stepped away, allowing her to also turn and face forward, clinging to some semblance of decorum. When the car arrived, they entered, and he pressed twenty-nine, the floor just beneath the penthouse.

  The others exited on nineteen, and she half-expected him to attack her before they reached their designated floor, but he kept his distance, and simultaneously upped the suspense. The roughness of his passion had both dazed and roused her. When would he satisfy this longing he had stirred?

  The elevator opened on the penultimate floor and he put his arm around her waist, guiding her down the hall to his room. He pulled the keycard from his pocket and handed it to her.

  “You want me to open it?”

  “Yes. It’s your unspoken consent to whatever might occur inside.”

  His words sent chills down her spine. “You make it sound kind of ominous. Exactly what are you planning to do?”

  “Nothing you won’t enjoy, I assure you,” he whispered into her hair. “And certainly nothing you can’t put an end to with a single word. It’s a psychological thing. I’m a bit older than you, and I need to know that I haven’t sweet-talked you into something you might not have interest in or be prepared for.”

  Flashing before her eyes stood every fumbling teenager who’d ever attempted to seduce her; every instance she’d longed for someone more mature and sophisticated who knew their way around a woman’s body. Now her dream man had arrived and he was asking if she was sure? Without a second thought, she yanked the keycard away.

  “I am a bit younger than you. Think you’ll be able to keep up, old man?”

  He half-laughed, half-snickered as he leaned down and smacked her hard on the ass. “Mind your manners, missy, or there will be more where that came from.”

  She howled in mock surprise as she pushed the door open into the suite, and he steered her inside. He slipped the Do Not Disturb sign onto the outside knob and then locked them inside together. At the far end of the living room were a wall of windows facing downtown, sparkling with a million points of light. She had never been so high up above the city at night, and she walked over to the door that led out to the balcony.

  “What an incredible view.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.”

  He came up behind her and enveloped her, his nose sniffing the back of her hair. The tighter his embrace, the further he pushed away all memory of Mangel. She could feel this hard cock pressing against her buttocks. They stood there for a time, rocking back and forth, as she basked in the cradle of his arms.

  He started blowing lightly into her ear and nibbling on the lobe, and she leaned her head back, yielding to his attentions as his hands explored the front of her dress, moving from her waist to the fullness of her breasts. He cupped them and then traced his fingers around her nipples through the fabric.

  “Now, what was that you said about my age?”

  “Is it your hearing that’s failing you or your memory?” she asked, gambling that a little ribbing couldn’t fail to stir the flames.

  He pinched each nipple, and a jolt of energy raced directly to her clit. She yelped in mock pain.

  “Excuse me? I don’t think I heard you correctly.”

  “I believe the last thing I said was ‘Ow!’”

  “Mmm, I believe you’re right. I meant before that.”

  “I guess that settles it—it’s your hearing.”

  She broke away and went running in the dark to what she assumed was the bedroom. Fletcher followed in hot pursuit. Inside, she stood to the right of the entrance as he ran past.

  “You’re in real trouble now, Camarita.”

  “I certainly hope so.” She slammed the door behind him and waited for him to turn around.

  A flicker of light streamed between the drapes, courtesy of Times Square’s electronic billboards. She watched his sil
houette as he took a seat on edge of the bed.

  “Camarin Torres,” he said in a soft voice, “what’s your middle name?”

  “It’s Monaeka.”

  He paused. “I’m sorry, what?”

  “I said, it’s Monaeka. It means ‘doll’ in Chamorro.”

  “But…Monaeka…isn’t that your…isn’t that the most beautiful name ever? Well, Ms. Camarin Monaeka Torres, you come right over here.”

  It was a much firmer tone, and it drove her wild with craving. Him being her senior, being her boss, ordering her around—it was like every erotic fantasy she’d ever entertained come to life. She gulped and stood before him, a statue in the dark.

  “Good girl. Now slowly, very slowly, pull your left arm out of your dress sleeve.”

  She did as she was told. She hoped that the wetness between her thighs wasn’t running down her legs, staining the carpet beneath her.

  “Now the other side.”

  His voice was stern and steady, and she knew better than to spoil the moment by disobeying, even in jest.

  “Very nice. You’re doing just fine. Now wriggle it over your hips and let it fall to the floor.”

  She complied and returned to her original pose, dressed only in a lace bra, matching thong, and heels, with her dress crumpled around her ankles. She started to step out so she could kick it away, but he cleared his throat.

  “Exactly what are you doing?”

  “I was just—”

  “You’ll do as you’re told, or you’ll be sent packing. I’ve fired employees for far less. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, sir.” Her heart was racing, her breath shallow. She couldn’t remember ever being this turned on.

  “Now you may remove it entirely.”

  She gingerly stepped to the side so her feet were unencumbered.

  “How do you feel, Camarita?”

  “Excited.”

  “That’s a promising answer. Do you trust me?”

  “Entirely.”

  “What do you think I should ask you to do next?”

  She smiled though she wasn’t sure if he could see it in the dark. This evil, evil man. “I think you’d ask me take off my bra.”