The Redemption

by Lauren Rowe

  “Do you see something you like, baby?” I ask.

  She picks up the female version of mine—platinum, c-band, totally plain.

  “No, baby, pick something pretty, something with diamonds. You can have whatever you like.”

  She grabs the simplest one and hands it to the saleswoman. “Jonas. J-O-N-A-S.”

  “No,” I say. “Baby, listen. Pick one with diamonds on it.” I grab a platinum bangle off the tray. It extends all the way around, unlike my c-band, and sparkling diamonds rim its edges. “This is pretty. Or how about this one?” I grab a dazzling diamond tennis bracelet off the tray. “This one is stunning.”

  The saleswoman puts my bracelet and the one Sarah handed her onto the counter, awaiting our final decision.

  “I want the one that matches yours,” Sarah says simply.

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Jonas, listen to me.” The tone of her voice leaves zero room for argument. She picks up the matching bracelets off the counter and holds them up, side by side. “I’m the sole member of the Jonas Faraday Club—and you’re the sole member of the Sarah Cruz Club. That’s all that matters to me—not frickin’ diamonds. Our bracelets have to be a perfect match because we’re a perfect match.” She juts her chin at me. “End of story.”

  Chapter 19

  Sarah

  I’m bursting out of my naked skin in the rising water, waiting for Jonas to return to the tub with our champagne. I run my fingertip over the engraved inscription on my new bracelet. Jonas. I should probably put it on the ledge of the tub so it doesn’t get wet, but I don’t want to take my new bracelet off. Ever.

  I’m aching. Throbbing. Crazy. All I want to do is give this gorgeous man the blowjob of his life. Of course, I want to make love to him, too. And kiss him. And touch him. And feel him deep inside me. And, of course, I can’t wait to tell him I love him using the actual, magic words again, too—sacred words it seems we’re only allowed to exchange when we’re making love—but, holy hell, that blowjob is my first priority. I’m going cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs wanting to take him into my mouth and pleasure him ‘til he can’t see straight. He gets crazy-turned-on pleasuring me? Well, I’ve discovered I get crazy-turned-on pleasuring him, too. So there.

  I didn’t know this about myself until recently, and I’ve never felt even remotely eager to perform oral sex on any other man, but with Jonas, I’ve discovered that if I open my mind and touch myself while I’ve got him in my mouth, sucking on him gets me so aroused, it almost makes me orgasm. I like having him at my mercy—literally and figuratively.

  I wanted to drop to my knees and take his full length into my mouth the minute he said the word “forever” in that tattoo parlor, but since I’m a nice girl (and not a crack whore in a back alley), performing fellatio in public wasn’t an option (even in a city as perverted as Las Vegas). And then, when he stopped in front of that wedding chapel, holy crappola, he “delivered me unto pure ecstasy” right then and there. I tried to whisper, “the culmination of human possibility” into his ear, but my voice wouldn’t work. I knew in my bones Jonas was closing his eyes and pledging forever to me—and willing me to do the same. And so I did. I closed my eyes and thought, “I promise you forever, Jonas.” It was every bit as magical as our kiss outside the cave in Belize—maybe even more so.

  I touch my bracelet again and close my eyes.

  We don’t need to stand in front of our friends and family wearing traditional wedding clothes to make our love real and forever. We don’t need a piece of paper. Today was our wedding day. And that’s good enough for me.

  Warm water is rising steadily in the tub around me, relaxing me and making me hella horny. I press my lower back into a blasting stream of hot water. “Aah,” I sigh. “Come on, baby,” I call to Jonas in the other room. “I’m w-a-a-a-a-i-t-i-n-g.”

  “I’m opening the bottle, baby,” he calls back to me.

  I don’t blame Jonas for not being the marrying kind of guy because, frankly, I’m not the marrying kind of girl. I mean, seriously, what do I know about marriage? Nothing good. All I know about marriage is that it’s when a man hits a woman, sometimes with his fist, sometimes with his belt, sometimes with a kick from his boot. I know it’s when a man screams at a woman, seemingly out of nowhere, and sometimes calls her pleasant things like “whore” and “bitch.”

  I know it’s when a man comes back the next day with flowers and tells his wife he’s sorry, that he’s going to change, that he’s stopped drinking—and she cries with joy and relief and everything’s good again for maybe six weeks. And then she inevitably says the wrong thing or looks at him the wrong way and he drinks a beer and another and another and then everything starts all over again—only the next time, everything’s good again for maybe only four weeks, if you’re lucky. One week if you’re not.

  What else do I know about marriage? I know it’s when a nine-year-old little girl spends her nights cowering in a closet with a world map or, when things are really bad, lying in bed thinking of ways to kill her own father without getting caught. It’s when, on a particularly bad night right after the girl’s tenth birthday, a night when she’s seen her mother beaten to within an inch of her life, the daughter calmly crushes up eight Tylenol PM tablets and slips them into her father’s beer and waits for him to fall asleep like the worthless fuck he is. And when he does, it’s when that little girl uses all her strength to drag her wobbly mother out of the house to an old, dilapidated shed she found only a few blocks away, a shed the girl’s been stocking with provisions for the better part of a month. It’s when the girl takes care of her mother in that shed and tells her everything’s going to be all right, until, finally, after three days, the mother lifts her head and looks at her daughter with a previously unseen glint in her eye and says, “No más. De hoy en adelante, renazco.” No more. From this day forward, I am reborn.

  The water level in the tub is finally at my shoulders and I turn off the gushing faucet. “The tub is filled, baby,” I call out to Jonas. “It’s s-e-e-e-e-x-y time, big boy!”

  “Coming, baby,” he calls from the other end of the suite.

  So, yeah, Jonas isn’t the marrying kind of guy, and that’s just fine with me—because I’m not really the marrying kind of girl. I don’t need marriage to give myself to Jonas Faraday. I’ve already done it. And he’s given himself to me. Forever.

  Ah, there he is. My sweet Jonas. Walking into the bathroom with two flutes of champagne and a gigantic woody. Good Lord, seeing this man naked never gets old. He smiles as he hands me my champagne glass and I down every last drop in one long, ravenous gulp.

  “Take it easy, baby. This is the good stuff.”

  “Get in here, Jonas P. Faraday,” I say, writhing like an eel. I’m so turned on I can’t breathe.

  Jonas lowers his glorious body into the warm water, his face glowing with excitement.

  “You really like champagne, don’t you?”

  “You wanna know why?”

  “Tell me.”

  I drift over to him in the tub and grip his delectable erection in my hand. “Because it brings out the dirty, dirty girl in me.”

  “I like your dirty girl.”

  “And she likes you.” I lick my lips. “A whole lot.”

  With that, I lower myself slowly, slowly, slowly down toward the surface of the warm water—prolonging Jonas’ delicious anticipation as long as humanly possible—until, finally, with great fanfare, I take a deep, long, dirty-girl breath, wink at Jonas’ exuberant face, and submerge myself under the water.

  Chapter 20

  Sarah

  “I still say it was a draw,” Jonas says.

  “Oh, please. I totally won,” I say.

  “I think it’s just this next block up,” Jonas says, looking at Google Maps on his phone.

  “Damn, it’s hot,” I say.

  “Welcome to Vegas.”

  “Henderson, actually,” I correct him.

  “Henderson, Vegas—wherever. Hotter th
an hell, either way. And you didn’t win,” Jonas says. “If you add up all the minutes I was down there holding my breath in aggregate, I totally won. Hands down.”

  “Yeah but the only reason you were down there so damned long was you couldn’t close the deal as efficiently as I could—that shouldn’t be a reason to win.”

  He laughs. “Oh my God. That’s just men verses women—pure physiology—not a reflection of my skills. And the time it took me probably had a little something to do with all that champagne you drank—dulls the nerve endings.”

  “Excuses, excuses.”

  “No excuses—I still did it, didn’t I?”

  “You sure did. Amen to that.”

  “Just because you got me off faster than a pubescent boy doesn’t mean you won a damned thing—the contest was who could hold their breath the longest, not who could get the job done fastest. ”

  “No, I changed the contest. It was who could be the most efficient.”

  He laughs again. “You never said that. You’re such a cheater.”

  “I only had to pop up for air once. You had to come up, like, four times. Ergo, I won.”

  He groans in fond remembrance of last night. “God, you were on fire last night. You are so fucking talented, you know that, Sarah Cruz? You’re the goddess and the muse. Mmm mmm. Damn.”

  I shrug. “’Twas a labor of love.”

  “Yeah, well, still. You can’t unilaterally change the rules of the contest at the last minute. It was never about who could get the job done the fastest and you know it.”

  “Most efficiently.”

  “Well, then, that’s bullshit. I never stood a chance. Before your lips even touched my cock, I was already halfway gone.”

  “Excuses.”

  “Not excuses. Facts.”

  “Are you being a sore loser, Jonas?”

  “Ha! No. I’m a very happy loser.”

  “Wait, is that the place?” I point to a nondescript building on the other side of the street.

  Jonas double-checks the address again. “Yeah, that should be it. Fuck, it’s hot. How does anyone live in this heat? I swear to God.”

  We keep walking until we’re standing immediately across the street from the building and peeking at it from around the corner of a liquor store. The building is seventies-style cement with blinds covering all the windows and no signage. It’s the kind of place you’d expect to see a chiropractor or real estate agent set up shop—just total blah. It most certainly does not scream “global crime syndicate.”

  “Not what I expected,” I say.

  “What’d you expect?”

  “Like something out of Diehard, I guess? A high-rise steel building with mirrored windows filled with bad guys in couture suits wearing earpieces.”

  Jonas laughs. “Damn, that’s quite specific. You expected all that from the fuckers who employ the Ukrainian Travolta?”

  “Yeah, like John Travolta’s boss in Pulp Fiction. He was kind of spiffy looking, wasn’t he?”

  “Marsellus Wallace.”

  “What?”

  “That was the name of Travolta’s boss in Pulp Fiction—Marsellus Wallace. And John Travolta was Vincent Vega.”

  I look at him blankly.

  “And Uma Thurman was Mia Wallace—you sure you’ve seen Pulp Fiction? Because I’m beginning to doubt you about that.”

  I roll my eyes. “Of course, I’ve seen it. Best movie ever.” I crinkle my nose at him. “I’ve never lied to you about a single thing, ever.”

  He smiles at me. “I know. You’re cute when you get annoyed at me, you know that?”

  I purse my lips and peek at the building again. I inhale, trying to steel myself.

  “You ready to meet our friend, Oksana Belenko?” Jonas asks.

  “Yup.” I take a deep breath. “I think.” I absentmindedly touch my wrist, but, of course, my bracelet isn’t there—Jonas and I decided to go bracelet-free on this particular errand.

  “You know what to do?” he asks.

  “Yeah. I’m just nervous all of a sudden.” I gasp. “What if the Ukrainian Travolta’s in there?” I can’t believe I haven’t thought of that possibility before now.

  “Well, then the plan is fucked because I’m killing the motherfucker with my bare hands.”

  My jaw drops. I wait for him to say, “Just kidding,” but he doesn’t. “Jonas, no. If he’s in there, you have to figure out a way to keep your cool. Promise me you won’t kill anyone.”

  “Nope. If that motherfucker’s in there, he’s a dead man, plan or no plan. If I tell you to run, you better run like hell.”

  My chest tightens. I feel a sudden panic coming on. Why didn’t I consider what Jonas might do if he were to come face-to-face with my attacker? What might I do? I take a deep breath to steady myself. “Jonas, listen. If you do anything not according to plan, you could get us both killed. Or worse.”

  “What could be worse than getting us both killed?”

  “You could get yourself killed and not me. Or you could go to prison. Both would be worse. I’d rather die than live without you.”

  “Well, then, let’s pray that motherfucker’s not inside that building right now.” His eyes are hard. I’ve never seen him look like this.

  My breathing is shaky. “Maybe we shouldn’t go through with this. Maybe we should come up with another plan.”

  “Baby, listen to me.” He grabs my shoulders and gazes at me with those beautiful blue eyes of his. “We can’t sit around the rest of our lives looking over our shoulders. You know that. It’s time to take control.”

  I nod. Of course, he’s right. Coming here to find Oksana was my idea, after all. I take another deep breath. I don’t know why I’m suddenly freaking out.

  “I refuse to sit around and wonder if they’re coming after you again,” Jonas continues. “I’m done letting shit happen to me. I’m taking charge.”

  I nod. I’m glad to hear it.

  “So are you ready to fuck them up the ass with me or not?”

  “Yeah, I’m ready.” I shake it off. “That was just a momentary blip. I’m ready.”

  He grabs my hand and squeezes it. “All we have to do is get them to open an email. Easy as pie.”

  I nod. “Okay. You got your phone?”

  He holds up his phone.

  “And your checkbook?”

  He pats his pocket. “Yup.” He starts pulling me toward the street.

  “Hang on.” I drop his hand and step back.

  He turns back around and stares at me, uncertain. “You okay?”

  “I just had a sudden feeling—almost like a premonition.”

  Jonas looks at me expectantly.

  “I’d kick myself if I ignored this feeling and then it turned out to be right.”

  Jonas waits.

  “Do you think you could write me a check? Payable to me?”

  “For what?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I just feel like last time, having a check from you is what saved my life. I feel like I should go in there armed with the same protection as last time, just in case.”

  “Just in case what?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He looks concerned.

  “I won’t use it if I don’t have to. But if our Plan A doesn’t work out, I think I should have a check from you as our Plan B—”

  “Baby, no. There is no Plan B. We’re all about Plan A.”

  “What’s the harm? If I don’t need it, I’ll rip it up afterwards.” Adrenaline is suddenly surging throughout my body. The longer I stand here talking about this, the more certain I am that I need it. “Just humor me.”

  He studies my face. “I’m not gonna leave you alone with them—not even for a minute. You realize that? There’s no Plan B.”

  “Of course. But what if they search my purse or something? That’d be a good thing for them to find, wouldn’t it? It would confirm I’ve got you wrapped around my little finger, just like I’ve been telling them.”

&
nbsp; “You do have me wrapped around your little finger.” He smiles.

  I smile back at him. Damn, he’s a good-looking man. “That check saved my life last time, Jonas. Maybe I’m being paranoid, but I don’t want to walk in there without my good luck charm.”

  He slowly pulls out his checkbook. “This is not an invitation for you to go off plan. There’s no Plan B.”

  “I know.” I hand him a pen from my purse.

  “How much? Two-fifty?”

  “No, that’s too much. A hundred, maybe.”

  He writes the check and hands it to me. “But we’re sticking to the plan, no matter what. I’m only doing this because I trust your gut so damned much.” He kisses the top of my head. “Because you’re so fucking smart.”

  “Thank you. I feel better having it.” I pat my purse.

  He smiles reassuringly. “Just follow my lead. Our plan is foolproof.”

  “Let’s do it.”

  “No going off plan.”

  “I know.”

  “Say it.”

  “No going off plan. I know.”

  “Okay. Let’s do it.”

  Chapter 21

  Jonas

  “I’ll tell Oksana you’re here,” the young woman in the front room says. She looks wary. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “No, thanks. We’re good,” I say.

  “And tell me your names again?”

  “Jonas Faraday and Sarah Cruz, here to see Oksana Belenko.” I smile my most charming smile and the young woman’s features noticeably soften.

  “Okay. Just a minute.”

  She disappears into the next room and closes the door.

  Sarah and I look at each other. My heart is beating like a steel drum.

  Several minutes pass. I squeeze Sarah’s hand. I didn’t expect to feel this nervous.

  The young woman comes out, followed by a guy of about my age, dressed in a designer suit, his dark blonde hair slicked back. I can almost feel Sarah smirking next to me—she just got her Die Hard villain.