“Neither. I’m Jewish.”
That just confused me. “So you see yourself as something separate from ethnic Russians or Ukrainians?”
He smirked. “I’m not the only person who thinks that. The Russians and Ukrainians think the same thing. It’s not easy being a Jewish person in Central Asia.”
“And yet, you don’t seem to bring up Judaism in your art.”
He shrugged. “So? I’m assuming you’re probably from a Christian background, even though you don’t have a crucifix tattooed on your forehead.”
I heaved a sigh of frustration. Just when I thought I was getting somewhere, he started evading my questions again, turning the tables on me like an expert. Out of desperation I broke the cardinal rule of journalism----making the interview about me. “So, why did you want to have dinner with me if you don’t want to talk?”
“I never said I didn’t want to talk. I just prefer not to talk about myself.”
“That’s obvious.”
Instead of responding to my snide remark, he dug into the second half of his sandwich. Layla finally arrived with mine. As she set my plate down in front of me, she cast her eyes from me, to Peter, and back again. “Everything OK here, hon?”
“Fine. Can you bring me a Diet Coke when you have a chance? Light ice.” I had a feeling we’d be here a while, and I knew I’d need the caffeine. Layla nodded and discreetly sauntered off.
I dug into my own meal----delicious, as it always was here at the Salt-n-Pepper----and refrained from saying anything more. I hoped I could get the silence to stretch on long enough to compel Peter to speak. That, and I just wanted to study him. I found every detail of his face and physique fascinating. The way his forehead crinkled into three tiny “Vs” when he swallowed. The distinctive pattern of the lines around his eyes, which added nothing to his age, but only made him seem that much more mysterious. The cleft in his chin, the likes of which I’d never seen before. His unusual haircolor, a russet brown that reminded me of new cattails in spring. And those deep icy-blue pools of his.
Those eyes.
Those eyes that penetrated my inner depths, and yet gave absolutely nothing away about their owner.
I was almost halfway through my own burger and fries when Peter finally spoke. “You know Nancy, you’ve told me next to nothing about yourself.”
I smiled. I could evade questions, too. Two could play this game as easily as one. “There really isn’t much to tell.”
He raised one eyebrow. “Surely you jest. By all accounts you are a highly unusual young woman.”
“You’ve already hit all the highlights.”
“Refresh my memory on them, if you don’t mind.”
“I’m a college student at Case Western, studying literature and journalism. I’m doing this article as a freelance assignment. My roommate is the Midwestern correspondent at Art News Now and I got the gig through her. I think most contemporary art is a stupid waste of time. That’s pretty much it.”
He cocked his head at me. “Surely there’s more to you than that.”
“Not really.”
“Do I detect a bit of a Boston accent? Or New England at least? You certainly don’t sound like you’re from Ohio.”
“You’re right, I’m not from Ohio. I grew up just outside of Boston. My parents are both college professors at Beverly.”
“Good little school, or so I’m told.”
“It is. But I didn’t want to go to the same school where my parents taught. I got a partial scholarship to Case Western so that’s how I ended up out here in Ohio.”
He seemed amused at that remark. “You say out here as if Ohio were some sort of cultural wasteland.”
“That’s because it kind of is. At least, compared to Boston or New York it is.”
“Well, perhaps in that context, yes.” He polished off the last of his French fries and regarded me thoughtfully. “In retrospect, I probably should have picked a different town to do this exhibit opening. Richard emailed this morning to tell me that nothing in the show sold, and that even if there hadn’t been an, ahem, incident with the models, the police say we’d have run afoul of the public indecency ordinance with just the photographs alone. Ridiculous. People certainly are uptight around here.”
I nodded agreement. “Living in Ohio is like living in a time warp sometimes. Though I think you still would have gotten into trouble in New York or Boston for the painted naked modelshaving kinky butt sex in public.”
He chuckled. “New York, not likely. Boston I’ll give you though.”
“Touché. It’s all those Irish-Catholics, don’t you know.” I picked at my French fries, which had mostly gone cold by then. “But seriously, what did you think was going to happen when you chained up two naked people like that together under a sheet? Like you said before, nature took its course.”
Peter shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I expected the installation to be highly erotic, even shocking. But I didn’t actually expect nature to take its course, at least not with those two models. They’re professionals. I’ve worked with them on projects for years. They should have known better than to do what they did.”
“And yet, they did it anyway.”
He dug back into his milkshake, spooning out the thick chunks of ice cream. “If you’re looking for an explanation into why it happened, I don’t have one.”
“Bullshit. You knew it would happen from the get-go. You designed the whole exhibit that way.”
He choked on a mouthful of milkshake. “What on earth makes you say that?”
I sat up straighter. I was on a roll now, even a little shocked at what I was daring to say out loud. “Anyone who walked into that gallery couldn’t help but get really turned on,” I said, hearing my voice quaver a bit. “It was extremely erotic, one of the most intense things I’ve ever seen. I’m sure it was the same for the models. They probably just couldn’t help themselves. Nobody could have. In fact, I’m willing to bet that if the cops hadn’t shown up when they did, there would have been a lot more fucking going on in that place.”
He leaned back in his seat and studied me for a moment. “Are you saying that you couldn’t help yourself, either?”
I finally lost my footing. “Um, well, um---“ Suddenly the dregs of my milkshake became very interesting.
“Nancy, it’s a perfectly fair question, and nothing to be embarrassed about.”
“Who said I was embarrassed?” I said, my voice coming out as only a high-pitched squeak.
“The color of your cheeks, for one.” Peter turned to flag down Layla, who strode right over carrying my long-overdue Diet Coke. “Miss, could you get my lady friend here a nice cold glass of ice water, pronto?” Layla smiled and nodded, then went to get it.
“I-I’m sorry, I have to admit I’m a little out of my league here.” I finally managed to steady my voice a bit, but it was clear that despite my best intentions, this so-called “interview” was over. “I should probably just go home now. I’ll leave enough money to cover my bill.“ I stood up to leave, but Peter placed a firm hand on my wrist, stopping me in my tracks.
“Please, Nancy, don’t go. You are delightful company and I very much enjoy speaking with you.”
“I didn’t agree to sit down to dinner with you because I like you,” I lied, taking my place in the booth once again. “I’m a reporter after a story, and I’ll get it any way I have to.”
His eyes twinkled. “Any way you have to, eh? Hmm. Be careful what you wish for, Ms. Delaney.”
“Oh, so I’m Ms. Delaney now?”
He polished off the last bits of his dinner, balled his napkin, then set it and his empty plate aside. “Since you insist upon being formal instead of friendly, yes. Absolutely divine meal, by the way. Don’t worry about paying either, it’s my treat.”
“It would be unethical of me as a reporter to let you pay for my meal,” I said drily, twirling the ice in my Diet Coke with a straw. Layla had remembered to include a lime slice, just as I liked
. I took a quick sip first, then picked the lime out with my spoon, squeezed its tart juice into the fizzy beverage, and popped the remains into my mouth to suck without even thinking about what I was doing. It cleared the hamburger grease from my palate and the first hint of caffeine hitting my system gave me the boost that I so desperately needed.
My Diet Coke-and-lime ritual dated back to high school, I did it on autopilot without even thinking what Peter would think as he watched.
He stared at me, fascinated. “Are you always this sexy when you drink soda?”
I spat the lime wedge out onto the table in shock. “Excuse me?”
“The thing you did with the lime is extremely sensual,” Peter said. “You didn’t realize that?”
I shrugged my shoulders. Apparently not. And yet, I felt the familiar warmth creeping into my groin again. I was turned on, just like I’d been at the gallery. I couldn’t think straight, and I was making a fool of myself. “I really should go,” I said. “It’s late, and I have class tomorrow, and I’m really very sorry about all of this.” I got up for real that time, even though half of my dinner still sat untouched.
Layla appeared, carrying my promised glass of ice water. “Going so soon? Do you want a box for your burger, hon?”
I shook my head. “No, just leave it.”
She gave me a concerned look. “There wasn’t anything wrong with it, was there? I’ll get the manager over here if there was.”
“No, I’ve just lost my appetite, is all. Thank you, Layla. You know I’ll be back.”
She gave me a nod and a knowing smile, and set off to wait on some other customers.
I dropped enough cash to cover my side of the bill on the table, then bolted out of the restaurant without looking back.
FOUR
The drive home was a complete blur. Everything seemed out of focus, and I felt so hot and bothered (an expression I was only now beginning to understand) that I had trouble concentrating on the road. Making matters worse, Ginger’s transmission was on the fritz again. I’d sprung the dough for a halfassed temporary fix over the winter, but it seemed that had run out. Poor Ginger kept stalling out between second and third gear, no matter how gently I let up on the clutch. She’d had that problem for years now, but I’d always been able to get around it, either through cheap repair jobs or gentle downshifting. But now the engine protested any time I tried to accelerate, and I could barely make the speed limit on I-90 on the way back to campus from downtown.
I took the University Circle exit and was almost back in my own neighborhood when Ginger completely died. The engine came to a complete grinding halt at an intersection, and the only sound that emitted from her when I turned over the ignition was the horrid grinding sound of metal on metal.
Fortunately she stalled at the head of the downward-sloping side street where Hannah and I had our apartment, so I could push Ginger downhill the rest of the way. I put her gears in neutral, tossed my stuff in the backseat, and got out to push. Ginger’s unwashed, rusty fenders would prove lethal to the clothes I’d borrowed from Hannah, though. I’d get stuck with a cleaning bill at minimum, might even have to pay to replace the duds if Hannah was in a bad mood. At least I’d had the foresight not to wear heels.
It took me almost fifteen minutes to push Ginger down the street to the cul-de-sac where our apartment building stood. Luckily there was enough of an incline for me to sort-of steer the car into a final resting space based on gravity alone. I’d have to have her towed, likely to the junkyard rather than the repair shop. The repairman who did the cheap transmission fix over the winter had warned me it probably wouldn’t be worth sinking any more money into her, and that she was unlikely to survive another Cleveland winter. I’d been in denial at the time (Ginger and I went way back----originally my mother’s car when I was a kid, I’d learned to drive in her and she’d been my faithful source of transport since the age of sixteen) but I knew there was no denying it now.
Poor Ginger, I thought. Boy, we had some great times. I pulled the parking break, heaved a sigh at my pathetic predicament, and headed towards my building. Hannah’s car was nowhere in sight, which meant she was still out at the symphony with Ted.
It was already quite late----well after ten---by the time I keyed into the apartment. But I’d have to wait up for Hannah and break the news of my complete disaster of an evening. Not only had I managed to not get what I needed to do the gallery opening review properly, I’d blown my chance at the investigative feature, too. I could not conduct an interview of Peter Rostovich to save my life. Talking to him was like trying to talk to the Rosetta Stone without the answer key.
Artists. Sheesh.
Sure, I’d sold the scoop piece to the Plain Dealer on the fly out of the deal, but with almost nothing acceptable to write for Art News Now I was going to let my best friend down, and I hated that. I hated losing the feature article opportunity on Rostovich before I’d even had a chance to start even more. Boy, that could have been such a sweet gig. Especially if it had turned into a real staff-level journalism job before I’d even managed to graduate.
But when something sounds too good to be true, it usually is. It had all seemed to fall into my lap too easily, and now I was stuck up a hill I couldn’t get down. I’d probably have to call Eric Burgess at the paper in the morning and tell him I wouldn’t be making the deadline, unless some sort of miracle happened and the information I needed on Rostovich just fell out of the sky or something.
Still, stranger things had happened. I decided to sleep on it. Maybe I’d wake up in the morning with a better idea of what to do.
Overall, the evening was a wash. Meeting Peter Rostovich had been, shall we say, educational---if more than a little bizarre. I’d seen and felt things that evening I’d never felt before, and not sure I ever would again. I’d been tied up---and liked it. I’d gotten aroused in public, and liked it too. My most secret spots ached. I might still technically be a virgin, but at that moment I certainly didn’t feel like one.
I wanted more. And I wanted it now. I wanted to sacrifice my virginity as soon as possible. Not on some sacred marble altar, either---any cheap mattress or brick wall would do. But when? And with whom? Not with Peter Rostovich, surely. How many ethical barriers would I breach if I did that? My journalism career would be over before it even started. I’d never be able to look myself in the mirror again. I’d lose all self-respect. At least, that’s what the rational part of my brain kept telling me. My limbic system had other ideas, however.
I sat down on my bed and put my head in my hands. I was sweaty, and anxious, and every nerve ending in my body was switched on. Even the feel of my down comforter and duvet against my skin was excruciating, because it just wasn’t the kind of touch my body craved. I wanted skin on skin, hot breath mingling with sweat, the pounding of naked bodies against one another. I wanted what I’d seen in that gallery tonight.
I looked at my wrists where the cable tie had been. There were very faint red marks showing just above each wristbone. I rubbed each wrist with my fingertips, tracing the lines, recalling how the hard plastic had cut into my skin, had blocked my circulation, how it had stung and even made it difficult for me to balance and walk. By all accounts I should have found the entire experience of being tied up repulsive, but I didn’t. I wanted it to happen again. And I wanted Peter Rostovich to do it to me.
I wanted him to fuck me. There, I’d finally admitted it. I wanted to lose my virginity to a man I’d just met, a man who had tied me up within thirty seconds of meeting me, and even then without even a proper introduction. I wanted to fuck a man who had to be at least ten years older than I was if not more, a man I’d just agreed to write an exposé on for a major newspaper. An exposé I had no idea how to go about writing, and I’d already danced across some shady ethical lines in a vain attempt to get the information I needed to write it---which hadn’t even worked.
Good lord, this was really screwed up. What on earth was the matter with me? Is this really wh
at sex did to people’s brains? Suddenly all my girlfriends’ messy romances and one-night stands made more sense. All rational thought obviously went out the window where sex was concerned.
I decided the best course of action was to do something to take my mind off the whole proceedings. I tossed my press bag under my desk, promising myself not to look at it or its contents until at least tomorrow morning. I switched off my phone and didn’t log into my computer to check email, the news, or anything else. Instead I popped a DVD into the player and settled back against my bedpillows to catch up on my favorite television show, Downton Abbey. The Season 2 boxed set had just arrived from Netflix earlier in the week and now would be the first chance I’d had in several days to watch an episode or two. I loved the British Edwardian soap opera, with its sumptuous costumes, refined dialogue and convoluted soap-opera plotlines.
And no sex. At least, none on camera. I could escape my troubled thoughts and throbbing body for a while, and stay awake long enough to face the music when Hannah got home from the symphony. Hopefully I’d be able to speak with her for at least a few minutes before she and Ted retreated to her bedroom for yet another installment of the screaming-fuck Olympics. Thankfully her room was at the far end of our railroad-style apartment (our kitchen and sitting room were sandwiched in between), so as long as I stayed in my room with the fan blowing I wouldn’t have to hear much of the fallout.
Then again, after tonight’s turn of events, I was curious about what Hannah and Ted did together. While in the past the notion of my best friend banging that shallow rich-kid fratboy with cheesy tribal tattoos made me an even mix of nauseous and indifferent, tonight it made me curious. What exactly went on behind those closed doors? Was it just plain old vanilla sex (as if I even knew what that was), or was it closer to what I’d watched at the gallery tonight? Or was it something different still? How many different kinds of sex could there possibly be? It wasn’t something we’d discussed much in my Human Sexuality course a few semesters back. That class had focused more on the physical mechanics and biological side of things, rather than personal foibles.
Domino (The Domino Trilogy) Page 6