Secrets of a Shoe Addict

by Harbison, Beth

  “Sandra, you know it is not possible. The art of acupuncture is based upon stimulating your body’s existing responses. It’s not a ‘more is better’ proposition.”

  “It never hurts to ask.” She jumped slightly as he put the needle in her earlobe.

  Dr. Lee just shook his head and chuckled. “No, it doesn’t hurt to ask. But my answer will remain the same.”

  “I’m afraid my question will, too,” Sandra said. “Ouch! It hurts! It didn’t hurt last time.”

  “It is a new meridian. This one perhaps needs more work.” Dr. Lee looked at her, and even though she’d never seen even one shade of judgment in his eyes, she felt embarrassed.

  “My weight has certainly been a problem longer than my anxiety,” she said, half expecting him to say something reassuring.

  Instead, he simply nodded. “That could be why. Now, turn over and I will complete the acupuncture.”

  Recently, Sandra had become less self-conscious about lying on the table in her underwear while the man put acupuncture needles in her. She rolled over onto her stomach and closed her eyes as he inserted the barely perceptible needles into her pressure points.

  “Relax for fifteen minutes and I will be back.” Dr. Lee turned down the lights and turned up the PA to the gentle lull of James Galway’s flute lilting over Debussy.

  It really was relaxing, odd as that seemed.

  Until her cell phone started ringing.

  Now, Sandra wasn’t normally one to panic, so the first time it rang, her initial thought was that she’d just call whoever it was back. When the person hung up and called right back, she felt mild irritation that the caller couldn’t just take a hint and leave a message.

  But the third time it rang, Sandra’s nerves tightened. Maybe it was an emergency. Had someone been hurt? Or . . . worse? It had been six years since anyone she knew had died, and oddly enough, it had occurred to her a couple of weeks ago that, God forbid, something bad might be about due.

  Gingerly, she pushed herself up from the table, careful about the needles sticking out of her like a half-bald porcupine.

  The phone was in her purse, which, unfortunately was deep. This was unfortunate because she had needles in the back of her hand, so she couldn’t just dig into the depths of the leather bag to find it.

  Very carefully, she pulled the flaps open and reached for the light of her ringing phone.

  “Hello?” she asked urgently.

  “Sandra? It’s Loreen.”

  “Oh.” This was surprising. “Loreen. Is everything okay?”

  “Yes. I mean . . . well, yes. But I need some advice. About . . . you know . . .”

  “Yes? . . .”

  “I need some ideas of what to say. How to get a conversation started.” She hesitated. “And keep it going.”

  “Oh. Well, it’s not so hard. You just sort of feel the guy out to see what he needs. You know, Why are you calling me tonight, Bart? That sort of thing.” Sandra started to sit down and remembered the acupuncture needles just in time.

  “What if he asks what I want to do.”

  “Then you say something along the lines of whatever you want to do, big guy, I just want to make you happy.”

  There was a knock at the door and the nurse poked her head in. “Is everything okay in here?”

  “Yes. Fine. I just had a call.”

  The nurse bowed out, but Sandra wondered how much of the conversation she’d heard.

  “Look, I’m at the doctor’s now,” Sandra said, lowering her voice. “Do you want me to stop by on my way home?”

  “I don’t want to trouble you—”

  “It’s no problem.”

  “Seriously? Because I’d really appreciate it.”

  “Sure.” Sandra turned to look at the clock. “It’ll be about forty-five minutes.”

  “I’ll be here. Thanks!”

  “No problem at all.” Sandra hung up the phone and went back to the table. She liked Loreen. It would be fun to stop by and help her out. Certainly a lot more fun than sitting home alone watching Wheel of Fortune and wondering if she should go on another blind date.

  She arrived at Loreen’s house just under an hour later. Loreen was ready with cups of instant coffee and a plate full of Girl Scout cookies. Thin Mints.

  This was really going to put Sandra’s acupuncture to the test.

  Loreen told the story of her debacle, beginning with her call from Caveman and ending with a lot of self-punishment about how badly she’d “failed.” By the time she was finished, Sandra was feeling guilty for getting her into this business in the first place.

  “But I really want to do this,” Loreen said with absolute sincerity. “I really do. I’m not a prude. I’m just a bad improvisational actress.”

  “Okay,” Sandra said, pushing back from the plate of cookies and leaning against the sofa back. “So the guy said light my fire, right? You could say something like Okay, baby, because I’m really burning for you.”

  “Ooh, that’s good.” Loreen looked impressed. “But what if he just lobbed me another one-liner, trying to get me to start the juicy stuff?”

  “Then you just—” Sandra made a swooshing tennis-type motion. “—hit it right back over to him. Say something like I like your voice, you’re getting me hot . . . tell me what makes you hot. Guys eat that stuff up.”

  “Yeah?”

  Sandra nodded. “Get him interested, make him feel like he’s turning you on, but keep sending it back to him so you can mirror whatever it is he wants.”

  “Brilliant.”

  Sandra laughed. “It works. And it keeps them on the phone longer. Even though your talk with Caveman didn’t pan out, you got something out of it just in the time it took him to tell you it blew.”

  Loreen nodded. “This is good stuff, Sandra. And I swear it would work for dating, too. Guys love to talk about themselves. What better way to turn them on than to make them think you’re turned on by every little thing they have to say?”

  Sandra thought about that. “You might have a point. Actually, a good point. Of course, the first thing I’d need to do is get a decent date. So far that hasn’t happened.”

  “Not even one?”

  “Not one.” Sandra reached for the Thin Mints. She hated thinking about her miserable dates. Chocolate would help.

  Chocolate always helped.

  Chocolate and shoes. They’d never let her down.

  Chapter

  15

  Abbey was cleaning up the dishes after dinner Saturday night when she heard Brian at the door, talking to someone.

  Pulling a dishrag down to dry her hands, she went to the door and was shocked to see Damon standing in her foyer.

  “Honey,” Brian said when he saw her. “Come here. I want you to meet one of our new parishioners. This is Lloyd. Lloyd, this is my wife, Abbey.”

  Lloyd?

  “Nice to meet you,” Abbey said through clenched teeth.

  “Hey, Abbey.” He put out a large, meaty hand. “Nice to meet you, too. I was just dropping off some clothes for the church charity drive. My wife sent these over for ya.” He held up a stuffed kitchen trash bag with God knew what in it.

  “How nice,” Abbey said, taking the bag. Go away! her mind screamed. Go away, go away, go away!

  “Lloyd’s new to the area,” Brian said.

  “Sort of new,” Damon corrected. He was looking at Abbey with open amusement now. “I haven’t really been to church in a while, but I’m thinking it’s time to wear sheep’s clothing again.”

  His message was loud and clear.

  “Excuse me a minute,” Brian said, giving Abbey a look she recognized as Nice guy, huh? “Lloyd, I’ll get you the schedule and the information about Bible groups.”

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Abbey rasped when Brian was gone.

  “Fine language for a preacher’s wife.”

  “I mean it!”

  “I told you I’d be around. Here I am.”

  “
Just delivering clothes for the poor, huh?” She held up the bag. “Does anything in here explode?”

  “You better hope not.”

  “I want you out of my home.”

  “Now that’s not very Christian of you. What if I came here for help? Do you do counseling, Mrs. Walsh?” He took a step toward Abbey and raked his gaze across her so brazenly, she suddenly felt nude. “I understand sometimes pastors’ wives do that.”

  Abbey took a step back. “Stay away from me.”

  Brian returned at that moment. “Here’s the worship schedule, and some other programs we have. Do you have any kids, Lloyd?”

  “No, sir.” Damon shook his head as if he really regretted that. “But I’m hoping to maybe adopt an older child.” His eyes met Abbey’s. “I always wanted a son.”

  My God, was he threatening Parker? Would Damon sink that low?

  Of course he would.

  “Thank you so much for your donation,” she said, walking behind him and opening the front door for him to leave. “I don’t have any donation receipts here, but if you want to give me your address, we can send one from the church office.” She looked at him pointedly.

  He got it. And lobbed it right back. “No, that’s all right. It’s enough just to give. That feels good.”

  “We appreciate it,” Brian said, oblivious.

  “I’m sure you do.” Damon kept his eyes fastened on Abbey. “I’m sure you do.”

  As soon as he’d gone, she went straight up to Parker’s room, with the bag still in hand. She opened the door and peeked in, just to make sure Parker was still safely in bed. He was.

  So she took the bag into her room and opened it to see what was inside it. She was prepared for anything. Small dead animals, old photos of her in a compromising position—she braced herself for the worst.

  But all she found was a handful of clothes with Wal-Mart tags on them, undoubtedly stolen on the way over here.

  He’d gone to a lot of trouble to make sure she knew he knew where to find her and how to identify her husband. That visit had been a warning; she had no doubt about that.

  She just wished she had the money to heed it.

  Charlie was asleep. He’d gotten in late this evening from yet another business trip, and, after throwing dinner down his gullet, he’d gone straight to bed. She’d put Andy down about an hour before that, and Kate went about an hour later, leaving Tiffany at 8 P.M. with the downstairs to herself.

  She celebrated by taking a bottle of chardonnay downstairs with her to “work.” She poured the wine into the cap from the Tide bottle.

  After folding some laundry—there was always laundry—she logged on and got a call almost instantly.

  “My name’s Mick,” the gravel-voiced caller told her as soon as she introduced herself.

  “Hi, Mick.”

  “You know, like Mick Jagger,” he went on. “I know a lot of guys lie about who they are, but I don’t see the point unless you’re ashamed.”

  “Me neither, Mick.” It was, of course, Crystal talking. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of here.”

  “I’m glad we agree. Now, what kind of panties are you wearing?”

  “I’m not wearing any.” She feigned a giggle. “I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Hell no.” He let out a long sigh. “That just means we can get down to business faster. I want you to touch yourself.”

  “I have been ever since I first heard your voice,” she lied, then wondered where that audacity had come from.

  Clearly, it pleased him. “Touch yourself,” he said.

  She wasn’t used to the bluntness, but she’d seen enough late-night shows on Cinemax to be prepared for what this would inevitably entail.

  “Ahhhhh.” She tried to sound like she was enjoying herself, but it had come out more like a yawn. “Oh, Mick.”

  “Feels good?”

  “So good.”

  He proceeded to issue instructions to her: touch this, touch that, suck this, lick that. It wasn’t her thing, but then again, she didn’t really have to do it. It was just a virtual game of Simon Says.

  So she groaned and giggled and did all the appropriate things. “It feels so good,” she said, then remembered something else Sandra had told her. Make sure he feels it’s personal. “I’m pretending it’s you touching me.”

  He seemed to like that. “Keep going, baby.” His voice was growing rougher. “Now take your hand and put it back on your pussy.”

  Simon says masturbate.

  “Ooooh,” Tiffany said. Then she got up and quietly refilled the Tide cap with wine. It no longer mattered that the wine was cheap and tasted too sweet. It beat the heck out of what this guy wanted her to be tasting.

  He moaned. “I love the way you sound when you start breathing heavy.”

  Oh! Heavy breathing! She’d forgotten to maintain that. That was one of the basics, Sandra had said.

  So she started. “You . . . are . . . amazing.” She added a squeal, hoping it would lend sincerity to her statement.

  It seemed to work. “Oh, yeah.”

  She could hear him working on himself in the background.

  The wine must be getting to her, because this was sort of starting to turn her on.

  “Spread your legs,” he uttered. “I want to see your dripping love juices.”

  Love juices? Hm. That put the brakes on the turn-on.

  “I’m putting my dick in your pussy now,” he said.

  “Oh, you’re so big.” Men loved to hear that stuff, didn’t they? All of them. No matter how patently untrue it sometimes was.

  “I’m running my tongue down your neck.”

  “Ahhhhh.” Tiffany was losing track. Wasn’t some of this stuff physically impossible to do simultaneously?

  “What’s in your refrigerator?” he asked suddenly.

  “What’s in . . . what? My refrigerator?” Where was this headed? Would he want a postcoital snack? That would be consistent with the whole Happy Housewives theme.

  As a matter of fact, food and eating were very sensual things. Maybe that would be Tiffany’s—well, Crystal’s—hallmark. She’d describe food in wonderful, sensual detail. She’d be the Nigella Lawson of phone sex. She could even—

  “What do you have that you can use as a dick? Cucumbers? Two or three carrots?” His voice deepened. “Let’s see how many you can fit in there.”

  Tiffany was prepared to do a lot of things, and say a lot of things. She was aware of the fact that it wasn’t always going to be fun. But she just couldn’t picture herself sitting in the basement with a capful of wine by her side, saying I got another carrot in and boy does that feel awesome.

  “I have a zucchini,” she said quickly, then added, on a hunch, “it’s really big, though. I’m not sure it will fit.”

  “Do it,” he said immediately. “But first put a rubber on it.”

  She almost laughed. “I have black, red, or green,” she said instead, enjoying the image of a dressed-up zucchini. “What do you want me to use?”

  “Black. Put on the black one.”

  She crinkled the dry cleaner’s paper on one of Charlie’s suits.

  “Lay back and spread your legs,” he said. “I’m going to fuck you with that cucumber.”

  “Oh, baby.” No point in correcting him and telling him it was a zucchini. But why did so many people get those two things mixed up? They were totally different things.

  “I’m going to fuck you hard,” Mick was saying.

  Tiffany moaned and tried to calculate how much this call had earned her so far. It seemed like she’d been on the phone forever.

  “Oh, baby, I’m going to make you come over and over again,” Mick panted.

  “Take your time,” Tiffany said, making her voice coo. “We’ve got all night. All night long.”

  Which seemed easy until Mick suggested he was going to put the cucumber where normally it would come out.

  The image was so unexpected that Tiffany’s response was immediate. “
Ew!”

  “What?”

  Oh no, she’d broken the spell. “Ooooh,” she said, trying to include a little of the ew sound, so he’d think she’d been into it the whole time. “Do it.” No zucchini bisque for her in the near future.

  “Yeah, baby.”

  Then, just as she felt she was hitting her stride, Tiffany heard footsteps overhead. Heavy footsteps.

  Charlie had woken up.

  And he was probably looking for her.

  So she ratcheted up the dirty talk, whispering the filthiest, most provocative things she could think of, impatiently waiting through Mick’s labored moans and groans until finally, thank God, he finished.

  “Oh man, Crystal, you are fucking incredible,” he said, breathless. “I’ve never heard a woman talk like that. I’m going to request you next time.”

  “I can’t wait,” she whispered. The door to the basement opened.

  “Tiffany?” Charlie called.

  Shit! Shit shit shit! “Call me back,” she said to Mick quickly. “Soon.”

  Then she flipped the phone closed.

  What else could she do? It wasn’t like she could just put her hand up to tell Charlie to wait while she finished the guy off.

  It was bad policy to end a call quickly; she knew that. But it was probably a whole lot worse to have the caller hear your husband calling for you.

  Unless, of course, that was the fantasy.

  Tiffany shook off the thought. She couldn’t figure all of this out right now. She just needed to appease Charlie.

  “I’m here,” she called, then downed the rest of her wine and put the cap back on the Tide bottle.

  Oh God. Oh God, she couldn’t let him find out what she’d been doing.

  “What’re you doing down here?” Charlie asked, sounding irritable. “I’m trying to sleep.”

  What was she doing? She was enjoying herself with another man, more than she’d ever enjoyed herself with Charlie, and the other man wasn’t even actually there.

  So she decided the best defense would be a low-key offense. “What does my being down here have to do with you trying to sleep?” she asked, kicking the dryer door shut to sound like she was doing laundry.