by Eden Bradley
I extend my hand to her and surprise flashes across her features for one brief moment before she takes it. Hers is cool and dry and perfectly smooth. It hardly feels like flesh to me.
“I wish you well, Deirdre. But I won't be back.”
She nods her head, lets go of my hand. Her maid appears at her side as if magically summoned.
“Lucia will see you out.”
Back in my car and heading toward the freeway, I feel a strange combination of things. I didn't expect to feel sad, but I do. Sad for her. Sad for myself. For all of us call girls. Hookers. Whores.
I play again in my head what she said to me about how we can never free ourselves entirely of what we've been. But I refuse to believe I am permanently tainted. I'd rather believe in what Joshua has told me. And seeing Deirdre has only made me more clear about what I want for myself and what I absolutely don't. I am more done with my old life than ever.
My new cell phone rings and I see Joshua's number on the screen, smile as I answer.
“Hey, baby.” His voice makes me melt a little, as always. “I just got a call and I have to be at a job site in San Diego later today, see an anxious client for dinner, but I want to take you to lunch first. Where are you? How are you?”
“I'm good. I have something to celebrate.” I am still flying from my conversation with Deirdre. I feel victorious.
“What?”
“I went to see Deirdre today. My … madam.”
He pauses, and I hurry to explain. “I had to tell her in person that I'm done. Not that I was any less done before I saw her, but seeing her was … different. More final.”
“I think I get it. How did she react?”
“She was coldly furious. Trying to tell me I can never escape that life. It felt pretty damn good to tell her she was wrong. It felt like … the end. Do you know what I mean?”
“I think so. Sometimes we have to face our demons head-on.”
“Oh, she's an old demon, alright.”
“How do you feel now? ”
“Good. Stronger.”
“Yes, let's celebrate. I'll order a bottle of champagne.”
“That's perfect. Where should I meet you?”
Twenty minutes later we're at The Lobster in Santa Monica. The place is right on the pier and is all soaring glass with a stunning ocean view. The waves, shades of green, gray, and blue, sparkling in the sun, thunder on the sand below us. And the sun is lighting up Joshua's hazel eyes as he sits across from me, smiling as we drink our champagne, waiting for our food.
Lunch is lovely, relaxed. Gorgeous seafood and this gorgeous man across from me, holding my hand between bites. Impossible that he loves me, but he does. I can feel it in every look, every gesture.
I have never been so happy in my life. I have never even imagined this.
After our meal we have dessert, a nice chocolate mousse, which he feeds me with his spoon. We drink more of the sparkling wine, talking about inconsequential things. Like normal people, after all.
I just want to get him home, to strip our clothes off, to lie beside him, to touch his naked skin. It makes me smile that I will, eventually, later tonight when he's done working. That I can actually have what I want.
We get up to leave, and Joshua comes around and wraps my sweater over my shoulders in an old-fashioned gesture I love.
The place is really filling up now with the late-lunch crowd. We're making our way through the throngs of people toward the front door, Joshua leading me by the hand, when he stops.
“Greg, hi.” He turns to me. “Valentine, this is Greg Stockton. We worked together on the Seal Beach restoration project.”
“Nice to meet you,” I get out, offering my hand, before I realize who this man is.
My client.
Elegant in his gray suit that matches his hair, with his shiny arm-candy wife beside him.
The champagne bubbles in my stomach like a witch's cauldron.
Somehow, I manage not to let my smile falter, to shake his wife's hand, to shake his hand, which makes my skin crawl. His flesh is cool to the touch, too dry, like a reptile's. He is uncomfortable, but hiding it fairly well. If only he'd stop looking at me like that. Like I'm a piece of meat.
That's what you are to him.
I hang on to Joshua's hand tighter, and he turns to look at me, a question in his eyes.
I feel dirty standing next to him, with this man, this client, in front of me. With him eyeing me this way, probably remembering fucking me on the dining room table in his weekend house in Playa del Rey a few months ago, handing me a pile of hundred-dollar bills.
“I'm sorry. I'm not feeling well. I have to go.”
I let go of Joshua's hand, leaving mine cold and empty, and walk outside, take a gasping breath of the sea air. Joshua is right behind me, catching up to me in the parking lot.
“What just happened in there?”
I can barely breathe. I can barely stand to look at him.
“That man …”
“What?”
“He's … an old client of mine.”
“Shit.”
He takes a step back, recoiling.
Somewhere down deep, I always knew this would happen. That at some point, the reality of what I've done will hit him full force. I guess I just didn't expect it to affect me this way.
I can't even say anything to him. All I can do is stand there helplessly, watching his face shut down.
Finally, he reaches out for me, pulls me into him hard, wrapping his arms around me.
“Valentine. Shit. Okay. It's going to be okay.”
“Will it?”
I just don't know anymore.
“That was … bad. Hard. But it doesn't change anything.”
“I don't know if that's true. For you or for me.”
“It doesn't have to, Valentine.”
I burrow into his chest, hiding my face, rubbing my cheek into the comfort of his fresh, crisp shirt. I take in a breath, breathe in the scent of him. So precious to me.
“Damn it. I have to go, get on the road. I can't be late. Valentine, just go home, to my place. Wait for me.”
I nod my head. He tucks his fingers beneath my chin, lifting my face to his, forcing me to look at him. His eyes are blazing. “We'll talk. Okay? As soon as I get home.”
“Yes. Alright.”
But I am already going dead inside. All but my heart, hammering out my panic at a thousand miles an hour.
He kisses my forehead, then my mouth. Is he really as distant as he feels, or is it just me? My fear?
“I love you,” he whispers before he lets me go, helps me into my car. “Go straight home, alright?”
“Yes. I will.”
The beach is fogged in when I get back to Joshua's house, after a quick stop at a convenience store to buy a bag of gummi bears. Silly, I know. But I plan to crawl into bed, to make my escape, and this is part of the old ritual. I just need a break, some time to breathe.
I let myself into the house—his house—undress quickly, and crawl into bed in my underwear, the small plastic bag in my hand. Curling up beneath the sheets, the heavy weight of the comforter, I tear the bag open, spill a few of the candies into my palm, put them in my mouth.
That familiar sweet sensation, so sweet it almost hurts. I am trying hard not to think about what just happened. I don't need anything right now but to make my mind go blank, this small shock of sugar on my tongue, and then, blissful sleep.
But I smell his scent all over the pillows, almost as though he is there with me.
Joshua.
I am too much in love with him.
Each day I feel closer and closer to him. Even our little argument drew us nearer to each other. And yet there is this part of me, locked away inside, that's like a hard lump of granite, and even I don't know what's in there. But I know it's ugly.
I am afraid to let it out. I know I can't do it in front of Joshua. And I know I won't be able to really heal and move on until I take that dark p
lace apart, expose it to the light, and deal with it.
Yeah, I know, I sound like some self-help guru. I sound like Lydia. That doesn't make it any less true.
Running into a client today made me realize just how much I am going to have to deal with. Maybe I knew it before, on some level, but having it shoved in my face like this … It does change things, regardless of what Joshua says.
Too much. Don't think about it now.
I close my eyes, let the candy melt in my mouth, the bag clutched to my chest. Pulling the covers over my head, shutting out the misty mid-day light, I drift off.
I don't know how long it is before the telephone wakes me up. I'm afraid to answer it at first. Reaching over to the extension on the nightstand, I see that it's Joshua, and I am more afraid than ever. He'll know something is wrong and I can't explain this to him. Not now. But I answer anyway.
“Hello?”
“Hey, baby.”
It almost hurts to hear his voice.
“Hi.”
“You sound sleepy.”
“I was … napping. Sorry.”
“You don't have to be sorry. Do whatever you want. Whatever makes you happy. I'm sorry I woke you.”
“No. No, it's fine.”
“I was calling to tell you I'll be home late. I probably won't get there until after ten.”
“Oh. Alright.”
“Valentine? You okay?”
“What? Yes. Fine. I'm fine. Just… I'm not quite awake yet. I'll be fine. Go finish your meeting. I'll see you when you get home.”
“Okay. I'll get there as soon as I can. And we can talk. Or not. We can wait until tomorrow, when we're not tired. We can talk whenever you're ready. This place makes a great tiramisu; I'll bring you some dessert.”
“Yes, I'd like that.”
We hang up, and I immediately curl back into the bed.
I have been playing house here with him for weeks. But it's not right. I have no right. He is too good. But I cannot figure it out right now. My head is fuzzy, heavy.
Settling into the pillows, I bite back the tears and pop another gummi bear into my mouth before I fall back into a dreamless sleep.
I SENSE HIM IN the room even before he says my name.
“Valentine. Wake up, baby.”
Then he's there next to me on the bed. I reach for him in the dark and find he's undressed already. Ah, the smooth texture of his skin beneath my searching hands, the fine, strong muscles of his shoulder, his chest. His nipples stiffening when I brush my fingertips over them.
He leans in and kisses me and my hands go into his hair, pulling him down into me. He kisses me hard, sensing my need. And his hands are everywhere, hot, skimming over my skin, lighting me up all over.
I am wet for him; I always am. All it takes is a single touch, a look. Oh, yes, the way he looks at me, really looks at me, as no one has ever done before. And I don't have to think right now, not with him this close to me.
He is climbing in with me now, pushing back the covers, slipping my panties off, and laying his body over mine. I love this, the sweet weight of him on me. So sentimental, but I can't help myself.
His cock is a hard length resting at the apex of my thighs, and I open for him, arch up against him. Reaching down between our bodies, he strokes me with his hand, and I sigh into his mouth. I am trembling already, suffused with pleasure. And my chest is tight with emotion. But it is all sweetness and tenderness: his caressing fingers on my cleft, his lovely mouth on mine.
“Joshua, come on,” I whisper against his lips. “I don't want to wait.”
He reaches into the nightstand and finds a condom, sheaths his beautiful cock. And in moments he is poised at the entrance to my body, while I lay trembling with need, sharp and bright, beneath him.
“Ah, Valentine.” His voice is a low murmur in my ear, his cheek resting against mine.
And when he slides inside, it is like silk against velvet: that smooth, that fine. My body clenches around him, my legs wrapping around his waist. Reaching up, I take his face in my hands, holding it above me, needing to feel his gaze on me. I need to see that small glimmer of his eyes in the dark, with only the fog-veiled stars and moon to show him to me.
He begins to move, a lovely, stroking rhythm, and pleasure builds inside my body. I pull him closer, until my breasts are crushed against his chest.
“More, Joshua.”
He thrusts deeper, but slowly, his body grinding against mine. And with each thrust he burrows farther inside me, pleasure swarming me in a warm current.
My arms tighten around his neck. “Come on, Joshua. Deeper. Please …”
He pushes into me, and still, I can't seem to get enough. He cannot go deep enough.
I am shivering, with desire, with yearning. I have never yearned this way for anything, anyone. He reaches down between us once more, his fingers stroking my clitoris. I don't want it to be over so soon, but I am lost in pleasure, my body filling, bursting in a flood of blinding heat. My mind goes blank, and I am only these sensations, his big body against mine, inside me, his scent in my head.
He calls my name, thrusting, thrusting. And then he tenses, his lips coming down to crush mine, his sweet tongue in my mouth as he comes into me. And it is almost as if we are, for those brief moments, one being.
Except that we are too separate, he and I. I can't quite believe that we are meant to be.
Even in this moment, that fear is in my heart, which shatters into a thousand jagged pieces.
I MUST HAVE SLEPT. Through the window I can see the pale orange glow of sunrise. I hate this time of day. I always have. It is the most lonely time, too dark, too empty.
Joshua sleeps beside me, his breathing regular and shallow. He is lying on his stomach, as he often does, and I can see the outline of his body, so damn beautiful. Fucking glorious in the cool, silent dawn.
Why do I feel lonelier than I ever have in my life?
No matter how much I sleep, no matter how many times he makes love to me, I cannot get the truth out of my head. The truth that Deirdre spoke to me, that Regan tried to. That slammed into me like a brick wall running into Greg Stockton yesterday.
I should never have let this happen.
I have to stop before … before what? It's too late already, far too late. It's not fair to Joshua. How can I do this—condemn him to a life with a woman like me—to someone I claim to love? Do I even know what that means?
I shake my head, sit up in bed. He is so peaceful. He has no idea what I am about to do to him. What I have already done to myself.
My throat is closing up on me, but I cannot cry. Not here. Not now.
I slip out from under the covers, the warmth of his body leaving my skin immediately. It's painful.
Finding my clothes from yesterday, I get dressed quickly, silently. In the living room, I find my purse, and slip out the door and into the still-dark morning.
My mind is absolutely numb as I drive north, then east, heading away from the rising sun. If I drive fast enough, maybe I can escape the new day.
I head into Beverly Hills, drive the familiar streets until I am in front of Louis's place. It's beautiful, imposing behind the tall iron gates. I stop, letting the motor run, just watching the house for a while.
How many times have I been with him over the years? How many more times would I have been if I hadn't ever met Joshua? And how would it have ended, as it inevitably would have?
I'm done with hookers, thank you very much, here's a thousand dollars for your trouble.
I know I soothed Louis, made him feel good. But I was never anything else to him. I couldn't be.
I rev the engine, shift and pull onto the palm tree-lined street. A sharp pang as I drive by the Beverly Wilshire Hotel, where I always see Enzo. But I can't face this place, not today. I have no idea what I'll say to him. I know The Broker has called him, told him I'm no longer available. But Enzo brought me to her. Our connection predates her, has nothing to do with her. I need to talk to h
im myself, eventually.
He hasn't called me. I know he's respecting my need for silence. But suddenly I need to talk with him. Maybe more than anyone right now. Enzo is where this all started for me. He is so much a part of what I am. He saved me from that sad, terrible life I'd found myself in at twenty years old, helped me find something better. Maybe I need him to help me make this new transition? It sounds all wrong, but still… maybe …
I let the hotel pass with one glance into my rearview mirror as it disappears, lost in the pink and red glow of the rising sun behind me.
Yes, go home and call him. Maybe go see him. Go to Rome.
I keep driving, though. I'm not certain of where I'm going until I'm in Hollywood already, pulling onto Sunset, then following some of the side streets until I find it: that faded hotel where I met Colin a few weeks ago.
On the corner in front of the building are a pair of working girls in their short, candy-colored skirts, their long legs and platform shoes. They look cold, tired. Miserable. It must have been a long night, and it's too cold now to be out there in their skimpy clothes.
That could have been you. It could have been worse. So much worse. Be glad for what you have.
But I am still grieving for what I can't have. Fuck it. I haven't even begun to grieve yet, have I? Things are going to get much harder.
I'm starting to cry as I head home. But it doesn't feel like home. I know even before I get there that it is no longer the safe haven it used to be. It may never be again.
When I walk into my house it feels like a mausoleum: that cold, that empty. As though no one has lived there for years, rather than weeks. My footsteps echo on the hardwood floor as I drop my purse on the console table in the entryway, walk into the kitchen. I don't know what to do, where to settle.
I pull a glass from the cupboard and pour a shot of gin, not even bothering with ice or tonic water, take it, and stare out the window. The sun is up now, but the day is gray still. The light is fighting its way through, touching the tips of the leaves on the big eucalyptus trees. The rest is still in shadow.
I am in shadow.
I take a slug of the gin and it burns going down.
I do not want to think. But I know my usual escapes will be denied me now. I have gone too far for such easy relief.