It was a great burger. It made me feel better. As for W, he ate the pho with chopsticks—expertly—and it was pure sex to watch. Not just because of his dexterity and beautiful long fingers, but because of his teeth and lips.
Our session was over. There could be no more sex. Neither one of us wanted to cross those lines, but some other line was being crossed. We were eating together, sitting across from one another at a table.
“Anyway, I’m sorry I flipped out,” I said. “It was a nice piece of poetry. I always love your poems.”
The word “love” felt heavy and guilty on my tongue, because I really meant that I loved him. I just wanted to say the word love. His eyes narrowed, or maybe I just imagined it.
“I think you should leave Simon,” W said.
“I know.”
“You have your own money, don’t you?”
The burger tasted less delicious now. I put it down and poked at the spaghetti. “I have money. But I’ve been supporting Simon for a while.”
“Why?”
“Because I loved him.”
Loved. I didn’t mean to use the past tense, but the word came out and echoed around the room. Afterward, resounding silence. I ate a few bites of salad. W ate his half of the burger, and the salmon, and the rest of the spaghetti. He poured me a little more wine. It was probably a full five minutes before either of us spoke again.
“This is good wine,” I offered shyly.
“What do you know about it?” he scoffed.
I knew nothing, obviously, but he wasn’t being mean. He was being...insecure.
There in the dim light, over wine and quickly emptying plates, I saw that he was nervous beneath all his violence and posturing. He was insecure, just like I was insecure. He only masked it well. The mask came back within seconds, the hard look, the curve of his lips. He made a motion down the side of his face, a curling finger.
“Your hair looks darker when it’s wet. You look different.”
“My natural hair color is dark,” I confessed. “Dark brown.”
“Why do you bleach it blonde?”
“Because men like blondes.” I looked up at him from under my lashes. “You asked for a blonde, or Henry wouldn’t have paired me with you.” I didn’t know if I was flirting or lecturing him.
Having pillaged the plates, we moved on to cheesecake drizzled with hazelnut chocolate sauce. I was too full to eat very much of it, but the rich, decadent taste of the hazelnut sauce would stay with me forever. It would bring this moment back to me for the rest of my life.
“Will you leave me the poem?” I asked. “Even though I freaked out, I’d like to have it.”
He nodded toward the side table. “It’s over there. Along with something else I brought for you. A gift. Are gifts allowed?”
“Yes, gifts are allowed.”
“I bet you get a lot of them.”
“I used to, when I had other clients.”
He downed the last bite of cheesecake as I stood up to see what he’d brought me. One thing I’d learned about presents...when clients brought them, they wanted you to open it in front of them and enthuse about how cool it was. I’d feigned ecstatic bliss over many a custom negligee or exotic sex toy, although I doubted that was W’s style. Maybe a book of poetry? Or a velvet noose, so I could choke myself whenever he wasn’t around to do it for me?
But there was no book or velvet noose, just a small ivory box beside the lines of poetry he’d written. I opened the lid to find a silver key on a bed of black satin. I blinked at it as W made his way to my side.
“It belongs to an apartment on Bleecker Street. An apartment for you.”
It belongs to an apartment? I tried to figure out what he meant. It belongs to an apartment on Bleecker Street. It was a key to an apartment.
An apartment for you.
That part finally registered in my brain. My head shot up. “You’re giving me an apartment?”
He shrugged. “I have more of them than I need.”
He was a real estate mogul. Of course. That explained all his money. I looked down in shock at the key in my hand. “It’s still yours though, right? I mean, you’re not literally giving me an apartment?”
“Yes, I’m giving it to you. It’s nothing fancy.”
“It’s an apartment. It’s crazy to just give someone an apartment!”
“It’s not yours yet.” W tipped up my face and looked into my eyes. “I have this ace lawyer, starshine. He’s worked out this deal, although you don’t get to see the paperwork. The apartment is yours, legally and officially, one year from now, if you follow two simple rules. First, you don’t rent it out. Second, you don’t let any drug-addicted assholes through the front door. Ever. I’ll take it back if you let Simon so much as step over the threshold.” His fingers tightened on my chin. “Remember that. It’s not a joke.”
I felt a little scolded, but I’d just been given the key to an apartment on Bleecker Street, so my irritation didn’t last long. “I d-don’t know what to say,” I stammered. “I expected, like, a necklace or something.”
“A necklace?” He snorted and let go of me. “After all the shit I’ve done to you, you thought I’d give you a necklace? No.”
He moved away from me, back toward the table. “Don’t get all bent out of shape about this. The thing is...” He poured a little more wine but didn’t drink it. “I kept thinking about you locking yourself in a room, and him banging on the door. You don’t have to live that way. You shouldn’t live that way.”
I blinked hard, swallowing past emotion. “I know.”
“So maybe this will help. I hope it does. But don’t ever let him in there, or I swear to God I’ll make you sorry. Don’t tell him where it is. Don’t even let him know you have it. Promise me.”
“I promise.”
The key in my palm was the key to my new life. I knew it and he knew it. I just had to be brave enough to make it happen, brave enough to cut those ties to Simon. I had a place to go, now, tonight if I wanted to. I had no more excuses or reasons to delay.
W was back at the table, holding my dress. I watched him for a while, feeling numb. I had an apartment. He’d given me an apartment.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” I said. “Did I say thank you yet?”
He grimaced down at the tear in the fabric. “No.”
“Thank you. I really appreciate this.” There was a blank pause after “I really appreciate this” that I would have filled with his name, if I knew it. But I didn’t know it. He made a motion with his arm, brought his hand to his mouth and bit something off. I realized it was thread.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Fixing your dress. It’ll only take a minute. Are you tired? You should lie down.”
I needed to lie down. Life was too weird at the moment. First W gave me an apartment—conditionally—and now he was using a sewing kit to mend my dress. I needed to sleep a while and see if things made more sense when I woke up. I vaguely remembered W touching my hair and kissing my forehead just before I dropped off, but maybe it was a dream.
I awoke hours later to a slew of manic messages from Simon, and the sun in the window, heralding a brand new day.
In Between
I didn’t head right to my new apartment on Bleecker Street, although I wanted to. Simon had sent seventeen messages between two and four A.M.
Come home, Chere
Where a u
Im to high Ser
Yes, when he was high, he forgot how to spell my name. That wasn’t unusual. But the last message read, Ths is the end, and that terrified me out of my luxurious hotel room and into a taxi.
The end? What end? The end of us? The end of his life? I imagined Simon alone, too high, haunted by drug demons and surrounded by his destroyed artwork. I’d always feared accidental overdose, but would he purposely kill himself? I shouldn’t have left him alone so soon after our argument, and I shouldn’t have spent the night at the Mandarin.
&n
bsp; I urged the cab driver to hurry. He sneered in the rearview mirror at my frizzed hair, morning face, and low cut maxi dress, and made the obvious, belittling conclusion. Whatever. The last thing on my mind was some stranger’s judgment. What if? What if...
When I arrived, I found the door to our loft ajar. That wasn’t unusual either, unfortunately. We’d been robbed twice, because when Simon was high, he sometimes forgot to close it. Or had the police been here? EMTs? No. They would have shut the door behind them. It had been four hours since he sent the last text.
“Simon?” I called out to him with a shaky voice. I went into each room, afraid of what I might find, but I found nothing. The last room I checked was his studio. That was where he’d kill himself, if he’d chosen to kill himself. Please, Simon, no...
I saw a blanket on the floor behind the couch. I walked over and found Simon and Rachel entwined in each other’s arms. They were both naked, still as the grave. I studied them, afraid to move closer. “Simon?” I said softly. Nothing. Dread choked my throat. They looked so gray and stiff, and I couldn’t see either of them breathing. Was this what overdose looked like?
Then Simon twitched, and I screamed. I screamed so loud it reverberated off the walls and windows, and the wrecked pile of paintings, but still, neither of them moved.
“Simon.” I didn’t know why I bothered saying his name when he didn’t respond to a scream. I knelt beside him and touched his shoulder. He felt warm and alive, even if he looked dead. Rachel stirred and pulled him closer. There was a bottle of bourbon on the table to their left, and a bent spoon and needles on the floor beside it.
I was glad he wasn’t dead, but Jesus. We were so over. He was right, this was the end.
I thought about waking him up and confronting him about Rachel, and ruining his blissful high. But then I realized we’d already had enough fights, too many fights, and that our last fight was just that, our last fight. I didn’t have the power to save him. Isn’t that what all those self-help books said? You can’t save an addict.
And then I realized that I was an addict too. I’d been addicted to Simon, to protecting Simon and saving him from the dire consequences of his actions. This was my rock bottom, standing over him as he drifted in the arms of his junky girl-on-the-side. Well, she could be his main girl now. It was time to save my life.
I went to our room and packed my clothes and anything we hadn’t bought jointly. I had a few DVDs, a few books, my laptop and toiletries and hair accessories. My whole life, without Simon, fit into three suitcases and five boxes in the back of a cab. I left a note beside my key, on the counter where he’d see it when he finally woke up and looked for food.
Dear Simon,
I think it’s time for me to leave. I hope you get better one day. I won’t forget the good times we had. Please don’t call.
It wouldn’t matter if he called. I blocked his number on the way to my new home, and started composing another letter in my head.
Dear W,
You can’t save an addict, but you can help one save herself. Thanks for the apartment. It was the right gift at the right time.
I mentally crossed that out and started again.
Dear W,
You’ll never understand how much your generosity means to me. You’ve given me the strength to do what I should have done a long time ago. You have literally changed my life.
I mentally crossed that out too. It was too gushy, too many blathering words.
In the end, it came down to this:
Dear W,
I love you.
I sighed, because it was impossible to be in love with someone you didn’t know, someone who would never let you know them. The driver looked over at me.
“Such a sigh. You’re too young to sigh like that.”
“I’m almost thirty,” I said. “Not too young.”
“But it’s a beautiful day.”
“It is,” I said. The sun was out. There were probably rainbows somewhere. “I’m leaving my boyfriend today. He used drugs. He hit me.”
That wasn’t the whole story. In fact, it was a ridiculously abridged version of my relationship with Simon, but it made sense to the cabbie. He nodded his approval. “That’s good. Very good. You won’t go back, will you? You’re not the first one of these I’ve had in my cab. But too often, they change their mind and go back.”
“I won’t go back. It took me way too long to be able to leave. I’m afraid to go back.”
“Don’t go back,” he persisted. He was older. I wondered what kind of craziness he’d encountered in his life.
“I won’t go back,” I promised. “I’m only moving forward from now on. I’m going to go to school, get a good job and make something of my life.”
He was so proud of my newfound resolutions that he parked the cab and helped me lug my bags and boxes all the way to the elevator, and I was so grateful for his kindness that I gave him a huge tip. The doorman helped me the rest of the way, right to the entrance of my new home.
I held my breath as I turned the key and opened the door. While he dragged in my boxes and suitcases, I looked around at the most elegantly furnished residence I’d ever seen. Two bedrooms, two baths, turn-of-the-century styling. This was exactly the type of building and apartment I imagined W would like. White, glossy, clean, classic. Somehow I knew he’d lived here. At some point, these ecru sofas and gleaming fixtures and white walls had been his home, if only for a few weeks.
It was so beautiful and peaceful, with an open floor plan, lots of windows, and a view of the Empire State Building. I felt protected high above the city, and high above my problems here on the sixth floor. Everything I needed was already here. White porcelain dishes in the kitchen, stainless pots and pans that looked like they’d never been used. There was a king size bed with a huge white comforter, piles of white pillows, and folded sets of linens in the closet. The master bedroom was luxurious enough to be a Four Seasons hotel room, but it wasn’t. It was my bedroom, in my new home.
I lay on the bed and thought to myself, he’s slept here.
And then I thought, maybe he’ll sleep here again someday.
It was so easy, and so dangerous, to make that leap in thinking. I didn’t have a boyfriend anymore. Maybe W and I could develop a closer relationship, a real relationship. He didn’t seem like the boyfriend type...but maybe...
No. Pure romantic dreams. I pushed them out of my head. With anyone else, the gift of a three million dollar apartment might look like commitment, but I knew him well enough to know this wasn’t a commitment. This was an assertion of dominance. He’d wanted me to get away from Simon, and this was how he accomplished what he wanted. This apartment was an expression of his will.
And it was beautiful, airy, pristine, and freeing.
His will had set me free, and I planned to capitalize on the opportunity he’d given me, starting today.
The Carlyle Session
I spent the next six days sleeping, eating, bathing, and staring out the picture window of my new place. I needed a little hibernation. I had a lot to work through in my head.
It wasn’t that hard to let go of Simon, even after all our years together, and all the memories. I felt as if I’d escaped, so I had no intention of unblocking him on my phone, or telling him where I lived. No, letting go of Simon was the easy part. Picturing him in Rachel’s arms helped.
The more complicated part was letting go of the old Chere and finding the new Chere. I spent a lot of time considering what I wanted to do.
Without rent to pay, and Simon’s drug habit to eat up my savings, I’d have enough money to start looking into degree programs. I started reading about local colleges and trade schools that offered scholarships to non-traditional students.
Design. I’d always been interested in design.
Not just because W said he was interested in design, although that was part of it. The main reason was that I wanted to do something creative, and design seemed like a way to be creative and pr
actical at the same time. I’d seen Simon scrounge for years as a painter, a fine artist, and that lifestyle wasn’t for me. I wanted to be a practical artist, and design practical and beautiful things, like the dishware in my new kitchen cabinets or the etched brass drawer pulls in the master bath. I could design wallpaper to cover the white walls, I could design shoes, jewelry, purses. All of these were things I noticed and loved, and things I could create while working for one of the hundreds of design firms in New York City.
And maybe, just maybe, W would respect me more, and start to admire me, and fall in love with me...
No, no, no, no, no.
That was the big complex thing I thought about the most as I stared out the window at the vast city around me. If I stopped escorting, what would happen with me and W? I had to talk to Henry before I started making any plans. My contract forbade me from contacting former clients for one year from termination of service, but Henry was a human being, and maybe W was a special case. He’d paid Henry a lot of money, way more than a typical client, so W might be able to talk Henry into releasing me from my contract so we could still see each other.
But that was assuming W would want to see me outside the agency, that he would want to keep dating me outside our neat, clean, no-strings-attached escort relationship. As I made these plans, and dreamed and schemed, some small voice in my head kept pleading, but Chere, he’s never even told you his name...
I went to meet him at the Carlyle Hotel exactly one week after we’d shared the burger at the Mandarin Oriental. I put on my favorite black dress, made myself pretty because I owed him, and I wanted to make him happy. He met me at the door and he didn’t look happy. He was in one of his moods.
“I want you to wear this,” he said, holding out a leather eye mask like the one I’d originally worn.
Nooo... I’d waited all week to see him, to look at his beautiful gold-blond hair and his muscles, and his scrutinizing eyes. I’d waited all week to drool over his body and experience his delicious violence. I was rested and energized and I wanted to see him, but he put the mask on me anyway, fastening it extra tight.
Torment Me (Rough Love Part One) Page 19