by JR King
He chuckled. “What are friends for, if not to cheer each other up with the beautifullest Maine lobster?”
A tease of a restaurant with its quaint black and white tile floor, dark woods and pressed tin ceiling. There was a playfully scribbled oyster menu on one of the many mirrors. Nutritious was the chicory salad. Amazingly decadent was the toasted Connecticut-style brioche roll with clarified butter. Every time I ate glorious mouthfuls of this dish, I couldn’t get over how much lobster meat was piled into the damn thing.
Back in my boss chair, afternoon bled into evening. My mood kept ameliorating by the second. Where once the idea of Elena and I being incompatible worried me, now I was sure we’d get it on. The cogs were turning at a clipped pace, less than three months to go. Lazily slouched behind my desk, I started thinking about the black lace slivers of her stocking tops, her blue eyes shining with devilish humor…
“Alexander!”
I pushed and pulled at the muscles of my eyelids, took my eyes off the rain-splattered window and smiled guiltily at my secretary. “Hey Meredith, hi, gee, I was…thinking hard.” Is it just me, or was I the best CEO in town?
“And they say daydreaming is dead.”
“Trouble in paradise?”
“We have a problem.”
Tenting my fingers, I spun my chair around and stood up with a flourish. “Unstitch the dilemma, tell it like it is. I do love me some drama-ahhh,” I drawled waiflike.
“Our new CFO went off the grid after the four o’clock meeting, and now he’s doing some girl in his office. Straight from the horse’s mouth, the one with the double Ds. I abhor corporate spies, Alex, they’re bugs that need to be crushed. Set Michael straight, will you? He needs to play by the rules.”
I glanced at my watch, mulling over the idea of an impromptu meeting with Michael. Thinking of clever ways to beg off, in the spur of the moment I went with, “Why me?”
“Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t know. Besides, you happen to have the gift of the gab. That boy had better play by the rules or I’ll weed him out. I don’t care why you hired him. Be grateful I’m not investigating why he didn’t start at the bottom of the totem pole.”
I gave her a muffled grunt as she dashed away, following her until she crossed the doorsill. “You’re full of the devil, Meredith. Full! You hear me? The tail wagging the dog.”
To get my ducks in a row, I went to Michael’s office. The door was wide open and I went inside. Let’s start with his physical appearance. Michael, or Mike, as everyone called him, was a thirtyish Brad Pitt type of poster-boy, tall, neat features, with sufficient gravitas. In my book, definitely handsome and well-groomed—I bet hairless balls, wrapped in Armani and hair coiffed slicked back in a manner that said, “Ladies, you want a piece of this?”
Note that he was plucking the fibers of dust from his sleeve, and not wiping the last traces of lipstick and secretions on his mouth with the back of his hand. Meaning that just like me, he had a fucking drawer.
“Busy day, Michael?”
“Busy as a bee.”
This big elephant should be interesting. “Tell it to the marines.”
“Then ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies, boss.” His megawatt smile was a knockout, yet it frigging failed to butter me up.
“Drop the boss shit. Alex will do. Business trips come with bad cases of cabin fever. You haven’t been on one, and you’ve got pussy waiting at home. Inviting a Jill is not a done thing here.”
He looked at me meekly, like a newborn lamb standing in front of a stainless steel slaughter table. “Don’t kick a man when he’s down.”
A look of grim determination was plastered across my face. “I won’t be able to hold the HR wolves at bay. There are rules, Michael.”
“Say what you will.”
In search of the right words as my mind tabulated the facts, my hand rose, palm up and fingers spread. “What’s going on with Sara?”
“We’re at fucking odds.” He swiveled out of his chair, buttoning the top button of his jacket. “I tried to ditch the controlling little bitch, but without adequate mileage, she came back.” He clamped a hand over his dark grey eyes. “Philandering is all I have. Can’t be totalitarian with her, she doesn’t have a submissive bone in her body, plus, her penny-pinching ways drive me crazy. Don’t do this, don’t buy that, don’t spend there. A hard-working man should be able to squander his money any way he wants! I start at 7 AM and leave at 8 PM. Can’t that spendthrift clotheshorse see I need support and no nagging by the time I get home?”
Shit. I’d expected to hear an excuse that had legs, not this kind of yakking. One could only value his lack of bullshit. “I’m not here to pass judgment. Spare me the childish antics.”
“You gonna keep your yap shut?”
“Are we in High School? Am I expected to drive a wedge between lovers?”
He burst out in boyish laughter. “You’re it, Alex.”
“I have a rule for employees, Michael. HR has a list of them, I just have one. You would do well to follow it.”
His eyes flickered, a certain amusement playing through them before he pushed it away and said, “Shoot.”
“Don’t solicit colleagues, not on my account. My—approximately—47ooo employees follow this rule to the tee, and if you must date within the family, sign the HR papers before you kick-off. In annex, if you screw a civilian in the office, you’d better be sure she’s preapproved by an agency.”
“Spies. I wasn’t born yesterday. Girl who was here belongs to Lady Lisa Love. You should see her when she’s on her knees, asking if her master is pleased.”
“For a sucker, you’ve got good taste. Why blow smoke up Sara’s ass?”
“I do love Sara. Tell me, how’d you do it? Train Carina? Don’t get me wrong, I respect her a lot, and I never saw Nolan’s girl in any other light than that of a frigid nun. But seeing her soft and sexy, following your lead, titillating your senses, being so respectful, good God, she gave me a freakin’ hard-on during the private dinner.”
“Carina is just a good Catholic girl, and a good friend.”
“The Catholic ones are always wildly insatiable. Could put Girls Gone Wild to shame.”
“Takes a sick mind to do what I did, Michael.”
“Welcome to my world.”
This was one of these cinematic moments. I was starting to enjoy his company just as much as I enjoyed working with him. But if Hallmark doesn’t make a card for it, you’re never obligated to say it. “You free on Friday night?”
“Not necessarily. Depends. What’s the catch?”
“Paint the town red with my boys. Footloose and fancy-free.”
He gave me an insane grin before reining in his amusement. “Then I’m free.”
“Michael?”
“Alexander.”
“Welcome to the big boys club. Have you figured out what to do with Sara?”
The shrug he gave me may have meant, “Beats me.”
“Daddy’s girl will never leave Boston. Tell her you’re looking into moving to NYC. Tell her I want you there. She’ll get off your case.”
It worked, he told me the next day.
Alexander Turner
The New Girlfriend
The coveted Beacon Hill was a highly prestigious address with old world charm. Picture quaint brick buildings, cobblestones and gas lamps, outdoor cafés and restaurants, kitsch bakeries and chic boutiques. Prices went by the block, the residence I was going to located on a ten mil one. A Dutch businessman was hosting a cocktail party. Pretty fine backdrop, at least for Boston standards, Delft Blue and Oranje decorations, all very chez Euro chic. I was here for a brief appearance. I had a few standards, appearances being high on the priority list. While taking little sips of whiskey, Louis van der Meer and I discussed that when the Queen would abdicate and crown Prince Willem-Alexander King, sure enough she was going to adjust the national holiday’s name to Koningsdag with a trace of melancholia. We both
agreed that the Vrijmarkt was awesome, giving lip service to the idea of going together next year. Debate-wise, the former government ensuring that America was no longer a respected world power, national defense, clog fashion, and the prevention of communism were safe topics.
At the bar, I caught a whiff of stale smoke, which smelled like cheap cigarettes rather than a good cigar. Ignoring the ashtray that overflowed with cigarette butts, I sat down on a barstool, tapped my empty glass of Macallan and nodded at the bartender. Within seconds another crystal tumbler with shiny ice and a generous puddle of the golden single malt appeared before me. Whenever I was attending a reunion of whores, part of me played the Devil’s Advocate. Everyone in this room was a whore, or related to one. The politicians, the judges, the lawyers, the doctors, you name it—they were it. The biggest whores of them all were the charity organizations, ready to kiss ass at the drop of a hat, and some even had a mascot; a vapid beauty queen with a petroleum jelly smile. Then there were A-list actors, supermodels, rap stars, all-star pro athletes, and CEOs. The latter a different breed I’d say, and not just because I was among this colorful variety. We weren’t explicitly here to broker deals, we were here to look fabulous. The phone call for deals would follow the morning after.
“What he needs to do is fix health-care, it must be better and affordable. He also needs to control and fix environmental damage from toxic waste and pollution.”
Jesus, Nolan Morneau didn’t know his dick from his ass. Was he reading from a screen or was someone holding up a cue card? Ralph Waldo Emerson was wrong saying that every man you meet is in some way your superior, and in that you can learn of him.
Let’s have some fun, shall we?
I cautiously wove my way through the crowd. Foxtrot four-step, there were far more clumsy feet than graceful ones shuffling left and right to accommodate me in the gathering. Coming face-to-face with a kid straight off trendy Ike Behar web pages—piercing blue eyes, pomade-slick brown hair short on the sides and longer on the crown, cheekbones so high they looked almost swollen, I produced the type of smile I wore at biannual events. “Been a while, hasn’t it, Nolan?” We’d met years ago. Persistent asshole that he was, and, as a descendant of a shallow, self-absorbed family, the encounter hadn’t fared well. “Agitator or aspiring politician?”
He gave me a tiny smile. I dare say it looked genuine. “Let me guess, Turner,” there was a clear sense of exuberance in his voice as he spoke, “you’ll say that our President should make college education affordable for every class, and seniors should have better Social Security.”
I spoke to him as if I were reading my very own idiot card. “What we need is to protect our country, conserve natural resources, sell loans to reduce the deficit, and protect American jobs from iniquitous foreign import. Or at least it should be proven by the other party that the foreign employee didn’t usurp the job of an American citizen. To hold down the inflation rate we need to make economical growth happen, I’m thinking expansion of businesses, promotion of small, artisanal businesses. We need to fight tax increase and push up the interest rates for mergers and big corporate takeovers.”
He loosened his collar, cartoon-style, and even gulped a little. Like an airy, summery kind of burst, his jawbone would be a breeze to crack.
I stuck out my nose. “How’s the article on my family coming? Dandy idea. First my mother, now my father. You must really be proud to cash in on their deaths.”
He spluttered in his wine. Boy, am I good at this game or what? Beautiful, you should have been there. No longer the talk of town, the all-around movement was now a classic cocktail three-step, the entourage bowed slightly and moved away from a pariah. I watched Nolan as he tried to neaten himself out, and at that precise moment it occurred to me that I should fuck Carina just to spite him.
Jerry found me, murmuring, “See her?” He was eyeing a woman holding court, a flute of champagne in her hand. When she stopped talking and took another long pull of her drink, I glanced at her hands. No wedding band. She was tall and thin, insufferable, looked like a Victoria’s Secret model. She knew I’d appraised her. I’d glanced at her for a minute at most, but that’s all it really takes for a girl to notice, isn’t it?
I failed to answer, and Jerry discreetly elbowed me.
My jaws tightened as I spoke to him. “Looks quite lowbrow.”
Scrunching his brow, he tugged my arm. “Diane Knight. It’s not as if you have a surfeit of time. At this age, you should be getting married and have children.”
My gaze dropped to the scarce amber liquid I swirled in the tumbler. “Yet you want me to seek out another dry conquest?” I smirked with an eye roll, raising my glass with practiced care.
“In a few months, you’ll hang up your spurs. The first question people will ask is: why Elena Anderson? Either look awkward or make it apparent that after having dated a high profile Oscar-winning actress, you were burned out on public figures.”
It became evident to me that hooking up with Diane Knight was some sort of a catalyst for a liaison that would throw people off the track. “Okay, Jerry.”
“Are you sure about Elena?”
A faint smile played on my lips. “Absofuckinglutely. In due time, she’ll come around. She’s secretly carrying a little torch for me.”
“They’re going to Sandy Lane after Christmas. When she’s back, start dating her.”
“Sandy Lane? I bet Abramovich will park Eclipse in front of that resort as soon as he has it delivered. Let’s introduce Cara to that beautiful isle and the world this December.”
“Clever. Cunning. Evil genius.”
“That’s me.” I caught Diane’s eye and gave her a bland smile.
Lifting her martini in a gesture of cheers, she returned it. Hers was wider, even white teeth setting off against an angelic face. I studied her. The swell of her breasts was a handful, the curve of her ass wasn’t too plump, and she wasn’t as tall as a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model. It could work, I thought. Maybe—and by that I meant her behavior—I could find a way to like her for who she was. That would indeed go a very long way to assuaging my carnal needs for the next months.
When Diane’s group dispersed, she went to work on a strategic walk. A casual stroll in my direction so she’d accidentally bump into me. “Hi…I saw you a few times. We haven’t met.”
“A shame,” I answered, quickly remedying that by holding out my right hand. “Alexander Turner.”
“Diane Knight.” She shifted the flute in her hand so we could shake. “It’s quite impossible to be in this country and not hear about you.”
I called her statement a lie with a frown, murmuring, “I blush in honest modesty. Jerry is to be blamed for this matter.”
Jerry did an elegant brush-off and the flirting began the way it always did. I was charming and courteous, poking at her with a politeness that led to the unmistakable hint of sexual innuendo. She picked up the flimsy thread, I derailed and added light laughter about a trending subject, she slowed down, and when I was convinced she had the right amount of substance and education, I picked up the final thread.
Standing close but not too close, it felt good, actually, to meet a new woman that I knew I’d take. The glances we gave each other drove any guests at the bar to avoid us, separating us from the crowd. It became obvious pretty early in the conversation that someone had trained Diane well. She wasn’t being too obvious in her effort to seduce me, nor was she playing hard to get, which were things I highly appreciated. She listened far more than she spoke, and because of this, because I was indefinably delighted by the way she carried herself in my presence, there was little doubt in my mind. She wasn’t an obsessed type of woman who would edify and psychoanalyze me after lovemaking, or worse, the fixer type of woman with a mother complex.
“Come closer,” I demanded softly.
She leaned in to the conversation, and I angled my vision in relation to the swell of her cleavage. Her tits were hard, and gorgeously natural. Her head
tilted artfully with the express purpose of teasing me with the length of her bare neck, the tips of her fingers brushing with demure invitation over her collarbone. At her next delicate toss of the head, my hand reached across the expanse of granite and brushed over the back of her hand. My cruel knee discreetly nudged her stockinged lower thigh.
She actually blushed.
In a moment of self-consciousness, I drained the amber liquid in my glass, fixed my gaze to hers, and said, “How would you like to proceed?”
“What do you prefer, Alexander?”
“Fast. My publicist. My rules. There’s only black or white in my world, no grey, it doesn’t quite suit my mental complexion. Can you handle that?”
Draining her own drink, she gave me a kittenish smile that was congruent with the type of woman I enjoyed. “How fast is fast in your world?”
I tangled my fingers into her hair and pulled her head toward me. She offered no resistance. I let my lips brush the outside of her ear while I inhaled her. She smelled clean and perfumed. Holding her breath, Diane nearly melted into me, and when I finally released her she exhaled. “Pretty fast. We’d be fucking tonight, baby.”
And that’s what we did, back at her suite. I fucked her like an animal, keeping my teeth clenched. It was all I could do not to groan out Elena’s name as I came. I dozed off afterward. When my eyes snapped open, they struggled to adjust in the pitch black of the room. There was a rustle of the sheets as Diane moved and I felt the brush of her fingers when she reached out to find me before rolling back over. I lay there in the dark and texted Carina. I was fully awake and had no desire to sleep beside Diane. I needed to decompress.
“I must go,” I told her.
“Don’t go,” she mumbled.
Her reaction left me feeling conflicted. I listened—still in the dark—until I was certain she was back asleep before easing out of bed.
I recognized the lamps in Carina’s bedroom. To pedestrians it might have looked like white rock, but it was much more than that. Carved from alabaster quarried in Volterra, I’d had the same lamps delivered.