Shades Of Obsession

by JR King

  Intense wasn’t the right word to describe his stare, it didn’t even come close. Handsome face, brooding eyes, dark hair that was mussed and unruly and a tad longish; I was dying to explore every millimeter of him. However briefly, I imagined a lock falling over his forehead so he’d impatiently comb it back in place, but not before I’d have admired it hanging down his collar, giving him an untamed, wild look that made women want to try to tame him.

  As if.

  Men like him couldn’t be tamed.

  “Found you! For a second I thought you guys were going at it on a conference table.” Frederic let out a deep, hearty laugh. “Sturdy material, to tell you the truth, smooth against the butt. Excellent for a round of Hide The Salami.”

  “Eww, Fred! TMI,” I snapped.

  “Lunch, Fred? I hear around the corner there’s an exclusive joint that serves an excellent potage alongside a glass of Chassagne-Montrachet. Ms. Anderson, would you be so kind as to join us?”

  Wanting to dropkick Alexander in the nards, my knee jerked of its own volition and hit the edge of the acorn shade desk. Frederic almost spluttered in his espresso cup, keeping a hand in front of his mouth to prevent spraying his expectoration over Alexander. “Single again. Can’t fend off Sara. I’m going on a blind date for lunch,” I drawled light-heartedly, batting my eyes at Alexander.

  “See you later, alligator.” Frederic turned to go, reached the door and rested his hand on the handle. “Alex, I’ll be in my office.” Off he went.

  Alexander pushed off the windowsill and stepped closer to me. “Sara arranged squat. You’re a little liar, aren’t you?”

  I hopped to my feet. “I’m not doing this here! You’re driving me batty! Just go away already.”

  A cynical smile settled on his perfectly carved lips as he waggled his eyebrows. “You’re triggering internecine warfare between two companies, Elena. I’ll be relentless in my effort.”

  I fell silent. I knew full well that arguing at this point would be vain.

  “I always thought I had an innate aptitude for finding ways to persuade people.” The low, lazy pitch of his voice made me think of a man drawling words into a woman’s ear while he drove her into a sexual oblivion that would unquestionably ruin her for other men. “Why are you so practiced at being frigid?”

  At first I didn’t answer back. My tongue prickled with anger. I stood where I was for a while, contemplating, forcing myself to remain facing him. “I enjoy being free from the convoluted mess of reporters and paparazzi and fans. There’s nothing you can do to make me reconsider, Mr. Turner.” Even to my own ears, the certainty in my voice came through loud and clear.

  “You don’t want Frederic to be buried in financial boilerplate for weeks, do you?” He palmed my face. “I’ve got you at stalemate, Elena. Call media outlets if you wish, saying a man who can have any girl in the city is trying to get to you by negotiating mergers and acquisitions. At the least consider the extenuating unease when conveying your homily, the embarrassment will be hard on your grandparents.”

  I recoiled at his touch. Belatedly I realized I had furrowed my brow and licked my lips. I watched him squint when I said, “You’re a gutless coward.”

  “Shut up, Elena,” he sneered. “Listen to me.” His jaw tightened. “You can cry wolf all night long, but deep in your heart you want us to happen. I’ll allot you ample time to decide.” His voice was resigned and curdled with another emotion I couldn’t place. “Go for a rebound flirt and shoot me a message by the end of the week. I love me some good Christmas present.”

  I let out a long, forceful sigh. “Please stop this craziness, Alexander. Don’t be so radical.”

  “I told you weeks ago that your place is in my bed, Elena, available on demand. It wasn’t a threat, it was a promise,” he breathed a low hiss. He drew me closer so I braced my hands on his chest. Feeling the hard muscles, my fingers flexed a little. “As to your veiled suggestion that any of this is asinine, it’s not me who started this, it’s you. Stop acting like you’re fucking innocent. I see you undressing me with your come-fuck-me eyes each time you see me. And you downright enjoyed it when I fucked your mouth with my tongue. I won’t even mention what my fingers and tongue fucked, since this is an office, a place of principal business and order.” One last deep, throaty chortle, and he walked away.

  What a misogynist jerk. Battling it out with him in the office was irritating, and, worst of all, completely unprofessional. The lingering smell of his cologne aroused me. I sagged against a wall and sank to the floor, curling into a ball. He would do it; I couldn’t allow him to break my heart. I brusquely stood up when a sturdy clatter of high heels on marble tiles announced a colleague’s arrival. Closing the door, I rested my forehead against the cool wood to regain my composure.

  Two energy bars and lots of coffee later, I stumbled out of the building and turned my face up to catch the cool evening breeze. Outside, free from the evocative confines of my office, I felt better. Leaning against a street pole, I took several deep gasps of the icy air, closing my eyes and waiting for my heart to stop thudding.

  Should I?

  I’m not going to dwell on it, I decided, and took another deep breath as I headed toward my car. There was a long traffic jam ahead of me. I didn’t discourage. I focused on the road, stepped on and off the gas, and turned the Mini’s stereo up loud enough to drown out my misery.

  Grandpa stayed with me after dinner. I wasn’t certain at all I wanted him with me to start with, but when he left to fetch a bottle of wine and a keepsake box of Beacon Hill chocolates, I realized I wanted even less to be alone. He seemed to know that, and although he wasn’t happy watching another cable sitcom, he didn’t complain. All set, he passed me my glass wordlessly and then took up his position on the sofa, stroking my hair as I sat on the floor right in front of him. I pulled a wool bouclé throw blanket over me. Now that I was plain old single again, a part of me became nostalgic. Wistful thinking about Alexander Turner curdled my hours.

  Trudging back to my room, I yawned, stretching my limbs. There was a stirring in my stomach. I sped up my pace and rushed to the toilet. Once again, I hadn’t taken any drugs. I puked over and over until all that came were dry heaves.

  *

  On the bar-lined street, a few carousers jostled me as they passed, one letting out a wolf-whistle. The Irish pub in the Financial District was crowded, the bar area jammed with badass sport fans. Some soccer game was on, and every other five seconds a chorus of men groaned. There was a strong smell of alcohol and deodorant-free patrons, but no glare of spotlights. I sat at a tiny table in a corner, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible as I nursed my gin and tonic.

  Sara was late, and I figured I deserved to be kept waiting. More often than not, she was the one biding her time with gin tonics, eye-flirting with cute waiters within five feet of her while I was being late.

  When she came in, she marched over to me with a big smile and any nervousness I felt disappeared.

  “Ohmigod, just like old times.”

  “Almost, there’s less catcalling.” I harrumphed. “I still have my fake ID.”

  “You were such a lightweight then.” She took off her trench coat and shook out her hair, and a few men gaped at her. One even licked his lips. Nothing new here, men became both weak-legged and stupid around her.

  I beckoned over the bartender and ordered another gin and tonic.

  As a final action, her eyes swept over me. “Jesus, you look like crap. Like really shitty and the like.”

  “I sure hope so. People who go through a breakup often do…,” my voice broke, trying not to go there.

  “I won’t go there, El, but I must know, so the discussion is over. Forever tops. Unless you want me sleuthing, tell me who called it quits? And why?”

  Because of her weighty, calculated stare, I couldn’t lie. “I did.”

  “Why?” She caught on to my discomfort and cleared her throat. “Did the motherfucker cheat on you? We could always
cut his balls. Are they big?”

  I collapsed into a fit of snickering, actually for the first time since I’d left Mitchell. “They are huge.” I leaned in closer and, an confidential fact writhed and crept its way out of my throat. “And quite firm, egg-shaped, not pruny.”

  “I get it, with his underwear-wetting stare, he fucked up. I want to know how he fucked up so we can stick it to him.”

  “He didn’t cheat on me, at least not to my knowledge.” I sipped my drink, my fingers bunching tightly in my skirt to work up the courage. “I nipped it in the bud because his ex is pregnant and it might be his.”

  She moved forward and cupped my chin, her smile contagious. “Amen to that, you did well. On to Alexander, then.”

  I wholeheartedly disagreed with her observation, but saying it out loud wouldn’t do me any good. I had come to like being controlled by Alexander, which was bad news overall. I liked my independence. “We’ll see, Sara.” I sounded less than intelligent as I continued snickering through the lie, thinking how sexy it was that a man like Alexander dedicated so much time to me.

  “In a bind? Turner is the sweet cherry on top of the cake. Bar-crawl? I’m thinking lurid interior decoration and jaunty pop music?”

  I tore apart a piece of bread. “Sweetness. You had me at hello.”

  “Rebound before Turner period.”

  I smiled, reveling in the memory of Alexander turning a politician into a stuttering mess on GMA just this morning. It wasn’t often that he engaged in live debate, but when it happened it was sexy as hell.

  We proceeded to go on a pub-crawl after a quick seafood dinner, getting rowdier after each place we stumbled out of. Backbar bar was filled with minimalist-clothed hipsters, the Oak Long Bar was filled with tweed-jacketed Harvard types, and Alibi was filled with maximalist-suited financial adviser types. At number three, many guys wanted to hook up with us, but Sara and I politely declined every offer. Then we went to a really cool half-local, half-expat bar called Drink, where we stayed for the rest of the evening. Sara could definitely run off at the mouth about Michael and Alexander, and I kept drinking and ogling the mixed bag of guys around is.

  I wasn’t completely up a tree and my stomach’s contents weren’t ascending at all, yet everything was blurry and crystal-like at the same time.

  “They palm off such execrable champagne here?” some guy snorted haughtily.

  “Could y’all stop being pedantic, superior bastards and simply enjoy? There’s a time and place for persnickety manners, and this ain’t it!” Sara sneered. Her lips curled a little too far back from her teeth, as if advertising healthy pink gums. “Someone needs to beat the pretentiousness out of your uppity asses.”

  The guy twirled a half-filled flute around, “For you, I will, sweet cheeks.”

  She arched a shapely eyebrow. “Sweet cheeks?”

  I gave a lazy, tired murmur of agreement. “You should see her in a G-string.”

  “Tattletale,” she scoffed then laughed.

  “Aren’t you two a sight for sore eyes?” his friend joined in. “Ever heard of a ménage à quatre?”

  Quick on the draw, Sara feigned stifling a yawn with the back of her hand.

  “Youngest partner at McKinsey Boston,” he continued.

  A backdrop of finery and perseverance came to mind. I don’t know what it was about a wealthy, educated man that women find appealing, but it was a commonality I shared with my kind. Call the inborn flaw a manufacturing defect. Interest manifested itself in that one trait. God knows how harsh six-month evaluations were at McKinsey, many associates called sit-downs with Directors criminal. Recent Galleon insider trading aside, I was hooked, so I started a conversation.

  “I get it, you’ve got brains. Won’t turn me on.” He kissed my cheek and brazenly pulled down the strap of my dress to peck my shoulder. His eyes slowly lifted to mine. “I want your pussy. I call the shots in the bedroom. I’ll take care of you, see to all your needs tonight, sexual and otherwise. I’ll make damn sure it’s good for you, but I’m in control. If you have a problem with that, you need to say so before we get into this.”

  “Will you spank me if I misbehave?” I inquired, flaunting equanimity.

  “Now that’s a serious turn-on. Want to threesome? You think you can take my friend in your pussy and me in your ass?” I praised the dimmed lights as my cheeks went red, the heat scorching my face. The image his last question evoked burned in my mind, the thought of serving two men in that way causing a heady buzz of desire. Both too proud to admit being inexperienced and too embarrassed to vocalize my response, I stayed tightlipped. “Have you ever done that before? Would you like to try?”

  My mouth felt so dry, I swiftly tipped over all the contents of my glass inside me. With heat rising in my cheeks, my anxiety faded, and got replaced by one part alcohol and one part courage. “Been there, done that. Nothing special.” My cheeks burned and I couldn’t even meet his gaze, so I looked at Sara. I was experienced enough with sex, but I felt like a stupid virgin.

  She leaned in and whispered, “Try it. It’s fucking awesome.” Something flickered in her eyes.

  And get my ass handed to me? No, thanks. Too chicken to go for it, I told my rebound candidate, “Just you. Take it or leave it.”

  His name was Harvey. I never caught his last name nor did I stay for breakfast. Perfect candidate for rebound sex. Seven inches, and he could afford The Gilbert Stuart Suite at XV Beacon Hotel. As soon as I pictured him as Alexander Turner, I couldn’t be stopped. Do you see what you’ve inspired me to do, Alexander? Do you see what you’ve made me capable of? Light spanking aside, Harvey’s sort of fucking was relentless, strong fucks in which he devoured my sanity. Probably it all mirrored the way he dominated in boardrooms. He drove us both to exhaustion on every hard surface. Lovely boutique hotel, by the way.

  Elena Anderson

  The First Punishment

  The end of December brought with it an unexpectedly large snowstorm. I played soul music and stared at the snowflakes that listlessly dropped down in lazy heaps. Watched the snowfall increase, drinking grandpa’s famous bourbon-laced hot chocolate. Came the day before the office Christmas Party, Frederic and my team scrambled for hours to get ready for a final meeting with a new client. We had a team-lunch, and elbow-greased the presentation. While savoring shad roe on toast with nut-brown caper butter, Frederic announced who would be making the pitch, then we went over the notes of the client’s profile and existing capital, disclosed his investments, and speculated about undisclosed ventures.

  “Nah-nah, you’re coming with me.” Frederic was shrugging into his windowpane overplaid jacket.

  “Why? To stare at Nathan Cooper’s grizzled hair?”

  “There you go,” came his glib response.

  So much for the work-free afternoon chimera. “Fine.” I pushed to my feet. Knowing my appearance would be a reflection on the company, I straightened my pencil dress with fishtail hem, and touched up my makeup before shrugging into my Tory Burch glen plaid coat.

  It was snowing. Thick, heavy snow that allowed for the creation of snowmen and snowball fights. The client was located in one of the lower floors of The Pru. Surroundings were known for power restaurants, sluggish traffic, and exorbitant rents. Essentially corporate thematic, the lobby was large and ornate, glass chalice vases with purple roses fragranced the air, and Cooper Industries was sandblasted in a bold, masculine font on smoky glass. A female receptionist watched us somberly as we walked in.

  “Frederic Ferguson,” Frederic began, approaching her.

  She wore an earpiece. Pushing the button in a decidedly foppish manner, she whispered into the mouthpiece and lowered her head without any expression.

  I bit my tongue when she reddened. She stepped out from behind the long wooden counter and spooled us through whitewash platitudes while buzzing us in, and asked Frederic to wait a moment. All of us declined the offer of beverages. Less than thirty seconds after we’d arrived, we were directed to a
closed conference room.

  I was looking around—curved soffits had half-concealed spotlights, a high top gathering area tucked between intersecting hallways—and when Frederic grabbed my arm, I spun around so fast that I almost elbowed him. The tick in the muscle of his jaw drew my attention. “Let the others go in first, then you, and then the boss. Get rid of that internment face, smile a little.”

  “Yes on all fronts, boss. Putting on my cool cookie smile.”

  The receptionist reached for the door handle and gestured at the team to step inside. Suddenly there was a big sea of colorful people milling about a boardroom, a hodgepodge of accents pervading the air. From where I stood, I recognized the executives Frederic had dealt with prior to this meeting, so it was a bit disconcerting to be among this intimidating crowd. In contrast to my work dress, the men were all dressed in stylish suits and the women in cigarette skirts. I made sure to smile brightly as I stepped inside, which quickly faded at the sight of the man standing beside the CEO. I almost ran into Jason’s back—our presenter.

  Dear God. Fucking cat’s paws.

  I experienced a moment of something akin to vertigo. My abrupt stop bottlenecked the threshold and Frederic ran into my back, sending me stumbling forward. I swear I’ll kick Alexander so hard in the balls that he’ll be coughing and spitting and puking semen for days, I thought as I tripped. I wanted to throw a stapler at his head. Or the nude sling-back Louboutins. This was blatant harassment, and, now I was reduced to a clumsy character that tripped at the merest sight of this horribly handsome man. Screw existential angst, I needed to bang his balls together.

  Reaching out, Frederic asked, “You okay?”

  He steadied me and I regained my bearings. “It’s the damn heels. I’m investing in ballet flats from now on.”