by Jean Stone
He pulled her through the crowd toward the front door. Under the lights of the foyer Ginny could see she’d been mistaken. He couldn’t be more than twenty-one.
“I’ve never done this before,” he said, with a Cheshire grin that showed healthy, straight teeth.
Ginny stopped. “You’re a virgin?” she asked, but even as she said the words, she felt the excitement rise. She’d never had a virgin. Not that she knew of.
He laughed. “Hell, no. I just never did it with somebody older than my mom.”
Ginny’s face went taut. Blood surged to her temples. Before she knew what was happening, Ginny raised her silver purse and smacked the look of pride off his cherub face. “Don’t flatter yourself, asshole,” she snapped, then bolted through the door.
It wasn’t until she marched into her house that Ginny realized she’d cried all the way home. She kicked off her shoes and headed for the bar in the family room. The teakwood bar was Jake’s favorite piece of furniture in the house—he had purchased it when he and Ginny had honeymooned on the big island of Hawaii.
Ginny looked for the tallest tumbler she could find and filled it half full with vodka. She mechanically cracked ice cubes from the small refrigerator and added a touch of soda. By the time she heard the front door open, Ginny had nearly finished her drink. Her head bobbed in the direction of the door.
“Who the fuck is it?” she slurred.
Footsteps sounded across the slate foyer.
“Just somebody come to keep you company.”
Brad walked into the living room.
“How’re you doin’, Mommy?”
Ginny turned her head. “What the Christ are you doing here? Old Jake wouldn’t be too happy about it.”
“Well, ‘Old Jake’ ain’t gonna know, is he, Mommy?”
“Stop calling me that. I’m not your mother.”
Brad laughed and strolled to the bar. He inspected the bottles a moment, then nodded in Ginny’s direction.
“Refill?”
Ginny finished her drink. “Why not?”
Brad fixed two drinks and carried them over to the sofa. He handed Ginny one and sat beside her on the low cushion.
“I’m surprised to find you home,” he said, raising his glass in a toast. “What with the old man gone, I figured you’d be out looking for a little action.”
“Fuck you.”
“Sorry. Guess I should’ve expected you’d be home knitting.”
Ginny didn’t answer as she took a big swig. Her senses were getting dull—the way she liked them. She looked at Brad: His face was a little out of focus.
“So, are you going to help me?” he asked.
“Help you what?”
“Help me get the money out of the old man.”
Ginny laughed. “Help you get the money? Sweetie,” she said, as she leaned across the sofa and pinched Brad’s cheek, “I don’t even like you.”
“Sure you do, Mommy.” His voice suddenly became lower, sexier. “I’ve seen the way you look at me.”
Ginny pulled back. “Up yours,” she said, and took another drink.
“Hey, that’s no way for a mother to talk.”
“Look, pal, I’m not your mother. I happen to be married to your father, that’s all.”
Brad stared into his glass. “Ginny, I know I’ve been an asshole.…”
“No kidding.”
“But I want to go straight now, believe me, I do. This restaurant could make it happen for me.”
“Do yourself a favor. Never depend on anyone. Not your father, not anyone.”
“Experience talking?”
Ginny half smiled and took another drink.
“Do you hate my father?”
She shook her head. “Sometimes he’s a jerk. But no, I don’t hate him. I just hate the way he wants me to be somebody I’m not.”
Brad leaned closer. “And what are you, Ginny?”
Ginny laughed. “I’m the asshole.” She rubbed the rim of her glass, barely able to see it through cloudy eyes, then lowered her voice. “I’m the asshole,” she repeated.
“What happened? Did Jake catch on to your little bartender games?”
Ginny snapped her head around.
Brad laughed. “A friend of mine was tending bar at the party you and the old man were at the other night. Heard you gave him quite a shock.”
“Jesus.”
“Hey, no big deal.”
They were quiet for a moment.
“Don’t tell to your father either,” Ginny slurred. “Lying sucks. It only comes back to haunt you.”
“I’m not lying. The restaurant deal is for real.”
“Like your other ‘deals’?”
Brad shrugged. “I told you, I’m going straight.”
“And I told you not to lie. Give it up, Brad, it’s not worth it.”
“Experience talking again?”
“Yeah.”
He whistled softly. “Sounds like you’ve been caught in a good one.”
“Jake’ll leave me,” she said, hearing her words but forgetting that Brad was there. It was as though she was finally voicing the one thing she had been trying to deny. Sure, he’d known the stories about her other husbands. Well, most of the stories, anyway. And, yeah, she had really gotten fucking bored with him. But Ginny knew she probably would never have left him. The meal ticket was too good, the alternatives even more depressing. But this was one story Jake wouldn’t be able to swallow. “My baby,” she said.
“Your baby? Jesus. Don’t tell me you’re pregnant.”
Ginny felt tears on her cheeks. Were they hers? “I was,” she said. “A long time ago.”
“You got a kid?”
“Somewhere. Somewhere.”
Brad leaned over and placed a hand on Ginny’s shoulder, then started to slide the white fabric down her arm. Ginny looked at him. He was studying her naked shoulder, gently rubbing it. “Jesus,” he said quietly, “you’re beautiful.”
She felt a stirring inside her. “Get your fucking hand off me,” she said. “Now.”
Brad leaned down and kissed her shoulder, making tiny circles with the tip of his tongue.
She could see the muscles of his back, taut and sinewy, moving in slow rhythm with his tongue. Her head was clogged. Had she told him about the baby? She wasn’t sure. She only knew he was doing something wrong; she only knew it felt good. But he is Jake’s son.
“Now,” she repeated, though even to herself, her voice sounded weaker.
He raised his head and looked into her eyes. She felt his hand slip into the neckline of her dress. He began to caress the top of her breast. She knew her nipple was stiff. So what? Jake would leave her anyway when he found out about the baby … the baby’s father.…
“God, how I want you,” Brad said. “How I’ve wanted you from the first day I saw you.”
“Brad …”
He pushed the dress off her shoulder and took her full breast in his hand. He stared at it a moment, bent his head and licked around her nipple, then teased the tip with his wet tongue.
Ginny moaned and, in her vodka haze, slowly parted her legs. She had an instant picture in her mind of the man-boy at Le Monde.
“I’m too old for you,” she mumbled, as he pulled her legs onto the sofa.
“Never,” he said. “You’ll never be too old. You’re the hottest woman I’ve ever seen.”
She smiled. “You really want me, don’t you, Braddie?”
He pinned her down with a force she hadn’t felt in a long, long time.
“Bite me,” she commanded, and grabbed her breast, nipple pointing upward, still wet from his saliva. “Bite it.”
He leaned down and gently bit the nipple.
“Harder.”
His teeth sank into her. Ginny thrust her hips up, grabbed herself, and felt the surge of orgasm.
“Harder!” she screamed. “Hurt me!”
He bit her again. Her body throbbed.
The next thing she felt
was a pressure thrust between her legs. It was big and hard and touched her where her nerves were beating. Then he rammed it into her, slamming it over and over against the walls inside her. God, it felt good.
Daylight sliced into the room. Ginny’s eyes flew open. She immediately sensed something was wrong. Her head swayed. Her eyes ached. And next to her, on the sofa, lay Brad. He was snoring.
“Jesus Christ,” she said. Then the night came back to her in a rush. She rolled off the sofa. Brad barely moved. She grabbed the white trapeze dress that lay in a heap on the floor and hurried, naked, into her bedroom. The digital clock read 6:45. Good, Ginny thought, plenty of time to get Brad out of here before Consuelo arrives.
She tossed the dress on the floor of her closet, threw on a robe, then went out to the kitchen. A screwdriver was definitely in order. Ginny quickly fixed one, lit a cigarette, and stepped out onto the patio. She walked toward the chaise and glanced at the table beside it. A small piece of blue-lined paper, the top shredded as though it had been torn from a spiral notebook, was sticking out from under an ashtray. Ginny pulled out the paper.
October 16, it read. Noon.
She sank onto the chaise. Jess had left a calling card. Bitch, Ginny thought, and suddenly the world closed around her. She felt a grip around her throat. Her breath became short, shorter. Little gasps for air. A twisting pressure pushed against her chest. She closed her eyes. Not now! Go away! She tried to swallow. The grip was stronger. Her thoughts raced. Breathe slowly. In. Out. In. Out. Her chest jerked at first, then the pressure eased. In. Out. In. Out. It’s all in my mind, she repeated over and over. It’s all in my mind. Slow. Slow. In. Out. The grip around her throat began to diminish. In. Out. In. Out. She opened her eyes. The attack had subsided. Her body was limp.
Fuck. That’s all I need. Twenty-five fucking years, and I’m back to gasping like a lunatic.
She crumpled the notepaper. It was damp. So was the palm of her hand. She tossed the paper into the ashtray, then took out a lighter from the pocket of her robe and lit an edge. A small flame curled around the wad. Black smoke and orange heat soundlessly charred the message. The flame died away; the paper still smoldered. Ginny stubbed out her cigarette, smashing the wad to ashes.
“Fuck you, bitch,” she said aloud to an absent Jess, but the words remained burned in her mind: October 16. Noon.
“What’s for breakfast?” came a voice from behind her.
Ginny didn’t turn around. “Get out, Brad. You got what you came for.”
Brad crossed in front of her and sat down in the same chair Jess had used. Her stomach heaved.
“Not exactly,” he said, with a sheepish smile.
His hair was rumpled, his clothes were askew, and Ginny decided he didn’t look nearly as sexy in daylight.
“I came for your help,” he continued, “not your body.”
“Right,” Ginny answered. She didn’t bother to conceal her sarcasm.
He reached toward her glass, picked it up, took a long drink, then sprayed the contents over the table.
“Jesus Christ! How can you drink this shit in the morning. Even my mother never did that.”
Mine did, Ginny wanted to say, but instead said, “I’m not your mother. I keep telling you that.”
He put his hand on her knee.
“No. By God, you’re not.”
“Get out, Brad.”
“Not yet.”
“Get out before Consuelo gets here.”
He laughed. “Yeah. She’d be only too glad to tell the old man on us, wouldn’t she?”
“Just get out.”
“No. I think we have some business to discuss.”
“I have nothing to do with your father’s finances.”
“Not even if there’s the chance he might happen to find out about last night?”
Ginny stiffened.
“He wouldn’t believe you,” she said.
“Yes, he would,” Brad sneered. “Especially when I tell him I love the way you shave your pubic hair into a Mohawk strip.”
Ginny crossed her legs.
“Why do you do that anyway?” Brad asked innocently. “So you look totally rad in a bikini? I thought only the young chicks did that.”
Ginny stood up, heat in her face. “Look. Don’t think that because I let you screw me last night that gives you any edge. And as for holding it over my head, forget it. Because if Jake finds out, you’ll be history as fast as me.”
Brad stood and moved close to her.
“Come on, Ginny. It’s only two hundred grand. You probably spend that much a year on clothes.” He moved his hand to her shoulder. She twisted away. She wanted to cry. God, how long had it been since she’d cried?
“Get out. Now.”
“Actually I’ve changed my mind,” Brad said, and sat back down on the chair.
She turned to him. “What?”
He shrugged. “I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want you to help convince the old man anymore.”
Ginny knew Brad better than to believe him.
“I want you to get it,” he said.
“You’re crazy.” But there was a strange look in Brad’s eyes that warned Ginny he knew exactly what he was saying.
“Yeah,” he continued. “Just get me the damn money. Forget about the old man. Leave him out of it.”
She knew there was more. Pain stabbed her gut.
“Why do I get the feeling there’s an ‘or else’ attached to this?”
Brad smiled. “Or else I’ll tell him about your baby.”
Ginny’s heart began to pump in her throat.
“You son of a bitch,” she said. She felt her knees grow weak. Her hands began to tremble. Cool. Stay cool. Don’t let him see what he’s doing to you. She breathed slowly. In. Out. In. Out. Her mind spun. Get control, she commanded. Don’t let him get to you. He’s only a punk. He can’t hurt you. You’re a survivor. You’re a survivor. Yes. Yes.
She lowered her head and looked him square in the eyes. “Then tell him,” she said.
“Really?”
“It’s 1993, Brad.” The even tone of her voice belied the fear raging through her. “I really don’t think your father will give a shit if he finds out I had a kid twenty-five years ago.”
“Twenty-five years ago? Hmm. That’s interesting. You hadn’t mentioned that before.”
She put her hands on her hips. “Admit it, asshole. You’re defeated. You slept with me. That’s not going to work. If you tell him about my baby, he’ll probably only love me even more.”
“I doubt it.”
Ginny rubbed one foot against the concrete.
“I don’t,” she said firmly. “Your old man seems to think he was put on this earth to protect me.” Her breath was deeper now, steadily regaining control.
Brad raised his arms over his head. “There’s more, isn’t there? There’s more to this baby story than you told me last night.”
Her insides froze.
“You’re an asshole,” she said. “Now get out before I get my gun and blow what’s left of your brains out.”
Brad laughed. “Pistol-packin’ Mama. Didn’t know you owned a gun.”
She didn’t, but it didn’t hurt to let him think she did.
“Yeah, there’s definitely more to the story,” he continued. He brought his arms down and studied his hands in front of his face. “You see, Mommy, you made the mistake of telling me that if Jake found out, he’d leave you. Now I don’t doubt what you say—that he wouldn’t leave you simply because you had a baby. So, the way I figure it, there’s more to the story. Otherwise, you’d have told him long ago. And that’s the part you can’t let Jake find out.”
The morning air was quiet. A stillness sat on the smog like a boulder on her chest. There is no way, Ginny tried to reassure herself. There is no way Brad can find out. Then she pictured Jess sitting on that very chair. Jess was real. Jess was still alive. And Jess knew.
“Get out of this fucking house.”
Brad stood up. “Sure, Mommy. But I’ll be back. Tonight. By then I’m sure you’d have figured out a way to get me the two hundred grand.”
He strolled off the patio. Ginny stood motionless, until she heard the rev of the red Porsche as he backed down the driveway.
When she was able to move, she dragged herself into the house. She went into the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed. It was, she knew, over. Her marriage to Jake—probably the best thing that had happened in her life—was over. And it was, she knew, her own fault.
She lit another cigarette and stared across the room at the picture on her bureau: herself and Jake in Hawaii, on their honeymoon. It had taken Ginny a year to land him: a year of playing the demure lady, the elegant socialite. It had also taken all her savings from her alimony from her third husband. But in the end she had won: She’d landed the part. Now the film was over. The End.
Ginny walked to her closet and peered inside. Rows and rows of thousand-dollar dresses stood, waiting for their next night on the town, their next hot time, their next bartender. She scanned the racks. God, she thought, I can’t go through it again.
Slowly Ginny took a dress off its hanger and tossed it onto the floor. She knew she could get the two hundred thousand from Jake. He would give her anything. He’d even know she was lying to him, but he wouldn’t care. She took another dress from its hanger and added it to the pile. Hell, she thought, I could always take the money and split. Forget about Brad. Forget about Jake. She removed another dress. And go where? To start all over again? Again? How many times would she have to start over before she had some peace? She finished with the dresses, then reached up to the sweaters neatly stacked on the shelves. One by one, they cascaded to the floor. It won’t work, anyway. Jess will find me. Jess. And that … that baby …
In less than five minutes all of Ginny’s clothes lay at the bottom of her closet. She stared at the puddle of satins and sequins, silks and chiffons. The material things that signaled security were shit. There was no such thing as security, no such thing as peace. It was all a ruse, just as Ginny’s entire life had been. Would things have been different if she’d never let her stepfather into her room that first night? If she’d, instead, let him beat her mother to a bloody pulp? Somehow, spreading her legs for him had seemed more right than hearing him slap her mother around, again and again. But maybe her path had been set way back when she was four, when that drunken slob had come at her with his vile prick, and her mother had smashed in his brains. Maybe the course of mother and daughter had been destined to a life of shit from day one.