by Zelda Reed
“But why would he do that?” Gina says.
“To make me look guilty,” Neal says. “Like taking out a life insurance policy a week before someone dies.”
Gilda shakes her head. “What a miserable thing to do to someone.”
Martin nods and looks to Neal. “But you won’t have to worry about him anymore.”
“Are we going to turn him in?” I ask.
All four heads at the table crane towards me. Gina averts her eyes when I look at her, sticking her mug between her teeth, warm coffee sliding down her throat. Gilda does the same, a poor girl smile tugging at her mouth.
“It’s no use getting the police involved,” Martin says, wiping his mouth with a cloth napkin.
“Why not?” I say. “Chris deserves to go to jail.” I turn my head towards Neal, silently pleading for validation. “He’s a murderer.”
“No one’s disputing that,” Neal says. His hand finds mine beneath the table, warm palm sliding against the back of my hand. “But Martin will handle him, promise.”
If I were sixteen I would’ve pushed back from the table and stormed off, leaving a trail of hot tears in my wake, but I promised to trust Martin. I trust Martin.
I take another sip of my wine and plaster on a smile. “Alright.”
Six
After the dishes are cleaned and put away, the wine bottles re-corked and the conversations slowed, it’s almost one in the morning.
Gilda suggests me, Neal, and Gina spend the night. She sets us up on the second floor, in two bedrooms across the hall from one another. She shows Neal and I around our room, pointing out the towels in the closet, the door to the en suite bathroom, the window overlooking the pool and how to properly draw the curtains.
“If you need us for anything press the red button,” she says, tapping a white box near the door. “Otherwise¸ sleep well.”
Gilda shuts the bedroom door and leaves us alone. A sudden, unexpected weight lifts from my shoulders as Neal collapses onto the bed. I fall next to him, our shoulders brushing, our faces to the gold canopy, our bodies sinking into the comfortably expensive king sized mattress.
“You were in jail,” he says, as if he can’t believe it.
“County lockup. It’s not really the same thing.”
“It’s the same thing to me.” He turns towards me. “How are you not falling apart right now?”
A small laugh boils in my throat. “I think I’m in a state of shock. Or I’m too exhausted to fully comprehend the gravity of the situation.”
Neal hums. He understands.
The small sound leads us to silence. There are no cars rolling down the road at this hour, no subway wheels beating against the track.
Between our bodies, Neal’s hand reaches for mine. Our fingers lace together against the mattress as we stare pass the canopy, pass the ceiling, and pass the sky. Allowing the weight of the day to settle on our chests.
“Your best friend wants to kill you,” I say.
“My best friend killed your father.”
“At least Lee doesn’t want to kill you anymore.”
“He just wants to take the last of my dignity and shove it up my ass.”
I laugh. It feels good to let something that loud out.
Neal smiles. “I want to kiss you but I’m exhausted,” he says, his eyes fluttering close.
“I want you to kiss me but I need to take a shower.”
Neither of us move. Neal’s thumb caresses mine and my fingers tighten around his.
“I need to wash the smell of lock-up from me,” I say.
“Well then you have to move.”
I lift my right arm from the bed, it hangs in the air before dropping pathetically. With his eyes closed Neal can only hear the slap of it against the comforter. He laughs.
“Okay,” he says, pushing himself to his feet. “Let’s get you up.”
With his arms out Neal pulls me to a standing position. I collapse against him, my face burying in his neck as I throw my arms around his waist. He walks me backwards towards the bathroom, the toes of our shoes knocking against the sides of our feet.
The bathroom’s all white with a gold sink and shower head. Neal sits me on the toilet as he turns on the shower. I lean my head against the sink, the air around us growing thicker and warmer.
Neal kneels in front of me, his hands on my knees as he presses his nose to my cheek. I laugh and he kisses the corner of my mouth.
“You don’t want me to shower with you, do you?”
I turn to him. “That’s exactly what I want.”
We lazily strip off our clothes before we step into the tub. Beneath the spray of water gentle droplets caress our skin, wetting our hair, our eye lashes, our lips, washing away the stench of being trapped in a cell.
Even beneath the warm water I feel chilly. I pull Neal closer to me, his cock pressing against my thigh as I soak up his body heat. He presses his nose to the top of my wet hair, inhaling my scent before he pulls back. I lift my head from his chest and know, before our eyes meet, what’s happening next.
Our lips meet in the middle of the spray, water dropping into our mouths as we kiss. Neal’s fingers press into the small of my back as my hands find the strands of hair at the back of his neck. Neal’s palm flattens against my slippery skin, warm and slightly red. His cock slowly hardens between his legs.
It grows against my thigh, my clit pulsating between my folds, my lips desperate to stay connected. I can still feel the grunge of the jail cell caked beneath my fingers, I can still smell my cellmate’s cheap perfume.
“Wait,” I say.
Neal glances down as I grab the bar of soap from the ledge jutting out of the wall.
“Will you do me a favor?”
Neal washes me from the top of my neck, down to my waist, his sudsy hands roaming over every inch of skin. His palms circle my nipples, hardening them beneath the water. I suck in a breath as he continues down my stomach, his fingers dangerously close to curling between my legs.
He washes my shoulders and my back. He spins me around and moves his hands over my ass. I press against him as his wet palm slides between my cheeks, my legs instinctively opening, letting him in.
He kneels and runs his hands up my legs, soaping me up until all there’s left to do is rinse off. I stand beneath the showerhead and let it wipe away the soap, head tilted back until I’m finally clean.
Neal’s behind me, two hands on my stomach as his lips press into the side of my neck. I lean back against him, his cock pressed against my ass. His hands slide up my skin and find my breasts, his hips moving forward as he cups his hands around them.
“I wasn’t kidding when I said I was exhausted,” he says, lazily grinding into my ass.
“Is this your way of saying you can’t keep it up?”
Neal laughs. He squeezes my breasts and runs his teeth along my skin. “This is my way of saying it’s your turn to do all the work.”
Porn makes shower sex look easier than it is, but there’s a skill to it I have yet to master. The pair of us dance around awkwardly for a moment, Neal backing up towards the farthest wall, me bending forward until my hands are flat against the wall.
My ass is up in the air, legs spread as wide as they can go. With one hand curled around my hip, Neal lines himself up and pushes in. Just the head.
The spray of water drums against my back as Neal releases a moan, almost unheard over the water spilling into my ears.
“Go on,” he says, sliding his hands over my ass. “Move.”
With both hands against the wall, I push my hips back. Neal’s cock slides further in, stretching me with that familiar burn that spreads to my feet. My toes curl against the tub as his balls slap against my ass, another moan passing through his lips.
Neal refuses to move. His head tilts back against the white tiled wall.
His fingers grip my hips as I fuck myself on his cock. My entire body moves, forward than back, the slap of my ass against his torso filling
my ears. My back arches and small waves of pleasure rumble in my stomach, every time I feel his cock move deeper inside me.
I push myself on my toes, moving at an angle. A burst of light ignites in my brain.
“Oh,” I say, my mouth dropping open. “Oh, that’s…”
I continue to move, my body slamming against him, harder now. Desperate to replicate that feeling, Neal’s cock hitting that magical spot inside of me, over and over and over again.
Neal’s moans grow louder in his chest the faster I move, his nails digging into the flesh of my hips. If I were to throw him a look over my shoulder, I’m sure I would, his eyes transfixed on his cock, sliding in and out of my hole.
We’re exhausted enough that this gets us off, a simple fuck in the shower, steam curling around the mirror.
My orgasm comes gently. It starts at my toes and builds between my legs. A slow shudder runs through me as I continue to move my hips.
Neal comes soon after. He’s too tired to stay inside and I’m too exhausted to remain bent over.
He pulls out and I stand up straight before we wash one another.
The next few moments are hazy. We step out of the tub and find two towels, wiping ourselves off between yawns. At some point the towels are discarded on our way to the bed and we end up under the covers, wet hair and all.
We’re too tired to care about little things like sleeping on a wet pillow, all that matters are our arms and legs. Neal’s arms are wrapped around me, our legs tangled beneath the sheets, my head on his chest and his breath on the top of my head.
______
Around one, after I’ve woken up and dressed in newly cleaned clothes, Gilda points me in the direction of Martin’s home office. Away from the rest of the house, the double wooden doors are alone in a wide hall filled with a marble floor and cream walls.
The doors are propped open and I step inside.
Martin’s behind his desk, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose as he moves between a desktop computer and a pile of papers in front of him. It’s magnetic, watching him work, the speed of which he scribbles with his pen, his fingers flying fast over the keyboard.
“Give me one moment,” he says without looking from his work.
I take a seat in the leather wingback chair across from him. The window behind him showcases the side of the house, peeking into the yard of the neighbors more than a few feet away. They have kids or grandkids, evident in the silver swing set and bright yellow slide.
I have vague memories of Gina trying to convince my father to move out the city, during the year she was vocal about wanting a few kids of her own. She had dreams of play sets, indoor pools, and a yard where she would host yearly barbecues, showing up the other wives with her ability to hire cooks and decorators and party planners. But my father loved living in the city. “I was born in a city and I’m gonna die in one,” he used to say. At least he got what he wanted.
Martin splits the stack of papers on his desk in two, placing the bottom half in a box marked “To Shred”.
“I received a phone call this morning,” he says. “Which would’ve seemed strange if I wasn’t expecting it. It was from Lee Geon’s secretary.”
“That’s what I came in here to talk to you about.”
Martin nods. “I have to commend you, Caitlin. It took a great deal of courage to confront someone like Lee, especially when he isn’t the sort of man to easily forgive.”
“It’s not like he didn’t get anything out of it.”
“That’s very true, but what you must understand about Lee is that he doesn’t particularly care for things. He has a lot of cars, homes, a few islands each housing a different wife but he thrives on respect. If it were your father who came groveling to him, Lee would not have let him walk out unscathed.”
“You don’t think this interview is a trick, do you?”
“A trick how?”
“That Lee’s going to lure us to some warehouse and kill me and Neal?”
A small smile tugs at the corner of Martin’s mouth. “No. For two reasons. One, Lee has a sense of honor. His assistant promised me that as long as everything goes to plan, meaning you and Neal don’t back out on the deal, no one has anything to worry about. Two, you won’t be going alone. I’m sending the finest security to make sure everything goes smoothly.”
I smile. “That’s very reassuring.”
Martin sits back in his chair, one leg thrown over his knee. I don’t feel small beneath his gaze, watching me as I fold my hands in my lap, but I do feel impossibly young. Like a little girl under watch by her uncle.
“I won’t let what happened to your father, happen to Neal,” he says. “I usually have a very sharp eye but sometimes…Things slip under my radar. It hasn’t ended so tragically as this since the death of my son.”
Once again Martin’s mask of mourning covers his face, tugging at the corners of his eyes and mouth, leading him to look wistfully beyond my shoulder.
“Was Francis poisoned?” I ask, remembering an early conversation when he told me Francis suffered from the same “disease” as my father.
“No,” he says, shaking his head. “Francis was caught up with the wrong group of people. A small gang of wealthy kids wanting to cash in on what Lee and your father had built. Francis wanted to be part of something new but didn’t understand the repercussions of screwing up.”
“I was watching over him, very carefully, the way a good father should but one night I was so wrapped up in something else, I didn’t see him leave the ballroom. He went out for a cigarette, someone told me, with a group of his friends. They led him behind the building and put a bullet in his head.”
“What happened to the boys who killed him?”
A sad smile tugs at his mouth. “I believe you already know the answer to that question.”
My mind flips back to the night of the dinner at the yacht club, to Neal and Chris in the women’s bathroom, hovering over a bruised and trembling Carl. I think of Neal’s apartment, torn to shreds in retaliation.
“It’s a vicious cycle, isn’t it?” Martin looks at me. “Revenge.”
“At times,” Martin says. “But this cycle ends tomorrow.”
Seven
I reschedule my flight for Sunday.
Over the phone my mother says, “You’re staying even longer? Why?”
I lie through my teeth. “Dad has a lot of stuff. I still haven’t gone through everything.”
“Can’t you get Martin to do it?”
“No. He has other things to do.”
“Caitlin, I…” She trails off, the hum of the freezer dancing around her. I imagine my mother leaning against the fridge, sweat pooled under her arms. Her long grey hair is pulled to a messy bun atop her head, allowing her neck to breathe.
“Is the air conditioning broken again?”
“It’s always broken. I’m just sick of sitting in my own sweat. Did you ever find out what happened to your father?”
I debate telling her the truth, but I know my mother too well. It’ll break her to hear he was murdered, to know she spent the better half of her life hating him. A million what-if scenarios will run through her mind – what if he was still living, you think he would’ve apologized?
“It was cancer,” I say.
She releases a long breath. “Oh thank god.” Then, “Serves him right. Asshole.”
______
Neal and I spend the afternoon with Gilda. She positions us next to each other in the living room, a camera in one hand, toy microphone in the other (“I could never bring myself to throw out Francis’s old things.”) readying us for what tomorrow’s press conference will bring.
Neal’s a natural, handling Gilda’s whirlwind of questions with ease.
“Were you really kidnapped?” she asks, taking three photos accompanied by a blinding light.
“No,” Neal says. “I was away during the home invasion and thought it wise to stay away. I apologize for any distress I may have caused the C
hicago Police Department, my colleagues, but most of all, my girlfriend, Caitlin Wheeler.”
Gilda doesn’t have to direct him to turn towards me. His hand reaches for mine, our fingers lacing between us.
“Smile,” Gilda says to me, taking four more photos. “And don’t wince, it makes you look like you’re grimacing. Caitlin, are you telling me you didn’t know Neal was in hiding?” She takes another photo.
I blink. “The night of the burglary Neal dropped me off at my father’s condo.”
“You mean your condo,” Gilda says.
“Yes. My condo…Can I refer to it as the condo?”
“No,” Gilda says. “Everyone knows your father passed his condo down to you. ‘The’ makes you sound cold and ungrateful.”
I nod. We wouldn’t want that.
“The night of the burglary Neal dropped me off at my condo. The morning after two wonderful officers from the Chicago Police Department –”
“Say their names,” Gilda says.
“— Officer’s Hagrity and Manson, informed me that not only was his home burgled but Neal was missing. I was as worried as the rest of you –”
“No you weren’t,” Gilda says. “You were devastated. Out of your mind with grief.”
“I was out of my mind with grief,” I say.
Gilda nods. “Is it true you were arrested breaking into Neal’s house?”
My eyes widen. “I thought that was wiped from my record.”
“It was,” Gilda says. “But rumors fly. You make that face,” Gilda widens her eyes, opens her mouth in shock, “and they’ll know something’s up.”
We go on until my knees lock under the pressure of standing for hours.
“I’m going to start on dinner,” Gilda says. “But the two of you keep practicing.” She looks at Neal, “She needs a little work.”
There’s nothing malicious about Gilda but her words ram a knife through my stomach. I don’t want to screw anything up, but I can’t control the way my face reacts to some of the more invasive questions.
Neal leads me to the couch. The two of us sit with our knees pressed together. I can’t stop thinking about my father. He handled the press with such grace, always keeping them laughing whenever they were in his presence.