Midtown Masters

by Cara McKenna

  “That went . . . very well,” he told the room. His anxiety from before he’d dialed still swirled, but atop it was layered relief, hope, excitement, surprise, delight, and, yes, that tiny sliver of uncomfortable jealousy, that barb he’d earned and would refuse to let darken his day.

  What did it matter, after all, that they still performed for other clients? He knew now beyond the shadow of a doubt that an hour of screen time couldn’t hold the wispiest candle to the real thing.

  That seemed to answer the question of whether or not he wanted to see them again. In person. In . . . bed.

  So the only question that remained was, when?

  And the answer was, undoubtedly, not soon enough.

  Chapter Twenty

  The next day, Suzy switched her phone back on as she left the university, greeted by a voice mail alert a few seconds later.

  “Be John, be John, be John,” she chanted as she clicked on the drop-down. “Yes!” There it was—John L., thirty-three seconds. She tapped it and put her phone to her ear.

  “Suzy, hi, it’s John. Sorry I missed you. I’ve given it some thought, and I’d like to accept your invitation to meet again. In person. I wanted to let you know I went through my calendar and my weekends are pretty wide-open, with the exception of the one closest to the Fourth of July. So name your date, really, and I’ll book a room and a train ticket. Thanks. Bye.”

  He’d sounded a bit awkward, like his old self, but it was charming. It was sweet to think she still made him nervous that way. Meyer might tell her to be careful, that she was barking up the wrong virgin or something obnoxious like that, but Suzy didn’t care. If he thought she was leading John on . . . Well, she didn’t feel like she was, to be a hundred percent honest. If he wanted more than just sex, and asked her on a date, she’d jump at the chance. So screw Meyer and his stupid hang-ups. She wasn’t leading John anyplace she didn’t secretly hope he might follow.

  She opened her texting app and entered his name.

  Just got your message. Let me check with Meyer and I’ll give you a call tonight about nailing down a weekend. Hooray! So glad you’re up for it. Hope you’re having a good day. She contemplated tacking on a heart emoji then restrained herself, and hit SEND instead.

  She dialed Meyer immediately. He answered on the third ring, sounding half asleep.

  “Mm?”

  “John wants to see us again. In person.”

  A pause, a grunt.

  “Are you just waking up? It’s nearly eleven.”

  “Just a nap,” Meyer said through a yawn. “Late night.”

  “Who with?”

  “The Internet. You know there’s something oddly comforting about history-geek chat rooms. Something distinctly 1998. Very nostalgic.”

  “Did you even hear what I said?”

  “Yes, yes,” he said studiously. “John Lindsay. In person. In the flesh, as it were.”

  “You still want that?”

  “Darling wife, I literally want nothing more in the entire world, at this point. I’ve tried browsing Grindr for my self-flagellatory kicks, and it’s no use. Just the same moldy old faces and corny profiles. I’ve had a taste of John and I shan’t rest until I’ve defiled him as thoroughly as he’ll willingly be defiled.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t put it like that.”

  “I won’t lie, Suze. He’s basically fifteen, as far as practical experience goes. I find that rather taboo. And so I wish to despoil him.”

  “You want to sexually mentor him.”

  “Not really. I want to take that fumbling, frightened, stuttering specimen and drive him insane. I want to figure out what it takes to get John Lindsay to fuck the daylights out of me and do precisely that.”

  “Don’t make it sound so predatory!”

  “Well, it is, a bit. That’s part of the fun. But ‘fun’ is the operative word, Suze. I won’t make him do anything he doesn’t want to. I merely want to help him realize exactly how bad he does want to do things. Specifically, nailing me to a swanky hotel mattress.”

  She sighed. “You’re terrible. I don’t tell you that enough. So how’s next weekend?”

  “Perfect. Mid-June, such a fine time for rhododendrons and sodomy.”

  “Saturday night, again. My place.”

  “Ooh, are we taping it?”

  “No, I just want to cook. And make some lovely, filthy memories.”

  “Sounds good. Text me what I can bring.”

  “Will do. I have to go, but I’ll see you tonight.”

  “As always . . . Fuck, aren’t the other usuals just so meh, now?”

  More than you know. “A gig’s a gig, and ours pays insanely well. Enjoy your day.”

  “Later.”

  She hung up. Drummed her fingers on her phone, and realized that the next week was going to pass about as quick as half a lifetime.

  ***

  Perhaps half a lifetime was a touch dramatic, but it did feel like a solid month elapsed before the following Saturday arrived, the appointed date for the next rendezvous. There hadn’t been any trains that could have gotten John into town before nine, so he’d wound up flying, and was due to land at any moment. Suzy had offered to pick him up but in the end submitted to his insistence that he should get a cab—she did have a dinner to organize, she supposed.

  “Check my phone,” she told Meyer. They were camped out in her kitchen; she at the counter, he at the table.

  He set his own down and glanced at hers. “Nothing yet.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Four forty-nine.”

  “His flight was due at four forty.” And last she’d checked it was on time. And last she knew, John Lindsay was the type to text the moment the plane touched down.

  “They’re probably taxiing or something. Give the man half a chan— Oh, here we are.” He tapped her screen. “‘Just landed. No checked bag so should be en route shortly. See you soon.’ What shall I text him back? ‘Can’t wait to fuck your brains out, handsome’?”

  “Give that to me.” Suzy abandoned the cutting board to snatch her phone back. She typed, Hooray! See you soon, and set it aside.

  Hooray, indeed. Though for every giddy butterfly flitting about her middle there was an anxious moth banging around, cluttering up the festivities. She reached for the gochujang but knocked over the sesame oil, scrabbling to nab the bottle before it rolled off the counter. “Jesus, why am I so nervous?”

  “I haven’t the foggiest,” Meyer said, staring at his own phone once more. He was as bad as a teenage girl with that thing.

  “Please tell me you’re not on Grindr, when an actual man is en route to spend the evening with you?”

  “Perish the thought,” he said, setting the device aside. “I was merely reading that Times article you texted me.”

  “Oh. Well, good.”

  He smirked. “I may be jaded, but believe me, I’m a thousand percent focused on tonight. I’ve thought of no other man but John Lindsay in two weeks, in fact. Well, not literally, but close.” Which, coming from Meyer, was quite the statement. “I very nearly read one of his books, in fact.”

  “Fiction gives you hives.”

  “I know. I wound up watching the pilot of the show instead.”

  “How was it?”

  “I’m not sure. I spent most of it fantasizing alternately about John and the actor who plays Jacob Russo. As far as I can tell you, it was a three-way, in the end.”

  She snorted.

  Meyer stood, rolling up his sleeves. “Right, put me to work. What can I do?”

  “Not much, I’m almost ready . . . Oh, fuck—do you have any condoms on you? I don’t know if I do. God, what kind of a shitty sex-party hostess am I?”

  “Relax, I’ve got us covered,” Meyer said. “Literally speaking. Shall I put them in the bedroom? Hide t
he scarier props?”

  “Oh, I don’t want to mess around in the Parkses’ bed with John. Did you?”

  “Doesn’t matter to me. Though their bed is bigger. Plus, there’s a camera, hint hint.”

  “No, no, no. No taping. No souvenirs, only memories. And definitely my bed. It’s still plenty big.”

  “I shall put the condoms next to your vibrator,” he said, knowing precisely where it lived. “And if you don’t need me after that, I may as well get myself ready.” With that, he left her, disappearing down the hall.

  Suzy checked the rice cooker. What do I say when I open the door? “I’ve missed you” was accurate—inadequately so—but was that too much? Too squishy and soft, considering that tonight was all about debauchery? Fuck it. She’d just see what fell out of her mouth when the moment finally came.

  The moment came about thirty minutes later. Suzy set down her half-drunk glass of wine and hurried to the door, then down the stairs to the landing. She checked the peephole and couldn’t help but grin to herself to find John’s bespectacled face there, made bulbous by the fish-eye lens.

  She swung the door in, hoping her grin looked easy and warm, not manic with the nerves crackling through her body. “Yay, it’s you!”

  He broke into a smile of his own. “It’s me. Good evening.” He held out a bouquet of orange gerbera daisies wrapped in cellophane. “I come bearing gifts.”

  “Oh, lovely, thank you. Can I take your bag?”

  “No, no. I’d have brought wine as well, but they’d have made me divide it up into three-point-four-ounce bottles, no doubt.”

  “That’s not so terrible,” Suzy said, welcoming him inside and shutting the door. “That’s probably how much I should be limiting myself to, anyhow . . . Do they sell flowers at the airport?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, following her up the steps. “I bought these from the shop near my house.”

  “Aww, and sat with them in your lap the whole way here?”

  “Tucked them in the seat-back pocket, technically. But yes, I suppose so.”

  What a lovely picture that painted. Suzy wondered if any friendly rowmates had asked John who they were for, and wondered yet more fervently what his answer might have been. Friend, she imagined, cooling her jets.

  She led him into her kitchen and he set his bag on the floor by the door. “Goodness, it smells wonderful in here.”

  “Thank you. Meyer’s around here somewhere,” she said, finding a vase under the sink for the flowers. “In the bathroom last I knew.” Though it had been so long at this point she could only imagine she’d find him on the closed toilet lid, scrolling his phone. “Mey! John’s here!” she shouted down the hall. She turned to her guest. “Uneventful flight, I hope.”

  “Yes, thoroughly.” He paused before adding, shyly, “Though it was the longest hour and ten minutes in recent memory.”

  She smiled, blushing. “I’ve been thinking this week lasted about fifty years.”

  He opened his mouth, then closed it at the sound of the door shutting down the hall.

  Meyer strode into the kitchen, no phone in sight for a change. He’d tidied his hair and wore his best smile. “Well, well. I see the guest of honor has arrived.”

  John stepped forward and shook his hand. “Meyer. Good to see you again.”

  “Far better to see you. Have a seat, John. Drink?”

  “There’s white wine open, and Meyer brought something.”

  “Balvenie,” he supplied.

  “I think wine’s fine to start,” John said.

  “As you like it.” Meyer found him a glass and poured as John got comfortable at the table. He glanced around the kitchen, openly curious.

  “It’s not much to look at,” Suzy said, switching off the rice cooker, “but at least I can afford to not have a roommate.”

  “That last one was a psycho.” Meyer handed John his wine.

  “Not true,” Suzy cut in.

  “Extremely passionate about silverware storage. I used to leave my shoes inside the kitchen door just to fuck with her.”

  “Have you read the clinical definition of a psychopath? She was just a little . . . particular.”

  Meyer recorked the bottle. “Like fucking the head of human resources, I imagine. Makes you fill out a form before you can stick anything anywhere, complete with cover sheet.”

  Suzy smirked. “She was in HR, you know.”

  Meyer swiveled, hand still gripping the fridge door. “No.”

  “Swear to God,” she said, giggling. The wine and nerves were hitting their collective stride. “Some sort of HR manager, at the hospital.”

  Meyer looked flabbergasted at his own prescience, and John laughed.

  “I’ve never been subjected to an HR department,” John said, “but cliché does make it sound as though they’re staffed by the very people worst suited to human interaction.”

  “My former roommate’s a glowing example,” Suzy said. “Thanks, Craigslist. But happily, since she moved out, I’m only cohabitating with the Parkses. They’re perverts, but at least they’re silent for twenty-three hours a day. Okay, we’re nearly there. Everyone hungry?”

  The men made affirmative noises.

  “Excellent. Just the eggs to cook and we’re ready. Meyer, could you set the table?”

  “I could.”

  Dinner was served shortly, and Suzy barely tasted hers. She was too fascinated by John. By how relaxed he seemed, and how readily he could volley conversation with Meyer. Either that wine was really doing its job, or he’d made quite remarkable progress these past two weeks. She took a backseat herself as they ate, enjoying watching them interact.

  As her own second glass of wine began to dwindle, she got caught up in studying their body language. She’d read quite a bit on that stuff, back in undergrad. Meyer was giving off a clear vibe of sexual interest, the way he leaned forward, pointed the foot of his crossed leg in John’s direction and maintained intense eye contact. She smiled to herself. He was a mix of both masculine and feminine signals. Meyer to a T.

  Before she knew it, everyone’s plate was clean and forks abandoned.

  “Dessert, anyone? I picked up a cake from Prantl’s—chocolate sour cream. So fucking good.”

  “No burnt almond torte?” Meyer asked, looking offended.

  “Sold out. Father’s Day is tomorrow.”

  “Fuck. Fucking breeders . . . Well, no matter the cake, none for me.” Meyer splayed his fingers across his belly. “Not yet, anyway.”

  “Waiting sounds wise,” John agreed.

  Suzy stood and began stacking plates. “Fair enough. Worst case scenario, it’ll make a sinful breakfast.”

  Meyer rose, making a sort of hissing, tutting noise, flapping his hands at Suzy to tell her to set the dishes back down. “You’ve been slaving away at that hot stove all afternoon. And John’s a guest. Go give him a tour or something. Show him the Parkses’ room.”

  Suzy looked to John.

  He nodded, setting his napkin aside and getting to his feet. “Yes, that’d be very interesting.”

  “It wouldn’t ruin the mystique?”

  “I should think fucking the both of us would accomplish that task,” Meyer said, stacking dishes in the sink.

  “Shush.”

  “No,” John said. “I’d be quite intrigued.”

  “Yes, show him how the sausage is made,” Meyer said.

  “As you wish.” She led John to the room at the end of the hall and switched on the light as she entered.

  John followed, looking all around. “Huh.”

  She propped her fists on her hips. “Whatcha think?”

  “I can’t say if it’s bigger or smaller than it seems online . . . It does feel different, for sure.”

  “Brighter, for starters,” Suzy said, lowering the
dimmer.

  “You’re very good at making the viewer forget about the camera. And all this,” he said, waving his hand at the computer clutter.

  “Our brilliant illusion, out the window,” Suzy sighed.

  “No. Well, yes. A bit. But I don’t mind. Okay, curiosity sated.”

  She hit the lights on their way out. “Want the full tour? It’s very short.”

  “Sure.”

  “Bathroom,” she said, pointing as they passed it. “My room, which you’ll see later.” She drummed the closed door with her fingertips.

  “Any surprises I should know about?” he teased.

  “No, no. I mean, there’s a vibrator in the bedside table drawer, but nothing compared to the Parkses’ toy box. And,” she added, leading him into the largest room, off the kitchen, “living room. And that’s it, really.”

  “It’s very cozy,” he said, looking around appreciatively. “It looks like someone actually lives here, unlike my place.”

  “Are you a neat freak?”

  “No, it’s not that . . . It’s just the style of the house. A PBS period drama could break out at any moment in my den, if it wasn’t for the computer and router.”

  “Well, make yourself at home. Refill?”

  “Please,” he said heavily, then seemed to catch his own tone. “Sorry. That came out very overwrought.”

  She laughed. “Nervous?”

  He took a seat on her couch, looking far too tailored for her menagerie of mismatched throw pillows. “A bit. Excited, too.”

  She leaned against the door frame, smiling. “You’ve been hiding it very well. I never would have guessed until just now.”

  “No?”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, that’s something.”

  “Hang on and I’ll grab you a fresh glass.”

  “Thank you.”

  Meyer was hard at work at the sink; Suzy didn’t have a dishwasher. A mug of tea was steeping beside the range.

  “Did you show him our arsenal?” he asked.

  “Our wha— Oh, the chest of depravity? No. Let’s not frighten the poor man. He’s come this far already.”