But I remain still, even though I’d love to roll on to my back and lay flat out even if I’d be lying on the floor. I have the feeling pulling out is going to be… memorable and I want to remember each sensory memory.
And I’m not wrong.
Burnt-out nerve endings burst into life like miniature phoenixes, and I whimper as tender tissues begin to complain but at the same time, gloat at what they’ve just gone through.
And me? Well, I just feel wrecked as hell.
Sated, but fucked. Well and truly fucked.
* * *
It was a happy me that eventually rolled out of bed. I hummed my way into the shower, sang my way through a few songs as I washed, and then proceeded to playing the air guitar as I wandered through the apartment in a shirt and panties toward the kitchen.
Sex, I’m discovering, creates a ravenous appetite and even better, it’s burnt some fat from those hard to reach places. Enough so that I’ve allowed myself a few scoops of Cookie Dough every day. I figure the calories burnt while having sex more than makes up for my sinful treat.
As I wander into the kitchen, I decide that I might just have ice cream for breakfast.
Why the hell not?
At this very moment in time, I feel happy. Deliriously so.
My body is still tingling from its workout, my pussy may never recover but what a way to go, and my stomach is rumbling and demanding sustenance. Physically, I’m replete. Emotionally, at this exact moment, I’m on top of the world, and mentally, I feel fabulous.
I should have known that something would ruin it.
That the great bowling ball that is life would come and knock down a strike that would ruin everything.
Two weeks, that’s how long I’ve been with him.
Fourteen days. And I’ve managed to fuck it up already.
It’s no consolation that it was his fault as much as mine.
That it wasn’t planned. It happened and now, with the shit hitting the fan, we have to deal with it. But as I traverse down the corridor, I’m unaware of the nasty mess fate has made of my life.
Humming away as I enter the kitchen and zero in on the fridge, in my peripheral vision I notice that Zane’s staring at the newspaper. He reads it every morning, and even though he could read it online, he prefers the feel of paper in his hands and the ink that stains his fingers. Every day he has gossip rags sent to him as well as highbrow reports that bore me senseless—the range of interests he has is astounding. Everything from the political situation in the Middle East to the economy in Ireland.
Our routine is that I make coffee while he reads, then he makes toast as I peruse the broadsheets.
But as I turn around with the tub of ice cream in my hand, my focus centers on Zane for a moment. I’d intended for it to be a quiet minute, one where I could enjoy the man that has changed my life. But that went by the by as I noticed the frozen look of horror on his face.
Rather than say anything, rather than utter a word, I drop the ice cream carton on the counter and rush toward him. He’s staring at one of the papers as though it’s his worst nightmare and for a moment, he’s petrified. Not in the terrified way, but in the turned-into-stone way.
My eyes glance over the articles, trying to find what could trigger such a reaction. I’m looking for columns on the War against Terror or on the Marines. Something that could have fear trapping him in its jaws. But all I see is a picture of the pair of us.
I blink, the image entirely unexpected. I’d expected a picture of a Marine in dress uniform with news of his death in an explosion in the Middle East. A friend of Zane’s that he was grieving.
Instead, it’s the pair of us, holding hands inside the gynecologist’s clinic.
The pair of us look worried.
And that look alone answers a thousand questions.
There’s no way the hand clasp could be dismissed as a supportive gesture.
Zane isn’t there to ensure his friend is okay.
There’s intimacy to our positioning. I’m leaning on him. I can’t even remember doing that. The morning we visited the clinic, I’d been as embarrassed as hell at his paying for my visit. Zane had put me at ease by teasing me a little, but my expression and body language tells its own tale.
I suck in a breath, wondering what to say, how I can make it better, when my eyes glance over the headline.
I want to laugh at the angle the press has spun on the picture.
‘Prolific LGBT author: potential father-to-be?’
In the column, it detailed the likelihood that I’m Zane and his husband’s surrogate.
Inner umbrage ignites at the idea that the entire state now thinks I’m pregnant and, as childish as it is, I’m glad I didn’t eat a scoop of ice cream. I might just never eat it again.
My hand reaches up to squeeze Zane’s shoulder but he flinches at my touch. I try not to be hurt, but I understand. His first priority is Jake. I get that, have always got that even before he propositioned me. Doesn’t mean I have to like it but I won’t bitch. I’m aware of what I signed up for.
In silence, I step away from him and return to the ice cream carton. Replacing it in the freezer, I stand there awkwardly. Unsure of what to say and what to do, wondering why, when living the still-in-diapers life I’ve created out of the ashes of my apartment building’s burnout, I’m worrying about melting ice cream.
Surrogacy might hide the sordid details of what has been going on between Zane and me to the world at large, but it wouldn’t to Jake. Zane’s husband will know the truth and to the man who’s starting to mean more to me than I’d ever calculated, it’s Jake who’ll count.
And as big a bitch as it makes me, at this moment, I don’t feel for Jake.
I feel for myself.
Two weeks, I’ve had him.
Fourteen miserly days of happiness, blown into smithereens because the pair of us forgot to wear a condom and because some bastard was handy with his phone and felt nothing, no compunction, about sending something of this delicate nature to the press, and some revolting news editor felt no shame in publishing it either.
I’ve lost him, before I even had a real chance to have him.
Lust is crazy, it’s driven me into this man’s sphere as he’s driven himself into my heart.
In two short weeks, I’ve fallen into lust with a man who doesn’t belong to me and it’s only now that he’s going to disappear out of my life that I realize lust has turned into love.
A moment ago, life, fate and destiny had all been my bosom pals.
But now, I’ve four words ricocheting around my brain.
Isn’t life a bitch?
III
All That Glitters…
Chapter Eight
“How’s the search going?”
If my voice is glum, I can’t help it. Personally, I think I’ve good reason to be grimmer than the Reaper. It’s been a fortnight since the newspaper article informing the world—incorrectly I might add—that I was Zane and his husband’s surrogate, hit the stands.
This gloriously embarrassing news has since spread, like a smallpox pandemic, into the national papers and gossip rags. It hasn’t helped that actual news has been slow of late. It’s getting so bad that I’m praying for a government scandal.
In the supermarket, local stores and cafés, I’m surrounded by women glaring at me. Hiding behind cereal boxes or menus and bitching about me, blatantly, to their friends. Their eyes like a basilisk’s stare as they drench me with their hatred and envy. I’m starting to feel a little like one of the Salem witches, just waiting for the ducking stool.
It’s a good job my hide is tough. Because while the media is content to describe me as Zane and his husband’s surrogate, the rest of the world ain’t. Especially Zane’s fans. They’re jealous and obviously think I’m the lover. The Scarlet Woman, as it were.
Although, I’m not that tough. Because having just completed my shopping, surrounded by the store’s anti-Mona clients and now out on the str
eet, I’ve pulled out my cell and called Zane and hearing his tired and distracted voice makes me feel infinitely better.
Christ, how pathetic is that?
“I’m getting nowhere. Jake isn’t at home and no one’s seen him in town for the last two weeks.”
When he’s so down about Jake, it’s inappropriate to tell him I miss him. But I really do. In a relatively short space of time, he’s become such a huge presence in my life. My earlier predictions, that I’d be incredibly lonely once he returned to his husband, have come to fruition.
Although, the circumstances aren’t as pleasant.
Zane’s concern for his partner is tangible.
A part of me can’t help but wish that at some point in the future, his feelings for me will be as potent.
Horrible, eh? Thinking about myself, when Jake Harris has discovered what and who I am to his husband, is very selfish. The man’s life is in ruins and it’s all down to me. Because I could have told Zane no and didn’t. And all I can do is think about myself. Sometimes, I really don’t like me.
“Mona? You still there?”
In the middle of a manic sidewalk, filled to bursting with the different walks of life inhabiting New York, from green Mohican-sporting punks to charcoal-suited businessman, I spot a bench and scurry over to it. Hugging the paper bags loaded with my groceries, I sink down and stare straight ahead at a beetle attempting to cross the mass of concrete.
Watching the tiny insect attempt what in human terms would be the equivalent of embarking over the Grand Canyon on a tightrope, I mutter, “Yeah, I’m here.”
“You don’t sound so good. Is everything okay? If there are any problems, just tell Henry, the concierge. He knows what to do.”
“Yeah, right. The guy looks at me like I’m a hooker.”
“What?”
Biting my lip, I wish the words back, but it’s too late. More of them spew out of my mouth with the force of a bubbling torrent of whitewater.
“In fact, everyone is. I can’t go anywhere without being looked at as though I should be burnt at the fucking stake. Last night, I went to a diner. I-I was lonely…” Making the admission is hard, but it’s the truth. I was. “I sat down and the waitress, she, I mean she said it was an accident, but she spilled a hot cup of coffee all over my lap. There was no way it was incidental. And then last week at the cinema, the attendant called me a whore.”
“Oh, baby, I’m so sorry.” Zane’s heartfelt statement makes my lip wobble all the more and even though I’d rather die than start to sob in the middle of the street, tears begin to streak down my cheeks. “I wish I was there to protect you, to make it better, but you understand why I’m not, don’t you?”
Of course, I do. But that doesn’t make it any easier to accept, when I’m Public Enemy Number One.
I don’t say that, though, just duck my head. Releasing my chokehold on the paper bags, I rifle through my purse for a tissue and finding one, mop at my cheeks.
“Mona? Honey?”
“I-I know, Zane. I’m sorry that you can’t find Jake. And I never wanted to offload this on to you, but it’s really quite hard here at the moment.” Even hating how pitiful I sound, I can’t force myself to cheer up. I’m feeling miserable and alone. Isolated.
Having ignored my friends, Marina and Eddie, for the last month, I’m thinking about calling them. Anything for the sound of a friendly voice.
That is if they don’t totally vilify me for having an affair with a married man.
“Offload? You’re not offloading, honey. This, what we have, might not be what most people have, but we’re together. That’s what we decided, right? We’re a couple. You have to tell me these things, I’d be offended if you didn’t.”
Hell, that’s more than my ex-husband ever said. Those words alone improve my mood. “Maybe I’m just being a baby.”
“No. As soon as I get back, I’ll have a word with Henry. That’s one thing I can sort out. Christ, he’s the concierge, not our moral guardian.”
I’d like to ask him not to, but Henry deserves it. His rudeness is appalling and I’m sick of it. Sick of his eyes crawling over me, whenever he’s on shift at the front desk. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t have to. His eyes are very expressive and so demeaning.
“I’d appreciate that, Zane.”
He sucks in a breath. “It’s worse than you’re letting on.”
“What?” I ask, shocked at the seething anger in his voice.
“Has he… done anything to you?”
“No. Of course not.”
“Don’t lie, Mona. You know that if I talk to him, it will probably end up with him receiving an official warning from his boss, you know that and yet, you haven’t tried to stop me.”
The logic has me staring at the ground with rapidly-warming cheeks.
“And that means he’s done something if you don’t care about the man potentially losing his job.”
“No, I swear he hasn’t, Zane. I promise. It’s just the way he looks at me.”
Silence hums over the line. And then, “I miss you.”
His tone indicates his surprise. Whether that’s over the fact he misses me at all or that he’s shocked at making such an admission, I don’t know.
I find that I don’t give a damn which. Those three words have hope soaring through my heart. “I miss you, too.”
“Regrets?”
“I-I don’t like this situation. I feel like a bit of a prisoner in a gilded cage, because wherever I go, I get dirty looks. I thought this was New York, an anonymous city. Where everyone’s a stranger. But not in my case.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
“No. Maybe it doesn’t.” I sigh. “I regret the instance that caused this situation. But I don’t regret our getting together. Even if Jake is hurt. That’s horrible and I’m really sorry he had to find out this way, if at all. But I can’t help the way you make me feel.” I suck in a breath. “Do you have any regrets?”
“Like you, I regret being snapped together in a gynecologist’s office, of all places. But hell, the lawyers are thrashing that out. I’m just relieved that they haven’t revealed your name. They’ve managed to bring enough pressure down on some of the major titles.”
Zane had sued the original publisher of the photo, who had been dragged to hell and back by the courts, thanks to the location of the shot. Because of that, not that I understand it, but the lawyers had managed to suppress some of the information leaking out with further threats of lawsuits.
As such, the articles floating about at the moment, are all rehashes. Information and gossip about Zane and Jake and nothing but a huge question mark over my identity.
The public has spotted me often enough as I attempt to lead a normal life in Zane’s absence and have made me even more miserable. So how photographers have missed me, I don’t really know. Unless they haven’t, but those photos have been withheld, too.
The power of Zane’s wealth and family name is a frightening thing.
For all that, I’m just relieved that my past hasn’t been revealed to the entire world, that there haven’t been character annihilations on me by gossip columnists. Even if I deserve them.
“But you don’t regret us getting together?” I need him to say the words. I really do.
My relief is gargantuan, when he says, “I hate that Jake’s been hurt and I’ll try and rectify it—if that’s even possible—as soon as I find him, but no. I can’t wish we hadn’t happened.” His swallow is audible over the line. That faint sound of vulnerability moves me more than any declaration could. “I know this is all my fault and I’m being selfish and greedy.
“I’ve hurt far too many people and the ones that matter to me, you and Jake, the most. I wish I could make it better, but I can’t let you go, Mona. I can’t.” He sucks in a breath. “I wish I could explain it to you, but you won't understand. You’re my…” He breaks off, his voice catching as he eventually whispers, “…salvation.”
Before I can ask what he means, because he’s right—I don’t understand—the call disconnects. For a second, I’m frozen dumb. Then I call his number again but there’s no answer. Repeated attempts reveal the same fact, he’s avoiding me now.
What had he meant by that?
His salvation?
My eyes drift down to take in what a man like Zane’s idea of salvation is. I’m dressed better than I would have been in the past, thanks to the wardrobe he bought me. But still, the personal shopper Zane hired bought me things that aren’t the most fashionable of items thanks to my size.
New York is still basking in a warm glow, not like the heat wave of a few weeks ago, but still hot enough that I’m wearing a silky, ruby-red camisole that should wash me out thanks to my strawberry blond hair, but actually enhances the auburn tones streaking through it, and a pair of jeans that are as skinny as my size twelve shape can be.
I’m not exactly a man like Zane’s type.
And maybe beauty in the eye of the beholder isn’t complete and utter bullshit.
Regardless of my earlier mood, that thought and my chat with Zane, even though it wasn’t the most cheerful of conversations, puts a spring in my step.
Crossing the street, I ignore the odd stare that comes my way. The closer I am to the apartment block, the quieter and more refined the crowd gets. This means fewer stares, which is a relief. Stepping into the front entrance, I ignore Henry and those creepy-crawly eyes of his and rush over to the elevator.
My good mood lasts as long as it takes me to unlock my door. The instant I do, I know that something’s wrong. The atmosphere isn’t empty. Someone’s in the apartment. I don’t know how I know, but I do.
Marina once told me that as a single woman living alone in New York City, it was my duty and my responsibility to learn self-defense. She pushed and prodded me into a few classes, something I half-heartedly partook in simply to shut her up, as Marina with the bit between the teeth is worse than a bee chasing after pollen. Persistent. Endless. Drone.
Sinfully Theirs: Naughty Nookie Part I Page 12