by Jason Starr
With the remote, Mark opened the garage door, then pulled in and cut the engine. Without a word, Deb got out and slammed the door and went into the house. When Mark got out, Casey, their golden retriever, came over to the greet him, jumping up on him, panting excitedly, swiping his chest with his paws.
Thinking, Well, at least somebody isn’t mad at me, Mark said, “How ya doin’, Casey? How ya doin’, boy? How ya doin’?”
Casey, still breathing heavily, trailed Mark into the house.
Karen’s kids, Elana and Matthew, were over at the house. Elana, like Mark’s daughter Riley, was sixteen, and they were hanging out in the living room watching a movie, something with that teenage girl actress Mark had seen before on TV and on the covers of magazines, but he could never remember her name. Matthew was ten, two years younger than Justin, but they’d always played well together, and they were up in Justin’s room playing on the Xbox, Call of Duty; Mark knew because he heard the intermittent machinegun fire and explosions.
“Hey girls,” Mark said.
“Hey,” Elana and Riley said, without looking away from the TV.
Then Elana asked, “My mom home yet?”
Mark saw Deb, who was looking through a pile of mail on a table in the foyer, give him a look right before she exited into the kitchen.
“Um, should be,” Mark said.
“I better go,” Elana said, getting up from the couch.
“FaceTime you later,” Riley said, still staring at the TV.
“Cool,” Elana said, then called upstairs, “Matthew, we gotta go!”
“I think it’ll take more than that to get him away from that game,” Mark said.
“Yeah, you’re right,” Elana said as she went upstairs.
Mark went up too and went into his bedroom and shut the door. Then he texted Karen: Great seeing you tonight! Hope you got home safe, sweetie.
Mark texted with Karen all the time, especially since her marriage had ended. He texted with a lot of his friends too, but it was somehow much more fun to text with Karen. Maybe it was because they had the same sense of humor, they got each other. When he read some interesting article online, or something funny happened at work, Karen was always the first person he wanted to tell. He usually made sure to delete his texts to her, especially the ones where they called each other “sweetie” or sometimes “babe,” knowing that if Deb found them she’d get suspicious.
Mark stripped to his boxers and then washed up and got ready for bed. He knew he looked great for forty-four. He was losing some hair from the top and around the sides, and he probably needed to lose ten, okay fifteen, pounds, but he was definitely aging well, just starting to hit his prime. If he was single now, on those dating sites like Karen, man he would’ve cleaned up. How many guys his age even had hair? He didn’t have a lot of wrinkles and a couple of women at work had complimented his eyes. What had Erica McCarthy, in HR, said? Oh, yeah, that he had “a dark, brooding Javier Bardem look.” The comment had gone straight to Mark’s head even though he had to Google Javier Bardem to make sure he knew who he was.
Mark looked out the bathroom window; too bad it was June and there were so many leaves on the trees. Even though Karen lived a few houses away, in the winter Mark could see part of her house, including one of her bedroom windows—once he’d seen her naked, which was amazing—but now he couldn’t see anything.
His phone chimed—a text arrived from Karen: Yep thanx gnight!!
He always loved getting texts from Karen, even when they were minutia. He responded, Awesome babe xoxox, then deleted the entire thread.
In bed, he watched TV—a little Sports Center, part of a rerun of The Office, and then some guy doing standup on Comedy Central. Mark worked his ass off all week as a Systems Analyst for CitiBank, sometimes staying at the office in Manhattan late, not getting home till nine or ten, and his favorite thing to do at night was to sit on the couch or lie in bed and stare at the TV. It didn’t really matter what he was watching—sports, talk shows, sitcoms, reality TV—as long as it didn’t take up too much brain energy. He used his brain all day, managing trading systems on three continents, so when he was home at night, and especially on weekends, the last thing he wanted to do was think too hard. He just wanted to stare, zone out, disappear. He liked movies, but they had to be funny or have action, no period bullshit. Deb once took him to some Jane Austen movie and it was freakin’ painful, and he said to her afterwards, “No more period movies—period.” And reading, that was the worst. Mark didn’t get why people liked reading, why they wanted to spend their free time, concentrating, staring at words in a book. Jesus, why not lie on bed of nails or get in a bath with a bunch of rattlesnakes while you were at it. Okay, maybe if you’re a teacher or you were in school, if you had to do it, but in your free time, for pleasure? Deb always had a stack of books next to her bed, went to book club meetings—God knows why. Talking about books and having to spend time with those yentas? The only books Mark read were on the stock market or sports, but even those were sometimes painful to get through. He didn’t want to feel like an idiot, though, so Mark had read one book about fifteen years ago, The Firm by John Grisham, because he’d liked the Tom Cruise movie. The book was worse than the movie but now, whenever he was at parties or at work meetings, when somebody asked him if he’d read any good books lately he said, “You ever read The Firm? That was pretty good,” and it was enough to get by.
Mark had heard a flush from the kids’ bathroom and music in Riley’s room, so Riley and Justin were probably getting ready for bed. Deb hadn’t come upstairs yet, but this wasn’t necessarily because she was still angry. She usually hung out downstairs late at night, watching TV or reading, and downing a nightcap or two.
The comedian was talking about his divorce, making fun of his ex, and Mark laughed out loud a couple of times, and then he remembered Deb in the car, saying, “I’m done.” It had definitely been a fake threat. She’d told him just last month, “We’re stuck with each other, let’s face it,” and that was pretty much how he felt. Even when they were fighting, or just not getting along, things weren’t so bad. There was no violence or major problems. They had a good, comfortable life—a big house, country club membership, two healthy kids, some money put away, no debt. What more could you want? Yeah, maybe the sex wasn’t as good as it used to be, but it wasn’t bad. At least they still did it a lot—at least a few times a month anyway, which was more than a lot of couples Mark knew. But, most importantly, they were good parents. Riley and Justin were great, happy kids and, as far as Mark was concerned, things with Deb would have to become unbearable before he’d ever seriously consider putting his kids through the pain of a divorce.
But, just for the hell of it, Mark imagined what it would be like if Deb hadn’t been joking—if she really did leave. He’d played these “what if?” games before; it was just harmless fantasizing. If his marriage ended, Mark knew he’d wind up with Karen. He’d move into her house, and the kids could go back and forth, right on the same block, how convenient would that be? It would be an easy divorce, there wouldn’t be any bitterness or drama; everyone would get along. It would be even better for the kids because they could be step-brothers and sisters with their best friends. Meanwhile, not only would Mark be with his best friend all the time, he could make love with his best friend. Karen had looked so amazing at the club last summer wearing bikinis at the pool. How many women her age, forty-two, with two kids could pull off a bikini? She had perfect natural breasts and the sexiest arms and back. Oh, and he loved her lips. What would it feel like to kiss her? He knew she’d be incredible in bed; she had to be. Holding her hand tonight, her skin had felt so warm, so smooth; he bet her whole body felt that way. What if she was in bed with him right now—in that little blue dress she wore tonight; no, in the bikini, yeah, the bikini. They would’ve just got back from the pool, still wet. He’d kiss her—God, those lips, the way the lower one was thicker than the upper so it seemed like she was permanently pouting—and
feel her smooth toned arms, her smooth fatless back, and then he’d undo her bikini top and let it fall off and then cup his hands over her breasts, feel her nipples harden against his palms. Then they would be in bed, he’d be on top of her, untying her bikini bottom, and licking the insides of her thighs, listening to her moan—Mark, Mark, Oh, Mark…
“Mark.”
He’d been masturbating under the covers, but it was dark in the room, the only light coming from the TV. Just in case, he shifted onto his side.
“Yeah?” he said.
“Were you sleeping?” Deb asked.
“Um, yeah, just starting to.”
“Can we talk for a sec?”
Maneuvering again, he said, “Yeah, sure.”
Still in the dress she’d worn to the party, Deb sat at the foot of the bed, and said, “I just want to say sorry for the way I acted in the car. I had no right to jump down your throat like that.”
Mark could smell rum.
“Never mind,” he said. “It’s no big deal.”
“No, it is a big deal,” she slurred. “I know we haven’t been getting along lately, but I don’t really think anything’s going on with you and Karen, and I won’t talk to her, so you don’t have to worry about that. I just… I just don’t wanna be like this anymore. Seriously, I don’t wanna be like this. D’you wanna be like this?”
Mark imagined licking the insides of Karen’s thighs. “Can we talk about this tomorrow?”
With the remote he flicked off the TV. It was pitch dark in the room now.
“Let’s go away somewhere,” Deb said. “A trip, just the two of us. The kid’s’re gonna be away at camp in July, let’s plan something. We never went to Italy. We said we wanted to go the Amalfi Coast someday, let’s just do it, let’s go for two weeks, have a real adventure together.”
Imagining how frustrating it would be to go away for two weeks and be so far from Karen, he said, “Let’s think about it.”
“That’s what we always say, but we never go. Why not just do it?”
“We already paid for the country club for the summer,” Mark said.
“We always pay for the country club,” Deb said. “I’m talking two weeks, just two weeks. Come on, the kids’re older now—this is it, this is someday.”
“I’ve got that big project next week,” Mark said, “people in from Hong Kong.”
“That’s next week,” Deb said. “I’m talking about July. Will you look online with me tomorrow? Can we look together?”
Just to end the discussion Mark said, “Okay, fine, we’ll look, we’ll look.”
“Thank you.” Deb leaned over Mark and kissed him, and then she felt him through the blanket and said, “Ooh, I guess you really are excited about Italy.” She sat up again, turning her back to Mark and said, “Undress me.”
More disappointed than excited, Mark unzipped Deb’s dress. Then she stood, kicked off her heels, and wriggled out of the dress. A few moments later, she was in bed with him naked.
“Kiss me,” she said.
Mark kissed her, tasting rum. He couldn’t stop thinking about Karen in her wet bathing suit. He imagined pulling the knot off the bottom, how it would come right off.
“Kiss me like you want to kiss me,” Deb said.
Mark continued kissing her, using more tongue, tasting more rum. He closed his eyes, imagining he was kissing Karen. His hands would be on her ass—her smooth, firm ass.
Then Deb got on top, but it was Karen. How would it feel to have Karen on top, riding him? He pictured her arching her back, her bikini top off, his hands over her breasts now.
“Never mind,” Deb said and got off him.
Mark had no idea what was wrong. “What is it?” he asked.
Deb was lying next to him, turned away, and pulled the covers up to cover her head.
Now Mark was getting seriously paranoid. Had he said Karen’s name out loud?
His pulse pounding, he asked, “Come on, what’s wrong? What did I do?”
Deb was silent for a while, then he heard sniffling. Shit, she was crying. He must’ve said the wrong name. Why else would she be acting this way?
“Come on, just tell me,” he said. “I have no idea what’s going on here.”
“Forget it,” she said. “Everything’s so… never mind.”
“Everything’s so what? What is it?”
“Nothing,” she said. “Forget it, okay? Just forget it.”
Frustrated, Mark turned away in the other direction. He was trying to picture Karen naked again, but it was foggy now. He couldn’t even imagine what her face looked like. He could see her eyes, her lips, her hair, but he couldn’t see her.
He kept trying, though, until he finally fell asleep.
Read other books by Jason Starr
For their enormous impact on this novel and my career I’d like to thank Ken Bruen, Bret Easton Ellis, Lee Child, Kristian Moliere, Shane McNeil, Charles Ardai, John David Coles, Sandy Starr, Brian DeFiore, Nick Harris, Diogenes Verlag, Ion Mills, Steven Kelly, Marc Resnick, Sarah Lumnah, Andy Martin, Matthew Shear, Matthew Baldacci, and everyone at Minotaur Books.
Jason Starr is the internationally best-selling author of many crime novels and thrillers, and his books have been published in over a dozen languages. He has also co-written several novels with Ken Bruen for Hard Case Crime, and his work in comics for Marvel, D.C, Vertigo, and Boom! Studios has featured Wolverine, The Punisher, Batman, Doc Savage, The Avenger, Ant-Man, and The Sandman. Many of his books are in development for film and TV. Starr’s best-selling crime novels include Nothing Personal, Hard Feelings, Tough Luck, Twisted City, Lights Out, The Follower, and Panic Attack. He is one of only several authors who have won the Anthony Award for mystery fiction multiple times. He was born in Brooklyn, NY, and lives in Manhattan, NY. Visit him online at www.JasonStarr.com and on Twitter at @JasonStarrBooks.
The following is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in an entirely fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2009 by Jason Starr
Cover design by Georgia Morrissey
Interior design by E.M. Tippetts Book Designs
eISBN 978-1-940610-45-0
First publication: 2009 by St. Martin’s Press
Reissued in 2015 by Polis Books, LLC
1201 Hudson Street
Hoboken, NJ 07030
Table of Contents
Praise for Jason Starr
Title Page
Also by Jason Starr
Dedication
Quote
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Fve
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Savage Lane
Quote
ONE
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright Notice