Page 5 of The Last Call
She leans forward, tapping her fingertip on the cream tablecloth. Accepting my challenge. Good. Because I don’t intend to lose this battle over my friend.
“Exactly how welldoyou know him?”
Even her spouse is shocked by her blatant vulgarity. Shaking his head at her boorish demeanor. Yet, she ignores his silent reprimand, and so do I. Since neither of us appears ready to back down, I grin. My smile as phony as her saccharine tone. I read her for who she is and what she wants to know. The real meaning behind her implication. The suggestion really code words for ‘aren’t you just a gold digger?’
“Very well.”
I allow the inference to hang between us. Relishing in her discomfort. She waves an impatient hand at me as if I’m the one to misunderstand her meaning.
“I mean how did you two even meet?”
Perfect. A well-tuned story with just a few specific details to be believable. “Well, I’m a nervous flyer, and he was unlucky enough to be stuck next to me as I was returning from visiting my sister who has a lot of health challenges.” I peer at him again and tilt my head as if trying to remember another detail. “You were coming back from that biotech conference I think…”
Arthur nods, quick and urgent. Approving my performance, which bolsters my confidence even more. I let out a self-deprecating laugh. “Anyway, we hit some turbulence, and I grasped his hand like a crazy woman. Poor guy couldn’t wring himself loose if he wanted to. But always the gentleman, he let me cling to him without complaint and talked to me the entire flight, even after we landed to keep me calm. I’d never met a man more generous and thoughtful than him. We stayed in touch after we left the airport, and he’s been my best friend ever since.”
The drop of her bottom lip seems almost cartoonish from the exaggeration. She’s literally and actually speechless. I snuggle against his shoulder in triumph. No one can argue against best friends. Or the truth. The real circumstances of the first time we met may be different but there isn’t any duplicity regarding my description of Arthur’s personality. “We just have so much in common. We read the same authors, enjoy the same artists, and can waste away an entire afternoon playing chess.”
Jim jumps on that remark. Slamming down his pinot in his eagerness to call my bluff. I’m ready. More than ready to take him on.
“Arthur’s terrible at chess.”
Smug in his insinuation, he leans back in his chair. The self-righteous grin marring his already ruddy face even more.
“Oh, believe me. I know.” I wink at Arthur, letting him in on the joke. Confirming I’m teasing because I know he’s good natured enough to let me. “At first I thought he was letting me win to be nice, but then I figured out he doesn’t know an exchange from an endgame.”
I nudge his shoulder with mine. Encouraging him to accept the playful slight against his strategic skills, which he does with a shrug and impish smile.
Laughter chimes from the other couple with us. Well aware I’ve won. Effectively shutting down Jim and Annette’s rude behavior for the remainder of our evening. Hopefully forever. As much as I want to, I refuse to gloat. Message sent and received. I doubt they’ll harass Arthur again, which really is my ultimate goal.
The enormous crystal chandeliers flicker, kicking off the gala and quieting any lingering conversations. With a few soft taps against the microphone, all the attention turns to the podium and my thoughts turn inward. Easy to ignore my apprehension regarding Julius, while I defended Arthur. Now I have nothing to impede the emotions flooding through me.
Somehow I survive the rest of dinner without spilling my wine or choking on my meat that I can’t even remember tasting. I smile and clap and congratulate Arthur like a robot. A cool exterior of a devoted girlfriend rather than the absolute mess churning under the surface.
Almost eager to get home and face the consequences from the earlier confrontation. Reminiscent of when I was a little girl and I knew my momma was going to spank me. The threat made in the solemnity of a quiet church or a bustling store or crowded restaurant. Intimidation left to linger and increase the torture until we were home and she pulled her brown belt out of the well-organized closet and bent me over the scratchy fabric of her handmade pink flower quilt. The material deepening to red from my tears. The anticipation so much worse than the actual blows.
My body shudders with a chill I can’t contain. I doubt that’s the case this time. For as much as I want to kid myself, deep down I know Julius’s punishment for my insolence will somehow destroy me. The only question will be when and for how long.
Iturn the deadbolt, and Mack’s double tap raps on the door. His goodnight message to me after confirming I’m safely inside. Yet tonight the ritual isn’t as comforting as normal. I swear I can feel the tension in his knuckles as they strike the wood. Or maybe that’s just my own anxiety seeping into my thoughts. Yet I know guilt consumes him as deeply as my apprehension engulfs me.
Although he has nothing to feel ashamed about. Despite my arguments, he blames himself for being too lax. Assuming as usual nothing to worry about because I was with Arthur. The most harmless man we both know. Never any reason he could have suspected a threat. Julius surprised all three of us.
My toes rejoice when I kick off my heels. Normally, after I leave a client, a long hot shower is my first priority. Eager to wash away the remnants of my evening. I don’t bring men home physically or mentally. Refusing to allow them to linger in my mind or on my body.
With Arthur I don’t have that issue since he’s never actually fucked me. Although he pays my sex rate, he can’t—or won’t—touch me. I tried once on our second date to pleasure him. Attempting to alleviate his uncertainty by dropping to my knees after indulging in his homemade chocolate cake. But he was so flustered, so embarrassed, I felt like I was torturing him. Struggling to push me away from unbuckling his belt while fearful of frightening me with use of any physical force. Painful and awkward for both of us. I let him take the lead from then on. Accompanying him to his work obligations. Dinner with his friends at the club. Easily apparent we’re the only couple not married for over thirty years. Maybe a walk along the harbor followed by a few cocktails at the hotel bar afterward. Before we settle back into his condo to watch a movie or play chess until he yawns me to drowsiness too and Mack drives me home.
So sweet and generous, I can’t help but indulge him with at least a little bit of physical enjoyment. A relaxing shoulder massage as we chat about his projects or the tender stroke of his hair while we cuddle. The only affection he’s ever allowed me to offer him in the two years we’ve known each other.
After spending time with him, I usually end the evening ready for a long soak and a good book. Yet, tonight somehow my feet lead me to my sofa rather than my tub. Before I can argue with myself, I slide my computer onto my lap and type his name with urgent fingers. My heart and pulse pounding as images and articles burst onto the screen.
I should click the stories with headlines proclaiming his wealth and success and prowess—the stereotypical epitome of eligible bachelor. Peruse the reports hinting of organized crime, rumors of him being a mob kingpin that make my stomach swirl. But I can’t stop scanning the photos. Shocked yet still pleased, more than I want to admit, from the lack of women accompanying him. Solo in about ninety percent of the shots. The other ones with just the kind of girl you’d expect. Overdone and obvious with fake everything. Figures.
Unsurprising, he looks as menacing in the pictures as he does in real life. Dark eyes burning into the camera just like his calculated gaze bored into me. No smile. No smirk. No smarm. Just a lifted chin, proud and confident, instilling a foreboding sense of dominance and possession. Reflecting more than just ownership of the hotel lobby he stands within. Displaying a genuine nonchalance in the photos capturing him exiting a bar reputed to be mafia owned. Powerful yet unconcerned as he climbs into a huge silver Infiniti SUV. The seats empty beside and behind him. Which why I give a damn about his lack of passengers, I have no idea. And, I don’t want to figure my curiosity out. I’m way past worrying about Julius Sabatini.
Shoving the laptop off my thighs and onto the beige ottoman, I hop up and stride back to the entryway, snatching my silver clutch off the ebony foyer table. His card remains stuffed inside. Still crumpled from my earlier fear. More of my normal composure returns when I rip the thick paper into quarters and toss the pieces into my kitchen trash. Exactly where they belong and how I feel about him. Done. He can fuck himself if he thinks I’m really going to call him.
With increasing bravado, I tug down my side zipper and slip off my sheath. Looping the hanger straps over the hook in the laundry room for my dry cleaning pick up on Monday. I’ll add the clothes from tomorrow, if they survive.
Brunch with David requires much more exposure than dinner with Arthur. Rifling through the hangers, I chose a pink sparkly crop top tee shirt adorned withPrincess Attitudeswirled around a giant iridescent heart and a coordinating pink and red checkered skirt. At twenty-seven, I’m embarrassingly old for this outfit but I know he’ll love it. Which means I’ll probably come home in only his suit coat and my heels again.
