Page 20 of Reckless Desire

By my feet, I spot the card he gave me. It must have landed there in the heat of the kiss. I pick it up and trace the letters of his name with a smile.

What’s wrong with me?

I drop the card into my purse and leave the room. I’m kind of glad he left before me. I’ve been feeling strangely nervous since I opened my eyes this morning. What was I thinking when I didn’t send him away last night? And why did he act like a gentleman after he joined me in bed? Damn him. The man makes it difficult to dislike him.

The only moment I disliked him was before I met him. Solely on the basis of his occupation. Hobby? Whatever it is. He was going to tell me more. Medical bills? The conversation got lost in the awkwardness of me kicking him in the balls. Shit.

Is he sick? Is he dying? Does he sell his companionship and body to women to pay for medicine? Oh God, he was going to share the details and I interrupted his confession.

The elevator opens to the lobby and I step out. I approach the concierge, but I realize I don’t want a cab. I want to walk for a few blocks before I take the subway.

I’m rested because I slept well. Better than I have since Jeremy passed. Even all wound up by indecision and Hunter’s presence, I felt safe and calm enough to sleep deeply.

He really is good at this. I only wish I could file this encounter away. Will I call him? I might, if only to find out if he is okay. How did I change the subject so quickly and not ask about the medical bills?

I step out of the revolving doors at the same time that Hunter is jumping into a cab. Instinctively, I gesture for another car and it immediately pulls to a stop.

“Could you follow that car, please?” What? Why am I following him? I need to know he’s okay. I wish I’d asked him about it. I pushed him to share and when he was about to reveal something so important I completely side-tracked the conversation.

I pull out his card again and stare at it. If I’m so interested in making sure he’s not dying, I could just call him. This is so not me. I became a stalker overnight.

I don’t tell the driver to take me home and I give up on finding justification for my behavior. We drive over the bridge. He lives in Brooklyn, like me. Another thing we have in common.Stop it.

I assumed he lives in Manhattan. Where his clients are. But I guess he really doesn’t do this to improve his lifestyle.

Slowly we navigate through Brooklyn Heights, and when we turn a corner I spot Hunter getting out of the cab.

“Stop here. I don’t want him to see us.”

In the rearview mirror, the driver raises his eyebrows and a flush of heat spreads across my face. What the hell am I trying to accomplish here?

“The meter is running.” The driver shakes his head.

Well, it’s not like we can turn now and risk getting discovered.

The street is lined with brownstone homes. It’s a great neighborhood, probably paid for by London’s wealthy friends who are his clients.

I slide lower in my seat as Hunter, several houses ahead of us, takes two steps at a time. He doesn’t even have his keys out when the door opens and my stomach tightens. A little girl bounces into his arm, followed by a woman.

Hunter holds the girl in one arm and snakes the other one around the woman’s shoulders. He kisses the crown of her head and they disappear inside. A happy family.

The street blurs in front of me as tears pool around my eyes. I blink them away and swipe at one that escaped with the back of my hand. I’m not going to shed a tear for that man.

I don’t know him after all. That fact carries more gravity in light of my discovery. I thought I was crazy to have followed him. I don’t understand what possessed me to do it, but I’m glad I did.

I had so many reservations about his work and now I know it’s much worse. He has a wife and a daughter and he fucks wealthy women all around Manhattan. London said he came highly recommended.

I lower my face into my hands, shaking like an aspen tree. I want to focus on my anger, but disappointment and sadness top the chart of my emotions.

“The meter is running,” the driver repeats.

* * *

I push the sofa away from the wall, swearing as my nail bends then breaks. Sweat trickles down my spine. I have been at it for hours now, and I swear by the time I’m done this apartment will be spotless like never before.

One result of Jeremy’s betrayal was a significant downsizing of my home, but I’ve learned to like my studio. I keep my things tidy overall, but today I’m channeling my frustration into chores with the utmost vigor.

The mission is to overwrite my thoughts. I vacuum the corner and then push the sofa back into its space. All the least visible and accessible corners are spotless now.

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