Miki said, “Let’s go to your room and, you know, get busy. Don’t mean to rush you. Have to get my kid from the sitter, then make dinner.”
When we were done having sex, before she kissed me good-bye, she had said, “Saikou ni yokatta. It is always so good to see you, Jean-Claude. Always. Next time I’ll cook something from my recipe book.”
Then I had felt like I was in the world alone and called Lola Mack.
She heard my voice and made me feel like it was Christmas. I told her I was in Miami wrapping up a few things, but had to go to Paris. She was in between acting jobs, had been busy planning her own wedding, but dropped everything because she wanted to meet me here. She hadn’t seen me in years, not since I had left the Cayman Islands suddenly. She wanted to be with me again.
My world was safer now. Not safe, but safer.
Not every question had been answered.
So I had booked the actress Lola Mack a first-class ticket.
At Charles de Gaulle Airport, she had run and jumped into my arms. Dinner at Le Grand Véfour, a show at Moulin Rouge, and a shopping spree on Champs-Élysées, rue de Passy, and rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré had made up for any perceived wrong I had done. Bags from Gucci, Yves Saint Laurent, and Christian Dior were all over the suite.
Lola Mack whispered, “Put your gun down, Boo. Come here. It’s cold out there. Colder than a witch’s tit in a brass bra. Your balls are gonna shrink.”
“You’re tired. You’ve only been asleep two hours. Rest.”
“I’ll give you a head-to-toe, deep-tissue massage.”
“You know how that will end up, right?”
“I’ll end up on my back with my feet on your chest.”
“I was thinking with you facedown, ass up.”
“I love it when your balls slap against me over and over.”
“You’re incorrigible.”
“I like big balls and I cannot lie.”
“Simply incorrigible.”
She smiled, her mouth wide and generous. “Don’t argue. Let me put you to sleep.”
I picked up a cup of café I had left on the dresser, took two swallows to get the taste of BC Powder out of my mouth, then eased back into the large bed. I kissed Lola Mack. Her tongue was sweet, like expensive wine. My skin was cold against hers, as cold as my dreams, as cold as the men I had fought since I was a little boy. Her warmth felt like heaven.
“Boo, I didn’t come all the way to Paris to sleep without you.”
“You came to sleep with me.”
“When I leave here I want to be bowlegged.”
I sucked her ear, sucked her neck, kissed her shoulders. She put me inside her. Slow and easy, I filled her up. Lola Mack covered her own mouth, muffled her moans, but with each stroke she set free soft cries.
“Lola Mack, what are you doing?”
That drowsy voice came from the other side of the king-size bed, beyond Lola Mack. Mrs. Jones pulled the sheets away from over her head and yawned. Lola Mack was a few years younger than I was, and Mrs. Jones was a few years older. She was young, but a more mature woman.
Lola Mack sang, “Wake up, wake, wake up, wake up, and help me.”
Mrs. Jones fluffed her hair, sat up, picked up the glass of 1999 Domaine Leroy Musigny on her side of the bed. She was an attorney, divorced, born in Jamaica, but raised in middle-class Los Angeles.
“Good Lord.” Mrs. Jones sipped liquid power and finesse that cost four grand a bottle, then chuckled. “He’s going to blow your back out.”
Mrs. Jones leaned in, slapped Lola Mack’s beautiful brown booty over and over, playfully gave her corporal punishment for waking her.
Mrs. Jones whispered, “So erotic. Sensual. It’s beautiful.”
I said, “You’re next.”
“Don’t you dare threaten me with a good time.”
Lola Mack made me turn over. She took me in her mouth. The warmth pulled my mind away from thoughts of killing and death. This was better than morphine. My breathing no longer felt trapped in my chest. I took long, intense breaths, ignored the flashes behind my eyes, hummed, held her long brown hair, felt her breathing deeply, slowly.
Mrs. Jones said, “Damn, Lola. Damn. Look at you.”
I reciprocated, went down on Lola Mack, gave her tongue and fingers until she told me she wanted more. I eased between her sweet, brown thighs, grinded against her, sucked her neck, kissed her shoulders.
She eased me back inside. It aroused her and calmed me.
Mrs. Jones whispered, “I love watching you two make love.”
Soon it was Mrs. Jones on her belly, facedown, moans rising.
Lola Mack sipped wine and watched, then joined in.
All of us together in the same bed, this felt like yesterday as well. Once upon a time, years ago, for a season, I’d retired and lived the perfect hedonistic, decadent lifestyle with Lola Mack and Mrs. Jones.