Just One Night, Part 2_ Exposed(41)

Even when I’m nowhere near you I’m inside of you.

The throbbing intensifies, I arch my back; his tongue is now on my nipples, his hands are in my hair, his erection fills me. Is this really happening to me?

I can touch you with a thought.

When the explosion comes, I close my eyes and give in.





CHAPTER 14





THE SPELL FADES slowly over the following days. It stays with me in low degrees as I extricate Dave’s life from mine. I put his things in boxes, making sure everything is neat and well folded. I leave it near the foyer but not in it. I don’t want it to look like I’m pushing him out the door. He can take those steps himself. I pull the pictures of us out of frames and put them into photo albums that will be stored in the back of a closet with the old yearbooks and neglected skeletons.

But my mind’s not fully engaged in the tasks. This was supposed to be a weekend for good-byes, the last nights for reminiscing, nights to indulge light tears and heavy thoughts.

But the last few nights haven’t been those things, and that bothers me. What bothers me even more is that I’ve worn Robert’s shirt each night. As soon as Los Angeles turns away from the sun, I slip it on. It’s Sunday night and I’m wearing it now. Why is that? Robert’s not calling to check up on me. He hasn’t even sent me a text. Did he ever really expect me to put it on in the first place?

Yes . . . yes, of course he did. And he knows I’m wearing it now. That’s why he hasn’t called or texted. He doesn’t have to.

So as I move from room to room in my lover’s shirt, Dave, the man I’ve spent the last six years with, disappears. Like a minor earthquake that briefly wakes you up at five in the morning. You know you felt something but you can’t quite figure out what that something was, or if it was real.

I don’t think I want to know what that says about me.

I eat a light meal, try to distract myself with a little TV, open that overpriced bottle of Merlot, and try to become accustomed to the scent of Robert’s cologne.

It’s almost ten when my phone rings. Something tells me that it’s not Robert even before I look at the screen. But I am surprised when I see Tom Love’s name.

Ten o’clock on a Sunday night is not an appropriate time for him to call. My eyes scan the room as if looking for a weapon that will reach through a phone line. It’s not until the last ring that I finally pick up.

“What,” I say in lieu of hello. Really, considering how angry I am with him, it could have been a lot worse.

“Relax.” Tom’s voice holds the air of bemusement but I don’t sense the smugness he had on Friday. “I’m calling to apologize.”

“I should have you fired for sexual harassment.”

“Probably. Look, I don’t always phrase things right. Ambition keeps me moving forward but it can also addle my brain. I get so focused on what’s to come, I don’t think about what I’m saying in the moment.”

I shift slightly in my seat, hold my tongue, wait for him to get to the point. I’ve worked with Tom long enough to know that if he’s apologizing, there’s something in it for him.

“It was wrong of me to ask you to continue your affair with Mr. Dade for the sake of the firm and it was ridiculous for me to suggest that you should do it for my sake. I know I could never pressure you into sleeping with someone you don’t want to sleep with, and even if I could, I wouldn’t.”

“Bullshit.”

Again a rueful laugh. “I guess I deserve that. But I am sorry for the way I spoke to you. That kind of talk is only appropriate in locker rooms and strip clubs; I should know, I’ve apparently spent enough time in both.”

I sigh and pick up the remote, slowly scrolling through the news stations, watching with mild interest as they deftly interweave tragedy with entertainment. People die in the Middle East and a European prince wants to introduce an American-style Halloween celebration to the royal family. A man in New York kills his wife and children and Kim Kardashian gets another $600,000 appearance fee. The anchors slip from one story to the next with barely a pause, their smiles and frowns flickering off and on with the rapidity of blinking Christmas tree lights.

“I would like you to consider something, though,” Tom goes on, insisting on my attention. He’s been talking for a while now, bumbling through various forms of an apology, but nothing he’s said has been remotely as interesting as Kim’s $500 manicure.

“And what would that be?” I ask with a sigh.

“Don’t keep your relationship going for the sake of the firm, but don’t end it for the sake of pride. You like him, Kasie. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t have risked so much to be with him.”