“But you did,” she murmured, and the pain felt fresh, slicing her heart open again, the same way it had when he’d first told her he wanted a divorce.
“Come with me now,” he said, clasping her hands. “We can start over. Get married again, take a honeymoon. We’ll tell everyone it was just a misunderstanding. Your parents will be so happy. And I’ll make you happy, too, Gemma, if you’ll just give me another chance.”
Emotions assailed her from all directions—guilt, regret, remorse. Feeling under attack, she stiffened and pulled her hands from his. “I don’t know, Jason. You blindsided me…again. I need time to think.”
“Of course you do.” He touched her cheek in a way that dredged up memories of good times together. “But the sooner you decide, the sooner we can get back to the way things were meant to be. I love you, Gemma, I realize that now. We can still have the wonderful life we planned.” He nodded toward the cell phone that he’d set on the counter. “Dressing like a call girl, giving sex tours. That’s not you, Gemma.”
She swallowed hard.
“Let’s try again,” he said earnestly. “I can protect you from Wilcox if we get married again, if we’re together.”
Just the mention of the reporter’s name made her stomach clench with dread. If he splashed her picture across the news, everyone would know—Jason’s colleagues, the people with whom she used to raise money for charity, her parents. The shame, the scandal would humiliate her family and friends, and it would haunt Jason’s political pursuits. What had she done?
Jason kissed her tenderly, and when she closed her eyes, she could almost forget that they had ever been apart.
“I’m going to be governor one day,” he whispered fiercely, “and I want you by my side, Gemma. But it’s up to you.”
A panicky voice inside clamored for her to say yes on the spot. Leave with him…before he changes his mind. Before you change your mind.
The last thought shook her to her center. She gently broke free of his embrace and exhaled. “I’ll think about everything you said.”
He smiled the hopeful, boyish smile that reminded her of the way he had been when they’d first met, full of optimistic ambition that no one questioned, including her. She’d felt so lucky simply to be included in his plans. She walked with him to the door.
“I won’t sleep until I hear from you,” he said, with one hand on the doorknob.
She smiled, then her eye landed on the golf towel he’d asked about. She scooped it up and handed it to him. He took it, but glanced at it with an odd expression, as if it wasn’t nearly as important as he used to think.
“If Wilcox tries to contact you, call me ASAP.” He kissed her again and this time she tasted his desperation. He was worried…and it scared her.
She stood at the window and watched his car lights back down the driveway. When he pulled up next to the mailbox, the car paused. Was he checking to see if she’d removed his name? Then he pulled away from the curb and his taillights disappeared.
Gemma released a pent-up breath and massaged the sudden ache at her temples. With no appetite for dinner, she extinguished the lights and climbed the stairs, reveling in the cool air circulating once again. Her mind and body felt battered from sensory overload…the decision at her feet felt more weighty than she would’ve thought possible.
She considered calling Sue, but she already knew that her friend would tell her to get on with her life—without Jason. Her friend’s loyalty was touching but probably a tad biased.
Her mother, on the other hand, would tell her she’d be a fool not to go back with Jason and live a life of some celebrity and relative ease.
Regardless, she was glad she hadn’t responded immediately, that she had held on to her pride by not jumping on his proposal to get back together, but also that she hadn’t allowed her anger to cause her to reject him outright. She owed it to herself to consider his offer, if only out of respect for the years they’d been together. After all, she had invested a lot of time in Jason’s success.
Gemma downed aspirin for the headache, then took a warm shower and poured herself a glass of chilled wine. Wrapped in a lightweight robe, she settled in an overstuffed chair in her bedroom and nursed this strange new sensation regarding her relationship with Jason—power. He had never been abusive, but there had never been any doubt who had been in the driver’s seat in their marriage.
Because she had cared more about him than he’d cared about her. And the person in the relationship who cared less always had more power.
She could picture Dr. Alexander standing in front of the class saying those words, explaining the dynamics of any relationship, but especially between lovers.
The folded fantasies letter on the dresser called to her. Gemma retrieved it and, after another mouthful of wine, unfolded the flowered pages. She skimmed the slanted script, noticing that when she described her bouts of exhibitionism, her writing became less legible and more frenetic. She picked up reading where she’d left off, after the scene in the workout facility where she had performed for the young personal trainer while everyone else in the gym had been oblivious.
After leaving the gym, my urges were satisfied for a while. I went about my schedule as usual, and had decided that it was some kind of kinky phase I’d gone through. But two days ago I woke up with the familiar tingle of anticipation between my legs. In class, my mind wondered to scandalous places, like what the male instructors would think if I opened my legs to flash the color of my panties…or loosened the top button on my blouse and bent over to pick up a dropped pencil to give them a good view of my cleavage.
I met up with Sue for lunch and she told me about a guy she wanted me to meet, a friend of hers in law school who was in town for a few days. She said he was straitlaced, just my type, and I laughed to myself—she has no idea what my “type” is. I told her thanks, but no thanks. I had other plans.
While traveling around the city on the train system, I’ve noticed handbills for a “gentlemen’s club” advertising amateur night. I’d decided that’s where I was going last night.
Gemma inhaled a sharp breath and poured herself another glass of wine. The anxiety building in her chest was crushing, but she forced herself to read on. Her handwriting changed yet again, now nearly a scrawl, as if she hadn’t wanted to document what had happened next.
The strip club was easy enough to find, but I confess I had reservations before going inside. I’d never been to a strip club before—I was a nervous wreck. I wore the brown wig and big sunglasses, and beneath a tailored trench coat, a bikini and high heels. I walked in behind two tall blond girls who seemed to know where they were going. When we were inside, one of them turned to me and asked if I was new. I held up the handbill advertising amateur night and they told me to follow them.
Once inside, some beefy guy asked if I was twenty-one and I said yes. But since he didn’t ask for ID, I’m not sure he cared. I signed up as “Jewel” and was sent backstage for more instructions. There were a half-dozen other women, most of them young, who were listening to a woman named Breeze give advice on how to make an entrance, how to work the stage, and how to exit once our routine was finished. We could take off as much or as little clothing as we wanted to. We were allowed to keep our tips, and were promised that a bouncer would always be between us and customers who might try to manhandle us.
When the music started blaring, everyone seemed nervous—except me. I was breathless with anticipation as I watched other women go out and dance. Some of them were bad, but a couple of them were trained dancers and got the crowd going. I was last and when I stepped out on that stage still wearing wig, sunglasses and coat, something happened to me—it was like I was a different person.
It was a full house and the air was charged with sex. I’ve never been much of a dancer, but the music seized me and, running on adrenaline alone, I strutted up and down the stage, losing the coat to reveal my teeny bikini. I had told myself I wouldn’t get completely bare, but the excitement of the crowd, the excitement of being watched, buoyed me and instinctively, I unhooked the bikini top and the crowd went wild. I’ve never been so turned-on and next thing I knew, I was wearing only the stilettos, wig and sunglasses. I hadn’t thought to wear a garter to hold tips, and frankly, I didn’t care about the money that was tossed at my feet. I was in heaven with the eyes of everyone in the room on me.
I was making my last trip back up the stage when the sirens sounded and the club lights came on. A man with a bullhorn announced this was a police raid and told everyone to freeze.
Instead, everyone ran. My life flashed before me: arrested, expelled from college, disowned by my parents. I somehow found my coat and was swept along with the crowd. It was pandemonium. I was terrified I would fall and be trampled. Breeze, who had been instructing the amateurs, grabbed my arm and pushed me out a fire exit door. When the police stopped us outside, she whispered for me to run, and I did…as if my life depended on it.
I managed to escape and ran until the crowd thinned. By that time I had twisted an ankle and was hopelessly lost. I threw up on the side of a deserted street. I was close to full-out panic when I realized my wallet was in my coat pocket. I hailed a cab, but it was after midnight when I got back to the dorm, carrying my shoes, still naked under the coat and wildly disheveled. I had tossed the wig and the sunglasses, but I still garnered some strange looks from my roommates. Sue, in particular, gave me the third degree, but I begged a headache and went to bed.