Rick R. Reed WRITER
Discover the twisted fiction of Rick R. Reed
High Risk: Chapter One
High Risk
Excerpt copyright 2008 Rick R. Reed
Chapter One
Beth Walsh watched her husband, Mark, eat. She found it hard to sit still.
"How come you're not having anything?" Mark lifted a forkful of eggs.
"Not hungry yet." Beth sipped her coffee. Black, scalding. "This is enough for now." She wished he would hurry up and finish. Some divorcee would need him soon enough in his LaSalle Street office, to write up a petition for an increase in child support or something like that. Didn't he have lots of work to get to? Clients to see? Beth glanced at the clock above his neatly cut and combed blond hair: 9:15.
"What's up for today?"
A tiny bit of coffee sloshed onto the Tempo section. The question startled her, made her heart pound just a little harder.
It had been a week since the negative HIV test, a week since she had whispered her fevered promises and petitions to a God she hoped was listening.
A week of no shopping.
Beth needed to shop.
Today.
"Nothing much," she said, hoping Mark didn't notice how her voice came out a tad higher than normal. "I need to call about getting the living room rugs cleaned. Might stop by Nordstrom." Beth managed a smile. "See what's on sale."
"Life of Riley." Mark smirked. Even at 34, his face was still boyish.
Why wasn't he enough? Last night, the sex had been vigorous, bordering on rough. Three orgasms for her, two for him. It was still good. Sweaty. Athletic. And now, sitting before her, adoring glances directed her way, the perfect "golden boy." A young Robert Redford, slender and strong in a navy Brooks Brothers suit, crisp white shirt, red silk rep tie.
So why did her stomach churn with impatience? Why did she want nothing more than to hear the close and latch of the front door of their graystone on Fullerton Avenue? Why did she need to see him get out now, so she could scrape the remains of his breakfast into the garbage disposal and hurry into her bedroom, to search through her private collection: the clothes she kept hidden at the back of her closet? Leather skirts, Manolo Blahnik stiletto heels, clinging print blouses, thongs, bustiers, and push-up bras...searching for the perfect bait for an adoring and so, so passionate man.
How could she sit here with Mark and conjure up this perfect dark stranger, someone who would take her and hurt her, forcing her to serve, to set the stage for his darkest, most depraved fantasies? How could she sit here with the pureness of the sun streaming in through their kitchen window and picture herself in the grimy half darkness of a cheap motel room with a stranger...locked and interwoven in lust and sweat?
***
Mark finished his breakfast, set his napkin on the table. He put his hand over Beth's. There was something about the way the light hit her red hair, making it almost glow, the way it highlighted her high cheekbones and the delicate skin, so pale and fragile that if he looked closely enough, he could see the tiny network of veins just beneath the flawless skin, bluish. He wanted to take her in his arms and let her know, that even after four years, no one could ever take her place.
But she already knew, surely. He could see that in her smile, as she returned his gaze. She put her hand over his.
"I hate to say it, sweetheart, but you better get a move-on. It's almost 9:30."
"Trying to get rid of me?" He grinned, squeezed her hand, and stood.
"Don't be stupid. I just don't want you to be late."
She was always thinking of him.
***
Black. Strains of "Moon River," somewhere far off. The music broadcast itself, cloaked in static, fading in and out. His mother's voice, laughing, throaty (a joke he'll never hear), the scrape of feet on creaking floorboards.
Abbott tried to move, but a cocoon of warm white had enveloped him. The spider, huge and black, waited somewhere above him. He sensed its presence, smelled it. A chemical odor that made his mouth taste bad. Sickening sweet.
When he attempted to move his arms, the viscous cocoon tightened, leaving him mute and terrified, aware of the spider lurking nearby, waiting to consume, its dark form a shadow. He saw it: covered in coarse hair, an amber hour glass marking its back.
"Mama," he whispered.
Her voice: shrieking with laughter.
Help me, he thought.
But there was no one. The music swelled. His mother's sighs grew louder, more rhythmic. The cocoon tightened, forcing his mouth open, sticky webbing rushing down his throat to fill him.
Inside, the cocoon would give birth to a thousand spiders with hard bodies, swarming through his innards, searching for food and warmth.
Abbott awakened from his dream, images half-remembered, yet leaving him damp with sweat, feeling queasy. He was already at odds with the day, which had risen, too sunny, outside his studio apartment window. He rose, crossed the gritty floor and looked outside.
Aberdeen Street hadn't changed much in all the years he'd lived there (except Mama no longer lived up the street; Mama no longer lived). St. Philomena's school was still across the street, asphalt playground imprisoned in chain link.
Abbott ran a hand through his black hair, pushing it off his forehead. Crossing to the refrigerator, he opened it and cracked open a can of Old Style.
No work today. He'd worked until two at Bennie's, the yuppie bar on Clark he detested, along with everyone in it. They, with their cell phones and palm pilots. Their Cosmos and their dirty martinis...his spit could make a martini real dirty.
But the tips were good. Smile at the sluts and they gave you money.
Then went home with someone else.
Spreading their legs for a different guy every night. Way of the world.
Abbott chugged the beer, let the can drop from his fingers to the warped Linoleum floor. He chanced a look at himself in the mirror. A diagonal split in the glass bisected him. He still saw his strength, muscles big and hard from free weights, construction work when he could get it.
The women were always telling him how gorgeous he was, bandying words about like 'stud' and 'hunk.' The currency of the whore. Some of them even did stupid shit like leaving him matchbook covers with their phone numbers written inside. One time, one had even left him two Trojans and a note with her room number at the Michigan Avenue Hilton.
He turned away from the mirror, a mirthless grin creeping across his features. He should have paid that one a visit. Should have showed her what she could do with those rubbers.
Whore.
Abbott opened another beer, along with his throat, admitting its icy coldness. It did nothing to alleviate the pain. Already, his head was pounding, an ice pick buried behind his eyes. The headaches were getting worse. Sometimes, even the sunlight coming in through the windows made his head pound, his eyes tear, and his stomach go queasy.
It was the world. The world he'd been forced to endure. No good left.
***
It took Beth no more than an hour after she heard Mark leave to get herself dressed, in the car, and heading east on Fullerton, toward Lake Shore Drive. She had pulled her hair into a chignon, outlined her green eyes in black, making the irises paler, more intense.
She wore a forest green mini skirt, white raw silk vest and an oversized black and green print blazer. She had slid off the spike heels to drive.
This was what was in her purse: a comb, lipstick (cinnamon), a small bottle of Chanel No. 5, an American Express card, a few crumpled bills, and a handful of Lifestyle condoms. As Beth merged into the traffic heading south on the Drive, she noticed the sunlight glinting off Lake Michigan, how blue the October sky was...and felt a nauseating pang of guilt. The guilt twisted her innards, made her consider getting off at the LaSalle/North Avenue exit and heading right back home, where she could stow the clothes once again in the back of her closet and start making something special for dinner...for Mark.
After all, she thought, as she pressed down on the accelerator, feeling helpless, it had only been a week since her appointment with Dr. Callesi. She had sat in the sterile beige examination room, legs dangling over the edge of a table, its starchy covering rustling below her, listening to the doctor.
"Nothing to worry about, dear. Your test came back negative." Dr. Callesi, an older Italian woman, had smiled, but Beth was certain she could see the unspoken question in her brown eyes: why are you here?
There she was, shrugging into her raincoat, soft music playing over the reception room speakers (something jazzy, Oscar Peterson, maybe?). It was good to be in that room, where most of the eyes were firmly affixed to magazines and not on her. She had been relieved. Reprieved.
And, in the elevator, she had promised she would make good on her promise to God that she would never engage in this kind of behavior again, if only He would let her test come back negative.
Beth signaled and cut across two lanes to get into the left lane, where she could speed.
Had God heard?
Beth glanced in the rearview mirror. A guy in a red Mustang, with the look of a younger Russell Crowe, gave her the finger. Beth must have cut him off.
But he was cute. Beth let out a mirthless laugh. Who had time for a more telling observation? She was already at Michigan Avenue.
Who would she find today?
***
Abbott turned again to look over his shoulder as he headed north on Michigan Avenue. The man he just passed whipped his head around again, to get another look. Fuck! What's that make now? Three times? Screw that faggot. Abbott frowned at him, trying to look surly, mean.
But that only caused the fag to slow. Finally, he turned so that he was walking backwards, watching, waiting for a signal from Abbott.
Why couldn't they leave him alone?
The fag stopped near a cross street, leaned against a loading zone sign, his gaze intense. What did he want? Did he really think Abbott would come back to him?
Abbott gave a limp-wristed wave. The guy grinned, then reddened. He turned and began heading in the other direction, fast. Abbott shook his head.
So what if he was good looking? Why couldn't people just leave him alone? Even when he worked construction, some of the secretaries on their lunch hours ogled him worse than the guys on the site ogled them.
What did he have to do? Scar himself?
He turned off Michigan to head toward Marshall's, the discount outlet where he could buy himself a reasonably priced pair of jeans.
But even in the store, the women were staring. Two of them, folding sweaters for a display, leaned close, whispering and giggling like kids when he walked by. Staring at him.
He wanted nothing to do with any of them. Not the fags, who at least could be stopped by a curt "fuck you." Not the women, who seemed to think his lack of interest was a game, one they were only too willing to play. Why couldn't they simply accept that what they had between their legs repulsed him? And that trying to force it on him, only made the bile, anger, and hatred, like white heat, rise.
Nice girls let the gentleman pursue them. They let you buy them flowers, candy, open doors for them. Take care of them.
There were no more nice girls.
Please, Abbott thought, as he entered the men's department, just let me pick out a pair of jeans and get out of here. Abbott just wanted to be at home, alone, away from their stares, their coy smiles, all of them expecting something from him. He stopped by a table of sweatshirts on sale, pawed briefly through them, watching out of the corner of his eye. He wanted nothing to do with women. With fags. With anyone.
Not today. Not ever.
Abbott Lowery had learned early that sex only brought pain.
***
Beth slid out of her Kharmann Ghia, reveling in the stares of the garage attendants. She let the green leather of her skirt ride up as she got out, exposing enough thigh to let them all see the black garter holding up her stockings.
Nordstrom was just a block away from the parking garage, but Beth took her time walking down Michigan, expecting and getting stares from everyone from teenage boys in AF clothing to navy-suited business types. She stopped once to check out her reflection in the window of Hugo Boss and to try and quell the voice inside that was telling her that nothing had happened yet, and that it wasn't too late to turn around and return home.
But the other voice, the one that told her how good her reflection looked in the plate glass, won out, with a convincing argument about how her effort, and her youth, needed to be appreciated. If they weren't, it was, well, a waste.
And besides, even though she really loved Mark (completely, and even in her state of agitation she realized that the mission she was on had little to do with her love for her husband), she needed that appreciation. After four years, Mark didn't really notice her, not in the way he had at the beginning, not the way the businessmen did, or the tourists in their T-shirts and jeans, not in the way any of her anonymous daytime lovers did. It was the passion Beth was-she had to admit it-addicted to.
It was when she got to the corner of Ohio and Michigan that she saw him. Just a quick glimpse, but enough to let her know that she needed to follow, even if it was into a discount store she would never frequent on her own. But a glimpse was enough to know that this was the one. See, the more beautiful the man, the more desirable Beth felt by his attention.
And this one, even in the briefest of glances, was a true stunner.
She walked into the building that housed Marshalls on one level, a house wares store on another. She followed him down the escalator, drinking him in: the blue black hair, the broad shoulders and chest, tapering down to a small, firm waist. Tall. Strong. Beth could already see him naked: the lean stomach, rippling: cobblestones beneath taut flesh. The pecs, dusted with curly black hair. All that definition accentuated by a light sheen of sweat.
Sweat she would bring out.
***
Jesus. Abbott put down the white cable knit sweater he was holding (he'd been thinking how warm it would be for the coming winter). Not five minutes and already the whores are starting in. He tried not to meet her eyes, to pretend she wasn't there, but her gaze was relentless, almost burning into his back. He looked back at her, quick: a scowl.
***
Oh, Beth thought, when their eyes met, a surly one. I like that.
***
Abbott hoped the frown was enough to send her scurrying away. Rummaging through the pile of sweaters on the table, he waited to feel the absence of her stare...and was disappointed. It was as though he had somehow encouraged her; it was almost as if he could feel her breath on him and it made him furious. The blood pounded out a beat at his temples, the pain there ratcheting up a notch.
Why couldn't she simply leave him alone?
Slut. Who else would put on a get up like that and parade around in public in it, especially on a weekday afternoon? Abbott wished he could just tell her he wasn't taking the bait, that it would never work with him.
Abbott wanted a nice girl.
***
Beth brushed a stray hair off her forehead and approached him.
"I'm looking for a sweater to buy my brother for his birthday." Beth rummaged arbitrarily through the stacks and pulled out a gray V-neck. "What do you think of this?" She held the sweater up and tried to engage his eyes. Such blue eyes.
But he wouldn't look back, even though the green of her eyes had never failed her before. Ah...playing hard to get. Fine, it would just make the spoils all the sweeter.
"I don't know. Why don't you ask one of the sales people? That's what they're here for."
Beth leaned closer. "What would they know? They're just here to move the merchandise. I need an honest opinion." Beth paused. "From a man who obviously knows a thing or two about looking good."
"Look. I don't think I can help you."
Beth watched as he walked away. Why? Didn't he understand the signals she was sending?
She watched his ass, encased in worn Levis and thought she'd be damned if she let this one get away. Not without serious pursuit.
***
Why doesn't the bitch leave me alone? I made it clear, didn't I? What do I have to do, hit her? Take that fine little neck and snap it?
Calm down. He headed toward the rack of jeans. Just buy what you came for and get home...where it's safe.
***
"Wait!" Beth caught up with him, placing a hand on his arm, squeezing the bicep beneath the black cotton of his T-shirt. "Is that how you take a compliment?"
"What?" That surly expression again. Didn't he know how alluring it looked? "A man should know how to take a compliment a little more gracefully." Beth winked. "One never knows which one will be the last."
"Listen: I got an appointment in about fifteen minutes. I gotta buy these jeans and get outta here." He sneered. "Thanks so much for the kind word."
He turned his back on her.
***
Abbott felt her eyes boring into his back as he scanned the rack of jeans for his size. Distracted: none of the sizes made sense. Anger, hot, began to grow inside, buzzing like an insect, growing, growing.
Why the hell doesn't she go chase some other guy? There are plenty around who'd be more than happy to give her what she wants.
Plus herpes...or maybe the clap...or syphilis. Even AIDS. It'd be what the tramp deserved anyway.
Abbott shivered as he felt her fingernail trace its way down his spine. Where did she get the idea? She leaned close and whispered, "I think you're one of the hottest men I've ever seen."
Abbott thought for only a moment. The last comment was too much; he was enraged now. Little fucking tramp.
***
She watched as he turned. The scowl was gone, replaced by a smile. Now we're getting somewhere.
"Now that's the kind of compliment I'll take." He turned from the jeans, giving her his full attention. "I can't find anything I like on these racks." He put emphasis on the last three words.
Sooner or later, even the biggest ones topple. Beth wetted her lips. A blush rose to her cheeks.
"I know what you mean. The only thing in this store I want isn't for sale." She giggled. "At least, I hope not."
Abbott finally met her green-eyed stare. "C'mon, let's get out of here."
"Where are we going?"
"What's that matter?" He started toward the exit. "We can just go to your place."
Beth swallowed, the heat of the hunt rapidly cooling. She never brought people home. Cardinal rule. Of all the encounters she had chronicled in the black journal she kept hidden in the bottom of her lingerie drawer, not one of them had taken place in the home she shared with Mark. Not only might he come home unexpectedly (unlikely...but bringing someone home was still not worth the risk), but she didn't want any of her encounters knowing where she lived. How would she explain an unexpected visit from one of her suitors, lovesick and wanting more? What would Mark say if he should open the door to a handsome stranger asking for Beth?
What would she say?
Besides, what she really wanted to avoid was sullying the place she and Mark shared. Their nest. Their home. The place they had made together. "I can't bring you home."
"Why not?"
Beth shrugged. "Just can't. Don't you have a place?"
***
Abbott watched her squirm. This wasn't just a whore. This was an adulterous whore. Bad enough she fucked around-hell, he hadn't even asked her name yet-but she fucked around behind some poor schmuck's back. Some poor schmuck who was probably out right now bustin' his balls to pay for her alley cat clothes.
It made him sick.
Abbott grinned. "I live with my ma right now. She don't approve of me bringin' girls home"
***
Beth glanced at her watch. It was getting to be too late to hunt for someone else. "How about a motel?" she whispered, wishing she could clear her voice of the hint of desperation that had worked her way into it.
"Can't do it. C'mon, let's just go to your place." He started toward the exit.
Beth stood, rooted. "I can't."
He stopped. "What's the matter? You married?"
"Well, I, no." Beth laughed, too high. She sighed. "Yes, I am."
He shook his head. "Then what the fuck are you doing?"
The guilt rose up, hot. She didn't need this. She should have stayed home, which was where she was going right now. She'd toss these clothes out, and all the others like them and never do this again.
Maybe she had been spared. Maybe this was some kind of message. She hurried from the store.
And stopped. There she was, in the mirror before her: color high, eyes shining. She wanted, no, needed, to be appreciated. She couldn't bear going without.
And he wanted her.
She turned. Just one more look. I'll go home after that. I promise.
At first, she thought he was gone and the prospect made her gasp. And then she saw him, near the door. His face was filled with longing.
How could she say no?
***
The whore. Abbott watched her, thinking maybe he had shamed her into behaving herself. And he had...for maybe two minutes.
He smiled, then turned toward the revolving doors.
He knew it would only a fraction of a second before he heard the click of her high heels...faster, faster.
Excerpt copyright 2008 Rick R. Reed
Chapter One
Beth Walsh watched her husband, Mark, eat. She found it hard to sit still.
"How come you're not having anything?" Mark lifted a forkful of eggs.
"Not hungry yet." Beth sipped her coffee. Black, scalding. "This is enough for now." She wished he would hurry up and finish. Some divorcee would need him soon enough in his LaSalle Street office, to write up a petition for an increase in child support or something like that. Didn't he have lots of work to get to? Clients to see? Beth glanced at the clock above his neatly cut and combed blond hair: 9:15.
"What's up for today?"
A tiny bit of coffee sloshed onto the Tempo section. The question startled her, made her heart pound just a little harder.
It had been a week since the negative HIV test, a week since she had whispered her fevered promises and petitions to a God she hoped was listening.
A week of no shopping.
Beth needed to shop.
Today.
"Nothing much," she said, hoping Mark didn't notice how her voice came out a tad higher than normal. "I need to call about getting the living room rugs cleaned. Might stop by Nordstrom." Beth managed a smile. "See what's on sale."
"Life of Riley." Mark smirked. Even at 34, his face was still boyish.
Why wasn't he enough? Last night, the sex had been vigorous, bordering on rough. Three orgasms for her, two for him. It was still good. Sweaty. Athletic. And now, sitting before her, adoring glances directed her way, the perfect "golden boy." A young Robert Redford, slender and strong in a navy Brooks Brothers suit, crisp white shirt, red silk rep tie.
So why did her stomach churn with impatience? Why did she want nothing more than to hear the close and latch of the front door of their graystone on Fullerton Avenue? Why did she need to see him get out now, so she could scrape the remains of his breakfast into the garbage disposal and hurry into her bedroom, to search through her private collection: the clothes she kept hidden at the back of her closet? Leather skirts, Manolo Blahnik stiletto heels, clinging print blouses, thongs, bustiers, and push-up bras...searching for the perfect bait for an adoring and so, so passionate man.
How could she sit here with Mark and conjure up this perfect dark stranger, someone who would take her and hurt her, forcing her to serve, to set the stage for his darkest, most depraved fantasies? How could she sit here with the pureness of the sun streaming in through their kitchen window and picture herself in the grimy half darkness of a cheap motel room with a stranger...locked and interwoven in lust and sweat?
***
Mark finished his breakfast, set his napkin on the table. He put his hand over Beth's. There was something about the way the light hit her red hair, making it almost glow, the way it highlighted her high cheekbones and the delicate skin, so pale and fragile that if he looked closely enough, he could see the tiny network of veins just beneath the flawless skin, bluish. He wanted to take her in his arms and let her know, that even after four years, no one could ever take her place.
But she already knew, surely. He could see that in her smile, as she returned his gaze. She put her hand over his.
"I hate to say it, sweetheart, but you better get a move-on. It's almost 9:30."
"Trying to get rid of me?" He grinned, squeezed her hand, and stood.
"Don't be stupid. I just don't want you to be late."
She was always thinking of him.
***
Black. Strains of "Moon River," somewhere far off. The music broadcast itself, cloaked in static, fading in and out. His mother's voice, laughing, throaty (a joke he'll never hear), the scrape of feet on creaking floorboards.
Abbott tried to move, but a cocoon of warm white had enveloped him. The spider, huge and black, waited somewhere above him. He sensed its presence, smelled it. A chemical odor that made his mouth taste bad. Sickening sweet.
When he attempted to move his arms, the viscous cocoon tightened, leaving him mute and terrified, aware of the spider lurking nearby, waiting to consume, its dark form a shadow. He saw it: covered in coarse hair, an amber hour glass marking its back.
"Mama," he whispered.
Her voice: shrieking with laughter.
Help me, he thought.
But there was no one. The music swelled. His mother's sighs grew louder, more rhythmic. The cocoon tightened, forcing his mouth open, sticky webbing rushing down his throat to fill him.
Inside, the cocoon would give birth to a thousand spiders with hard bodies, swarming through his innards, searching for food and warmth.
Abbott awakened from his dream, images half-remembered, yet leaving him damp with sweat, feeling queasy. He was already at odds with the day, which had risen, too sunny, outside his studio apartment window. He rose, crossed the gritty floor and looked outside.
Aberdeen Street hadn't changed much in all the years he'd lived there (except Mama no longer lived up the street; Mama no longer lived). St. Philomena's school was still across the street, asphalt playground imprisoned in chain link.
Abbott ran a hand through his black hair, pushing it off his forehead. Crossing to the refrigerator, he opened it and cracked open a can of Old Style.
No work today. He'd worked until two at Bennie's, the yuppie bar on Clark he detested, along with everyone in it. They, with their cell phones and palm pilots. Their Cosmos and their dirty martinis...his spit could make a martini real dirty.
But the tips were good. Smile at the sluts and they gave you money.
Then went home with someone else.
Spreading their legs for a different guy every night. Way of the world.
Abbott chugged the beer, let the can drop from his fingers to the warped Linoleum floor. He chanced a look at himself in the mirror. A diagonal split in the glass bisected him. He still saw his strength, muscles big and hard from free weights, construction work when he could get it.
The women were always telling him how gorgeous he was, bandying words about like 'stud' and 'hunk.' The currency of the whore. Some of them even did stupid shit like leaving him matchbook covers with their phone numbers written inside. One time, one had even left him two Trojans and a note with her room number at the Michigan Avenue Hilton.
He turned away from the mirror, a mirthless grin creeping across his features. He should have paid that one a visit. Should have showed her what she could do with those rubbers.
Whore.
Abbott opened another beer, along with his throat, admitting its icy coldness. It did nothing to alleviate the pain. Already, his head was pounding, an ice pick buried behind his eyes. The headaches were getting worse. Sometimes, even the sunlight coming in through the windows made his head pound, his eyes tear, and his stomach go queasy.
It was the world. The world he'd been forced to endure. No good left.
***
It took Beth no more than an hour after she heard Mark leave to get herself dressed, in the car, and heading east on Fullerton, toward Lake Shore Drive. She had pulled her hair into a chignon, outlined her green eyes in black, making the irises paler, more intense.
She wore a forest green mini skirt, white raw silk vest and an oversized black and green print blazer. She had slid off the spike heels to drive.
This was what was in her purse: a comb, lipstick (cinnamon), a small bottle of Chanel No. 5, an American Express card, a few crumpled bills, and a handful of Lifestyle condoms. As Beth merged into the traffic heading south on the Drive, she noticed the sunlight glinting off Lake Michigan, how blue the October sky was...and felt a nauseating pang of guilt. The guilt twisted her innards, made her consider getting off at the LaSalle/North Avenue exit and heading right back home, where she could stow the clothes once again in the back of her closet and start making something special for dinner...for Mark.
After all, she thought, as she pressed down on the accelerator, feeling helpless, it had only been a week since her appointment with Dr. Callesi. She had sat in the sterile beige examination room, legs dangling over the edge of a table, its starchy covering rustling below her, listening to the doctor.
"Nothing to worry about, dear. Your test came back negative." Dr. Callesi, an older Italian woman, had smiled, but Beth was certain she could see the unspoken question in her brown eyes: why are you here?
There she was, shrugging into her raincoat, soft music playing over the reception room speakers (something jazzy, Oscar Peterson, maybe?). It was good to be in that room, where most of the eyes were firmly affixed to magazines and not on her. She had been relieved. Reprieved.
And, in the elevator, she had promised she would make good on her promise to God that she would never engage in this kind of behavior again, if only He would let her test come back negative.
Beth signaled and cut across two lanes to get into the left lane, where she could speed.
Had God heard?
Beth glanced in the rearview mirror. A guy in a red Mustang, with the look of a younger Russell Crowe, gave her the finger. Beth must have cut him off.
But he was cute. Beth let out a mirthless laugh. Who had time for a more telling observation? She was already at Michigan Avenue.
Who would she find today?
***
Abbott turned again to look over his shoulder as he headed north on Michigan Avenue. The man he just passed whipped his head around again, to get another look. Fuck! What's that make now? Three times? Screw that faggot. Abbott frowned at him, trying to look surly, mean.
But that only caused the fag to slow. Finally, he turned so that he was walking backwards, watching, waiting for a signal from Abbott.
Why couldn't they leave him alone?
The fag stopped near a cross street, leaned against a loading zone sign, his gaze intense. What did he want? Did he really think Abbott would come back to him?
Abbott gave a limp-wristed wave. The guy grinned, then reddened. He turned and began heading in the other direction, fast. Abbott shook his head.
So what if he was good looking? Why couldn't people just leave him alone? Even when he worked construction, some of the secretaries on their lunch hours ogled him worse than the guys on the site ogled them.
What did he have to do? Scar himself?
He turned off Michigan to head toward Marshall's, the discount outlet where he could buy himself a reasonably priced pair of jeans.
But even in the store, the women were staring. Two of them, folding sweaters for a display, leaned close, whispering and giggling like kids when he walked by. Staring at him.
He wanted nothing to do with any of them. Not the fags, who at least could be stopped by a curt "fuck you." Not the women, who seemed to think his lack of interest was a game, one they were only too willing to play. Why couldn't they simply accept that what they had between their legs repulsed him? And that trying to force it on him, only made the bile, anger, and hatred, like white heat, rise.
Nice girls let the gentleman pursue them. They let you buy them flowers, candy, open doors for them. Take care of them.
There were no more nice girls.
Please, Abbott thought, as he entered the men's department, just let me pick out a pair of jeans and get out of here. Abbott just wanted to be at home, alone, away from their stares, their coy smiles, all of them expecting something from him. He stopped by a table of sweatshirts on sale, pawed briefly through them, watching out of the corner of his eye. He wanted nothing to do with women. With fags. With anyone.
Not today. Not ever.
Abbott Lowery had learned early that sex only brought pain.
***
Beth slid out of her Kharmann Ghia, reveling in the stares of the garage attendants. She let the green leather of her skirt ride up as she got out, exposing enough thigh to let them all see the black garter holding up her stockings.
Nordstrom was just a block away from the parking garage, but Beth took her time walking down Michigan, expecting and getting stares from everyone from teenage boys in AF clothing to navy-suited business types. She stopped once to check out her reflection in the window of Hugo Boss and to try and quell the voice inside that was telling her that nothing had happened yet, and that it wasn't too late to turn around and return home.
But the other voice, the one that told her how good her reflection looked in the plate glass, won out, with a convincing argument about how her effort, and her youth, needed to be appreciated. If they weren't, it was, well, a waste.
And besides, even though she really loved Mark (completely, and even in her state of agitation she realized that the mission she was on had little to do with her love for her husband), she needed that appreciation. After four years, Mark didn't really notice her, not in the way he had at the beginning, not the way the businessmen did, or the tourists in their T-shirts and jeans, not in the way any of her anonymous daytime lovers did. It was the passion Beth was-she had to admit it-addicted to.
It was when she got to the corner of Ohio and Michigan that she saw him. Just a quick glimpse, but enough to let her know that she needed to follow, even if it was into a discount store she would never frequent on her own. But a glimpse was enough to know that this was the one. See, the more beautiful the man, the more desirable Beth felt by his attention.
And this one, even in the briefest of glances, was a true stunner.
She walked into the building that housed Marshalls on one level, a house wares store on another. She followed him down the escalator, drinking him in: the blue black hair, the broad shoulders and chest, tapering down to a small, firm waist. Tall. Strong. Beth could already see him naked: the lean stomach, rippling: cobblestones beneath taut flesh. The pecs, dusted with curly black hair. All that definition accentuated by a light sheen of sweat.
Sweat she would bring out.
***
Jesus. Abbott put down the white cable knit sweater he was holding (he'd been thinking how warm it would be for the coming winter). Not five minutes and already the whores are starting in. He tried not to meet her eyes, to pretend she wasn't there, but her gaze was relentless, almost burning into his back. He looked back at her, quick: a scowl.
***
Oh, Beth thought, when their eyes met, a surly one. I like that.
***
Abbott hoped the frown was enough to send her scurrying away. Rummaging through the pile of sweaters on the table, he waited to feel the absence of her stare...and was disappointed. It was as though he had somehow encouraged her; it was almost as if he could feel her breath on him and it made him furious. The blood pounded out a beat at his temples, the pain there ratcheting up a notch.
Why couldn't she simply leave him alone?
Slut. Who else would put on a get up like that and parade around in public in it, especially on a weekday afternoon? Abbott wished he could just tell her he wasn't taking the bait, that it would never work with him.
Abbott wanted a nice girl.
***
Beth brushed a stray hair off her forehead and approached him.
"I'm looking for a sweater to buy my brother for his birthday." Beth rummaged arbitrarily through the stacks and pulled out a gray V-neck. "What do you think of this?" She held the sweater up and tried to engage his eyes. Such blue eyes.
But he wouldn't look back, even though the green of her eyes had never failed her before. Ah...playing hard to get. Fine, it would just make the spoils all the sweeter.
"I don't know. Why don't you ask one of the sales people? That's what they're here for."
Beth leaned closer. "What would they know? They're just here to move the merchandise. I need an honest opinion." Beth paused. "From a man who obviously knows a thing or two about looking good."
"Look. I don't think I can help you."
Beth watched as he walked away. Why? Didn't he understand the signals she was sending?
She watched his ass, encased in worn Levis and thought she'd be damned if she let this one get away. Not without serious pursuit.
***
Why doesn't the bitch leave me alone? I made it clear, didn't I? What do I have to do, hit her? Take that fine little neck and snap it?
Calm down. He headed toward the rack of jeans. Just buy what you came for and get home...where it's safe.
***
"Wait!" Beth caught up with him, placing a hand on his arm, squeezing the bicep beneath the black cotton of his T-shirt. "Is that how you take a compliment?"
"What?" That surly expression again. Didn't he know how alluring it looked? "A man should know how to take a compliment a little more gracefully." Beth winked. "One never knows which one will be the last."
"Listen: I got an appointment in about fifteen minutes. I gotta buy these jeans and get outta here." He sneered. "Thanks so much for the kind word."
He turned his back on her.
***
Abbott felt her eyes boring into his back as he scanned the rack of jeans for his size. Distracted: none of the sizes made sense. Anger, hot, began to grow inside, buzzing like an insect, growing, growing.
Why the hell doesn't she go chase some other guy? There are plenty around who'd be more than happy to give her what she wants.
Plus herpes...or maybe the clap...or syphilis. Even AIDS. It'd be what the tramp deserved anyway.
Abbott shivered as he felt her fingernail trace its way down his spine. Where did she get the idea? She leaned close and whispered, "I think you're one of the hottest men I've ever seen."
Abbott thought for only a moment. The last comment was too much; he was enraged now. Little fucking tramp.
***
She watched as he turned. The scowl was gone, replaced by a smile. Now we're getting somewhere.
"Now that's the kind of compliment I'll take." He turned from the jeans, giving her his full attention. "I can't find anything I like on these racks." He put emphasis on the last three words.
Sooner or later, even the biggest ones topple. Beth wetted her lips. A blush rose to her cheeks.
"I know what you mean. The only thing in this store I want isn't for sale." She giggled. "At least, I hope not."
Abbott finally met her green-eyed stare. "C'mon, let's get out of here."
"Where are we going?"
"What's that matter?" He started toward the exit. "We can just go to your place."
Beth swallowed, the heat of the hunt rapidly cooling. She never brought people home. Cardinal rule. Of all the encounters she had chronicled in the black journal she kept hidden in the bottom of her lingerie drawer, not one of them had taken place in the home she shared with Mark. Not only might he come home unexpectedly (unlikely...but bringing someone home was still not worth the risk), but she didn't want any of her encounters knowing where she lived. How would she explain an unexpected visit from one of her suitors, lovesick and wanting more? What would Mark say if he should open the door to a handsome stranger asking for Beth?
What would she say?
Besides, what she really wanted to avoid was sullying the place she and Mark shared. Their nest. Their home. The place they had made together. "I can't bring you home."
"Why not?"
Beth shrugged. "Just can't. Don't you have a place?"
***
Abbott watched her squirm. This wasn't just a whore. This was an adulterous whore. Bad enough she fucked around-hell, he hadn't even asked her name yet-but she fucked around behind some poor schmuck's back. Some poor schmuck who was probably out right now bustin' his balls to pay for her alley cat clothes.
It made him sick.
Abbott grinned. "I live with my ma right now. She don't approve of me bringin' girls home"
***
Beth glanced at her watch. It was getting to be too late to hunt for someone else. "How about a motel?" she whispered, wishing she could clear her voice of the hint of desperation that had worked her way into it.
"Can't do it. C'mon, let's just go to your place." He started toward the exit.
Beth stood, rooted. "I can't."
He stopped. "What's the matter? You married?"
"Well, I, no." Beth laughed, too high. She sighed. "Yes, I am."
He shook his head. "Then what the fuck are you doing?"
The guilt rose up, hot. She didn't need this. She should have stayed home, which was where she was going right now. She'd toss these clothes out, and all the others like them and never do this again.
Maybe she had been spared. Maybe this was some kind of message. She hurried from the store.
And stopped. There she was, in the mirror before her: color high, eyes shining. She wanted, no, needed, to be appreciated. She couldn't bear going without.
And he wanted her.
She turned. Just one more look. I'll go home after that. I promise.
At first, she thought he was gone and the prospect made her gasp. And then she saw him, near the door. His face was filled with longing.
How could she say no?
***
The whore. Abbott watched her, thinking maybe he had shamed her into behaving herself. And he had...for maybe two minutes.
He smiled, then turned toward the revolving doors.
He knew it would only a fraction of a second before he heard the click of her high heels...faster, faster.
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