Hush

3

THE COFFEE WAS being served when she returned to the table. As she took a sip of her cappuccino, Keaton slipped back into his seat. At the same moment she saw Steve give his wife a let’s-get-out-of-here look, but Hilary pretended not to notice. The group suddenly grew quiet.

“This has been a terrific night,” Keaton announced to the table. “I really appreciate your doing this in my honor.”

“Well, we’re thrilled to have you with us,” Dr. Hoss said, her chin raised. For Hoss the comment was positively effusive. She had the manner of someone who’d grown up affluent and never felt the need to simply make nice.

“Would anyone care for an after-dinner drink?” Levin asked. He made it sound less like an invitation than a signal that the evening needed to come to an end.

“I’m afraid I should get home,” Keaton said. “Would you excuse me for bolting now? I have a call to make to a patient on the West Coast.”

As he stood and said goodbye, he grabbed Lake’s eyes briefly, and to her dismay, she saw Hilary catch the look and weigh it. The last thing Lake wanted was any gossip. She took her time leaving, waiting until Levin paid the check and hanging back until all but Dr. Perkins and his wife remained.

“Which way are you going?” Perkins asked Lake as they walked toward the front of the restaurant with her.

“Upper West Side,” she said, praying they were bound for some Jersey suburb, which would require them to head for the Holland Tunnel.

“We’re on Central Park West. You’re welcome to share our taxi.”

“Oh, thank you, no. I need to stop at a deli.”

“Well, at least let us drop you part of the way,” Perkins said.

“Thank you, but you go ahead,” Lake urged, ready to bite their heads off. “I have to make a call first anyway.”

Lake rustled in her purse, faking a search for her cell phone. After giving them two minutes, she headed outside, her trench coat flung over her arm. Glancing at her watch, she saw that close to fifteen minutes had passed since Keaton’s departure, and she suddenly felt frantic to get going.

She swung left outside the restaurant and hurried along Spring Street. It was only when she reached Broadway that she realized she’d gone the wrong way. Cursing, she dashed back to the restaurant and then up to Crosby. On a hunch, she turned left, crossing the street.

A few doors up the dark, canyon-like street she saw by the numbers that her guess had been right. Number 78 turned out to be a quarter of the way up the block, an unassuming twelve-or thirteen-story building that might have once held small factories on each floor before being converted into apartments when SoHo became fashionable to live in. The exterior was sooty with age, as if they still burned coal in New York. There was a small vestibule and beyond that, behind a locked door, was a nondescript lobby with no doorman. She looked behind her and glimpsed people walking along Spring Street. But Crosby was deserted.

As soon as she stepped inside the vestibule and saw the intercom panel, she let out a groan. She’d never asked Keaton for an apartment number. He was probably subletting and his name wouldn’t be on the buzzer. Her eyes raced down the two rows of buttons. To her relief, she spotted his name next to PH2.

“Hi there,” he answered after she’d pressed the button. “Come on up. Penthouse 2. On twelve.”

The buzzer sounded, nearly making her jump. She pushed the door and stepped inside the lobby. One wall was mirrored, which made the space seem bigger than it was, and she glanced at her reflection. Her cheeks were less flushed but still pink. I’m really going to do this, she thought. She felt nervous but also nearly drunk with anticipation. It had been ages since she’d felt seductive or yearned for-or charged with desire.

She half-expected music to be playing (please don’t let it be Barry White, she prayed), but when Keaton answered the door of his apartment-smiling, his jacket off and shirtsleeves rolled-it was absolutely silent behind him.

“I was beginning to worry that you’d opted for a crème brûlée instead of an after-dinner drink with me,” he said. He was teasing her, she knew. He was the kind of guy who would never be bested by a crème brûlée. He accepted her coat and she followed him into the apartment.

The place was beyond anything she could have predicted from the lobby down below-a double-height loft with open living, dining, and kitchen areas, all decorated in whites and beiges. A staircase led up to a bookcase-lined mezzanine. And, most spectacular of all: a large terrace beyond French doors. There were a few soft lights on out there and she could see teak tables and chairs, a couple of chaise longues, and several box trees.

“This is fantastic,” she said. “You must be subletting, right?” As she set her purse down at the far end of a creamy white sofa, she noticed the hallway that shot off to the left, most likely to the bedroom. Her heart knocked against her chest.

“No, I actually bought it six months ago-I knew I was coming back to New York one way or another. What would you like to drink? I’ve got white wine chilled. Or would you prefer cognac?”

“Cognac sounds good,” she said.

Keaton laid her trench coat across the arm of the sofa and walked to the kitchen area. While he had his back to her, Lake surveyed the space. Though it was still sparsely decorated, there were a few stunning pieces. On one wall was a striking abstract painting of a man with an elongated head. She stepped closer. Below it was a sleek side table with a primitive wooden bowl sitting on top. She glanced inside the bowl. Nestled at the bottom were a few coins and an ATM slip. Also a business card from a woman named Ashley Triffin, an event planner. And a scrap of paper with the name Melanie Turnbull scrawled on it. Well, she thought, I knew he was a player.

“Here you go,” Keaton said, walking up with their drinks. As she accepted the glass, she saw that his arms were tan, muscular, and covered with hair so light it looked like it had been bleached by sunlight. “Why don’t we go out to the terrace?”

He opened one of the French doors and motioned her outside. The view was mainly north-to a dazzling, glittering midtown, endless rooftops and wooden water tanks. All set against a blue-black sky. She could hear the faint hum of traffic twelve stories below and the sporadic blare of a car horn.

“I feel like I’m looking at Oz,” she said as a soft breeze lifted the back of her hair. “It seems almost unreal.”

“I’ve practically lived out here this summer,” he said. “One night I even dragged a sleeping bag onto a lounge chair and slept here.”

“Is that safe? I mean, it is the middle of Manhattan.”

“There’s no access from anywhere but my apartment-though I guess Spider-Man could reach it.”

She smiled and walked over to the outside wall, peering over.

“You’re not afraid of heights, are you?” he asked. She smelled his musky cologne as he came up slowly behind her.

“No,” she said. “Not heights.”

“Ahh, but something?”

“A crazy little phobia. Not what you’d expect.” She couldn’t believe she was going to confess it. But she felt reckless with him.

“So you’re true to your name, then? Still waters run deep.”

“I don’t know how deep it is.” She took a sip of her cognac. “I have this weird fear of clowns.”

“Clowns?” he said, looking intrigued. “Does that mean you’ve never taken your kids to Ringling Brothers’ circus?”

“Correct… But how do you know I have kids?”

“I overheard you say something about one of them to Maggie. I’m just guessing you have more than one.”

“I’ve got two, actually. They’re at sleepaway camp this month.”

“And a husband?”

Had he asked her up here not knowing the answer to that?

“We…ended things a few months ago.” She turned it over to him. “You don’t have kids, do you?”

“No kids. I was married briefly in my thirties, though, to another doctor. Commuter marriage. Probably doomed from the start.”

“And does it take as long as they say to recover? To feel like you haven’t been flattened by a car?”

She regretted her comment instantly. The last thing she wanted was for things to turn heavy.

“Is that how it’s made you feel?” Keaton asked.

“Well, in the very beginning, yes,” she said, trying to sound breezy now. “But it’s been about four months, and these days there are moments when I feel really good, happy.”

“Because of? Evenings spent chatting with eminent fertility experts like Dr. Levin?”

“Well…more because of being on my own again. Not having to answer to anyone. Getting all the crumbs I want in the bed.”

She couldn’t believe she’d said the word bed. How transparent, she thought. The blood went rushing to her cheeks again.

“Sounds good,” he said, holding her eyes in the dim light. “And you’ll see that things will only get better from here.”

“That’s nice to know,” she replied. Was he saying tonight things would only get better? She felt as if her whole body was on the verge of trembling uncontrollably.

And then he leaned down and kissed her, softly at first, and then stronger, his full mouth seeming to envelop her. A rush of desire went through her as fast as the snap of a whip. It almost hurt when he pulled away.

“If I promise to provide a bag of chips or something else nice and crumbly, can I take you to bed, then?” he asked.

It seemed like such a slick line, endless variations of it used before on other women, but she didn’t give a damn.

“Yes,” she said. “But the chips aren’t necessary.”

He kissed her again and this time he slipped his tongue into her mouth. He placed his hands at her waist and pulled her toward him. She relaxed into his body and wondered if he could feel how fast her heart was beating.

“Let’s go inside,” he whispered.

He guided her through the door, and took a minute to flip off the lights on the terrace and all but one light in the great room.

His bedroom was spare, Zenlike. He stopped in the middle of the room and untied the halter of her dress, then unzipped it and let it drop in a puddle on the floor. She stepped out of the dress and flicked off her sandals.

“You’re beautiful,” he said. That was something she hadn’t been sure she’d ever hear again.

He kissed her roughly, with her breasts in his hands, and then he took her left breast in his mouth, sucking on it, flicking her nipple with his tongue. She moaned in pleasure. She reached between his legs with her hand, stroking him.

After peeling away the comforter from the bed, he laid her down on the cool sheets and slowly tugged off her underwear. Then he unbuckled his pants and slipped them off.

He found her mouth again with his, kissing her intensely and fondling her breasts, pinching the nipples so that each time, blood went rushing between her legs. As she writhed, he began to descend down her body, trailing his tongue along her abdomen, and then lower. She let out a gasp as he parted her legs with his hands and slid his tongue into her. Slowly he began to circle her clitoris with his tongue, and it was only seconds before she exploded in spasms of orgasm.

Rolling over, he stripped off his gray boxer briefs and reached toward the bedside table. In the dim light she saw him pull out a condom. After slipping it on effortlessly, he entered her. He was large, filling her up. He began to thrust but with exquisite slowness, watching her face intently with each stroke. She moaned again as another climax began to build.

She waited for him to move faster, but suddenly he pulled out of her and flipped her over, urging her up on her knees with his hands. Then he was inside her from behind, grasping her hips, and driving deeper into her. She climaxed again, letting out a cry of pure release. His chest grew damp against her back and finally he moaned with pleasure. She could feel him shudder as he climaxed inside her.

He turned over, sunk into the bed, and in the dark she could tell he was slipping off the condom. Then he pulled her into a spoon position. After a while she could hear him snoring lightly, and a few minutes later, she felt herself drift off to sleep.

She woke at around three o’clock, needing to pee. His attached bathroom was as Zenlike as the bedroom, and inside she picked up the musky scent he wore. As soon as she returned to bed she realized she wasn’t going to fall back asleep. She felt wound up suddenly, off kilter from lying in this strange bedroom. She slid out of bed again and felt in the dark for her belongings that had been left strewn on the floor. After slipping on her panties and sandals and folding her rumpled dress over a small armchair, she tiptoed toward the door.

With the light still on in the great room, she spotted her glass where she’d left it on the coffee table, still with a splash of cognac. She picked it up and took a sip.

She was about to settle on the sofa when her eyes strayed to the dark terrace. She put on her trench coat, quietly opened the French doors, and snuck outside with her glass. The surrounding buildings were now dabbed with only a few lights, like the last fireflies in a field at midnight.

After allowing her eyes to adjust to the darkness, she walked over to one of the chaise longues in the far corner. Easing onto it, she took another sip of cognac and leaned back. She still felt giddy from the sex-her first time with another man since meeting Jack-and unregretful. For a few minutes her mind replayed it all. She smiled, could feel herself almost smirk.

Her eyelids felt heavy and she let them drop, just for a second, for the pleasure of allowing them to close. She saw why Keaton had camped out some nights on the terrace. It was intoxicating to lie there with the city all around her. The air was as soft as a piece of worn cloth against her skin. Soon her thoughts disintegrated and she drifted off to sleep.

She woke with a start. It took her ten seconds or so to figure out where she was. She couldn’t see her watch in the darkness but she sensed she must have been sleeping for more than a few minutes. The temperature had dropped since she first came outside. She twisted her body, looking behind her toward the door. She wondered if Keaton was looking for her, curious where she’d gone.

She forced herself up, her neck stiff. She glanced up beyond the terrace wall and suddenly felt exposed, as if someone was watching her from someplace out there. Bunching her coat closed tightly, she lowered her head and hurried back inside. The clock across the room on the microwave said 5:13. She’d actually been outside for over two hours.

Though she didn’t see Keaton, she could tell he’d been up. The bedroom door, which she remembered pulling halfway closed behind her, was now all the way open.

“Are you looking for me?” she called out softly.

No answer.

As she entered the bedroom, she realized he was in the bathroom. The bathroom door was open a couple of inches with light peeking through, and she heard the sound of water running softly. But when she glanced across the room toward the bed, she saw that Keaton was there. He was sprawled on his back with the sheet kicked down by his feet. She almost jumped when she discovered that there was something big and dark next to him-a dog, she thought. It took up the entire center of the bed. It didn’t make sense, though. Where had the dog been earlier? Her head felt muddled.

She moved closer to the bed, nervous about the dog. She soon saw it wasn’t a dog. It was a huge dark stain on the sheet. She glanced over at Keaton. His eyes were open but blank, and his mouth was frozen in a grimace. On his neck was a bloodied gash, rippled with muscle and gaping like a horrible grin from one end to the other.