Mortal Faults

6

Reynolds needed to relax. The town-hall meeting had gone smoothly enough-no combative questions from the audience, no slip-ups on his part-but she had been there again. Tucked away at the back of the room, in a dim corner, alone, saying nothing. Watching him.

He hoped Abby Sinclair was as good as she claimed.

Keyed up, he had driven Stenzel back to the campaign headquarters to pick up his car, then parked the minivan at his office. The minivan was solely for business purposes, its maintenance and miles tax-deductible. In the parking lot he kept his real car, a blue Mustang hardtop with a three-valve V-8.

He drove the freeways. Years ago he would have ridden a Harley, with no buffer between the wind and his body, feeling the lash of air as he screamed through tunnel of roaring noise. But a bike didn’t fit his image now, and besides, he was too old for that crap.

The long drive had calmed him down. Reynolds was feeling good as he parked near the condo in Costa Mesa. He had no key to the place, so he had to buzz the intercom. “It’s me,” he said when she answered. She let him in without another word.

He stepped into her apartment, and she shut the door behind him. She was in a nightgown and fuzzy slippers.

“It’s late,” Rebecca said, peeved.

“Out driving.” He said it without apology. He didn’t have to explain himself to her. She was his goddamned secretary, for Christ’s sake. All right, technically she was his constituent services coordinator, the intermediary who dealt with the various real and imagined crises in the lives of the voters in his district. She was stationed permanently in Orange County, the only staffer to run his office here when he was in D.C. They saw each other whenever he was in town. Fortunately it was an election year, and he was in town a lot.

They went into her bedroom. “Do anything tonight?” he asked, not caring, just making conversation as he stripped off his clothes.

“Watched TV.”

“Huh.”

“Nothing much on. Who was that woman?”

He glanced at her. “Woman?”

“Four o’clock appointment. Sinclair.”

“Personal matter.”

“You can’t talk about personal matters with me?”

“Oh, I can. I just figured we’ve got better things to do. What do you care about her, anyway?”

“She’s very attractive.”

“Didn’t notice.”

Rebecca made a face. “Right.”

“What are you, jealous?”

“Just… curious.”

“You know what they say about curiosity and the cat.”

“No, what?”

“It killed the cat.”

“What did?”

He was exasperated. “Curiosity.”

She frowned. “I don’t get it. What is it, a riddle?”

“It’s a saying. An old saying. I guess it’s from before your time.”

“Must be.”

Suddenly he was feeling old. He didn’t like it. It made him angry. Made him hot.

“You’re a dumb bitch,” he said quietly, “you know that?”

“Jack-”

He shut her mouth with a searing kiss. He was tired of hearing her talk. He never wanted to hear her talk. He had enough conversation in his life.

When he broke away, he had silenced her. He unbuttoned her nightgown and let it fall away. “On the bed,” he ordered.

She sank onto the mattress, naked, supine, her ash blond hair fanning across the pillows.

“Roll over,” he said. “On your belly.”

“Do we have to…?”

“ Roll over.”

She obeyed, her bare back displayed for him like a side of beef. He whacked her hard on the ass, and she gave a little yelp of pain.

“You like that, bitch?”

“Yes, Jack.”

Another smack. The cheeks of her buttocks reddened.

“You like that?”

“Yes.”

A stinging wallop.

“Like it?”

“Yes.” Tears in her voice.

He grabbed her by the knot of hair at her nape and yanked her head back. “Say it louder.”

“Yes, Jack.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, I like it. I like it!” Her eyes glittered, wet.

He reached under her, cupping a breast, squeezing hard.

“You like that?”

“Yes.”

He made a fist, crushing the flesh in his hand. “Like it?”

“Yes…”

“Louder.”

But she couldn’t say it louder. She was crying.

Well, if she wouldn’t talk, she would scream. He knew how to make her scream. Some of the bruises still hadn’t healed from last time. Now there would be more.

And she would like it.

An hour later, he pulled into the driveway of his home in Newport Beach. He went in via the side door, disarming and rearming the alarm system, then made his way through the ground level.

The house was big, but not quite big enough to be ostentatious, decorated in a simple but elegant style that looked more costly than it was. The decor had been his wife’s assignment, one of the few times in their twenty-five year marriage when Nora had actually contributed something to the partnership besides her family’s money. For the most part she was only a prop for him to lean on, an attractive prop, plumper then she once was but still curvaceous enough to draw admiring glances. She was neither shrewd nor wise, she had little imagination and limited ambition, but she did possess the cardinal virtue of loyalty. She had been faithful to him, always. He couldn’t say the same about himself.

“Jack.” Her voice drifted down from upstairs. “Is that you?”

“It’s me.”

He climbed the spiral staircase, shedding his jacket. He found Nora in bed, a book in her hand and a mildly annoyed expression on her face.

“Your meeting must have ended hours ago.”

He wondered why both of the women in his life insisted on criticizing him. “I took the Mustang for a spin.” He went into the bathroom and began to undress.

“Sometimes,” Nora said from the bedroom, “I think you love that car more than me.”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“How did it go? The meeting, that is?”

“The usual.”

“Press coverage?”

“No.”

“Good turnout, at least?”

“Not bad. What are you doing up so late? That book keeping you awake?”

“Actually, I was waiting for you.”

He had removed most of his clothes by now. Distantly he wondered why he never undressed in front of his wife. He had no qualms about stripping with Rebecca in the room. “Waiting? Why? Something you need to talk about?”

“I was just… feeling lonely, I guess.”

He ignored the obvious implication. “You have plenty of friends around here.”

“Yes. I suppose I do.”

He threw in the pajamas and came out of the bathroom. Nora was pretending to read, her face set in a blank stare.

“Now you’re mad at me,” he said with a sigh.

She didn’t look at him. “How long has it been since we were… together?”

It had been four months, but he feigned ignorance. “I’m not sure.” Before she could pursue the point, he went on the offensive. “As I recall, I’m not the one who kept saying no.”

Now she did look at him. “You hurt me, Jack.”

“Because of what I just said? It’s the truth.”

“It’s not what you said. I mean, you hurt me. The last time we… you hurt me.”

“I got a little carried away.”

“More than a little.”

“It was a scratch.”

“Go on and tell yourself that, if you want to.”

She returned to her book, but her eyes were wet.

“Maybe I’ll sleep in the guest room,” he said.

She didn’t answer. That was fine. He’d had enough of this conversation, anyway.

He took the pillow from his side of the bed and carried it down the hall. He was pissed off now. The drive and his recreational outing with Rebecca had cooled his jets, and now he was all tense and edgy again.

He lay in bed, eyes shut, and took himself back to Rebecca’s bedroom, his hands working her over, her mouth issuing soft grunting protests that rose gradually to screams. Muffled screams, choked off by the pillow she pressed to her face so her neighbors wouldn’t hear-but screams, nonetheless.

Eyes closed, he shivered with pleasure, and unaccountably he thought of Abby Sinclair.

He would like to make that bitch scream, too.

He really would.