Stone Kiss

30

Coupling, by its very nature, meant somewhere down the line there would be an uncoupling, and when the inevitable happened, he’d always slip into a deep black funk, knowing that the only person in this entire world who gave a rat’s ass about whether he lived and breathed was gone. He knew it was about money-he wasn’t stupid-but she faked it well enough so that he could delude himself that some fraction of her heart cared even if she didn’t love him.

Today was a perfect case in point, because it was good. Too good, and that made the loss that much harder, the void that much bigger. His mood was foul, and his dispirited body ached with profound deprivation.

As he lay in bed in a room devoid of any light, courtesy of blackout drapes, he stared at nothing, random thoughts drifting through his brain, a stupor made possible by booze and painkillers.

Yeah, today had been real good.

As measured by her orgasms because that was how he judged the sex.

It hadn’t always been like that. She had started out like all the others. For him, sex had always been a one-way street because he didn’t give a shit how the girls felt, and 99 percent of them were unable to climax anyway, so why even bother with a pretense. He assumed that Terry was like the rest. He did her like he did all of them, mounting her from behind because it was his favorite position-terrific view, good penetration, and minimum body contact. He abhorred being touched because physical contact in his youth always implied pain. Even the first time Terry had brushed against him, he had stiffened with revulsion. So he did it doggy style, even though almost all the girls he had ever fucked preferred being on top, probably because they felt more in control.

And that was okay for a few minutes. But then they started touching him as they rode him-an instant turnoff-and when it became too much, he’d flip them on their stomachs, pick up their asses, and shove it in from the back. So it was karma when he discovered that on-all-fours was Terry’s favorite position, too; marveling at his luck, he believed he had finally found his soul mate in every respect. Then he got to thinking. Maybe she was too much of a soul mate, that she probably wanted it from the back for the same reason he had liked it-minimal body contact.

Perversely, that threw him in the opposite direction, where he now had to touch her when they made love. He’d lay her on her back, blanketing her skin with his own, smothering her mouth and face with kisses, his hands all over that marvelous bod of hers. At first, she squirmed, clearly hating every minute of it, but eventually she calmed down, allowing him to do whatever he wanted-a small price to pay for all the cash he was feeding her.

Then one day, about a year ago, it happened. He was pumping away, looking at her face as he always did because it was so drop-dead gorgeous. Her eyes were closed, and she held a serene expression, yet her body underneath his was keeping time to his rhythm. Then, abruptly, he felt something-a quickening in her movements. In one silken movement, her legs swung about his waist, the heels of her feet digging into his ass as she pushed him deeper inside. Within moments, her breathing had intensified and heightened. Then she came, her face hot and moist as he felt her muscles contract around his cock. The sensation was so electrifying that he exploded instantly, probably not riding out her orgasm as long as he should have. It didn’t matter, though, because now he knew what she was capable of.

From that point on, he became obsessed with her climaxing, rating every encounter not by his satisfaction, not even by their mutual satisfaction, but by hers alone. When it was good-like today-the high would last him for months. When it wasn’t good, he became angry and sullen, berating her and himself for what had gone wrong, analyzing it ad nauseam. No amount of reassurance would change his brooding state. He had failed, and though she was quick to take the blame, it didn’t help. He’d castigate himself, causing nothing but misery for both of them.

Once she tried to fake it just to please him, and that had made him even angrier, the fire so encompassing that he had lashed out at her in a blinding rage, a heartbeat short of hitting her. But he was better than his old man was because he knew how to control it, although she didn’t know that. The pure fear on her face had haunted him for weeks. Still, in the end, it was worth it. She had learned her lesson and had never tried to deceive him again.

He knew he was making her nervous, but he couldn’t stop himself. He had this self-imposed obligation to satisfy her sexually, to sate her with his cock, and anything less than an orgasm meant he was less of a man.

Today had been a success.

Even in excruciating pain, even with the fever and the dehydration, he had managed to bring her to orgasm two out of three times. He would have gone for the perfect record, but she claimed she was sore because it was right before her period or something ludicrous like that. He didn’t challenge her because he was wiped out, glad to have an excuse even if it was a lame one. Afterward, he sat while she bathed, watching beads of water fall off her breasts, roll over her flat stomach. He thought about asking her to spend the night, but didn’t. Although she’d never refuse him, it wouldn’t have been what she wanted.

What she wanted was to get back to the kid.

It was all about the kid.

Which, in general, was okay. He was glad that she was a good mother. But sometimes it did piss him off.

Now she was gone, and he was in agony. He felt as mean as a tethered dog. Once she had loved him totally, had been willing to risk everything to follow him across the country with no promises in return. Then Decker came along and all that changed.

He took a small sip of scotch from the bottle.

It’s not that she wouldn’t have found out. Of course, she would have found out. He had just wanted it on his timetable, after he had dug a hole for her that was way too deep for her to climb out of.

Decker.

Goddamnmotherfuckingsonofabitch.

After she had dumped him, he had been consumed with thoughts of revenge against her. He had wanted to pop her but held off because he wanted to do it with style. So he kept his watch, witnessing her steady decline into a deep abyss of debt, looking on as she exhausted all of her possibilities with no one around to bail her out. When she had neared rock bottom, he came to her in the dead of winter, into her shitty jail cell of a tenement-a one-room number with just a toilet and a sink-no shower-and a hot plate for cooking. Around nine in the evening, as he remembered it. The kid had been around three, asleep on the couch, and swaddled in covers. A twin mattress lay on the cement floor.

Fuck, it was cold inside. He had been dressed in a heavy wool suit, a cashmere overcoat, plus a scarf and fur-lined gloves; still, he shivered. He couldn’t imagine how she could sleep in such frigid conditions let alone work. But there she was, sitting at a card table, bundled up and breathing mist, stuffing what seemed like hundreds of letters into hundreds of envelopes, and doing it clumsily because her hands were encased in thick but old knitted mittens. A tape was playing-some college professor droning on about balancing chemical equations. Because she was clad in layers, her body looked normal. But her face was the giveaway-as gaunt as a ghost.

In that single tick, seeing her steeped in poverty and humiliation, he had meant to pop her. More like put her out of her misery. It was so delicious, his intended revenge.

Except he couldn’t do it.

He just couldn’t disconnect from those golden eyes filled with degradation, her face awash in shame. Distant memories flooded his brain, and all he could think about was how much he still wanted her.

So he told her to pack her bags. She didn’t even own a suitcase, throwing her meager belongings into two plastic grocery sacks. This all went down at a time when he still did occasional favors for his ex-father-in-law, so he still had the trappings-the limo, the bodyguards, a view suite in a posh hotel on Michigan Avenue. He took her to the place, her disgrace keenly visible as they walked through the crowded lobby. He was carrying the sleeping kid in his arms, leaving her like an overloaded donkey to trod through the public areas, burdened under the weight of her clothes, plastic bags, a backpack filled with heavy books, and an oversize purse. When one of his bodyguards moved in to help her, he warned him off with a subtle shake of his head.

Before he took her upstairs, he checked in with the management, saying that she’d be staying with him for a couple of days, that anything she ordered should be placed on his account. The head concierge in charge of customer service-some thin faggot of a guy who looked her up and down with disgust-became fidgety, giving him squirrelly looks, too scared to broach the subject because of who he was. The little twit of a man made him laugh aloud. He knew instantly what the stick up his butt was all about.

“Terry, show him some ID.”

With shaking hands and downcast eyes, she pulled out her Illinois driver’s license and her Northwestern student ID card from a tattered wallet.

The faggot was instantly relieved. His concern was understandable. She looked around twelve.

He led her into the elevator to an upper-floor two-bedroom suite holding a panoramic view of the city’s skyline. The living area was furnished with several traditional-style couches, a couple of stiff chairs, some side tables, and a dining-room set-typical run-of-the-mill pieces for a hotel penthouse. But to her, the lodgings must have looked palatial-judging by the size of her eyes. He watched her walk over to a large ceramic vase filled with fresh cut flowers. Still clutching her belongings, she held out a finger and touched a lily. When he told her that it was real, she blushed at her stupidity.

After she had settled the kid into the smaller of the two bedrooms, he asked her if she was hungry, tossing her a room-service menu. Timidly, she requested a dinner salad-the cheapest thing on the list. He ordered a hamburger, and seeing her covetous eyes, gave her half. She ate so slowly as if each mouthful were her last; it was a torment to watch. When she was done-and it was clear that he was done as well-she took his leftover French fries and wrapped them up in a paper napkin, stowing the bundle along with the mini bottles of ketchup, mustard, and mayonnaise in her purse. He must have been staring because her skin went from pale white to deep crimson when they locked eyes. Instantly, he felt warmth suffuse his face, both of them embarrassed by how basic she had become.

In bed, she was all skin and bones, as shy as a virgin-as tight as one, too-and that only served to stoke his ardor. He was rough on her, all appetite and greed, but she treated him with proper respect and gratitude while still trying to retain some shreds of her massacred dignity. In the end, she couldn’t pull it off. After it was over, she broke down and wept openly, her soul broken and futureless. She had whored for half a hamburger and a night out of the cold.

He had quashed her completely, had humbled every cell in her body. It felt okay, but not as good as he had imagined.

In truth, it left him kind of hollow.

Because he still liked her. It bothered him to see her in such distress.

He tried being nice. He smiled. He made small talk. He mussed up her hair and stroked her face. He offered her more room service, but she claimed she wasn’t hungry-a bald lie. He sent out for the best champagne in the house. She dutifully sipped her one glass, but in the end, he drank the rest of the bottle by himself. Depleted, he fell asleep only to awaken at four in the morning to an empty bed. Sweat-drenched and in a panic, he bolted up and found her propped up lengthwise on the couch, a blanket over her lap and feet, her nose buried in her studies. She had drawn the window curtains open, and it was snowing briskly outside-a sea of white diamonds against a charcoal backdrop.

She greeted him with an innocent face and a radiant smile. She said she was warm for the first time in two months and that her mind was finally able to concentrate on the material. If it was okay with him, she wanted to take advantage of the situation. She was drinking clouded tap water and eating his cold leftover French fries. After much prodding, he convinced her to take a jar of mixed nuts and a bottle of orange juice from the minibar. She ate methodically, a sip and a nut every five minutes so she wouldn’t run out. He was leaden with fatigue, but he couldn’t take his eyes off her. If she was aware of his scrutiny, she was unperturbed by it, completely absorbed in her textbooks and notes. By his calculations, she hadn’t slept more than an hour or two, but she looked as fresh as if she were on vacation. Compared to what she was used to, she probably was. When dawn cracked the start of a new day, it was hard to tell who had actually gotten revenge on whom.

It had all returned to him… why he had liked her-no, why he had loved her so much. Because now, in the brutal light of morning, as he regarded her calm look and her cool demeanor, he realized that in the space of just a few hours he had lost his grip on her. He had smashed her, raped her soul if not her actual body, and she had sunk to bottom. What could he do to her now short of physical violence against her or the kid, a step he wasn’t willing to take? Right now, she had nothing left to lose.

This night wasn’t going to happen again. He had caught her off guard, had been given a small window of opportunity to act. Two months ago, she hadn’t been as bad off, only a couple of months’ arrears in her rent. Two months from now, in order to survive, she’d have to quit school and work full-time. Out in the job market, she’d find men who’d turn handsprings for her. But as of yet, she didn’t know that. Just the type of girl she was, so focused on her own end point of day-to-day living, she had never looked around.

How long would that last?

If he wanted her back in his power as well as back in his bed-and he really did want that-he was going to have to offer her something, entice her with her own dreams.

He gave her a proposition. She was in her third year of college, struggling to stay afloat. Her goal of becoming a physician was a solid one, but costly, therefore out of reach in her current financial state. Even with scholarships and loans, she wouldn’t be able to hack it. Her debts were substantial, and mounting with each passing day. If she expected to continue with her studies as well as raise the kid properly, she would require money and lots of it. So why not take it from the father of her son?

The deal was straightforward-sex for support-as banal as any American marriage out there. While it was true that she could bring a paternity suit against him-that the law was definitely on her side-it wouldn’t be to her advantage. He had the money and the lawyers to drag it through the court system for years. And he’d make demands-child-custody rights, weekend visitation, summer months, and holidays, too. There’d be lots of animosity… irreparable damage. No, it wouldn’t be good to get technical about it. It was much better to keep it friendly-more practical, too. His way meant she’d be in charge of the kid’s moral and ethical upbringing without his interference. His way meant anything she needed, no questions asked.

Think about it, he had told her. No more debts hanging over her head, no more creditors beating at her door or writing intimidating letters that threatened homelessness if she didn’t pay up.

Think about it.

An apartment with heat and air-conditioning, a real stove instead of a hot plate, a shower and a bathtub, for God’s sake. There’d be money for food, money for clothing, private schooling and music lessons for the kid, and, best of all, no more menial labor for her. Any job or work that she’d take on would be for her own personal growth, for her own personal bank account-money that would be hers and hers alone, funds not needed to fill stomachs or put a roof over heads.

Think about it.

Five and a half years from now, people would be addressing her as doctor. She’d have a time-honored degree and the respect that went along with it. Then there was the income that went with the profession, a surefire guarantee of self-reliance.

Think about it.

Holidays. He remembered what a good cook she’d been. There’d be a Thanksgiving table loaded with food-a big fat stuffed turkey, glazed yams with marshmallows on top, plates of fresh cooked vegetables, cranberry sauce, and pumpkin pie for dessert. How about new clothes for Easter mass? And what about a real Christmas with a big tree dripping in ornaments, dozens of presents underneath for her and the kid? Because this wasn’t only about her, right? Didn’t Gabe deserve to know his real father, not just some guy who pretended to like the kid when in reality all he wanted to do was get into her pants? He had things to offer Gabe. He knew that their son was gifted musically. From where did she think he had gotten the talent? He had attributes, things he could share with his son. But, of course, he’d never get in her way. She’d be the final decision when it came to Gabe’s upbringing.

Think about it.

For her, he was erasing the past and all the bad feelings that went with it, replacing it with a secure future instead. And all he wanted from her, all he needed from her, was a few days every couple of months. Not too steep a price to pay, considering that there had been a time when she had done it for nothing. It wasn’t too much to ask, was it? Some… flexibility in her attitude toward him? Because, c’mon, be honest, there were still sparks between them. This wasn’t just about sex; this was about a relationship.

She listened intently. She listened without interruption. But she didn’t answer him. No matter. He took her silence for acquiescence.

The next day, he went to work while she was in school and the kid was in day care, making his offer a fait accompli so she couldn’t change her mind. He found a modest but clean two-bedroom furnished apartment complete with pots, pans, dishes, and utensils, and within walking distance to bus stops and the El. He went shopping for her, stocking the cupboards and refrigerator with food, filling the dresser drawers and small closets with needed clothing: winter apparel for her and for the kid-sweaters, pants, coats, boots, and scarves. He found a Gulbransen spinet piano in a thrift shop. It fit perfectly against one of the living-room walls. When he picked them up in the limo that evening and showed her what was possible, he was 99 percent sure it was over. Then when the kid went over to the piano-wondrous awe in those saucer mint-green eyes of his, tiny fingers tapping out the first couple of bars of Mozart’s Piano Concerto in C Major-man, he knew he had her. He gathered up her mail, took it back with him to New York, and began the arduous process of sorting through her numerous bills.

For five and a half years, she would be his property-his chattel and concubine. And in the process, he figured he’d eventually fuck her out of his system.

A serious miscalculation.

Because it wasn’t getting better. If anything, it was getting worse. Every time they parted, it was another knife slicing through his heart, and the knife kept getting bigger and bigger… the voices growing louder and louder. He didn’t just want her; he didn’t just crave her; he needed her. When they were together, she silenced his demons: her face, her voice, and her touch more soothing than any drug he had ever taken, more effective than any therapy he had ever gone through. She was his personally designed opiate, and he was addicted to her as surely as if she coursed through his veins.

Two and a half years left.

The thought of her being financially independent, that one day she might leave him yet again, only this time she’d take from him his own flesh and blood, seized him with heart-thumping anxiety. And now she was talking about marriage-theoretically-to someone else. His anxiety receded, evolving into uncontrollable rage…

What the fuck was on her mind?

His breathing quickened, and he knew what was coming. Slowly, the veil of deep depression would lift, converting its energy into unbridled frenzy. Then the urge would overwhelm him. By now, he didn’t even try to stop it, knowing full well that there was only one way to quell it.

He reached under his mattress and pulled out one of his many firearms-a Walther semiautomatic. Holding the weapon ameliorated some of the feeling, but that was only temporary. Something more permanent had to be done. With sudden force, he shoved the magazine into the chamber.

Fuck the promises-tacit or otherwise.

He had a job to do.

First come, first served.