The Stolen

20

Paulina arched her back, feeling the convulsions ripple through her body. She embraced the aches of pleasure, the slightest hint of pain as Myron Bennett raked his too-long nails down her stomach. She felt the final shudder of orgasm, the sweat dripping down her chest, waiting until everything was calm before finally becoming still. Paulina looked down. She was still wearing her bra, a slight puddle of moisture collecting in between the cups.

Gathering herself, Paulina climbed off Myron, taking one more glimpse at his naked body, his erection like a flag of surrender. The boy had a beautiful body, that's for sure, and though nobody would ever know of their tryst, it secretly thrilled her to know she'd just fucked a man thousands of women would ditch their husbands and 2.4 children for.

She located her underwear, snagged the band on her shoe, kicked it into her hands and headed for the bathroom.

"Hey," Myron called out as Paulina groped her way to the bathroom door. "I didn't come yet!"

"Nobody's watching if you want to finish yourself off," she said, closing the bathroom door. Paulina looked at herself in the mirror. Her mascara was streaked. She ran the faucet and washed it off. She looked at her breasts, felt a twinge of sadness, noticed they were sagging slightly more than she remembered. For years Paulina had taken care of her body, spending countless hours at the gym, countless dollars on every treatment under the sun. But aging happened to everyone, even women who were born to fight everything. Push-up bras did wonders to enhance her natural cleavage, but nobody could fight Father Time, especially since he had gravity on his side. She thought about having them done, wondered if it was an outpatient procedure. The last thing she needed was to be out of work a day or two, then come with them enhanced. Boob jobs were only worth it if no one knew you'd had one.

She could hear Myron moving about in the bedroom.

She heard the sound of his zipper, laughed to herself that he was too frustrated to finish the job. Myron was a nice treat, and thankfully she'd never have to see him again. At least not in person.

In Sunday's edition of the Dispatch, Paulina would be running a lengthy article about Myron's decade-long affair with Mitsy Russell Henshaw, wife of billionaire venture capitalist Richard Henshaw. Richard Henshaw had been a longtime critic of the Dispatch, specifically the paper's editor-in-chief, Ted Allen. It was what Allen called a "have your cake and eat it, too" story. It was both a juicy bit of gossip that would sell papers, while accomplishing the goal of humiliating one of Ted's most vocal enemies.

Paulina figured it only fair that if she was going to report the piece, she deserved a piece of the cake, too.

Though Myron was in his late thirties and no longer in the kind of shape that had secured him deals as an underwear model in the nineties-the abs a little softer, the arms not quite as sinewy-he was still a striking bachelor, the kind of man that would turn heads and make very wealthy women think very bad thoughts.

She had interviewed him for three hours, at the end of which Paulina offered to buy him a drink. To make things a little more personal, she said, rinse off the professional.

And when they were in the comfort of a pair of martinis, she let Myron know that as long as she was putting her keyboard out, he'd be putting out, too. And so here she was, room 1250 at the W Hotel, the beauty of her exorbitant expense account allowing her the beauty of Myron

Bennett.

Yet as much as she'd savored the night's pleasures and would enjoy the media circus surrounding Myron's affair, she'd be glad to get back to work on the real story that had kept her juiced the past few months. Underwear models came and went. It was a rare occasion that you could do something that mattered. And in just a matter of weeks, she'd be ready to bring Jack O'Donnell down like a house of cards. And with Jack, the veneer that was the Gazette would tumble as well. And that kind of satisfaction would last longer than any orgasm.

Cinching up her robe as she left the bathroom, Paulina took her purse from her wallet and flipped a twenty at

Myron. The crumpled bill landed sadly on the pillow.

Myron stood there staring at it. He was topless in his jeans, searching around for his shirt. He looked at the money, confused, then looked up and down at Paulina as if she were hanging in a freezer.

"You have the most beautiful tits," he said, a sultry grin on his face that made Paulina feel like retching.

"Please," she said. "Save it for the women who give a shit."

"What, one party and you get all cold on me? It wasn't good for you, beautiful?"

"Ugh, don't call me that. I'm sure Muffy or Tiffani or whatever rich bitch you're going to bang tomorrow night will love that ooey-gooey shit. You're a good lay, Myron.

I appreciate it. But enough of the honeydoll, baby stuff.

I'm a grown woman, you're a grown man, now help me find my shirt."

"It's under the bed, doll." He smiled at Paulina's grimace. She glanced under the bed, came up with a wrinkled blue shirt. She nodded toward the twenty on the bed.

"Take it."

"What's that for?"

"Whatever you want. A taxi. A beer. Doesn't matter."

He looked at the money. "Really, you don't have to."

"Listen, I spent the better part of an entire day talking to you and listening to the most boring shit on earth. I listened to you whine about your mean parents, your crummy job, how nobody will hire you as a model anymore. And I know you have less money in the bank than you have brains up in that head of yours. I don't think you'll say no to cab fare. So just say thank-you and go home."

He watched her for a moment, looked at the money.

"Thank you," he said. "But you don't have to be a bitch about it."

Paulina's mouth dropped, a startled laugh escaping her lips. "Bitch? You call me a bitch because, what, I just repeated what you've been blabbing about all night? If you don't like hearing the whole, cold, hard, clean truth, just continue to delude yourself. Facts are facts. Nobody wants to hire a forty-year-old has-been when twenty years old can be bought for less, and without the baggage. And if you didn't fuck Mitsy for a decade, you'd keep that irrelevant streak of yours going. So you don't want to believe the truth? Then, buddy, don't read the newspaper. But if you want a reality check, you little baby, what I say shouldn't hurt you any more than your life hurts you."

"See," Myron said. "That's what I mean. Most women, when you give them an orgasm, they don't treat you like you're a piece of, a, a dust ball or a termite or something.

Something they can pick up and throw in the trash like it didn't exist."

"Listen, Myron. You're a sweet guy. But sweet guys get as much out of life as a little teacup puppy that someone carries around in their purse. You get fed when your master wants to feed you, but pretty soon you're a nuisance and not quite as much fun to look at. If you want more out of life than that, you have to take it. If that means being a bitch, well, I'd rather be a bitch than a pussy."

Myron stared at her. "I'm looking forward to reading the article."

Paulina nodded. "It'll be a good one, I promise you that much. I'll make sure a copy of the Dispatch is delivered to you first thing Sunday morning." Then she strode across the room until she was nearly mouth to mouth with Myron.

"And if you so much as mention this night to anyone, I'll run a correction on Monday about your chronic herpes outbreaks."

"My what?"

"Exactly."

"Even you wouldn't stoop so low," Myron said, though he looked unconvinced.

"Try me," Paulina replied. "I love it when people think they're calling my bluff."

Myron nodded, put his shirt on, found his shoes. He thanked Paulina, grabbed the twenty and left. Paulina stood there in a room full of rumpled sheets, the air stinking of sweat and sex. Then she gathered up her belongings, went outside and caught a cab home.