Envy (41 page)

Not that it would be any different if the situation were reversed. Todd would behave just as badly, probably worse. He would sulk and mouth about life's injustices. He would be resentful and caustic, and then he'd turn cruel.

But since when was Todd Grayson his standard for good behavior? He liked to think he was a finer person and better friend than Todd. He liked to think he had a stronger character and more integrity.

He plastered on a fake grin. "What the hell, I'll call in sick. Let that fag we hate fire me. What time's the party start?"

Todd said to give him time to make a few arrangements, and Roark said fine because he needed to close out his work for the day anyway. As soon as Todd flew out to run his errands, Roark surrendered to his dejection. It set in with a vengeance.

He stared into his computer screen, wondering why he had been cursed with a burning desire to do something creative but shortchanged the ability and opportunity to do it. Why would God play a dirty trick like that? Entice you with a dream, provide you with enough talent to make it appear reachable, then keep the dream just this side of being realized?

Like a mantra, he repeated to himself how happy he was over Todd's success. And he was.

He _was. But he also resented it. He

resented the sneakiness with which Todd had submitted his manuscript. They hadn't made a pact to inform each other whenever they submitted work, but it had certainly been their habit. Todd hadn't actually violated a sacred agreement, but that's what it felt like.

Uncharitably, Roark wanted to attribute

#Todd's success to luck, fluky ######711

timing, a slow book market, even to an editor with lousy taste, all the while acknowledging that such thoughts were unfair. Todd had worked hard. He was a talented writer. He was dedicated to the craft. He deserved to be published.

But Roark earnestly felt that he deserved it more.

Todd returned within an hour bringing a bottle of champagne for each of them and insisting that they drink them before moving to phase two of the celebration.

Phase two included Mary Catherine. One Sunday afternoon shortly after her miscarriage, Roark had taken her out for ice cream. Seeing the promenade of young couples with babies had caused her to get weepy. She confided that Todd had fathered the embryo she lost.

"Son of a bitch m/'ve had a sixth sense about it. He's avoided me ever since."

Months went by. The two were civil to one another but cool. Eventually they reestablished themselves as friends but only friends. To Roark's knowledge they hadn't slept together again. He assumed by tacit agreement.

Today, the rift and the cause for it were distant memories. Wearing three postage-stamp-sized patches of electric-blue fabric that passed for a bikini, Mary Catherine arrived ready to party. She got there just in time to help them polish off the champagne.

"Foul!" she cried petulantly. "I only got two swallows."

"There's more where that came from, sweetheart."

Todd rubbed her ass and smacked his lips, first with appreciation, then regret. He turned her around and gave her a gentle push toward Roark.

"She's all yours tonight, pal. Don't say I never gave you anything."

"Consolation prize?" The good-natured question had only a trace of an edge.

"Can you imagine a better one?"

Mary Catherine looped her arms around Roark's neck, mashed her breasts against his chest, and massaged his crotch with hers. "Fine by me.

I've had a lech for you for a long time." She poked her tongue into his mouth.

Courtesy of the champagne, he had a lively buzz going. She tasted good. She felt damn

#good. He liked her. He had sustained ###713

a blow to his ego, and Todd was trying to make it up to him. He'd be an asshole to decline his friend's gesture of condolence.

He applied himself to kissing her.

"Hey," Todd said after a few moments.

"Am I gonna have to turn the water hose on you two?"

Laughing, they clomped downstairs and piled into Todd's much-maligned car. He drove them to a marina where he had chartered a boat from an old salt named Hatch Walker. They'd leased boats from him before. His rates were the cheapest in Key West, and he got only mildly

abusive if you stretched your contract time and came in late.

Walker wasn't long on charm anytime, but today he was particularly querulous. He was wary of turning one of his boats over to three people who had obviously been drinking. Roark was just drunk enough on champagne--and wildly aroused because on the drive to the marina, Mary Catherine had given him a private lap dance in the passenger seat--not to care about the old man's opinion of them or the amount of their alcohol intake.

As soon as the rental agreement was signed, Todd jumped aboard and climbed the steps to the pilot's chair. Roark staggered aboard, then turned to lend a hand to Mary Catherine, who managed to stumble against him as she stepped onto the deck. "Oopsy-daisy," she giggled as she squirmed against him. She gave old Hatch a gay little wave as he untied the ropes from the cleats and tossed them onto the deck.

"Crazy kids," he muttered.

"I don't think he likes us," Mary Catherine whined.

"What I think is, you have on too many clothes."

Roark reached around to untie her top. She shrieked and slapped at his hands, but the protests were all for show. Roark came away with her bikini top and waved it like a banner above his head as Todd slowly guided the boat out of the marina. As soon as the craft cleared the channel, he gave it full throttle and it shot into the Atlantic.

Todd had proclaimed this would be a celebration none of them would ever forget and obviously he meant it. Roark was surprised by his friend's extravagance. The coolers he had brought

#onboard were stocked with brand-name ##########715

liquors. The food came from a deli that had the self-confidence to call itself Delectables.

"This is a mean shrimp salad." Roark licked spiced mayonnaise from the corner of his lips.

"Let me do that." Mary Catherine straddled his lap and sponged away the mayo with her tongue.

She had taken her role as consolation prize to heart, devoting herself entirely to entertaining him and granting his every wish. That or converting him into a hedonist. Either way, he wasn't fighting it.

The shared secret of the miscarriage had forged a special bond between them. When they were alone he called her Sheila. She'd given up on the mermaid idea as impractical because "the tail would probably be itchy." But she was considering a chambermaid routine and had asked him to come up with a catchy name for her.

Although they flirted frequently and

outrageously, the friendship had remained platonic. She'd made subtle overtures, but Roark had pretended not to notice them because he hadn't wanted to mess up a good friendship.

But as she sucked at his lips, he asked himself what would be so terrible about altering their friendship to include sex. Be friends with Sheila, but don't have sex with Mary Catherine. Who wrote the rule that you couldn't be both friend and lover?

Why not make happy with the iron hard-on he was sporting, compliments of her incredible proportions and her agile tongue and her hands, which were keeping themselves busy inside his swim trunks?

Maybe Todd had paid for her services today.

So what? She was a good kid, trying to make a decent living using the assets she'd been given.

It was also possible that she was coming on to him only to make Todd jealous. He wouldn't let that bother him, either. In fact, he wasn't going to let anything bother him tonight.

Fuck writing. Fuck getting published.

Fuck words that wouldn't come.

Fuck Mary Catherine. That topped his

things-to-do list. Definitely. He was sick to death of being such a damn Boy Scout. Nose to the grindstone all the time. For what? For freaking _nothing, that's what.

He was going to eat this rich food until he puked on it. He was going to get slobbery drunk. He was going to let Mary Catherine

#perform on him every debauched act in her ####717

extensive repertoire. He was going to have a good time tonight if it killed him.

Roark woke up with Mary Catherine draped across him. After a bout of rowdy copulation in the small berth, they had both passed out. Thirsty and needing badly to pee, he wiggled out from under her.

She moaned a garbled objection and reached out to hold him back, but it was a halfhearted effort.

He successfully extricated himself and retrieved his trunks from the floor. It required some challenging concentration and a few fumbling attempts, but he finally managed to get his feet into the legs.

He was still pulling on the trunks as he stumbled up the steps to the deck. Todd had a bottle of Bacardi cradled in his arm and was staring at the constellations. Hearing Roark, he turned and smiled. "You survived?"

He stretched out the elastic waistband of his trunks and peered into them. "All parts present and accounted for, sir."

Todd chuckled. "Judging from the racket, there were times I thought I might have to come down there and rescue you."

"There were times when _I thought you might have to."

He relieved himself over the side of the craft.

Todd asked, "Did she do that thing with her thumb?"

Roark tucked himself back into his trunks, turned, smiled, but said nothing.

"Oh. I forgot. Sir Roark never shares the juicy details. A real gallant."

Roark was about to bow at the waist but figured that in his present condition that might be a tricky move, so he settled for a clumsy salute.

Todd motioned toward one of the ice chests.

"Help yourself to a fresh bottle."

"Thanks, but I'm still too wasted to stand."

"And jealous."

Roark used one arm to brace himself against the exterior wall of the cabin. "Huh?"

"You're jealous."

Roark shrugged. "Maybe." He gave a weak grin. "Okay, a little."

"More than a little, Roark. More than a little."

Todd raised the rum bottle to his eye like a telescope and peered down the length of it at Roark. "Admit it, you thought you'd be the first

#to sell." ##########################719

Roark's stomach was queasy. The horizon was seesawing. He was also uncomfortable with the direction the conversation had taken. "Todd, I couldn't be happier."

"Oh, yeah, you could. If you'd sold your book today, you'd be a hell of a lot happier.

So would Hadley. I think he probably jacks off over your manuscripts. Your work makes him positively giddy, doesn't it? What was that he said about it being an honor and privilege to review your work?" He took a swig of rum.

"Something like that."

"You read his letter to me?"

"Clever of you to get that post office box, but careless of you to leave his letter in the pocket of your jeans. I was short the cash to pay for a pizza delivery and saw your jeans lying in the floor where you'd stepped out of them. Raided the pockets looking for money, and ... pulled out a plum."

"You shouldn't have read my mail."

"You shouldn't have lied to me about Hadley's enthusiasm for your work and his lack of it for mine."

"What do you care what Hadley thinks of your work?"

"I don't. Last laugh is on him and you.

I've sold. You haven't."

"So fine. Let's just drop it."

"No. I don't believe I will."

Todd stood up slowly. He was steadier on his feet than he should have been, leaving Roark to question if he had drunk as much as he had pretended to. He moved along the deck with a predatory, malevolent tread.

"What's eating you, Todd? You won.

Hadley was wrong."

"Maybe about my writing. Not about the other."

"Other?"

"My character. Remember how flawed I am?

Driven by greed and jealousy and envy. Those undesirable character traits about which Hadley waxed poetic."

Roark's stomach heaved and he swallowed a throatful of sour bile. "That's all bullshit.

I didn't pay any attention to it."

"Well, I did."

He didn't see it coming. Moving sinuously only a second before, Todd now lunged at him and took a vicious swing at his head with the liquor bottle. Roark caught it on the temple, and

#if it had been a sledgehammer, it ######721

couldn't have hurt any worse. He roared in pain and outrage.

But he had enough wits to see the bottle arcing once again above his head. He dodged it just in time to spare himself another concussion. Instead it shattered against the wall of the cabin, showering them with broken glass and rum.

Todd attacked with a fury then, throwing blows one right after the other aimed at Roark's face and head. Most of them connected, crunching cartilage and splitting skin. Dazed but fueled by anger, Roark struck back. He landed a fist against Todd's mouth and felt the scrape of teeth against his knuckles. It hurt, but it hurt Todd more.

His mouth gushed blood.

The drawing of blood was a primal and powerful exhilaration. At any other time Roark would have been astonished over how much satisfaction he derived from making Todd bleed. Propelled by jealousy, he wanted to see more of Todd's blood on his hands. He wanted to punish him for succeeding first and making him feel like a failure.

But his hot rage was tepid compared to Todd's.

Todd's bloodlust had escalated

into savagery. With feral growls, he came at Roark, clawing and pounding.

Roark's temper was soon spent. He was ready to back off, cool down, and call a truce.

Todd was beyond that. He didn't let up, not even when Roark stopped being aggressive and only deflected blows in order to protect himself.

"Goddammit, enough!"

"Never enough." Todd's clenched teeth were smeared with blood. Bubbles of it foamed over his lips. "Never enough."

And he launched a fresh attack.

"Wha'sgoin'on?" Mary Catherine appeared in the open doorway of the cabin, naked except for a golden ankle bracelet. Ignored, she

drunkenly staggered onto the deck and stepped on a piece of broken glass. "Ow! What the fuck is going on?"