Rebound (19 page)

And he’d never give
it to her.

He’d come to Chicago
for two things. First, to submit his design for the new opera
house. He’d spent so much time after graduation touring
Europe--Italy, Austria, France, England and Germany--studying the
great buildings of the past, especially those theaters and opera
houses, that when he heard of the Chicago project he’d been like a
man possessed until he’d finished his design.

Second was to sort
his feelings out for Susan. Either he’d grow a spine and a set of
balls and ask Susan to marry him, or he’d slink off and let her go
forever, settling for just being friends.

He’d laid eyes on
her, and she went from happy and self-confident to a jittery train
wreck in six seconds flat. Then came the over-sexed vamp outfit.
And when she’d looked into his eyes at the restaurant he’d
known--she still wanted him, physically, but she wasn’t in love
with him. If she’d been in love with him, she’d be looking at him,
not just ogling him.

So he’d made up his
mind on the spot. He couldn’t be with her again, not like that. For
one thing it seemed to be having a self-destructive effect on her.
And second, he just couldn’t do it to himself again. To be there in
Susan’s bed, to have her body, to give himself--whatever she wanted
or needed--and to know she’d leave him.

It was only a matter
of time.

He’d be broken again,
vagabonding from town to town, staying with relatives and trying
like hell to get his head back on his shoulders. Trying desperately
to make his broken heart beat again.

He’d finally had the
woman he’d loved forever, yet he wasn’t the one. He’d known he
wasn’t, but still...

She hadn’t come after
him.

He’d thought, once in
the air, heading away from Cancun, that if she boarded a plane and
came to him, if he let her go and she came back to him--just like
the axiom--that she would be his forever.

A late night text
almost an entire month later told him that she wasn’t in love with
him. But her texts, voice mails, and emails came like clockwork.
And though he never opened the messages, it left him with a small,
good feeling that she cared.

Kevin put the ring
box on the stand by the bed--not his bed, and certainly not the bed
he wanted to be in. He stood in the dim light of the bedside lamp,
and tried to think of how he’d felt all those years before Cancun.
How had he done it? If only he could remember how he’d been before
Susan had been his, and for those few days she’d been completely
his...

He lay down on the
bed, his arm behind his head.

Maybe he could go
back to the way he used to feel?

But instead he felt a
searing heat build up inside him as a panel of memory fell into
place. The morning he’d woken to her taking him. How strong and
vital she’d seemed, how amazing he’d felt as she took him into her,
and how he’d been burning alive for her, and how hard it was not
to...

“Oh Christ, just get
a grip!”

Kevin lurched up from
the bed and headed into the bathroom, stripping off his pants,
kicking off his shoes, ignoring the aggravated state of his manhood
and jumping into a frosty cold shower. He stood under the biting
spray for what seemed like hours before his agitation went
away.

* * * *

All of Chicago knew
that Francesca Costa lived in the Beaumont Building. It was one of
her first designs and she’d later bought a posh half a floor in the
early nineties. Luck would have it that there was a party on the
floor right below Francesca’s.

Susan had burned
through some of the alcohol in her blood, so walking into the
building, blending in with the partygoers and navigating the
elevator to Francesca Costa’s floor was easy enough. But she was
still drunk--drunk, drunk, drunk--and when the door was not
answered by her second finger jab into the doorbell, Susan started
pounding on the metal door like King Kong.

“Wake up, you
over-the-hill vamp!” Susan yelled with Cosmo-induced rage. “Open
the goddamn door, you tramp!”

Susan heard a click,
and the beige door opened a crack. Francesca Costa peered out over
the security chain. Her eyebrows scrunched up in concentration, and
her head tilted as she recognized her.

“Susan Rhodes?”
Francesca’s tone was not only pleasant, but concerned.

Susan wanted to rip
the door right off its hinges, and beat Francesca to death with it.
“I need to talk to you!”

Francesca smiled, and
that smile made Susan angrier than anything else. What the hell was
she smiling about?

“Okay,” Francesca
chirped, closing the door to undo the security chain, and swinging
it wide open. She stood there resplendent in a long red silk robe,
open in the front, with a matching silk and lace nightgown. Even
her slippers--pink Gucci mules crowned with fluffy pink
feathers--were to die for.

She looked both cute
and sophisticatedly sexy. And more comfortable than any human being
had a right to be in a pair of heels. Susan’s heels were killing
her, pinching, making her ankles ache and the soles of her feet
numb. Even as drunk as she was.

And there was that
smile again. “What can I help you with, Susan?”

If she smiled one
more time… “Kevin.”

Francesca pursed her
lips and shook her head dubiously. “Kevin’s not here.”

“I know he’s not
here!” Susan roared. She wondered, what if he was there? Somewhere
back in Lady Dracula’s labyrinth of a condo? Or what if he was on
his way? Susan eyed Francesca’s silk and lace attire. She was
definitely dressed for the part of Lady Chatterley...or Mrs.
Robinson, or whatever horned-up-old-hag she was going for.

Susan shook that
thought from her head, and for a moment she felt dizzy enough to
sit down on the floor and put her head between her knees. But she
didn’t. Not in front of this woman. She’d rather die!

“I came to talk about
him,” Susan began, pushing herself through the dizziness, locking
her knees and grasping the doorjamb to steady herself. “I want you
to keep your filthy old lady mitts off him!”

“Excuse me?”
Francesca was good. She really did sound both surprised and
offended.

“
You heard me!
Leave Kevin alone. He’s not one of your boy toys, he’s
my
Kevin...” Susan’s voice cracked like a pre-pubescent
boy’s. “He’s too good, too special, to be one of your conquests,
for you to discard when you’re done with him, like all the
others.”

It dawned on
Susan that she was crying. Tears running down her face, her voice
all rasp and sorrow--and her nose was starting to run.
Great time for
hysterics!

Francesca folded her
arms over her ample bosom, her beautiful face turning from confused
and annoyed to downright bemused.

She was fucking
laughing at her! Susan clenched her jaw, and her right fist, ready
to swing, ready to rearrange some of Francesca’s surgically
enhanced face.

“I was wrong about
you,” Francesca said, with amusement in her voice. “You do have
imagination.”

You
do have imagination
.
That scalded and
shocked and made Susan’s mind do cartwheels. And though she hated
the old hag, and though it wasn’t rational--and she was still going
to lay her out any minute--she felt a flush of pride at Francesca’s
offhanded compliment.

“What?” Susan
managed. “Huh?”

Francesca absently
checked her manicure as she continued. “I remember not hiring you
because I didn’t see any imagination in your work.” She’d hardly
even looked at Susan’s work! “But this story you’ve cooked up...now
that takes real imagination. Maybe you should be a romance
writer.”

“I didn’t make
anything up.” Susan stood straight and indignant. “The whole town
knows you’re a man-hungry old Cougar who goes through young men
like most people go through coffee filters!”

Francesca started to
laugh--raucous, full throated, Michelle Pfeiffer as Catwoman
laughter--making her look all the more ready to whip out a bullwhip
and start doing backflips down the hall.

Just then a short,
pudgy man with fine Italian cheekbones, thick salt-and-pepper hair
and a nose like Al Pacino’s, came into the frame of the doorway, a
protective hand going around Francesca’s waist, and his gaze moving
from a loving glance at her, to an alarmed stare at Susan. “Is
anything wrong?”

Francesca was holding
her nonexistent belly as she tried to get a hold of herself. “No,
darling. Everything is fine.” She laughed again, bending over at
the waist, which was starting to piss Susan off. She straightened
and took a long, deep breath. “This is just an architect colleague
of mine--the competition.” Even the way she said “the competition”
was condescending. “Susan Rhodes, this is my husband, Marcello
Costa.”

Susan’s mouth fell
open with shock. Francesca Costa was married? How didn’t Susan know
that? Francesca had been her idol, and she didn’t know the woman
was married? Of course, Susan had pretty much limited her research
on her idol to her career, her owning her own architectural firm,
the buildings she’d designed, and her chic style--pre breast
implants.

So what if she was
married? She was still a philandering, lecherous tramp!

But Susan saw the
love, the utter affection glowing in Francesca’s eyes as she looked
upon her husband, all but forgetting Susan was even at her door, or
that she’d been accusing her of serial adultery. Susan felt very
stupid and embarrassed.

After some
humiliatingly quiet beats, Francesca finally pried her eyes from
her husband and glanced in Susan’s direction again.

“I’ll be in in a
minute, darling. Susan was just leaving.”

Marcello looked from
his wife to Susan, and back again, his expression softening as he
smiled and kissed Francesca on the cheek. “A pleasure meeting you,”
he said to Susan, then ambled off into the apartment.

Francesca hit the
intercom button on the wall by the door and a man’s voice came over
the speaker. “What can I do for you, Mrs. Costa?”

How did he know it
was Mrs. instead of Mr. Costa?

“Freddy, would you be
a dear and call a cab for a friend of mine? She’s had too much to
drink and needs to go home.”

“Of course, Mrs.
Costa.”

“Thank you. She’ll be
down in a few minutes. You’ll know her by the stunning black silk
sheath she’s wearing.”

“Anything for you,
Mrs. C.” And the voice cut off.

Francesca grinned at
Susan. “Doorman. He never lets me down. He’ll make sure you get
home.”

“Oh.” Susan started
to say more, but she sputtered and stuttered, and she hiccupped
like a drunken cartoon character. All she needed were tiny bubbles
floating out of her mouth.

Francesca was staring
hard at Susan, as if she were weighing a decision of some sort.
“Not that it’s any of your business,” she said, pulling the silk
robe around her better, “but I love my husband completely. That’s
why I don’t design full time anymore, to spend more time with
him.”

Susan nodded.
“Okay...”

“As for the young men
I employ, I simply like them better. They’re fun, have more energy,
and don’t seem to give a thought to working for a woman. Men that
are older always give me shit.”

Susan’s eyebrows shot
up, and she almost laughed.

“And truthfully, I’ve
only met one woman in my life I can even stand long enough to work
with, and she’s my assistant.”

“I love my
assistant.” Susan shook her head. She sounded so stupid.

“Your assistant’s a
pip. She really stood up for you this morning.”

Susan was feeling
very sleepy.

“So, for the record,
I’m not screwing the young male populace. And I’m especially not
screwing your Kevin. So are we good?”

Susan nodded.
“Yes.”

“Fantastic.”
Francesca looked down and her sparkling eyes widened with
appreciation. “Great shoes.” And with that, Francesca Costa shut
the door in Susan’s face.

* * * *

When Susan woke up,
sunlight was pouring through the window of her bedroom. She was
still in Liz’s dress, but her shoes were sitting neatly on her
bedside table, right by her keys.

Susan had a flash of
stumbling out of the elevator and into the lobby of Francesca
Costa’s apartment building. Then there was a guy with blond hair
and a mustache, and he put her in a cab...and he came in with
her.

Susan sat up too
fast, and her head felt like it was about to fall off. She felt to
make sure she still had on her panty hose and the sexy underwear,
and she didn’t feel like she’d been violated.

That’s nice. A guy takes you home and makes sure you
’
r
e
safe in your bed
--
probably
had to carry your large ass up a couple dozen steps to do so
--
and the first thing you think is
:
Did he molest me?

Susan got up and
wobbled to the bathroom, where she hiked up her skirt and pulled
down the panty hose and panties, and peed for about an hour. Who
knew vodka could make so much pee?

She tugged and pulled
on the dress until it came off, and she walked completely naked
from the bathroom into her bedroom. First, she’d hang Liz’s dress
up and she’d pick out something comfortable for after her shower.
She was standing in front of her closet when she noticed something
was wrong. The bottom of her closet was clean, and her shoes were
neatly matched and standing at attention, each set three inches
exactly from the next pair.

So Freddy molested
her shoes, not her? Susan sighed, thought for a moment of going
back to Francesca Costa’s building and kneeing Freddy in his
genitalia. But the bottom of her closet had never looked neater,
and she did like seeing her shoes lined up like they were
flamboyantly colored Marines, waiting for their marching
orders.