Stone Kiss (41 page)

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.