Sugar & Salt (9 page)

That’s why he left without saying anything the first time he met her. The spinning in his mind had nothing to do with the quantity of alcohol running through his veins and everything to do with the fact he wanted to tell her everything—about his mother, about that fucking dog he had as a kid who bit all his friends, about sunset in the Alps. But he held back and played the same game with her that he plays with everyone else—one in which it’s safe to indulge in the pleasure of another’s flesh, while remaining untouchable.

Last night, he couldn’t just use her to get off. The barriers he’d erected around his heart crumbled as soon as her face lit up to see him at the bar.

It has to be him. It’s the only reason he can think of that she would leave, but it makes no sense to his ego. From where he stands, nothing went wrong. They had fun, fucked like animals, and laughed. Shit, he hadn’t laughed so hard with a woman in years. A smile sneaks to his lips as his thoughts wander to Janice’s vulgar mouth.

He replays the events of the morning in his mind. What did she freak out about? It was bad enough she was trying to sneak out. Seriously, who does that at their age? Even if the night is shit, you smile, say thank you, and make a pleasant getaway. Worst case, you’re stuck for a morning bagel, which is hardly a high price to pay for good manners.

He stares at his reflection, realization cresting his awareness. When he’d started talking about his job, the expression on her face changed—the panic! He isn’t a fucking FBI agent; his job presents exactly zero danger, barring the occasional paper cut. He shakes his head, trying to exorcise the memory of dull pain in her eyes. What in the world is wrong with her?

He doesn’t tell women what he does for a living because most of them have the opposite reaction. They assume he’s some crusader out to right the wrongs of all the men who came before him. In reality, he’s just a moron with a soft spot and a head for numbers.

He splashes some water on his face, and gets dressed in running clothes. His room still smells like her. The sheets lay scattered in disarray over the floor. He remembers dipping his tongue into the sweetness of her cunt and shivers. He’s going to make himself insane if he doesn’t
do
something.

It’s early, but the sun is up. A quick jog through the park will clear his mind. He grabs his keys, a bottle of water, and his phone. Everything easily tucks into a small backpack, and he’s set to go.

In the hall, he realizes he never put on his sneakers.

Fuck. That fucking woman!

The park has a hazy glow in the early morning light. There aren’t too many people out yet—a few young joggers make their way through the winding paths. A white dog comes darting out of a field to run with him, its anxious owner chasing and calling it back. The pup stays right at Salt’s side, bright brown eyes gazing up at him with adoration.

He stops to catch his breath and let the dog’s owner make his way over to them. The dog sits down and watches as Salt takes out his water bottle.

“Sorry about that! They’re allowed off leash in the park before eight.”

“No problem, he’s a good running partner.”

“Yeah.” The winded man smiles, probably thankful he didn’t run into some ranting lunatic who was going to have a field day chewing his ass out.

“Thirsty buddy?” Salt pours some water out, and the dog laps at the stream. “What’s his name?”

“Stanley.”

“Stanley?”

“Yeah, well, I don’t name them, just get them out for some exercise.”

“Them? He’s not yours?”

“No, I work for PAWs. I’m just training Stan here so he can be adopted.”

Stanley remains sitting next to Salt, panting. Another jogger runs by, but the dog makes no move to chase him.

“Well, he’s a really good dog.”

“Not usually. Usually he’s a total pain in the ass.” He reattaches the leash to Stanley’s collar.

“Really?”

“Yeah, I guess he likes you.”

“I like him, too.” Salt leans down and scratches Stanley’s white fur. He’s soft and leans into the touch. The feeling of loss that started to abate during his run swoops back in, circling around his head like a scavenging crow.

“See you, Stanley.” He takes off, racing toward Cleopatra’s Needle in an attempt to outrun the sense that something in his life has gone seriously off course. He should have a woman like Janice and a dog like Stanley. That’s the life he’s supposed to have.

These thoughts pound in his mind as his feet slam against the pavement, but he can’t outrun them.

***

The day proceeds in the same general vein. He forgets to call Henry, decides to take the subway, gets on a train heading in the wrong direction, and ends up grabbing a cab that gets stuck on Roosevelt Drive for an hour. During the ride, he spills coffee on his shirt and has to call his assistant, Dana, to run out and get him a new one.

At the office, things don’t go much better. The shirt doesn’t fit.
Try again, Dana. Oh and next time, not lime green.

The audit team is behind by at least a week, and he has nine messages from the asshole organizing the symposium on infant mortality in sub-Asia. How that idiot landed the job is beyond him, completely and totally past comprehension. An updated version of the report on climate effects on demographics sits on his desk, waiting for edits.

“Mr. Salzmann?” Dana steps into his office with her eyes lowered and a demure smile on her face.

Shit.
Such a nice girl, and he yelled at her for nothing. He should remember to get her and her girlfriend tickets to a show one of these days.

“Thanks, Dana.” He changes his shirt as soon as she leaves; pink this time, but at least it’s the right size.
Where the fuck does she find these things?

It’s ten in the morning, and he still hasn’t accomplished much beyond showing up and staring out the window. Instead of trying to work, he pulls up the internet and searches for Janice Cane.

Facebook profiles, LinkedIn resumes, and a shitload of images come up, but none of them are her. He browses the pictures, searching for the woman he’s been pretty much obsessed with for the past week. On page five, he finally finds her. Younger, rounder cheeks, and an uninhibited smile that sits out of place on her, but there she is. Behind the link is an old article from her college days—Brown.

Nice
.

She wrote an article for the local paper about living in the shadow of a famous parent. Her father is Julian Cane.

Senator Julian Cane still holds his seat in the great state of Rhode Island. Heralded as one of the most conservative senators New England has ever seen, he spearheaded initiatives such as welfare reform and prayer in schools. According to Wikipedia, he has one daughter—one beautiful, creative, and decidedly
not
conservative daughter.

His mind wanders back to the night they spent together—the taste of her neck, the way her hair curled over his thighs as she took him into her mouth....

“Mr. Salzmann, the car is here to take you to your lunch meeting.” Dana’s voice slices through his thoughts.

He presses the intercom button to reply. No getting out of this one—time to focus on work.

Another Manic Monday

“Jackson!” Portia squeals. The tomato he’d thrown splatters in her hands as she tries to catch it, covering her pristine kitchen with pulp and seeds.

“Shit! I’m sorry.” He attempts to appear remorseful, but his always perfect Portia covered in tomato and mad as he’d ever seen her is beyond comical.

“It’s in my hair!” She pulls bobby pins and pulp out of her hair with both hands.

His smile turns into an outright laugh.

“Stop it!”

But he can’t stop laughing now that he’s started. He leans against the counter in her small galley kitchen.

She scowls before turning her back on him and tromping to the bathroom.

Alone, Jackson looks around the small apartment, still sparse despite the months she’s lived here. The kitchen is barely large enough to hold him, let alone both of them, yet she cooks for him every day. He rummages beneath the sink and pulls out some paper towels and a spray bottle of homemade cleaner. The scent of vinegar, water, and tea tree oil fills the room—the smell of home.

His apartment is right next door, but other than sleeping, he spends little time there. His large frame fills the small studio so completely, and he has almost no furniture—just a bed, a dresser, an iPod docking station, and a box full of a few mementos from his old life.

In contrast, Portia’s one bedroom apartment is full of color and life. It is enormous compared to his place, and feels much more like a home. The small kitchen notwithstanding, he feels like he can breathe in here. Is that because of the space, or because of Portia?

“I have to get in the shower,” she calls from the hall, a pout in her voice. “I can’t believe you!”

“Oh, settle yourself, woman. It’s your night off.”

“I still have to go in, and now I have to wash my hair. It’s going to take too long to do again! Miss Necia wants to go over this month’s numbers.”

“You could just put it in a ponytail.”

She glares at him as if prepared to slice open his stomach and expose his entrails for such a suggestion.

“All right, I’ll just order pizza.”

“No!” She stands squarely in the kitchen doorway, wrapped in a white towel with her usually coiffed hair brushed out around her face, platinum blonde locks sprinkled with tomato seeds. “I want to cook for you.”

His heart lurches.
God, could she be any more beautiful?

“Tomorrow, I’ll go to the market and get you more tomatoes. Tonight, pizza.”

“Okay, but only if you order mushrooms.”

“Ick.” He sticks out his tongue.

She breaks out into a fit of giggles. “On half?”

“Fine.”

“Thanks for cleaning up.” She smiles.

“Yeah, uh, sure.” He returns to his task, attempting to ignore her broad, heart-wrenching smile and piercing eyes that hit him like a thousand tender kisses.

After finishing the chore, he pulls out his cell and orders a pizza before wandering out to the living room and sitting on the oversized couch they bought. His 6’3” frame settles into the cushions easily. The television taunts him, daring him to check the news, and maybe find out what’s going on with the war.

Instead, he turns on the small lamp on the end table, and picks up the book he started yesterday. Soon his eyes grow heavy, lulled by the dense book, trying so hard to be smart, and the sound of water falling over Portia’s body only a few feet away.

The shrill sound of the phone ringing interrupts Jackson’s tumble into sleep.

“Hello?”

“Hey Jacky-boy.”

“Ronnie, stop fucking calling me that.”

“‘s been fifteen years, motherfucker. I ain’t stopping now.”

He laughs and repositions himself on the couch. “Fine, what’s up?”

“Not for nothing, boss, but how’s about a hello—you know, an inquiry into my general well being? It’s polite and all that, plus considering—”

“Yeah, yeah.” Jackson chuckles. What do you want?”

“Just wondering if you’re coming out tonight.”

“No, I told you, Portia’s gotta work.”

“You could consider the possibility of enjoying a night of social activity without her presence, you know. It is possible for someone of your general stature and appearance to find female companionship that involves some action.”

“This again?”

“Come on, I need my man at my side.”

“I’m not going out with you. Last time—”

“Oh man, forget that bitch. She won’t be anywhere near me again. I shut her up.”

“Ronnie...”

“Nothing like that! Come on, who you think I am? Sasha?”

His hair stands on end at the sound of
his
name, and a flash strike of anger breaks through his calm, eliciting a low growl. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, remembering where he is, what he’s doing, and who’s important.

“Jackson?”

“I’m not coming out, Ronnie. Another time?”

“Sure man, I just—” Silence slips through the phone line. “—I worry when I go this long without seeing you. You doing all right?”

He rubs his eyes with his free hand. “Yeah, yeah, no worries. I’m good.” His voice betrays the black dots floating in his vision, and the sounds.

“You know you can always come out here.”

“Yeah, thanks. I’ll make it out soon.”

“Okay, ‘cause you know, Aisha’s been asking about your ass.”

He rolls his eyes. “Will you tell her to lay off?”

“I keep trying, tellin’ her you don’t fuck hoes anymore, but it doesn’t do any good. You’re gonna have to face the music.”

“Shit, I haven’t even seen her in what, a year? That’s what I get for fucking your dumbass cousin.”

“Sure is. Catch ya soon, Jacky-boy.”

“Have fun, and be good.”

“Never am. Never.”

He ends the call and lays his head back. Portia chose a white couch, but she gets everything in white—no stains, no mysteries. Funny she should choose him. Nothing white there. He chuckles with his eyes closed until the sound of running water in the bathroom ceases.

He gets up to make her some tea.

***

“Is this the full log?” Janice stands next to Portia’s desk, holding the calendar for the past week’s bookings.

“Yes, Miss Necia. The report on page five aligns the bookings with deposits to various accounts.”

“Have we had any further communications from Mr. Whitmore?”

“No, but Jackson’s guy is still keeping an eye on him. Apparently his wife has asked him to move out and he’s still hanging around the daughter’s school, although it’s not clear if he’s after his daughter or her friend.”

“I don’t like this.”

“Me either.”

“Well, keep me up to date if anything happens, and transfer him directly to me should he call again.”

“Yes ma’am.”

The elegant woman sighs, and Portia watches as she returns to her office. She seems distracted today. Something’s been off all weekend, but their Mondays are usually quite jovial. Even the Whitmore thing isn’t more intense than other situations they’ve dealt with in the past, but something is definitely bothering her. On the days they’re closed, the energy in the house tends to be playful. The kitchen staff preps for the week, the cleaning crew polishes and scrubs, and some of the escorts flit in to retrieve personal items or use the house’s supplies to get ready for an appointment.