The Reckoning (13 page)

After grabbing a quick bite at a downtown Burger King (eating a double bacon cheeseburger in defiance of Leslie’s prohibition on fast food), Royce headed to the Block and an adult bookstore and did some “research.” He arrived back at his office shortly after two. His service gave him phone messages from Monica and Cal. He called Monica.

“Royce, I was so glad to find you’d called.” She sounded sleepy.

“You ladies put in some long hours.”

She giggled. “Giving pleasure is a dirty job, but someone’s got to do it.”

“For sure. I’m calling because we need to get rolling on your business plan, and I’ve come up with a new marketing wrinkle that might interest you.”

“Super.”

“Would you have some time this afternoon that I could drop by?”

“Oh, Royce, tonight’s another showing. How about tomorrow? Late afternoon? We wouldn’t be disturbed.”

He scanned his desk blotter where he’d jotted down his Tuesday night gig with Tony at the Hispanic Chamber of Commerce and said, “Sure, if it doesn’t run too late. I’ve got a seven o’clock.”

“Splendid. Fourish, then?”

“Fourish it is.”

Darn, he’d been looking forward to visiting Monica this afternoon, and having a justifiable excuse for not going home until later. With the way things were between him and Leslie, the home front was like staying in an Arctic weather station with its generator on the fritz. With his new mindset he no longer felt vulnerable in her presence. Still it was unpleasant, their first fight in nearly two years of marriage. Their first fight ever.

Killing time now, he tackled the computer. There was a tutorial built right into the machine, so within an hour he was already inputting documents and printing them out neatly. By five he had managed to process a ten-page proposal for Monica that looked very pro. Hey, he was a tiger. Wasn’t he? Soon he’d be surfin’ the Web!

Six o’clock rolled around and he decided he couldn’t put off going home any longer.

Both Leslie and Craig had already eaten when he arrived.

“There’s spaghetti in the refrigerator if you want to heat it up,” she said without looking up from her typewriter at the dining room table.

Thank you, Ms. Ice Queen. “No thanks. I’ll just make a sandwich.”

“Suit yourself.”

“Certainly.” He slapped peanut butter and jelly on two pieces of heavy bread. He wished for once his wife would buy plain old white Wonder Bread, not this stuff that was made with eighty-eight whole grains and wood pulp. The stuff was choking. He washed his first bite down with a big swallow of orange juice, taken directly from the carton.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that.”

“Uh?” he grunted.

“Drink from the carton. It may satisfy some of your animalistic urges, but it doesn’t do much for the rest of us.”

Rest of us
. She and Craig. Snotty Craig and ball-buster Leslie.

She said, “I don’t suppose you’re interested in Craig’s first test results.”

“Now don’t say that,” he snapped. “Tell me.”

She looked up from her work, a faint, prideful smile on her face.

“It turns out Craig has an IQ of one hundred and seventy,” she said. “The school won’t tell me if that means he’s a genius or anything, but it’s the same IQ as that General Schwarzkopf, who ran Desert Storm.”

Royce chewed, swallowed. “Splendid. Maybe we can get Craig into West Point.”

He took a long pull on the orange juice carton. Leslie took her anger out on her typewriter, pounding the keys with a vengeance. Royce finished his sandwich and went into the bedroom to get out of his suit.

He sat on the edge of the bed and removed his shoes, deciding it was going to be one very long evening.

Over Oreos and milk they reviewed Royce’s business plan outline for Naughty’s. He top lined all the major elements (from Overview through Key Prospects and Market Size to Organization Chart) for her benefit, carefully explaining what added information he would need to complete the project. Throughout, he subtly positioned himself more as a business partner than an outside consultant in the scheme of things.

And he managed this despite the great physical distraction presented by his client’s appearance. This afternoon it was a white baby doll lingerie ensemble with matching garter belt and stockings (the “Virgin Slut Outfit,” she called it). Monica certainly knew how to dress to shock, how to platform her breasts, in particular, for eye-stopping power.

His wandering eye noticed the cleavage of Monica’s left breast seemed unblemished, save for what looked like a slight, shiny patch of skin.

He took this all in with the satisfaction that he was stronger, more resistant to her bountiful charms than before. He’d enjoy her all right; it was all part of his plan, his enthusiasm for Naughty’s. But he would dally with her on his terms. It was, after all, business now. He hoped Naughty’s was his entree back into the fast track, so he could kick some butt again.

“I’m impressed, really impressed,” she said, drawing a lock of shining auburn hair out of her enticing eyes. The bedroom was warm; the freckles on her milky skin seemed to be glowing. Though he’d removed his suit coat, he was perspiring heavily.

“Thank you, Monica. Now, a surprise.” He pulled a second document from his briefcase.

“And this?” she asked.

He caught a glimpse of her tongue. She was wearing the stud, now coated with chocolate cookie. His penis quivered.

“Eh, just a little idea I had,” he said.

She started reading it. “Oooh, I like this, Royce. I really do.”

“I thought you would. The adult video market is huge and getting bigger, and we’re not talking about the raincoat crowd either, but couples—normal, straight people who want to get turned on in the privacy of their bedrooms.”

His eyes brightened. “So what better turn on, what better way to promote sales of your line of lingerie than through your own line of videos, sold not in sleazy adult bookstores but through mail order ads placed in
Cosmo
and
Playboy
.”

She fanned her fingers across her bosom and squealed, “Videos starring little ole’ me, the Naughty’s Girl.” Her scent was strong.

“Yes indeed,” he enthused. He’d found her hot button: vanity.

“Super.” She reached across and tweaked his nose. “And now, I have a surprise for
you
, Mr. R.”

Royce pursed his lips, not liking the woman’s audacity to use a nickname heretofore reserved for his wife. He consulted his watch.

“I don’t know. It’s close to six now. I have a seven o’clock appointment across town.”

“Oh, and it was such a nice surprise,” she simpered.

“Well…”

He felt her sharp nails on his hand.

“Come on. Please.”

He let her lead him downstairs to a brick room he hadn’t been in before—a chamber, really, with the look and feel of a dungeon; its walls were lined with pegboard on which whips, chains and handcuffs were displayed.

Here, though in the basement, it was much warmer than Monica’s bedroom, a sauna heat provided by a furnace of cooking rocks on which rested a devilish collection of pincers and other torture hardware.

“Just decorative props for S&M game-playing,” she said, answering the disbelief in his eyes.

“And this?” He indicated a shoulder-high, black-draped mound.

“Why, your surprise, silly,” she said innocently, and removed the cloth with a dramatic flourish.

Christine, bent over and locked in a pillory, glared up at him with defiant eyes, bared her sharp incisors and hissed, “Do your tits still smart?”

He moved closer. “Mistress Christine. So good to see you again.” Strange how the ache in his nipples returned.

The model’s long, black hair was tied off in a topknot. That, with her heavy makeup, gave her a decidedly pagan look.

“My, my, your Mistress looks fit to be tied,” Monica prattled.

“Bastard!” the Mistress spat at him.

“Why don’t you take a peek behind,” Monica told him.

Royce stepped behind the pillory. Just her knee-high black boots, that’s all the girl was wearing. Her breasts hung heavy as she swayed her tantalizing backside for him. He smiled. More female teasing, game-playing. His client certainly had a flair for theatrics. He elected to play along, to a certain point. A half-hour of this, no more, and he’d head out for his presentation with Tony.

“Like your surprise, Royce?”

“Interesting.”

Monica slapped Christine’s fanny. “Pretty, isn’t it?”

He agreed. An erection stirred in his groin, slimy hot. Sweat stung his eyes.

Monica carefully selected a red whip from the wall collection and offered it to him.

“Here, take this and put it to good use.”

He took the whip handle but said, “No, I don’t think so. This is a little too much for my taste.”

“Oh, go on,” she urged. “You know you want to. The bitch did an outrageous thing to you in public, pinched your little nipples, made them bleed—made you grow tits. Embarrassed you in front of a business associate, a very important man.
A black man
. Go on. Prove to me I don’t have a wimp on my team. Be a tiger, Royce. Pounce!”

He gently swung the whip over hand, the lashes just tickling Christine’s buttocks. The Mistress only laughed.

“How butch!” Monica scolded. “Put your back into it, man!”

He drew the whip back, telling Monica to give him some room. Royce aimed and swung hard, the lashes cracking against Christine’s quivering backside. His Mistress screamed.

“That’s the ticket,” Monica said.

He surveyed the damage: red welts blighted Christine’s buttocks.

Monica told him, “You’ve sweat through your shirt, darling. Let me make you more comfortable.”

She helped him off with his dress shirt and T-shirt, all perspiration-soaked. Standing there, whip in hand, naked from the waist up, he felt very manly, high on a testosterone jolt.

Whip! Snap!

“Fuck you!” Christine cried out, struggling at the pillory. “You swing that whip like you take it up the ass.”

“Make the bitch bleed and I’ll let you screw her,” Monica whispered in his ear.

His next attack drew blood, breaking the skin. As a reward, Monica went on her knees before him, undid his belt and zipped down his pants to snap his erection out with her taloned fingers. She took him in her mouth. Royce moaned.
Yes
.

Smiling wickedly, head spinning, he snapped the whip back. This time he was going to put his balls into it.

Royce arrived home shortly after midnight.

Leslie hadn’t bothered to wait up.

In the bathroom he urinated and closely inspected his organ for signs of weirdness. It seemed pink and normal after his tryst with Christine. She had forgiven him for the whipping he had met out to her, even seemed to derive no small amount of kinky pleasure from it, hotly encouraging him to take her on that bizarre pillory, which he’d done.

Well, at least he’d held the line, electing to not screw Monica as well. You had to be careful about fucking your clients.

He went into the bedroom and, with his back to his wife, quickly undressed and slipped on his pajamas.

“Tony called,” she said groggily. “Sounded upset. Said you stood him up.”

“It couldn’t be helped,” he said testily.

Leslie yawned. “Your buddy Cliffie called to say you have a lunch tomorrow noon at the Hooters at Inner Harbor.”

“All right,” he said uneasily, not recalling giving Cliff his home phone number.

“Isn’t Hooters that place where all the waitresses wear skimpy T-shirts and orange short shorts?”

“I guess.”

“And don’t businessmen coop up there in the afternoon to ogle the help, tell dirty jokes and guzzle beer?”

“You might be right.” From what he knew of the place, his wife’s assessment was accurate.

“You’re certainly getting out and about, Mr. R. Tell Monica not to wear so much perfume, if you two want to keep your fornicating a secret. Or maybe it’s not a secret and half of Baltimore knows, including our friends.”

He turned down the covers on his side of the bed, loathing the prospect of getting in with her.

“Thanks for the advice.”

“Royce?”

“Yes?”

“I want a divorce.”

The phone rang as he got into bed.

“I’ll get it.” He went into the kitchen to answer it, fully prepared to fend off Tony’s anger if need be.

“Royce?”

“Yes,” he snapped.

“This is Randy. Randy Searles in Billings.”

It took Royce a minute to connect. Randy was his brother-in-law, married to Leslie’s sister, Julie. A late-night long distance call could only mean trouble.

“Randy, everything okay?”

“Would Leslie be there?” There was an edge in the man’s voice.

Royce called for Leslie, told her Randy was on the line.

“Is something wrong?” Leslie asked, her tired eyes wide with worry.

“Don’t have the slightest,” he said, and thrust the phone in her face.

“Randy? This is Les. Yes…oh, no.”

His wife began to sob, softly, into the phone.

“They did a biopsy? Malignant. Well how long has she had it? I know, Randy. Look, I’m coming as soon as I can—tomorrow morning. Can you pick me up at the airport? Thank you. How is Jules now? Okay. Look, I’ll let you know when I’ll be there as soon as I can. How are the kids? They don’t know yet?”

Craig, yawning, came into the kitchen to find out what was going on. Leslie got off the phone with her brother-in-law and immediately hugged her son.

“Julie?” Royce inquired.

“A lump in her breast. Malignant. She apparently felt it there for months, but didn’t do anything about it. You know Jules.”

He nodded. Julie Searles was something of an Earth Mother and a stoic, one of those women to whom self-reliance was a religion. She baked her own bread, and Royce wouldn’t be surprised if she made her own soap.

“I’ll call the airlines and check on flights to Billings,” Royce offered solemnly.

“Thank you,” his wife said. “I guess I’d better pack. First, maybe, I should call Mr. Stallings at the bank, let him know I’m going.” Stallings was her department head at the bank.

Royce recommended, given the late hour, that Leslie wait to call her boss until early morning, or at least until they found out about the flight schedule.

Leslie, in a daze, agreed, and went off—Craig in tow—to pack. Royce got on the phone and found a Continental flight leaving BWI at five-forty-five a.m. He asked the ticket agent to hold while he went into the bedroom for his wallet and a credit card to pay for the ticket. There, Leslie and Craig were involved in some kind of mother-child thing; the boy, big-eyed, wasn’t sure how to respond to Leslie’s tearful mothering.

Royce discreetly snared his wallet off the dresser and went back to the kitchen to read his MasterCard’s account number and expiration date to the ticket agent. That done, he made coffee and waited until he thought it safe enough to go into the bedroom and tell Leslie what time her plane was leaving.