Your Song (10 page)

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It’s Tuesday and I find myself in Ottawa checking into the Hotel Indigo Boutique, steps away from key downtown businesses and Parliament Hill. This is my first time staying here at this hotel located on the corner of Metcalfe and Laurier. I consider popping out at lunch for a walk along the Rideau Canal since it’s that close. My business meetings have been set up in the hotel conference room so sensible Cate booked me a room here knowing full well that these meetings often go well into early evening.

I’ve been to Ottawa at least a dozen times and each time I’ve come, I have done the touristy thing and taken in one of the landmarks. Since our nation’s capital, Parliament Hill in downtown Ottawa sits majestically at the center of the city, walking by
the Parliament buildings whenever I’m in Ottawa has become a ritual of mine. I remember learning about the Canadian government in school and walking by it brings fond memories of my younger days and easier times. When I’m here, I also always go to the Byward Market for my morning
illy
espresso at La Bottega Nicastro, a gourmet Italian food market. Wherever my travels take me, I always manage to find my
illy
espresso.

All day meetings exhaust me. And at 6:30 P.M. like caged birds, we’re set free. Instead of joining the other guys for a dinner out, I choose to go for a run by the Rideau Canal instead. Unable get out at lunch today as I had hoped, a jog in the early evening light would do me some good. Once upstairs in my room, I change into my running gear and shoes. On my way out, I grab my iPhone and check for any messages or missed calls,
particularly from the stalker in my midst
. I find one missed call from Lara.  The next missed call is from Dr. Leung’s office.
That’s weird
. Dr. Leung’s office usually calls my house line and leaves a message. I was just at Dr. Leung’s last Wednesday for my yearly physical and everything seemed fine.
My blood work. Shit.
I forgot I had the blood work done.
Last, I have a text from Amy:

Hey u- check ur email tonight. Tx.

I breathe a sigh of relief that no blocked calls came through today. With that, I make my way down the hotel stairs and out the door in a flash. A thirty-minute evening run in Ottawa is just what I need to unwind. With the Canal on one side of me and these imposing trees bordering me on the other side as I jog along the pathway, once again, one with nature. No iPod in my ears to distract me from the sounds of birds chirping, water lapping, people walking and talking. Alone with my thoughts.

I think about Amy’s text and wonder what she emailed me
about. What is she anxiously waiting for me to read? I think about Raj and my plan to forward him the pictures of Caroline on my iPad. I think about David and Lara and Mr. Callahan. But then these thoughts are interrupted when I see a beautiful baby girl in a stroller a few feet ahead of me. The father is seated on a bench along the Canal while the baby is looking out at all of the people passing by. With only two bottom teeth and a curl of hair tied in a miniature ribbon on top of her head, my heart melts watching her. She’s giggling and babbling away at all of the people who pass by her. The innocence and joy I see in her face are pure and real. Ì just can’t help it. I love kids.

I’
m showered and changed into a white linen shirt and my Hudson jeans.  It’s 8:30 P.M. and I’m beyond starving. I take a seat by myself at the far end of the bar. My first time in the Hotel Indigo bar, I scan my surroundings. Sleek shiny blue tiles along the back of the bar coupled with the somber lighting overhead contribute to an intimate ambiance. Small tables with plush seats help create an inviting setting. The dim lighting darkening the room is just the way I like it. I order my dinner of salmon and vegetables from the waitress and ask the bartender for a rye and ginger while I wait. I face the entrance doors to the bar and watch guests enter and exit. Typical business people, single women in pairs out for a drink, a few couples, the usual. I sip my drink slowly thinking about today’s meetings. My dinner arrives and because I’m as famished as I am, I finish it in what feels like three bites, not looking up once.

Just as the waitress takes my empty plate away, I glance up and notice a woman seated alone at the bar directly across from me. With a mass of long and extremely curly red hair she reminds
me of that actress Glenn Close and her wild nest of hair in that Fatal Attraction movie from years ago.  She’s wearing a low cut navy blue dress that crosses at her breasts revealing ample cleavage. I watch her for a few minutes. She is sipping a martini. Green eyes, light complexion, full lips lined in bright red lipstick. Looks to be in her late thirties or early forties. Not bad. Next, I look at her hands. Right hand is holding her martini glass up to her lips. A gold bangle hugs her upper wrist. Her nails are polished a bright shade of pink. I search for her left hand but it is hidden underneath the bar ledge. Until now, she hasn’t noticed me staring, I don’t think, since she’s been looking downward at the inside of her glass the entire time.

I take the time to gaze at her cleavage, full and likely supported by a gorgeous La
Perla bra. I’ve seen and enjoyed enough lingerie in my time to know when a woman is wearing one. I adore women in fine under things. The image of this fiery redhead unclothed in front of me, straddling me, in tiny navy blue lace panties and a matching see through bra comes to mind. I love the female form and objectifying it is one of my favorite pastimes.
Show me a guy who doesn’t
. I turn my gaze away from the redhead and towards the piano player in the center of the bar. He’s playing the classic Billy Joel song
Piano Man.
Those ever so familiar lyrics come to me as I sip my favorite drink,
nostalgia
.

I turn back to Glenn Close at the bar
who’s on her second martini, still not looking up, deep in thought it seems. I order myself another rye and ginger and ask the bartender to bring it to me on the other side of the bar. Time to move in on my target.

I pull out the blue leather barstool and take a seat next to her. She looks up at
me and smiles. I smile back. The bartender places my glass down in front of me, resting it on a cocktail napkin. I take a sip glancing downwards, trying to sneak a peek at her left hand. Her left forearm rests in front of her along the bar ledge leaving her hand and fingers dangling. I quickly turn my eyes upward so she doesn’t catch me looking. I lock eyes with her for a brief second.

The lyrics come effortlessly to me but as always, keep them inside my head.  I must have heard this song a hundred times growing up. For some re
ason, it always left me feeling . . . lonely. And still does. I turn to my companion on the right.

“Hi,” I say while lifting my glass to my mouth. Redhead isn’t bad looking at all. Clear skin, average makeup, and lips
full enough
.

“Hi,” she replies. She hasn’t taken her eyes off me. Good start.

“You here on business?” she asks.

“Yes, I am.
One night only. How about you?” I ask in return.

“My husband is here on business. I joined him on this trip. Never been to Ottawa before,” she offers. So far, everything’s in place. Nice.

“So, where are you from?” I ask. I don’t detect a particular accent of any kind, perhaps a Canadian or an American.

“I’m originally from Ohio but we live in D.C. now,” she says, summoning the bartender for another martini. Her third.

“So your husband is a politician. Is that why you’re here in Ottawa then?” I look her straight in the eye. She nods. The pianist is now playing the Phantom of the Opera theme. Fitting.

“So how long have you been married?” I ask. Zeroing in.

“Twelve years this September. What about you? Where are you from?” she asks.             

“I’m from Toronto,” I answer. I never lie about where I am from. I’m proud of being a Torontonian.

“Married?” she asks with one brow cocked up high.

“No, I’m not. What’s your name? ” I ask.

“ Amber. And yours?”

“Amber- like the color of your hair. How appropriate.” And the flirting begins.

“My mother said that while I was being born the first thing the doctor spotted was this heap of red curly hair. It’s stayed with me since.” She fluffs her hair on both sides of her head with both hands.             

“I like it. It’s wild. It suits you,” and here comes the charm.

“You really think so? It’s been the bane of my existence. And my daughter’s as well. She has hair exactly like mine,” she laughs.

“Well, your daughter must be very beautiful then. How old is she?” I ask like a care, but really, I don’t. And this is when I spot the platinum Tiffany wedding band. Voila.

“Poppy’s eight,” Amber says.

“Amber and Poppy, both redheads, love the name choices. So, where is your husband tonight?” I ask hoping to cut to the chase.

“At a dinner function that I just could not bear to attend. I go to at least three of these a week back home and every single one bores the hell out of me. This is my vacation.” Amber finishes off her third martini. She doesn’t appear to be drunk, yet.

“Can I order you another martini, Amber?” I offer. She pauses.
Looks me in the eye. I wink at her.

“Sure. Why not?” she accepts. I flag down the bartender for another martini. The piano man is playing more contemporary tunes. Strange piano bar choice but AC/DC’s
You Shook Me All Night Long
has caught my ear. If things continue to progress as they have been and I get my way tonight, I’m hoping that Amber will be knocking me out with her American thighs.

For the next hour, Amber talks. I ask her questions about her life before she got married. I allow her to reminisce about her better times. Expertly, I pour as much attention into her ego as she needs. By this time, we have moved into one of those intimate tables for two and are now eye to eye, whispering. Amber’s legs are entangled in mine beneath the table. The
more drunk she gets, the higher her hand moves up my thigh.

As she vents about her life as a politician’s wife, I glance at my watch wondering how much longer this will take. I want to fuck her now.
Hard and fast. I move my left hand onto her thigh, squeeze and hold it there. I hear her gasp. She’s getting closer. I then reach over and begin to nibble her ear. She looks up alarmed and glances around the bar. Anxious not to be seen by her husband or recognized by another politician in the bar, I’m guessing. Turn on! I pull back my hand from her thigh and then straighten up in my seat. She stares at me for what feels like the longest time. She wants it, I can tell.

“I’ll be in room 206. Knock twice,” Amber whispers in my ear. Bingo! She stands up from the table, straightens her tight navy blue dress, grabs her clutch purse and is off. I watch her trying to balance herself in her high heels, completely and utterly under the influence of a lot of alcohol. I call the waitress over and settle the bill as quickly as I can.

It’s 10:00 P.M., hubby shouldn’t be back for at least another hour or two. Considering how quickly things are moving tonight, I should be back in my own room by 11:00 P.M.

I’ve done this many times before. As I make my way to the second floor I try to recall how many of these rooms I have been in over the past three year
s, but I lose count.  The married women I have met are like putty in my hands; vulnerable, attention seeking, bored and for some, quite the risk-takers. And that’s exactly why, in my secret life, I love to chase and fuck married women I meet on my business travels. Wickedly, the fact that we have to hide from their husbands turns me on. The high I get knowing that I can get caught but haven’t yet is unlike any other. I purposefully go to bars, gyms, coffee shops where I know married women hang out without their husbands. I steer the conversation always in their direction and if I find they start to ask too many questions about me, I divert. Anonymity is key here. Distance from my personal life is even more critical. I’ve never told any of these women my real name.

I knock twice. Amber opens the door. She is still dressed and is now standing in front of me in her heels. Awesome. I walk into her hotel room, glance around and then turn back to her. In one swift move, I push her up against the door. Holding her chin with one hand, I begin by kissing her mouth. Hard. First lips, then I open her mouth wider to let in my throbbing tongue and then finally, the nips and bites. She is panting and moaning beneath me. I grab hold of the hem o
f her dress and push it upwards revealing very sexy thigh high stockings. I move my hand towards her center. She is not wearing any panties. Completely bare. Oh my. Quickly, Amber takes control and begins to kiss me back savagely. She tugs at my linen shirt, opening the first few buttons. She kisses my neck hungrily and then moves back up to my face, her tongue, never relenting. Tugging my hair, she pulls my face downwards to meet her breasts. I feel the shock of her wedding band on my cheek.

Wedding bands excite me. I love the sight of a woman’s wedding ring; sitting on her left ring finger, bob up and down while she’s giving me a hand job. The image drives me wild. I know, pretty fucked up. But for me, the illicitness of what we are doing shines even brighter with the sparkle of her wedding band. And that gets me off.