Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 82883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
I blush, but I don’t look away. “I do.”
She nods.
“That’s fine, then. I mean, as long as you know what you’re getting into, MK. He sees you as a hot piece of pussy, excuse my words, that’s going to be the source of hot sex and good times. He’s not emotionally invested, girlfriend. You know he’s not. Divorced dudes who are forty-five are just out for something temporary and fun.”
I nod slowly, although inside, I’m hurt. Is it true? Does Kent just see me as a temporary plaything, a beautiful body to derive pleasure from now that he’s no longer married to my mom? I slump in my chair, my mood suddenly dull. I know Kayleigh is right, and yet I don’t want to believe it.
But my pretty friend tries to cheer me up. “Text me tonight. You’re seeing him, right? I want a full report.”
I promise I will, and I mean it.
She slips on her jacket, then turns, a sly smile on her lips. “You know,” she says, “if you ever want to do a taste comparison, my stepbrother’s coming to town. Maybe I can get him to eat a ton of fruit too, and we could compare notes.”
I choke on my latte, sputtering a laugh. “Maybe we should start a database. We’ll refer to all the different guys with code names.”
Kayleigh winks, and then giggles.
“Well, I’m only interested in one man, and as far as I can tell, so are you. So the code names wouldn’t be useful. Toodle-oo! I’ll see you soon!”
Then, my friend heads out of the cafe and disappears down the sidewalk, leaving the shop a little emptier.
I finish my drink, watching the city blur past the glass, and wonder if anyone else in this place has ever felt the things I’m feeling now: guilt, anticipation, a secret kind of hunger that makes every day worth waking up for.
Tonight, I’ll do it again. Not because I have to, but because I want to. I love being with Kent, and I adore the intimacy that we share.
Maybe it’s wrong, but maybe that’s the only thing that matters.
9
ANOTHER DIRTY SESSION
KENT
The hour is late enough for it to feel like trespass. My office—converted now, for these sessions, into a makeshift clinic—holds a stillness I can’t shake, even with the heat on high and the desk lamp burning a hollow in the gloom. The only illumination is the ring of amber thrown by the bulb, just enough to outline the vinyl table in the center of the room and the neat, glinting row of oils lined up on the credenza. There’s sandalwood, always; bergamot, in case she’s in the mood for something brighter; and, for tonight, a bottle of musk so rich and dark I can almost taste the elixir on my tongue. I sit behind the desk, chair spun to face the table, and let my hands rest on my knees, palms up like I’m waiting to receive something holy. I don’t have to look down to know that I’m already half-hard—I’ve been this way since dusk, since the text from Mary Kate confirming the appointment. Even stripped down, the edge of detachment holds, but just barely.
The clock ticks. The house has gone so silent that it’s deafening: every small sound takes on the significance of a crash. The tick of the clock in the other room. The faint thrum of the almost-silent ventilation. The hiss of a random sprinkler going on outside.
I try to focus, but the mind is a traitor. It loops back to the night that started all of this: Green Tree Country Club, summer, years ago. I was two years divorced, staying functional by playing doubles with some orthopedic surgeons who drank more than they played. I’d rolled my ankle on the curb in the parking lot and, more annoyed than hurt, limped to the medical office for an ice pack. The nurse on duty was Jeannine Ashton: a woman in her early forties, pretty in a classic, Midwestern way, the edges of her beauty starting to blur, but still holding on pretty well. She wore her scrubs one size too small and laughed too loud at whatever bullshit the Pro Shop manager was saying. If you’d asked me then, I would have said I had no interest. None. She was a cliché and I was tired of clichés.
That is, until I saw the photo on her desk.
It wasn’t even in a frame—just a 4x6, glossy, tucked into the frame of her first aid certificate. The girl in the photo was maybe sixteen, but already fully woman, her blonde hair pulled into a tight ponytail that accentuated the soft lines of her jaw, the impossible blue of her eyes. She wore a Catholic school uniform: plaid skirt cut just above the knee, white shirt buttoned to the collar, though the buttons strained across a pair of breasts that seemed designed to make grown men lose their way in a sentence. Her knees were together, toes pointed in a way that was demure and, for that reason, obscene. White knee socks, and those little black Mary Janes that belong only to parochial schoolgirls and pornographic fantasy. She was looking right at the camera. Right at me, it felt like, even then.