The Black Room: The Deleted Door Page 4

  “Not as tall as you, stocky, well-dressed. Black hair slicked back. Not ugly, but…not handsome, either.”

  “Fuck.” This is spat venomously.

  “So you’re allowed to stray, but she isn’t?”

  “Stray?” He sounds amused. “Is that what you’d call this? Straying?”

  “Adultery? Cheating? What would you call it?”

  He declines to answer, stepping off the elevator as it opens. I lead him to the correct door. He puts his ear to the door, but all that can be heard are voices murmuring low.

  He glances at me, positions me to the side, out of sight. “Stay out here.” And then he knocks on the door, three sharps raps. “Management!” he calls out, in a loud voice, somewhat higher pitched than his is naturally.

  A moment, a rattling, and then the door opens.

  Silence.

  “Shit.” A male voice, with a Bronx accent. “It’s your husband.”

  Her voice, surprised. “Wh—what are you—” she sputters to a stop, sighs in resignation, restarts much more composedly, her voice arch, elegant. “I suppose there’s no point in pretending. I know about your indiscretion, you know. Is she here, as well? Wouldn’t that be something? Both of us carrying on our affairs in the same hotel? Which floor are you on?”

  He just stands there. Hands clenching and unclenching. Silent.

  “Well? Say something, darling, or go away. I’ll see you at home later.”

  “At home?”

  “Well, yes, of course. I’ve known about your little cross-town tramp for some time. This doesn’t have to change anything. We’re all rational adults, after all.”

  “Rational.” He seems at a loss. “You never said anything.”

  I can almost hear the shrug in her voice. “You come home to me at night. She’s merely a distraction. You’ll tire of her charms eventually, and that will be that.”

  A long, long, icy silence. At last, he speaks, and now his voice is merely tired. “You have the advantage, I must admit. I wasn’t expecting this.”

  “How could you not expect it? You’ve been dallying with that tramp of yours for months, darling. And not discreetly, either, I might add. I smelled her in your study last night. I smelled her on you. I smelled her on your beard. Do you have any idea how disgusting and insulting that is? And anyway, what did you think I would do? Faint? Get angry? Divorce you? I think not.” A brief pause. “Although, to be fair, I’ve been stepping out longer than you have.”

  “Really.” This is delivered as a flat, emotionless statement, rather than a question.

  “Yes, quite. For years, now. Do I really seem the bridge club type to you?”

  He flinches, as if struck. “So the bridge club…?”

  “Was a bald-faced lie, yes. Just like your trip to New York was a lie.”

  “I did go to New York.”

  “But not for business. The only business you did was with your whore, on her back. Or knees, knowing your predilections.”

  “She’s not a whore. No more than you are.”

  “Whatever you say. I won’t bandy words with you.”

  “You told me you loved me, just last night.”

  “I do love you. Of course I do! I’m just not in love with you, but then neither are you with me.”

  “I was.”

  “And so was I with you, once upon a time. But then there was that dreadful business with the miscarriage. We never really recovered our relationship after that, did we?”

  “How can you stand there and discuss that so blithely? How can you be so blasé?” Now there’s emotion in his voice. A lot of it, thick and roiling and tense. He steps forward, fists clenching at his sides. “Are you so cold that it meant nothing to you?”

  “How dare you.” This is spat, hissed. “How fucking dare you, you bastard! I wept for months. I needed you. But you buried yourself in work. You vanished before dawn, and returned after dark. I mourned alone. It wasn’t until I started seeking comfort in other men that I started really healing from the loss. You didn’t think it had anything to do with you that I improved, did you?”

  “This isn’t the place or time for this discussion.”

  “Oh no? I think it is. We’ve never discussed it. Why not now? Why not here?”

  “It’s private.”

  “Not anymore.”

  He steps backward, slowly. Glances at me, and then runs his palm over his beard, an agitated gesture. “I’m leaving.”

  I see a hint of ginger hair as she leans out the door to look at me. Wrapped in a flat sheet, holding it to her breasts with one hand, the other gripping the door frame. Hair wild, an explosion of red around her shoulders. Just-fucked hair.

  “Oh, it’s you.” She wrinkles her nose as if she smells something foul. “The guttersnipe. I’ve never understood what he sees in you, aside from your admittedly enviable bust size.”

  Anger burns hot, but shame and guilt burn hotter. “I wasn’t trying to steal him.”

  A laugh, sarcastic, bitter, superior. “Steal him? Oh, you poor little thing. You could never steal anything from me, least of all my husband. I lost him a long time ago, but that’s not the point.”

  “You’re a bitch.” I turn to walk away.

  “I suppose. Better a bitch with culture and class and money than a penniless whore from the wrong side of the tracks, though.”

  I feel her derision like a knife. I don’t have to look at her to know she’s smirking in triumph. The anger takes over, then, and before I can second-guess myself, I’m whirling, launching my fist at her smug, beautiful face. My knuckles smash into her nose, and she flies backward, screaming, blood spurting from her nostrils. I move to hit her again, but thick arms like iron bands wrap around me, pull me backward, and haul me away.

  “Enough.” His voice is in my ear, low, deep, rough. “It’s not worth it.”

  “You broke my nose!” This, from the floor, garbled, through a mouthful of blood. “I’ll have you arrested!”

  “Babe, enough.” The New York accent, this time. “You ain’t callin’ no cops.” He leans out, barrel-chested torso bare, a towel around his waist, and glances at us. “Why don’t youse guys get the fuck outta here, huh?”

  “We’re going.”

  “Put me down,” I say. “I’ll walk.”

  He sets me down, but doesn’t release me, keeps a grip on my arm with one hand. “No more bullshit.”

  “I’m done,” I say.

  “Good. Then let’s get out of here.” He glances back at his wife. “Expect divorce papers within the week. I own room nineteen, on the floor below us. You can have that, for now.”

  “I don’t want your apartment.” Her voice is sullen, pained. “I don’t want anything from you.”

  A shrug. “Suit yourself.”

  “Maybe you oughta take it,” comes that thick accent again. “It might take me a while to find somewhere to put you up.”

  “I’m not your mistress!” This is shouted, followed by the sound of spitting, and a gob of bloody saliva flies to land in the hallway. “I don’t need anything from you, either.”

  There’s a brief silence, then scuffling, and then she flies out of the room, tugging on her dress, fumbling to zip it with one hand, juggling her shoes, bra, and underwear in the other, purse on her shoulder. Still bleeding from her nose, blood on her chin and lips, she stalks past us to the elevator, jabbing her thumb at the call button. She steps into her panties, shimmies them up her legs, and then drops her dress into place. Works her arms out of the sleeves one by one, puts her bra on without taking her dress off.

  She glances around, looking for something, and her gaze settles upon her husband. She reaches out and snatches his handkerchief from his suit coat’s breast pocket, unfolds it, dabs at her nose gingerly, wiping away the blood, folding the handkerchief. She wipes her chin, her lips, and then digs in her purse for a compact. She examines herself in the compact, touches up her lipstick, and runs her hands through her hair to settle it, arrange it.
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  She takes a deep breath as the elevator car arrives, opens, and she steps on, pivoting to face us. She stares hard at her husband, eyes sparking. “Send the papers to my parents in Connecticut. You have the address?”

  “My secretary does.”

  “Did you fuck her, too, your secretary?” Her voice is bitter and tremulous.

  “No.” The doors begin to close. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

  “For what it’s worth, so am I.” She glances at me, and then she lifts her hand toward me, middle finger extended. “Fuck you.”

  That gives her the last word as the doors close.

  From behind us comes a chuckle. “Damn, am I gonna miss her. She was a real firecracker. Especially in the sack.”

  A grumbling growl comes from beside me. But he doesn’t respond. Just presses the call button, shoves his fist in his trouser pocket, and rattles loose change. After a while, the elevator arrives once more, and we ride down to the lobby.

  I follow him outside, and then he stops on the sidewalk, as if at a loss.

  “What now?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “I don’t know. I wasn’t expecting this.”

  “It’s kind of a mess, isn’t it?”

  A short, sharp laugh. “A bit of one, yes.” He glances down at me, sidelong. “What’s next for you?”

  I mimic his shrug. “I have no idea. I didn’t know what I was going to do before all this happened. Even less so, now.”

  “We could be clueless together.” He offers me a hesitant smile, as if exploring the idea of a smile for the first time.

  My heart pitter-patters. “I’d like that.”

  He nods slowly. Tangles his fingers in mine. He stares at our joined hands, curious, bemused. “Together, then.” A beat of silence. “Have you ever been to the Carolina coast?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t think so.”

  “I have a cottage there.” He reaches into his pocket with his free hand. Rattles that change again. “Do you need to get anything?”

  “Everything I own is in my suitcase.” I lift the suitcase, which has been in my hand this whole time.

  “OK, let’s get it and then go to my house. It won’t take long to pack a few things.”

  “I have nothing but time.”

  He eyes me, a strange expression on his face. “You know, there’s one other thing I have to do, first.”

  We go across the street and into the diner I had so recently left. He asks to borrow a telephone, dialling a number from memory, his finger swiping swiftly around the rotary dial.

  “Yes, hello, Mrs. Johnson, it’s me. Put me through to the boss, will you? Thanks, my dear…Good morning, sir. I know I’m late, and I’m sorry about that, but I’m afraid I’m only going to make your day worse. I’m quitting. Right now. Effective immediately. Things have sort of come unglued for me, Jim, and I’m not really sure where I’m going to land. I’ll understand if you can’t provide references, given the unexpected nature—well hell, that’s swell, boss, thanks. You’re too good to me. I know, this too shall pass and all that…yes, sir. No, I’d rather not discuss it, if that’s all right. Yes, sir, just mail my pay check to my home. I’ll be having my mail forwarded to wherever I end up. All right, goodbye. Thanks for everything.”

  We collect my suitcase and then walk to his home. I wait in his study while he packs a bag, which takes less than fifteen minutes. We’re on a bus within an hour.

  I doze, then, hours upon hours of passing scenery interspersed with blank spaces of sleeping, my head on his shoulder.

  Eventually he shakes me with a gentle hand. “We’re here.”

  I stretch, languid, feline. “Where’s here?”

  “Charleston, South Carolina.”

  ….

  His cottage is a cozy, delightful little place right on the water’s edge, tucked in among towering palm trees. There’s a deep porch with a swing and steps leading down to the sand. A handrail and faded footboards meander between the dunes down to the sea. Dune grass waves in the warm breeze; the crash of the surf is a gentle, soothing lullaby.

  He moves about the cottage, opening doors and windows, removing dust covers from the furniture. I find my way down to the beach, let my toes be tickled by the water, watching the sea ripple in the golden gleam of the sun.

  I lift the hem of my dress up above my knees and wade into the water, deeper and deeper, until I have to raise the hem to my waist. I should be more modest, I suppose, but I can’t bring myself to care. There’s no one in either direction. No one to see me, except him.

  Just then, I feel him behind me.

  Wading in after me, wearing a pair of swim trunks and nothing else.

  He stops and toys with the zipper pull tab of my dress. “This is the only cottage for miles in either direction. We’re alone.”

  I turn my head to look at him, pull my hair in front over one shoulder. He lowers the zipper to the small of my back, then tugs the dress up and off me. He bunches it into a wad, and tosses it onto the sand.

  I’m in my bra and panties, feeling a thrill of daring. Feeling, also, very much unsure about what is going on, with him and me. What is this? Where is it going? What does any of it mean?

  But those thoughts are erased by his touch, his fingertips on my shoulders. Dragging my bra straps aside, he flicks open the catch of my bra. He gives it to the waves. I should care, but I don’t. His touch is magic, sorcery, banishing all the I-shoulds from my mind. I should care that my husband tossed me out, that the man behind me just left his wife. That this thing between us, whatever it is, has its roots in infidelity. I should care that my bra is floating away. I should care that he’s tugging my panties down and that now they’re gone, too. I should care that I’m naked for anyone to see.

  But I don’t.

  I do not care about any of that. Not yet, at least. Perhaps I will, later. Or tomorrow. Or next month. I don’t know.

  What I know is his touch. His hands grazing my ribcage, skating up to cup my breasts. Thumbing my nipple into a diamond-hard erection, sensitive, throbbing.

  His teeth worry at my earlobe. His chest brushes my back. I can feel his erection, thick and hard.

  I reach behind me, find the strings of his swim trunks and tug them down, plunging my fist down his hard length. He leans against me, nose in my neck, inhaling.

  He’s bending at the knees.

  Nudging my opening with his cock. I gasp as he straightens, driving into me. The water laps at mid-thigh, rising with the waves and receding, teasing just beneath my core.

  “Jesus…holy shit, you feel so fucking perfect.” His voice is rough and awed. “You know how many times I’ve dreamed about this? How bad I’ve wanted this, with you?”

  “You did?” I breathe the question.

  “God, yes. All the time. I masturbated until I was raw, thinking about this.” He swivels his hips, bends his knees, slides out, grunts in my ear, and then slams in. “I fucked my wife and pretended it was you. Last night, I was picturing you. Picturing that blond hair of yours wrapped around my fist. Picturing those big beautiful breasts of yours bouncing while I fucked you.”

  I don’t know how I feel about that last admission. “And when you told her you loved her?”

  “It’d be more true if I’d said it to you rather than to her.”

  “But it’s not true either way.”

  “Does it matter?” He sounds irritated.

  “It might begin to matter, someday. To me.”

  “Is that what you want from me? For me to tell you I love you?” His voice is tight, tense.

  He’s huge inside me, motionless, thick and throbbing; I need to move. I ache, and I need to find release. “Not if you don’t mean it.”

  “Let’s not complicate this, then. I’m not going to say it if I don’t mean it, and you don’t want to hear it if I don’t mean it. I’m not saying I don’t, or that I never will, but I’m just not there yet.”

  I widen my stance, reach up and clasp my hands
around his neck. Sink down so he fills me to splitting. “Shut up and fuck me.”

  He thrusts up, hard. His palms scrape roughly over my diaphragm, up to cup my breasts. Grip, knead, flick my nipples as he swivels his hips. I moan, lean back against him, hold on to his neck, and let him do the work.

  I’m not getting there fast enough, though.

  I keep on hand on his neck, clinging to him for balance, then slide the other one down between my thighs. I press my middle two fingers to my clit, swipe and circle.

  “God, watching you touch yourself like that…” he grunts and fucks all the harder. “It makes me crazy.”

  I moan, and my fingers fly faster, press harder. I feel the sizzle and burn of need building, feel him sliding in and out of me, thick cock spreading my pussy open, aching as I stretch to accommodate him. My legs go weak as my fingers move in a blur, heat barreling through me in a grinding blast, gutting me as an orgasm hits, freight-train hard and fast.

  Instead of following me over the edge, he maintains his pace until I’ve slowed, until I’m gasping and whimpering as the climax recedes, and then he pulls out of me.

  “You know what I want?” He asks, grabbing me by the arms and turning me around so I’m facing him.

  I take his cock in my hand and stroke his length, wet with my essence. “I can guess. You want to come on me again, don’t you? That’s what you said you like best, seeing your cum on my skin?”

  “Now that I’ve been inside you,” he responds, leading me by the hand, pulling me shoreward. “I’ve decided on something else I like best.”

  “Which is what?”

  “Watching your pussy take me in.” He snags my panties and bra, which are floating in the water near the shore. “I want to bend you over the bed and fuck you. I want you to ride me. I want to fuck you every way there is, until you beg me to stop.”

  “I wouldn’t wait for that to happen,” I tell him, following him along the path to the house. I step up onto the porch as he heads toward the open door. “You might be waiting forever, if you do.”

  He tosses our clothing in a wet heap onto the porch, my dress, my undergarments, his trunks.