Chapter Eight
In Between
Now that I was calmer, and not in fear of being murdered, I was able to study the man across from me in the azure blue pool. He was handsome as fucking sin.
So far he’d kept his promise. He hadn’t touched me. I needed distance and he seemed to understand that. Even in the elevator, we’d stood on opposite sides, facing the front.
The Empire Hotel’s pool was beautiful and peaceful, situated high above the cacophony of the city. The sun was setting and the air was thin and pink, like my bikini. Breezes blew across the patio enclosure. The pool was small, but the sky was big, and no one else was here. W swam laps like a fucking Olympian, perfect form, back and forth, muscular arms slicing through the water. I bobbed in the corner because I could only dog paddle.
It had been a hard week for me. Between Simon’s attack and W’s quasi rape, I felt battered. Not my body. My body was used to indignities. It was my soul and my emotions that felt battered. I’d looked forward to this date all week. I’d looked forward to finally finding out what W looked like. I’d tried to look all pretty and feminine and special for this first real meeting. I wonder how special I’d looked while I was sobbing, choking on my panty-and-necktie gag.
I turned away from him and stared up at the sky. What did a pink sunset mean? Good tidings, or bad? I needed some good tidings. I felt miserable enough to drown.
No, no drowning. There was something healing about water, perhaps because it washes things away, or because it embraces you and makes you buoyant. W swam over and leaned on the edge of the pool near me. Not touching. Don’t touch me. I still felt confused by his Anglo-Saxon blondness, when I’d expected him to be a dark Mediterranean lover.
He didn’t say anything to me, just stared at my breasts. He was winded from the billion laps he’d just banged out. I tried not to notice the drips of water traveling down his sculpted chest, or his rippling arm muscles.
“How old are you?” I asked.
“None of your business.”
Any other personal questions were sure to get the same response.
“I thought you would have dark hair,” I said, because it still flustered me.
“I don’t have dark hair,” he said. “I have blond hair.”
“Are you from Texas?”
“No. But the accent’s not that hard.” He sighed. “I’m sorry I fucked with you. You’re fun to fuck with. You’re so earnest.”
Earnest? Never heard that before. Sweet, sexy, feline, seductive? Yes. Earnest? No.
His eyes left my face and traveled to my shoulder. “What happened to you? I didn’t do that.”
There was a lingering bruise from when Simon had socked me on the collarbone. I covered it with my hand.
“What happened?” he asked again.
“None of your business,” I replied, borrowing his earlier phrase. “So, I guess there’s no more mystery between us.”
“Huh?”
“The poetry from last time. It was Mystery by D.H. Lawrence.”
“Your Googling skills are impressive. And there’s still mystery between us. What do you know about me? Besides how I look?”
I thought a moment. I could pretty much list the rest of what I knew on one hand.
1. Good swimmer
2. Rich
3. Private
4. Pervert
5. Psycho
“Are you still going to see me after today?” he asked.
I wanted to say no. I should have said no, but instead I said nothing at all, because I was undecided.
“I’ll give you more poetry,” he said. “You’ll be swimming in rhymes and metaphors. Speaking of swimming, why don’t you swim? Why are you hugging the wall?”
So I won’t hug you. Because I want to hate you, but now you’re being kind and charming and polite and I want to hug you and grope your muscles.
“I’m not a big swimmer,” I muttered. “But the water feels good.”
“I’d like to kiss you.” He didn’t move closer to me, or grab me. He kept his distance. “We haven’t kissed yet today.”
“I don’t know why you want to kiss me when you won’t even tell me your name. It’s stupid.”
“It’s not stupid. Not to me.”
“Do you have a horrible name?”
“No, I have a normal name.”
“Mortimer? Herman? Gaylord?”
“Normal.”
“Wilbur? Barnabus?”
“Keep guessing. You’re pretty far off.”
A hot young stud strolled onto the pool deck. Another escort, probably. His Speedos were about twenty times tighter than W’s navy swim trunks. I gave Young Stud the once-over just to yank W’s chain. When I looked back at him, I realized he knew my intention, and that it amused him. Ugh. Why did I bother trying to ruffle him? He was unruffle-able.
“Can I kiss you?” he asked. And I knew what he really meant was, Are we okay again? because his eyes were saying I’m sorry and his lips were saying let me kiss it better.
I didn’t answer, I just swam over into his arms, because that’s where I wanted to be, for better or worse. He caught me against him and lifted me in the water, and fastened his lips onto mine. The young stud made a faint sound of disgust, but I didn’t care.
W tugged at my hair, demanding my attention as his lips recaptured mine. His kisses mended my soul, at least a little. He might not tell me his name, but he kissed me like a lover every single time.
“Do you want to go back down to the room?” he said when we parted.
“Maybe.”
“I probably owe you an orgasm.”
I glared at him. He owed me a lot more than an orgasm after what he’d done, but an orgasm would work for starters.
“All right, then,” I said, moving my arms under the water. “Yes.”