Saturday, August 19
(Gus)
The doorbell is ringing. It's been ringing for a couple of minutes. Jesus, can no one else in this house answer the door? I'm tired and I'm hungover. I don't want to get out of bed. I shoot a peek at the clock on my nightstand. Nine-fifty. Guess I should get up. The doorbell rings again, as if to second the motion.
After I put on some shorts, I head for the front door. The shades are drawn and the whole house is dark. Rubbing the sleep out of my eyes with the heel of my hand, I open the door. I'm met with blinding sunlight and it's way too damn bright for my current state. I squint my eyes and hold my hand up to shield my eyes from the glare that's taunting my receding state of drunkenness. I blink my eyes, adjusting to the brightness, and realize that whoever is standing before me hasn't said a word. I slowly draw my hand away from my face to reveal a man standing before me. I squint again to take him in. He's manicured and styled in that I'm-a-douchebag-rich-fuck kind of way: expensive suit, matching tie, shiny shoes, perfect hair, and glistening white teeth straight out of a toothpaste commercial. He still hasn't spoken a word, but his ego precedes him. He projects it out in front of him like a warning. Or an accolade. I'm tempted to shut the door in his face. Instead, I talk to him. "What can I do you for, buddy?" I ask, laying on the sarcasm. Truth be told, I couldn't care less who he is.
He clears his throat and the self-important voice that always accompanies a cocky douchebag answers. "I'm looking for Scout MacKenzie."
I eye him hard. I don't know who he is, but I'm not getting a good vibe from him. "What do you want with her?"
He smirks and if it's possible I dislike him even more for his bold, pretentious manner. "Scout and I are old friends. I was in town and wanted to say hi."
For two seconds I consider shutting the door on him again, but then I question him instead. "She know you're stopping by?"
He shakes his head and the smirk slips before it's replaced by a wolfish grin. "No. I thought I would surprise her."
I don't like this guy and for some reason I don't want him looking for Impatient. I don't want her to want him looking for her. I need to go back to bed and start this day over. I sigh. "Hold on. I don't know if she's home. Lemme go check," I shut the door on him and finish my sentence. "Dick."
Just then Impatient walks into the room. She's dressed for her morning run. I motion over my shoulder. "Door's for you."
Her eyebrows knit together. "For me?"
I nod and sidestep her so she can answer the door this time and I can remove myself from the situation. But I don't leave the room. I know I should give her privacy, but with the alarms this guy's already set off, I'm not leaving her alone with him. I stand out of sight, but within earshot.
When she opens the door she gasps. It's not fear. It's shock. "Michael?"
Fucking Michael. Ex-boyfriend-call-out-his-name-when-she's-on-the-verge-of-an-orgasm fucking Michael.
"Hi, angel." His salutation is smarmy and way too smooth, like it's been rehearsed. She isn't buying this, is she?
"Hi." She doesn't return his enthusiasm.
One point to Scout. Zero points to fucking Michael.
"How'd you find me?"
I instinctively take one step closer. I didn't like the sound of that at all.
"I talked to Jane. She gave me your new address. I needed to see you again. I've missed you, angel." He's laying it on thick. I can't see his face to know what kind of a show he's putting on for her, but I can hear the insincerity in his voice. He knows exactly what to say to her, but he's forgotten the part where he should actually mean it.
I can't see Impatient either, I'm behind the door, but I can feel the tug of war going on inside her. She's not scared, but she's apprehensive. "Michael." Her voice caresses his name hesitantly. Like she's said it, exactly like that, a thousand times before. "I think you need to leave." Her words say one thing while her voice says something else altogether.
I don't like hearing the need in her voice, the not-quite-forgotten love from deep within her.
"Aww, come on, angel. Let me take you out to breakfast. We need to talk. It's over with Melissa. We need to talk about us." There's movement on the other side of the door. I get the sense that he's touching her and my fists ball up at my sides.
"Please go, Michael." It's a weak plea. I've never heard her sound so weak. I don't think she wants him to go.
I can't hold back. "You heard the woman, chief. It's time for you to leave." I step forward and open the door the rest of the way so I can stare him down. I've got three or four inches of height on the guy and he's got a good fifteen to twenty years on me. I usually don't try to intimidate, but I'm trying my damnedest right now.
He looks at Impatient and the look in his eyes is possessive ... and pissed. "Who's he?"
She sighs like she would rather be anywhere else but here. "Michael," she says again, with hesitant affection wrapped around his name, "this is Gustov Hawthorne. I work for his mother. She's been nice enough to let me live here for a few months until I can save up enough money to find a place of my own."
The smirk emerges again and I want to reach out and tear it off his goddamn face. When he looks at me, his air of authority returns, and with it I see her resolve start to fall away. She's putty in his hands. He knows how to fucking work her emotions like she's nothing but a marionette. He sees it, too, and I hate him for it. "Get your jacket, Scout. I'm taking you to breakfast," he commands.
I want her to say no and tell him to fuck off, but instead her shoulders sag and she obeys like a child. "Give me a minute. I'll be right back." She retreats to her bedroom and returns with a sweatshirt on over her long-sleeved T-shirt, running shorts and shoes still in place.
And then she disappears out the door with him. And something I can't explain happens inside me. My chest tightens and there's a lump in my throat. It's jealousy. And protectiveness. And desire. And crushing, fucking helplessness.
(Scout)
Inside my head, I'm screaming at myself. What the hell, Scout! Don't be stupid. Don't set yourself back. You don't need him.
But my body betrays me. It follows him to his rental car and climbs inside when he opens the door. It was that easy. Down the rabbit hole I go ... again.
When he climbs in behind the wheel his face is triumphant. He knows he won ... again.
Looks like I'm the fool. And fucked ... again.
We eat at a small burrito place just down the road from Audrey's. He makes small talk. Tells me how he's been traveling a lot. Tells me how many new accounts his firm has secured in the past several months. Tells me about the new boat he bought last month. None of it is important. He's just trying to impress me. It used to work. It's probably what lured me in three years ago. Back when I was a freshman at NYU—young and impressionable. We met at the coffee shop around the corner from my subway stop. He lived in Miami, but traveled to New York once a month on business. He was older and handsome and charming and he looked at me like I was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. No one had ever looked at me like that. And when I talked, he listened. He wanted to spend time with me. I fell in love with that. My first and only love. Looking back, I know that didn't last. I didn't see it though. I didn't see him looking at other woman when he was out with me. I didn't see his mind wandering when I talked. I didn't notice that our time together was more and more confined to sex, quick and hard, and for his pleasure, no longer mine. But I couldn't detach myself from him. He became my addiction. He still is apparently, because I'm sitting here with him, in his company, when I most definitely should be anywhere else. I feel dirty. I feel used. I feel lesser. But I can't leave. I hate that the most. I hate that I need to leave, but that I can't.
So, when we finish up and he confirms it's over with Melissa, and suggests we go back to his hotel, I nod. I go with him.
The lights remain off, as always, but the instant I hear the latch catch behind me, he's got me pinned up against the hotel room door with his body. His mouth is on mine, hot and demanding. I take it and my body starts heating up. I don't want my body to react to him, to his absence, but it does. He's the only man I've ever been with. The throbbing between my legs is building, which makes me feel weak. Like a failure. Like a traitor. Like a bad person. But I can't help it. He's familiar.
He's already undoing his belt and unbuttoning his pants. And I'm unbuttoning his dress shirt. He always undresses first. When he's done he commands me to strip from the waist down. I do. Then he bends me over the arm of the sofa and takes me from behind. It's rough. The first six months we were together, we had mutually satisfying sex. The past couple of years, he fucks me. I don't like that part. But I'm used to it. His pounding body feels like it's punishing me. His hands dig into my hips so hard I know he'll leave me marked. My body slams into the sofa with each thrust. I can feel the beginnings of a bruise on each hip bone from the repeated impact. He's grunting like he always does, like an animal satisfying a primal need. I used to think it was sexy, but not anymore. I'm quiet, as always. He doesn't like it when I make any noise. Sometimes I think it's so he can pretend I'm not here. When I'm silent, I'm just a body being used to satisfy carnal depravation. I can feel his hot breath on my back through the material of my T-shirt. It brings stinging tears to my eyes. The grunts give way to his gravelly voice in my ear. "My cock's missed you, angel," he says. Then, "Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit," like he always says, between gritted teeth, when he finishes. And it always sounds like he's disdainfully congratulating himself on getting off. Complimenting his ego on a job well done.
I haven't had an orgasm during sex with him in well over a year.
When he pulls out, he plants a solitary, almost chaste kiss on the small of my back. It's my consolation, the romantic finishing touch, for accommodating him. Then he walks to the bathroom and I hear the shower turn on. He always showers immediately after sex, but I don't know if he washes away the guilt. I don't think so. I don't think he even feels guilt. I think he just wants to wash away ... me.
And I let him.
Until the next time.
I thought I was stronger. I thought I had changed. I thought I was better than this.
I guess not.
Michael just proved that.
When he comes back out from the bathroom he's dressed in his suit again, looking totally unaffected. He'll return to small talk as he escorts me out. He never takes me home. That's how it always works.
He extends his hand out, palm up. "Phone." He's telling me to give him my phone. Commanding.
I shouldn't, but I hand it to him. It's a new phone I got when I moved to San Diego. A new phone number. A number he didn't have. Until now.
He programs in his cell number and sends a text to himself. He smiles that wolfish smile as he opens the hotel room door and hands the phone back to me. His smile seems to say you're welcome and good-bye. It's narcissism at its best. Then he says, "I'll see you soon." And lastly, he shuts the door on me, dismissing me. He leaves me standing in the hallway. Hating myself.
I feel so weak. I am not strong.
But I also know I will not see him again.
I'm done.
This is over.