Lawrence Block - Getting Off

A drink? No, whatever for? He used the downstairs lavatory because one really didn’t want the nuisance of a full bladder in medias res, poured himself a glass of Evian water because one didn’t want a dry mouth, either, and mounted the stairs to the master bedroom.

And that, he reflected, was a singularly appropriate name for it. The bedroom of the Master, and of the Mistress. And, on nights like this, of their…what? Companion? Slave?

Victim?

He checked the bedroom. Angelica had already done so before they left the house, setting the stage, but he fussed over it anyway, lowering the already softened lighting the slightest bit, then changing his mind and returning it to pretty much the level she had chosen.

Busywork, he thought. He went over to the bed, already turned down in invitation, and ran his hand over the linen. Percale sheets, high thread count, properly silky and luxurious. An abundance of pillows, to cushion the head or elevate the hindquarters, as circumstances required.

He checked the drawers in the little bedside chests. Toys in one, ties in another. He pictured the girl, imagined her naked, face downward, spread-eagled, wrists and ankles tied to the brass handholds he’d mounted on the corners of the bed frame. A pillow under her, presenting him with her little-girl bottom, offering him a choice of sheaths for his weapon.

And there’d be plenty of time to try them both.

Was that the Lexus? Even if it was, he had plenty of time. But there was no need to dawdle. He stopped on the way out, adjusting the position of the three-panel Japanese screen, and deciding, as he’d decided with the lighting, that it had been just right to begin with.

More busywork, and it only served to show the stake he had in what lay ahead. So it was a good sign, wasn’t it? As often as they’d entertained themselves in this fashion, you might have thought he’d be more casual about the whole enterprise. Even blasé.

There was a small room just next to the master bedroom, a third bedroom, really, but he used it as a den. He settled himself in there now, and closed the door.

By the time he heard the Lexus, heard it stop at the driveway, heard the garage door as it ascended, he had taken off all his clothes, hanging his slacks and jacket in the den closet, tucking his socks into his shoes, placing his folded shirt and underwear on an arm of the easy chair.

He sat in the chair, and unconsciously he touched himself, more for reassurance than anything else. Could something have gone wrong? Had Angelica come home alone? That was always a possibility. Sometimes one of them changed her mind. A woman’s prerogative, after all. To change one’s mind.

No. He heard voices, the two of them in conversation. He couldn’t make out what they were saying, but it was enough to know they were both there together.

So the girl had not changed her mind. And now it was no longer her prerogative. She was theirs.

When they turned on Ordway Avenue, she said she didn’t know they had apartments here. Angelica told her she lived not in an apartment but in a freestanding house. “A townhouse,” she said. “That’s what they call it. It’s part of a development, and the association takes care of all the exterior maintenance, the lawn-mowing and landscaping and all that. But in every other respect it’s a private home.”

“And you live there all by yourself?”

“I’m married, Missy.”

“Oh.”

“He’s the perfect husband,” she said, “in that he makes a lot of money and doesn’t care how I spend it. And best of all, he travels a good deal of the time.”

“Is he away now?”

“He’s out of town,” Angelica said, “and I’m out on the town. That’s how it works.”

“Does he know—”

“How the mouse plays when the cat’s away? It’s hard to say what he knows and what he chooses not to know. One time he said, very pointedly, that he wouldn’t like it if I was with another man. And he put the emphasis on man, which left me feeling that he had his suspicions, and that he didn’t mind if I found a playmate now and then.”

“And when he’s home—”

“I keep him very happy.”

“I see.”

“Do you, Missy? And when he’s away, I keep myself very happy. I drove him to the airport this morning, and he called this afternoon to let me know he was safe and sound in Kansas City. From there he goes to Omaha, and then I forget where in South Dakota. And so on, and he won’t be back for ten days.”

After a moment she said, “And when he comes home you’ll sleep with him.”

“Indeed I will. You disapprove?”

“No, I just wondered. I mean, do you enjoy it?”

“I like girls more, Missy. But that doesn’t mean I don’t like boys.”

“Oh.”

“And you?”

She paused, as if considering the question. “Just girls,” she said at length.

“You’re so sweet,” Angelica said, and put a hand on her thigh. “You wouldn’t believe the fun we’re going to have.”

Angelica’s hand stayed on her thigh until she braked the car in front of a well-proportioned two-story house, a center-hall Spanish Colonial with a tiled roof and an attached garage. The hand moved to the visor, and Angelica worked the remote and raised the garage door, then parked alongside a smaller Honda.

She said, “His car?”

“Mine, actually. But when he’s out of town I get to drive his Lexus.”

“You get to do just about everything, huh?”

“Everything good,” Angelica said.

They both got out of the Lexus, and the garage door descended as they approached the door leading to the kitchen. She was a few steps behind, resting her hand on the Honda’s hood while Angelica turned the key in the lock.

Click!

What the hell was Angelica doing? Giving the little darling a guided tour of the downstairs? And, while she was at it, nailing her on the couch?

Waiting like this was sweet torture. But at length Brady heard their feet on the carpeted stairs, heard them walk down the hall and turn at the bedroom. And now he could make out their voices:

The girl: What a big bed.

Angelica: In case you want to hide from me.

The girl: And then you’d have to search for me.

Angelica: I found you at the bar, didn’t I? I think I’ll be able to find you in the bed, Missy.

Ah, so her name was Missy. And she had a little-girl voice, to go with her little-girl name.

Missy: This is nice. Is it Japanese?

The screen. They always noticed the screen. And more often than not looked behind it, perhaps unconsciously needing to reassure themselves that there was no one lurking there. Because there could be a man there, a savage creature with a shark’s grin and a massive erection, an unwelcome intruder in a girl — girl scene, but no, the screen was purely decorative, and there was no one for it to conceal.

Angelica: My husband saw it in a shop in San Francisco. He bought it and had them ship it here, and the first I knew about it was when the UPS truck turned up.

Missy: It’s beautiful.

Angelica: He has an eye for beautiful things.

Missy: Well, that’s obvious, isn’t it?

Angelica: And so do I. Come here, you beautiful thing.

If you were going to try going to bed with a woman, she thought, it might as well be a beautiful one. Angelica was that and more, and it wasn’t surprising that she proved to be a gifted lover. She had been certain of that from the first touch, the hand on her shoulder, and had been certain of her own response from the first kiss in the parking lot.