Jonathan Kellerman - Silent Partner

Two personalities sharing one face. Freaky as a carny show and twice as unsettling because there was hostility behind it, the desire to ridicule. To dominate.

“Tell her I care about her ,” I said. “Tell her whatever she does, that I still care.”

“Have a good evening,” he said. Then he went into his house.

An hour later, back in my apartment, I was furious, determined to flush her and her bullshit out of my life. A month later I’d settled down to solitude and a crushing workload, was managing to fake contentment well enough to believe it myself, when she called. Eleven P.M. I’d just gotten home, dog-tired and hungry. When I heard her voice, my resolve melted like old slush under a new sun.

“I’m back. I’m sorry- I’ll explain everything,” she told me. “Meet me at my house in an hour. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

I showered, put on fresh clothes, drove to Nichols Canyon prepared to ask hard questions. She was waiting for me at the door in a flame-red low-cut jersey dress that barely contained her. In her hand was a snifter of something pink and redolent of strawberries. It obscured her perfume- no spring flowers.

The house was brightly lit. Before I could speak she pulled me inside and pressed her mouth against mine, worming her tongue between my teeth and keeping us fastened by pressing one hand hard to the back of my head. Her breath was sharp with alcohol. It was the first time I’d seen her drink anything other than 7-Up. When I commented on it, she laughed and hurled the glass at the fireplace. It shattered and left pink snail-tracks on the wall.

“Strawberry daiquiri, darling. I guess I’m in a tropical mood.” Her voice was husky, inebriated. She kissed me again, harder, began undulating against me. I closed my eyes, sank into the boozy sweetness of the kiss. She moved away from me. I opened my eyes, saw her peeling out of the red dress, shimmying and licking her lips. The silk caught on her hips, gave way after a tug, then fell to the floor, just a flimsy orange ribbon. She stepped away from me, gave me a look at her: braless, in black garter belt, mesh stockings, and high-heeled shoes.

She ran her hands over her body.

In the abstract it was X-rated comedy, Frederick’s of Hollywood, a lampoon. But she was anything but abstract and I stood there, transfixed.

I let her strip me down in a practiced manner that excited and frightened me.

Too nimble.

Too professional.

How many other times?

How many other men? Who’d taught her-

To hell with that. I didn’t care- I wanted her. She had me out, in her hand, kneading, nibbling.

We embraced again, naked. Her fingers traveled over my body, scratching, raising welts. She put my hand between her legs, rode my fingers, engulfed them.

“Yum,” she said, stepping back once more, pirouetting and exhibiting herself.

I reached for the light switch. She said, “No. Keep it bright . I want to see it, see everything .”

I realized that the drapes were open. We were standing before the wall of glass, top-lit, giving a free show to Hollywood.

I turned the light off.

“Party pooper,” she said and kneeled before me, grinning. I put my fingers in her hair, was engulfed, spun backward into a vortex of pleasure. She pulled away to catch her breath, said, “C’mon, the lights . I want to see it.”

“In the bedroom,” I gasped. Lifting her in my arms, I carried her down the hall as she continued to kiss me and stroke me. The bedroom lights were on, but the high windows afforded privacy.

I set her down on top of the covers. She opened like a book to a favorite page. I got on top.

She rounded her back and drew her legs up in the air. Put me in her and rocked her hips, holding me at arm’s length so she could stare at the piston merger of our flesh.

Once, she’d been married to modesty; there’d been a quickie divorce…

“You’re in me, oh, God.” She pinched her nipples, touched herself, made sure I watched.

She rode me, withdrew me, took me in hand, rubbed me over her face, slid me between her breasts, wrapped me in the soft tangle of her hair. Then got under me, pulled me down hard, and tongued my anus.

A moment later we were locked together standing, her back to the wall. Then she positioned me near the foot of the bed and sat on me, staring over my shoulder into the mirror above the dresser. Not satisfied with that, she pushed me off her and pulled me into the bathroom. I realized why right away- tall, mirrored medicine chests on two walls, mirrors that could be pulled out and angled, for side views, back views. After arranging her stage, she sat on the cold tile counter, shivering and goose-bumped, put me in her again, darted her eyes.

We ended up on the bathroom floor, she squatting over me, touching herself, tracing a vaginal trail up and down my chest, then impaling herself again.

When I closed my eyes she cried out, “No!” and pried them open. Finally she lost herself in the pleasure, opened her mouth wide, and panted and grunted. Sobbed and covered her face.

And came.

I exploded a second later. She extricated herself, licked me hard, and kept moving, slamming herself down on the tile, using me selfishly, climaxing a second time.

We staggered back to the bedroom and fell asleep in each other’s arms, with the lights still on. I slept, woke up feeling drugged.

She wasn’t in bed. I found her in the living room, hair pinned up, dressed in tight jeans and a tank top- another new look. Sitting in a sling chair drinking another strawberry daiquiri and reading a psych journal, unaware of my presence.

I watched her stick a finger in the drink, pull it out coated with pink foam, and lick it off.

“Hi,” I said, smiling and stretching.

She looked up at me. Her expression was odd. Flat. Bored. Then it heated and turned ugly.

Contemptuous.

“Sharon?”

She placed the drink on the carpet and stood up. “Okay,” she said. “You got what you wanted, you scummy prick. Now get the fuck out of here. Get the fuck out of my life- get out !”

I dressed hurriedly, carelessly, feeling as worthwhile as a scab. Rushed past her, out of the house and into the Rambler. Hands shaking, I started the car and hurtled down Jalmia.

Only when I was back on Hollywood Boulevard did I take the time to breathe.

But breathing hurt, as if I’d been poisoned. I wanted suddenly to destroy her. To leach her toxin from my blood.

I screamed.

Entertaining murderous thoughts, I sped along dark streets, as dangerous as a drunk driver.

I got onto Sunset, passed nightclubs and disco joints, smiling faces that seemed to mock my own misery. But by the time I reached Doheny, my rage had faded to gnawing sadness. Disgust.

This was it- no more mindfucks.

This was it .

Remembering had plunged me into a cold sweat.

Follow-up visits.

She’d followed herself up too. With pills and a gun.

On Thursday morning I called Paul Kruse’s university office, not really knowing what I was going to say to him. He was out; the department secretary had no idea when he’d be back. I looked up his private office in the phone book. He had two: the one on Sunset and the one he’d leased for Sharon. No answer at either. Same old song- I’d become a virtuoso at playing it. I thought of calling the airlines again, didn’t relish handling more phone abuse. My thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door- a messenger with a check from Trenton, Worthy and La Rosa and two large, gift-wrapped packages, also from the law firm.

I tipped him and after he left I opened the packages. One held a case of Chivas Regal, the other a case of Moët & Chandon.