sensations overwhelmed me. These days I’m used to it all enough to bore me. But right now my cock is stiff as a board, and if she turns onto her back and then keeps on turning her head toward me, she’ll see it.
I’ll want her to unzip me. So I’ll order her to do it, and I’ll bet I can make her. Women like Lucy have a shell. But there’s always an animal beneath it, cooped up for too long, waiting for a time away from the norm to emerge.
I imagine her soft hand, taking me out.
I imagine her wet lips.
But she’s still face-down on the table.
And she says, “Get out.”
My response is almost like panic. I move the sheet, tugging it northward, bringing it to full length above her. If she turns now, I won’t see anything. Then I’ll lay it atop her, cover her, watch the way it drapes her, find the shape of her breasts and the peaks of her nipples.
“I’m sorry?”
“Get out,” she repeats. “Just go. Leave your fucking supplies and table. I’ll call the desk and have them retrieve it later.”
“I think you misunderstand. I just need you to turn so I can—”
She reaches up and rips the sheet from my hands, wrapping herself in it. Then her head lifts and rage is all I can see in her big brown eyes.
“Get the fuck out of my room, or I’ll call the front desk.”
Feeling punched, I step away.
I open the door.
And then I’m out in the hallway, wondering what I’ve done.
Maybe I’ll be fired.
Maybe I’ll be arrested, for sexual assault.
I’ll have to tell Mimi.
The door rattles as Lucy turns the bolt and runs the chain.
My fists clench.
This is all Booth’s fault.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
L UCY
I PICK UP THE PHONE . Put it back. Dial the front desk. Hang up when Kendall answers.
Again.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I turn on the TV, still wearing only panties and wrapped in the sheet. The massage table stays where it was, with Marco’s caddy of supplies sitting on a fancy end table. For a while I feel traumatized, but have no luck explaining to myself why that is. I watch some stupid show about home remodeling, then another about finding junk at swap meets.
It’s almost four, so I check for messages on my phone, wondering if nerves over lost connections are contributing to my agitated state. But there are no new texts or calls from Mom, nor from Caspian. Knowing I shouldn’t, I check email, sure that I’ve forgotten something vital that’s causing my unease. I check LiveLyfe, then the GameStorming app, and finally the LinkedIn profile that I have but never, ever use.
Nobody’s trying to reach me. There are no fires.
Mom either got the message or gave up for now. But there’s a third possibility, so I ring her neighbor Irene to make sure the house didn’t blow up or something. Irene reports that Evelyn is out on the patio, clearly visible from where Irene is standing.
“Would you like to talk to her?” Irene asks.
But no, no, no, I definitely don’t.
When I finally put the phone down, it’s 4:30, and I realize I have no explanation for my thoughts and behavior other than that I’ve finally lost my mind.
To the phone, I say, “He was harassing me. He had me all alone in here. He might have been planning to rape me.”
The phone says nothing.
I do an inventory. I look at the massage table, which now seems to be staring at me in accusation. I look down at myself, still a topless mummy. I try to remember the last few minutes before Marco left. What did he do that bothered me so much? What did he say that set off all of my alarms?
The feeling of his fingers on my bra clasp.
The warm, sliding sensation of his hands on my skin.
And his words: If you want to relax, you have to step out of your past. To take risks and explore new things .
At no point did he say he wanted to touch my tits. Though I sort of remember imagining that happening, and it not being such a terrible thing.
At no
I’ll want her to unzip me. So I’ll order her to do it, and I’ll bet I can make her. Women like Lucy have a shell. But there’s always an animal beneath it, cooped up for too long, waiting for a time away from the norm to emerge.
I imagine her soft hand, taking me out.
I imagine her wet lips.
But she’s still face-down on the table.
And she says, “Get out.”
My response is almost like panic. I move the sheet, tugging it northward, bringing it to full length above her. If she turns now, I won’t see anything. Then I’ll lay it atop her, cover her, watch the way it drapes her, find the shape of her breasts and the peaks of her nipples.
“I’m sorry?”
“Get out,” she repeats. “Just go. Leave your fucking supplies and table. I’ll call the desk and have them retrieve it later.”
“I think you misunderstand. I just need you to turn so I can—”
She reaches up and rips the sheet from my hands, wrapping herself in it. Then her head lifts and rage is all I can see in her big brown eyes.
“Get the fuck out of my room, or I’ll call the front desk.”
Feeling punched, I step away.
I open the door.
And then I’m out in the hallway, wondering what I’ve done.
Maybe I’ll be fired.
Maybe I’ll be arrested, for sexual assault.
I’ll have to tell Mimi.
The door rattles as Lucy turns the bolt and runs the chain.
My fists clench.
This is all Booth’s fault.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
L UCY
I PICK UP THE PHONE . Put it back. Dial the front desk. Hang up when Kendall answers.
Again.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I turn on the TV, still wearing only panties and wrapped in the sheet. The massage table stays where it was, with Marco’s caddy of supplies sitting on a fancy end table. For a while I feel traumatized, but have no luck explaining to myself why that is. I watch some stupid show about home remodeling, then another about finding junk at swap meets.
It’s almost four, so I check for messages on my phone, wondering if nerves over lost connections are contributing to my agitated state. But there are no new texts or calls from Mom, nor from Caspian. Knowing I shouldn’t, I check email, sure that I’ve forgotten something vital that’s causing my unease. I check LiveLyfe, then the GameStorming app, and finally the LinkedIn profile that I have but never, ever use.
Nobody’s trying to reach me. There are no fires.
Mom either got the message or gave up for now. But there’s a third possibility, so I ring her neighbor Irene to make sure the house didn’t blow up or something. Irene reports that Evelyn is out on the patio, clearly visible from where Irene is standing.
“Would you like to talk to her?” Irene asks.
But no, no, no, I definitely don’t.
When I finally put the phone down, it’s 4:30, and I realize I have no explanation for my thoughts and behavior other than that I’ve finally lost my mind.
To the phone, I say, “He was harassing me. He had me all alone in here. He might have been planning to rape me.”
The phone says nothing.
I do an inventory. I look at the massage table, which now seems to be staring at me in accusation. I look down at myself, still a topless mummy. I try to remember the last few minutes before Marco left. What did he do that bothered me so much? What did he say that set off all of my alarms?
The feeling of his fingers on my bra clasp.
The warm, sliding sensation of his hands on my skin.
And his words: If you want to relax, you have to step out of your past. To take risks and explore new things .
At no point did he say he wanted to touch my tits. Though I sort of remember imagining that happening, and it not being such a terrible thing.
At no
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