Chapter 5

At last he’s done. Fuck, I know Kyle’s still in the first flush of manhood, but that was ridiculous. Inanely, I find myself wondering whether the lad beats off frequently enough, because he had an awful lot of fluid stored up in his balls.

Blinking and rubbing the glop off my eyelids, I peer up at him reprovingly. His face is crestfallen, like a toddler who’s been trying to catch a soap-bubble, but popped it instead. “Jeezus, Mrs. Tanner, sorry about that. I didn’t mean to...”

I rise unsteadily, hiking down the hem of my skirt and swiping as much of the cum off my face as I can. Strange to say, but I’m suddenly feeling maternal toward the boy (caring-maternal, not icky-maternal), and my voice comes out warm. “Don’t worry about it Kyle. I understand. It’s tough to hold back at your age.”

“Yeah,” he stares down at his shoes, red-faced and shifting his weight. “Um, you know, it’s just that I never...”

Oh God, really?! If that’s the case, then it makes me into a sad storybook cliché: the ‘experienced older woman’ who inducts our young hero into the mysteries of manhood. Yuck!

Both of us are tongue-tied; and after a beat or two, by unspoken agreement, we get into the cab of his pickup. Kyle offers me a couple of rags he had stashed behind his seat, but I graciously decline and fish some kleenex out of my purse instead.

While I’m mopping up what I can, he shifts my valise over to his truck. Then he settles in behind the steering wheel. “Uhh ... should I drive you home?”

“I’m staying at the St. Gerard.” He can draw what conclusions he wants to from that. “You know where it is?”

“I’ll google it.”

He’s plainly relieved not to be taking me to my house. The one where I reside with my husband, ‘Mr. Tanner.’ The one right next to where he still lives with his parents. Given what we just did, along with my current appearance, I can’t really blame him.

We remain silent on the ride to the hotel, my emotions utterly roiled. Part of me is grateful he lost control. I mean, what the hell was I thinking? Had I really intended to go ‘all the way’ with the kid? Let him ravage me out in public behind some skeevy auto-body shop? Unknowingly pop his goddamned cherry in the process? Thank goodness he shot his load when he did.

And yet ... well, my brain may have been on autopilot, but deep down in my chest and abdomen and pussy, yes, I absolutely had intended to have sex with him. Call a spade a spade—I’d intended him to fuck me. Was desperate for him to fuck me, in fact. Desperate to feel that beautiful body of his slamming up against me, that beautiful cock of his penetrating me, drowning out all my hurt and embarrassment in a reckless, blinding burst of passion and eros and submission.

But now, after getting fired up so hot and then let down so abruptly, that frenzied drive has been replaced by a deflated, hollow, needy emptiness, churning disconsolately in my gut. It amplifies the pain and betrayal of what Mike did, making me feel worse than ever.

Kyle drops me at the front entrance, and I try to carry myself with some dignity as I stride through the lobby, telling myself that my money is as good as anyone else’s. Even so, the concierge gives me some very dubious glances as I check in to the suite. “I was in a car crash,” I mumble, by way of excuse; then scoop up the cardkey and flee before she can ask if I need assistance.

The place is palatial. Sprawling, immaculate, cold, sterile. If Mike had been there, it would have been alive and familiar. A home away from home. But that was before. Now, at a moment like this, when my husband floats involuntarily into my mind, I see only the black canvas of his betrayal, daubed over with scarlet brushstrokes of pain. I see only his face laughing at me, and Peggy’s pitying me, and Harv’s cheering him on.

Glancing in the big plate mirror, I can’t help but let out a snort, verging close on hysteria. No wonder the desk clerk was so revolted by my appearance. Between bawling my eyes out and oral sex, my makeup is smeared and defaced. The only saving grace is that I tend to go light with the stuff. Added to that, my hair is scattered and wild, and the airbag left a blotchy pink mark on one side of my face. Most humiliating of all, in the darkness of the truck cab, I hadn’t realized how much semen Kyle dripped down my front. Even now there are large, opalescent blobs that haven’t entirely dried up or soaked in. Ugh, she must have thought I was some sort of street walker.

I know I should clean up, change clothes, get a shower. But I do none of those things, Instead, I meditate carefully over the contents of the minibar, settling on a couple of selections, before flopping restlessly down onto the bed.

For a few shapeless minutes, I lie there, adrift, rootless, slightly dizzy. Then all at once, something odd happens. My fingers are reaching for my phone ... and dialing a contact.

“Hey, Jess, what’s up?”

Oh my God—what is up? Why did I call him? “Bryan, I um ... I’m having some concerns about the East Coast tour. I don’t think they can wait till Monday.” Hmm, that was pretty lame.

“Okay, shoot. What’re you worried about?”

“I think we need to sit down and hash it out. I know it’s Friday night, but can you ... can we meet?”

“No sweat. I’m on a date, but she’s a bore. Grateful for the escape hatch, if I’m being honest. I’ll be at 3Rs in half an hour.”

“I’m at the St. Gerard. Downtown. Room 704.” Very suave. Very subtle.

By the time I hear a knock, I’ve moved on to mixing overpriced rum and coke in one of the hotel glasses. Leaning sloppily against the frame, drink in hand, I pull open the door, and there’s Bryan, with his lustrous black mane, and dark soulful eyes, and charismatic confidence.