Chapter 9

It had been a complex undertaking, and had required some sacrifice on his part, but Mark had managed to finish the yard work ahead of time. In order to accomplish it, he'd given up three days of after-work phone sex with Mandy. He'd left the office a few minutes earlier than usual on those three days, and put in the labor outdoors until he deemed it almost time for Julie to arrive home. He didn't want her to notice what he'd done, if at all possible. So, he saved the lawn-cutting, which would bring about the most obvious visual improvement, till the final day. And it appeared he'd gotten away with it. Along the way, he'd even managed to sneak in a dinner date with Lauren, along with a couple of hours at her place. By way of explanation, he'd told Julie that he was having dinner with a job candidate, something he legitimately did from time to time.

He hadn't relished giving up those phone sessions with Mandy; they had become such a part of his daily routine that they seemed to be almost an addiction. But Mandy understood, even without knowing all the facts. Besides, there was a growing realization between Mark and Mandy that dirty talk on the phone just wasn't the same any more, not after that wild night in the hotel. They both eagerly awaited their next getaway.

Mark felt relieved to have the extra chores out of the way. That way, he could go away with Angela, while having one less thing to worry about.

That Friday morning, he met Shauna in the conference room for their early-morning tryst. "So, what are you gonna do with all your free time this weekend?" she smiled as she fastened up her blouse afterward.

"I have a lot of work to do out in the yard," he lied. The lies were becoming more numerous, and more tangled, with all the women in his life.

"I wish I could give you a little diversion," she said ruefully. "But my boys seem to need rides everywhere, especially now that the weather is getting nicer. My weekends are always full."

Mark, of course, understood her state of affairs, even if he did already have other plans. But as with Mandy, Mark felt the dynamic of his connection with Shauna continuing to shift. He still felt as close to her as he ever did. They still met up nearly every morning. Mark never had any scheduling dilemmas when it came to Shauna; she was convenient and available. For thirty minutes nearly every workday, their worlds were in perfect alignment. And she knew the full story regarding his home life.

But just the same, Shauna's needs seemed to be veering away from sex and towards intimacy. This bothered Mark, because he knew that he had a limited capacity to provide that for her, and because it showed that their relationship was, in some ways, deepening. There was no doubt that he cared for her a great deal, and his concern was that the restricted nature of their interactions, coupled with the feelings that were developing, might cause the whole thing to topple under its own weight.

Sipping her coffee, Shauna sat down at the receptionist desk to begin her workday. She booted up her computer, checked her appointment calendar, and glanced through the pile of papers on the desk.

She, too, was aware of the changes between her and Mark. During her infrequent quiet moments, she'd often reflected upon where things were heading. And if she was totally honest with herself, and looked into the future, she saw nothing ... at least, nothing more than she had now. Was that so bad? She enjoyed those stolen moments with Mark. But what if I could have more, she wondered. And more importantly ... what if she deserved more?

Shauna, of course, had hashed all this over with her mother, innumerable times. Her mom was never judgmental, never condescending, never accusing, but always put forth the same, unchanging mantra. And Shauna could hear her voice in the back of her mind: "If you really think that you need a man in your life, you deserve one of your own."

The early-bird employees were already heading in through the lobby; Shauna greeted each with a smile and a good-morning. Her phone rang; she picked it up. "Hi, Momma," she said brightly.

Julie began to dial Mark's number three times while driving to work, then stopped each time. What do I say to him, she thought. She wondered how he had managed to do all that work without her knowing about it. Was he superhuman? Had he made some kind of pact with the devil? Or, more realistically, was she just too preoccupied with everything else that's going on? She didn't know.

She started to dial Beth's number, instead; then paused again. She'd been bugging Beth entirely too much of late, and besides, she'd be seeing her face to face later that same evening.

She was trapped in a swirl of indecisiveness. Eventually, as she pulled into the school parking lot, Julie forced herself to concentrate on something else. Like trying to enjoy this upcoming weekend. She was tired of worrying about Mark and his mysterious ways. For these next few days, she thought, I'll do my own thing; let Mark do his.

His workday complete, Mark started up the car and headed on over to Angela's place. He didn't want for her to pick him up at his house; the nosy neighbors might have some gossip fodder if they saw him getting into a car with a gorgeous young thing. He wasn't thrilled at the prospect of leaving his BMW in the apartment parking lot overnight, but Angela was right; bringing it into New York was inviting trouble. He found a parking space directly under a light, set the security alarm, locked the doors and strode purposefully up toward Angela's building.

The blare of music, a strain of punk-rock that Mark wasn't familiar with, grew louder and louder as he approached the door of her apartment; he banged forcefully to ensure that she would hear him. "Just a minute!" he heard her yell. The music abruptly ceased, and he could hear quite a bit of rustling around. The knob turned, and the door opened.

"Angela?" Mark stammered. He barely recognized the young woman in front of him.

She'd undergone a drastic makeover. Her hair, which just a few days ago had been long, lustrous, wavy and auburn-brown, was now shorter, straight and platinum-blonde ... with a few streaks of pink mixed in. She was decked out in a sparkly silver-gray spaghetti-string top, a very short black skirt, and heels that rendered her just about as tall as Mark. Silver-gray lipstick, matching her top, was perhaps the most unusual touch; it stood out in bold contrast to her new hair color, and served to accentuate it. It was an unconventional look, to say the least, but Angela had made it work.

"You like?" Angela chirped, doing a pirouette for him right there in the doorway. "Darcy came over last night and helped me with the hair."

Mark managed to utter, "You look fantastic," but he was so obviously floored by her new look that Angela burst out laughing. "Get in here, old man," she said, taking him by the hand and pulling him inside. "Haven't you ever seen a girl with pink hair before?"

He regained his composure quickly, and looked her over again. One thing was for sure. The difference in age, and generation, between them would now be quite obvious to even the most casual onlooker. On further reflection, this didn't bother Mark at all; in fact, he found it to be a turn-on. He could feel his rising erection expanding within his briefs.

"We'll get started in a moment," she said abruptly, moving toward the stereo. "But first ... let's dance." A slow ballad wafted through the apartment and she wrapped her arms around Mark and began to sway. She pressed her cheek against his. He drew her closer; her tits, with nipples evident underneath her clothing, made feathery contact with his shirt. The essence of her perfume put him in a momentary trance.

Mark was mildly amused, definitely aroused, and not a little touched. Angela was showing him a side of her that he hadn't seen before. He whispered in her ear as they continued to slow-dance, "Angela ... are you a closet romantic, per chance?"

"Let me tell you something. I'm such the girly-girl. Romance, flowers, hearts, frilly dresses with lace. My favorite movie is Sleepless in Seattle. And I cry at weddings."

Mark looked at her sideways, a glance laced with skepticism. "Yeah, right."

Angela laughed so hard she almost doubled over. "Okay, buddy, just for that, this dance is over. No more free gropes for you."

She then reached out and fondled his crotch, her hand cradling his balls through his pants. "But you can fuck my brains out later."

Downstairs in the parking lot, Angela opened the trunk. She drove an eleven-year old red Chevy Cavalier, still in decent shape despite the 120,000 miles it had logged on the road. Mark threw his travel bag, containing a few changes of clothes and assorted toiletries, into the trunk. Angela had a bag of her own, and moved aside a wide assortment of tools and auto supplies to clear out enough room.

Mark was curious about the tools, and once he was seated in the passenger side, he asked Angela about them.

"You probably won't believe this," she replied, firing up the ignition, "but I like to tinker with cars. I just tuned up the engine on this car a couple of weeks ago, and when the water pump went out before that, I bought the part from a dealer and replaced it myself."

"You're kidding." Mark didn't dare admit that he had trouble changing the windshield wipers on his own car.

"Nope. I'm serious. Other than the water pump problem, this car still runs great. It's my baby. I do all the maintenance work myself, and change the oil every 3,000 miles. It's never been in a repair shop for as long as I've had it."

"Girly-girl ... huh."

"Why d'ya think I'm a hair stylist and not a mechanic? Actually, I'll tell you why. Because I like dealing with people. Cars are fun, but they don't laugh when you tell a dirty joke."

"And I imagine a mechanic with pinkish-blonde hair would be a sight to behold, anyhow." Mark still couldn't get over the assortment of surprises he'd experienced already this evening. Angela, the wisecracking New York-bred hair salon hottie, she of the newly acquired multicolor 'do, was a sentimental romantic, and a part-time grease monkey as well.

Angela put the pedal to the floor, and made record time, until they hit the northbound New Jersey Turnpike at the worst possible time, early Friday evening. They dealt with stop-and-go traffic for a twenty-mile stretch. Finally, near New Brunswick, it opened up, as Angela hit the gas once again to make up for lost time. But as they approached the Holland Tunnel, with darkness falling, the traffic slowed down to almost a complete stop. As they inched past an on-ramp, a couple of teenagers in a sports car, entering the freeway, somehow managed to slice in front of them. Angela hit the brakes hard as Mark lurched forward. She rolled down the window. "Shithead!" she screamed. Turning the crank to raise the window once again, Angela remarked in a calmer voice, "Damn New York drivers. And we're not even in the city yet." Mark didn't say a word; he was still watching his life flash before his eyes.

It was nearly nine o'clock when they made it through the tunnel at last. Mark was grateful that he wasn't driving. He had never been in this part of New York before, and his sense of direction was turned inside-out as Angela sped through the hodgepodge of avenues and side streets that characterize lower Manhattan. But she knew exactly where she was going; this was her territory.

Mark was well aware of the premium on parking spaces in Manhattan, and he was about to ask her what she intended to do with her car. But Angela abruptly turned into a small, well-lighted lot that was, incredibly enough, rather empty, rendering the question moot. "I can park here for free," she grinned. "Someone owes me a favor. And it's as safe a lot as you'll find. We'll leave the car here till tomorrow, and get around by cab."

She opened the trunk; Mark removed both his bag and hers. "Let's go to my friend's place first and drop these off. After that, get ready to hit some clubs. Hope you brought your dancing shoes with you."

Mark didn't have time to reply to that; he'd spotted a passing cab and flagged it down. "Good boy," Angela remarked with a smile. "You're learning. You're not as much of a hayseed as I thought you were." She emitted that characteristic laugh of hers that Mark had first considered an acquired taste, but which was now definitely growing on him.

Angela's friend, Leanne, lived in a sixth-floor apartment. The building was old and functional, the interior walls plain and spartan, and the lighting in the halls was dim everywhere. As the vintage elevator, sparsely illuminated on the inside with black metal grillwork, slowly creaked its way up the shaft, Angela said, "We'll just say hello quickly, drop our stuff inside and head right on back out again."

As he often was in unfamiliar situations, Mark was rather silent, opting instead to play a passive role and merely take everything as it came. Not the most macho behavior, he supposed; but Angela was in her element and, whether he liked it or not, was firmly in control of matters. Under these circumstances, Mark preferred to simply go with the flow.

"This is my friend, Mark," Angela said to Leanne as she greeted them. A quick smile from Leanne, obviously for Angela's benefit only, informed Mark that Leanne understood the nuances associated with Angela's use of the word "friend". They'd obviously had a little talk ahead of time. Leanne was a short, rather plain-looking woman. Her dark brown hair hung limp and unstyled, and she was obviously quite a bit older than Angela, perhaps even similar in age to Mark.

"We're running a boarding house here tonight," Leanne remarked with an amiable grin. "We have one or two other people staying over." She was friendly and hospitable, and directed them to the room in which they'd be staying. Inwardly, Mark cringed when he saw the room. It was plainly seldom-used; there was not a single article of furniture within it, not even a bed. The walls were unpainted and gray, with small white patches marking where the stud nails had been covered with spackling compound. One wall, in fact, consisted of bare beams, without any wallboard. The window blinds were tattered and hung crookedly. Overhead, a single, unadorned light fixture containing a blazing one-hundred-watt bulb provided all the illumination within the room. A mad tangle of wiring leading away from the fixture appeared to be an electrical hazard of the first degree. The hardwood floor, though clean, looked to Mark as though it might be rather uncomfortable to sleep on.

"We'll break out the mattresses for you later," Leanne said, as if she could read his mind. "You guys had better get going. Have fun, and don't worry about coming back too late. There's no curfew here. And chances are, we'll still be up."

Angela dictated a street address to the cab driver, who pulled out away from the curb. Once again, Mark was rather silent. Angela had preferred to keep the night's agenda a surprise. Mark only knew that she intended to hit some clubs.

Having married rather young, and spent his whole adult life largely in the company of stuffy scientists, Mark had not delved into the bar scene all that much. Early on in his college life, he'd done some clubbing with friends, but once Julie entered the picture, all that ceased. He was nervous, somewhat excited, and couldn't resist stealing a glance every so often at his beautiful young sidekick, who would no doubt be turning heads all night long.

The cab slowed down as they approached a dead end on one of the innumerable side streets. It was dimly lit, and the only way out was to reverse course and head back they way they arrived. "Right here," Angela told the cabbie.

"My God," Mark commented warily. "Where are you taking me?

"You'll like it," Angela said, chipper as ever, taking him by the hand.

Mark paid the cabbie, and they got out. He could hear the pounding of music coming from behind an unmarked door a short distance away. "I know where we're going," he muttered, half to Angela, half to himself.

For once, Angela stepped back and let him take the lead. Still holding his hand, she grinned. "Go ahead, open the door."

Mark did as he was told. Once he had the door open a crack, the music reached an ear-splitting volume. Smoke wafted outside. Though the typical bar odor of cigarettes was in evidence, it was apparent to Mark that there was far too much of it to be caused by tobacco consumption, or incense for that matter. He was a chemist; he figured they were putting ample amounts of dry ice to good use. The music continued its assault on Mark's hearing; meanwhile, his eyesight was being ravaged by the most relentless strobe light he'd ever encountered. With the door to the club open, the entire alley was illuminated, the brightness constantly varying as if caused by a thunderstorm on steroids. The fierce flashing light combined with the excessive smoke produced a weird, supernatural effect. It was complete sensory overload.

They stepped inside and were carded. Angela, of course, knew the doorman. She introduced him to Mark; she told the gentleman, "He's my chemistry teacher." Mark just laughed; there was no end to Angela's goofiness. But he loved it.

They entered the main dance area, and Mark got his first good look at the patrons of this particular establishment. It was truly an eclectic mix. Young folks intermingled with people whose duration on this earth surpassed Mark's by a reasonable length of time. Blue-haired, tattooed, amply-pierced individuals of indeterminate gender rubbed elbows with Wall Street businesspeople still in their work clothes, and men in Izod shirts and Dockers slacks cavorted with young ladies in whorish, skimpy attire that would have even raised eyebrows at the beach. It was an ethnically and racially diverse crowd, as well. Mark couldn't imagine bringing Julie to a place like this, even in their younger, wilder years. He felt out of place, yet drew comfort from the fact that no matter what one's personal quirks might be, there was bound to be someone in the building who was even more of an outlier.

Before he knew it, Angela had him out on the dance floor, working up a good sweat. The next couple of hours were a blur to Mark; they danced some, and downed several drinks, while Angela greeted countless acquaintances of hers. It seemed as if every time she turned her head, her eyes found someone she knew.

After yet another round of dancing, Mark grinned and threw up his hands. "Let's go sit down for a while," he said to Angela, but scarcely had the words left his mouth when a large, swarthy man bumped into him in a rather rough manner. His first impulse was to check if his wallet was missing, but no, it was still safe in his pocket. The man was wearing a blue fedora with a matching suit and tie. He looked to be part pimp, part Blues Brother. "Hey, Jack," he addressed Mark in a rough, gravelly voice. "Want some blow?"

Mark was familiar with the vernacular, but at this point in time, it went right over his head. "What?" he barked hoarsely, thinking he'd just been propositioned by a homosexual.

Angela, sharp as a tack even after a few drinks, caught the exchange and stifled a laugh. She said brusquely, "No, thanks," to the guy in the fedora and drew Mark away. By the time they reached the edge of the dance floor, Angela was laughing so hard she could barely stand.

"He was offering you blow ... as in cocaine," she managed to squeeze out between giggles and cackles.

"I knew that," Mark replied sheepishly. He realized that Angela would never let him hear the end of this one.

"No you didn't," she continued, starting to cough as a result of the violent laughter. "You–"

Unable to finish the phrase, she hacked and laughed her way over to the bar. "I need a drink," she gasped, waving over the bartender. "Oh, shit, that was funny."

Angela finally managed to settle herself down as Mark joined her at the bar. "What d'ya think Freud would say about that slip-up?" she remarked with a wink, not letting the topic drop just yet. "If you wanna get hit on by men, I know of a place like that where we can go."