back to the shop but decided against it. The cashier’s inexplicably superior attitude was strangely unnerving. That happened to Morgan sometimes. A waiter or barber or movie usher or some other underling would be rude to him, and Morgan would be intimidated because he couldn’t figure out if he’d done or said something wrong.
It was only much later in such situations that Morgan always wished he’d had a sharp comeback. Or a quick slap with a dueling glove. Or maybe if he’d just spit on their shoes. He was getting tired of letting life roll over him.
He went straight to the lounge and ordered a vodka martini. He drank it in three gulps and ordered another. Only then did he glance around for Annette. She hadn’t arrived yet.
That little prick at the gift shop had spoiled his mood. He half thought it would be a good idea to take Dirk Jakes back with him to rip the guy a new asshole. Jakes would do it too, just for laughs.
And then Morgan was mad because a guy like Jakes could handle himself in those situations and Morgan couldn’t. He finished the martini and ordered another one. The voice in his head told him to slow down, but it wasn’t very convincing.
“What in the world’s wrong with you?”
Morgan spun on his stool, looked into Annette’s soft eyes. They cast their warm light on him. He realized his face had been frozen in a deep scowl. He sat up straight, forced his jaw muscles to unclench. He cleared his throat.
“You don’t want to sit at the bar,” he said. “There’s a table over there.”
“That’s fine.”
He bought her a white wine and took it to the corner table. Soft light. Quiet. The lounge was pleasantly deserted, most of the conferencegoers at the big reception.
Morgan asked if she were enjoying the conference.
She said she was.
And had her friend’s panel gone well?
It had.
Thus concluded Morgan’s cache of small talk. He was bone dry.
The martinis took over.
“So what’s wrong with me, huh?” Morgan asked it with a smile.
“There’s nothing wrong with you.”
“Then what’s wrong with you?”
She laughed. “Nothing. There’s nothing wrong with anybody.”
“Afraid of me?”
“Not of you. That things won’t work out like we want. That life will backfire.”
“What’s the solution?”
“Stick your head out of your hole once in a while,” she said. “If it’s clear, run out, grab a chunk of life, chew it up quick, and get back into your hole. A little at a time when the coast is clear.”
“At Valentine’s party, and when we had pizza, that was you coming out of the hole for a little look-see?” Morgan threw back his drink, waved at the bartender for another.
“That’s right,” Annette said. “I had a two-day hangover after Valentine’s party, and I had to ride the stationary bicycle three hours to work off the pizza. Imagine living life that big all the time. Imagine the toll. It’s like looking at God. You can’t look directly at Him. You have to avert your eyes or look at a burning bush or something.”
“What about Dirk Jakes?” Morgan asked. “Seems like he’s going full blast all the time.”
“He’s an anomaly.” She shrugged. “Or maybe a prophet. Cautionary example.”
Morgan said, “This isn’t your first glass of wine, is it?”
“I’m out of my hole for a look-see,” she said. “I split a bottle of Chablis with my friend.”
When the bartender brought the martini, Annette sent him back for more wine.
“What happened to you?” Morgan wasn’t laughing now. He thought Annette’s worldview sad and gray.
“I looked at life too directly the first time around. Good husband, good life, good everything, then I got the rug yanked. I’m lighter on my feet now. It won’t happen again.”
Morgan thought he understood, knew what it was like to have your guard up all the time.
The drinks came. Annette drank hers in two gulps. “Let’s go upstairs and screw.”
“Okay,” Morgan said.
They leaned against each other in the elevator, her fingers light on his back. His heart fluttered, pumped hot blood to all the appropriate areas. His head swam. They went to her room.
Morgan had seen this before. There was something erotic and hypnotic about hotel lounges and hotel rooms. Maybe it was being away from home. Maybe it was the little soaps and shower caps and one-use shampoo bottles and everything that hinted how temporary it all was. You didn’t even have to make the bed.
Or maybe it was the ultracold air-conditioning. Annette’s tan, smooth skin broke out in gooseflesh when Morgan slipped her dress off her shoulders. It shrunk to the floor around her ankles. The bra was easy to unsnap. He took a nipple into his warm mouth, and she threw her head back, moaned, grabbed the back of his head, twirled his ponytail in her fingers.
They stumbled to the bed, and her hands went to his belt. She unfastened him. Soon both were naked. He entered her quickly, and her ankles locked behind his back. He found a rhythm, sped up. She thrust back against his hips, grunting, panting, all the pent-up frustration heaving out with each slam of him against her.
She screamed her orgasm. He shook, released, went limp on top of her.
The whole thing had taken about ninety seconds.
“I think you’d better go,” she said.
“What?”
“It’s just… I feel embarrassed.” She scooted out from under him and ran into the bathroom and slammed the door.
Morgan crawled off the bed, schlong dangling wet. He was dazed, bewildered. He gathered up his clothes, cradled them. He noticed absently he still wore his socks.
Annette came back wearing a white robe. “It’s not right. We work together.”
“But-”
“We got carried away.” She pushed his shoulder gently, herded him toward the door.
“Let me get dressed!”
She paused, let him get into his boxers and trousers, then opened the door. She pushed him out. He opened his mouth but couldn’t get a word out.
“I’m sorry,” Annette said. “But we let the moment overcome our good judgment.”
And the door was closed.
He put his shirt on, started down the hall, mouth still hanging open. Stunned.
Just that quickly Annette Grayson had scurried back to her hole. She’d been out for only a glimpse, grabbed herself a chunk of Jay Morgan, and was gone again. Would she pay for it like the cheese pizza? Could she work off the memory of him on the stationary bicycle?
He stopped walking, looked down at his feet. He’d forgotten his shoes.
thirty-three
One-thirty in the morning, and Morgan had painted himself into the corner of the hotel lounge. He knew he was in for an apocalyptic hangover but couldn’t make himself care. He was maxing his Visa card on Sheraton martinis.
After Annette had kicked him out, he’d waited in his room for an hour in case she regained sanity and wanted to call. No call. He’d gone down to the bar in his socks. He’d kept drinking, hunched over the table, eyes going glassy and unfocused.
He stumbled to the house phone, dialed his room.
Reams answered, sleepy, mumbled something that might have been “hello.”
