the girl’s Orange Blossom and speculate as to what the mystery ingredient might be, along with the gin and orange juice. Missy thought it might be Grand Marnier, but wasn’t too clear on what Grand Marnier tasted like all by itself.
That sounded like a cue, and Angelica offered to buy her one, but Missy said she didn’t want any more to drink, and that one Orange Blossom was plenty. “Because, you know,” she said, “it dulls the senses. It picks you up at first, but then it sort of numbs you.”
“And you don’t want to be numb?”
The girl did whatever it was she did with her eyes. And her lips were just the least bit parted. “No,” she said. “No, I don’t want to be numb.”
“Would you like to come home with me, Missy?”
“I shouldn’t.”
“Oh, I think you should.”
“I’m a little afraid, to tell you the truth.”
“Afraid? Afraid of what?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re not afraid of me, are you?”
“Maybe I’m afraid of myself. And of you, in a way.”
“Oh?”
The girl looked away, as if the words would be easier to say without eye contact. “I always hold back a little,” she said. “With you I think I might not.”
“You might let go.”
“Yes.”
“And find out who you really are.”
“Yes.”
“And would that be so bad?” She didn’t wait for an answer, but stood up and took Missy in tow, holding her upper arm with a grip that was gentle but firm. And led her, wordlessly, out of the bar.
The car was a Lexus, which suggested that Angelica was not living on food stamps. That was all to the good, but only confirmed what the woman’s dress and manner had already established.
And none of that mattered much, not to her, not now.
Angelica triggered the remote to unlock the doors, then held the passenger door open for her. Well, wasn’t that courtly? It was rare enough for a man to hold the door for you. Who would have guessed a woman would do it?
She started to get in, then stopped and straightened up. Angelica asked her if something was wrong. For answer, she turned toward Angelica, thinking Come on, what are you waiting for?
And Angelica kissed her. Oh, sweet, she thought, and held back at first, then yielded to the embrace and let herself melt utterly into it.
The kiss lasted a while, and when it ended she drew a breath and held onto the car roof as if for support. She was acting, but only in part, because the kiss had turned her on something fierce. She liked the way Angelica’s mouth tasted, liked the way she smelled, liked the way their bodies felt together.
She’d thought she would like it, but how could you know for sure until you actually tried it? What was that song, something about I kissed a girl and I liked it? Well, there you go. She did and she did. And now she knew.
She said, “You could do anything you want to me. You could do me right here, in the parking lot. And you could make me do anything, anything at all.”
Even as he triggered the remote to open the garage door, Brady had a moment of fear that he recognized as irrational — that the door would lift to reveal the Lexus, that Angelica and her new playmate would have beaten him home. That was impossible, he’d left while they were still getting acquainted, had driven straight home while they’d almost certainly dallied long enough for the first lingering kisses. And, if he knew his wife, a little preliminary fondling to set the stage and raise the temperature.
He, on the other hand, had driven directly home, and knew the garage would be empty, and of course it was. He tucked the Honda into its spot on the right, lowered the garage door, and let himself into the house.
A drink? No, whatever for? He used the downstairs lavatory because one really didn’t want the nuisance of a full bladder in medias res, poured himself a glass of Evian water because one didn’t want a dry mouth, either, and mounted the stairs to the master bedroom.
And that, he reflected, was a singularly appropriate name for it. The bedroom of the Master, and of the Mistress. And, on nights like this, of their…what? Companion? Slave?
Victim?
He checked the bedroom. Angelica had already done so before they left the house, setting the stage, but he fussed over it anyway, lowering the already softened lighting the slightest bit, then changing his mind and returning it to pretty much the level she had chosen.
Busywork, he thought. He went over to the bed, already turned down in invitation, and ran his hand over the linen. Percale sheets, high thread count, properly silky and luxurious. An abundance of pillows, to cushion the head or elevate the hindquarters, as circumstances required.
He checked the drawers in the little bedside chests. Toys in one, ties in another. He pictured the girl, imagined her naked, face downward, spread-eagled, wrists and ankles tied to the brass handholds he’d mounted on the corners of the bed frame. A pillow under her, presenting him with her little-girl bottom, offering him a choice of sheaths for his weapon.
And there’d be plenty of time to try them both.
Was that the Lexus? Even if it was, he had plenty of time. But there was no need to dawdle. He stopped on the way out, adjusting the position of the three-panel Japanese screen, and deciding, as he’d decided with the lighting, that it had been just right to begin with.
More busywork, and it only served to show the stake he had in what lay ahead. So it was a good sign, wasn’t it? As often as they’d entertained themselves in this fashion, you might have thought he’d be more casual about the whole enterprise. Even blase.
There was a small room just next to the master bedroom, a third bedroom, really, but he used it as a den. He settled himself in there now, and closed the door.
By the time he heard the Lexus, heard it stop at the driveway, heard the garage door as it ascended, he had taken off all his clothes, hanging his slacks and jacket in the den closet, tucking his socks into his shoes, placing his folded shirt and underwear on an arm of the easy chair.
He sat in the chair, and unconsciously he touched himself, more for reassurance than anything else. Could something have gone wrong? Had Angelica come home alone? That was always a possibility. Sometimes one of them changed her mind. A woman’s prerogative, after all. To change one’s mind.
No. He heard voices, the two of them in conversation. He couldn’t make out what they were saying, but it was enough to know they were both there together.
So the girl had not changed her mind. And now it was no longer her prerogative. She was theirs.
When they turned on Ordway Avenue, she said she didn’t know they had apartments here. Angelica told her she lived not in an apartment but in a freestanding house. “A townhouse,” she said. “That’s what they call it. It’s part of a development, and the association takes care of all the exterior maintenance, the lawn-mowing and landscaping and all that. But in every other respect it’s a private home.”
“And you live there all by yourself?”
“I’m married, Missy.”
“Oh.”
“He’s the perfect husband,” she said, “in that he makes a lot of money and doesn’t care how I spend it. And best of all, he travels a good deal of the time.”
“Is he away now?”
