Covet

He followed her into one of the bathrooms, and in a characteristic warping of reality, she felt as if she were disembodied and walking two steps behind, watching the pair of them go behind the closed door.

Inside the cramped space, she took the money he offered, tucking it into the hidden pocket inside her skirt, and then she stepped into him, her body cold as ice, her hand trembling as it brushed up his arm. Stretching her lips into a fake smile, she braced herself for him to touch her, forcing her body to stay where it was, praying that her self-control was enough so that she didn't run out screaming.

“My name's Rob,” the John said in a nervous voice. “What's yours?”

All at once the bathroom closed in, the deep purple and black walls going trash-compactor on her and squeezing her tight, making her want to yell for help so someone, anyone would stop them.

Swallowing hard, Marie-Terese gathered herself and blinked fast in the hope that clearing her eyes would help cleanse her brain and get her back on track.

When she leaned in, the man frowned and pulled away.

“Changed your mind?” she said, wishing that he had, even though it would just mean she'd have to head out and find another one.

He seemed perplexed. “Ah…you're crying.”

Recoiling, she looked around his shoulder at the mirror over the sink. Good Lord…he was right. Tears were rolling down her cheeks in a slow stream. Raising her hands, she brushed them off.

The man turned to face the mirror as well, and his face was as sad as she felt. “You know what?” he said. “I don't think either one of us should be doing this. I'm trying to get back at someone who doesn't care who I sleep with, and I just didn't want anyone else getting hurt. That's why I came to…”

“A whore,” she finished for him. “That's why you came to me.”

God, her reflection looked awful. Her heavy eyeliner was melting off and her cheeks were paper white and her hair was frizzed out.

As she stared at her face, she realized she was done. The moment had finally come. She had been inching toward this for some time, with all those gearing-up pauses before she could come into the club and those Dial- scented crying jags in the shower and those panic attacks in the confessionals, but the approach was no longer.

The arrival was here.

She wiped her hand on her skirt and took out the folded bills. Taking the man's palm, she put the money into it. “I believe you're right. Neither of us should be doing this.”

The guy nodded and squeezed the money hard, looking hopeless. “I'm such a pansy.”

“Why?”

“It's just so typical of me. I always choke in these situations.”

“For what it's worth, you didn't choke. I did. You were…kind.”

“That's me. The nice guy. Always the nice guy.”

“What's her name?” Marie-Terese murmured.

“Rebecca. She's in the cubicle next to me at work and she's really…perfect. I've been trying to impress her for about four years now, but all she does is talk about her love life. I thought maybe if I could tell her about a date of mine where I get lucky…Trouble is, I never get lucky and I'm a rotten liar.”

He tugged at the sleeves of his shirt as if he were trying to spiff himself up in the face of his reality.

“Have you asked her out?” Marie-Terese asked.

“No.”

“You think maybe she's hoping to impress you with all those dates of hers?”

The guy frowned. “But why would she do that.”

Marie-Terese reached up and turned his face back to the mirror. “Because you're actually good-looking and you're nice, and maybe you're reading the situation wrong. The thing is, if you ask her and she blows you off, you don't want to go there anyway. There's no reason to be one of many.”

“God, I can't imagine how to ask her for a date.”

“How about…Rebecca, what are you doing Thursday night? Make sure you go for one of the weekdays. Too much pressure for a weekend.”

“You think?”

“What do you have to lose?”

“Well, she is next to me at work and I see her every day.”

“But you're not exactly having a good time now, are you? At least you can have some closure.”

He met her eyes in the mirror. “Why were you crying?”

“Because…I can't do this anymore.”

“You know, I'm glad. I picked you because you don't seem like the kind of woman who…” He flushed. “Ah —”

“Who should be doing this. I know. And you're right.”

The guy turned to her and smiled. “This actually worked out okay.”

“It did.” On impulse she reached out and gave him a hug. “Best of luck. And remember when you're asking that woman out that you're a catch and she'd be lucky to have you. Trust me. I've learned the hard way that a good man is hard to find.”

“You think?”

Marie-Terese rolled her eyes. “You have no idea.”

He smiled even more widely. “Thank you—I mean that. And I think I will ask her. What the hell, right?”

“You only live once.”

He was beaming and full of purpose while he left the bathroom, and as the door eased shut, Marie-Terese went back to staring at herself. In the light that shone down on her from above, all the smudged black makeup made her look like a bona fide Goth.

How ironic that on her last night in the club, she finally looked like a regular.

Leaning to one side, she snapped free a paper towel, thinking she'd tidy her eyeliner. Instead, she ended up rubbing her lipstick off, just ripping the glossy coat from her mouth. Never again. She wasn't ever wearing that horrible gooey stuff again…or any of the rest of the makeup…or the ridiculous slutty clothes.

Done. This chapter of her life was done.

God, it was amazing how light she felt. Amazing and insane. She had no idea what she was going to do next or where she was going to go, so by all that was rational, she should have been panicked. But all she could think of was how relieved she felt.

Turning away from the mirror, she reached for the wrought-iron doorknob and realized that she had gone from tears to smiling. Opening the way out, she— Looked up into the grim face of Vincent diPietro.

He was leaning against the wall right across from the private bathroom, his arms crossed over his chest, his big body tensed up in spite of what should have been a relaxed pose. His expression was of a man who'd just had his gut slit open.

Chapter 21

The problem was, he had no reason and no right to feel sucker punched.

As Vin stared at Marie-Terese, taking note of the flush on her cheeks and the fact that she didn't have any lipstick left on her mouth, he shouldn't have felt a thing. Same deal when that guy had come out of the bathroom with a smile on his face and his shoulders set like he was so the man—there should have been nothing unusual going on in the center of Vin's chest.

This was not his woman. This was not his business.

“I need to go,” he said, standing up from the wall and turning away. One look at the thick crowd and he headed for the back of the club, for the hallway that, thanks to last night, he knew had a door at the end of it.

All the way along, his father's drunken voice dogged him: You can never trust a woman. They're sluts, every one of them. Give them a chance and they'll fuck you every time—and not In a good way.