The Ex

entered her.

She made a deep, throaty sound and he began thrusting, slowly at first, spanning warm interior spaces, then faster and more violently as his passion took him. Her long, powerful legs clamped tightly around his waist like a trap. “Hurt me!” she moaned in his ear. “Hurt me, hurt me, hurt me, David! Please!”

He gripped her wrists and bent her arms back behind her head, watching her grimace and narrow her eyes. Her lips tightened, baring her teeth. He felt the core of her throbbing, then her fingernails clawing, digging painfully into his back. Her body arched with a power that surprised him. He knew she was climaxing as she whispered hoarsely in his ear. “Mine, mine, mine, MINE!”

She went limp beneath him and her legs fell to the sides as he thrust into her violently and emptied himself.

She kissed his ear, the one she’d twisted, as he slowly disengaged himself from her and rolled gasping onto his back.

Neither of them spoke.

He tried to analyze what he felt but couldn’t; his mind was still floating somewhere above body and desire, connected by only tenuous neural threads.

Finally, after he’d caught his breath, he stood up and went to the window, where he stood staring again at the teeming riddle of Manhattan. The scratches on his back felt like wounds from a lioness.

From behind him on the bed, he heard Deirdre say, “That was lovely, David. Aren’t you going to thank me?”

Twenty minutes later, as they were leaving the apartment, David knew how he felt: guilty and ashamed. Deirdre, he noticed with dread, looked smug. He couldn’t deny that he’d wanted her desperately, uncontrollably. Couldn’t deny it to her or to himself.

He held the door open for her and she edged past him into the hall, brushing him with her hip, glancing briefly up at him with a sated kind of lust that slumbered.

Behind them, and behind the louvered doors of the bedroom closet, a videocassette ran out of tape.

There was a soft click, a whir, and in the dark closet a pinpoint of red light winked out.

15

Molly emerged from Small Business among a swarm of parents and children. She carried Michael with one arm and used her free hand to guide the stroller down the stone steps to the sun-washed sidewalk.

When Michael was strapped into the stroller’s canvas seat, he and Molly both waved to Julie, who was standing in the shade of the canopy watching her charges depart with their regular guardians. The responsibility she’d carried all morning was now divided and dispersed; Molly wondered if Julia felt as suddenly free as she appeared.

As Molly pushed the stroller along crowded West Eighty-fifth, she found herself glancing uneasily from time to time across the street. Through the intermittent and glaring stream of noisy traffic, she half expected to see the woman in the blue baseball cap and mirror-lens glasses.

But there was no sign of the woman.

When they reached the apartment building, Molly entered the lobby then wheeled the stroller directly to the elevator. She pushed the button for the floor above hers, where Bernice Clark lived.

Bernice was a thin, thirty-five-year-old woman with a huge mass of tightly sprung brown hair that made her seem even frailer than she was. She’d been out of work except for occasional jobs arranged by Modern Office Temps since Molly had met her. Bad luck had left her harried but cheerful. Irrepressible optimism ran in her blood; a firing squad would have to fire into her smile to erase it. Molly felt comfortable leaving Michael with her.

Bernice looked paler than usual this afternoon as she let them into the apartment. She unstrapped then scooped up Michael from the stroller and kissed him on the cheek. He grinned, and when she placed him on the hardwood floor, he swaggered directly to the TV, where Martin and Lewis’s Jumping Jacks was playing without sound. Jerry Lewis was mugging and twitching around while Dean Martin stood calmly and stared at him with that odd combination of amusement and disdain. Michael plopped down in front of the screen and became engrossed.

The apartment’s floor plan was identical to Molly and David’s, but it was furnished more sparsely and cheaply. Near the old console TV was a cushionless chair that seemed ready to collapse. Its cushion was lying on the floor near the window, as if Bernice had been sitting on it staring outside. The place smelled slightly and pleasantly of pine-scented cleanser and wax. There was no sign of dust along the baseboards or on the scarred hardwood floor. Bookshelves fashioned from planks laid across stacks of bricks contained only knickknacks and dog-eared paperbacks, along with a few bound uncorrected proofs that Molly had given Bernice. An ornately framed round mirror hung on another wall, centered over a polished mahogany half-moon table, leftovers from more prosperous times.

“I appreciate you watching Michael,” Molly told Bernice. “It wasn’t in my plans to work almost every afternoon, but suddenly the publisher needs the manuscript I’m editing by next week.”

Bernice ran her fingers through her mass of hair. “Hey, no problem. We live in the same building, and I’m getting paid, aren’t I?”

Molly grinned. “And worth every inflated dollar.” She looked more closely at Bernice’s pasty complexion and the tiredness in her eyes. “You look pale today. Are you feeling okay?”

“Sure. I just need some sun.” She glanced over at Michael. “Maybe I’ll take our guy swimming at Koch Pool, if it’s okay with you.”

“Sure, just keep a close eye on him. And make sure he doesn’t get too much sun.” Molly looked at Michael, still lost in Jumping Jacks. Lewis had parachuted from an airplane and was drifting toward the ground, clutching his chute’s lines, squirming around and looking terrified. “What about a real job?” she asked Bernice. “Having any luck with those resumes you sent out?”

“Not much. But there’s always hope. And thanks for printing them on your computer for me. They make me seem so employable that even I might want to hire me.”

A siren sounded close outside, then a fire engine’s loud, rude air horn blasted twice to help clear a path through traffic. The wail of the siren moved away, fading until it was absorbed in the usual muted turmoil of the city.

“That reminds me,” Bernice said, “there was another false fire alarm while you were gone the other day. Third one in the last few months, if I’m counting right. It’s getting so half the tenants don’t pay much attention or bother to leave the building.”

Molly could understand why. She and Michael had heeded the alarm once. Another time it had sounded in the middle of the night, and she and David had hurriedly gathered up Michael and obediently trudged downstairs to stand in the street until it was determined that there was no fire. Her fear was that if a fire did break out, too many tenants would ignore the erratic alarm that so far had meant nothing but inconvenience.

“The management company ought to repair the wiring,” she said.

Bernice grinned and shook her head. “They’d rather stall. They figure if there really is a fire someday, they can redecorate the apartments of all the dead tenants and charge more rent. Hey, there’s Muffin!” She pointed toward a spot near Molly’s feet.

Molly wasn’t surprised. She stooped and picked up the cat, who purred and snuggled warmly against her side. “He leaves by way of the window we keep propped open a few inches for him, then gets back into the building when people enter and roams the corridors. I hope nobody thinks he’s a pest.”

Bernice reached out and stroked Muffin. “In this city there could be lots worse things than cats roaming the corridors.”

At Sterling Morganson, David looked away from his computer monitor and drew in his breath in surprise.

Deirdre was standing in the corridor outside his open office door, watching him.