silhouetted against the distant green of the park and the brown peaks of the West Side buildings. Jack's hands were shaking. And his right foot couldn't stop tapping.
'I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking. I forgot about… everything. But I'm not afraid of heights, Jack. This doesn't bother me.'
Jack's voice was faint. It was as if he had a fever, some deadly flu that had weakened his body, sapped him of any muscle control. 'Come down now, Kid. Please come down.'
This time Kid listened. He hopped off the wall, planting himself firmly back on the terrace. He walked over to Jack and as soon as he was away from the edge, Jack's whole body relaxed. The sweat on his neck turned cold and clammy and he wiped it away. His foot stopped moving and his hands were steady.
'I'm sorry,' Kid said again. 'I didn't realize… I didn't know it was so bad.'
'I feel like an idiot,' Jack said. 'Jesus. But I can't help myself.'
'I didn't think… it just doesn't bother me. I like being up there. I like looking down.'
'Kid,' Jack said, his voice still shaky. 'You said you only fall if you want to fall.'
'Yeah,' Kid nodded. 'If it's just you. If there's no one else pushing you. That's right.'
'Well, that's what terrifies me. When I get close to the edge, when anyone goes too close, I see myself – I don't just feel it, I see it – I'm hurling myself over. I can't stop it, it feels like a magnet pulling me there. I throw myself over and I see myself falling. And falling…'
'I'm sorry, Jack. I didn't understand.'
'It's okay.' Another deep breath. 'I'm okay now.'
'You want me to get you something to drink?'
'No,' Jack said. Now he forced himself to stand. He could manage, but he was not at full strength yet. 'Let's just go inside.'
Kid took his arm, opened the sliding door that led into the living room.
'You only fall if you want to fall,' Jack repeated slowly. 'Is that really what you think?'
'Yeah,' Kid said. 'That's really what I think.'
'I don't want to fall,' Jack told him. 'I really don't. But I just don't think I can stop myself.'
TWENTY-FOUR
How could this be? Wasn't this plan so brilliant? She was sure it was. It had been fucking simple and fucking brilliant.
She'd been amazed that she'd ever been so fucking smart to have thought of something that was so fucking simple and brilliant.
Even now she was still amazed. It was a fucking brilliant plan; that's all there was to it.
Except it didn't work.
What a motherfucker.
Oh, well. It had been that kind of a day all around. Nothing fucking worked. No big surprise there. Every day was pretty much that kind of day, now that she thought of it. That's what had made her plan so great. It was gonna make the days a little more bearable. Or make one day more bearable, anyway. That would've been enough, wouldn't it? You bet it would. Fucking A. That would've really been something. One bearable fucking day in America…
Wait. Now that she thought some more, yesterday was not a bad day at all. Yesterday was pretty damn good. She'd seen Mr. Wonderful. That's what she called Kid. He was pretty goddamn wonderful, too. Almost wonderful enough to make her forget that her fucking plan hadn't worked.
She remembered how powerful she'd felt when he was finished with her. How, when he was so tired and ready to fall back on the bed and lie there, she'd fucked his brains out all over again. God, yes. She'd wrapped her legs around him, squeezed him practically to death, but it didn't matter because he was so strong and so hard. So hard. And she remembered how surprised he was when, right in the middle, she'd whipped out those handcuffs and there he was, chained to the fucking bedpost. KGB handcuffs, she told him. Real and official and oh, man, he was angry. And she'd laughed. She hadn't laughed that hard in, what, days? Maybe even months. Because what could he do? He couldn't do anything. He sure as shit couldn't go anywhere. He had to let her fuck him again. And even harder, even longer. He had to…
How could the plan not have worked!
It was a can't-miss.
Lots of dough. Lots of dough. All hers for the taking. The American dream and as easy as fucking pie.
A great plan, no question about it.
Okay, maybe it had been a little risky. Shit. Now that she thought about it some more, it was even a little dangerous. Maybe a lot dangerous. And probably pretty stupid.
Good thing Mr. Wonderful was so reliable. Reliable was good. And he was more than that. He was strong. Christ, was he strong. That was even better than reliable. At least in this case.
Because maybe, just maybe, he was strong enough and reliable enough so he could stop them from killing her since her perfect plan hadn't been so fucking perfect after all. Since she'd fucked it up like she fucked up everything else.
God, it had seemed so good.
But it was just another thing that had blown up in her goddamn face, just like every other fucking thing on every other unbearable day in her goddamn unbearable fucking life.
– '-'-'THE MORTICIAN He had just left, her beautiful boy. She watched him saunter down the walkway and disappear into the garden. She caught a glimpse of him again through the trees as he walked down the driveway and then again as he stepped into the waiting town car. She stared after him from the window until she realized he'd been gone for several minutes, and even though she was alone, she felt self-conscious, like a schoolgirl writing something naughty in her diary.
She could still smell him, he was still in the air, and that smell sent a shiver of excitement through her entire body. She took four quick steps, skips, really, and threw herself back onto the bed. She buried her face into the top pillow, took an enormous, deep breath in, felt her lungs swell and was overwhelmed by his scent – the light touch of the lemony Balmain cologne she'd bought for him, the powdery fragrance of his deodorant, the wonderful harshness of his sweat. Although they had just made love, hard, passionate, glorious love, she was aroused again. Squirming, she felt between her legs and she was dripping wet. She remembered running her fingernail down his arm, the way the bicep bulged and tightened. She touched the bandage there and he'd flinched. She liked him flinching, it practically made her come seeing him so vulnerable, but she told him she was sorry. Said she'd lost control. She didn't tell him that she wouldn't lose control again, though – she didn't want him to get too comfortable – but he had accepted her apology. He reached up and grabbed her and now she pictured herself on top of him, bending low, kissing his chest, working her lips down to his hard stomach…
She tried to force herself to think of other things but it did no good. She wanted him again. Now. But she couldn't have him, and for a brief moment she was angry, furious, and she hated him for leaving her. Then she inhaled again, face back down in the pillow, and, feeling light-headed, she laughed out loud. She was laughing at both her exhilaration and her foolishness.
She had tried to convince him to stay for dinner. He had work to do, he said. Other clients. Real clients.
She was a real client, too, she reminded him. And she even offered to pay him overtime if he'd stay, shocked at her own offer, but she didn't care. She wanted him that much and she knew money was important to him. It was not important to her and she realized she was happy to throw it at him, happy to give him whatever he wanted, but he said he had to leave, that he was tempted, how could he not be tempted, but he had to be strong. He had another client who needed him and when she pouted and asked who it was he said he couldn't talk about his other clients, even with her. Yes, it was a woman, he told her. And, yes, she was young. But, no, this woman wasn't nearly as attractive as she was. And, no, there was nothing between them, she was just a client. If she needed a name, think of her as the Entertainer. That's how he referred to her when talking about her to clients. The
