Gideon by Russell Andrews Page A

laughed so hard. And then the laughter gave way to long sighs and even longer moans. She straddled him right there in the tub, lowering herself slowly, achingly, down onto him until he was buried deep inside her. They stayed locked together that way, motionless, as long as they could, wanting it to last a long, long time. And it did. Until neither of them could wait a moment longer. The water was cold by then. They didn’t notice. They didn’t notice anything. Just each other.
    It wasn’t love. Carl knew that. Christ, how could it be? He barely knew this woman. But this wasn’t some casual fuck, either.
    It was something special.
    Afterward they dried each other off and Carl carried her to her bed, and it began all over again as the dawn sky grew purple outside her window. The two of them were even hungrier for each other this time, if such a thing was possible. And they made it possible.
    For one special night, Carl decided, all things were possible.
    * * *
    The diary seemed particularly unintelligible to Carl the next morning. Almost like a foreign language. He couldn’t concentrate on it. Hell, he could barely focus on it. He just sat there at his desk gazing blindly at the scrawled handwriting, absorbing nothing. His head ached. His mouth tasted like fish glue. And his mind kept straying back to Toni. The feel of her, the smell of her, and taste of her …
    His mind wasn’t here in his apartment at all. It was still upstairs, locked in her fragrant embrace.
    She had been gone when he woke up. Left him a note on her pillow. Also her spare key. The note read: Granny—Off to a class. Didn’t want to wake you. For some reason you seemed really worn out. Please lock up.—Toni.
    Grinning, he had climbed into his jeans and his shirt and staggered downstairs, to find Harry Wagner whipping up thin, golden brown johnnycakes topped with poached eggs and caviar. He had devoured them, then showered and shaved, and now he was staring dumbly at the diary, a bulging folder with Maggie’s marked-up changes waiting next in line for his attention, courtesy of Wagner, who sat on the bed in a light grey silk herringbone suit, watching him as always.
    “You’re doing a good job, Carl. Making decent progress. They’re quite happy.”
    “Whoever they are, I’m glad,” Carl said, slumping back in his swivel chair.
    “Tell you what,” Wagner said, getting to his feet. “Why don’t we give it a rest today? Just work on Maggie’s changes.”
    “You’re all heart, Harry,” Carl said gratefully.
    “Carl, I’m going to say the truest words I’ve ever said to you: I have almost no heart whatsoever. But for some reason I’ve grown strangely fond of you. You’re a professional. I admire professionalism.”
    You’re a professional, too, Carl thought. But a professional what— that’s the question.
    “But sometimes,” Harry went on, “there’s more to life than professionalism, don’t you think?” Carl didn’t answer. And Harry continued as if he hadn’t expected him to. “Sometimes it’s important to just be whatever it is you are.”
    “All right,” Carl agreed. “So what are you, Harry?”
    “I’m not talking about me. I know what I am, and it’s too late to ever change that. I’m talking about you.”
    “No offense, but I don’t think you have a clue as to who or what I am.”
    “I know you need looking after.”
    “I do okay for myself.”
    “You shouldn’t be so dismissive. I happen to be very good at looking after people. And I’m offering you something that’s very difficult for me to offer.”
    “What’s that?” Carl asked.
    “My friendship,” Harry said.
    Carl hesitated. The man standing before him had threatened him. Bullied him. Hurt him. The man before him scared him on a deep and visceral level. But for some unknown and probably foolish reason, Carl realized that he trusted this man. “I don’t know if this is exactly how Damon and Pythias started,” he said, putting his hand out,