as her neck cramped up, but she couldn’t stop herself. Dozens of hairs had fallen into the lap of her robe in swirled patterns, like silken threads of a tapestry. She wrenched herself off the couch and grabbed a can of diet soda from the refrigerator. In her nervous haste, she poured it too quickly, watching helplessly as it foamed over the lip of the glass. She swooped down to suck the river of beige suds before any more of it could pop and sputter on the counter.
If Tania were still alive, Alison would’ve called to give her the lowdown on Goode. She figured he was a good six feet tall, a hundred and seventy-five pounds, with nice, broad shoulders, a thin waist, a great jawline and a sexy grin.
But Alison didn’t trust her own instincts. She’d had pretty bad luck with men since her twelfth birthday, when Grandpa Harold had come into her bedroom to say good night, his head a silhouette against the moonlight, and pushed her hand inside his robe. His visits, which grew increasingly violating, continued until she was seventeen. It was a heart attack that finally stopped him from sticking his nasty wrinkled red thing in her.
After that, she’d tried to date guys her own age, but few interested her. Sure, she’d had sex with a bunch of them. But every time, it felt as empty as the last. Eventually she just felt numb, so she stopped.
Then came Tony, an older married man she’d met at her perfume counter, where he’d bought one of her most expensive bottles.
“It’s for my daughter,” he said.
She thought nothing of it—this was LA and it was none of her business anyway—but she did remember seeing him later that afternoon in the parking lot with a young woman with long flowing dark hair. Alison never saw her face. He showed up again the next week and asked Alison to dinner, but neither the dark-haired woman nor his wife came up in conversation and she didn’t ask. If he wanted to tell her, he would.
After that, Tony kept taking Alison to nice places. He treated her with respect, at least most of the time. But even that situation went bad. She’d seen the signs but had ignored most of them, including the nagging feeling in the pit of her stomach that the excitement she felt with him was wrong. He made her feel naked and vulnerable, even when she was fully clothed. She didn’t really trust him or her own instincts, so it was very confusing.
She and Tony agreed to meet at a hotel one Saturday night, and he was late. She put on the black teddy he’d sent her in the mail and stretched out on the purple velvet bedspread to read a magazine. When Tony walked in about an hour later, she asked him where he’d been. He slapped her face and pressed his fingers so hard into her shoulder that she cried out in pain.
“Don’t ever talk to me with that tone again,” he said in a low voice, his mouth a narrow slit.
He went outside to the balcony and lit a cigarette, then he called room service for a bottle of Dom Perignon. He drew a bubble bath and guided her into it. He seemed to be trying to make peace, but he never said he was sorry.
Tony was the first person she’d ever dated who smoked. He said it filled him up, made him feel whole. He was all nerves if he went too long without a cigarette. At least he chewed mints, which helped mask the dirty taste when they kissed.
Alison never told Tony she was leaving LA to go to beauty school in San Diego. She just stopped returning his calls and then disconnected her phone without leaving a forwarding number. Alison wished she’d gotten Tania’s input on the Tony situation.
Goode was quite a contrast to Tony. He made her feel safe, and not just because of the gun and the badge. He seemed like good boyfriend material.
She felt agitated, her mind suddenly spinning with images—Tony slapping her, then leaning against the balcony, smoking. Tania dancing with Seth. Goode leaning toward her as he asked his questions. She felt claustrophobic, as if the room had no air.
If Tania were still alive, Alison would’ve called to give her the lowdown on Goode. She figured he was a good six feet tall, a hundred and seventy-five pounds, with nice, broad shoulders, a thin waist, a great jawline and a sexy grin.
But Alison didn’t trust her own instincts. She’d had pretty bad luck with men since her twelfth birthday, when Grandpa Harold had come into her bedroom to say good night, his head a silhouette against the moonlight, and pushed her hand inside his robe. His visits, which grew increasingly violating, continued until she was seventeen. It was a heart attack that finally stopped him from sticking his nasty wrinkled red thing in her.
After that, she’d tried to date guys her own age, but few interested her. Sure, she’d had sex with a bunch of them. But every time, it felt as empty as the last. Eventually she just felt numb, so she stopped.
Then came Tony, an older married man she’d met at her perfume counter, where he’d bought one of her most expensive bottles.
“It’s for my daughter,” he said.
She thought nothing of it—this was LA and it was none of her business anyway—but she did remember seeing him later that afternoon in the parking lot with a young woman with long flowing dark hair. Alison never saw her face. He showed up again the next week and asked Alison to dinner, but neither the dark-haired woman nor his wife came up in conversation and she didn’t ask. If he wanted to tell her, he would.
After that, Tony kept taking Alison to nice places. He treated her with respect, at least most of the time. But even that situation went bad. She’d seen the signs but had ignored most of them, including the nagging feeling in the pit of her stomach that the excitement she felt with him was wrong. He made her feel naked and vulnerable, even when she was fully clothed. She didn’t really trust him or her own instincts, so it was very confusing.
She and Tony agreed to meet at a hotel one Saturday night, and he was late. She put on the black teddy he’d sent her in the mail and stretched out on the purple velvet bedspread to read a magazine. When Tony walked in about an hour later, she asked him where he’d been. He slapped her face and pressed his fingers so hard into her shoulder that she cried out in pain.
“Don’t ever talk to me with that tone again,” he said in a low voice, his mouth a narrow slit.
He went outside to the balcony and lit a cigarette, then he called room service for a bottle of Dom Perignon. He drew a bubble bath and guided her into it. He seemed to be trying to make peace, but he never said he was sorry.
Tony was the first person she’d ever dated who smoked. He said it filled him up, made him feel whole. He was all nerves if he went too long without a cigarette. At least he chewed mints, which helped mask the dirty taste when they kissed.
Alison never told Tony she was leaving LA to go to beauty school in San Diego. She just stopped returning his calls and then disconnected her phone without leaving a forwarding number. Alison wished she’d gotten Tania’s input on the Tony situation.
Goode was quite a contrast to Tony. He made her feel safe, and not just because of the gun and the badge. He seemed like good boyfriend material.
She felt agitated, her mind suddenly spinning with images—Tony slapping her, then leaning against the balcony, smoking. Tania dancing with Seth. Goode leaning toward her as he asked his questions. She felt claustrophobic, as if the room had no air.
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