The Betrayers by James Patrick Hunt

cut to hide the fat, but his posture still lacked confidence.
    But he was a wizard with numbers. Graduated second in his class at Caltech, then got his MBA at the University of Chicago before working in finance. He made enough money by the time he was thirty to retire comfortably. But he went on and became a venture capitalist. He could support a few Stacy Racines if he were so inclined. But just one was wearing him out.
    On this evening, Max called Stacy from his Mercedes G500 SUV (“the big one,” he would tell people) to make sure she was in the apartment.
Make sure she was alone. One time he had come over to find her with another girl and some kid of about twenty wearing his jeans low on his hips. Clothes were still on but Max did not like the shit-eating grin on that kid’s face. After they cleared out, Max said, with a nervous chuckle, “Gee, you guys weren’t about to have a threesome, were you? Heh-heh.” He was relieved when Stacy denied it and told him he was “sick in the fuckin’ head.” Max pretended to believe her.
    Stacy answered the phone.
    â€œYeah,” her tone unenthusiastic, insolent.
    â€œHey, baby,” Max said.
    â€œHey, Max. Did you get the boots?”
    He had ordered her a pair of boots from Marshall Field’s because when they had been there earlier the store didn’t have her size. Max agreed to pick them up later.
    â€œYeah, yeah. I got them.”
    Max pictured an airbrushed version of Stacy, sitting on a milking stool in a barn, legs slightly apart, wearing just the boots … . He said, “You gonna model them for me?” Heh-heh.
    Stacy said, “Why? You saw me wear them in the store.”
    Jesus, it was hard. She never seemed to get his jokes. The Playboy photographer looking over at Max now, shrugging his shoulders because the model wasn’t cooperating, the photographer telling Max, I can’t work with these people.
    Max said, “Well, I just thought that …” He gave it up. Maybe he had to say it to her in person. He said, “I’m coming into the Towers now. I’ll see you in a minute.”
    In rare lucid moments Max could admit to himself what Stacy was. Or had become. Still, he wished she could at least humor him once in a while. Okay, so she didn’t want to model the boots for him. Couldn’t she at least feign interest in the idea? With all that he had given her, all that he had spent on her, would it be so difficult to show a little consideration?
    Stacy Racine was the third girl he had ever slept with. The second
was his wife. The first was the girl in college who never spoke to him again. That encounter had seemed, well, short. And if he hadn’t understood that himself, the girl certainly made it clear to him afterward. She apparently mistook him for someone else.
    Linda, his wife, was strictly a missionary position, Catholic girl. They were together once every three weeks or so. Linda would not take her top off because she was shy. She remained shy throughout their marriage.
    Stacy Racine was anything but shy. For Max, Stacy Racine was a whole new world. She did anything and everything. Some things she wanted Max did not particularly enjoy, but if he didn’t comply, she’d call him a fag. Which seemed a little ironic to Max, given her penchant for anal sex. It did not occur to Max that in her own way, Stacy Racine found sexual intimacy every bit as indecent and unpleasant as his wife did. For Linda Collins, it was dirty. For Stacy Racine, it could only be dirty.
    Max drove the Mercedes in ascendant circles up the spiral of the south “corncob” of the Marina Towers. He parked on the eighteenth floor, the vehicle’s front looking out to the Chicago River. It was dark now and the city was lit up. A train crossed the river and auto traffic bustled over the Michigan Avenue Bridge. Max got out and closed the door of the Mercedes, heard the sound of the