takes a sip of merlot.
Puts the wineglass down, then picks it up again.
Thankfully, Olivia muses.
She’s going to get Carly to relax.
For the moment, get her to forget her troubles.
And hopefully, keep the truth from spilling out, putting an end to their friendship, marriages, and everything else that is sacred and pure.
Miles undresses upstairs. Slips into a pair of faded button-down Levis, sweatshirt, house slippers. He finds himself wondering about the situation downstairs. He pats his tongue against the roof of his mouth, reaches for his cell, glances at the closed door, and dials.
“Ryan…hey, man, it’s Miles. Haven’t heard from you since Friday. Think we should talk—especially with the recent turn of events. Carly’s here. I’m sure you already know that. So holla back, ’cause we need to talk. Figure some stuff out.”
He pauses for a moment as he reflects on how to say what’s on his mind.
“Listen, man, just want you to know I’m not the bad guy here. I’m your friend. Always have been—always will be. That hasn’t changed. So call me, okay?”
Ryan stares at the cell phone screen without answering. He sits in his cage, office dark, save for the halogen lamp on his desk and the laptop screen, which bathes his face in muted light. The cube-space floor below is deserted, vacant. He has been here for hours, attempting, without much success, to work. Rod, spying the light on, ventured up; they chatted for a brief moment about the Malaysia problem, but he left him alone when he could see that Ryan wasn’t his normally jovial self.
So, Ryan sorts through e-mails, checks production schedules and line reports, doing it like an automaton, without any real thought behind his actions.
When the call comes in, it makes him jump. He stares at the cell, feeling vomit rise in his throat when he recognizes Miles’ number.
That’s the last person Ryan wants to speak with right now.
After a few minutes of silence, he checks his voice mail. Listens to Miles’ voice, his cool words, not a care in the world. Not taunting him, but just saying, sooner or later, Ryan needs to call him…talk to him…figure this thing out…together.
I’m not the bad guy here—I’m your friend.
Ryan deletes the message and snaps his phone shut.
Realizing that no productive work will come this evening, he shuts down his laptop and extinguishes the lamp.
Ryan contemplates his next move.
Bathed in darkness, it doesn’t take him long.
Chapter 20
She is pushed back into the soft velvety folds of the comforter. It is happening all so suddenly, movie on fast-forward, nothing choreographed. But that is what she is loving right now—this primal, instinctual way about him, the way he is presently silent, except for his grunts and erotic groans.
The room is semi-dark—the shades not shutting out all light and commotion from the street below. There are parallel patterns—streaks of light on the ceiling that ebb and flow—traffic racing along, even at this hour—close to 4:00 A . M .
His hands are on her shirt, fondling her beneath the thin, almost translucent fabric. In seconds, it is bunched up her smooth torso, breasts heaving into view. His mouth attacks them first, still clad in the lace bra. He pulls the clasp apart, breaking it with a short grunt, palming both flesh and nipple with large hands, thrusting the meat into his hungry mouth.
She had been twirling a martini shaker in her hand earlier, this thing she does for patrons—for show—but this particular time, it came undone, sending Grey Goose and Puckers showering onto her right side, soaking the upper half of her tee. She hadn’t had time to change; hadn’t had a moment to even shower since they scrambled into her apartment like drunken lovers. He sucks at her now, tasting the mixture of dried perspiration and French vodka, gliding his tongue along the contours of each breast, circling her now rigid nipples.
This way to him is
Puts the wineglass down, then picks it up again.
Thankfully, Olivia muses.
She’s going to get Carly to relax.
For the moment, get her to forget her troubles.
And hopefully, keep the truth from spilling out, putting an end to their friendship, marriages, and everything else that is sacred and pure.
Miles undresses upstairs. Slips into a pair of faded button-down Levis, sweatshirt, house slippers. He finds himself wondering about the situation downstairs. He pats his tongue against the roof of his mouth, reaches for his cell, glances at the closed door, and dials.
“Ryan…hey, man, it’s Miles. Haven’t heard from you since Friday. Think we should talk—especially with the recent turn of events. Carly’s here. I’m sure you already know that. So holla back, ’cause we need to talk. Figure some stuff out.”
He pauses for a moment as he reflects on how to say what’s on his mind.
“Listen, man, just want you to know I’m not the bad guy here. I’m your friend. Always have been—always will be. That hasn’t changed. So call me, okay?”
Ryan stares at the cell phone screen without answering. He sits in his cage, office dark, save for the halogen lamp on his desk and the laptop screen, which bathes his face in muted light. The cube-space floor below is deserted, vacant. He has been here for hours, attempting, without much success, to work. Rod, spying the light on, ventured up; they chatted for a brief moment about the Malaysia problem, but he left him alone when he could see that Ryan wasn’t his normally jovial self.
So, Ryan sorts through e-mails, checks production schedules and line reports, doing it like an automaton, without any real thought behind his actions.
When the call comes in, it makes him jump. He stares at the cell, feeling vomit rise in his throat when he recognizes Miles’ number.
That’s the last person Ryan wants to speak with right now.
After a few minutes of silence, he checks his voice mail. Listens to Miles’ voice, his cool words, not a care in the world. Not taunting him, but just saying, sooner or later, Ryan needs to call him…talk to him…figure this thing out…together.
I’m not the bad guy here—I’m your friend.
Ryan deletes the message and snaps his phone shut.
Realizing that no productive work will come this evening, he shuts down his laptop and extinguishes the lamp.
Ryan contemplates his next move.
Bathed in darkness, it doesn’t take him long.
Chapter 20
She is pushed back into the soft velvety folds of the comforter. It is happening all so suddenly, movie on fast-forward, nothing choreographed. But that is what she is loving right now—this primal, instinctual way about him, the way he is presently silent, except for his grunts and erotic groans.
The room is semi-dark—the shades not shutting out all light and commotion from the street below. There are parallel patterns—streaks of light on the ceiling that ebb and flow—traffic racing along, even at this hour—close to 4:00 A . M .
His hands are on her shirt, fondling her beneath the thin, almost translucent fabric. In seconds, it is bunched up her smooth torso, breasts heaving into view. His mouth attacks them first, still clad in the lace bra. He pulls the clasp apart, breaking it with a short grunt, palming both flesh and nipple with large hands, thrusting the meat into his hungry mouth.
She had been twirling a martini shaker in her hand earlier, this thing she does for patrons—for show—but this particular time, it came undone, sending Grey Goose and Puckers showering onto her right side, soaking the upper half of her tee. She hadn’t had time to change; hadn’t had a moment to even shower since they scrambled into her apartment like drunken lovers. He sucks at her now, tasting the mixture of dried perspiration and French vodka, gliding his tongue along the contours of each breast, circling her now rigid nipples.
This way to him is
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