School Ties Page 11

  My uncomfortable musings are interrupted by the woman’s voice. She’s stopped screaming and instead she’s begging, her voice tight and desperate. “Please, sir, please, sir.”

  “Please what, you slut?” the guy asks, punctuating his question with a hard slap of the tool to the backs of her thighs.

  “Please, sir, may I come, sir? Oh, please.”

  The tightening in my gut had loosened when he’d called her a slut, but it springs back tighter than ever.

  “Go on, you horny little bitch in heat. I want to see you come.”

  And she does. She fucking does. It’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. I’m no expert and I’ve seen When Harry Met Sally, but I’m almost certain she’s not faking it. I can’t help but imagine how Erin would look; bound like that, begging like that, coming like that, but for me, not this guy. I wonder if the girl likes the name-calling or if it’s something that gets just him off. Her cries of pleasure are ebbing and the guy’s stopped hitting her. He’s stroking her cherry-red ass and she’s mewling these gaspy sighs of satisfaction. It’s then I realize I’m hard as a fucking rock, and unlike during the talent show going on in the main club, I haven’t dragged my eyes away from this scene since we came in. My water sits in front of me untouched.

  “Nice, right?” Paul’s weasel face is hanging over my shoulder and I shrug. He smacks me upside the head. “Come on, dude—”

  His accusations are muffled by a commotion on the platform. The guy who’d been hitting her has moved around to where her hands are attached to the bench to undo her bonds. Some douche in a backward baseball cap and a White Sox jersey has jumped up and has his hands all over her, squeezing her ass and making pumping motions with his hips, grinding into her from behind.

  Her partner comes around and yells at the guy to get back, but fan boy’s got a good four inches and fifty pounds on him and despite being shit-faced, lands a solid punch. I’m out of my chair, telling Paul to get a bouncer or, failing that, the rest of the team. Fan boy’s friends are pulling him back, but he’s bigger than them, too. I bust in between his drunk ass and the girl right before he grabs her again.

  “Hey, buddy, hands off. Girl’s just trying to do her job.”

  I am so going to get clocked. I sneak a glance at the girl’s partner, out cold on the floor. Shit. I can’t afford to get in a fight. Luck’s with me, though. My interruption has given fan boy’s friends enough time to get a good grip on him and he doesn’t have enough leverage to get his fist close to my face. They drag him off and I turn around. She’s crying and calling out, wrenching her wrists in the leather cuffs like she could rip free if she pulled hard enough. “Denny? Denny, are you okay? Oh, god.”

  I crouch down in front of her, brush a curtain of corn-silk-soft blond hair behind her ear so I can see her face, and reach for the wrist Denny’d started to unfasten.

  “Hey, he’s going be okay. It’s just a punch. Look, he’s coming to already.”

  Twitches of his fingers and a roll of his head say he’ll be conscious in a few seconds. In the meantime, “Hey, sweetheart, settle down. I can’t get you out of here when you’re struggling. I’ll get you out and then you can go to him.”

  She bites her lip and stops flailing, cooperative, tears leaking from her eyes. My fingers are steady as I unbuckle the cuffs and she rubs her wrists, red from her struggles. I put my hand on her arm and drag it up to her shoulder, down her back, over the side of her hip and down her leg. Not trying to cop a feel, but letting her know where I am so she doesn’t freak when she feels me behind her.

  I get her ankle cuffs unfastened and help her stand. I expect her to drop to her knees at Denny’s side. He’s sitting up with the help of a bouncer who’s showed up. Awesome timing, dude. But she stands on tiptoe, throws her arms around my neck, and squeezes the breath out of me.

  “Thank you,” she murmurs into my neck. This really fucking hot chick, smelling like lilacs and sweat and sex, naked as the day she was born, is pressing her whole body the length of mine. If I were Paul or Jamie, I’d have a raging hard-on. But I’m not. I put my arms around her and hold her hard and close until some of the desperation leaves her grasp.

  “Sure.” Who wouldn’t have done that? But the answer is none of the twenty other guys in the room had. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

  She nods into my shoulder and sniffs. The slightest tug back makes me release her, and she presses a quick kiss to my cheek before turning away.

  “Hold up.” I strip off my button-down, leaving me in my undershirt. I hold it out to her and she tugs it over her head, mouthing another thank-you before tackle-hugging Denny, who’s sitting up against a pillar. After a few words, she’s sitting in his lap and he’s comforting her while a bartender comes over with a towel full of ice. A few seconds later, the girl is pointing at me. Denny’s eyes meet mine before he offers a halfhearted salute. I do the same and turn to leave. Hopefully Hurley and some other guys are ready to ditch this place. I won’t leave anyone stranded, but goddamn, do I want to get the fuck out of here.

  I’m stopped by someone grabbing my shoulder. I twist out of the grip, expecting fan boy wanting to get in a late hit. Instead it’s a guy in his early forties, kinda Lenny Kravitz–looking. He holds up his hands and looks me up and down.

  “Easy, man. Just wanted to talk to you. Got a few minutes?”

  The wariness from expecting to get punched hasn’t entirely eased up. “For what?”

  Instead of answering me, he sticks out a hand. “Name’s Mordecai. Nice to meet you.”

  I’m still suspicious but all those damn manners they shoved down our throats on the Hill make me reciprocate. “Shepherd.”

  Everyone at school calls me Shepherd or Shep, even my professors. I don’t think twice about it, but the guy cocks his head and gets this funny smirk on his face. “You serious?”

  Guy’s named fucking Mordecai and he’s giving me shit about Shepherd? What the fuck? I swallow my smart-ass response and turn to go. “Hey, man, Shepherd. Sorry. It’s a little . . . on the nose. Come on, let me buy you a drink. I’ll stop being a dick.”

  “I’m not drinking.”

  There’s that fucking smirk again. “Tonic and lime?”

  “Yeah, okay.” The adrenaline rush is draining from my system. I’m feeling jittery and wound too tight. A glass in my hand would at least give me something to hold on to.

  Mordecai flags down a waitress and holds up two fingers as we take a seat at the back. The action’s stopped, maybe over for the night in the wake of fan boy. It’s nice to have a break to gather my thoughts. My fingers drum on the edge of the table as my eyes are drawn to the front of the room, where Paul’s reenacting the earlier drama for some of our teammates. At least they’re leaving me alone. I can’t take their crap right now.

  “You been here before?”

  I shake my head. “You?”

  “I come here a few times a year.”

  “Business or pleasure?” It’s a smart-aleck thing to say but he surprises me.

  “Business.”

  “What kind of business you in? You own a strip club? Poaching talent?”

  “Y’ever heard of a club called Purgatory?”

  “No. I started school here a few weeks ago. I don’t go out a lot. Some of my teammates might have heard of it, though. I get the feeling this is a regular thing.”

  “I doubt it. It’s a private club. Members and invited guests only. I wanted to talk to you because I’m looking for someone to help out a few nights a week. You seem like a stand-up guy and it would keep you in beer money.”

  “I don’t—”

  “I know. You don’t drink. So, whatever you need cash for. Gas, pizza. Tuition?”

  I flush at the last. Yeah, I could use some extra cash. The campus job they hooked me up with is minimum wage and they can’t give me more than ten hours a week. I’v
e got a bunch saved up from this summer but it would be nice to be adding to my bank account instead of slowly draining it.

  “What do you think? You could come by the club tomorrow. We can talk, you can see what you’d be getting yourself into.”

  I take another look at the guy. His clothes are good quality but not crazy expensive, same with his watch, and I catch a glimpse of a tat snaking out from under his sleeve. Everything about him says solid, with an edge. It’s just a meeting. If the place is creepy as fuck, I’ll leave. I don’t get the feeling it will be. “Yeah, all right.”

  “You don’t say much, do you?”

  “Not usually.”

  “That’s not always a bad thing.” He drains the rest of his glass and sets it down on the table before reaching into his pocket and extracting a black leather wallet. He pulls out a black business card and slides it across the table to me. I pick it up, skimming over the red gothic script that reads “Purgatory” on the front and a phone number and street address printed in gray on the back. “Ten o’clock work for you? I’m kind of a night owl.”

  “That works.” Ten will give me enough time to get my workout in and finish up my homework.

  “I’ll see you then. Good to meet you, Shepherd.”

  I raise my chin to say likewise and don’t hesitate when he holds out a hand. I don’t know what it is about this guy, but aside from his obnoxious habit of smirking at weird times, I like him. Low on bullshit. Easy to be around. He seems to have his shit together and expects other people to as well. I’ll have to wait and see what the deal is with his club, but something tells me Mordecai and I are going to get along just fine.

  Chapter Ten

  Erin

  It’s my third wedding anniversary. Which would explain why I’m sitting in a dark room with handmade, from scratch, by me, gnocchi congealing on the china plate in front of me. When we first got married, Will mentioned it was his favorite. While it’s a giant pain to make and I’m a notorious flop in the kitchen, I’d learned. I’d made batch upon batch to get it right.

  Will loves my gnocchi. Or he used to. Or maybe he pretended to? It’s hard to tell with Will. After his graduation day confession, he’d pledged to start over. Again. For real this time. We’d gone to counseling, he’d seen a therapist, and for a while . . . He’s very good, my husband, when he wants to be. When he tries. But it’s so much easier—and way more fun—to be bad.

  I’d say we had a really good year. Will was faithful and kind; controlled his temper and his drinking. He actually seemed to try most days. It didn’t hurt that Lana Davis had taken a job at a school in California. I think what my husband wants most in the world is for people to like him. He wanted me to like him. And I did. For a while.

  Then it fell apart again. I guess I wasn’t worth the effort. Not every day anyway. He’s still good for the grand gestures. That’s what he’s best at. A gigantic shiny burst that’s going to make him the man of the hour instead of the workaday yeoman who shows up day after day to say I love you in small ways, like remembering how I take my coffee.

  I push the chair away from the table, tossing my unused napkin next to my untouched plate. I could have eaten, but I’ve lost my appetite. Your husband not showing up to a dinner you’ve slaved over all day will do that to a girl. I clean up the kitchen in silence, wishing I had a dishwasher, but these tiny faculty apartments don’t have them. More outmoded traditions we’re bizarrely proud of. Why? They make us relics. Relics with dry, cracked hands from washing three sinkfuls of dirty dishes.

  I climb into bed exhausted and numb, not bothering to read. The book by my bedside is one of the romances I read like I breathe air. I need the possibility of a happy ending like I need oxygen. Will hates them, says they’re crap, although he refuses to read one. His smack talk wouldn’t bother me so much if he’d read one. Some of them are trashy, but some of them are beautifully written and heartrending. Who cares anyway if you enjoy them? But no, it’s beneath a Serious Literary Scholar like himself. Beneath his math-teaching wife, too.

  It may be beneath him, but I wish he’d even look past the cover and see what kind of sex I’d like to have. I’d annotate it, marking sections with a highlighter: we could try this; cross things out with a red pen: oh, hell no; and mark a few pages with sticky flags: dear god, yes. Please, please do this immediately if not sooner. The idea curls my mouth into a sad clown smile. If Will hasn’t taken the hints I’ve dropped, and wrinkled his nose when I’ve suggested something out of the ordinary, he won’t think that’s funny.

  I’m not going to pick up the latest because I’m loving it and I don’t want to be all anaesthetized when I read it, empty like one of Will’s discarded bottles of gin. I want to savor every word. So I stare at the ceiling, pining for sleep until the door to our apartment creaks open and Will trips over the threshold. My hands tighten in the sheets. He’s been drinking. Again.

  He stumbles into our room and his attempts to be quiet are insulting. A picture frame knocked off a dresser he steadies himself against to take off his shoes, swearing as he stubs a toe on the hope chest, the grinding of the stubborn drawer I’ve been asking him to oil for weeks. Frustrated tears well in my eyes by the time he fumbles his way under the covers.

  “I hope the boys didn’t see you.”

  He stiffens as if he’s surprised I’m awake. “Didn’t.”

  “How do you know? You’re so plastered I doubt you’d notice if they were grapefruit bowling again.”

  The hallway had smelled better than usual after that stunt. The scent of citrus permeated the carpet for weeks, drowned out the standard fetid odor of too many gym clothes washed not often enough. I’d still had to chastise them with a straight face. I’d told Will about it when he’d returned from the Model UN trip he was leading, hoping to be able to laugh about it behind closed doors, but he’d wrinkled his nose instead. I couldn’t tell if it was disgust at my juvenile sense of humor—come on, grapefruit bowling? That’s awesome!—or at the idea of walking on zest ground into the carpet for the foreseeable future. Not that Will takes his shoes off except when he comes to bed.

  He doesn’t defend himself but collapses onto the mattress heavily, snoring within a minute, leaving me to stew in our marriage bed.

  • • •

  I make my obviously hungover husband pancakes and coffee the next morning. Cream and sugar, how he likes it. When he bothers to get me a cup, which isn’t often, he still puts sugar in mine even though I’ve told him a hundred times, Just cream, please.

  I get a couple of tabs of aspirin from the bathroom, pour a glass of orange juice, cut some strawberries, warm up syrup on the stovetop before pouring it into a tiny pitcher. I put the whole production on a tray with legs that fold down, a wedding present from one of his sisters. Balancing the heavy tray along my arm so I don’t spill, I come into our bedroom. When I’ve roused him to seated, I place the banquet over his lap.

  “Thanks, angel. This looks wonderful.”

  He’s started to eat and I sit down on the chair next to our bed, twisting my fingers together in my lap. “Will, I want a divorce.”

  He pauses with a bite of pancake dripping with syrup hanging over his chest. A drop falls onto his buttoned-up pajama top. That’s going to make him crazy. But his fastidious compulsions are momentarily silenced.

  “You what?”

  “I want a divorce.”

  “No, you don’t, Erin. You’re saying that because you’re upset about last night. It won’t happen again, I swear. I’ll finish eating, we’ll get cleaned up and we’ll go have a wonderful day. Everything will look better. I was going to take you to the special collections at Harvard. They have—”

  “Does that sound like something I’d like to do, Will? Honestly?”

  He lays his silverware down on the tray and his face furrows into a bewildered frown as if he’s never thought of it before. He has, occasi
onally, but only when he’s sorry. Except Will is never truly sorry. What he is is sad he got caught, uncomfortable with having someone angry at him.

  “Look, we’ve tried. We’re not in love, there’s no baby, and I can’t take this anymore. The lies, the drinking, the cheating. I’ve held out for three years, hoping you could become the man you say you want to be. You even were for a while. But deep down, every day, you’re just Will. You’re charming and intelligent and handsome, but you’re also irresponsible and careless. I don’t want my life tied to yours anymore.”

  “But—”

  “No, Will. No buts. Not anymore. If you’re worried about your job, don’t be. I already talked to Rett and we can both stay. We can keep it quiet through the end of the school year. After graduation you can move out, and we’ll both go about our business.”

  I’d love it if he’d leave, if I didn’t have to see him strutting around campus all the time, wondering who he’s sleeping with, but at least I’d be able to be thankful he’s not sleeping around on me anymore.

  “What if I don’t want to stay here being ex–Mr. Erin Brewster? You’re like Hawthorn royalty, so what the hell will that make me?”

  “Single?”

  He scowls and shoves the tray down the bed, hard enough that orange juice and coffee slosh over the sides and onto the tray, sullying the puddle of syrup on his plate.

  “I’m not going to stay here and be made to look like the bad guy.”

  “When have I ever made you look like the bad guy?”

  He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. There’s nothing to come out. Will may be a terrible husband, but that’s no one’s business but ours. I’ve been careful to keep my problems behind closed doors to the extent that Uncle Rett was surprised when I’d asked over our usual Sunday dinner what happened to faculty members who got divorced.