At Your Beck & Call

  “Shirt off,” she growled, ripping it over my head.

  I gripped her hips and slammed her against the wall, forcing my mouth down on hers. Her fingers were scratching down my chest, across my shoulders, ripping at my back. Then her hands were at my crotch, uncontrolled as she tried to loosen my belt.

  I kept one hand on her thigh, lifting it up to my waist, and my left hand pulled out my cock.

  She moaned and unleashed her hands, tightening around my length, panting into my neck, sweat breaking out across her forehead.

  She rubbed herself against the head of my cock and I was lost. I thrust up hard and lifted both her legs around my waist.

  She was pinned between me and the wall as I circled my hips roughly.

  “God, yes!” she snarled. “Harder!”

  Damn right harder!

  She clamped down around my cock and her cries were swallowed as her mouth opened in a silent scream.

  Her eyes squeezed closed and I felt her pulsing around me. I held on for ten more deep thrusts before spilling inside her.

  We gasped together as I kissed her hard.

  “So beautiful,” she murmured, breathlessly.

  Still joined, I carried her up the stairs and didn’t pull out until I laid her carefully on the bed.

  She giggled as I tucked my cock back in my pants.

  “Oh my God! I’ve never done that before. Ever! My whole body is tingling.”

  I lay down next to her, still wearing my pants and shoes.

  “I can’t control myself around you, Laura. I want you all the time. I can’t see reason when I’m with you. God, I love you.”

  She was silent for a few seconds and I fought to ignore the dark, empty spot at the center of my heart where her reply should have been.

  Finally she spoke.

  “I’m falling in love with you, too, Hallen.”

  It was enough. For now.

  Light was pouring in the windows and I’d forgotten that Laura and I had been stargazing after we made love, leaving the curtains wide open.

  Even in sleep her face held something of that animation that lit her from the inside when she spoke or laughed or was lost in thought. I slid out of bed, smiling as she frowned slightly and moved her hand as if she was reaching out for me.

  I picked up my sketchpad, glad that I’d brought my bag in from the car last night. I hadn’t told Laura, but I’d been working on a piece that had both of us in it—a diptych—and I didn’t need her to pose for me to know every curve and line of her body. It would have been amazing to paint with her naked in front of me, but it wasn’t essential.

  I let the pencil flow over the paper, trying to capture the way the early sunlight hit her shoulder, molding the soft, lightly freckled skin and emphasized the laughter lines around her mouth and eyes. I was so glad she hadn’t opted for any of those treatments that erased the signs of a life lived to the fullest. Every line and wrinkle was a page in the story of Laura—I wouldn’t wish them gone for anything.

  Like most women, she fretted about the signs of aging, but to me she was perfect. And I was only just daring to examine what that meant for me.

  She was still deeply asleep by the time I’d finished three different sketches, so I pulled on a pair of jeans and t-shirt, and padded down to the kitchen. The plan was to make coffee for us, but I was mesmerized by the way the slanting rays made jewels of dew drops clinging to each individual blade of grass in the yard beyond the window. I’d never doubted why some artists spent their lives trying to capture that dazzling light in paint—I was having a Monet moment myself.

  I was relieved that I’d left a set of oil pastels at her house the previous week. I hadn’t started leaving clothes at her house … yet. Being a guy, I generally traveled pretty light, but I always took something to draw with.

  Hurrying, afraid that I’d lose the magic in the morning air, I sat barefoot on the deck, facing the old mulberry tree and hastily skated the crayons over the page, willing the sun to stop its slow ascent.

  I jumped when I heard a voice behind me.

  “Oh, wow! That’s really good!”

  I twisted around to look over my shoulder.

  A girl was watching me, her eyes widening as we stared at each other. Something about the shape of her face—and the fact that she was wearing nothing but a pair of skimpy sleep shorts and a tank top—made me realize that I was looking at Laura’s daughter. Obviously, she’d changed her mind about staying with her father. I wondered briefly what Laura and I had been doing when she came back. We’d been pretty loud, thinking we had the house to ourselves.

  I shrugged the thought away: she was 19—hardly a kid.

  I stood up and held out my hand.

  “You must be Maggie—I’ve heard a lot about you. I’m Hallen.”

  No reaction.

  I waited a few more seconds for her to respond to my name, but she didn’t. Well, not in the way I was expecting. She smiled and shook my hand, a blush blooming from her cheeks and moving down her neck to her chest. She looked up at me through her lashes, gave a small giggle and pouted.

  A cold feeling washed over me. It was obvious that she had no idea who I was. Laura hadn’t told her about me. Not even my name.

  On the other hand she didn’t seem surprised to see me either. I wondered who she thought I was.

  “Hi Hallen. It’s really nice to meet you. Are you studying Art?”

  “Well, I did. I graduated a few years back.”

  She looked puzzled.

  “Oh. Is Joe here? He didn’t say he was staying with Mom this weekend, too.”

  She thought I was a friend of her brother.

  The cold, sick feeling deepened.

  I was about to answer when Laura appeared. I could tell she was on edge and I wondered what she’d do. Part of me watched her, clinically interested to see how she’d explain me away; another part burning with resentment that she hadn’t so much as breathed my name to her daughter. Was I still her dirty little secret?

  “Mom!”

  Maggie squealed and flung herself into her mother’s arms, and they hugged each other tightly. For two seconds, Laura’s smile was genuine, then I saw her gaze worriedly over Maggie’s shoulder at me.

  So that’s how it would be.

  I left them to it, hearing Maggie’s excited voice telling her mother about meeting up with some girlfriends the night before.

  And then she giggled. “Oh my God! He’s so hot, Mom! Is he at school with Joe?”

  I took the stairs two at a time to our room—her room, and shoved my wallet and car keys into my pockets, balled up my tux, stuffing it into my bag, and headed back down, hoping for a quick getaway before my heart fractured even more.

  Laura heard me and came through the hall, her eyes pained.

  “Hallen,” she whispered. “Where are you going?”

  “I don’t know. Away. Home.”

  She ran her hand up my arm tentatively.

  “That’s probably for the best. I’m sorry, but now’s not a good time. She’s still getting over the divorce and her father…”

  “Laura, I get it. Don’t worry. I’m used to it.”

  My voice was hollow and empty, and her face blanched.

  “No! I didn’t mean it like that! I just need a chance to…”

  Her words trailed off.

  My chest burned and my lungs wouldn’t work anymore—it hurt to breathe and I couldn’t look at her.

  “I’ll just go.”

  Please stop me. Please ask me to stay.

  I was begging to hear the words, but she didn’t speak.

  I turned abruptly and strode to the front door, now desperate to be gone.

  “Mom?”

  Maggie’s confused voice followed us into the hall. She had my sketchbook in her hand and was staring at it. She looked up, her gaze fluttering between us, her mouth hanging open.

  “Mom?” She held up one of my sketches of Laura sleeping. “Mom, what’s this?”

&
nbsp; A shock of recognition made Laura’s face sag, and at that moment I hated her. I hated her for the way she made me feel—dirty, despised.

  But Maggie was still waiting for an explanation.

  “Mom!” she said again, more insistently.

  “Maggie, I don’t think you’ve met my … friend, Hallen.”

  Friend. Yeah, right.

  It looked like Maggie was having trouble with the word, as well.

  “Your friend? Why is your friend drawing pictures of you sleeping?”

  “Hallen’s an artist.”

  Maggie’s eyes dropped back to my sketchbook, then she threw it at her mother’s feet.

  “What else?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “What else is he?”

  Laura’s voice hardened. “I told you. He’s my friend.” She reached out and took my hand. “My boyfriend.”

  I couldn’t help the gratitude that flooded into my eyes, even though I was still furious that she’d left it for her daughter to find out by accident.

  Maggie’s eyes bulged. “Your boyfriend? That’s … that’s disgusting! He’s … he’s…”

  “Younger than me?” Laura finished the sentence. “Yes, he is. And we’re very happy together.”

  So happy that she hadn’t been able to bring herself to tell her daughter about me?

  “God, Mom! I can’t believe you! Does Dad know about this? That you’re … that you’ve got a … boy toy?”

  I stiffened but Laura held my fingers tightly.

  “It’s none of your father’s business. And if I remember correctly, our marriage ended when he decided to take his pregnant secretary to Saint Kitts instead of me.”

  Maggie’s lips trembled and Laura took a step toward her. “Darling…”

  “Don’t! Don’t touch me! I can’t believe you. You … he … you’re disgusting!”

  Then she burst into tears and ran up the stairs.

  Laura watched her sadly. “That could have gone better,” she sighed.

  “Why didn’t you tell her?”

  She frowned as she looked at me. “You saw how she was.”

  “And just stumbling across me was better? Jesus, Laura!” Then a realization hit me. “You weren’t going to tell her, were you? Like Joe—he found out by accident. You had no intention of telling Maggie—none whatsoever.”

  “I was going to…”

  “When? When were you going to tell her? We’ve been together three months. Three months! I haven’t met any of your friends…”

  “You’ve met the book club ladies, and Sian.”

  She bit her lip as soon as the words were loose.

  I had to yank out the knife that she’d planted in my chest before I could speak.

  “So that’s it. We’re here again. You’re ashamed of me.”

  “Hallen, no!”

  “Don’t lie to me, Laura!”

  I couldn’t help shouting, the pain was too bad for whispers.

  “I love you. I’ve tried to show you what you mean to me in every possible way but it’s not enough for you. What the fuck am I supposed to do?”

  She stared at me helplessly.

  “I’m sorry … it’s hard for me.”

  I dropped my hands, feeling everything rush away from me. Every hope and dream that I’d cherished over the last three months. Longer.

  “Laura, either I’m in your life—or I’m not. I can’t just be … your beck and call guy. That’s not me. Not anymore. I want more. I want you. The question is, what do you want?”

  She blinked back tears but she didn’t say anything.

  I picked up my bag and walked out of her house. She didn’t stop me.

  It was only when I was halfway home that I realized I’d left my sketchbook behind. Well, she could have it. I didn’t want to look at those drawings of her ever again.

  What was I expecting? That she’d come after me? That this time she’d choose me?

  She didn’t.

  My worst nightmare had come true. She’d ripped my still beating heart from my chest and trampled it into the dirt and dust. Now I was just empty. So empty, I wasn’t even sure I felt pain anymore—just unrelenting numbness.

  The fact that I spent the next two weeks drunk out of my skull might have had something to do with it.

  I didn’t tell anyone; I didn’t speak to anyone. I deleted Magda’s increasingly irate calls, and stopped answering the phone. I might have pulled it together if there had been one single message from Laura, but there wasn’t.

  Eloise didn’t call either, but she must have spoken to Laura because one day she came to the house and let herself in.

  I looked like shit and smelled worse. I had two weeks beard growth and was wearing a ratty t-shirt and old sweatpants when she found me sitting on the floor of my studio with a bottle of Patrón keeping me company.

  My latest canvas, my last canvas, was covered in angry slashes of red and black paint, and shards of glass were stuck into the thick smears. I’d thrown a glass of tequila at it. I don’t remember when, but I’d found some pieces embedded in my hands the next day when I’d momentarily sobered up.

  Eloise knelt on the floor and wrapped her arms around me.

  She didn’t say anything because there was nothing to say.

  I don’t know how long we stayed there—long enough for her to move stiffly and awkwardly when she finally stood.

  She helped me up and led me toward the bathroom. Then she peeled off my t-shirt and sweatpants and pushed me into the shower.

  I emerged ten minutes later, clean if still drunk. She handed me a towel and told me to sit on the bathroom stool. Then she shaved me, carefully moving the razor across my cheeks as she spoke to me calmly, telling me that I needed to stop drinking and to eat something.

  I waited in the bathroom, slumped against the sink, while she changed the sheets on my bed, and tidied my room.

  Then she told me to lie down and sleep.

  It was dark when I woke, and for all I knew it could have been just a few hours or even a whole day later. I’d lost track of time and had no interest in knowing.

  My head was pounding and my tongue felt swollen and dry.

  I sat up, swaying slightly. I knew I was sober because everything hurt, inside and out. I reached for the bottle of tequila that had taken up residence next to my bed, but it had gone.

  I heard music playing quietly in the living room, and I remembered that Eloise had spoken to me. I thought I’d dreamed her—but here she was, taking care of me.

  I couldn’t bring myself to be embarrassed that she’d seen me naked. I didn’t care about much at all.

  I stumbled into the bathroom to splash some cold water on my face. I didn’t recognize the reflection in the mirror. Whatever, some loser.

  A pair of clean shorts and a t-shirt had been laid out for me, so I pulled them on and shuffled into the living room.

  Eloise was reading a newspaper and listening to Ravel’s ‘Pavane for a Dead Princess’, which seemed oddly apt. It certainly suited my mood.

  “You’ve lost weight.”

  I didn’t answer because it didn’t matter.

  I slumped down onto the couch and she pushed her coffee cup toward me.

  “Drink this. I’ll make us something to eat.”

  As she passed, she leaned down to kiss my forehead.

  “Dear heart,” she whispered.

  Ten minutes later, the aroma of frying bacon drifted upward and my stomach growled queasily. I followed the scent into the kitchen, and Eloise handed me a full plate with eggs and pancakes, too.

  “Eat,” she commanded.

  I definitely felt more human and less like the walking dead after I’d eaten. I couldn’t finish it all—it had been too many days where my entire calorific intake had consisted of alcohol.

  Eloise frowned but didn’t say anything.

  I was the one who broke the uneasy silence.

  “Laura called you,” I stated.

  “Yes. She w
as worried about you.”

  I gave a hollow laugh.

  “She didn’t like how things ended between you.” Eloise paused. “Has it ended?”

  “Yep, definitely over,” I said, rubbing my eyes.

  “Maggie is a spoiled child. Being the youngest, she’s always been indulged and...”

  “I don’t want to talk about it, Ellie.”

  “No, you’d rather have a deep and meaningful conversation with a bottle of tequila.”

  “You got that right.”

  She sighed. “I took the liberty of listening to your messages.”

  I glared at her but she ignored me.

  “And I telephoned the gallery owner, Magda. She’s willing to delay your exhibition until February 1st—but no longer. I told her you’d make that deadline.”

  “You shouldn’t have done that, Ellie.”

  “Of course I should. I’m not going to let you wallow anymore.”

  “Is that what I’m doing?” I snapped. “She was so ashamed of me, Ellie. You should have seen the look on her face when Maggie said it was disgusting—that we were disgusting. It was like she agreed.”

  Eloise’s face was calm.

  “Yes, you’re wallowing—and two weeks is long enough.”

  “Says the woman who doesn’t believe in love.”

  “Don’t be childish, Hallen,” she snapped. “And don’t think for one moment that you know everything about me. I have loved.” She paused, “and I have lost.”

  I grimaced. “Sorry.”

  “If it makes you feel any better, Laura is suffering, too.”

  Skewered by a word—a name.

  “Why would that make me feel any better?”

  Eloise shrugged delicately. “You’re a man.”

  “Well, it doesn’t make me feel better—and I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “No, Hallen,” said Eloise, firmly. “Don’t talk about it: you’re an artist—show how you’re feeling in your work.”

  And so I painted.

  Every emotion was poured onto canvas: pain, joy, regret, lust, hatred, sorrow, loss—and love. It calmed me and energized me, and it gave me a reason for getting up in the morning. I even finished the diptych that I’d started, although it was very different from my original concept.