“Oh sure, now you tell me,” she gasped back with a smile, moving her heels to dig into the bed, thrusting her hips up to take me deeper. “A little late.”
I laughed and kissed her. “I love you,” I told her, surging into her, already racing toward the finish.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
We set our plan in motion the next day.
I packed a small suitcase with one nice suit, swim trunks, several T-shirts and athletic shorts, plenty of boxer briefs, one extra pair of nice shoes, and the essential toiletries, prepped my work issues for a two-week absence, and left my house at ten a.m., clear instructions in my head, per Iris.
It was scary how good she was at this sort of thing, how familiar.
I drove my black Prius to Boulder Station, one of the local haunts, way across town, on Boulder Highway. I parked it in the vast parking lot, walked through the casino, and exited the building at the taxi station.
I took a cab to Sam’s Town, another local haunt, and repeated the process, this time telling the new cabby to take me to the Bellagio, a casino on the strip.
From Bellagio, I took a taxi to Aria, another strip casino. From Aria, I rode to the Stratosphere.
At this one, a hoodie and dark shades wearing Iris met me at the taxi station, and slipped into the car with me, this time giving the cab driver a home address.
She sent me a sidelong smile as the taxi started to move.
“How can you be absolutely sure I lost the tail?” I asked her, glancing behind us.
“Can’t be, that’s why we’ll do one more check.”
About halfway to our destination, Iris had the driver pull over on the side of a quiet street and wait for ten minutes, meter running.
Nothing happened. No tail.
We smiled happily at each other and headed to her friends’ house.
We were walking Frankie and Estella’s dogs, twin black labs, in their busy neighborhood park a few days later, and I’d just said something, (in a pretty off-handed way, it should be noted) that I’d soon regret, only I didn’t know it yet.
Iris gave me one of those mysterious looks that drove me crazy. It was neither happy or sad, but thoughtful and a touch of something that eluded me.
“So I should be with someone closer to my own age?” she was asking me.
Had I said that? I supposed I had. And I supposed I still believed it, though that didn’t mean I was happy about it.
I sighed.
She had no intention of letting it go.
“Have you talked to any twenty-year-old boys lately, Dair?”
I tried to change the subject. I hadn’t liked it, anyway. “Are you saying you’re twenty now?”
“You’re avoiding the question. Do you think I should be with someone closer to my own age?”
I sighed again. “Yes of course. I’ve told you this.”
“And you want to be with someone your age?” Her tone was so idle that I didn’t hesitate to answer.
“I certainly think that would be more appropriate.”
Did I intend to follow through with my words?
Fuck no. Not with any of them.
I just felt the need to say them. They were the most rudimentary form of lip service. A sop to my conscience, as it were.
As though that settled something, she nodded and started looking around the park.
“Why? Why did you just ask me that?”
“That photographer friend of yours is very beautiful.”
“She is.” Though I was trying to recall when Iris could have gotten a good look at her, and came up blank.
“And into you. On your coffee date, she leaned in your direction, and laughed a lot. That’s got to be a good sign. Does she know about me?”
I studied her, wondering just how much Iris must have either spied on me, or had someone else do it. I tried to work up some righteous outrage, but too many conflicted emotions made it hard to form a response, not the least of which worry that she knew I’d gone out for coffee with another woman, and didn’t seem to mind, going by her nonchalant tone.
“I’ll take that as a no. Do you think she’s interested in you?”
This was strange for her, and bad for me. To say she wasn’t the jealous type was the understatement of the year, but this was shaping into what, for a normal girl, would have been a jealous line of questioning.
I tried to give it to her as honest as I could. “I think she wouldn’t mind if I asked her out, and she’d likely say yes, but she’s not aggressive enough to ever take that step herself.”
“Ahh, so you’re not as oblivious as you pretend to be.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” I hated it when she treated me like I was the kid in this relationship.
“So, if you, say, called her up and asked her out on a date, do you think she’d go?”
“I’m not doing that—”
I’m not telling you to. I’m just asking.”
I felt like an egotistical asshole saying it, but if I was honest, “Yes, I think she’d go. Where’s this ridiculous conversation heading?”
She didn’t answer, and that worried me.
“What are you up to?” I asked her.
“Just making sure that I understand everything.”
I knew the conversation didn’t portend good things, but I didn’t understand just how bad it was going until she ditched me in the park.
She didn’t go far, just about fifty feet away, where some meatheads were wrapping up their CrossFit drills.
It was an unseasonably warm day, the bright sun beating down, and she was wearing some of her tiny shorts (hot pink), flip flops (bright purple), and an adorable little neon yellow crop top that left her flat, tan stomach bare, and read: LOVE IS MY DRUG across her chest.
The pink was already fading from her hair, and it was currently a shade of adorable, cotton candy pink, hanging loose and silky around her shoulders.
She looked delectable, edible, head to toe, as she went and started chatting up an oiled group of juiced up guys who were way, way younger than me.
I held the leashes of her hot lesbian friends’ dogs, and just watched as she singled one of them out, clearly the most attractive one of the bunch.
The tallest one. The biggest one.
He flashed bright white teeth at her as he smiled and eyed her up like she was his own special birthday present.
She smiled and laughed with him, clearly flirting.
I almost dropped both leashes to punch a nearby tree when she touched his arm in a familiar way.
Still, I kept myself from going over there, instead walking the dogs in a few big circles around the park, while she continued to charm that muscle bound motherfucker for a solid thirty minutes.
She fell into step with me without a word when she was good and ready, and we left the park.
We were nearly back at Frankie’s house before I found my voice. “What the fuck was that?”
She didn’t play coy, at least. “I agreed to go out with him tonight.”
I felt my blood begin to boil, rising up, hot bile in my throat.
“You what?”
“I am deferring to your superior wisdom that must only come with age. I was young and naive enough to trust my heart and give this thing between us a shot, but you seem to think that’s a bad thing. A foolish thing. Who am I to disagree? You’re clearly older and therefore wiser. So now I’m doing what you suggested, trying out someone closer to my own age. You should call your photographer friend, take her on a date. Talk is cheap, Dair.”
“You’re out of your mind. Did you really think that I meant you should pick up some random guy at the park? And I’m not calling anyone. Fuck you. You don’t get to tell me what to do. Who do you think you are?”
“I’m a woman that wants you to live by your own words. You keep saying a thing, I’ll hold you to it. I’m sick of your obsession with the age difference. You’re fixated on it. You wanted me to go out with someone else. I’ll do it. Problem solv
ed.”
I was so sick with worry suddenly that I ran out of anger, but I was still chock-full of desperation. “Don’t do that. Please. I don’t want you to go out with him. You know that’s not what I want.”
She gave me a level stare, and with that one look, I knew she was going to be merciless about this.
“So how about you get to pick. One of us is going out with someone else tonight, someone closer to our own age. You or me. And if you don’t pick, I’m going out with the gym rat.”
“Will you . . . sleep with him?” My throat tried to choke on the question.
“Oh, Dair,” she said softly.
It wasn’t an answer. I wanted to rip my hair out.
“I’ll go,” I growled at her. At least if I went, I wouldn’t have to worry about what she was doing all night. “But you have to stay at the house while I do it. I want you waiting for me when I get home.”
How had this gotten so screwed up so quickly?
“Fine.”
I was so angry by the time we got back that I didn’t even try to talk her out of the whole thing, determined by then to teach her a lesson.
I made sure she was in earshot as I called Lourdes and chatted her up, eventually asking her out to dinner that night. I lucked out (or not) because she wasn’t busy and agreed readily enough.
Iris showed no reaction, just sending me occasional inscrutable glances while she made us sandwiches in the kitchen.
I was seething by the time I hung up, and I could only hope poor Lourdes hadn’t noticed.
“Happy?” I asked Iris.
“Happy is not the word I’d use,” she said, tone just a touch warmer than idle.
She didn’t say much to me as I got ready that night, donning the lone suit I’d packed. Never would I have imagined when I was packing it for this little love nest, that I’d be wearing it to go out with another woman.
I was pretty miserable about that.
I was fully dressed, ten minutes before it was time to go, when I approached her.
She was watching TV in the house’s colossal living room, sitting slouched on the couch, looking bored as she flipped through channels.
I sat beside her, feeling overdressed in my suit, with her in her shorts and crop top.
I gripped her thigh and rubbed, watching her face.
She barely spared me a glance, still cycling through channels.
I set my jaw and moved to kneel in front of her, blocking her view.
She looked at me then, but the look told me nothing.
I leaned down and kissed her soft mouth, gripping her hair with one hand, the other rubbing between her legs, over her shorts, finding her clit with my thumb, and stroking circles around it.
She squirmed and kissed me back, but kept her hands to herself.
I slid the hand in her hair down, found a hand, and guided it to me to rub at me over my slacks.
I worked us both into a frenzy before I pulled back, panting. I glanced down as I pushed my hand inside a leg of her shorts, and finding her wet, shoved two fingers into her.
I stroked in and out, my other hand still guiding hers as it rubbed my straining length, still over my clothes.
She was on the edge when I yanked my fingers out of her, and stopped her hand on me, made it squeeze my tip, then pushed it away.
“Let’s stop this nonsense right now,” I told her firmly, trying to sound reasonable (which I didn’t feel) instead of angry (which I did). “I don’t want to go. I want to stay with you, right here, and finish what I just started. Tell me not to go.”
She met my eyes steadily, and I knew what her response was before she said it. “No. I think you should go. I’ll be here when you get back.”
I slammed the front door when I left and didn’t say goodbye.
I was so pissed that I had to pull over halfway there and get my temper in hand. I didn’t want Lourdes to know how much I didn’t want to do this. She didn’t deserve that.
Lourdes was dressed to kill in a little black dress that showed off her toned legs and just a hint of cleavage. Her hair was parted down the middle, hanging in long, thick curls to her mid-back. Her makeup was sultry, bringing out her big, dark, mysterious eyes.
She was a knockout, for sure. If I wasn’t so out of sorts, I was convinced I would have been drooling at the sight of her.
As it was, I had to dig deep to stay engaged, and act like nothing was wrong.
I’d gotten last minute reservations at Joel Robuchon, because Lourdes had told me once that French food was her favorite, and I’d made a note of it at the time, because I’d been working up the nerve to ask her out on a date. It was supposed to be one of the best, and most expensive, French restaurants in town.
It was certainly impressive at first glance, I noted, as we were shown to our table. The decor was luxe, but the place was nearly deserted. I figured that was because, though it was a Friday, the meals ran expensive, and when I say expensive, I mean five hundred dollars a plate, and that was before you added in the alcohol.
I wasn’t worried about it. Money was literally the least of my problems, at this point.
Lourdes gushed about the place, admitting she’d been wanting to come here, but hadn’t been on a date in ages.
I felt like the worst kind of despicable for that one, but consoled myself with the fact that at least I’d taken her someplace she’d wanted to go, even if I couldn’t force myself to think of this as a real date.
We both decided to go with the sixteen course degustation menu, since that was what the waiter insisted we had to do.
I didn’t care, my mind on staying out as late as possible, just to spite Iris and make her worry.
Lourdes, as much as she was a health nut, enjoyed each course, tasting everything as only a health nut, who rarely ate this extravagantly, could.
None of it was my cup of tea, but I kept silent about that, as I was used to sitting through meals that I knew I wouldn’t necessarily enjoy. My parents had trained me well for that.
I tried the caviar, didn’t like it, but pretended I did when Lourdes raved about it.
I barely got the Foie Gras down with a neutral expression, though Lourdes said it was the best she’d ever had.
My favorite part of the meal, by far, was the bread cart. I overloaded on carbs, knowing I’d have to make up for it with the next day’s workout, and not caring, something about eating a bunch of stuff I didn’t like exaggerating my hunger for something I actually enjoyed.
The sixteen tiny courses went by slowly, the full meal taking nearly four hours, and after a time, I did start to enjoy myself.
She was a very nice lady. Extravagantly beautiful. Very charming and even funny.
It wasn’t her fault I couldn’t look at it as a real date.
You can’t go out with one woman, while being in love with another, and have it be a fair comparison.
“You didn’t love it,” Lourdes accused teasingly as I opened the passenger door and handed her into my Tesla.
I walked around the car and slid into the driver’s seat before I responded. I sent her an apologetic smile. “It was very impressive. I don’t believe I’ve ever been served food with real gold flakes on it before. That was definitely a highlight.”
She laughed. “You hated it. Well, thank you for bringing me, anyways. I loved it, and even though I rarely let myself eat like that, it was so worth it.”
“Then I’m glad we went.”
She laughed again, a rich, happy laugh, the kind of laugh it felt good to listen to. “Well, next time, we’ll have to pick your favorite kind of food, to make up for it.”
And just that easy, I felt like a bastard again.
I took her to the newest Cirque show, at the Aria. Front row seats. It was hard to get those day of, but I knew a guy. Well, Turner did, but his guy was happy to hook me up, too.
The show was great, and after, we took a little walk around the casino, chatting about it.
I studied Lourdes as she
spoke. She had the loveliest thick, deep sable hair. There were masses of it. I’d admired it from the first time I met her, and I realized suddenly that she was what I’d always considered my type. My wife had had dark, heavy hair, and deep mysterious eyes, as well.
When had it changed, my type? Was it the bitterness of the divorce that had soured my preference, or had it happened with my developing feelings for a wild, too young blonde?
I was pretty certain it was the latter.
It was late when I dropped Lourdes off, and we’d started early. Of course, a four-hour sixteen-course meal would make any night run long. Still, the stubborn part of me was hoping Iris had been worrying for every minute of my absence.
Lourdes actually invited me in for a drink, but I politely declined.
She kissed me, and I held very still and let her.
It had to have lasted a full two minutes before she reluctantly pulled away.
Now I really felt like a bastard. Just awful.
I wanted to take it back, to wash my mouth out with soap.
I didn’t let it show, saying as polite of a goodbye as I could manage.
I felt horrible the entire way home. Just gross, disgusted with myself for using a friend.
She’d seemed to enjoy herself, seemed to hope for another date, though I hadn’t mentioned so much as calling her again.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Iris was up and watching TV in the guest bedroom we’d been using when I got back to the house. She was lying on top of the covers, wearing nothing but a sheer white tank top and panties.
“How did it go? Did you hit it off?” she asked, tone casual, not even bothering to look at me.
I wanted to throttle her. “You know we didn’t. It’s impossible to have a real date with one woman while being in love with another.”
“Well, it was worth a shot. You keep telling me that love is much less important than this age difference. Maybe the next date will go better.”
“I am not fucking doing that again.”
“I wasn’t talking about you. I’m going out with the meathead tomorrow. We’re going clubbing. It seems age appropriate.”