Play Dirty

CHAPTER 9

THE CALL CAME EARLY ON A MONDAY MORNING, JUST AS HE was waking up, but before he’d got out of bed. He rolled over, sleepily groped for his new cell phone on the nightstand, and flipped it open. “Hello?”

“Mr. Burkett?”

That woke him up. “Yeah. Here.”

She didn’t identify herself. She didn’t have to. “Would one o’clock today be convenient for you?”

“One o’clock?” Like he had to think about it. Like he might have a conflict. Like he had something else to do. “One o’clock’s fine.”

“Here’s the address.” She gave him a number on Windsor Street. “Got it?”

“Got it.”

She hung up. Griff snapped his phone shut, then lay there clutching it, clutching the fact that they were really going through with it. Then he sat bolt upright. The hitch in his back protested loudly enough to cause him to catch his breath. He threw off the sheet, got out of bed, and, buck naked, went clambering through his apartment until he found a pen and paper to write down the address. He was certain he’d committed it to memory, but he was taking no chances.

He went into the bathroom. Standing at the toilet, he looked down at himself and muttered, “Don’t even think about getting stage fright.”

As expected, he’d passed the physical exam with flying colors. The nurse had come through for him in only two days. The report showed his EKG to be normal, his lungs clear. He had low blood pressure, low cholesterol, and a low PSA-he thought that had something to do with his prostate. His sperm count, by contrast, was high. Excellent.

He’d put the report, along with his cell phone number, in the addressed and stamped envelope Speakman had given him for this purpose, and dropped it into the nearest mailbox.

That had been two weeks ago. Since then, he’d moved to another apartment and acquired a tan.

Using his newfound cash, he had abandoned the roach-infested place and moved into a duplex. Living strictly on a cash basis presented the expected problems. Eyebrows were raised when he signed his lease, but the management of the complex took the cash without asking too many questions. His new place wasn’t in the ritziest of neighborhoods, which would have required letters of recommendation and closer scrutiny, but it was worlds above where he’d been.

The complex had a security gate, well-kept grounds, a gym, and a pool-which accounted for his tan. After moving in his new furniture and setting up a sound system and plasma-screen, high-definition TV (the best invention ever), he didn’t have much else to do except work out-it had been during a moment of pique that he had considered getting fat-and lounge by the pool.

He also went to the hospital nearly every day to visit Marcia, and he always took something with him. He’d taken flowers until the nursing staff complained that the room was becoming a greenhouse. Dwight, who’d proved to be a steadfast and attentive friend to her, chided Griff for not being more creative. So one day he took her a teddy bear. The next day he carried in a goofy hat. “To wear until you can get out of here and have your hair done,” he told her as he gently placed it on her head.

She still couldn’t speak, but she communicated her gratitude for his visits with her expressive eyes. By now she could take short strolls down the corridor. Dwight had referred a plastic surgeon who, according to Dwight’s affluent and well-preserved clientele, was a genius. After examining Marcia, the surgeon promised to do great things but said he couldn’t even begin until she had completely healed.

She still sipped her meals through a straw, and every time Griff witnessed that, his fury resurfaced. What he conjectured was that Rodarte had gone up to Marcia’s penthouse immediately after their encounter in the garage. Expecting her client, she’d opened the door to him. He’d pumped her for information about Griff, and when she didn’t-actually couldn’t-divulge any, he’d tried beating it out of her.

From Rodarte’s standpoint, it was a failed mission only insofar as he still didn’t know what Griff’s future plans were. But he’d had the satisfaction of terrorizing and disfiguring a beautiful woman who was an acquaintance of Griff’s. Knowing he could get away with it because of her profession was a bonus. Rodarte was a lowlife, a bully who would enjoy inflicting pain just for the hell of it. Gratifying his mean streak was really all the motivation he needed.

Griff couldn’t think about it without becoming enraged. On one of his visits to the hospital, he again broached the subject of reporting Rodarte to the police, but the fear and anguish that filled Marcia’s eyes dissuaded him.

“He won’t get away with it,” he told her. “I promise you.”

There had been no sign of Rodarte since the assault. Griff knew where to find him, but he didn’t dare go looking. Rodarte would love for him to come crashing down doors threatening bloodshed. No doubt that was the kind of reckless reaction he had hoped to provoke.

Griff wouldn’t give Rodarte the satisfaction of getting his butt thrown in jail again, nor did he wish to make matters worse for his suffering friend. So for the time being, he honored Marcia’s silent pleas and didn’t seek retribution.

Today thoughts of Rodarte were obscured by Laura Speakman’s call. Having had two weeks to prepare for it mentally, he was surprised by how nervous he was. To distract himself until the appointed time, he went for a five-mile run, then worked out with weights in the gym. His goal wasn’t to build himself back up to his football playing size but to maintain the lean, strong form he had now.

He followed the weights session with laps in the pool. But when it occurred to him that too much exertion might be detrimental to his sexual performance, he immediately got out.

He flossed before he brushed. He clipped his fingernails. He put on his new Armani sports jacket. He left his apartment at twelve-thirty. He arrived at the address at twelve thirty-seven. He had twenty-three minutes to kill.

The house was in an established area that had a Neighborhood Crime Watch, where residents were on the alert for people who lurked about and looked suspicious. He decided it would be better not to wait parked on the tree-lined street where he would fit that description to a tee.

Instead, he pulled into the narrow driveway and followed it around to the rear of the house, where there was a sheltered parking area and a neat backyard, made shady by two venerable sycamore trees. A privacy fence separated the property from the houses on either side.

In this older neighborhood, people were buying the houses and either razing them to rebuild on the coveted wooded lots or completely renovating. Griff guessed this was one of the latter, because it appeared as though what had once been the garage had been converted into a room. But it had been done well, and the house had retained its character and charm.

He’d bought the red Honda from Wyatt Turner. It wasn’t what he wanted to drive, but it ran okay and he figured that paying cash for a flashy new car-soon after shelling out a deposit on the duplex-would send up all kinds of red flags to his probation officer, the IRS, the FBI. Even his lawyer eyed him suspiciously when Griff asked how much he wanted for the car and then counted out hundred-dollar bills to pay for it. Turner didn’t ask how he’d come by the cash. Griff didn’t volunteer the information.

Now he kept the Honda’s motor running so he could leave the air conditioner on. He drummed his thumbs on the steering wheel and hummed accompaniment to the country song playing on the radio. The artist had sung the national anthem to open one of the Cowboys’ home games, then, at the invitation of the owner, had watched all four quarters from the sideline.

After an easy win against Tampa Bay, he’d asked Griff for his autograph. This guy was a hot new star. He’d won several Grammy Awards, but he’d hem-hawed and stammered, tongue-tied and starstruck, as he extended Griff his program and a Bic pen.

Today that singer wouldn’t piss on him if he was on fire.

He heard her car over the radio and his own humming. He shut down the Honda, took a deep breath, exhaled, and got out.

He followed the driveway along the west side of the house and came up behind her on the small porch as she was unlocking the front door. Sensing him there, she turned, startled. “Oh.”

“Hi.”

“I didn’t realize you were already here.”

“I parked around back.”

“Oh,” she said again, then hurriedly unlocked the door and went in ahead of him. She closed the door as soon as he’d cleared the threshold. A short entry hall opened into a living area. Louvered shutters were closed over the wide windows, so the room was dim. It was basically square, with a small fireplace in the center of one wall, a hardwood floor, standard pieces of furniture.

She lowered the strap of her handbag from her shoulder but clutched the bag against her chest, as if she was afraid he might grab it from her. “I thought I’d got here ahead of you.”

“I don’t live far.”

“I see.”

“Couple of miles. I got here sooner than I expected.”

“Have you been waiting long?”

“Not too long. But you’re not late. You’re right on time.”

During this scintillating conversation, she had adjusted the wall thermostat. Cool air began whirring through the ceiling vents. Griff was grateful. He’d begun to perspire. He wanted to take off his sports jacket but thought she might read something suggestive into the removal of a garment, any garment. Since he didn’t have a clue how this was supposed to go, he figured he’d follow her lead, even though doing so involved some sweating.

She was dressed for the office. Her suit was black, but the fabric was summer weight. Linen, he thought. The skirt came to the tops of her knees, the jacket was nipped in at the waist. Under it was a pale pink top that draped across her chest and looked soft. Same jewelry as before. Black high-heeled sandals. Her toenails were painted a pearly ivory color.

He’d noticed all this as he came up behind her on the porch. He didn’t dare scope her out now, because she was drawn as taut as a piano wire, acting uptight and all business. If she’d had DO NOT TOUCH tattooed on her forehead, it couldn’t have been any plainer how she felt about being alone with him.

“There are some magazines in there.” She pointed out an armoire in the corner. “And a TV with…with videos.” Simultaneously they looked at the closed doors of the armoire, then back at each other.

“Okay,” he said.

“Give me a few minutes. Then, whenever you’re ready, I’ll be in the bedroom.”

And with that, she walked across the living room, down a hallway, turned in to a room at the end of it, and closed the door.

Well, at least now he knew how it was going to be. They’d do it like porcupines.

He shrugged off his sports jacket and folded it over the back of a chair. He went to the armoire and opened the double doors. It contained a treasure trove of pornography. He sorted through the stack of magazines. A panoply of possibilities. Something for everybody. Same with the collection of videos.

Who had stocked this stuff? he wondered. Foster? Her? Somehow he couldn’t see them visiting a triple-X video store, browsing among the titles for something that would turn him on. “What do you think he’d like, honey? Twixt Twins or Euro Snatch?

Maybe they’d sent Manuelo on that errand; one of the magazines was in Spanish. Maybe Manuelo was into porno. Maybe that accounted for his vacuous smile.

Griff recognized his musing for what it was: stalling.

He wandered into the kitchen at the back of the house. There was bottled water and a six-pack of Diet Coke in the fridge. He took a bottle of water, twisted off the cap, drank some as he went into the former garage, which was now a sunroom, although not that much sunlight was coming in through the drawn blinds. The house was as sealed off as Mrs. Speakman.

He returned to the living room and sat down on the sofa that faced the armoire. He tugged off his boots, wiggled his toes, and tried telling himself he was comfortable and relaxed. He sorted through the magazines again, and the glossy photos on the covers got things started. But, deciding he preferred his own imagination, he set the magazines aside, pulled his shirttail out, and unbuttoned his jeans.

He leaned back against the sofa cushions, closed his eyes, and recalled the night he’d been with Marcia. But erotic images of her were instantly obliterated by those of her lying in her hospital bed looking like something out of a war zone.

Shit!

Before he lost what he had, he searched his mind for something to think about that would keep it up. What had recently tickled his fancy or even sparked his curiosity? That mind search took only a few seconds, but it was the real deal, all right. He became instantly aroused.

And once he really focused on it…

He tapped on the closed door.

“You can come in.”

He opened the door and stepped into the bedroom. It was completely furnished, although later he couldn’t remember a damn thing about it except the pastel sheet that covered her to her waist. She was lying on her back, a pillow beneath her head, her hands clasped over her stomach. She still had on the pink top, and he could see a sliver of bra strap at her shoulder.

And under the sheet?

Her jacket and skirt were folded on a chair. Shoes were beside the bed.

Panties? He didn’t see them. On or off?

In any case, he was glad he’d followed a hunch and kept his clothes on. Obviously getting naked wasn’t part of the program.

But out of necessity his jeans were unbuttoned. Her glance in that vicinity was so fleeting he wondered if what she saw even registered before she looked up toward the ceiling and kept her eyes trained on a spot there.

He walked to the side of the bed and faced away from it. She didn’t say anything, so neither did he. He took off his jeans but left his boxers on. For good measure-literally-he discreetly squeezed himself through his shorts and felt a reassuring bead of moisture dampen the cloth. Then keeping his back to her, he lifted the sheet and lay down. He felt ridiculous modestly pulling the sheet over his legs, but he did.

He lay there on his back, also staring at the ceiling, for thirty seconds or so. But this was a real mood killer, not to mention the jeopardy in which it was placing his ability to make a kid.

He turned onto his side to face her. She didn’t speak, or even blink. But she opened her legs. The one nearest him made contact. The outside of her thigh glanced the top of his. Just that much skin-to-skin contact gave him the needed staying power.

He moved onto her, situated himself between her legs, and pushed his boxers past his hips. She raised her knees, not in a way that was particularly inviting, but at least they were anatomically positioned to have sexual intercourse. He probed where he was supposed to probe.

His heart bumped. No panties. Just…her.

She turned her head aside and closed her eyes.

Which made him angry. It was a given that this was going to be awkward. Difficult even. But she’d done nothing so far to make it any easier. While he’d been out there thinking dirty thoughts to get himself aroused, what had she been doing? Obviously nothing. Masturbation probably wasn’t in her vocabulary, but couldn’t she have done something to make herself more receptive? If not for his sake, then for her own? Couldn’t she tilt her hips up just a little? Shift forward, shift back? Take him in her hand and guide him home? Something?

The only thing she did was to turn her face away.

The more he thought about it, the angrier he became. This was her idea, not his. She was orchestrating this, not him. She didn’t want conversation beforehand? All right. He didn’t have anything to say to her anyway.

She wanted to do it with their clothes on? Okay by him.

No foreplay? Who needed it? Not him.

She wanted to turn her head away like she was about to be sacrificed or something? Let her cope any ol’ way she liked.

She wanted to lie as stiff and unyielding as a board? Fine.

But it wasn’t fine, because it soon became apparent that he couldn’t penetrate her without hurting her, and the thought of hurting her-

“Just do it,” she said.

So he did it.

After that, biology and primal instinct took over. The tight resistance only compelled him to push harder, deeper. He closed his eyes, but only because he couldn’t stand to watch her grimace. That was what he told himself anyway. He tried to empty his mind of all thought except the money he was going to have.

That’s it, think about the money. Don’t think about her. Don’t think about how this feels or how snug…Shit! Don’t think snug. Don’t think…ah, hell…

With a long groan, he emptied himself, then forgot the rules and collapsed on top of her. His face remained pressed into the pillow, near her head, strands of her hair curling against his nose, until he could catch his breath.

She didn’t move when he levered himself up and withdrew. She just lay there with her face still turned to the wall, eyes closed, a vertical frown between her eyebrows. He got out of bed, pulled up his boxers, and stepped into his jeans. When he finished buttoning up and buckling his belt, he looked over his shoulder. She had lowered her knees. The sheet had been pulled up to her waist again. She lay with one forearm across her eyes.

“Are you all right?”

She only nodded.

He stood there, feeling guilty, although he didn’t know why. He felt like the time Ellie had caught him stealing a ten-dollar bill from her wallet and then had insisted that he keep it. He opened his mouth to say something, called it back, then finally said, “Look, you told me to-”

“I’m fine, Mr. Burkett.” She lowered her arm and opened her eyes, but she didn’t look in his direction. “It betters my chances to conceive if I lie here for a half hour or so. That’s all.”

“Oh. So, you’re okay?”

“Yes.”

She didn’t thank him. It sure as hell seemed inappropriate to thank her.

She was pulling on her suit jacket when she walked into the living room. Seeing him on the sofa, she stopped, shocked to find him still there. Gauging by her expression, she wasn’t at all happy about it, either. She shoved her arm into the sleeve and wrestled the jacket into place. “Why didn’t you leave?”

He stood up. “I-”

“You should be gone by now.”

“I-”

“You shouldn’t have waited, Mr. Burkett.” Her voice sounded like tearing cloth. She was either mad as hell or on the edge of hysteria. He couldn’t be sure which, but this was the most emotion he’d ever seen from her. Her cheeks were red. The calm, cool, and collected lady of the manor was about to lose it. “Why didn’t you just go?”

Quietly he said, “Your car has mine blocked in.”

In an instant, her posture went from rigid to limp. She released her breath slowly, touched her forehead with the tips of her fingers, then her flaming cheek with the backs of them, looked embarrassed. “Oh.”

“I would have moved it myself, but you had the keys.”

He gestured toward her handbag. She looked down where it hung at her side. “Right.” Then, changing back into the got-it-together businesswoman persona, she said, “I apologize for holding you up.”

“No problem.”

“You should have come and told me.”

“If it helps to keep lying down after…you know…I didn’t mind waiting awhile. The whole point of this is to get you pregnant.”

She nodded, then consulted her wristwatch. “I must go or I’m going to be late for a meeting. Will you reset the thermostat, please?”

“Sure.”

“Just pull the door closed after you. It will lock. I’ll be in touch, one way or the other.”

She couldn’t get out of there fast enough, and her haste to leave made him feel ornery. He had decided he wasn’t going to say anything. If he was smart, he wouldn’t.

But.

He said, “I wondered why you would go along with this, Mrs. Speakman.”

Already halfway through the entry, she halted, turned, looked at him. “You know why, Mr. Burkett. I want a child.”

“But this?” He tapped his fly, then motioned toward her middle. The gesture caused a frisson in her cool bearing. Some of the high color came back into her cheeks. He went to her, stopping only a few steps away. “After meeting both of you, I could almost understand your husband.”

“Your understanding isn’t important to us. Or necessary.”

“Okay. Say I wanted to understand for my own peace of mind. Your husband is eccentric, maybe even altogether crazy, but looking at this child and heir thing from his point of view, from a rich man’s point of view, I could sorta get it. Sorta.” He shook his head, frowning with perplexity. “But you, I just couldn’t figure.”

“So don’t bother trying.”

He took another step closer, crowding her, making her uncomfortable, wanting to because in the bedroom she had made him feel like a vandal ravaging the village virgin. “Why, I asked myself, would you agree to making a baby this way?” His eyes held hers. He lowered his voice. “And now I know.”

Coldly, she said, “Now?”

“Now that I know why your husband is in that wheelchair.”

I can do this, Laura asserted to herself as she entered the conference room. Everyone else had assembled. She moved to the head of the table. “Sorry I’m late.”

“We promise not to tell Foster,” one of the department heads quipped.

“Thank you. We all know that punctuality is a religion to him.”

“Long lunch?” someone teased.

Her hand faltered just a bit as she reached for the water carafe. “No, just an errand that took longer than I anticipated.”

The errand hadn’t taken that long. Her recovery from it had. She wondered how women who had extramarital affairs in the middle of the day completed their afternoons with any level of composure. She’d been certain that when she returned to her office, her assistant, Kay, would look at her with accusation and say, “You’ve just had sex.”

But apparently there were no visible signs of how she’d spent her lunch hour. Kay had treated her as she always did, efficiently reminding her of the meeting as she handed her a stack of phone messages in the order of their priority.

To everyone else, this was any ordinary Monday. To Foster, it was a day of monumental importance. For her, one of substantial ambiguity. Foster was spending the day at home. She didn’t have that luxury. She had to face this assembly of corporate heads while, less than an hour ago, she’d had sex with a stranger.

Yes, it was strictly for the purpose of procreation, and, yes, she’d done it with her husband’s blessing, and, yes, for the sake of their future together she could do it again until they were successful. She would do it.

She sipped from her water glass, then smiled down the length of the conference table. “Who’s up first?”

“Me,” said the man in charge of baggage handling. “Unfortunately, we’ve had an incident in Austin. Foster isn’t going to like it.”

Foster was still very much a presence, but lately she had been his proxy for some of the executive meetings. The daily commute to the office, short as it was and with Manuelo along to facilitate it, had proved to be too much. So Foster had limited his days in the office to two per week. On days when it was mandatory for the department heads to meet, Laura presided, then in the evening she would give him a detailed recounting of what had been discussed.

In only a few short years she’d gone from asking passengers “Coffee or tea?” to serving as the CEO’s understudy. When Foster had hired her as Hazel Cooper’s replacement, her transition into management had gone smoothly. For years, she had been preparing herself for such a position. It was what she had aspired to and, having been given the opportunity, she felt confident she could meet the challenges.

But when her job description suddenly expanded to include dealing with a disabled husband as well as assuming many of his corporate responsibilities, the transition wasn’t quite so seamless. Up until that point in her life, she’d been resistant to delegating any responsibility. Now she had no choice. Minor and routine jobs that she had formerly insisted on doing herself, she began assigning to subordinates.

Even so, the largest share of the workload remained hers. Nor could the tasks she did for Foster be turned over to someone else. Only she could do them because Foster demanded they be done in a particular order and in a particular way, his particular way, which was a way far more meticulous than anyone else’s. His insistence on perfection put a strain on her time.

But no matter how difficult and demanding her schedule became, she refused to buckle under. Quitting, or even slacking off, wasn’t an option. She was doing what must be done, and she would continue to.

However, she had begun to fear the impact motherhood would have on the careful balance she was maintaining. How could she possibly be a full-time mother, which she wanted to be, without detracting from her duties as wife, department head, and stand-in CEO? The prospect of juggling that additional responsibility was daunting. But if-when-she was forced to confront it, she would.

At present there were other matters demanding her attention, such as this one involving baggage handling. “What kind of incident?” she asked that department head.

“The worst. Stolen bags.”

“You’re right. Foster isn’t going to like it. Details?”

The explanation was lengthy and involved, and generated discussion around the table. Laura tried to concentrate on what was being said, but her mind wandered. Her ability to focus simply wasn’t there. She’d left it behind in that small, tidy house on Windsor Street, along with her dignity.

Why, I asked myself, would you agree to making a baby this way?

“Laura?”

She yanked her mind back to the business at hand. Everyone was looking at her, and she wondered how many times she’d been addressed before she realized it. “I’m sorry. My mind drifted for a moment.”

The question was repeated. Laura answered. The meeting continued. While she wasn’t wholly attuned, she wasn’t caught again being inattentive. But as soon as there was a convenient point to adjourn, she did so. “We’ll pick up the rest at the next meeting, okay? I’ve got a killer schedule this afternoon.”

As the others filed out, no one seemed especially curious about her absentmindedness or abrupt adjournment. Joe McDonald did stop on his way to the door. “Hard day?”

“Harder than most.”

“Maybe this will cheer you up.” From behind his back, he produced a large white envelope and, with a flourish, laid it on the table in front of her. “Ta-da!”

“What’s this?”

“Your baby.”

“My what?”

“Uh…” Obviously taken aback by her stunned reaction, he said, “What I mean is, you’ve been waiting a long time for it. Check it out.”

Having recovered from his choice of words, she opened the envelope and slid the contents onto the table. It was an eleven-by-fourteen artist’s rendering of a SunSouth jet with a new and distinctive logo on the fuselage.

“Oh, my God!” Laura exclaimed. “This looks great, Joe! Truly great!”

He hooked his thumbs into his suspenders. “I thought you’d like it.”

“Like it?” she said, unable to contain her excitement. “I love it.” She ran her finger over the artwork as she read the words printed on the airplane. “SunSouth Select.”

Joe beamed. “As I said, your baby.”