Chapter Eight
She walked from the taxi without a backward glance. Ryan followed her into the house and embraced her from behind.
“You still okay, babe?” he asked, kissing her neck.
A stranger had been two feet away as she had been brought to climax and she wanted to be red with the shame of it, but she could not. In her summer of sin with Jay she had allowed him to take her across one boundary after another. Tonight she knew had been little different. She turned to face him. “What’s there not to be okay with? Just three consenting adults.”
“You’re not gonna go thinking I want you be my whore, or anything like that?”
She let out an ironic laugh. “Is that what you were thinking as you were finger fucking me in front of an audience?”
“Hey, babe, don’t be like that. It’s not like I invited him in or anything. I got hot and you got off. And if he’s now parked up jerking off, that’s his business. Where’s the problem?”
“Maybe I don’t like being bullied in public into proving that I’m not an English prude.”
He cupped her breasts. “You weren’t complaining while you were proving it.”
She took his hands from her blouse, unable to deny his words.
“Tell me, Ryan, is the woman in the taxi the one you want me to be for you? Game for anything?”
“Hey, let’s not get heavy here. You be you, and I’ll be me. Okay?”
“But isn’t that just it? Tonight in that club, you were everything I wanted you to be. When you sang that last song you had my heart in your hand; every girl in there wished she was in my shoes.”
“They’re damn smart shoes, that’s for sure.”
“I’m serious.” She ran her fingers through his hair. “What happened in the taxi happened, but just remember I’m your girlfriend, okay? And that’s the way I want to be treated.”
“Lecture over?”
Bullied or not, after what she had allowed happen, she knew she had no right to play holier than thou. “It’s not a lecture. You started by asking if I was okay, remember. I’m just saying that if you ever even think about wanting to do something like that, ask first.”
“You got it,” he said, like an eager server in a fast food commercial.
The humour doused the simmering tension in the room. A red message waiting light blinked on the phone. What personal messages she received were invariably on her cell, and she wondered who it could be.
He noticed her distraction. “You wanna check that?”
“It can wait. Probably some cable company offering cheaper rates.” She moved away from him as she slipped her handbag from her shoulder. “I’m about ready to call it a night,” she said, knowing he must still be burning from the show in the taxi, one where his only pleasure had been in the eroticism of the experience.
“Sure, I think I’ll just grab a beer and watch some TV.”
His disinterested reply stunned her into momentary silence. “Now you’re sulking?” she asked. She moved back to him and put her hands on his shoulders. “There’s no need.”
“I’m not sulking, babe. Just tired.”
“Then come to bed.”
He stayed passive. “You go ahead. Maybe I’ve had one too many beers, anyway.”
This was getting ridiculous. “Ryan, I want you to come to bed.” She put her hand to his crotch. To her surprise her fingers found no sign of the excitement of the taxi. “We’ve unfinished business. Business that you started and I’m going to finish.”
“You’re still my girlfriend?”
“You know I am,” she said kissing his shoulder, “or do I have to prove that too?” She did not wait for a reply. She took his hand and led him to the bedroom. She fell back against the wall, her legs apart, and pushed her hair above her ears. “Now strip me,” she commanded.
He undressed her down to her underwear and put his fingers inside her panties.
“Does seem like you’re ready for more.”
“Mmm,” she said gently, her eyes closed. She tugged on his belt as he massaged her, forcing her own hand inside his boxers, even though his jeans clung like Velcro to his hips. “Uhm…” she said, showing no sign of disappointment, “you need another show?”
He did not answer and she fell back on the bed, her wanton look inviting him on. She undid her bra and threw it to one side as he frantically pulled off his shirt and pants and stood over the bed, still in his briefs. She pulled up her knees and let them fall open, then put her hand inside her knickers and stroked herself, her eyes fixed on him. He stayed standing, kneading himself. She could sense his excitement at watching her, so she continued to stimulate herself inside her panties, rolling her tongue around her lips.
“I’m waiting for you, cowboy,” she said.
He knelt between her legs, his palms stroking the inside of her thighs, his eyes full of her. He made no move to take control so she continued. He watched as her excitement intensified; she slowed her movement, not wanting to climax without him inside her.
He lay down next to her, studying her face. He took her wrist and pulled her hand to his erection, sliding his own hand inside her panties.
He moistened it in her wetness and began to massage her.
“Easy,” she said, now sensitive to his touch.
“You tell me how you like it.”
“More gentle, like a feather.”
His pressure lightened and she murmured her approval.
“Put your fingers inside,” she said, desperate to draw out the pleasure before he took her. She pulled on his cock and ran her fingers around the tip, surprised to find only dryness. His finger slid inside her, stroking her as his thumb continued to massage.
“Deeper,” she said, wanting to feel more of him. She shuddered as his knuckles pressed hard against her.
He licked and sucked at her breast, squeezing her nipple between his teeth. “You like a bit of pain, don’t you?”
Isobel knew that she didn’t, but indulged him nevertheless. “I want you to do that as I come.” She was ready to have him take her but he gave no sign of urgency and continued to rub her with his thumb, his fingers still inside her. The pleasure continued to build and she couldn’t bring herself to stop him, grasping his cock tighter and holding him to her.
“I want you in me,” she said, knowing she was approaching her summit, but he continued to play with her clitoris and bite at her nipple until she groaned out, her orgasm washing through her body.
He held her while her mind and body eased from the intensity. “I’m sorry,” she said, “that was selfish of me.”
“You rocked, babe. You playing with yourself really did it for me. I haven’t watched a woman do that to herself before.”
“I bet,” she said, “and condoms are coated in candy.” She curled up her body and swept off her wet panties in one graceful movement. He kissed her and lifted himself over her as she spread her legs to accommodate his movement.
She held him closer and guided him into her. They lay coupled together without thrusting, him planting kisses around her face. She luxuriated in the feeling of closeness, of his tender touch, any hurt that lingered from the taxi, the way he had goaded her, set aside in her mind, at least for now. She locked one hand in his, and stroked his nape as his body began to rise and fall against her. The pace of his thrusting was rhythmical and constant. Her own expectation built for a second time, despite that it had seemed pleasure enough to simply have him inside her.
“You feel so good,” she said, clutching his buttocks and pulling him into her, increasing the tempo of her own movement against him, kissing and stroking him. She let out soft sounds of encouragement as she used her pelvic muscles to clench and release him. She lifted her knees and held his waist between her thighs, pulling on the soles of her own feet to try to heighten the pleasure for both of them. “Everything is for you, darling, it’s all just for you,” she whispered. As she began to lose herself in her own excitement his tempo increased, and she could feel the wetness on his back and noticed his hair matted with sweat. “I want you now,” she said, “I want you to come inside me.” She pulled hard again on his buttocks. “Yes,” she cried, feeling his body tense as he groaned, digging his fingers deep into the soft tissue of her breast, sending a shot of pain through her. He collapsed on her chest before rolling beside her.
She kissed him on his head and his neck and along the top of his shoulders. “That was wonderful,” she said, though strangely uneasy.
“I’m sorry it took so long.”
“You were perfect.” She continued kissing him until he rolled away from her. His breathing became deep and heavy and she lay still, wide awake, unable to put from her mind the unfathomable sense that he had faked his own climax.
Ryan insisted that he take Isobel out for breakfast before heading home. They strolled hand in hand along gently winding Orange Avenue, lined with palm trees where once oranges blossomed. Perfectly manicured shrubs and grass separated the unhurried flow of traffic and small groups of tourists stood respectfully at the crosswalks patiently awaiting the signal to cross. As they bathed in the warmth of the late morning sunshine, Ryan donned mirrored sunglasses, a pair she had bought him, and she teased him for his LA superficiality. They had agreed to let impulse decide their choice of café, and wandered past several with no good reason other than they were enjoying the walk. As usual, even though high season had yet to kick in, a line had formed outside Clayton’s coffee shop. Ryan declared this to be a good sign, and they tagged on the end to wait their turn. Tables turned quickly at Clayton’s, a retro-style diner straight out of a fifties coming of age movie with an aluminium horseshoe breakfast bar lined with red cushioned stools. They declined two seats at the bar, Ryan preferring to wait a few extra minutes for one of the booths. Clayton’s bustled with its usual mix of tourists, locals, and uniformed military. A sign declared “Unlimited coffee as long as you want it,” but in Isobel’s experience the bill came as quickly as the food.
“You like it?” she asked as they slid into their seats.
“Last place I saw a joint like this must have been Universal Studios. Let’s just hope the food here’s better,” he replied, forgetting he chose the eatery. “You got any recommendations?”
“Always focus on the positive.”
“Sorry, babe, don’t know what came over me there. How about you order for both of us. I’m good for anything.” A Wurlitzer jukebox stood silent in the corner with the option to make a selection from each booth. Ryan flicked through the playlist before feeding in two quarters, and Buddy Holly’s “Peggy Sue” started up. “Seems a good fit,” he said, and she snapped her fingers and shuffled her shoulders to show her appreciation.
Patrons came and went and two police officers took an adjacent booth, one sitting back to back with Ryan, and the other opposite. Notionally a city, Coronado retained its own police force, but these two caught Isobel’s eye. She looked closer, now noticing the SDPD insignia on their shirts. Ryan had evidently made the same observation. “Must be no fucking place to eat across the bridge,” he said, leaning across the table so as not to be overheard.
His phone rang and he looked at it quizzically. “You mind if I pop outside to take this?” he asked, already sliding along the bench and answering.
“Can’t you ring back?”
He continued moving out, saying “Yeah, it’s me, yeah,” into the phone, holding up five fingers to Isobel, his smile apologetic.
She did the only thing she could and sat waiting for their orders to arrive, uncomfortably aware of the close proximity of the law. She reflected for a moment on Ryan’s jibe at the officers, and it occurred to her that she had indeed never seen San Diego police this side of the bridge. But she had more immediate concerns; she traced Ryan’s movements through the window as he paced back and forward, gesticulating with one hand, his phone pressed to his ear. Her eyes met the young officer opposite and he smiled. She returned the acknowledgement sheepishly, before glancing away. She willed the phone call to be over so that she could focus on something other than her own conspicuousness and the unwelcome interest of the policeman. But the food arrived and still Ryan paced back and forth outside.
The young policeman with the deep blue eyes continued to steal glances in her direction. She wondered if he was plucking up the courage to speak. “Do you mind keeping this one warm,” she asked, offering back the plate and mimicking a Southern belle, knowing that Americans wanting to be friendly regularly seized on her accent as an icebreaker. “He’s going to be a couple of minutes.” But her attempt to imitate Scarlett O’Hara seemed only to elicit a broad smile from her admirer.
The waitress shrugged. “Sure, honey. You want a refill on the coffee?” Isobel accepted the offer and the woman laid the bill down beside the cup. “Whenever you’re ready with the check, no hurry.”
Ryan made his return after closer to ten minutes than five during which time she had focused on her meal, determined to avoid further eye contact with the policeman.
“Everything okay?” she asked softly, seeing the stress etched on his face.
“Just some jerk stirring a shit storm in a teacup in LA.”
The waitress returned with his plate. “We re-did the eggs fresh,” she said abruptly before turning to the booth with the policeman. “You boys need anything else?”
As far as Isobel could recall, they had only ordered coffee. “We’re good,” said the younger of the two.
“Then you mind finishing up at the bar? Just we’re waiting on booths.” The officers looked from one to another but gave no indication they would oblige her. “Suit yourself. The coffee’ll be on the house.” She topped up their mugs and continued on her way.
“Fucking typical,” muttered Ryan. “One price if you’re in uniform, another for everyone else.”
He had no more than muttered the words, yet they had not passed unnoticed. The older officer swivelled his upper body. “You want to come down the station and file a complaint?”
The two policemen stood, seemingly not expecting a reply. Isobel held her breath. “You have a good day now,” said the younger one as they made their exit, politely nodding in Isobel’s direction.
“Losers,” said Ryan dismissively, this time careful to deliver his character assessment when they were beyond earshot.
“What’s happening in LA?” asked Isobel, relieved that Ryan had not succeeded in raising his own shit storm in a teacup in Coronado.
“Nothing you need to bother about babe.”
“Please, don’t be so patronising. Is it something to do with the film project?”
“You really wanna know?”
She sighed and gave him a look of exasperation.
“I’ve got a meeting set up with a movie mogul at Paramount. A cigar-smoking fat cat who can make big shit happen. That was his sidekick of a gatekeeper on the phone.”
“And…?” she asked, with an uncomfortable inkling that she knew what might be coming.
“He’s now saying I don’t get my hour in the sun without an introduction fee. It’s bullshit. The meeting’s locked down in the diary.”
Isobel pushed her remaining hash fries to the side of her plate and leant on her elbows. “And by an ‘introduction fee’ he means a kickback for him?”
Ryan nodded. He kept shovelling down his breakfast like a man who hadn’t eaten in a week, or one in a hurry. “If you’re a babe you open your legs; if you’re a guy you pull out your wallet.”
If things really did work this way in Hollywood, Isobel wondered why Ryan had not expected it. But she bit her tongue on that thought. “How much of a kickback?” she asked quietly.
“Three grand. And this week, or the film project is toast.”
She looked away as if staring into the distance. “And is that a problem?”
“Three grand? Fuck no.” His attempt at bravado suggested otherwise. She stayed silent. “I can raise that no sweat, and this week too. I just hate the weasel getting thirty C-notes for jack shit.”
Facilitating a meeting with a movie bigwig at a major studio did not count as “jack shit” to Isobel. “How will you raise it?” she asked. “I thought things were tight at the moment.”
“Only till the end of the month. I’ll just go to a payday outfit. Three G is chicken shit to those guys.”
Everything now sounded like some type of shit in Ryan’s lexicon. “You’ll borrow it from a loan shark? Isn’t that risky?”
He laughed. “Only if you don’t pay it back when it’s due. Then you get your legs broke.”
She wrung her hands. “If you wouldn’t be offended,” she gulped, “I could always lend you it.”
“No fucking way, babe, I’d rather sell the Chevy first.”
She reached into her handbag and pulled out her chequebook as he watched her intently.
“You know that I’m gonna feel like a douche bag if I let you do this?”
“Please, Ryan,” she implored.
“Don’t let foolish pride come between us.” She picked up the pen that the waitress had left.
“Babe, really, you don’t need to do this.”
“No, but I want to.” She scribbled out the cheque and tore it out.
“This just don’t feel right, babe.”
“Please…”
He glanced around, hesitated, and then accepted the cheque from her. “I’ll make it up to you, babe, I really will.”
“I know you will,” she said, her voiced little more than a hush.
They stayed silent for a short while as if neither knew what to say. Finally he looked at his watch. “I guess I’d better make tracks. We good to go?”
She nodded. He rose and she followed. As she did so, she discreetly slipped a twenty-dollar bill into the check holder.