He made himself a drink, then put a CD into the stereo—an old Queen album. “We Are the Champions” blared through the tiny black speakers.
Sipping his drink, he went to the window and stared out.
Tonight, the view didn’t help. All he saw when he looked down was a crowd of strangers. For the first time in this city of millions, Jack felt alone.
He picked up the phone and dialed Birdie’s number, then hung up before she answered. He didn’t know what to say to her anymore. “I love you” was no longer enough, but what else was there? All he knew was that tonight’s victory was hollow without her.
He finished his drink and poured another. By now, the apartment was starting to soften; hard wall edges were blurring. Queen moved on to “Another One Bites the Dust.”
He slid down to the floor and sat there, leaned back against his Barcalounger. He flipped open the drink holder hidden in the tufted velour arm. He tried twice to put his glass in the hole, then gave up and downed the rest of the Scotch.
Maybe he should go out, have a few drinks at Kel’s.
But he didn’t feel like moving.
What he felt like was talking to his wife. He wanted to show her the tape, and watch her smile at him afterward. In the old days, she would have teared up; no doubt about it. She would have said, “Oh, baby, that was amazing. I always knew you had it in you.”
He needed that now.
It was funny how profoundly you could need something that for years you hadn’t even noticed was missing.
He got to his feet. The apartment swayed for a second, then righted itself.
He was drunker than he thought. “So wha?”
Why should he stay sober anyway? He’d rather be drunk right now; he had a lot of things he wanted to forget. Like the softness of her touch … or the way her green eyes sparkled with pride at his accomplishments.
He stumbled into the kitchen, where he made himself another drink. He’d left the jigger somewhere—God knew where—but it didn’t matter.
The doorbell rang. His heart lurched. Against all common sense, he thought, Birdie.
He hurried to the door and opened it.
Sally leaned against the doorframe, a bottle of Dom Pérignon dangling from one hand. Her hair was loose and flowing around her shoulders. She wore a pretty, scoop-necked dress that tucked in at her tiny waist and ended just above her knees. “I sneaked past the doorman. I hope that’s okay.”
“Uh. Sure.”
“I saw the final edit,” she said, smiling.
The magic words. “Iss good, isn’t it?”
“You’re a genius, Jack. A god. I was practically crying when Alex Rodriguez talked about leaving Seattle.”
Her words were a precious water that irrigated his dry heart.
He stepped back to let her inside. He smacked into the wall and stumbled sideways. “Oops. Sorry.”
She grabbed his arm to steady him. With one foot, she kicked the door shut. “I guess you don’t need champagne.”
“I’m a little drunk,” he said. He thought maybe he’d whispered the confession.
She moved in close to him.
He felt her small, lithe body pressing against his, and he groaned, realizing suddenly how lonely he’d been in the last few weeks.
“Sally …” He didn’t know what to say, what to ask for. All he knew was that his head was swimming and his dick was rock-hard. He could feel the blood draining out of his brain.
But he tried. Excuses and reasons staggered through his quickly shrinking brain. He had stumbled onto Wait, Sally when she kissed him.
That was the end of even pseudo-rational thought. When her lips touched his, he was lost. Time seemed to slow down and speed up at the same time.
He gave in; it was that simple. In some distant, hazy part of his mind, he knew he was doing a swan dive out of a high-rise building, but he couldn’t make himself care. For months—years, really—he’d been holding himself in check, keeping steady to the vows he’d made to Elizabeth.
But now she was living in Oregon and she’d made it very clear that she didn’t want him. Nothing had ever hurt like admitting that.
Sally gazed up at him, her eyes dark with the same runaway passion that was making his dick ache. “Well?”
His mouth was dry—it only made him think of places that were wet. “You know I’m still married,” he said, feeling that sentence was a personal triumph of self-control.
“Of course I know. I don’t want your ring.” Smiling slowly, she reached down into his pants. “I’ll take this instead.”
Jack couldn’t help himself. He moved into her hand. He felt the top button on his pants pop free, felt the warm pressure of her fingers against his flesh.
He started to speak—although what he would say he couldn’t imagine—
“Take me to bed,” she whispered.
Four little words that were his undoing.
TWENTY-THREE
Elizabeth finished the day on autopilot. As she’d defrosted the chicken and started the casserole, she’d thought, Exhibit. My work.