“Jesus H. Christ,” John hissed as his face descended to the crook of her neck. His grasp tightened on her hips and, with a deep, guttural groan, he thrust into her one last time.
Darkness enclosed John’s naked form, matching his grim mood. The house was quiet. Too quiet. If he listened closely, he could almost hear Georgeanne’s steady breathing. But she lay asleep in his bedroom, and he knew hearing her was impossible.
It was the night. The darkness. The silence. It conspired against him, breathed down his neck and plagued him with memories.
Raising a bottle of Bud to his mouth, he drained the first quarter. He moved to the large picture window and gazed out at a big yellow moon and silver-tipped black waves. Of his own reflection in the glass, all he could see was a hazy silhouette. A blurry outline of a man who’d lost his soul and wasn’t real interested in finding it again.
Unbidden, the image of his wife, Linda, rose before him in the darkness. The vision of how she’d looked the last time he’d seen her-sitting in a tub of bloody water, her appearance so different from the fresh-faced girl he’d known in high school.
His mind did a quick spin, back to that short time in school when he’d dated her. But after graduation, he’d moved hundreds of miles away to play hockey in the junior leagues. His life had revolved around his sport. He played hard and, at the age of twenty, was the first player taken by the Toronto Maple Leafs in the 1982 drafts. His size made him a dominating force and quickly earned him the nickname “The Wall.” His on-ice skill made him a star on the rise. His office skill made him a star with the rink bunnies, who considered him the Mark Spitz of the groupie pool. John played for the Maple Leafs for four seasons before the New York Rangers offered him a big-money contract, and he became one of the highest-paid players in the NHL. He forgot all about Linda.
When
he did see her again, six years had passed. They were the same age but vastly different in experience. John had seen a lot of the world. He was young, rich, and had done things other men could only dream about doing. Over the years, he’d changed a great deal while Linda had changed very little. She was pretty much the same girl he’d driven around in Ernie’s Chevy. The same girl who’d used the rearview mirror to smear on red lipstick so he could smear it back off.
He ran into Linda again during a break in the hockey season. He took her out on the town. He took her to a hotel, and three months later when she told him she was pregnant, he took her as his wife. His son, Toby, was born five months into the pregnancy. For the next four weeks, as he watched his son struggle for breath, he dreamed of teaching Toby all the things he’d been taught about life and hockey. But his dreams of a rowdy little boy died painfully with his son.
While John grieved in silence, Linda’s sorrow was plain to everyone around her. She cried all the time, and within a short period became obsessed with having another child. John knew he was the reason behind her obsession. He’d married her because she was pregnant, not because he loved her.
He should have left then. He should have gotten out, but he hadn’t been able to leave her. Not while she was in pain, and not while he felt responsible for her grief. For the next year he stayed. He stayed while she sought doctor after doctor. He stayed while she suffered a series of miscarriages. He stayed because for a while there had been a part of him that wanted another baby, too. He stayed while she sank deeper into despair.
He stayed, but he wasn’t a good husband. Her preoccupation with having a baby became manic. The last few months of her life, he couldn’t stand to touch her. The more she grasped, the harder he pushed. His affairs with other women became flagrant. On a subconscious level, he wanted her to leave him.
She chose to kill herself instead.
John raised the bottle of beer to his lips and took a long pull. She’d wanted him to find her, and he had. A year later, he could still remember the exact color her blood had turned the bath water. He could see her chalky white face and damp blond hair. He could smell the shampoo she’d used and see the cuts she’d made up her wrists almost to her elbows. He could still feel that awful kick in the gut.
Every day he lived with the awful guilt. Every day he sought diversion from his memories and the part he’d played in them.
John walked into his bedroom and looked down at the sultry girl wrapped up in his sheet. The light from the hall shined on the bed and the dark curls fanning her head. One arm rested across her stomach while the other lay out to one side.
He figured he should feel bad for usurping Virgil’s wedding night. But he didn’t. He didn’t regret what he’d done. He’d had too good a time, and if anyone found out she’d spent the night in his house, they would assume he’d had sex with her anyway. So what the hell?
She had a body made for sex, but as he’d found out, she wasn’t as experienced as her teasing had suggested. He’d had to show her how to give and receive pleasure. He’d kissed and caressed her body with his tongue, and in turn he’d taught her what to do with that pouty mouth of hers. She was sensual and naive, and he found her incredibly erotic.
John moved to the side of the bed and slid the white sheet to her waist. She looked like she’d been dropped naked into a huge dollop of whipped cream. He felt himself grow hard again and covered her with his body. Moving his hands to the sides of her breasts, he lowered his face to her cleavage and tenderly kissed her there. Here, with soft, warm flesh beneath him, he didn’t have to think of anything. All he had to do was feel pleasure. Hearing Georgeanne’s deep moan, he looked up into her face. Her slumberous green eyes stared back at him.
“Did I wake you up?” he asked.
Georgeanne watched his dimple crease his right cheek and felt her heart swell. “Wasn’t that your intention?” she asked, caring about him so much she felt it deeply in her soul, and while he hadn’t said he cared for her, she knew he must feel something. He’d risked Virgil’s anger by being with her. He’d jeopardized his career, and Georgeanne found the gamble he’d taken for her exciting and terribly romantic.
“I could control my hands and let you go back to sleep. But it won’t be easy,” he said as he moved his palm to the outside of her bare thigh.
“Do I have another option?” she asked, and ran her fingers through the short hair at his temples.
He slid upward until his face was above hers. “I could make you scream again with pleasure.”
“Hmm.” She pretended to consider her choices. “How long do I have to make up my mind?”
“Time just ran out.”
John was young and handsome, and in his arms, she felt secure and protected. He was a wonderful lover and could take care of her. And most important, she was falling madly in love with him.
He placed his lips on hers and kissed her with sweet passion, and she felt like singing that old country and western song. She was “the happiest girl in the whole U.S.A.”
She wanted to make John happy, too. Ever since her first relationship at the age of fifteen, Georgeanne had always changed like a chameleon to become whatever her current boyfriend wanted. In the past, she’d done everything from dying her hair an ungodly shade of red to bruising her body on a mechanical bull. Georgeanne had always gone out of her way to please the men in her life, and in return, they loved her for it.
John might not love her now, but he would.