14
Tuesday, August 16, 2022
I met you at your condo on Michigan Avenue this afternoon. Having that condo makes everything so much easier. I can pop over from the law school, you can use whatever excuse you need to be downtown.
I’m doing this. We. We are doing this! Everything I said about Vicky, I know, but we’re doing this and I can’t stop myself.
And I couldn’t wait to show you the phones! I hadn’t told you about it. I wanted to surprise you.
First things first, when I got inside your condo—we stripped and did it against the window overlooking Michigan Avenue, fourteen stories up, you planted against the windowpane. It’s a lot harder than it looks in the movies, and I thought my back might give out, so we finished up on your bed.
Then we drank some wine, and I was bursting to show you. So I did. The hot-pink phone for you, the green phone for me.
You didn’t speak at first. My heart started doing calisthenics, not the good kind, the burn kind.
“Am I your mistress now?” you said, looking up at me.
“I just... I thought it would be good if we could communicate—”
“You want to be able to call me whenever you want to fuck me.”
“No, it’s... not like that,” I said.
“I’m your call girl, is that it?” you said. “Like your wife was before you met her. You want me to be like your wife? You want another Vicky?”
“No, listen, it’s not like that at all.” I said something like that, I think. I’m not really sure what stammering protest was coming out of my mouth.
But this part I remember clear as day. You walked over to me. You have a way of sauntering over to me that makes my legs weak. I think the word “saunter” was invented for you, Lauren. There should have been a saxophone playing in the background.
You leaned up and whispered in my ear, “Do you want me to be your whore, Professor Dobias? Tell me. Tell me what you want.”
I don’t want you to be anything but you, Lauren. I don’t need role plays or dirty talk. That’s never been my thing. I just want you, exactly as you are.
But it seemed like the right thing to say at the time, so I went with it.
I gripped your hair and made you look at me. “That’s what I want,” I said.
Your eyes lit up. The corners of your mouth only curved up slightly.
“Then fuck me that way,” you said.
15
Vicky
The lobby register says that Newsome Capital Growth is in suite 1320. I thought most buildings didn’t have a thirteenth floor out of superstition. An omen?
I push through the glass doors, greeted by a young woman seated behind a thin desk, wearing a headset, the sleek professional look of today’s corporate America, I guess. Where I work, at the shelter, we can hardly afford a single landline. We use fans instead of air-conditioning. We use milk past the expiration date, as long as it doesn’t smell.
“Vicky Lanier for Christian Newsome,” I say.
“Yes, Mrs. Lanier, one moment.” She pushes a button on a large phone. “Your four o’clock, Mrs. Lanier, is here? Sure.” She looks at me. “He’ll be just a minute. Can I get you anything?”
“I’m fine.”
Voices from one of the offices behind reception. A strong, throaty laugh. A confident man. Or a man trying to project confidence, at least.
“Mrs. Lanier? Christian Newsome.” He sweeps out of his office and takes my hand, a firm shake. He’s the fourth financial adviser to greet me today but the first to really shake my hand. The other men just gave a gentle squeeze, as if my hand would crumble to dust under the strength of their powerful grip.