The Original Sinners: The Red Years
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With his heel Zach kicked the manuscript all the way under the bed. He started pulling clothes from the closet and throwing them into an empty box. He’d just give them all away. Everything. He’d start over completely in L.A.
After a few minutes Zach realized what an idiot he was being. No matter what he did with his things, burn them, bury them or send them by mail, he would take nothing with him to L.A.
He had nothing anymore. And nothing was very easy to pack.
* * *
More exhausted than she’d ever been in her life, Nora dropped her toy bag in the entry hall and didn’t even pet the dogs. She stumbled up the stairs of Kingsley’s town house and stopped at the second floor. She’d been staying with Kingsley since Saturday not wanting to subject Wesley to the torment of knowing how many jobs she was taking in an effort to get Zach and her aborted novel out of her system. Wesley called every day and every day she texted him the same message—I’m fine, kid. I’ll be home soon.
Three clients today—two men and one woman. The men were actually the easier gigs. One had a foot fetish and would pay through the nose just to kiss her boots for hours on end. The other was a masochist who was at his happiest when he was tied up, called a “slut” and beaten black and blue. Both were married men, upstanding members of their communities. They came to her to keep their marriages and lives intact. A few hours with her a month and then they could go back to their regular lives until the pressure built up again and they had to let off their secret steam. Women, as usual, were much more work. But at least Nora liked this girl. She was one of Griffin’s trust fund friends who hadn’t come out to her family yet, afraid they’d cut her off until she straightened up. Nora felt sorry for the girl—she knew all too well how difficult it was to tell the truth about who you really were to the people you cared about.
Kingsley had given Nora the room next to his, after she had reluctantly turned down his invitation to join him in his own bed. Zach had accused Kingsley of being her pimp, but it was just one more thing that Zach didn’t have a goddamn clue about. Kingsley had saved her life five years ago. They were friends and business partners, and right now, business was good.
Without even bothering to undress, Nora collapsed onto the bed. She didn’t have to wait long before Kingsley made his usual nightly appearance.
“Comment ca va?” Kingsley asked as he came into the guest room without knocking.
“Je suis too fucking exhausted to speak French, monsieur.”
“J’accepte.” He sat next to her on the edge of the bed. His hair was unbound and he’d abandoned his suit jacket for the night. He looked ridiculously dashing in the dark vest and knee boots in a gypsy king sort of way. She decided not to tell him that.
“Drink?” He held out a glass of wine to her.
“God bless.” She took a very unladylike gulp of one of Kingsley’s best merlots.
“The distinguished gentleman from New York called again. He said he’d consider changing his vote if you considered changing your mind.”
“Did he consider upping his offer?” Nora hated Senator Palmer. He was a family-values Republican by day and an S&M fiend and pervert by night. When her work got too difficult, she focused on the money. She’d never forget the desperation that had brought her to Kingsley five years ago. She’d learned a long time ago that money didn’t buy happiness. But it did buy a roof over your head and that was more than she’d had when she’d started this job.
“He doubled it, ch'erie.”
“Doubled it? Our hard-earned taxes at work?”
“What are taxes?” Kingsley asked and they laughed. She prayed the IRS never got a look at Kingsley’s books. “What should I tell him?”
“Tell him yes. I don’t care. He’s at least easy to please. Any idea why he likes getting the shit kicked out of him by a grown woman in a schoolgirl uniform?”
“He was the U.S. envoy to Japan for a few years. Perhaps he’s read too much manga?”
“Tell him Wednesday night. And that’s it. I need a day off.” She stretched out to take the pressure off her aching shoulders. She wished Wesley were here. He had this magic way of rubbing her back that not only made the pain go away, but made her forget how it got there in the first place. Wesley…it had been four days since she’d even seen him. Was he eating like he was supposed to? Checking his numbers? Nora forced Wesley-worries out of her mind. Thinking about him hurt almost as much as her back did.
Kingsley tapped the end of her nose to get her attention.
“You have a day off. Thursday, recall? A certain member of the clergy would have me in the Judas Chair if I dared interfere with your Holy Thursday ritual.”
Nora closed her eyes. Thursday…her anniversary with Soren.
“You know, King, you pretend to be all debased and amoral, but I think, deep down, you’re a romantic. You have to stop playing matchmaker. Leaving Soren was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Going back to him would be the only thing harder.”
“Mais oui,” King said and stood up. “But as you know, mon p`ere was a Frenchman and I have a Frenchman’s heart. We French do love our romances.”
“Soren and I aren’t a romance. We’re just a fantasy.”
“Bien s^ur, ma ch'erie.” Kingsley bowed to her as he backed out of the room. “You are the writer, after all. You would know your genre, I suppose.”
Nora reached out and turned off the light next to the bed. She lay alone in the dark.
“I was the writer,” she said to the ceiling. “And I don’t know anything at all.”
* * *
Nora stood outside her house and took slow, shallow breaths. They didn’t help. She walked to the edge of the porch, leaned over and threw up in the bushes. Life at Chez Kingsley was harder on her than it once was. She’d taken a few too many of her pills, drank more than she needed to, had done and seen things she wished she hadn’t. She wiped her mouth and took the house keys from her pocket. She hadn’t been home since Saturday. Five days gone and she already felt like a stranger breaking into her own house.