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Tonight’s man is Richard, a nearly-retired podiatrist that Martyn had compellingly pitched as “essentially unobjectionable” when arranging the date. The assessment is fair. He’s a natty dresser with a reasonably intact hairline, the sort of man who is exceedingly pleased to have aged so well. He manages to sneak in a question for her here and there as he maneuvers through small talk over his plate of ravioli, something that can’t always be said for the parade of age-appropriate suitors proffered by her warily optimistic friends.
This is more or less the best one can hope for at this point in the game, one of two acceptable archetypes for Gerri during this aestis horribilis following the unceremonious collapse of her three-decade career in avoiding mess.
The Richards of the world—the gentlemen—make for nice enough conversation at dinner and typically at least make an effort toward getting her off after. Varying success, of course, but it does matter a little that they try. Laurie was a gentleman, before everything there fizzled out—something for which she finds it hard to blame him, even if she has no trouble mustering complaint for his lackluster performance with his fingers. This particular Richard gives the impression of being at least moderately evolved: divorced for a decade and likely accustomed to the expectations of women these days. He’ll probably use his tongue, she thinks. Hopes.
The other acceptable archetype—the cads, the barbarians—bring nothing to the table in terms of conversation, but they are willing to fuck her as hard as she wants it, which isn’t nothing these days. Maybe a barbarian next. She’s getting rather restless.
But tonight, it’s Richard, and dinner. Artisanal fare, small round tables, sleek, soulless decor. Exceedingly conventional, exactly as requested. He’s purchased a bottle of red that’s exactly seventy-fifth percentile expensive and set it carefully on the table with the label facing her. This is better than what she was doing two hours ago—watching Logan’s choleric reprise of King Lear on the heath as the PGM deal fell apart—but only marginally. It’s a disorienting swing in the opposite direction. She’s halfway through her second glass of wine and trying to avoid broadcasting her boredom.
“How’s the merger going with that…MoJo? The Swedish company?”
Richard’s face sparkles expectantly across the table. She bristles. He clearly reads this as impressed, plows ahead with a crooked grin.
“I did some Googling,” he tells her, looking very proud of himself. “Wouldn’t do to meet a lovely, successful CEO for dinner and be unprepared. Or, former CEO, I suppose,” he adds, as an afterthought. “Must be nice to be out of the hot seat on that one.”
Gerri softly clears her throat. This is entirely without malice, she assures herself, even if it stings. Richard’s less than a tourist in this world. Richard’s at most a visitor at Business Epcot, a garish camera strap digging into his increasingly sunburnt shoulder.
“It was interim, actually,” she says, taking one dainty bite of her pasta. “Sort of a substitute teacher charged with keeping the student body from burning the place to the ground?”
“Still,” he says, bringing his glass back to his mouth, which is quirking up again. “Impressive.”
“Sure,” she replies. “For awhile.”
He moves on neatly to some minor brags of his own: Knicks players he used to treat and the careers he’s saved, things like that. Asks about her kids. Tells her about his. He leans in when he talks like he hopes the proximity will make him more interesting. She smiles, nods, doles out percussive bursts of suitable enthusiasm at the exact right intervals.
When the waiter circles back for dessert, she orders an espresso with a little smile, her gaze slanting briefly toward Richard with intention. When they rise from the table, he gallantly reaches to help her with her chair.
“Nightcap?” he asks. He seems to be feigning hesitation, making a little show of spontaneity. It’s the most respect she’s felt for him all night.
“Please,” she answers, taking his arm.
Richard’s apartment is a monument to moderate ambition. Polished wood, full-grain leather, mementos of a successful but ultimately inconsequential career. Perfectly curated middle-aged masculinity. The view is nice, an expansive look at the sparkling city. Gerri does him the favor of looking impressed.
She sinks into his sofa and surveys the terrain as he mixes their drinks. Makes note of the exits, mostly. He produces a passable martini—not enough vermouth, she thinks, not enough body, but better than nothing—and she chooses to sip it slowly. Smooth jazz fills the room through a cleverly concealed speaker system. Pleasant enough, this sort of standard-issue soundtrack for seduction.
“Nice place,” Gerri says quietly.
“Thank you,” he replies, his voice dropping into a lower register as he moves to close the space between them. Good, she thinks, they’re on the same page. His hand finds its way to her knee, deliberate but unhurried, and he slides the hem of her dress up her thigh. She meets his eyes, lets hers go dark and heavy lidded, as she smoothly lowers her drink to the coffee table.
He’s not bad-looking, actually, once he’s got her wrap dress untied and his shirt unbuttoned. Good bones. Sturdy foundation. Only minor cosmetic wear. She evaluates him like a second home upstate: something to own and enjoy when convenient. She can work with this.
By the filtered light of an elegant table lamp, she leans back into the sumptuous leather, feels him brush her hair off her shoulders and kiss her down the length of her neck. His hands move faster now, a bit more verve than at the restaurant or in the car. His lips follow the path of his fingers down the opening of her dress.
“I’ll bet you’re the sort of woman who likes to let go a little at the end of the day,” he says, kissing sort of wetly across her shoulder.
“Hmm?” she says, distracted. Jesus Christ, she doesn’t want to talk about it.
“Powerful woman like you,” he whispers. “I bet you like it when men take charge.”
One hand drifts down to circle her wrist like a novelty handcuff they both know she could shake off. He holds her gaze with darkening eyes.
She almost laughs. This is ridiculous. He is ridiculous. The stagey murmur, the well-worn lines, no heat or conviction. Not even a credible imitation of need. At least the consultant with the mirror thing had shown up ready to sweat.
She’s about to cut him off, redirect, salvage the night with some mundane, conventional orgasm, when a tiny spark of something like hunger starts to smolder low in her belly. Something dark and mean in her that wants to watch him try. Watch him fail. Watch him squirm under the weight of his own borrowed confidence, his flailing, feeble efforts to bring her to heel. For the first time tonight, she feels a distant shimmer of arousal.
So, she lifts her chin, lets her fingers float elegantly across his jawline, and says, “Okay.”
He leads her to the bedroom, which is classy, understated, decorated with discipline in charcoals and neutrals. The speaker system must extend in here; strains of jazz continue seamlessly as they make their way to the bed. One nightstand boasts a small stack of books, all popular business titles. Jesus. Did he study for this?
The sheets are nice, though, she’ll give him that.
He dims the lights, fiddles with the slider until it’s just so. With unsurprising gentleness, he slips the dress the rest of the way off her shoulders and down to leave it pooling on the rug. She lets him ease her onto the bed, lets him climb on top of her and drag his mouth across her exposed skin. He reaches again for her wrists, moves her delicately as he kisses her until her arms are pinned above her head.
He’s doing a good job by any normal rubric. She acknowledges this distantly, against a discomfiting itch beneath her skin. His motions are sweet and slow and reverent—just what she’d asked for, but not what she needs.
The truth is, Gerri has always felt most at home in her body when it’s accomplishing something. Coaxing favor from her corporate law professor, luring the inside scoop on the DOJ, keeping miscreant silver-spoon failsons on the straight and narrow. Growing her daughters, even. It feels unnatural, this kind of easy desire.
She arches her back, tries to catch his lips and drag him toward something bloodier, but he doesn’t flinch, just keeps up the same languid rhythm and toothless bite. No friction, no force, nothing real to brace against.
A restless, crawling energy starts to buzz beneath her skin. She used to be better at this, didn’t she? Smoothing the static, salving the itch, holding the line against these routine disappointments? Apparently, she’d pulled out some kind of load bearing thread when she picked up that fucking phone call and now here she is, hopelessly canting her hips toward some G-rated romance hero with a gentle mouth and no appetite for damage. It’s humiliating. The pot begins to boil over.
“You want to be in control?” she hisses into his ear, her voice low and dangerous. She tugs her arms free, grabs a fistful of thick salt and pepper hair, jerks his head back until they’re face to face. “Well, get going. Chop chop.”
He blinks, deep lines cutting into his forehead. “What?”
With a burst of determination, she grabs his shoulders and heaves, rolls them both across the mattress. Now she’s on top, straddling his hips, tousled hair escaping its twist and falling wildly around her face. She feels a shiver of triumph at his surprise, the way his mouth drops open, speechless.
Her hand works its way down to his waistband. There’s nothing soft or unhurried about the way she moves. Her fingers are sure, quick, skillful as she divests him of his trousers and starts to stroke him hard and fast.
“You like being in charge, Richard?” she spits, lightheaded, panting as she revels in his slipping composure. “Huh? You think you’re ready to take the reins?”
He swallows hard, struggling to catch his breath. “Um…”
Heat mounts low and heavy in her belly. Her other hand braces against his chest, now damp with sweat and heaving as he pants. She grinds down onto the peak of his hip, harder, sharper, slick now, aching. Her back arches. The pressure builds. She shuts her eyes and lets it rise.
Richard dissolves beneath her and she’s disintegrating too, flung sideways into another room, another time, where there’s a boy on his knees with a twitchy grin and her hand at the base of his throat.
And she’s caught now, unraveling, snared in the frenzy, the molten heat, the need to make something break before she does.
“You’re nothing,” she hisses. “An empty suit, a fucking Tuesday. That was supposed to be control?” She works him harder, fingers slick, her breath catching sharp in her chest. “You don’t fucking have it in you.”
His hand flies swiftly to her wrist, tighter than before. “Gerri,” he gasps thickly. “Stop.”
She drops back into her body, stomach lurching. “Stop?”
“I don’t know what you…” He falters. “Maybe this wasn’t the right call. Maybe we can just do this…you know, normally?”
She’s breathing harder than she’d like, hovering above him in momentary shock. It takes a second but she collects herself, manages to let out a long, slow breath and recalibrate. Her hand unclenches, releases him. Alright. Fine. That gnawing hunger reluctantly retreats into its shell, back into something she can ignore for a while.
Richard is blinking up at her, and she notices with some satisfaction the look of mild horror in his eyes. At least she got that much out of him.
“Right, sorry, sure,” she acquiesces.
Her arms fall limply to her sides, the old mask slipping neatly back over her face. She lets him roll her over and lay her out like a wilting flower on a grave. He starts his ministrations again: gentle, measured, flat.
She tries, she really does. To stay in her body, to respond, to feel. But there’s nothing here for her tonight, not as he kisses her, not as he enters her, not as he pumps into her and his skin grows tacky with sweat. She’s nowhere, mindless, playacting arousal with artificial gasps and performative rolls of her hips.
“Are you close?” he whispers next to her ear. She’s rarely been further from anything in her life.
She begs off spending the night, claims an early morning. This isn’t a lie, exactly, just not material. As she stumbles into a cab and makes her brief, bewildered way home, she doesn’t bother to summon any resentment for the man. He did his best, after all. It hardly seems fair to judge him for what he isn’t.
* * *
Back home, she plods through the apartment in a sort of a fog, like maybe she can outrun the inevitable. Does a provisional lap around the living room and then kicks off her shoes in the entryway. Pours a glass of water and sips it slowly, leaning against the smooth, cool marble of her kitchen island.
She undresses with crisp efficiency and tosses her dress in the dry cleaning bag. Diligently sets her jewelry piece by piece back on the organizer in all its proper spots.
She steps into the shower to scrub away the remnants of the evening. Exfoliates. Washes her hair. Conditions. Wills her mind to blankness while she’s undressed. Afterwards, she wraps herself in a robe—just a robe, nothing underneath, which is her first slip, her first accession to the inevitable.
Toner, serum, moisturizer, eye cream. Brush, floss, mouthwash. She digs through a drawer for an emery board and sits on the edge of her bathtub absently filing one rough spot on her thumbnail for sixty continuous seconds. She shifts her makeup mirror to the other side of the vanity, contemplates its position with intensity, moves it back. She tightens the tie on her robe.
The laptop lives on a shelf on her nightstand. It isn’t hidden, it’s there in plain sight. Who would question the necessity of a laptop in immediate reaching distance for a media executive of thirty years, after all?
She climbs into bed and reaches.
The laptop whirs to life. She clicks. Email first. Calendar, stock portfolio. CNN, ATN, PGN. Eventually, as it always does, the list runs out.
Counsel hadn’t quite advised her to save the images. But when she floated it, they didn’t object, just gave a shrug and some murmured agreement on the value of contemporaneous documentation.
She’d nodded crisply, as if the whole notion were slightly distasteful, and then, privately, built the folder like a litigation brief.
Date, time, preceding message, location metadata. Every image systematically renamed and cross referenced against a spreadsheet. A meticulous post-mortem of the whole slow implosion.
The file path goes Personal Matters, Archive, Asset Review. She clicks, clicks, clicks, types in a password, and there he is, over and over. Sometimes dressed, sometimes not, sometimes dark, sometimes lit. Hard, soft, in between. Every angle captured and digitized, every position and state of undress there for her inspection, a near-infinite loop of exposure she controls with a click. At this point, she could create a replica from memory.
When her hand parts the air, parts her robe, parts years of taut self-discipline and lands, at long last, on the body she’s lately mostly lived above rather than in, she reaches the evening’s inevitable end. She braces for the flicker of disgust as her hands glide over her skin. Instead, she feels a tingle of something like relief. She dips in one finger, collects a little moisture and starts to stroke. The hunger is back.
She wonders, like she always does to start, whether he could do it. Would he crack under the pressure? Lose his stupid little smirk along with his nerve? Would he keen and cry at her feet with his limp dick in his hand? Worse? It’s impossible to see the bottom.
Or could it be that it was all a show, some big mistake? That he’s good, better than good, as he splits her open, takes her apart, pins her down, fucks her senseless. Drives into her hard, forehead pressed to hers, one hand tangled in her hair, holding her there on the edge—trembling, breathless, begging.
Maybe what would happen is: he’d slide into her, shocked and jubilant, and whine and sigh and moan, pitchy, desperate, losing control, and finally it would all come pouring out of him—Gerri, Gerri, I’ve never—you’re the only one who can—
She shoves the laptop away and hurls herself onto her front. Her hips are already moving, restless, desperate, before her hand can reach. She sinks down onto two fingers with an undignified groan. Against the frenzied rush of need, the heat rising fast in her chest, her throat, her face, she grinds urgently into the heel of her hand. Chases it hard, rhythm brutal, all breath and friction and swirling vision.
Would he beg, she wonders, again, as her body clenches and throbs, panting, pulsing, flushed and gone too far to stop. He would, she decides, of course he would. He would beg to touch her and beg to kiss her and beg to install himself between her thighs, and he’d glance up at her, just a glance, just a moment, his cheeks damp with tears and sweat and her own wetness, and he’d whisper, barely audible, choked out between electric passes of his tongue over her skin, I’m sorry, Gerri, I’m sorry, Gerri, Gerri, I’m so sorry—
She’s close. She’s there. She’s right on the edge. Her head falls back and she screams and it’s over.
Stunned and dizzy, she lets herself collapse onto her back, the cool sheets below her a slight relief for her damp, blazing body. The emptiness sinks in, sharp and cold. Already, she can feel the familiar tug of self-loathing in the pit of her stomach.
She wakes up the next morning still disheveled, hips sore, robe off kilter, lines from the creases of her sheets painted all over her skin. Look upon my works, ye prudent, and despair, she thinks.
There’s a text from Martyn waiting for her. Did we smash or pass on the very normal foot doctor?
She thinks about it for a moment, fingers hovering over the screen. Both, she replies.
She can imagine Martyn’s ironic smirk as he types back: Jesus fuck are you a messy bitch.
* * *
The workday starts badly and doesn’t recover. She gets her daily dressing-down from Logan out of the way early, for better or worse—this one sparked by an unfortunate incident involving Kerry’s demo tape and the usual, wearying accusations of disloyalty.
By 6:45, running on fumes and mediocre coffee, she gives up on salvaging the day and texts Martyn for dinner.
It’s one of the things she likes best about him: he’s usually available and doesn’t mind being summoned. Within five minutes, he replies with a thumbs-up and a location.
Martyn is some sort of financial adviser, though he does not provide financial advice in any manner that Gerri recognizes. “More of a vibes-based service,” he’d explained. He is, unsurprisingly, very popular among the Conheads.
That’s how they met, actually: Gerri exiled from the office, sent sniffing around Connor’s vanity project on Logan’s orders, a humiliating recon assignment-slash-punishment for her indiscretions. She and Martyn had, inexplicably, hit it off immediately, exchanging cutting barbs over drinks on the outskirts of the action. Unexpected kindred spirits composed of one another’s antimatter. Later that night, with Martyn’s tongue between her legs undoing all the sting of Logan’s smug, triumphant smirk, she’d come so hard she blacked out.
They’ve established a fuzzy kind of friends with benefits arrangement that both of them steadfastly avoid drawing a line around. Her read is that he’s mostly amused by her, something she once would’ve found intolerable, but somehow, from him, can stomach. She can’t explain it, except that it feels of a kind with the rest of her recent minor unravelings.
For her part, suffice it to say there are certain relevant…parallels. The twitchy, sideways wit, the crooked grin, the sort of superficial unseriousness that fools most people, but doesn’t fool her. The inconvenient knack for seeing past her bullshit, too, for that matter.
With Martyn, though, there are no riddles to solve, no minefields to navigate. He just likes her, finds her attractive, fucks her well. Listens to her, if you’d believe it. She’s told him things she thought she’d take to her grave.
He’s already there when she arrives, has ordered both of their drinks, thank god. The restaurant is one of those sleek midtown places that survives entirely on expense accounts, which usually means that the food is unremarkable but the bar is solid. It’s comforting to be in a place that’s entirely sure of what it is. She accepts a kiss on the cheek and takes a long sip of her martini before either of them says a word.
For his part, Martyn is already buzzing with excitement over the top of his Negroni.
“So,” he drawls, “did my latest handpicked offering sweep you off your feet and into the most utterly conventional sex of your life?”
Oh, right. Richard. Poor Richard. So eminently forgettable. It had been her idea, technically, the set ups. But Martyn had taken a kind of perverse delight in playing matchmaker with his most boring friends entirely for his own amusement. Another entry on the running list of things between them that defied explanation.
Her posture loosens a little. Martyn will enjoy this, at least. Will manage to poke fun at the mess without adding to it.
She leans forward, elbows resting casually on the table, fingers tapping lightly against her glass. “Richard was…perfectly nice,” she says pointedly.
Martyn snickers, delighted. “So he asked your permission before he took off his socks.”
She tilts her head. “Well, actually, he very gallantly offered to take control.”
“Did he now.”
“Uh huh,” she says, reaching for the bread basket. She delicately breaks off a piece of breadstick and pops it into her mouth, chews it at a leisurely pace as he edges forward in his seat. “Let’s just say there was a lot of sustained eye contact.”
Martyn plays his part perfectly, dons a theatrical expression of slack dismay and clicks his tongue. It feels good to laugh about this—something like laugh, anyway. And if, perhaps, she’s elided some key details, well…that’s just muscle memory.
“I’m genuinely appalled by the state of your sex life,” he tells her, finally, dropping his head into his hand. She laughs, although she knows he’s not particularly joking.
He stretches out his legs under the table, casually swirling what’s left of his Negroni, and gives her heel a little nudge with a sideways glance.
“So, what’s the agenda for tomorrow’s floating union of holy matrimony and campaign finance violations?” he asks, tone light but eyebrows lifted. “Are you free for brunch before?”
She peers at him from under her eyelashes. “Actually, it might make sense for you to spend the night at my place,” she says casually, the words delivered as if she’d only just now thought of it.
The logistics of this are actually embarrassingly stupid, to the point of indefensible. The wedding is scheduled for early afternoon, and the yacht departs from a pier basically equidistant from both of their places. But the thing is, she wants company, and more than that she wants not to be alone with her thoughts as she faces down the approaching reckoning. She wants Martyn’s easy warmth in her bed, his vicious humor as distraction. Maybe, if she’s being honest, she wants to fuck someone without having to think too hard about it.
Martyn clocks it, eyes narrowed, grimaces in anticipation but then seems to think better of whatever he was about to say.
“Sure,” he says gamely. “We can work on the blocking for my grand debut as Human Shield Number One.”
She rolls her eyes, but there’s the faintest lift at the corner of her mouth. Relief, maybe, that he’s letting her off the hook here. With a steady hand, she lifts her drink back to her mouth, the brine helping to dull the edges of anticipation, dread, and the stubborn flicker of desire she can’t quite seem to shake off.
He’s very slightly off about the role he’s cast in, is the thing. This isn’t about protection, exactly, but proximity. What a certain pair of eyes might see when they land on the two of them together. She’d be lying if she said it wasn’t the first thing she noticed about Martyn: how someone else’s gaze might find him, might see the muscled arms, the sharp little grin, the gleam of dashing meanness under the charm, and come apart a little.
Either way, Martyn had agreed with relish to slot his name in as her plus one on the RSVP. It’s maybe one third friendly support and two thirds prurient anticipation for the swelling crescendo of the mess he’s, to date, primarily observed the wreckage of. But he’s a formidable partner here, the right man for the job.
The choreography is easy: his arm low around her hips, smile crooked, both of them aglow with a certain lingering heat. It’s become a favorite fantasy of late, imagining the kind of damage a sight like that might do.
She shakes off this little indulgence, lets it settle somewhere in the shadow of her better judgment.
Martyn’s watching her with his eyebrows raised, an expression that says he knows exactly where she’s gone. “You ready for the whole…” he trails off, completes the thought with a pantomimed explosion between his fists.
She shrugs with a faint, forced smile. “At least there’ll be an open bar,” she says.
He snorts, leans over and nudges her shoulder with his. “That’s my girl.”
* * *
By the time she makes it back to the office, something’s shifted in the air on the executive floor. Assistants are scrambling, printers are whirring, everyone’s whispering in corners about Europe. No one’s whispering in her direction, though, and she knows what that means. Over the course of an hour, appointments disappear off her calendar for the next few days one by one.
She’s idly watching stock prices rise and fall on the TSE terminal when Kerry steps in unannounced, decked out in a smug little grin she’s making no effort to repress.
“Hey, just wanted to loop you in,” she says. “Norway? It’s going to be a pretty lean team. Logan says Legal can weigh in from here if needed, so, no need for you to, you know...suit up for this one.”
Kerry’s leaning against the doorframe in the open air, arms crossed now, chin tucked, tip of her tongue moving slowly over her top left incisor. She reeks of secondhand authority.
“Sure,” Gerri says, emotionless.
Kerry waits a beat, just long enough to fill the space with her own satisfaction. “I mean, it’s mostly optics anyway. So.”
She leaves with a quietly triumphant smile, and the door clicks shut behind her.
Gerri’s fingers curl around the edge of her desk, knuckles blanching. The pulse at her temple quickens, a familiar pressure building behind her eyes.
A tableau abruptly materializes in her mind’s eye: Kerry flat on her back, bra strap twisted, mascara smeared like ash into the fine creases around her eyes as Logan’s industrial-grade snoring saws through the dark beside her. In the dull blue light of the television, where Mark Ravenhead is slickly laundering the fourteen words through a thesaurus, Kerry finishes silently, alone, staring at the ceiling with unfocused eyes. The image helps a little.
Problem is, though, there’s no real work to be done now, nothing of meaning to occupy her mind or her hands. That familiar ache begins to gnaw at her.
Slowly, deliberately, she slides her phone to the far edge of her desk.
She straightens a stack of papers. Turns them perpendicular. Turns them again. Picks out a staple with her fingernails and flicks it into the trash.
She nudges the shredder out from under her desk. Feeds it one, two, three blank sheets in slow succession. Watches each one disintegrate in the metal teeth without blinking.
She moves a tape dispenser half an inch to the left, then back again. Resets her nameplate to parallel. Brushes an imaginary speck of dust from a stack of business cards in a little brass holder. Clicks her pen seventeen times.
She’s tearing a Post-It note into fine ribbons when Frank’s shadow startles her from the door.
“Hey,” she says, hastily brushing the evidence into her trash can. Frank makes a show of acting like he doesn’t see.
“Can we…?” he starts, motioning with his head toward the privacy blinds that cover the glass walls of her office.
She stands with a sigh, already halfway to the glass before Frank finishes the gesture. Jesus Christ, what now. They move in parallel, each taking a side, and the roller blinds descend with a muted hum, section by section, blocking out the glare of the hallway’s fluorescent lights.
“I thought you should know…” Frank says, tentatively, as they sit, raking a hand through what’s left of his hair. “Rumor has it that he’s bringing Roman back in.”
Her heart stops.
“Uh huh,” she says.
The sensation spreads slow and sour, a low-grade nausea that coils in her gut and creeps upward, climbing her spine, settling in her throat with a sharp, metallic sting.
“ATN, probably. But…you know.”
She nods vacantly. “Sure.”
“If you want me to—”
“No,” she says, a little too sharp. Her fingernails bite into her palms. “No. Thank you. Thanks for, you know, the heads up.”
Frank lingers a moment, eyes scanning her face with quiet concern. She gives him a faint twitch of a smile, just enough to satisfy whatever emotional obligation he’s assigned himself here. He nods, assuaged enough, and turns to go.
She’s alone again in the bleak, sealed-in dark of her office, breathing shallowly into stagnant air. The walls are closing in.
The walls are closing in and the room is spinning and she closes her eyes but it doesn’t help, of course it doesn’t help, the spinning’s inside her, imagined but frantic, and she can’t get steady, can’t find the horizon, can’t claw her way back to solid ground. She’s toppled, unseated, knocked off her axis by the sudden closing of a neat distance.
This isn’t how this was supposed to go. There had been a vision for this, their star-crossed reunion: let him see her, let him ache, and then let him fuck back off to California and his little Potemkin village media firm with the scab torn off, stinging raw like the wound never closed. And let her have a jailbreak, a release, something to pry loose the white-knuckled grip on the edges of her sanity, finally free her from the churning spiral of dread and doubt. It wasn’t supposed to end with him brushing past her at the fucking coffee machine the next morning. It only works if he stays gone.
She drags her thumbnail across the same rough edge of skin until it breaks.
Before she can stop herself, her phone is in her left hand, harsh cool light invading the stillness, the thread she should have deleted months ago already open, twelve scrolls deep. Her right hand moves without thought, slipping past the waistband of her slacks.
She’s dry, unready, flesh protesting at first as she forces herself forward, unable to stop. For a moment, it stings more than it soothes, but she presses on, jaw clenched, breath shallow, and soon enough her fingers are wet, sliding gracelessly over her skin. She’s aching and hungry and on the edge—maybe raging, actually, frantic and furious with herself, with him, with the way her body heels like a dog to the echo of his name.
Her eyes slam shut.
Maybe he’ll already be there when she boards, she thinks, waiting in the sun like it’s nothing, strutting around in a too-tight suit with his hands in his pockets and that stupid lopsided grin like the world’s never touched him. You here to lecture me again or just check if my dick still works? Her breath is already starting to stutter.
Or maybe he’ll catch Martyn behind her, catch his hand on the small of her back, and slump, all sullen and tense, jaw clenched and fists twitching like he’s seconds from collapse, and his eyes will turn dark as his gaze flicks between them, hungry and angry all at once as he mutters, If this off-brand Hasselhoff motherfucker stares into your eyes while you come, I swear to god I’ll walk into traffic.
Or actually, what will happen is: he’ll find her later, quietly, alone, and he’ll do something new and unexpected, something he’s never done before, like wrap his hand around her elbow or brush his lips up by her ear, and he’s steady, somehow, clear-eyed and vibrating with a grown up confidence, with something fresh and sharp in the set of his jaw as he lines his whole body up next to her body. Did you hear I’m back in? I’ve got big plans, he’ll tell her, polished, smooth. Rockstar and the Mole Woman ride again.
Her whole body pulls tight as she comes—sudden, hard, relentless, a wave of heat and shame and humiliating relief curling her toes and arching her spine. She rides out the end of it with her forehead against the desk, her hand still clenched around the now-black screen of her phone.
It takes a few beats before she can get herself upright, still breathing unevenly and shaking in the comedown. She slides her fingers into her mouth, sucks away the evidence, and wipes off the wetness in the silk lining of her blazer.
She taps out a message to Martyn, hands shaking. Meet me at mine.
* * *
Martyn turns up, as ever, perfectly on script. He’s let himself into her place and made himself at home: jacket off, drink in hand, scrolling idly on his phone at her kitchen island.
She barely sees him before she’s on him.
The front door closes and her keys hit the floor, and then she’s grabbing him, hard and clumsy, her mouth crashing against his with enough force to sting in her teeth. There’s no art here, no flirting or clever banter, just her body colliding with his body like a breaking wave.
They stumble through the living room, a tangle of limbs and half-shed clothes. Gerri’s hands are everywhere—skimming the sharp line of his shoulders, clawing at the buttons of his shirt. She drives him back into the wall, knocking a photo askew, and it bursts in her like a blister, sharp and seeping: the need to take, to charge, to push, to rip something raw and shuddering out of him. The need to feel something yield beneath her hands.
“Easy, girl,” he murmurs as she backs him toward the bedroom.
“Shut the fuck up,” she replies.
He laughs against her jaw as he relents to her once again. Martyn’s always been a better sport about this than she deserves.
He strips her jacket off and drags her blouse over her head in one rough motion. Fights with the button of her slacks then shoves them down her thighs. His mouth finds her neck, her shoulders, the edge of her jaw. His fingers dig into her hips. It’s hot, rough, fast, nothing soft, nothing tender. He pauses at the thick gold chain resting at her collarbone, tugs at it once with dark, heavy eyes that make her stomach go tight. Doesn’t remove it.
He kisses her, harder now, his hands moving fast, skimming her ribs, bracing her hips, tearing off her underwear and seizing big handfuls of her flesh with satisfied moans. It’s good, it’s good, it should feel good—it does, it does. Her mind is fuzzy, whiting out, as she yanks his shirt off his shoulders, digs her nails into his chest. The red lines bloom fast on his skin as he grits out a curse next to her ear.
He reaches for her waist, starts to move her toward the bed. She jerks back, sharp and sudden, just far enough to speak.
“No—not—” she gasps, already reaching for his belt. “Can I just—”
She shoves him down so he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, pants around his ankles, and sinks to her knees between his legs. Her hand curls around him, stroking him ruthlessly until he’s hard in her grip, flushed and twitching.
And then her mouth is on him.
He groans instantly, spine bowing like he’s been hit.
“Oh fuck,” he barks. “Fuck, oh my god.”
His hands fly to the bedspread, scrabbling for purchase as her rhythm begins to undo him. Something settles low in her chest as he writhes beneath her: the clean weight of power pressing her back into her skin. He tries to slow her, grabs at her hair and twists in his seat, but she only swallows him deeper, lets it burn at the back of her throat until her jaw screams and her eyes blur.
He chokes out half-formed sounds, please, and nngh, and yes. His hips buck helplessly against her as she breaks him down pulse by pulse, devouring every jolt and jagged curse.
Even with her mouth entirely full of him, it’s the first real breath she’s had all day.
The panic recedes to its corner. There’s no yacht and no Norway and no cloud folder of genitalia and regret. There’s just this—his guttural gasps, the twitch of his thighs, and the electric tang of sweat and salt and surrender.
He shudders hard and shouts, and she holds him there until it’s over. Against his ragged breathing, relief moves through her by degrees. The room rematerializes and she’s back where she left herself. She pulls off slowly and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. Her forehead rests on his knee, eyes falling closed as his fingers wind softly into her hair.
For a moment, there’s just silence. Just breath and sweat and the gradually receding throb behind her eyes.
Martyn tugs her hand, pulls her up, and she goes easily, no resistance left. He sprawls back, dazed and boneless, against the pillows.
“For the record, this is why I keep you around,” he tells her when he can breathe again. “You give amazing head. Trauma dump all you want, just suck me off every once in a while to balance the scales.”
She allows herself to laugh just a little as she settles in next to him, spine lining up against his side, head resting on his bicep.
“Something you want?” he murmurs into her neck, fingers lazily circling her nipple.
She shakes her head. “Later,” she says quietly.
In a few hours, he’ll be ready again. In a few hours, she’ll be ready too—to let it out, let him in, to open herself a little and accept some release. For now, she settles against the firm slope of his arm and lets him soothe what he can reach.
* * *
She makes him coffee in the morning. There’s no point in going to the office; everyone worth talking to is packing up for Europe. So instead, she leans over the fussy Chemex her daughters insisted she needed, rinses the filter, adds the grounds. As the coffee brews, she tilts her head and studies the shape of herself in the microwave door. Her ponytail is drooping, tendrils of hair frizzing out at the nape. Her lips are swollen. There’s a purple bruise at her collarbone and a bite mark a little lower, half-covered by her robe. She shifts her weight and feels the faint, pleasant soreness from round two.
It had been good with Martyn last night, his arm locked tight around her hips as he took her from behind, her voice gone ragged begging him for more. No complications or history, just skin on skin, bodies moving against each other in the dark.
The knot that’s been lodged between her shoulderblades for weeks has loosened slightly. Her thoughts aren’t as scattered today, lined up more neatly, waiting their turn. Whatever comes of seeing him again—some new disaster or just a warmed up version of the old one—she thinks she can bear it. She’s not prepared, exactly, that’s impossible, but her breath is steady and her hands are calm. Amazing what getting properly fucked can do for your sense of perspective.
When she returns with their mugs, Martyn is dead to the world—sprawled on his stomach, sheets kicked to his knees. She smirks at the red marks clawed across his back. Lets herself imagine, just for a moment, a warm, wiry body slotted between them, gaze glassy and powerless at the sight of the wreckage. It’s not a thought she permits herself for long.
She sits on the edge of the bed and flicks Martyn’s earlobe with a clear-polished nail.
He cracks one eye open, smiles sleepily up at her. “If you were trying to seduce me again, that was weirdly effective.”
She snorts and hands him his coffee as he levers himself up to sitting. He studies her over the rim as he takes his first sip.
“So, last night was really something,” he says, not quite casually, eyes narrowing.
She raises an eyebrow, ignores the mild flush rising on her cheeks. “Are you complaining?”
“God, no,” he says. “Just making sure I packed the right gear in case our three hour tour turns into an emotional shipwreck?”
She rolls her eyes. “I’m perfectly seaworthy.”
The corners of his mouth twitch as he leans down for another sip of coffee.
“Fucked you pretty good, huh?” he smirks around the edge of the mug, joins her when she can’t help but laugh.
They spend a few unhurried hours in the lull between moods—coffee, pastries, silence except for her fingers tapping out a few emails here and there for visibility. She ignores the clock, refuses to watch the minutes tick toward whatever’s coming. She silences her mind, relaxes her shoulders, lets Martyn distractedly knead into the tender arches of her feet from the other end of the sofa while financial news scrolls across the muted TV.
Eventually, the PGN turn-of-the-hour graphic catches her eye. Time to move. She eases her feet from his lap and stretches, feeling the dull throb in her hips where his fingers had dug into them last night.
“We should start getting ready,” she says quietly.
Martyn groans in protest but swings his legs off the couch, padding toward the kitchen with their empty plates and mugs.
They meet again at the vanity, clean and pink from the shower. Her hair’s been flat-ironed into reluctant submission, then coaxed into a polished updo—sleek, elegant, on the edge of severe. A few deliberate wisps fall at her temples. He’s in his boxers, toothbrush wedged in his cheek as he scrolls absently through something on his phone.
He catches her eye in the mirror as he spits out the toothpaste and wipes his mouth on a hand towel.
“Just to be sure,” he says, voice light but watching her closely, “today’s safeword is ‘liquidity event’?”
She shoots him a look. “What suit did you bring?”
He winks at her and gives her ass a squeeze before he turns around to unzip the garment bag hanging on the closet door behind them. He lifts up two options, one hooked on each index finger.
She surveys them in the reflection. In her mind’s eye, she pours him into each, imagines herself beside him in her dress. The yacht is materializing around her—clinking glasses and overloud actors and junior kingmakers all too willing to let Martyn part them from their money. And just past the crowd, off to the side, a dark, lurching figure, his whole face folding in on itself at the sight of her and Martyn, perfectly matched.
She meets his eyes again in the mirror. “The charcoal.”
A few minutes later, he’s back at her side, costumed and ready, leaning against the shower, his gaze tracking slowly over her, top to toe. When she reaches for her lipstick, he circles her wrist with his hand. Digs into her makeup bag and pulls out a deeper, bolder shade.
“Go for the throat,” he murmurs, voice low, arms slipping around her waist.
She takes it from him, uncaps it, leans in. Applies it with clean, practiced strokes that draw the color on thick and rich. She parts her lips slightly, tilts her chin to catch the light.
In just a couple hours, all of this will be over. Come what may, it’ll be done. Maybe she’ll look back on this strange season like some black hole that warped time and space for a while until she finally emerged on the other side. Or maybe, a childhood illness she’s now got the antibodies for to keep the rot from taking hold again. Maybe.
She turns now, fully dressed, dove-gray clinging sharp at the hips and hat in hand. She tugs at the belt, slides on a ring. Tips her nose up to look at him.
Martyn takes her in, slowly, deliberately, eyes sweeping over the dress, her face, the sharp set of her shoulders.
His mouth quirks up just slightly. “He’s either going to kill himself or cum on the spot.”
She smiles and slides the hat into place.