Angels (27 page)

Troy indicated it. “Another?”

“I'll get them.”

I crossed the vast expanse of whiteness to the kitchen, but as I got there, the door was shut in my face. Behind the door a girl gasped, “Do you want
everyone
to see? And where did you get it?”

I paused, my hand frozen on the doorknob, as a male voice tempted, “Want some?”

“I can't! You shouldn't!”

“A little isn't going to hurt.”

“Jeez, listen to yourself!”

I was afraid to go in. What manner of illegal mood alterer were they indulging in? Cocaine? Angel dust?
Heroin
? But my curiosity got to be too much, so I opened the door—and found the pair of them bent guiltily over a tub of Ben & Jerry's Chunky Monkey.

They looked up, a picture of shock, and the girl actually said, “This isn't how it looks.”

Full of glee, I skittered back to Troy and, with my mouth intimately close to his ear, confided what had happened. “Not exactly rock and roll, is it?” I couldn't stop grinning.

“No.” He laughed. “This isn't such a great party, is it? Come on, suck down that drink, I'll take you home.”

The words were out of my mouth before I'd even known I was going to say them. “Whose home?”

Instantly I dropped my eyes, afraid to look at him. I was shaking with hope; at my own audacity; with dread…

“Maaaggie,” he whispered, and cautiously I peeped up again.

212 / MARIAN KEYES

His expression was quizzical, he was wondering if he'd misunderstood, then saw that he hadn't. He laughed—a funny, regretful laugh. “Oh boy.” He sounded almost weary.

My heart banging with nerves, I watched him stand up and sling an arm toward me. “Let's go.”

IN HIS JEEP
I faced away and stared out of my window because I couldn't bear looking at him and not touching him. In silence, he drove too fast. But when we got caught at a red light, I made the mistake of turning and glancing at him, and then his mouth was on mine.

I hadn't known what kind of kiss to expect because his mouth was hard, but he was gentle—but when it happened, I was actually shocked by the quality. It wasn't just my being out of practice that made me think he was an expert kisser. He was teasing, tantalizing, and more than a little dirty.

We kissed through three changes of the lights. At the time I didn't know that was what was happening, but afterward I made sense of the noises I'd been faintly aware of—the mad beeping must have been when the lights changed to green and we didn't move. The sounds of acceleration were us being overtaken, then a fresh burst of mad beeping must have been when the next lot pulled up behind us on the red and the lights went to green again.

Somehow we were driving again, even faster, then we were parked on a trash-strewn street, he was opening a graffitied metal front door, and we were going up some concrete stairs. His apartment was tiny and untidy, full of books and piles of manuscripts; then we were lying on his bed, facing each other.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” he murmured, 214 / MARIAN KEYES

stroking along my hairline with his thumb, sending little shivers through me.

All my life I've been cautious and held off on things until I'm sure they're right. But this could not happen fast enough.

“I'm sure.”

“You've just broken up with your husband…”

I had no interest in playing games, holding on, hoping to drive him mad. I wanted this and I wanted it now.

“It's been six weeks. And it's been over for much longer than that.” I was breathless. Not just with longing, but with the fear that he was going to turn me down.

“Because I am bad news,” he said gently.

“So you've already told me. D'you want me to sign a disclaimer clause?”

He laughed and I took his hand and placed it on my shin. “Show me again how to get to your apartment from Santa Monica.”

“I can do better than that.”

He pulled off his T-shirt and his chest was shiny-smooth and hairless. Then went the rest of his clothes, to reveal a body that was narrow-hipped and sinewy, and blessed with that perfect olive skin. If I tell you that he was the most beautiful man I'd ever seen, I'd probably be exaggerating, but you get the picture.

Then he was helping me out of my dress and telling me how much he wanted me.

Claire had told me about the first time she'd had sex after she'd split up with James, how nervous she'd been with the new person.

And after I'd left Garv, I'd found it impossible to ever imagine sleeping with another man—literally impossible. But this was a lot easier than I'd ever expected.

“You're beautiful,” he whispered, gently unknotting my “Halston”

scarf from around my neck, then just as gently tying it around my wrist—then tying the other end to his bed-post. Oh my God!

“Stay there,” he ordered, disappearing and—oh Jesus!—returning with slender ropes.

ANGELS / 215

“This okay?” he asked, tying my other wrist to the other side of the bed.

“Don't know. I've never done it before.”

“'Bout time you did.” He laughed, then he was holding my foot in his hand and attaching a rope to my ankle, until all four limbs were tied and I was spread-eagled on the bed.

And now I was afraid. What if he was a serial killer? What if he was going to torture and kill me?

Then he was inching his way up my leg with his tongue, taking his own sweet time, lingering on my kneecap, and by the time he'd gotten to my thigh, I'd decided that if he was a serial killer, I didn't care. Up, up, he moved, still not high enough, up a little more, then back a bit—I nearly choked—then finally he'd arrived where I wanted him to be.

I'd forgotten how fabulous sex could be—put it this way: it had been a long time since Garv and I had had sex on the kitchen table.

(The fact that we were still waiting for it to be delivered didn't help, of course.) This was pure, selfish pleasure, all for me.

The circles began to build, pleasure stacking and intensifying, reaching for the almost unbearable sweetness until it got to the top.

I quivered on it, helpless, until the burst dispersed and I returned to myself, striving for breath.

“You're very good at this,” I half laughed.

He grinned and drawled, “I practice a lot.”

Then he was kneeling between my legs with an impressive, angry-looking hard-on and swinging the tip against me, then removing it, then it was in half an inch, then out again, then in a bit more, then out again, and all I wanted him to do was thrust right up into me and fill the need. But in the midst of it all was the worry about contraception—the last thing I needed was to get pregnant by Troy.

Then he was pulling a foil square from a drawer, rolling a condom on in one fast, unbroken motion, then he was plunging into me and it was wild. Though my arms and legs were tied, my back was arching, my hips were bucking, and I flipped with need beneath him. Then he was whimpering,

216 / MARIAN KEYES

“Oh Jesus, oh Jesus.” Louder, louder still, then he was coming, his eyes screwed shut, his face agonized, his head arched back. At the moment of climax, his body spasmed into paralysis and nothing moved except his spurts pumping inside me.

Limbs suddenly floppy and weak, he collapsed onto me, our chests heaving. Then he clambered onto his elbows and looked at me with amusement. “Jeez,” he said softly. “You love this, doancha?”

He untied me, and the second time we took it slower—a lot slower. Side by side, barely moving, locked at the groin, we ground further into each other with the smallest of actions and I stared into his eyes and forgot who I was.

The sun was already starting to come up when we got to sleep, then suddenly I was awake and the yellow light of full-on morning was filling the room. Panicked, I turned my head on the pillow and there he was. Awake and watching me. He rolled closer, fixed me with sleepy green eyes, and said, “Our first morning together.”

His lazy drawl made everything sound like a joke, so I laughed, then moved my hands under the sheet until I found what I wanted—velvety skin over iron—and slithered down the bed to it.

“Your turn.”

Afterward, he insisted on returning the favor, then said with a regretful sigh, “I'd love to do this all day, but I've got work to do.

C'mon, I'll drive you home.”

Coming out of his apartment, we stumbled across a cluster of tourists, laden with maps and Leicas and wandering around the run-down streets looking bewildered. Wasn't Hollywood supposed to be glamorous? As we climbed into the Jeep, they studied us overhopefully, desperate for us to be famous, and we pulled away with them still staring hard.

On the drive to Santa Monica, neither of us spoke. I had my eyes closed as I basked in a great sense of well-being. Then Troy's voice was saying, “Wake up, Irish, we're home.”

I opened my eyes. We were outside Emily's and all the ANGELS / 217

Drummers to the Rhythm of Life were streaming out of Mike and Charmaine's and into waiting Mercs and Lexuses.

I roused myself. “Thanks for the lift, and the party and you know…everything.”

“My pleasure.” He slid a hand under my hair to the nape of my neck, and touched a brief kiss to my mouth.

“Call me,” I yelped, hopping down out of the Jeep.

“Sure.” He grinned. “I'll write you every day.”

THE SUNLIT HOUSE
was unexpectedly silent; Emily wasn't home yet. She'd obviously also gotten lucky. For once, I didn't mind being on my own, I didn't mind
at all
. I was aglow—with my sore wrists and ankles and my stiff inner thighs, I'd never felt more alive. After a shower, where I looked in awe at the bite mark on my stomach, I drove to the beach to catch some rays. I liked this picture of myself. A convertible-driving independent woman, happy with my own company.

I'd been stretched out for only a few minutes when along came Rudy, laden down with ice creams.

“Where'd ya go? Been worried about ya,” he said.

“Busy week,” I said. “Any tricolor Klondikes?”

As I arranged myself and my ice cream beneath the dazzling sun, a vision of a fresh start wound around me seductively. This place had everything: great weather, fantastic location, lovely people. I could put my disastrous life in Ireland behind me, begin again, and, this time, get it right. After my time in Chicago, surely someone would employ me and sort out a green card for me—there must be thousands of jobs in the studios for people with legal experience.

Then I let the door open on a secret, exciting hope: maybe Troy would be part of my new life. I reveled in a happy idyll of me and him, laughing happily together. Strolling through a fruit and vegetable market—in films people who've just got ANGELS / 219

ten it on with each other spend a lot of time wandering among fresh produce and it's always okay to suggestively stroke egg-plants without a stallholder shouting, “Oi, no 'andling the goods!” Or for the man to pluck a juicy red strawberry from a stand and feed it to the woman without getting arrested for theft.

I entertained myself thus for most of the afternoon, and it only came to an end when I had to go home because I was dying to go to the loo.

Back at the house, I raced to the bathroom and was surprised by the stinging sensation. Then I remembered what had caused it and suddenly it became pleasant. Oh yeah, of course…

Still no sign of Emily, but there was a message on the machine from her. She'd spent the day with Lou, they were going out again tonight, I wasn't to expect her home. “Call me on the cell phone if you have any problems.” As if it had just occurred to her she added, “But maybe you're not back either. I'll try you at Troy's.”

That was the only message. At least it was the only message for
me
. There were about ten thousand for Emily. Justin and Connie, someone called LaMorna, another person going by the name of Dirk.

It was then that the implications of Emily's message began to filter through: I'd be spending the evening alone. That was okay, I could ring Claire—then remembered I couldn't because of the time difference. Fine, I could ring Rachel in New York and afterward I could compound my happy independent-woman status by going to the movies on my own. Doubtfully, I thought, Yeeess, I could do that. Then I let myself think the thought that had been begging to be formed—unless Troy called. That there might be a possibility of repeating the fantastic sex of the previous night and this morning…Suddenly I was in a state of raging arousal.

There was a noise at the door and I looked up in wild hope.

Could I have conjured up Troy? With a pistol in his pocket?

220 / MARIAN KEYES

Not quite. It was Lara. “Ready?” She beamed. “For Madame Anoushka?”

I froze. “Oh Lord, I'd completely forgotten!” Madame Anoushka, who would save me from my terrible eyebrows. I had an appointment with her for five-thirty.

“Give me ten minutes,” I begged and bolted to the shower to wash off the day's sand. Three minutes later, I was dragging a towel over myself, and while I foraged for clothes Lara came in to talk to me. As I located a bra, I had a panicky moment of wondering how I'd put it on without her seeing my chest, then was too rushed to bother. Let her see it. Nothing she hadn't seen before! Hadn't I always been annoyed by homophobic men who acted as if every gay man they met was going to come on to them? And wasn't I behaving in exactly the same way?

Anyway, I didn't for one second think she was going to make a move on me. I suppose I just wondered how I measured up, if she thought my jugs were nice.

I was dressed in under nine minutes—“I'm impressed!” Lara said—then into the silver pickup truck, once more heading for Beverly Hills. Sure, I was hardly ever out of the place! As we drove, she asked about Cameron Myers's birthday party and I told her about the apartment, the view, and Cameron's fire, but she didn't ask if anything had happened with Troy and I didn't quite know how to bring it up.

Madame Anoushka was an icy white Russian who was shocked by the poorly plucked state of my eyebrows. “Bed,” she pronounced.