Snapped (20 page)

“Get back in your corner,” George says. It takes me a moment to realize he isn’t joking. He’s serious, there’s no sign of playfulness in his expression. I face the corner again and he places one hand against each wall. He’s careful with my right one—he knows it’s still sore. He pulls my skirt up again and my panties down. He pulls my hips toward him and I arch my back. I think he’s going to spank me, but I’m not sure if he will or when or how hard and this makes me wetter.

He waits, not touching me, just looking at me, exposed and wanting. I want him to spank me and fuck me. His hand slaps my ass and instinctively my back arches higher and I push back against the wall, the pain in my right hand the last thing on my mind. He spanks me again—harder.

I can feel George move in closer. His cock brushes my ass and I want him inside me and push myself against him. Very deliberately, he spreads my legs and pulls me back to him. I push my ass up so I can take him. I keep pushing myself back into him in hopes that he’ll slide his cock into me, but he slaps my body back into the position he wants. I’m dripping and swollen and my thighs are sticky. Finally, he rubs the tip of his cock between my legs, on and over my clit and I think I’m going to come right then, but he pulls it away.

“Fuck me, George. Please.”

He says nothing and is perfectly still. I can feel his eyes on me, watching my body shift and relax just slightly. And then he guides his cock inside me with one hard push just as he spanks my ass with his free hand. Once. Twice. So many times. My body jerks and twists. I try to dig my nails into the walls. For a moment, I want to get away, push him off me; it’s almost too much—the fucking, the spanking, his cock and his hand. I push my whole weight against him as I come. George pulls out and comes on my ass. He straightens up. “We should get back downstairs,” he says, zipping up his pants.

“I guess we should.” I am dazed. My body burns and my head is fuzzy. But I am completely relaxed and George is the most delightful surprise.

Ted is lurking at the bottom of the stairs, talking to Esther and shifting his weight from one foot to the other like he
always does when he’s impatient or has somewhere to be. “Hey, Sara, I gotta run. I said I’d be home by midnight.”

“Ah, curfew,” I say. “Well, drop by sometime.”

“Yeah, let’s keep in touch.”

What kind of a fucked-up conversation is this?
“I hope everything goes well with all the new stuff.”

“Thanks. And I know this is going to be great for you, Sara. You’ve always had that sixth sense—you always know what people want at the right time. You’re lucky.”

I watch him leave to see if Eva follows but she doesn’t.

Ted’s right. I am lucky. I’m luckier than everyone here. No matter how much I fuck up I’m the luckiest. The glow of sex with George fades. I’m lucky to have him—it’s all about luck, right place, right time, but to think that everything, all of it, has all been purely about luck, is depressing. I’m the rich lawyer who wins the lottery twice, the fifty-year-old woman who wants a baby and gets pregnant just like that, I’m the girl who flukes through her life and gets to read old magazines for a living. And I’m the girl who needs a drink. And since it turns out that I didn’t tell George about Ben I permit myself to have one, as my personal promise never to drink again would have only applied if I had. I go to grab the bottle of pink champagne from the top of the fridge, but George already has. He hands me a glass. I think about him fucking me in the bathroom. I love it. I think I love him, but I can’t because it’s too soon and I’m tired and fucked up and my nerves are rising and I wish I had more Ativan.

George puts his arm around my waist. “You should be enjoying this,” he says quietly into my ear.

The party is clearing out as people move on to another or go home to bed. It
is
a Tuesday night, after all. Ellen and
Esther are the next to leave. Ellen is swaying like a metronome but never too far to the left or the right to actually fall. I’ve reconsidered killing her, but she’ll definitely be paying for dinner when we go out next time she’s in town.

“Looks like it’s going to be a big success,” Ellen says.

“Yeah, I’m lucky, I know.”

“It’s not luck, Sara. It’s good business sense. You’re a born entrepreneur.” Listening to Ellen drunkenly navigate her way through the word
entrepreneur
is both painful and amusing.

“I am a successful woman entrepreneur,” I say teasingly, my mood lifting.

“You are an
Infinite Woman!
” she shouts.

“Shh,” I say. People are looking. I see Eva roll her eyes as she shrugs on her vintage fifties jacket.
Oh, fuck you, Eva
.

“I think I’ll drive this one to her hotel,” Esther says in reference to Ellen. “But don’t you forget it’s casserole night tomorrow. I’ll expect you at six. You, too, George.”

“We’ll be there,” I say. I look at Esther’s face, the thin wrinkled skin that sags, the age spots makeup can’t hide. It would be okay, I think, to be old and like Esther. I smile and bring her into a close hug. “Thank you for everything.” I try not to cry.

“Oh, Sara dear, this is all your doing and I’m so proud. And I’ll be in on Thursday to help you with the catalog system.” Esther is teaching me how to run Satin Rules like a proper library.

The last partygoers finish their drinks and leave in packs. I wave goodbye to Martin and Tim and to Diane, who is leaving with Jack. I don’t want to think about that. But maybe they could be artners. Maybe she likes cuddling and girl-bossy sex.

I wave to Eva in hopes that she’ll leave and I won’t have to
talk to her, but she walks her old-lady orthopedic shoes over to where George and I are standing. Parrot Girl is a pace behind.

“This has been a super night, Sara,” says Eva. “And you know I’m going to be your very best customer.”
Oh, goody
.

“Excuse me.” Parrot Girl speaks up. “I’m Camille. I’m a photographer for
Snap
and Apples Are Tasty. I’d love to get a picture of you two.” She’s grinning and readying the settings on her camera.

George moves so his body is angled half-behind me, ready to pose. I elbow him gently in the stomach. “Sorry, not tonight,” I say.

“Okay, whatever. Sorry to bother you,” she says. The parrot squawks and says, “Party, party party,” for the trillionth time tonight and no one is laughing and thinking it’s cute anymore.

“Jesus, Camille—can’t you control that thing?” Eva chastises her. Parrot Girl’s face burns red.

“I’m sorry, I just—I couldn’t find anyone to look after him tonight, I didn’t want to bring him.” Parrot Girl looks at my face but not in my eyes. “He’s my mom’s—or he was. She died and he freaks out if he’s left alone and then my landlord gets pissed and threatens to evict me, so I can’t just leave him there and most of my friends don’t want to look after a
bird,
you know. So I’m sorry I had to bring him.”

“It’s okay,” I say softly and touch her arm. The parrot swoops his head down and raps his beak on my hand. I jump back, sure he’s going to bite me.

“He doesn’t bite. He likes you,” says Parrot Girl. This is new. Animals never like me, but I still don’t trust the squawky thing and keep my distance.

“Can we go now?” Eva’s voice is demanding and shrill; the goodness-golly-gee Eva has fully transformed.

“Just a sec,” Parrot Girl says, unzipping a pocket on the front of her bag. The parrot squawks again. “I meant to give this to you.”

It’s the DON’T paper doll of me on which she’s scratched out the word DON’T and replaced it with DO. She’s drawn blue short-shorts with white piping, soccer socks with stripey tops and cowboy boots. With a metallic gold marker she’s drawn a shiny jacket.

“Thank you, Camille,” I say and take the card from her. Then I head to the kitchen to get a roll of tape so I can paste the card up on the wall with the others.