Crave Page 2

  I take it and the image of my two nieces, Sasha and Sonya, fill the screen. As soon as I see their precious little faces, decked out in lavender leotards with matching tutus accented by pale green bows, I realize I’m longing for information about them. They’re so adorable it brings a sting of tears to my eyes that I blink away.

  Technically, when I find myself on the verge of uncontrollably crying throughout the day, I’m supposed to call Dr. Sorenson for an emergency session, since it’s a trigger for my unhealthy behavior.

  But I already know I’m not going to do that.

  I’m ready to fall. Crave it in that way nobody could talk me out of.

  I straighten in my chair and hand the phone back to April. “Text me the picture.”

  “I will.” She drops the cell onto the table and places her hands in her lap. “They’d love it if their Aunt Layla came to their dance.”

  An image of sitting in the audience fills my head. My parents, April and Derrick, and me, sitting next to some stranger where my husband is supposed to be. It’s a selfish thought and I immediately dislike myself for it. This isn’t about me. It’s about my nieces.

  I nod. I will not disappoint April, not in this. “Of course, I’d love to come.”

  She clasps her hands together in a gesture of prayer. “Thank you so much, they’ll be so excited.”

  I’m sad she views this as a major accomplishment, and I renew my vow to spend the rest of lunch being a good sister.

  Thirty minutes later, April has filled me in on every aspect of her life—from the petty women in the PTA, to her vacation with Derrick. I’ve done a good job, made all the right noises and gestures, laughing in all the right places. She’s satisfied. Relaxed.

  The waiter walks away with our empty plates and April puts her elbows on the table and leans forward. “I want to ask you something.”

  Spine stiffening, I’m immediately on high alert.

  “I don’t want you to say no right away.” April’s gaze looks just past me and she nibbles on her bottom lip.

  All my good intentions fly out the window and I say in a hard voice, “No.”

  April sighs, folds her hands on the table, her two and a half carat ring glitters in the sunlight streaming in through the window. “You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”

  I shake my head, one hundred percent certain I don’t want to hear it. “I don’t have to.”

  Her blue eyes fill with a shiny brightness. “Please, won’t you please hear me out?”

  Do I want to ruin her whole lunch? I grit my teeth and nod.

  She twists her ring, a sure sign she’s nervous, and my stomach sinks. “There’s a man, he works with Derrick—”

  “Absolutely not!” I’m unable to hide the shriek in my tone. How could she even suggest it?

  She holds up her hand. “Layla, wait, just listen. He’s a great guy. His name is Chad and he’s an IT Manager.”

  “Stop.” My voice shakes. “How could you?”

  She runs a hand through her golden hair, and the waves rustle before falling perfectly into place at her shoulders. “I only want what’s best for you. Tell us how to help you.”

  “And you think going on a blind date would be helpful?” The words are filled with scorn. I’m unable to hide my sense of betrayal.

  “Layla, it’s been eighteen months,” April says, her voice soft.

  I look down at the table, staring at the leftover basket of half-eaten artisan breads, as I swallow my tears. Why does everyone keep saying that? Is eighteen months really that long? Is there an expiration date on grief? On fear?

  “We all loved John, you know that,” my sister continues without mercy. “But you’re still young with your whole life in front of you. He’s gone. It’s time to move on and put your life back together. I don’t think he’d want you suffering like this.”

  I put my hands in my lap and clench them tightly, so tight my nails dig into my skin. So brittle I might break, I look at my sister. My beautiful, thirty-five-year-old sister, who’s never even had a bad hair day.

  “Someday,” I say, my voice cracking. “I’m going to ask you if you think eighteen months is a long time, and we’ll see what your answer is.”

  She pales and reaches across the table, making me jerk back. She slides away. “I don’t mean it like that.”

  “You do.” A cold, almost deadly calm fills my stomach. “You keep waiting for the girl I was before to show up, and that’s never going to happen.”

  She presses her lips together, and tears fill her eyes, turning them luminous. “I miss you.”

  “I miss me too.” And it’s the truth. All pretense of faking falls away. It’s impossible to maintain the mask, not with my emotions so close to the surface. So raw.

  April picks up her white linen napkin and blots under her lashes. “I can’t pretend to know what you are going through. And with,” she clears her throat and her chin trembles, “what happened…” She trails off and looks beyond me, over my shoulder.

  A smug, selfish satisfaction wells in my chest.

  “Look at you,” my tone filled with an ugly meanness I want to control but can’t. “It’s been eighteen months, April, and you can’t even say it.”

  Emotions flash across her face—worry, sadness, and lastly guilt. “I’m sorry.”

  Remorse weaves a fine crack through my heart, but it doesn’t break me, because I’ve spoken the truth. None of them can even bring themselves to mention that night. They avoid it. Pretend only John’s death is the issue. I can’t say I blame them. Where we live, bad things happen to other people. They’re ill prepared for tragedy.

  I abruptly stand. I need to get out of here. Escape. I glance at the large clock hanging on the wall. Ten hours. It seems like an eternity until I can go to that one place where I’m free to be as fucked up as I want and don’t have to apologize. I grab my purse, slip out two twenties, and throw them on the table. “I need to get back to work.”

  There will be no good progress reports today.

  “Wait, please.” April’s tone is pleading. “Don’t go.”

  “Text me the details about the twins recital.” My voice is as cold as I feel.

  “Layla.” A big fat tear rolls down my sister’s cheek.

  I turn to leave before I confess my biggest secret, not to cleanse my soul, but out of spite. I’ve shielded my family from the worst of that night, the true extent of what happened and how it damaged me. Not because of some misguided notion of protecting them, but because, in truth, I’m no better. I also want to pretend.

  Only, my nightmares won’t let me.

  This long, dreadful day is finally over and I’ve ended up exactly where I predicted. I didn’t stand a chance.

  Every person in my family has called today—the news of my lunch with April having made the rounds—but I’ve ignored them all. Instead, I plowed through work, staying late as not to face a dinner alone in my condo. After my boss finally hustled me out the door, I ate takeout and wandered restlessly until it was time.

  Tonight, unlike others when I’m in full denial mode, I ignore everything in my real life with the ease of shedding my trench coat that I hand to a girl behind the counter.

  A Goth girl with black lipstick, equally dark hair, and tattooed sleeves running the length of her thin arms, left bare by a black leather bustier. Once upon a time this girl would have seemed like an alien she was so far outside the realm of my white picket fence life, but now, she’s as familiar as my own reflection.

  She juts her chin toward the long, narrow stairway leading to the underground club. “Good crowd for a Thursday.”

  I give her a small smile and begin my descent.

  Cool air hits my bare thighs as someone comes in behind me. The night air brushes my overheated skin, reminding me of the near desperate anticipation riding me hard. Now that I’m committed to my perversion, I’m anxious to get the show on the road. Once I take care of business I’ll be filled with conviction to start
anew and the process will begin again.

  But for those first few weeks, I’ll have peace. Or as much peace as my life allows. And I crave that as much as I crave the release I get from my seedy activities.

  I follow the sounds of bass; pounding so loud the lyrics to the music are indecipherable. Lights flash varying degrees of bright as I step into the main room filled with nameless, faceless strangers. Eleven o’clock is still early by club standards but the crowd is electric. The room pulses with energy, it sucks me into its world, and the Layla Hunter everyone knows disappears.

  I slide up to an empty spot against the wall, seeping into the shadows to survey the landscape. People litter the small dance floor occupying the center of the room, gyrating to a pulsing techno metal, but they don’t interest me. I don’t like exhibitionists. I’m interested in the men lining the interior, watching and waiting for someone just like me.

  My thighs clench as my skin heats. I’m too on edge, too anxious and filled with impatience. Tonight, all I want is to take care of my itch and get the hell out of here. I know from experience this is not a good place to be. No matter how subtle, people pick up on desperation and it’s never attractive. This is the downside of too much self-denial but I’ll forget this lesson as soon as I get what I came for.

  I always do.

  I scan the mill of bodies, littering the main room in the flash of bright lights, accompanied by moments of darkness. The area is small, giving the illusion of throngs of people, when really there can’t be more than a hundred or so. The gathering area looks like any other club or bar in Chicago. It’s the getting to know your neighbor’s kink place. The real action happens in the specialty rooms—the private playgrounds, the voyeur’s paradise, the dungeons, and medical examination rooms—the places you go when you’ve met your perverted match.

  But I don’t go into those rooms anymore. Not since John.

  No, I stay right here. This suits me just fine with its dark nooks and crannies. I don’t need the intimacy of those places. The reminder. All I need is rough, mean sex, and a lot of filthy language to create the illusion I’m getting what I need, all while remaining safe. In control. It’s not perfect, but it’s enough to tide me over. Besides, I won’t allow anything else.

  Against the wall, arms crossed, I scan the crowd. A man on the dance floor, not too far away, attempts to catch my attention. Hips swaying, he crooks his finger and motions me close.

  He’s handsome, slick, and all wrong.

  I shake my head. His jaw hardens and he motions me more firmly.

  Absolutely not. I turn away, knowing that will be the end of it. Guys like that want their women compliant, to abide by the rules they set. Not a game I play.

  No, I set my own rules and don’t break them for anyone.

  My gaze skips over a submissive guy with a dog collar around his neck and bare chest.

  I dismiss the man in latex.

  The guy with a Mohawk and too many piercings.

  The man with broad shoulders and wife beater T-shirt.

  Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. They are all wrong.

  My stomach turns heavy as I scan a group of men dressed in business suits but none of them suit me, besides they’re window shoppers and probably half of them are married.

  There are a few clean-cut types, in jeans and polo shirts I don’t even consider. They remind me too much of John. He was that type. All American, boy-next-door good looks, so nice and considerate everyone thought he was an angel. And, he was, unless he was fucking.

  Then, a different John came out.

  Of course, I didn’t know that when we’d met. Our relationship hadn’t started out deviant. We’d just become that way over time. Slowly but surely John instilled cravings in me I hadn’t even imagine existed, although he claimed I’d had them all along.

  And who knows, maybe he’d been right. Remembering the first time John and I had sex way back on his narrow dorm bed, the signs had been there, I just hadn’t recognized them.

  When we’d met my sexual experiences had consisted of a few clumsy attempts at sex that left me wondering what the fuss had been about. Our relationship started like any other college romance. Downright normal. We’d met at a party through mutual friends. Flirted, drank too much, made out in the corner like the kids we were.

  But from the beginning, John wasn’t like other boys.

  Other boys hadn’t cared about my pleasure, and I’d thought that’s how it was supposed to be. But John had cared. Back then I was shy, and since I hadn’t responded to anyone else, I was sure it would be the same with him. So when we fooled around, I’d focused all the attention on him. Other guys ate it up like a hot fudge sundae, but John wouldn’t have it. He kept trying to touch me, and when he did, I’d struggle. Resist. Endlessly I attempted to divert him by turning the tables. He never fell for it, and I couldn’t seem to stop trying to control the experience. This went on for weeks, until the struggle became part of our foreplay. The first time he made me come, he forced a screaming orgasm out of me as he held a viselike arm over my belly so I couldn’t move.

  It had been like crack for both of us. Although, I’d learned later he’d always been drawn to more sadistic acts. When other teenage boys had been watching choreographed porn of blonde girls with overly plump, glossy lips and blow-up tits, give messy blowjobs, he’d been watching girl’s getting tied up and spanked until they bruised.

  Back then none of this concerned me because I believed we’d be together forever, and it was such a gradual process I never thought it was wrong. John and I loved each other. We were great together. We wanted the same things out of life, had the same values, work ethic, and desires. And we were lucky enough to burn up the sheets. Who cared if it was a little perverted? Certainly not us. We loved our secret.

  I remembered how we’d go to parties: that sly, smug look he’d give me from across the room. Sometimes we couldn’t wai—

  With a violent shove, I slam the door shut to the past. If I slip into my memories of him, it will be impossible to ignore that this little ritual I’ve created pales in comparison to what we had.

  My nights alone are for my memories. Tonight is to get my fix and be on my way.

  I force my attention back to the present and methodically start making my way around the room, mentally trying on each man before dismissing them.

  I will not think about John.

  I catalog each man as frustration grows like a knot of thorns. I want to scream. None of them have that feel I’m looking for. That click of recognition.

  Just as it starts to feel hopeless, my attention stops on a biker type in heavy leather.

  I pause, consider, some of the tension unraveling enough for me to think. He’s not my normal type, but something about him snags my interest. He’s big and bald with arms the size of my thighs.

  Nothing like John, he’d leave no room for confusion.

  The man’s already engaged in a conversation with a blonde woman in a red corset and little else. She’s pretty and petite with full breasts, a minuscule waist and toned legs. He runs a finger over the curve of her smooth, pale cheek. As attractive as she is, she doesn’t concern me.

  In a place like this, talking means nothing.

  I continue to watch him. He’s wearing a black vest, no shirt, leather pants and motorcycle shit-kicker boots. He could work. He looks mean enough.

  I drop my arms and undo another button on my blouse, letting it gape open and expose the swell of my cleavage in my red bra. I wait. My gaze direct and heavy, I will him to look in my direction. At some point he’ll sense my heavy attention.

  I bide my time and focus.

  At long last, he lifts his head as though he’s scented something in the air. Distracted now from the woman he’s been talking to, he slowly cranes his neck and catches my stare.

  My breath stalls.

  From across the room our eyes lock.

  My heart gives a loud thump against my ribs.

  He gives me a long, slo
w once over, followed by an appreciative nod.

  I slowly expel the air from my lungs. Deflated.

  It’s wrong. I don’t know how I know, I just do.

  The moment fades like a mirage.

  He turns back to the woman he’d been talking too, and I move on.

  Fifteen frustrating minutes later, when I feel like I’ve checked out every man in the room, I make my way to the bar for my first drink. The ache between my thighs a constant reminder I might not find what I need. That I’ll go home alone and be forced to try again another night.

  That’s not an option.

  I take a deep breath, reminding myself to stay calm. It’s early. There’s time. I haven’t been here long and there’s still people coming down the stairs. I have to be patient. Not my strong suit at the moment.

  Throat dry, I sidle up to the bar and pull a twenty from the inside pocket of my skirt.

  I wave the bartender over. He nods and thirty seconds later he’s in front of me, grinning his boyish, got-to-love-me grin. He’s young and cute, with mussed brown hair, and dancing blue eyes. He reminds me of one of those Abercrombie and Fitch models with a finely built body and jeans slung so low on his hips you can see the cut of bone. He looks like he’s never had a complicated thought in his life.

  “How’s my girl tonight?” he asks, gaze sweeping over me with obvious appreciation.

  Inwardly I cringe at the “my girl” reference. It was a favorite of John’s and he’s already on my mind far too much. So close I have to resist the urge to turn and look for him.

  I nod as way of greeting and say, “Good, thanks, I’ll have a Grey Goose and cranberry.”

  A girly drink, but it’s quick and it gets the job done. Besides, I don’t like the taste of alcohol.

  The bartender pulls a glass from under the counter and free pours the vodka a third of the way before filling the rest with Ocean Spray. “Good crowd tonight.”

  “Yeah.” My gaze darts up and down the bar, searching for the one guy that pings me the right way, only to come up empty. I blow out a hard breath.