Jane Doe(7)

He’s a little shorter than I thought, with the tight body of a runner. What’s more appealing than his body is the way he stands at a polite distance, waiting for a signal that welcomes him closer. He understands women in that very simple way so many men never grasp. He knows we are raised in danger. He views our respect as a gift. He has sisters, probably. I like him.

“I’d love another,” I finally answer, tipping my head toward the empty seat beside me.

He raises his hand to politely wave at the bartender, then slides onto the stool. “I’m Anthony.” He offers a hand, and when I take it, the handshake is quick and firm.

“Jane,” I respond. “Are you here for work?”

“I am. Pitching a new campaign. I work in advertising in Chicago. What about you?”

“I live nearby. Just wanted to get out of my place for a few hours.”

“An extrovert?”

“Something like that. I like a little noise in the background, and I can only deal with twenty-four-hour news channels for so long.”

“I get it. I don’t particularly like sports, but I seem to find myself at sports bars all the time.”

“Do you travel a lot?”

“A few times a month. Nothing too crazy.”

I don’t ask about his relationship status. He doesn’t ask about mine. Our new drinks arrive and we gently clink glasses. “Thank you,” I murmur.

“My pleasure.”

We talk for an hour. You might think I’d be terrible at conversation, but I’m not. I enjoy small talk the way I enjoy books with an interesting narrator. The way other people live and love and think are cozy mysteries, though their stories are as two-dimensional to me as words on a page. I don’t understand the stupid reactions of people. I don’t understand their irrationality. But small talk is light entertainment.

On my side, I normally only have to mention Malaysia and the listener is hooked. But I’m treading cautiously here. My time in Minneapolis will not end well. How many questions will be asked, and who will be asking them? I have no idea, so I keep Malaysia to myself.

Still, there are stories to share, and I share them. Anthony is smart and funny, and he looks a little embarrassed when he finally asks if we should take our last round of drinks to his room.

He needn’t feel embarrassed. I’m not. I pay my tab and leave a nice tip for the bartender before waving goodbye. The ruddy-faced businessman, eyes now bleary with booze, shoots me a scornful glare as I walk past with Anthony, and I resist the urge to tell him to fuck off and grow up. No matter how old he gets, he’ll still want a woman my age, but he resents that I don’t want him. Does he notice his own shitty hypocrisy? No. I’m a selfish bitch. It will always be my fault.

But who cares about him? Anthony and I step into the elevator, and even when we’re alone he doesn’t crowd me, but his eyes are warmer, the lids a little heavier as he lets his gaze slip over my body. I touch a fingertip to his wrist and draw a circle. “I like your arms,” I say.

“My arms?” He’s no weight-lifting type and he seems surprised.

“Stronger than mine, but not ostentatious.”

He smiles as he eases closer. “You’re an odd one.” Boy, am I ever. His lips just touch mine when the doors of the elevator slide open. He hesitates, kisses me again.

“Come on,” I whisper, and tug him into the hallway.

For a moment I’m a real person. I’m excited, happy, close to another human, nearly breathless with anticipation. He’s kissing me before his hotel door is fully open, and I try not to think or plan or analyze. We’re not frantic, but we waste no time in exploring, undressing each other as we kiss and touch.

Right now I could be any woman taking a chance with an attractive man. This could develop into something deeper. We could fall in love and marry and live the age-old dream. I like the brief fantasy of it as much as the sex, but after I climax, this intimacy will evaporate along with the sweat on my body. I learned this long ago.

The funny thing is a lot of people are sociopaths when it comes to sex, aren’t they? And I’m the odd one? At least I’m consistent.

My instincts are good, and Anthony doesn’t let me down. He gets me off before we have sex, then again at the end. I like his body all tight and slick with sweat, and he uses a condom without my having to ask. If he weren’t flying out in the morning, I might come back again tomorrow night, but when he asks if I want to keep in touch, I reluctantly shake my head. He’s said he only comes to town once or twice a year and I won’t be here that long.

“You sure?” he asks. “I thought this was pretty nice.”

“It was really nice,” I reassure him, stroking a thankful hand over his arm and then his chest and stomach. My reassurance is so effective that he’s hard again within minutes and we do it one more time, and this round is rougher, harder, and even better than really nice.

I leave his room with a grin, and I smile the whole way home. What a great night. The memory may even get me through a few days of playing with Steven.





CHAPTER 8

I’m thankful Steven avoids me for most of the day. Tonight we’re going on a date, and he’s likely being careful not to send signals to anyone in the office, but his distance helps me as well. My body is still moving with the warm lethargy of a satisfied woman, and I can’t let him see that.