Big Swiss(78)

“Not convincing,” Big Swiss said.

“What?” Greta said.

“Your tough-girl routine. It’s pretty transparent at this point. Actually, it’s been transparent since the beginning.”

“Listen, sister,” Greta interrupted. “You spent the morning with Luke. Now you’re here with me, but—why? What are you doing here?”

“I make it pretty obvious. I’m undeniably attracted to you, I can’t stop thinking about you, and I’ve never said no to you, not once. So, relax. You have more power than you think.”

“But you’re so stingy with compliments. You won’t touch my tits. You won’t even hold my hand.”

“Maybe you should be with a man,” Big Swiss said.

“Oh, because men are so effusive? Why can’t you gush a little?”

She sounded as whiny and petulant as some of Om’s clients. Quite a few of them behaved like this as a matter of course, and she wondered if transcribing their emotional reactions had somehow influenced her own. Emotional eavesdropping, it was called. She’d read about it online. It was something children did, not adults. But why couldn’t she be more like Big Swiss? Because Big Swiss was withholding, that’s why, and the more she withheld, the more frantically Greta pursued.

“When I’m fucking you, you get this bored expression on your face. It’s confusing, disorienting, and—if I’m being honest—extremely exciting. Then you’ll suddenly laugh for no reason, which also excites me. And you’re an angelic sleeper. Your face is so serene and at peace, a little smile on your lips—it looks like you’re pretending to sleep. I also like that you only speak one language, and when I see your knees in jeans, I get light-headed.”

“What else?” Greta said.

“Is that not enough?”

A bright light flashed in the trees just beyond the meadow, about twenty feet away. Greta squinted. The woods were dark, so it was hard to know what was making the flash, but Greta assumed it was a man holding binoculars and that they were trained on Big Swiss’s fruity nipples.

“Some dude’s hiding behind a tree, spying on you with high-powered binoculars,” Greta said. “In case you’re interested.”

“Don’t be paranoid,” Big Swiss said.

“It wouldn’t be paranoia if I had any control over it.”

“Take a breath,” Big Swiss said.

Greta stood up and slid into her shoes.

“Sit down,” Big Swiss said.

Greta strode toward the trees. Other women were sunbathing, as well, a few of them topless. Greta saw another flash and peered into the woods, her hands cupped around her eyes. A man stood next to a tree ten feet away. He was staring at his phone, his lower half obscured by shrubs and bushes.

“Keith,” Greta said. “Pull up your pants and come out of there.”

The guy didn’t answer.

“Keith!”

He lifted his head and looked in the wrong direction.

“I’m talking to you. Over here.”

His head swiveled. “Who?”

“Stop hiding in the woods like a creep, Keith.”

“I’m not Keith,” the guy said.

He was right. He was much too young to be Keith. Greta turned to address the sunbathers.

“You might want to cover up, ladies,” Greta said loudly. “You’re being photographed by a sex pest.”

“I’m taking selfies,” the guy insisted. “Not that it’s any of your fucking business.”

“Frat boy,” Greta blurted.

“Gay,” the guy said.

“What?”

“I’m gay, for heaven’s sake.” He stepped out from behind the bushes, as if to say, See? Greta could see his shapely legs and shiny gold shorts. His bright white socks had green tennis rackets printed all over them. “I don’t give a shit about tits. Understand? Go fuck yourself.”

Holy hell, it was GMT, whose last session she’d transcribed only yesterday. He’d told Om a story about a guy he’d hooked up with on Grindr, some gorgeous city person he’d invited to his house in the middle of a stressful workday, just to get his mind off things. The city guy’s rule was total silence, as in no speaking allowed, as in not one fucking word, which had seemed both arousing and refreshing to GMT. Thirty minutes later, the guy had GMT in his mouth and hands, and then he paused, reached into his pocket for lube, and accidentally dropped it on the floor. GMT saw the lube roll under the bed, but the guy kept crawling around, looking for it. “Under the bed,” GMT finally said. The guy’s head whipped around. He stared balefully at GMT for ten long seconds. “Sorry,” GMT said. The guy stormed out of the house without a word. On his way out the door, he swept everything off GMT’s console table.

“Sorry,” Greta said now.

GMT said nothing and typed something on his phone.

Her ears burned as she walked back to Big Swiss. She wished they made sunglasses for ears. And mouths. Her mouth was probably trembling so convulsively, it might break loose and fall off her face. At least she had regular sunglasses. Where were they? She must have dropped them in the grass somewhere. She retraced her steps, scanning the ground, and could feel GMT studying her.

“Did you see my sunglasses?” Greta asked him.