Resist (Songs of Submission #6)(26)

What heaven, driving a black Jaguar on PCH at midnight.

I enjoyed the ride so much, I hadn’t even thought to turn on the radio, and when a classical station came on, I woke up to the complications of being in Jonathan’s car. She had an order of protection. If his car pulled up to Jessica’s place, alarms would be raised. Possibly by Jessica, the police, Santon’s team—wherever they may be. Whatever the case, once she saw the car, I couldn’t pretend we had broken up and I was looking for vengeance. I was going in as the loyal girlfriend, and my leverage would decrease. I passed her house. Lights out. Car in driveway. It was midnight on a Monday, after all. I spun around the corner, wound up all turned around because the streets weren’t on a grid, came back to the beach side of the street, over shot the house by two blocks, and parked. I needed all my options, and that meant walking in as if I’d taken a cab.

The modernist house sat on an incline with twisting stairs to the top and desert flowers on the way up. I slipped up the concrete steps quickly and inconspicuously, hoping the crickets and ocean waves covered my footfall. The door was huge, heavy, and red with a knob in the center. The front of the house had small plate windows since they faced the street. The back would be made of glass from floor to twelve-foot ceiling, since it faced the ocean.

I stood on my toes and peeked. Lights were on farther back in the house, and I saw the blue flicker of a TV. The bell was the light-up kind. I put my finger over it and held my breath.

Then I pressed it.

Ring and run! Ring and run!

When I was a kid in the EP, as we called it, we’d ring bells and run away, hiding behind parked cars or a hedge, just for the joy of watching as someone came to the door. No game was more infantile, yet I was tempted to play it.

Ring and run! Ring and run!

She wasn’t coming. I had enough time to run away and get back in the car. Take PCH to the 10 to the 110 and get off at Stadium Way. Take a leisurely drive through Solano Canyon in Jonathan’s car. Pull the sleek machine into the drive. Crawl back into bed with the love of my life and make him breakfast in the morning like I oughta. Explain I was moving the car and had to take it for a spin. He’d love to hear that. Delight him. That was my job.

Ring and run! Ring and run!

A light flicked somewhere in the house, sending wide bands of dim light across the concrete path. I had a meeting tomorrow with the president of Carnival Records, and my voice would be hoarse and I’d have bags under my eyes. I had to go home and rest. Go immediately. I had a career. I’d worked hard. Jonathan could take care of himself. He was a big boy. Sing. I wanted to sing.

The front light flicked on, and the big knob flicked and twisted. I stepped back. One step.

Run!

The door swung open as I stepped down. She was dressed in slacks and a button-down shirt. She looked as if she’d just walked out of a soap ad. How did Jonathan ever f**k her? Did she sweat? Did she groan? Did a tear of post-orgasmic joy ever drop down her cheek?

“Hello, Monica,” she said. “Finally.”

“Hello, Jessica.”

“Won’t you come in?” She stepped out of the way, and I walked into her house.

Chapter 22.

The ugliest lamp in the world illuminated the room in warm light. It was gold with a parchment shade and a neck shaped like seven tennis balls stacked on top of one another. Everything else was impeccable. Somehow, though, a mark of impermanence stained the décor. Nothing looked settled or important. The corners were visible. The surfaces were without tchotchke or photo. The art was original but marginal. I had been right about the back wall. The windows stretched corner to corner, exposing a lit up pool and a view that was pure blackness at night, but in the day would be clear to the horizon, where sky met sea.

“Would you like a cup of coffee?” Jessica asked.

“More of a tea person.”

Jessica made a mmm sound, as if my choice of hot beverage spoke volumes about my worth as a human being. Of course, that was my imagination. Her face betrayed nothing. “I’ll have some made. Decaf? It’s late.”

She’ll have some made? Did the staff not get time off? Did they work in shifts? Well, if that was my new life, if those were the entitlements one was to expect, then I was going to be as considerate as possible.

“Caffeinated is fine. Doesn’t bother me. And green, if you have it.”

“Would you like to sit outside?” She indicated the back.

“Sure.”

She opened the sliding door to a patio and flipped a switch. Heating torches went up, lights went on. I nodded and walked out. I sat on a chair, listening to the ocean I knew was there but couldn’t see. I had trouble imagining having access to such a patio every night and being at anything but complete peace. Or was that what she feared? That losing the money to maintain the patio, the house, the studio meant she couldn’t be at peace? I imagined the level of anxiety I’d face if the things that kept me sane were taken away. My voice. My ears. Even my piano, with its broken pedal, was a rock I held tight when I felt anxious. Jonathan removing that much of her income had thrown her off a cliff, made her panic. Cornered her. Poorly thought out for a man who controlled everything at all times.

Even with the torches, it was chilly. I realized then, too late, that I didn’t have my scarf. The crew neck on my tee was relatively tight, but my bruises were visible with even the most minor inspection.