No Way Back
Curtis grinned. “I’m acquainted with the bartender. Let me see what I can do.”
My iPhone vibrated. Pam, I was sure, announcing she was pulling up to the hotel now and for me to get a dirty martini going for her. But instead it read:
WEND, I’M SO SORRY. JUST CAN’T MAKE IT TONITE. WHAT CAN I SAY … ? I KNOW U NEED TO TALK. TOMORROW WORK?
Tomorrow? Tomorrow didn’t work. I was here. Now. And she was right, I did need to talk. And the last place I wanted to be right now was home. Will call, I wrote back, a little annoyed. I put down the phone. My eyes inevitably fell on Curtis’s. I’d already missed the 7:39.
“Sure, why don’t we do just that?” I nodded about that drink.
I’m not sure exactly what made me stay.
Maybe I was still feeling vulnerable from my fight with Dave. Or even a little annoyed at Pam, who had a habit of bagging out when I needed her most. I suppose you could toss in just a bit of undeniable interest in the present company.
Whatever it was, I did.
Knowing Dave was out for the night on business and that it was all just harmless anyway helped as well. And that there was a train every half hour. I could leave anytime I wanted.
We chatted some more, and Curtis said he was a freelance journalist here in town on a story. And I chuckled and told him that I was kind of in the same game too. That I’d actually worked for the Nassau County police in my twenties before going to law school for a year—having signed up after 9/11, after my brother, a NYPD cop himself, was killed—though I was forced to resign after a twelve-year-old boy was killed in a wrongful-death judgment. And that I’d written this novel about my experience, which was actually why I’d been in the city today at a self-publishing conference. That I’d been having a tough time getting it looked at by anyone, and that it likely wasn’t very good anyway.
“Care to read it?” I asked. I tapped the tote bag from my publishing conference. “Been lugging it around all day.”
“I would,” Curtis said, “but I’m afraid it’s not exactly my field.”
“Just joking,” I said. “So what is your field?”
He shrugged. “I’m a bit more into current events.”
I was about to follow up on that when the pianist finished her set. The crowded room gave her a warm round of applause. She got up and came over to the end of the bar, ordered a Perrier, and to my surprise, when it arrived, lifted it toward Curtis. “All warmed up, sugar.”
Curtis stood up. I looked at him wide-eyed. He shot me a slightly apologetic grin. “I did mention that I played …”
“You said a bit, for fun,” I replied.
“Well, you’ll be the judge. Look, I know you have a train to catch, and I don’t know if you’ll be around when I’m done”—he put out his hand—“but it was fun to chat with you, if you have to leave.”
“I probably should,” I said, glancing at the time. “It was nice to talk to you as well.”
“And best of luck,” he said, pointing as he backed away, “with that imaginary friend of yours.”
“Right! I’ll be sure to tell her!” I laughed.
He sat down at the piano, and I swiveled around, figuring I’d stick around a couple of minutes to hear how he played. But from the opening chords that rose magically from his fingers, just warming up, it was clear it was me he was playing when he coyly said he only played “a little.”
I was dumbstruck, completely wowed. The guy was a ten! He wasn’t just a dream to look at, and charming too—he played like he was totally at one with the instrument. He had the ease and polish of someone who clearly had been doing this from an early age. His fingers danced across the keyboard and the sounds rose as if on a cloud, then drifted back to earth as something beautiful. It had been a long time since goose bumps went down my arms over a guy.
Donna St. James leaned over. “You ever hear him before, honey?”
I shook my head. “No.”
“His father arranged a bunch of us back in the day. Sit back. You’re in for a treat.”
I did.
The first thing he played was this sumptuous, bluesy rendition of Elton John’s “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road,” and the handful of customers who were paying their checks, preparing to leave, started listening. Even the bartender was listening. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. Whatever my definition of sexy had been an hour ago, forget it—he was definitely rewriting it for me now.
I didn’t leave.
I just sat there, slowly nursing my margarita, growing more and more intoxicated, but not by the drink. By the time he segued into a sultry version of the Beatles’ “Hey Jude,” it was as if his soul had risen from that keyboard and knotted itself with mine.
Our eyes came together a couple of times, my smile communicating, Okay, so I’m impressed … The twinkle in his eye simply saying he was happy I was still there.
By the time he finished up with Billy Joel’s “New York State of Mind,” goose bumps were dancing up and down my arms with the rise and fall of his fingers along the keys. With a couple of margaritas in me—and fifteen years from the last time anyone looked at me quite that way—the little, cautioning voice that only a few minutes back was going, Wendy, this is crazy, you don’t do this kind of thing, had gone completely silent.
And when our eyes seemed to touch after his final note and didn’t separate, not for a while, I knew, sure as I knew my own name, that I was about to do something I could never have imagined when I walked into the place an hour before. Something I’d never, ever done before.
CHAPTER TWO
Ten minutes later we were up in his room, my coat and bag strewn on the floor, one meaningless comment about the view before my breath seemed to jump out of my skin the second he touched me and backed me against the wall.
I was waiting for that voice inside to go, Hold it, just a second, Wendy. You know this isn’t right.
But what I seemed to want even more was for his hands to be all over me. Under my top. Beneath my skirt. Electrical shocks dancing all over my body. Places I hadn’t let another man touch me in years.
In a second his mouth was on mine, and I kissed him back just as eagerly. I felt the feel of his tongue dance against mine, just as I had watched his fingers dance along the keys. Then he traced a meandering path with his lips along my neck, my breaths leaping. His hand slid inside my skirt and down my rear, and I felt a shiver travel down my thighs and my heartbeat go out of control. My mind was like a dark vault, shutting out any thoughts of whether this was right or wrong.
I lifted my arms and let him pull me out of my sweater. I undid my thick, dark hair, letting it drape all over him, every cell inside me bursting with desire. He lifted me up against the blue, Japanese-wallpapered wall, my arms around his neck, and we knocked into the bamboo desk, sending the hotel directory onto the floor, not even stopping to go “Oops” or acknowledge it. Every time his lips brushed along my skin, my body seemed to explode, as if a live electrical cord was jumping around in it, amazed at what I was letting him do. Eyes locked on each other, he pulled my bra straps off my shoulders, my heart speeding up and getting stronger.
“There’s a perfectly good bed over there,” he said, his own breaths growing short and rapid.
“I know. There is.” Then I kissed him again and almost smothered him in my hair, feeling the zipper on the back of my skirt being drawn down, the leather wiggling down my thighs, the click and tug of his belt becoming undone …
A part of me was going, Yes, yes, take me over. The bed.
Another part went, The hell with the bed … I’m ready … here. Now …
Now.
And then something stopped.
Inside me. Like the emergency brake pulled on a train.
It was as if that one shuddering sound, the click of his belt buckle being undone, shot through me like cold water reviving an unconscious man, rocketing me back to earth.
Instantly awakening me to the reality of what I was doing.
It suddenly shot through me just how incredibly wrong this was. Wrong what I was letting him do. Wrong to even be here, in this room.
Wrong to betray a marriage I had worked so hard to make successful. To do this to someone who I knew I loved. And who loved me! How maybe I was only doing this to get back at him.
Just wrong.
And then this overwhelming feeling of dread wormed through me. Of how, when trust is broken, like that first crack in a dam about to give way, it only leads to more and more pressure against it until it can no longer hold. And then it bursts. Not just your marriage, but your whole life. Whatever was truthful in it. It all just starts to crumble and wash away. Everything. And how this was that first crack, what I was doing now. And how you couldn’t do it, Wendy … You just couldn’t unless you were willing to take that risk. That everything will go.
Which I wasn’t willing to take.
No matter how it may have felt downstairs. Or even a moment ago.
No, I didn’t want it all to burst.
Something came out of my mouth that a minute earlier would have been the farthest thing from my mind. From my desires.
“Stop,” I said.
Maybe a little under my breath at first; it could have been mistaken for a shudder or a sigh. I wasn’t even sure Curtis actually heard me. He was slowly weaving his tongue along my belly, getting lower, eliciting electric waves.
But then I said it again. Louder. “Please … stop. I can’t.” My hands went to his shoulders and I eased him slightly away.
This time he looked up.
“Curtis, I’m sorry. I just can’t.”
My skin was on fire and slick with sweat, and part of me was begging to just say, Fuck it, and let him carry me over to that bed. But the better part of me drew in the deepest, most determined breath I’d ever drawn.
“I can’t.”
“You’re kidding, right?” Curtis gave me an uncomprehending smile, slowly rising.
“No. I’m not. I know how this must seem. But I just can’t. I’m sorry. It’s just not right.” I blew out a breath. “Curtis, you’re a totally irresistible guy, and I know there’s a part of me that is going to one hundred percent regret this in an hour on the train …” I shook my head. “But I can’t do this with you. I thought it was okay. Even a minute ago it seemed so. But it’s not.” I let my hand fall to his face, and I looked into his confused, almost incredulous eyes. I didn’t know how he was going to react. Clearly, I’d played as much a part as he had in getting us up here.
The fire in my eyes was suddenly replaced by tears. “I’m so sorry. I just can’t.”
He blinked.
I wasn’t sure exactly what was going through him. Confusion. Frustration. Disbelief.
Absolutely disbelief.
And there was a moment when I admit it crossed my mind, Shit, Wendy, you’re up here with a guy you don’t know. No telling what he might do now.
But all he did was take a step back and nod, slowly, resignation seeming to drown the ardor. He glanced down, his jeans undone, my skirt down around my thighs, my black panties drawn. My hand now covering my breasts; breasts that only a moment ago I was willingly offering up to him.
“I’m totally embarrassed,” I said, putting my other hand in front of my face.
My face that was now flushed with shame.
He nodded. Thankfully, not the nod of someone who was about to do something crazy, which I guess, in another situation, could have been the case. More like the nod of someone caught by the total absurdity of what had just happened. Clothes strewn all over the floor. Pants down. Sweat covering both of us. Breathing heavily.
“No chance this is simply your particular spin on foreplay?” He smiled hopefully. A last-ditch plea.
“I wish it was.” I shrugged, pushing the hair out of my face. “It would probably make the whole situation a lot easier. Sorry.”
His nod seemed almost dazed. “Figured it was worth a check.”
He took the waist of my skirt and shimmied it back up, letting out a deep sigh, as if to say, I can’t believe I’m actually doing this.
“Thank you,” I said. “You’re really a saint for not making me feel like a total shit.”
“I’m not sure the word saint exactly applies right now.”
“You’re right.” I just stood there covering myself, bursting with embarrassment. I shrugged. “I think I need to straighten up.”
He nodded resignedly. “Bathroom’s over there.”
About as awkwardly as I’d felt since maybe back in college, I scurried around, covering myself up with my bra, and picked up my sweater off the floor, my bag that had spilled over on the floor, my boots. “I can assure you, I haven’t been in this position in about twenty years.”
Curtis just looked on and picked up his own shirt. “You can trust me, neither have I!”
With my bra and my sweater covering me, my handbag dangling from my arm, I turned at the bathroom door, grinning. “I suppose this isn’t a particularly good time to ask you again to take a look at my novel?”
“No,” Curtis said, unable to hold back his laugh. “Definitely not.”
“Thought as much.” I forced a rueful smile. “I’ll be out in a while.”
I closed the door behind me and took a deep, releasing breath as I looked in the mirror. My face was profusely blushing with shame. How had I let it get this far? I knew I could never tell anyone. Surely not Dave. Never. Not even Pam. No, this one was mine to deal with and try to rationalize. In a way I felt lucky. Lucky I had come to my senses when I did. Lucky Curtis was actually a decent guy. It could have been a whole lot worse.
Lucky I hadn’t done something that I’d look at with shame for the rest of my life.
I ran the cold water, wet a washcloth and pressed it to my flushed face. I put my arms back through my bra and started to brush out my hair, until I began to resemble a manageably put-together version of the person who had come up here a few minutes before—though still far too ashamed to even look at myself fully. I threw on my sweater and straightened myself out. Even dabbed on a little makeup and lip gloss. Then I took a breath. Okay, Wendy, now, you have to face him one more time and make your way home. And then go on with your life and pretend like this never even happened. And when Pam asks you about that cute guy at the bar you were texting about, it’s “What guy?” I merely finished my drink and caught the 7:39 and was home by Law & Order … right?
I blew out a final, steadying breath and steeled myself, when suddenly, over the running water, I heard something coming from the bedroom.
Voices. At first I just thought it was Curtis on the phone.
Then I realized I was hearing someone else’s voice as well. Another man. I turned the water down slightly and listened. This was already embarrassing enough. The last thing I needed was to face anyone else.
I cracked the bathroom door open and peeked out.
My heart came up my throat at what I saw.
There was another man in the room. Gray suit, white shirt open. Salt-and-pepper hair. The second I saw him I realized I’d seen him before. Downstairs in the lounge. He and another man, a black man, had been sitting around a table.
Except now he had a gun pointed at Curtis, who was on the bed.
I instantly froze, then drew back inside. I didn’t know what to do. I was worried he would hear the running water. He’d see my jacket and shoes. He’d have to know I was here. Years before, I’d been on the Nassau County police force, but that was basically as a cadet, a lifetime ago. Eleven years. God forbid he did something terrible to Curtis. His next move would be to come in here for me!
“Pick it up!” I heard the man order him.
Holding my heart together, I peered back out.
He’d tossed a second gun onto the bed. It landed next to Curtis, who stared at it with growing terror.
“I said fucking pick it up!” the intruder said again, leveling his own gun menacingly.
“No, I’m not going to pick it up,” Curtis said, his voice in between panic and defiance. “I know what you’re going to do. You just want to make it look like I drew on you …” He pushed the gun away and it rolled to the edge of the bed and onto the floor. “You’re going to shoot me, no matter what I do?”
The intruder just looked at the gun and shook his head. “Doesn’t matter anyway … This is for Gillian, asshole.”
He pulled the trigger. My eyes bolted wide.
There was a loud, muffled pop, and Curtis’s body jumped off the bed with the impact. He tried to scream “No!” Then there was a second pop, and to my horror, Curtis jerked and then went limp.
I drew back inside, muffling a terrified scream. I couldn’t believe what I’d just seen.
As I stared through the slit in the doorway, it was clear—a hundred percent clear, in that horrifying split second—that he had to know I was in there. His next move would be to come for me. My heart started to race uncontrollably. What the hell could I do? The bathroom door seemed to open on its own. My eyes locked on the gun on the floor, only a few feet from me. Old instincts kicked in, instincts I hadn’t felt in years. I stepped out of the bathroom and picked it up. The intruder had gone over to check on Curtis’s body.
I raised the gun at him, two-handed, shouting, “I’m an ex-cop! Put the gun down. Put your hands in the air!”
I hadn’t even held a gun in years, and never to someone’s face. In this kind of situation. My hands were visibly shaking.
The man just looked at me and put up his palms defensively, as if to say, Slow down, okay, honey …
But inwardly, I saw him sizing up the situation: My nerves. His chances. How quickly he could raise his gun. I’d just watched him commit a cold-blooded killing. I knew then he wasn’t about to let me call the cops on him.
“Lady, you have no idea what you stepped into…”
I leveled the gun at his chest. “I said lay the gun down and put your hands in the air!”
That’s when I saw it. A realization etched into his face. Something he knew and I didn’t. Like the situation had suddenly shifted, his way and not mine. And then in horror I realized just what it was. The gun I was holding had been a plant. To make it look like Curtis had drawn on him first. He would never have risked Curtis taking it and using it on him.
The safety was still on!
Frantically I turned the gun on its side and found the lever. I thumbed it forward, just as the killer took a step to the side and leveled his gun at me.
I screamed and pulled the trigger, the recoil knocking me backward.
He staggered back, continuing to hold out the gun.
I pulled it again.
The first shot struck him squarely in the chest. I saw a burst of crimson on his shirt, hurtling him back against the wall. The next shot hit him in the throat, his hand darting there as he slowly slid, blood smearing against the wallpaper, his gun clattering against the floor.
He was scarily still.
There was this awful, heart-stopping silence. I just stood there, an acrid, all-too-familiar smell filling up the room. My heart pounding like a boom box turned all the way up. Wendy, what have you done? Frozen, I stared at him in disbelief. The guy didn’t move a muscle, the flower of blood widening on his white shirt.
Oh my God, Wendy, what have you just fucking done?
Dazed, I put the gun back on the bed and rushed over to Curtis, who was clearly dead, the smoky, dark eyes that had so intrigued me at the bar just minutes before now glassy and fixed. You have no idea what you stepped into, the intruder had said. Okay, so what … what have I stepped into? What have you done, Curtis, to deserve this? I tried to think, but my mind was jumbled and confused.
My heart still racing, I ran over and checked the man on the floor. You didn’t have to be an MD to see he was dead as well, his cold, gray eyes glazed over and inert; the pool of blood on his chest continuing to spread. You killed him, Wendy … I’d pulled a trigger once before on the job, and it had changed my life. But not like this. Not at point-blank range. Not with my life on the line. I thought, What the hell do I do now? Call security? The police? You just killed someone, Wendy … I knew I didn’t have any choice. I’d just watched the son of a bitch kill Curtis in cold blood. He was about to shoot me too. I was lucky to even be alive.
Anyone would see it was clearly self-defense.
But then the reality of where I was swelled up inside me.
No. I couldn’t do that at all! Call the police. That was the last thing I could do. I was in the hotel room of a complete stranger. A place I absolutely shouldn’t have been. How would I possibly explain that? Not just to the police, even if I could convince them of what had happened.
But to my husband. To Dave. To our kids!
That I was up here to have sex with a guy I’d just met at the bar when the whole thing happened.
My whole life would be torn apart.
My eyes fell on the intruder. Who are you? Why were you following Curtis? What were you up here to do? Leaning over him, I saw he had an earphone in his ear. Which suddenly unnerved me even more, realizing that there was likely an accomplice somewhere. Probably in the hotel at that moment!
Possibly even right outside.
If he has any idea what had just happened in here …
Terrified, I took the earphone out and held it to my ear. I heard a voice on the other end.
“Ray? Ray, what’s going on up there? Answer me, Ray, are you all right?”
His jacket had fallen open, and I saw an ID folder in the breast pocket. I started thinking, What if he was security? Or maybe even the police? What then?
I was suddenly encased in sweat.
I opened the ID folder and stared. And whatever panic or fear I had felt up to that moment became just a dry run for what was rippling through me now.
I was staring at a badge. But not from hotel security.
It read:
UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. DEPARTMENT OF HOMELAND SECURITY.
CHAPTER THREE
My heart, which to that point had been acting as if a live wire were loose in my chest, went instantly still, as if the power had been cut. The agent’s ID fell out of my hand.
I’d just killed a government agent.
Not just an agent—Raymond Hruseff. From the Department of fucking Homeland Security!
Who only seconds before I had watched commit a cold-blooded murder and then try to frame someone else. And who would have surely done the same to me had that gun not happened to be close by.
My throat went completely dry.
You have no idea what you stepped into, Hruseff had said to me. I turned to Curtis and wanted to shake him from the dead. Tell me … tell me, damn it, what did I stumble into? What the hell did you do?
I knew I had only seconds to decide what to do. But, clearly, staying here wasn’t an option.
I found a duplicate room key in the agent’s jacket pocket, which was no doubt how he’d gotten in. He had icily put two bullets into Curtis right in front of my eyes. He was in the process of trying to make it seem as if Curtis was the one about to shoot. Even more troubling, when I identified myself as an ex-cop, instead of laying down his weapon and putting his hands in the air—and identifying himself, standard operating procedure—he’d made a move to shoot me. Clearly, he wasn’t up here on official business.
What I’d stumbled into was an execution.
And I knew if the person on the other end of that earphone happened to find me in this room, I’d be as good as Curtis.