SATED, FINALLY SATED, THEY lay on their backs, covered by a sheet. Bruce was finishing a cigarette, the glow illuminating his face. He’d never tried to quit; he smoked like he displayed his muscles, truculently self-indulgent. And he drank like he smoked. Coors. Two six-packs of Coors, every day. And when he drank, he could get ugly. He was a man attracted to violence. When he drank beyond a certain point, Bruce began looking for a fight, usually at the Top’sl, a small neighborhood bar a block up the hill from Bridgeway, Sausalito’s main thoroughfare.
Bruce was attracted to violence, and women were attracted to Bruce. There was, she knew, a connection, cause and effect. There was also the body and the face. A linebacker’s body, and a face to match. The elemental man. Shallow, narcissistic, moody. But, God, so beautifully built.
In some ways—perverse ways, she suspected—their relationship was the perfect solution. He had other women, she had other men, no questions asked. Occasionally, money changed hands. From Dennis to her, then to Bruce, who accepted it without comment—just as he received the constant admiration of women, no questions asked.
Coincidentally, both Dennis and Bruce were drawn to Sausalito—for different reasons. Dennis craved the company of the beautiful people, at play in a beautiful place. Bruce craved the water and the boats—and lived on the checks he got from the beautiful people. What would have happened, that morning, if they should have met, the three of them? Would Dennis have—?
“You’re quiet, tonight.” As he spoke, Bruce rose on one elbow and dropped the butt of his cigarette into the bowl half filled with water that he kept beside the bed. It was a seaman’s habit, he’d once explained.
She considered, then decided to say, “I had a hard day.”
“A hard day?” A small, smug smirk touched the corners of his mouth, and his eyes. “Doing what? Clipping coupons?”
“No, not clipping coupons.”
“What, then? Having your nails done?”
She made no response. In the silence, Dennis’s face materialized in her thoughts, small spasms of fear distorting his features, like the beginning of palsy, their little secret.
So far, their little secret.
“I’m going to take a shower.” In the half-light of the bedroom he stripped back the sheet, rose, stretched, posed for a moment, back arched, pectorals bulging. Then he smiled down at her, a lazy, go-to-hell smile, the self-satisfied singles-bar stud. “You didn’t even give me a chance to shower, before you started humping.”
“Sweat turns me on.” Her smile, too, was lazily self-satisfied. This pleasure, she deserved. After seeing Dennis today—after listening to him, watching him, then writhing in the cage of her own thoughts, trapped—she’d begun to think of Bruce, of raw, wild sex. Bruce’s kind of sex.
“You want to take a shower too?”
“No. The stall’s too small. My place, yes. Your place, no.”
“Hmmm—” He ran an exploratory finger up her stomach, to her breast. Would he begin again? At the thought, she allowed the smile to languidly widen. If it got worse—if Dennis came apart, and she became his full-time keeper—this night might have to last. It might have to last a long time.
But instead of turning up the heat, Bruce withdrew his hand. Still standing, he looked down on her as the light from the window played across her body. Then he asked, “How long have we known each other, Theo?”
“Oh, God—” She flung out an arm. “Bruce. This isn’t the time. Believe me, this isn’t the time.”
“Why d’you say that?” He was frowning now. Perplexed, perhaps, and therefore frowning. Yes, it was starting. Bruce—Dennis—all the others, past and present. The faces changed, but not the questions. And it always started with this same slightly perplexed frown. Her fate.
“No. Seriously. What’s it been?” he asked. “Three months, maybe?”
Resigned now, she nodded. “Just about three months. Right.”
“And we don’t really know anything about each other. Not really.”
“That’s because we’ve both got hot pants, Bruce. Like tonight. Two, three minutes, and we’re in bed.” She smiled. “I’d’ve thought you’d’ve figured that out by now.”
“Okay, hot pants is fine. I’m not complaining.”
“Good.” Slowly, she pulled the sheet up over herself. Why was it, whenever pillow talk turned serious, she always covered herself? Had she ever thought about it?
“But I’m not even sure how many times you’ve been married, for instance. I don’t even know how old you are, how about that?” His smile was earnest, genuinely bemused. Was Bruce really very smart? It was a question that, so far, had never come up.
She sighed. Reciting: “I’m twenty-eight years old. I’ve been married twice. You know that, for God’s sake. And you’ve been married once. I know that.” Suddenly exasperated, she let her eyes sharpen, her voice flatten: “What’re you getting at, Bruce? What’s on your mind?”
Ignoring the question, he put an edge on his own voice as he said, “Oh, yeah. You married once for love and once for money. Wasn’t that how it went?”
“I married once when I was nineteen and once when I was twenty-four. I learned a lot, in those five years. And I’m still learning.”
“But now you’re worried. And it’s got something to do with this rich dude who buys you things like cars. Am I right?”
She turned sharply away from him. “I thought you were going to take a shower.”
“If this guy’s giving you trouble, Theo, all you’ve got to do is give me the word. You understand that, don’t you? You understand what I’m telling you, don’t you?”
Suddenly it seemed funny. Grotesquely funny. Here he was: Bruce Carter, muscle man. Cheerfully volunteering to come to her rescue, no questions asked. All for love.
Love?
That, too, was funny. A joke. A three-way joke. A sick joke.
She realized that she was smiling now: a small, resigned smile. She turned back to him. “You’d punch him out for me. Is that what you’re saying? You’d punch him out, and solve my problems. Right?”
“Definitely, that’s what I’m saying.” In his voice, she could hear the elemental lust for violence. Nothing then, had changed. Same old Bruce. Good old Bruce. She felt the smile twisting sardonically as she said, “Well, I’ll certainly keep that in mind.” She reached forward, rested her hand on his thigh, counterfeiting a friendly thank-you pat. Then, watching him respond, she moved her hand up the inside of his thigh, stroking him. God, he was so easy.