Chapter Nine
I COME OUT OF sleep with warm hands on my cheeks, his lips on mine. I don't want to open my eyes, don't want this to end, this lovely dream state where the world can't intrude, where everything is fine. And he is kissing me so hard I can't think.
Finally, he pulls away.
“Valentine, baby, I have to go.”
Fuck. And there it is. Inevitable reality.
“I know,” I tell him, my lashes fluttering open, my fingers curling around his wrist. His flesh is warm.
“I wish I could stay with you all day. Just stay here in bed with you,” he tells me, his voice quiet, husky with sleep still. I can smell the soap from the shower on him. His hair is damp when I reach up to pull his face in for another kiss.
He groans. “I really have to go to work.”
“I'm sorry. I don't want to make you late.”
“I'm sorry I can't stay.” He pulls back, his eyes on mine. “I don't want to leave you now.”
My chest hurts, just looking at him, listening to his tone, his words. If he doesn't leave right now I feel like I'll crack, just break apart. I can't figure it out. He just gets inside me and it's suddenly too much to handle.
He leans in, kisses me again, his fingers going into my hair. Ah, so nice. Too nice.
Please go.
I can't believe I'm even thinking this. But I need some time to assimilate everything that's happening inside me.
“I'll call you tonight, okay?” He smiles, laughs a little. “Hell, I may call you at lunchtime. I don't know if I can wait until tonight.”
I just smile at him, nod my head. I can't talk to him now.
But he seems satisfied. He gives my hair a playful tug and then he's gone, leaving me alone with my whirling thoughts.
I keep coming back to this confusing, frightened place. I can't calm down enough to really think. My body, my mind, crave the safety of sleep, but I know I'm too worked up to fall asleep again. Totally impossible, with my heart pounding, my pulse racing. Instead I get up and get right into the shower, blasting the hot water.
It scorches my skin as I get in and stand under the spray, but I need it, need something that intense to get my mind off what I'm feeling. Something to focus on. I pick up my favorite bottle of liquid soap, squeeze it out onto my palm and run it over my skin until I'm slippery all over, smelling like orange blossoms and vanilla. Then I move under the water, letting the heat rinse away the soap, along with some of my anxiety.
I really need to calm down. Just calm down so I can think this through.
But even as that idea flits through my brain, the water hits my nipples, and they immediately go hard. And in moments I am thinking of Joshua, of his clever hands, his lovely mouth on my body, his cock inside me. I am wet, inside and out, swollen with need, needing him again. My hand goes between my legs, finding my throbbing clitoris. So damn sensitive, a little sore from my night with Joshua, but ready for more.
Taking the handheld sprayer, I spread my thighs and aim it at my clit. Warm and wet, pounding against that tender flesh, pleasure sweeps through me. The water from the ceiling-mounted showerhead washes over my body, and the sprayer pulsates against my aching mound, and I can see his face, his lush mouth, that small scar that makes me want to kiss him over and over.
Oh, yes …
My hips are pumping now, fucking the water, fucking his invisible hands, his mouth, his cock, milking him for pleasure.
My orgasm hits so quickly, with such sudden intensity, I gasp aloud. Sharp, powerful, making my body bow, my sex pulse.
Joshua!
Oh, yes, it's always him, only him.
I shove two fingers deep inside, driving my climax on. My sex clenches hard, and I am nearly crying with pleasure, with need. And then I am crying, my tears mingling with the water. I sink to the shower floor, unable to stand. Unable to understand what's happening to me. Unable to bear it.
I don't even know what I'm crying for. Nothing. Everything. Because I'm finally happy and I don't know how to deal with it, maybe.
Fuck.
The water turns cold, finally, shocking me, and I stand, shut it off, get out and dry myself. As I run the towel over my skin, the postcrying numbness fades away, and I realize I feel less conflicted. Stronger. As though the tears have emptied something toxic from my system. I realize I am going to have to deal with this. I am simply going to have to find a way. I can't spend my life masturbating, or curled up on the shower floor. Fucking ridiculous.
Calmer, I take my time doing my makeup, drying my hair, getting dressed, finding comfort in the daily ritual. I don't even know who I'm getting dressed for, what I'm going to do with my day. I don't know what I want to do.
I slip into a cotton knit dress, a mossy green I've always thought looks good with my green eyes. A pair of gold hoop earrings, a few bangle bracelets to match, and a new pair of boots in a deep chocolate suede with high heels.
I'm ready. I just don't know what for.
When I move into the living room I see my purse sitting on the table in the entry hall. I'd turned my cell phone off yesterday. I know I should check for messages. I don't want to. I don't want to deal with anything. I am too at odds in my own body right now. But, being the good little hooker that I am, I pull the phone out of my purse, turn it on, retrieve my messages.
It's Colin, wanting to see me today. Colin, of all people. My pretty, dirty boy. Filthy dirty. But perhaps he's exactly what I need to pull me out of this bubble in my head.
I feel stronger today. Confident. A little more in control. And working will make me feel even more so. It always does.
I dial his number, and we agree to meet at ten-thirty. He often likes to meet in the morning, rather than waiting for lunchtime or evening for his sex, like most clients do. Anything that makes the event seem a little more tawdry.
He's given me the address of a small motel in the Valley this time. I have a cup of tea and some toast, water my orchids, watch the morning news, and then it's time to go. I get in my car and pull away from my house, from my little safe haven that no longer feels quite as safe as it once did. Nothing does.
I follow the twisting road down from the hills and head for the 405, take it north into the San Fernando Valley. It's a bit of a trek, but everything in Los Angles is far from everything else. Taking the 101 cutoff, I head west, exit at De Soto, follow it north, up into Chatsworth.
Chatsworth is the capital of the porn industry. I have no idea why so many porn studios film here. It's a thoroughly middle-class area. Too damn close to where I grew up, the street names all too familiar: Victory, Roscoe, Devonshire. But I can't think about that now.
I swing onto Devonshire and follow it for a few blocks, until I find the motel. It's not nearly as bad as the last one off Sunset, but still sleazy enough to make Colin happy.
I pull in and park, and Colin is standing by the door of a room on the first floor. He whistles as I get out of the car.
“Classy today,” he says.
Damn. I forgot to change into one of my slutty outfits for him.
“Just trying to mix things up for you,” I tell him, trying hard to smile.
Get into the groove, Valentine.
“No problem. It's all coming off, anyway.” He takes my hand and pulls me inside.
The room is nothing special: faded paint, an even more faded floral bedspread. Everything just a little ugly and old. Except the pretty and shining Colin himself.
“You could have been an actor, Colin,” I tell him. And it's true. He's that pretty.
“I would have made a lousy actor. I can't lie. Can't play anything off.”
“Really? Where do you tell your wife you've been when you're fucking me in some sleazy motel?”
Shit. Why am I baiting him?
But he doesn't seem to notice. “I don't say a damn word to her about it. I save all the talking for you. So I can tell you exactly how I'm going to fuck you, Val. How hard, how deep. Whether I'm going to fuck your pussy or your amazing ass. Have I told you how amazing your ass is?” He moves in, puts his hand on my shoulder, dips his fingers beneath the fabric of my dress. I feel a shiver, but it's not anticipation, not the usual pleasure.
Get it together!
“How do you want it today, Colin?” I say, trying to work the usual purr into my voice.
“Get naked and I'll figure it out.”
I pull my dress over my head, feeling oddly exposed in my bra and thong in front of him.
“All of it,” he says, his brilliant blue eyes gleaming.
Why do I feel so uncomfortable? Every nerve in my body is screaming, my muscles tight all over as I reach back to unhook my bra.
I cannot do it.
Fuck.
I stop, shake my head. I reach for my discarded dress, picking it up off the floor, and slip it back over my head. “I'm sorry, Colin. I don't know what's wrong. I'm not feeling well. I'm sorry.”
His face hardens for a minute, his brows drawing together. But then his features relax, and he looks almost concerned. Maybe he sees me shaking. Maybe I'm pale. I feel pale.
“No. I'm not. I'm sorry. I have to go. I'm sorry.”
I'm out of there so fast, I don't even remember how I get to my car, but suddenly I am sitting in it, leaning into the leather seat. My breath is coming in hard pants.
Breathe. Just fucking breathe.
When I look up Colin is standing at the open door of the hotel room, his cell phone against his ear. Maybe calling Deirdre. Maybe calling for another girl. I don't care right now.
I start the car and pull out of the parking lot, heading back toward home. But what am I going to do there? Crawl back into bed, spend another day sleeping, dreaming, when my life is falling apart around me? While I let it happen?
I am totally out of control. The strength I felt earlier, the strength Lydia talks about, was apparently just an illusion.
I make it to the 101, my mind almost blank, a weird rage surging through my system, before I realize what I need to do. Pulling my cell from my purse, I call Deirdre. Her assistant puts me through right away.
“Yes, Val?”
Cool as ever. Cool as a cucumber. Cold as ice.
“Deirdre, I need to talk to you.”
“Alright. Let's set up a time, shall we?”
“No, it can't wait. I'm sorry. I need to speak with you now.”
“What's going on, Val? Is there a problem?”
“Did you get a call just now from Colin Harper?”
“No. Should I have?”
“Maybe. Probably.” I pause, pull in a deep breath, concentrate for a moment on changing lanes to get back on the 405. “I just left him and … I walked out on him, Deirdre.”
“What?” Anger in her voice, beneath that slick surface. “Explain yourself, Val.”
“I think … I think I need some time off.”
She is quiet for a moment. I can almost hear her brain working, a faint click and whir, computerlike, assessing the situation in mere moments. “Yes, I agree. That's an excellent idea.”
“I'll call all of my clients.”
“No, I'll have Cynthia call. If you need time off, then you shouldn't speak with any of them.”
She's right. “Yes, of course. But, Deirdre, when she talks to Louis—”
“We will handle it, Val. You do whatever you need to do. Are you seeing Lydia Foster?”
“Yes. I had my first visit with her and I think … it brought up a lot of old issues …”
God, I do not want to explain myself to this woman.
“Very good. Keep seeing her. I'll be in touch. And, Val, do not contact your clients directly, do you understand what I'm saying?”
“Yes, of course. I understand completely.”
I don't want to talk with any of them, anyway. What could I possibly say? No, better to let The Broker and her staff handle it. More professional. And we are nothing if not professionals.
Of course, currently, I am not even that anymore.
I expect to feel some sort of dread, but all I feel is relief.
We hang up and my next call is to my therapist. I tell her I have to see her, that I'm having a crisis, and it's true. She agrees to see me right away.
Exiting the freeway, I make my way to her office. When I get out of the car I am struck by the ocean scent in the air, the quiet solidity of the greenery climbing up the old brick walls of her building, and I feel the tiniest bit better simply knowing I am here.
I go upstairs and she ushers me into her inner sanctum, waves me to the chair. The moment I sit she hands me a box of Kleenex. I take it without protest.
“Tell me what's happened, Valentine.”
“I just… I think I …” but before I can get the words out I'm crying, tears washing in a mad torrent down my cheeks. I haven't cried this much since I was ten years old! But no matter how disgusted I am with myself, I can't seem to stop.
It all comes out between choked sobs: my time with Joshua, the realization of my feelings for him. The epiphany of sex—no, making love—with him! The epiphany of being happy. Then today, my failed meeting with Colin, the absolute need to stop working for the first time in nearly a decade. How absolutely broken I feel. And how certain I am about the need to change my life.
Finally, I am wrung out, empty. She lets me sit quietly for a few minutes, catching my breath as I wipe my damp face with the tissues.
“Okay,” she says, drawing in a deep breath herself. “This is a lot, isn't it?”
“Yes. Too much.”
“Is it too much, Valentine?”
I look at her, uncertain of what she's asking.
“Because you're here,” she says. “You came for help so you can handle this. You made the decision to stop working. And I don't believe that was any sort of snap decision. If it really was too much, you would have simply turned away from Joshua and everything his presence in your life means for you.”
“I can't do that!”
She nods. “Exactly. What does that tell you?”
“You really make me work for it, don't you?”
“You need to find your own answers. I'm here to help you do that. But if I hand you everything on a silver platter, it won't be worth anything. And I can't know what the answers are for you. They're different for everyone. But I think right now, yours are staring you in the face. And by quitting work today, it's obvious that you've figured some of it out already. What's next, do you think?”
I shake my head, but I know what she's getting at.
Fuck.
Fuck!
“I need to … I need to tell Joshua. What I do. Did. What my life has been about. I need to be honest with him.”
She nods once more. There's no need for her to say it out loud, and I'm grateful to her for not rubbing my face in this stark, cold reality. I already feel like I'm going to throw up, as I did after my first visit here.
“God, I don't know how … and it's going to be a mess. He'll never speak to me again.”
“How do you know that?”
“Any sane person, any normal person, would react that way. Why would he want to see me, be with me, once he knows the truth? It's impossible.”
“Maybe you're not giving him enough credit,” Lydia suggests. “Maybe you're not giving yourself enough credit. There is more to you than what you do for a living, Valentine.”
Her blue eyes are soft, sympathetic. I understand she's trying to be encouraging, because this is the right thing to do, and therefore I must do it. I fucking hate it. But I will do the right thing.
“How can anyone forgive me this if …” My voice breaks, emotion welling in my chest, choking me. But I will not cry anymore.
“If what, Valentine?” she asks softly.
“If … I can't forgive myself? ”
“Sometimes you just have to take a risk. Jump blindly off the edge, trusting the universe to catch you.”
“It never has before.”
“Maybe you've never given it a chance.”
I nod. It's possible, I suppose. But it's awfully hard to believe. People like me don't get those kinds of chances in life, although things could be worse. I know I am lucky for what I have, lucky not to be some streetwalker with knife wounds on my face, addicted to crack, dead in an alley off Sunset Strip.
But what have I got to lose? I will lose Joshua one way or another. If I lie to him I don't deserve to have him. I don't know why this makes me feel better, more resolved, but it does.
“I suppose I should try to redeem myself any way I can. For myself, if nothing else. I need to before I can … I don't know. Move on. If that's even possible. But it's going to be the end of everything.”
“Valentine, everything is changing for you, but that doesn't mean it has to be the end. Look at this as a time of transformation, as an opportunity.”
“I'm trying. But to be honest, it scares me to death. I hardly know where to start.”
“But you already have. Trust what you know to be true. And move forward.”
She's right. And what else can I do?
You can lie like a coward. Keep him as long as you can.
Of course, the longer I'm with him, the harder it'll be when he goes.
My chest twists in pain as though a knife has been plunged in. Sharp. Cutting. Deep.
My fingers dig into the sofa cushions. “I'll try, Lyclia. I'll do it, tell him.”
“I think it's the only way. I wish there was an easier solution for you.”
“So do I.”
“But you can do this, Valentine. I believe in you. I believe in your strength. How else could you have survived your life?”
I'd always thought it was sheer desperation, a lack of other viable options. I like her view on it better. A part of me even believes her.
“Call me if you need to talk, when you'd like to set up another appointment.”
“I will.”
Our time is up. I leave her office, stepping back out onto the street. That ocean smell is there again, clearing my head a little. Maybe I should find a house close to the ocean? Change everything. Because I know already I'm not going to be able to hang on to any aspect of my old life. I'm changing already. I've taken that first step and begun to look at my life, look inside myself. Considered having a future different from my present. This is not a sabbatical. It's over.
I break out into a sweat as those words echo in my head.
It's over.
What the fuck am I going to do now? What am I going to be?
The only anchor I have now is Joshua. And I am about to lose him. But some small part of me is whispering that I can do this. Survive this. And as I make my way down the street, back to my car, I hang on to that voice as tight as I can.
Maybe I have to be my own anchor.
JOSHUA HAS LEFT TWO messages, but I avoid his calls all evening, sitting on my sofa in the dark in my favorite pale pink satin pajamas. They are the color of old roses. Not the best shade on me, but the softness of the color itself is soothing. The sound is turned down on the television and I have a gin and tonic in my hand. I'm not drunk yet, although this is my fourth. Or is it my fifth? I'm just buzzed enough not to care that this drinking binge is far too reminiscent of my mother. I'm buzzed and I'm fucking miserable, which is what being drunk is all about in my mind.
I am my mother's daughter. Not just that I'm using booze to drown my sorrows. But she was as much a whore as I am. She had sex with my father for the gifts, the attention. Isn't that what I do? Although for me, the orgasms have always been as crucial as the money, even if the money has been damn nice.
I've found the cure for the orgasm issue. The cure is Joshua. Or at least, he is some sort of powerful catalyst. I still don't understand it. But I know he is crucial to what's happening to me, the orgasms, everything.
How ironic that it's about to be over, leaving me with nothing?
I am not drunk enough to prevent myself from being thoroughly disgusted with my little pity party.
I am not delusional enough to think I can continue with Joshua without telling him the truth.
Looking at the blue glow of the TV, I flip through the channels. I'm not really paying attention until Pretty Woman flashes on the screen.
I laugh, a harsh, barking sound that hurts my ears. I almost want to watch it, to punish myself with those glamorized Hollywood images of the utterly impossible. Instead I shut the damn TV off, set my glass down, get up, and wander to the bay window. My orchids are there, their purple and white petals washed with silvery moonlight.
Below me Hollywood sparkles, like a handful of diamonds strewn carelessly over the dark landscape. But that's life, isn't it? All of us so careless, ultimately, driven by our own selfish needs. At least, it comforts me to think I'm not the only one doing it.
Joshua is possibly the only human being I've met who isn't entirely selfish. He may have had some rough times, been foolish, been self-indulgent in the past, but he seems to have truly worked through it all. Come out intact. Self-aware. Unshakable in his beliefs. He is the best person I know.
My whole body surges with longing for him, and I have to wrap my arms around my waist and hold on tight, staring out the window. He is out there somewhere, and I can hardly stand it.
Be with him. Tell him. Take a chance.
No. I cannot do it.
When the phone rings I know it's him. I tell myself I won't answer it, but by the third ring the receiver is in my hand.
“Hello?” My voice is breathless. I am breathless.
“Valentine? Have you been out? Did you get my messages?”
“Yes. I got them. I'm sorry. I should have … I should have called you. I know that. I just…”
“Are you alright?”
I pause to draw in a breath, blow it out slowly, pushing my hair from my face with my free hand.
“No. I'm not.”
“What's going on? Can you tell me?”
“I've been drinking … I don't know if… I don't know how clear I can be.”
“Valentine, what's happened?” Real alarm in his voice now. I feel like shit.
“I don't mean to worry you. I'm just… I've been thinking all day. Reviewing my life. Actually, I've been doing that since the night I met you.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
I have to stop and think about it. I go back to the sofa, pick up my glass and drink, really gulp it down, letting the gin burn as it slides down my throat. Sharp edge of revulsion along with the burn, but I am too scared tonight to do anything else. “If you look at something,” I tell him, “really look, and discover that every aspect of it is wrong, what can you do but start over, change everything?”
“We talked about that, in relation to my life, anyway.”
“I'm just realizing how it applies to me, to the way I've lived, perceived myself. And so much needs to change.” I pick up my glass once more, but the scent of the gin stings my eyes. I don't want it anymore. “I've always thought I had it all figured out. Now all I know is that it was just a lie I told myself, one I've been telling myself my whole life. And I can't do it anymore.”
“Valentine, I'm coming over, okay? Will you just stay there? Wait for me?”
“Yes.” It comes out as a whisper. That's all I have the breath for. He's coming and it will all be finished soon. Too soon.
We hang up and I wait for him, numbly flipping the TV on again.
Julia Roberts' fresh face lights up the screen, wearing that red gown as Richard Gere fastens the diamonds around her neck. That famous laugh. Everything so damn clean and shiny. But I know that's not what life is like. No, life is hard and dirty, no matter how much money you have. No matter what kind of car you drive. There will be no Pretty Woman scenario for me. No limousine and declarations of love. There will just be the end.