Endings by Linda Richards (portable ebook reader .TXT) 📗

“Well, this has been pleasant,” he says once we reach the hotel. “For various reasons, I don’t want to go back to my lonely abode quite yet. And I know the bar in this hotel is nice enough. Will you join me for a drink?”

“Nice enough doesn’t sound like much of an endorsement. But sure. Why not?”

We sit at a table by the window, the three or four other patrons in the place far enough away that we can’t hear their conversations, nor they ours. It’s dark out, so not much can be seen from the window, but I know the ocean is waiting out there, just beyond my view. A gentler ocean here in Vancouver than I’d experienced in other places. Calmed by a large island that lies out there farther still, also out of view.

The wine we share is drinkable, not much more. As we sip and chat, a part of me dips down to darker places. Who wants this man dead? An ex-wife? A business partner? A jealous sibling? A business competitor? I seldom wonder. It’s not part of my concern. And, except with prominent figures, I never have reason to know or find out. I try to stop myself from wondering now. It is not part of my business.

“Are you married?” I hear myself ask over our second glass of wine. I think about it a lot before asking. An innocuous enough question, considering our positions. It might even seem curious if I did not ask.

“I was,” he says over his wine. “I’m not now. What about you?” And this is another thing I find myself liking in him: his directness. A simplicity to it, one that is rare. His eyes meet mine as he asks. They are a pleasant slatey color. Like stone warmed by sun.

“Same,” I hear myself say. “Just the same.” And we smile as we sip, almost as though we’ve shared a joke. Which I guess in a way we have.

CHAPTER TWELVE

IT IS NOT inevitable that he should end up in my bed on the not-haunted third floor of the Sylvia Hotel. There are other possibilities. When it happens, though, I do not contemplate the wisdom of the move. And I try hard not to think about the consequences of my actions.

As he slides inside me, I wonder at what I am feeling. It is as though I’d known it would happen from the moment he’d taken those few strong strides towards me as I stood outside his office building in the rain. Like nothing else had even been possible. If I wasn’t certain of that before, it becomes clear in the elevator, the hard length of him pressed into me, his tongue exploring the delicate lines of my ear, my chin, my neck.

By the time our unclothed bodies join in the ancient bed, I know it solidly: this was meant to be. Human touch has become difficult for me. But not here now, with him. His warmth and laughter and maybe just the feel of his skin has melted whatever reserve there might have been.

Afterwards, there is this ethereal stillness. I am aware of street noise at some distance. I imagine I can sometimes hear the lap of a wave, though I know that cannot be the truth.

We call for room service. Our exertions have made him hungry, he says. And he wants something to drink. When room service comes, he answers the door with a towel wrapped around him. I admire the way the muscles move under his skin. He has ordered grilled squid and stuffed mushrooms, and a crab cake too big for its own good. We share the food, and the wine that arrives with it, with the abandon and comfort of long lovers. Feeding each other and laughing together, giddy with something too precious to hold.

I like the strong, hot feel of him. And the way laughter storms his face. And the intensity with which he watches me when I speak, meeting my eyes. Watching for signs of things not said. Watching. Ever watchful.

There is a time when we sleep, feet touching, his hand cupped gently into the curve between my legs. I don’t know when wakefulness falls away, but it comes to both of us all at once. After a while, though, I wake. I pull the covers over us and extinguish the lights and try not to think about what I need to do. As I’ve said: human connections don’t come easily to me anymore. And yet I feel something uncomplicated growing more quickly than I would have thought possible. Uncomplicated in feeling yet complicated by fact. I push that thought away. I think about the Bersa, snug in the room safe in the closet. I imagine myself going to her, loading. See myself, in my mind’s eye, creeping towards him, holding the gun to the soft, flat spot just behind his left ear. Letting in the bullet that would find its way home.

His eyes fly open and he regards me levelly. I feel my color rise.

“Beautiful eyes,” he says. “And what’s behind them?”

“Hmmm,” I say.

“What are you thinking?”

“I was thinking about how beautiful you are,” I say without missing a beat. “When you sleep, I mean. You looked so very peaceful.”

He smiles then. A real smile. His teeth are white and even. A movie star’s smile. “You’re lying,” he says cheerfully. “But that’s okay.” I start to protest but he stops me. And he is right. It is okay. My thoughts are my own.

In the morning he leaves early with the air of a man who has places to go. He drops a kiss on my forehead before he bustles out the door. I realize we haven’t made any plans and I don’t mind. I have my own plans to consider. My own future. Because, at the moment, his doesn’t look bright. I feel a pang at the place where comfort and satisfaction should be.

I stay