"Funny how one 90 second message can turn a day that started wonderfully into a bitch," he thought to himself.
The final message was from Claire, thanking him once again for the wonderful hours they had spent together in the hotel room. The sound of her voice lightened his mood some, but that lasted only a few minutes. He went into the living room and sat on the sofa. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a photo lying on the coffee table. The picture, taken over 25 years ago, was of him and Paul and Anna Koppel, several weeks before their wedding. He had taken it out several nights earlier, while drunk, to wallow in self pity. He picked it up to look at it more closely, convinced to some degree that if he looked hard enough at the picture, he would be able to see some flaw in Paul's character that he had not had the wisdom to see then. But there was nothing.
"Damn you Paul," he said angrily to the photo.
Looking at the picture, he felt the nearly irrepressible urge to get drunk again, thought better of it, and headed down the hall for his bedroom. He stripped of his clothes, pulled the covers back and climbed in. He had slept very little the night before, and after the relaxing morning he and Claire had spent together, he found he was actually quite exhausted. In very little time, he was asleep.
*****
When he woke up, it was dark outside. It was also raining, which precluded any thoughts of taking the bike out for a long ride to nowhere, something that generally helped clear his head.
He drifted down the hall into the bathroom and flicked on the light. He looked at himself in the mirror for a few minutes, staring intently for several long minutes. He noted the marks of age beginning to rampage their way across his face, his hair, growing more grey as time went on. He rubbed his knuckles along his jaw. He looked scruffy, hair mussed from sleep, and he needed to shave.
He turned on the water, lathered up, and picked up his razor, doing away with the stubble in short order, careful not to nick his skin. After, he got into the shower, still upset at himself for his complicity in Paul Koppel's prosecution.
Showered and shaved, with nothing to do, he poured himself a drink and did something he rarely did: turned on the television.
At 6 o'clock on a Saturday evening, the only thing worth watching was the news. He watched for a few minutes, then clicked it off. War, violence, death, crime, sex scandals: these were not the things he needed to be hearing about at the moment.
He finished his drink and realised he was rather hungry. He put a pair of shoes on, grabbed a jacket and an umbrella, and headed out to a steak house a few blocks away.
*****
When he returned home, the bottoms of his pant legs were sopping wet from walking in the rain. He took off his jeans and changed into a dry pair.
He didn't bother with the television this time, instead choosing a book from one of the many stacks in his possession, and lay down on the couch to read.
He was 50 pages into the book before he decided he was cold, and got up to light a fire. He settled back down with the book, becoming so absorbed that he heeded not the passage of time.
There came a light rapping at his door, and he started at the unexpected sound. He had not thought he'd have company this night. The knocking came again, louder this time, and he stood and went to the door. It was Claire.
He opened the door.
"Hi," he said, "What're you doing here? Not that I mind..."
She shrugged, smiling.
"Come in," he said, standing aside as she moved passed him.
"Drink?" he asked, as he took her coat and tossed it over the back of the easy chair.
"Sure."
"Wine? Scotch?"
"Whatever you're having."
"Fine."
He went into the kitchen, returning with two glasses of scotch, and found Claire sitting on the sofa, staring at the fire. He handed a drink to Claire and asked, "How was dinner?"
"It was nice.....It's not such a hardship to be around my mother anymore. I can say things now.... things to which she normally would have responded critically, and she doesn't say a word. Sometimes you can see her wanting to interject something scathing, but she's developed remarkable self-control. Either that, or Mac threatened her," she concluded, laughing into her drink.
They sat silently drinking for a few moments.
The picture on the coffee table caught Claire's eye, and she leaned over to pick it up.
"Koppel and his wife?" she asked.
Jack hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "She left a message on my machine today....pleading with me to drop the charges, then cursing me for a bastard."
Claire looked at him expectantly when he didn't go on. He knew she wanted him to launch into a narration on his feelings about Paul Koppel, but he still wasn't ready for that particular discussion.
He said nothing, and so Claire, not in the mood for anything even approaching a verbal brawl, said, "Nice hair, Jack," as she stared at the picture. His hair was longer back then, indicative of the time. And as for the fashion? Well, let's just say Claire was happy to be living in the 90s.
"You don't like it?" he laughed, happy she was not going to lecture him on her need for him to be open and honest about his feelings.
"Makes you look crazed...like a wild man."
"Well, I wasn't...in fact, I was too busy working my way through school and working my ass off to maintain an A-average to do too much partying." He looked down into his glass, empty now, and swore softly, "Damn!"
"I'll get more," she told him, and took their glasses. "Continue," she prompted as she disappeared around the corner into the kitchen.
He heard her opening and closing cabinets and wondered what on earth she was looking for. He continued, "I always preferred the small, intimate gatherings to the wild, crazy, debauchery-filled parties."
"So did I," she called back from the kitchen. "Do you have any lemons?"
"Lemons?" he paused, thrown slightly by the topic shift. "Bottom drawer of the fridge."
A few minutes passed, and he called, "What're you doing in there?"
At that moment, she emerged from the kitchen, balancing on a small cutting board a partially drunk bottle of Jose Cuervo tequila, a couple of shot glasses, some lemons, a salt shaker, and a knife.
"What's all this?" he asked, clearing a space for her to set her findings on the coffee table.
"Normally I just drink a couple of drinks here and there to relax," she explained, setting the cutting board on the table, "But every so often... I don't just want to relax... I want to get drunk. Not so that I throw up or feel like shit all the next day... but drunk. And I don't like to drink alone, so here I am. I hope you don't mind.
You look like you could use a good binge, too."
"I nearly went on one earlier."
"What stopped you?"
"I didn't want to get drunk and wallow in self-pity."
She was kneeling in front of the coffee table, facing Jack, who still sat on the sofa on the opposite side of the table. She sliced into one of the lemons, cutting it expertly into six even wedges.
"I never figured you for a tequila drinker," he told her, "well, not shots anyway...Margaritas maybe....but not slammers."
"I wasn't much of a partier either," she told him, filling both shot glasses and pouring a bit of salt onto her hand, "but when I let my hair down...I really let it down."
This said, she licked the salt from her hand, downed one of the shots without flinching, and bit into one of the lemon wedges.
"Impressive," he said, then mimicked her actions.
"That's nothing," she said, filling the shot glasses again. "On my 21st birthday, some girlfriends and I went to a bar. The bartender lined 5 shot glasses up in front of me, gave me a lemon wedge coated in sugar, and said that if I could down all 5 in rapid succession, without taking a break or a chaser, then our drinks for the night would be on the house."
"Did you do it?"
"With incentive like that?" she asked. "Hell yes, I did! Barely... I had to choke down the last one, but I did it. I was fine for about 10 minutes after that, then all the sudden the tequila kicked in and I was hammered."
"Did you stop drinking?"
"No, and I have to say that I don't remember much of my birthday after the first hour in that bar. And I regretted the amount I drank until well into the next evening."
He laughed, and they both slammed another.
After their 3rd shot, Claire requested music, and so Jack got up to turn on the stereo as she sliced into the 2nd lemon. He slipped in a greatest hits CD of Otis Redding's.
The music began, and Jack held his hand out to Claire. She reached up and slid her hand into his. He closed his fingers about it and pulled her up against his chest, catching her in an embrace as the song "These Arms of Mine" began to play.
Claire's head swam from having consumed a glass of scotch and 3 shots of tequila in such a short period of time, but Jack held her tightly against his chest, and it steadied her. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and they began to sway slowly from side to side, as the music cast a languid spell about the room.
He hugged her tighter and nuzzled his lips into the crook of her neck. She tilted her head to the side as his lips grazed lightly. "You smell so good," he whispered softly.
"This is nice, Jack," she said. "We really should do this more often."
"Get drunk?"
"Dance."
"No objections here."
They grew quiet, swaying in time with the music. Claire began massaging the nape of Jack's neck with her thumb. He pulled her closer, his hands sliding lower, palms gliding softly over her behind, then back up, higher, until they stopped in the middle of her back, pressing her closer still, as her arms tightened about his neck. Claire released him slightly, clasping her hands together behind his neck, and leaned back to gaze up at him, her dark eyes shining.
He smiled down at her, eyes bright and full of emotion. "I'm glad you came over," he told her, "I didn't know it, but this is just what I needed."
Claire closed her eyes as he leaned in. As the song came to an end, he pressed his lips against hers, in a sweet, gentle kiss.
He released her as "Dock of the Bay" began to play, reached down to grab her hand, and pulled her toward the couch. He sat, and drew her down onto his lap. His hand snaked up to tangle in her hair, and he pressed her head forward, his lips searching hers out for a kiss that was somehow both gentle and demanding at the same time.
She turned into him more, her hands reaching up to grip his shoulders as his hands slipped beneath the light-weight, tight-fitted black v-neck sweater she wore. His hands slid higher up, around the back, and he discovered that she wore no bra. He brought his hands around to the front again, and she sighed deeply as his hands smoothed across her breasts.
She pulled her head away from him, and asked, "Do you want anymore tequila?"
He nodded and she slid from his lap, and knelt before the coffee table, filling the shot glasses again. She handed him one, and watched as he drained it without bothering with the lemon or salt.
She picked up the other glass, one of the lemon slices, and sat next to him on the sofa.
Hold this between your teeth for me," she said, holding a lemon wedge up to his lips. He looked at her a little funny, and she added, "I saw this in a movie once, and I've always wanted to do it."
He did as she'd requested, feeling a little silly, and she tipped her head back to drain the small glass after having licked a patch of salt from her hand. The glass emptied, she steadied herself by laying her hands against Jack's chest, and leaned in to scrape the meat of the lemon from it's rind with her teeth.
"My turn," said Jack, as he set the lemon rind back on the cutting board, poured himself another shot, and handed Claire a lemon wedge.
He repeated her actions, then set the lemon skin and shot glass on the table. She was sitting with one leg tucked under her, and he adjusted himself so that he knelt facing her, one knee on the sofa, the other foot on the ground. He leaned into her, his hands finding the bottom of her sweater. He tugged it gently upwards, and she raised her arms so he could pull it over her head with ease. The cotton undershirt she wore turned out to be a white tank top, much like the one she'd worn to bed the first time he'd stayed the night with her.
He pulled her leg from beneath her as he lay her back onto the sofa, easing himself down on top of her. One hand was on her waist, the other gripped her knee. He drew her leg up slightly, and she wrapped it around his, so that the outside of her left ankle rested against the inside of his right leg, just below the knee.
Her fingers lightly touched his face as he began to kiss her: small, butterfly type kisses that covered her lips, leaving her yearning for more. She clasped her arms about his shoulders and pulled him down to her. He began covering her face with the same tiny, light kisses he had so recently been placing on her mouth. She grew impatient to kiss him more deeply, so she brought her hand up to grip the back of his neck, forcing his mouth to hers.
She kissed him hotly, sucking his lip into her mouth, then biting it gently. He groaned softly as he opened his mouth to her. She ran her tongue over his lips, then slipped it between his parted teeth, to plunder the warm recesses of his mouth. Their tongues found one another and began to dance. He shifted himself lower, trailing his lips across her shoulders, bare but for the thin white straps of her tank top.
He felt her shiver as he brushed his knuckles against the side of her breasts. "Cold?" he asked.
"Just a little."
He sat back and pulled her up with him., rubbing her arms vigorously in the hope that the friction would warm her.
He got up suddenly and threw a couple of more pieces of wood onto the fire.
She stood --a little too fast, her head feeling light-- and walked toward the fireplace. She felt like she was floating, and knew she had passed from the realm of a good buzz, to nicely drunk.
Jack stood and turned to her. "Stay by the fire...I'll be right back."
He left her standing there, and walked to his bedroom. He pulled the sheets and blankets up over the bed, removing the heavy comforter, and strode back down the hall to his living room.
Claire was busy tossing the cushions and pillows from the sofa onto the floor in front of the fire.
Jack, himself feeling the alcohol beginning to take effect, added the comforter to the pile. Claire plopped down onto the makeshift bed with less grace than that with which she usually functioned. She began to remove the heeled black boots she wore.
Jack transferred the cutting board to the floor, then knelt in front of Claire to help her out of one of her shoes, just as she divested herself of the other.
When her shoes were off, he leaned in closer and she scooted back, until she was fully on the pile of pillows, him advancing on her. When she stopped, he kept advancing. He slid a hand around to her back and slowly lowered her until she was lying flat against the couch cushions.
She ran her hands down along his sides, pulling his polo shirt out from his jeans and sliding her hands underneath it, running them along his ribcage. She drew him down to her, and he pulled the comforter up over them. His lips found hers again and she gripped his waist as he braced himself slightly away from her, keeping his weight off of her.
After a moment of deep kissing, he lowered himself completely on top of her, wrapped his arms around and underneath her, and rolled them over. She brought her knees up, and she was straddling him, sitting so that her shins were resting flat against the cushions. They never broke their kiss.
Jack's hands were resting on her hips, and he raised them, slipping them beneath her tank top. His hands slid slowly up her sides, until they reached her breasts. She sat back on his thighs and looked down at him. She reached up to tuck her hair behind her ears as he lowered his hands to her waist.
"Tell me more," she said, "I want to hear more about what you were like in school."
"There's not much more to tell," he told her, "I worked, I studied. Played basketball, drank, had sex when I could, partied infrequently, read voraciously, ate, slept, etc. etc....."
"I want to know what you were like," she told him, "Not what you did."
"I honestly wasn't much different. Younger...slightly more arrogant, more self-absorbed, more of an optimist with a lifetime's less emotional baggage. Other than that, and the physical changes, I was the same moralistic, arrogant asshole you know today."
"You're not an asshole."
"Aren't I? Are you sure about that?"
"You aren't to me...not usually anyway. And when you are, I know it's because you are trying to be....though I haven't figured out why just yet," she said, "But I will."
"Will you?"
She nodded, "I've made it one of my goals in life."
*****
An hour, and several shots later, Claire was beyond nicely drunk. Jack, too, felt no pain. The Otis Redding CD had ended some time before, and Jack had switched over the radio: some station that specialised in a variety of music from the 60s and 70s.
They sat, talking, joking, having a good time. They were having fun, not just being playful or bringing each other pleasure, but fun. The intense, serious level on which they generally dealt with one another had been washed away by the alcohol.
At one point, Claire had pinned Jack down with all the strength she had, announcing her intention to discover whether or no he was ticklish. To her chagrin, he was not.
Saying, "Turnabout is fair play," he had rolled her to her back, struggling playfully, amid laughing protestation, and began a similar exploration of her body.
To his delight, and her utter dismay, he discovered that she was, indeed, very ticklish. His fingers tickled beneath her chin and under her armpits, then dug playfully into her ribs, her inner thighs and kneecaps. She pleaded for mercy, which he did not grant.
"You started it," he said as he moved lower, grasped her ankle, and dug his fingers into the sole of her foot.
"Jack!!!" she gasped, breath short from laughing. "Pl....please....sss... sstop! I...I can't take...anymore!"
He relented, due more to the fact that a song he loved was beginning to play.
"I love this song!" cried Claire.
"So do I," he told her, standing and pulling her up with him, into his arms, as a wonderful live version of "Tell it Like it is" by the Neville Brothers began to play.
He held her very close, and they began to sway.
"I think I'm too dizzy for this," she told him.
"I won't let you fall," he promised softly, his hands casually stroking her lower back.
They clung tightly to one another as the song went on, barely moving. As the song came to a close, Jack dipped Claire backward... just a little at first, and then farther, and farther, until he had gone to far, and lost his control. They crashed down onto the pile of pillows and cushions, giggling, Jack landing partially on top of her.
They both let out an "oof" as they landed.
"You're drunk," he told her.
"Thank you, yes I am," she said, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes, "So are you, Mr. I-won't-let-you-fall!"
"I confess, I'm guilty as charged," he said. "Do we move directly to the penalty phase, so I can throw myself on the mercy of the court?"
"Like the mercy you showed me just a short while ago?"
"I thought judges were supposed to be impartial?"
"Not this one," she told him, rolling so that she was on her knees next to him, looking down. "Lucky for you, this judge is more than willing to accept a discreet bribe or two."
"In that case," he said, reaching up and clasping the back of her neck and pulling her down for a long, drawn-out French-kiss.
After a moment, he released her neck and she sat back on her haunches.
"So?" he asked.
"For that, I'm willing to give you a reduced sentence."
"Reduced?" he asked, smiling, as he brought his hands up to rest behind his head. "I was going for a dismissal."
"You confessed. I'm afraid a reduced sentence is all I can do," she said, "However, for a small fee, I might be willing to consider a suspended sentence and some... ah.... volunteer work."
"But Your Honour," he said, pulling her down to him once more, and rolling her beneath him. "I wasn't properly Mirandised....My confession is inadmissible."
"Damn!" she said, "And I was so looking forward to that volunteer work..."
"We might be able to work something out," he said, his tone going from light and playful, to serious, and intent.
He touched his fingers to her cheek, flushed from the alcohol. Every now and then, when he looked at her, he was struck nearly dumb by the great force of her beauty.
"God you're beautiful," he told her, leaning in to plant a trembling kiss on her lips. "I love you."
Claire closed her eyes as he lowered his lips to her neck. Her head was spinning, and it was partly from the alcohol, and partly from the effects of Jack's lips on her skin. She sighed with contentment as he moved the straps of her tank top off her shoulders and began to lavish her warm skin with soft kisses.
She reached beneath his shirt to stroke his chest and stomach, reveling in the sigh that escaped him. She pulled the shirt up, and he leaned back and pulled it over his head, tossing it to the side. He came over her again, and she pushed him slightly away, so that he rolled to his side, taking her with him. She leaned in and kissed his chest just beneath his neck, and he sighed again and hugged her close. They did not more forward, but rather continued lying there, holding one another, losing themselves in a kiss now and again, hands roving lightly over each other's bodies.
After a time, Claire's caresses of his body became more languid, and finally stopped altogether. He craned his head back to look down at her. Her head rested against his shoulder, but he could see enough of her face to see that her eyes were closed, and he knew from her slow, rhythmic breathing that she slept. He chuckled softly, rose to his knees, and very gingerly drew her up into his arms. Her head rested against his chest, and she woke slightly, for a few seconds, long enough to wrap her arms around his neck and smile sleepily up at him, before dozing off again, her head resting against his chest. He rose slowly, adjusting her weight in his arms slightly before moving down the hall and into his bedroom.
He pulled the sheets back with one hand on the side of the bed Claire always slept on, and lay her gently down. He reached down to unbuckle her belt, undo the fly of her jeans, and pull them from her, causing her as little disturbance as he could.
When she wore naught but her tank top and panties, he covered her with the sheets and returned to the living room. He carried the cutting board into the kitchen and left it on the counter, pouring himself one last shot. He went back to the living room, picked up his comforter and headed back for his bedroom.
He draped the comforter over the bed, stripped down to his boxer shorts, and climbed into the bed beside Claire. He snuggled up against her back (she had rolled to her side), wrapped an arm around her, nuzzled his face into her hair, and soon, slept.
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