He drove to his apartment, showered and dressed, then spent some time selecting the items he would bring to Dick Hobart. He put them into the zippered pockets of a leather jacket: two men’s Rolex watches and one women’s, several women’s rings and a gold bracelet that had some good Burmese rubies set in it. He put the jacket into the trunk of his car with his overnight bag, and drove to Jeanie’s apartment complex.
She wasn’t waiting outside this time, so he was able to go to her door. She was ready, but she let him come in and pick up her overnight bag. She insisted on leading him from room to room to show him the apartment. There was a bedroom, and a spare room with exercise equipment, a desk, bookcases, and a computer. When the tour was finished, she said, “There. That’s done. Let’s go.”
“Why did you want to show me your apartment? It’s nice, but . . .”
“Because I made the mistake of telling you it was a mess. I didn’t want you to think I was a pig.”
He let her into the car, and they drove to the hotel. He had chosen the large, opulent, anonymous Prince Andrew because it was a place that was unlikely to cater to anyone who had also been to the Paddock Club. Jeanie saw that this was really where they were going and looked pleased, but did not mention it. She waited patiently while Prescott registered, then seemed to enjoy walking across the enormous marble floor to the elevator behind the bellman. She took Prescott’s hand in the hallway and looked at the vases of flowers they passed at intervals as the bellman conducted them to their room. As soon as he left, Prescott said, “Would you like a drink?”
She put her arms around Prescott and kissed him. “What time is the dinner reservation?”
“Eight.”
“Good.” She turned around. “Unzip me.”
He pulled the zipper down, and she stepped away. “You were right. We’re both going to take our clothes off—no music—and meet in bed.” She stepped to the closet to get a coat hanger, went into the bathroom, and closed the door.
Prescott undressed and got into the bed. When Jeanie emerged from the bathroom, she was wearing only the diamond necklace and a pair of diamond studs in her ears. She stopped and stood under the small spotlight by the closet, reached up and pulled the pin from her hair to let it fall to her shoulders, then shook her head to make it spill down her back. Then she walked comfortably to the bed, pulled the covers off Prescott to the floor, and lay down beside him.
Prescott had not exactly planned what he would do, or guessed how she would be with him when this time came, but he had not kept himself from imagining it. Now he found that his imagination had been pessimistic and impoverished. Prescott’s mind was divided, reveling in the touch, sight, sound, taste, and smell of her, and concentrating on making her happy, then happier, trying to keep himself from giving in, to make it last. Finally, she put her hand on his cheek. “Now, Bobby, now would be a good time.” He ended it, letting the glad, delicious feeling of release take him. They lay together in a long, quiet embrace.
Slowly, he became aware of the sounds of cars outside the hotel, then the quiet padding of feet moving along the hallway. She pulled away and lay a foot from him, stretching like a cat. “Now, that was really something,” she said softly, as though to herself. Then she turned to him. “You were right to make me spend all day thinking about it first.”
“I’m glad you think so,” he said. “I was kind of thinking I was stupid to take the chance of missing it. You could have changed your mind. I could have gotten run over by a truck.”
She sat up. “Good. That means you won’t turn me down next time I ask.” She stepped off toward the bathroom. “Let’s take a shower. It’s a respectable hour to go down and have a drink before dinner.”
“Respectable?”
“Well, sure. Respectable people don’t rush down to the bar at four o’clock in the afternoon. They stay upstairs in bed until seven, and then go down.”
“I guess that’s true.”
“Of course it is.” She began to run the shower.
Later, when they were in the bar, she sipped her drink thoughtfully. “This is perfect.”
He tried his, and nodded. “I suspected the reason that lady was standing behind the bar was that she knew how to make a drink.”
“Not that,” she said. “The whole thing. The package.”
“Thank you,” he answered. “I’m happy with it myself.”
“I want to be your girl,” she said.
“What?”
“You heard me,” she insisted. “I know that you think of me as a victim. Some men get a charge out of that, and if you do, go ahead. It doesn’t hurt anybody. Some women like it too, I guess. It helps them be less inhibited, because they didn’t do what they did: somebody did it to them. And it kind of makes the man seem extra forceful and aggressive—she couldn’t say no—and I can understand that, too. They want a man who’s male. You’re male enough.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“I’m not a victim. I saw you, thought you looked nice, and tried to attract you—which isn’t that tough to do if somebody’s there to watch you take your clothes off anyway. You turned out to be a lot nicer than I thought. I’m smart enough to know you’re not going to be in St. Louis long. And I’m not interested in falling in love and getting married. I know exactly what I’m doing for the next five years, and could make a guess about the next twenty. I’m not in a position for a long commitment.”
“I thought you wanted to be my girlfriend.”
“I do, for now. You and I both are here on our way somewhere else. A couple of days ago, we each, for our own reasons, decided to take a step off the path because it looked appealing. It’s been better than either of us thought it would be or was ready for. And now I’m heading off trouble.”
“Trouble?”
“You’re starting to feel upset because you think you took this dumb little stripper and led her on and gave her false hopes, just to get into her pants.” She laughed. “You feel guilty because you’ve been too nice to me. Do you realize how stupid that is? Do you think it’s possible that any woman somehow manages not to know what’s on your mind?”
“I guess it’s not a good idea to answer rhetorical questions,” said Prescott.
“No, it isn’t,” she said. She placed his hand in hers.
“This is really nice. In a week or a month or whenever, one of us is going to have to move on to something else, maybe even someplace else. I want to be able to enjoy it without watching you feel guilty about it. Letting you do that would make me feel guilty.”
“Are you telling the truth?” he asked.
“Sure.” She patted his arm. “We’re each committed to what we’re doing—school for me, and for you, whatever—and a temptation came up to have some fun. I took the chance, and it worked out great. Now that it’s gone this far, I’ve gotten some worries behind me that only women feel. Trust is one. You’re not rough or weird or scary. You don’t act nice until you come, and then throw me out of bed or something. But now I have a new worry, which is that you’ll decide it’s mean to lead me on, and turn cold. So I’m making you a proposition. Your part of it is that while you’re around St. Louis, you’re mine. You take me to places like this, be sweet to me every day, whether we’re together or not. I won’t see you walking out of Nolan’s with one of the other girls.”
“And what’s your part?”
“I don’t pay attention to other men. Except for when I’m at work or in class, I’m available to you. . . . Completely,” she added with emphasis. “Now that I know what I needed to about you, I’ll do anything you want.” She smiled. “Maybe even some things you don’t know you want.”