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The sad fact is most people lack imagination.
I am not one of those people.
In the afternoon, I texted Max. I wanted to see him. I needed to see him. As usual, he booked a room at the Belmond. Max is like most people, a creature of habit. He likes things easy. When I brought this up, playfully, of course, he said there were other places, if I wanted. I didn’t. To have said otherwise would have been a mistake. You can’t tell people what you want. You have to show them.
Anyhow, he didn’t expand on what sort of places he had in mind, and I hadn’t asked him to. I like the simplicity of hotels. I’m not a backseat kind of girl. I’m not in it for the danger. I’m in it for the distraction.
He’d thought the sex couldn’t get any better, but I’ve learned how to break him in slowly, like a good pair of shoes.
I fucked him senseless, on and against every surface of that room. He seemed grateful for my thoroughness. I, on the other hand, was grateful it hadn’t been like the last time. Slow and torturous. Holy and sanctimonious.
“You don’t have to have divine sex everyday,” I told him afterward. “Sometimes you just need to fuck.”
“Right,” he’d said, his expression half-amused, half-perplexed.
“I have to get back to work.”
“Me, too.”
I slipped my dress over my head. “But first, I need to know how long my dad has left.”
He was pulling on his scrubs when he paused and looked over at me. “Hard to say.”
“Is there a way to speed things up?”
“Dementia is a progressive disease.”
“I know that, Max. What I’m asking is how long can this take?”
“As long as it takes,” he answered. He softened it in an almost unnatural way by adding, “Unfortunately.”
“Yeah but how long does he have to suffer?”
“It’s not an exact science. Things live and die at their own pace.”
Somehow I seemed to know that better than anyone.
I walked over to the mirror and piled my hair on top of my head, holding it in place with my hand. “How much morphine would it take to kill a person?”
“Morphine?” Max studied my reflection in the mirror. Eventually, he cocked his head. “I wouldn’t use morphine. Though it’s possible, there are easier ways.”
“Such as?”
“Well, a combination of barbiturates and potassium chloride usually does the trick.”
I let my hair fall around my shoulders. “Where would one come by those things?”
“Do you have a veterinarian?” he asked blandly, because, well, that is Max’s way.
I walked over to where he was standing, turned my back toward him, and motioned for him to zip my dress. “It just so happens I do.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Dr. Max Hastings
AFTER
Breathless, Laurel said, “Could you see us doing this for the rest of our lives?”
