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She hazarded a left turn. It was like going through a narrow, vaulted tunnel, the trees were so thick. Bats and moths swooped and fluttered, darting crazily. She’d left her phone at the house, not wanting to risk being called by anyone, but the phone torch would have been stronger than the beam of the old flashlight she’d found in the kitchen drawer. It seemed so feeble.
So did she. God, what a hopeless wuss she was.
After a couple hundred yards, the big, glassed-in pool house loomed before her, skirted by a broad wooden deck.
She tiptoed up the steps, shone the flashlight on the door. Take a dip, Marla had urged. They never lock it. The owner is a nerdy software mogul. He won’t mind. They keep it warm year round. I’ve swum there in November. You deserve it, after what you’ve been through.
Becca fitted the key into the door. It sighed open, letting out the faint scent of pool chemicals. She reached into the darkness, groped and flicked the first switch she found, then gasped in silent wonder.
Wow. A circle of lights lit the water from beneath, creating a jewel pattern of overlapping shadows on the mosaic tiles of the oval pool. The walls of the poolhouse were floor-to-ceiling art deco glasswork.
She walked in, dazzled. She set the wine bottle down, kneeled, scooped up some water. Caressingly warm. Swimming in that would be like swimming inside the heart of a perfectly cut sapphire. Magic.
She let the bathrobe puddle around her feet like a Hollywood diva, took off her glasses and shook her hair loose over her shoulders, letting it tickle her back. Becca stretched luxuriously, savoring the anticipation before she dove.
Ah. The shock of the water on her skin was delicious. She swam slowly across the pool in a lazy sidestroke. The water sloshed and gurgled sensually as she moved through it.
So beautiful. So solitary. Bliss. Just what she needed, after the last few days fending off media vultures. The extremely tense interview she’d had today with the club manager hadn’t helped much—the one about “taking some time away until the fuss dies down.”
She was afraid that was a code phrase for “you’re fired.”
Damn it, she liked her job. She didn’t love it, but she liked it, and more importantly, she needed it, with her younger sister and brother both in school and needing her help. Besides, she was the best events organizer the Cardinal Creek Country Club had ever had. She was an organizational freak. Busy, busy Becca. Wrestling a zillion details into a coherent whole satisfied her on a deep, emotional level. Kinky, maybe, but there it was.
But the powers that be at the club had a horror of bad publicity. Whether this sordid mess was her fault or not, the result might be the same. She might have to retool her resume. Do the old job hunt cha-cha-cha.
But who would want to hire a pathetic laughingstock like her?
At least if she was canned, she’d be spared the snickering from her ex-fiancé Justin’s guy friends at the club. Smirking, stinking, oinking bastards.
The pool was beautiful, magical, but her soul could not be soothed tonight. Her thoughts harried her like a hungry dog with a bone. What the hell was wrong with her, anyhow? Where were her wires crossed? She was a good person, damn it. Smart, sensible, practical, hardworking, unselfish. Relatively pretty, if not a raving beauty. She gave all she could to her family, her job. Her fiancé. She deserved better. She tried so freaking hard. All the time.
But such qualities evidently did not give men erections. Men wanted a whole different set of attributes and gifts.
Men wanted women like Kaia. The pigs.
Gah. If only she’d played it cooler, hadn’t made such a big public deal of the engagement. But it had seemed too good to be true. Telling the four winds had made it feel more real. Justin was a great catch, after all. Charming, handsome. Rich, prominent family. Big plans. Justin was an up-and-coming prosecuting attorney with political ambitions. He’d told Becca once that she’d be a perfect politician’s wife.
She’d taken it as a sweet compliment at the time. Her heart had gone pitty-pat, imagining herself as the devoted political wife on the campaign trail with her handsome husband. Hah. How innocent.
She’d been so ready to move on from her rented apartment in a ramshackle old house. Ready to buy a real home, with a lawn for the kids she hoped to have. A minivan, with space for the car seats. Cargo room for strollers, travel cribs, dirt bikes, skateboards, scooters. Camping equipment for those family vacations. All day shopping trips to Ikea and Costco.
Her daydreams seemed so silly. To think she’d been holding court at their bachelor/bachelorette bash, giggling as she opened up Kama Sutra bath salts and his-n-her bath towels. Prattling like a ninny about the merits of marble countertops versus tile for her dream kitchen. And all the while Justin was giving his college girlfriend Kaia “a ride home.”
Some ride. Tall, sun-browned, sandalwood scented Kaia, with her yellow cornrow braids. Sun tattoos on her shoulders. Funky Nepalese jewelry. Nose and navel piercings.
Ready, willing, and able to perform a blow job on Justin as he drove down a busy city street. In Becca’s own car, no less. As it happened, Justin’s driving had been no match for Kaia’s skill at fellatio. Becca’s car had ended up wrapped around a telephone pole smack in the middle of a bustling shopping district. It was blind luck that he hadn’t killed someone. Or many someones.
Kaia now sported a collar and head brace. And as for Justin, well. A ring of tooth marks on that bastard’s dick was the least that he deserved. Becca could not find it in her heart to feel sorry for him.
It had just been a goodbye, for old times’ sake, Justin had protested, as soon as he was lucid enough to talk. He’d implied that Becca should be grateful he’d gone for oral sex, not vaginal penetration. How noble of him, to sacrifice his own pleasure out of respect for his fiancée. She ought to be overcome with gratitude at his manly restraint.
Um, not.
She’d expressed her feelings forcefully. Justin had gotten angry in his turn. He’d said several ugly things, calculated to make a woman want to huddle alone on a fog-bound island, far from everyone who knew what had happened. Which was to say, the whole world.
Becca stopped at the edge of the pool, hoisted herself partly out and pressed her hot face against her folded arms. Tears welled up and spilled. More fucking tears. She could fill this pool with them.
The scandal was too lurid to keep quiet. Justin’s family was too well known and it was all over the internet. She’d Googled herself and found thousands of mentions. And those reporters, baiting her, trying to get a reaction. Bottom-feeding bastards.
