Fourteen

At three in the morning, I woke up with such an absurd idea I was immediately positive I should go get a shot of whiskey so I could fall back asleep.

But I didn’t get up, and I didn’t have a shot, and I most certainly didn’t go back to sleep.

I was up half the night, my mind spinning over what to do with Sara’s paradoxical need to remain a secret yet still explore her wilder side with me. Admittedly, she’d been more relaxed than I expected about the photos in the Post, but we’d been lucky, and they hadn’t actually gotten her face or anything too telling. Anything more revealing could turn her skittish, if that hadn’t happened already. I could tell she had feelings for me beyond the adventure of public orgasms and our shared exhibitionist fetish, but that was a far cry from anything lasting, and miles away from what I felt about her.

I sat up, lit with an idea and wondering if I’d be mad to try this with her. At the same time, it struck me as the perfect solution. Sara clearly got off on the idea of being seen, on the idea of someone watching her orgasm. I wanted to show her that sex could be fun, and wild, and alive even in a relationship that grew into something deeper. And yet she wanted to remain anonymous, and I most certainly didn’t want to end up with my trousers down—literally—on the subway, or at the movies, or in a cab. Sara had been quick to brush off the photos this time; my nagging worry was that she wouldn’t be so forgiving if it happened again.

I looked at the clock and knew it wasn’t too early to call. If I knew him at all, Johnny French hadn’t even gone to bed yet.

The phone rang once before his gravel-and-smoke voice answered with a simple “Max.”

“Mr. French, I hope it isn’t too early.”

He let out a rumbling laugh. “Haven’t gone to bed yet. What can I do for you?”

I exhaled, relieved with the sudden realization that this might actually be the best solution. “I have a situation that I believe requires your help.”

When Sara answered the phone, I could hear the smile in her voice. “It’s a Wednesday,” she said. “And not even eight in the morning. I think I like these new rules.”

“I think we’re kidding ourselves if we believe this is a rule-driven arrangement anymore,” I said.

It was a long moment before she answered, but finally she murmured, “I suppose you’re right.”

“You’re still okay about the Post?”

A small pause before, “Yeah, actually.”

“I thought about you all day yesterday.”

Again, she fell quiet and I wondered if I’d gone too far. And then she said, “That’s kind of been true for me for a while.”

I laughed. Too right. “Me, too.”

Silence filled the line and I braced myself for the possibility that she would say no to this.