Marty held the phone to his ear. “Hello, Rad,” he said.

“Feeling lonely, mister?” she said playfully.

In fact, he was. With the piano muted, the salon seemed suddenly lifeless and uninviting. “Want to come by for dinner?”

“I’ve been playing tennis at the club. You don’t mind if I’m in my whites?”

“No dress code here. You’ve seen my assistant.”

“I’ll be there shortly.”

Marty hung up and went to the dinette off the starboard side of the salon. It was appointed with stainless-steel appliances, a stone bench, and a butler’s pantry. The fridge was stocked with freshly caught seafood, and he went about prepping deviled crabs, hot butter cuttlefish, and jasmine rice. Everything was almost ready when Rad arrived. He mixed her a vodka soda with a slice of lemon and joined her out on the foredeck, sitting in a steamer chair facing the sea. It was dark now, a wash of stars glittering overhead as far as the eye could see. Vintage brass lanterns lit the deck in warm hues.

“You got here quickly,” he said, handing her the vodka. Her white top clung tightly to her breasts and thin waist, while the matching miniskirt showed off her toned legs. She had a pale, aristocratic face. Her hair, parted Cher-like in the middle of her head, fell straight down over each shoulder like black water. Designer sunglasses were pushed up on her forehead, and fancy silver earrings dangled from her earlobes.

“The nice thing about having a driver,” she said, her brown eyes twinkling, “is that they’re always waiting at the curb, waiting to take you somewhere.”

Marty frowned at Rad. Her voice was raspy, like she had woken up with a hangover. He hadn’t detected it on the phone, though it hadn’t been the best connection. “You okay?” he asked her.

“What do you mean?” she said, staring out at the sea.

“Let me see.”

“See what?”

“Your throat.”

Sighing dramatically, she tugged loose the scarf she had wrapped around her neck. Ugly purple and brown bruises marred her throat.

“Jesus, Rad,” he said, shaking his head.

Marty knew what the bruises were from, of course. Rad was into erotic asphyxiation. He’d learned this on their fourth date, when she’d asked him to choke her during a session of spirited lovemaking. He couldn’t bring himself to do it, and they continued on as if she’d never asked. Only she had asked. And the request had made him uncomfortable. He spent much of the following days thinking about it. He couldn’t get his head around why anybody in their right mind would want to be choked during sex. Everybody had their quirks, and he wasn’t afraid of trying new things, but choking pushed the bounds of acceptability in his mind.

Despite his apprehension at Rad channeling Fifty Shades of Grey, he continued to see her. She didn’t bring up the choking stuff during their next few dates, and he was thinking it had been a one-off request, when during another spirited session of lovemaking she’d blurted in a throaty, frantic voice, “Hurt me!” He asked her to clarify what she meant, which killed the mood. When she told him to choke her, he once again refused, which really killed the mood. She began calling him out, saying, “Don’t be a wimp, Marty!” and “Be a man, Marty!” Finally out of frustration and anger and a sense of emasculation, he wrapped his hands around her neck and squeezed. Immediately her taunts stopped. Her eyes rolled back in her head with pleasure. Her body language—her sensuality and her passion—shot to a new level. It was easily the best sex they’d ever had. Probably the best sex he’d ever had.