Chapter 4 You Sure Don't Look Like Her Manhattan -- The Last Saturday in August
John Alden Trask adjusted the showerhead to “jet pulse.” Hot water needles relaxed knotted muscles, the aftermath of torture. But freely chosen torture. He smiled. He did get a kick out of pushing limits every now and then, especially when he needed a little cash. So he’d spent seven straight hours on the tennis court under the intense regimen of his angry coach, who always wanted more from him. Lots of people wanted more from him. Much to Coach’s disgust, John never sought the big prize, the million bucks. But today in practice he’d given his best, pushing his endurance to learn his potential power—should he ever decided he truly gave a shit. He was up thirty K from the L.A. and Indianapolis tournaments and had squeaked into qualifying for the U.S. Open in Flushing Meadows. The competition itself launched day after tomorrow. Maybe a million bucks was out, but thirty K more for placing would do fine. Fifty would be sweet. He stepped from the shower into pine-scented bathroom steam and toweled off. A massage and rub-down would go great if he had time. He didn’t. Not if he wanted to make a media-catching entrance at the pre-tournament press reception with Fance Showalter. Shock and awe. He imagined tomorrow’s tabloid or sports or even society page: “John Alden Trask, son of Claire Alden, escorted exotic dancer, Fance Show, to the renowned Flushing Meadows event. Miss Show’s act can be seen four nights a week at Whispers, a night club near La Guardia.” Topless pole dance not to be missed. John grinned, picturing the stunned look on his mother’s face when her secretary or some other underling showed her the hot little item and, with luck, a scandalous photo accompanying it. Dear Mom was far too busy to bother with reading the sports pages for the occasional one-liners about her unimpressive son, but someone paid to manage his mother’s image would insist that she check out the news byte. He settled for a quick shoulder stretch, pushing his right elbow as far around toward his left shoulder as possible, burning the knot out further. Fance would do a massage later tonight….or in the morning if tonight she wore him out in bed. He listened next to the bathroom door. She was awfully quiet. She’d turned on some TV show. He spiked his porcupine black-with-bleached-ends hair with gel, slipped on black slacks and a short-sleeved gray linen shirt that didn’t hide his barbed-wire armband tattoo, and opened the door a crack. He wanted to watch her a moment, the stripper behind the scenes looking a lot like other women. Make that only a little. Fance was special. Even without her make-up the prettiness of her features stood out. She sat in his bed naked, the sheet under her breasts, smoking and twisting a strand of her hair. “Impressionist” hair, waist length, pale blonde with pastel wisps of peach, lavender and aqua. From a distance her hair shimmered, fairy-like. You had to be up close to see the actual colors, a pleasure he was lucky enough to frequently indulge. She guffawed—the earthy stripper again. He stepped into the room. “What’s so funny?” “This was a great one. Your mom’s in a black wig, ‘re-inventing’ herself into a ‘senorita’ and talking about how cinnamon along with chilies is an aphrodisiac.” Fance blew smoke, grinning with pleasure. “Then your mom says, ‘You know what really lights my fire? A truly great food processor.’” Fance laughed again. Her green eyes sparkled. “Her shows were so fantastic.” “You’re watching old reruns on the cooking channel?” “Classic Recipes.” Her face hardened. “Strippers cook too, you know.” He punched the power off on the TV, walked to the side of the bed, snatched her cigarette away and stubbed it out. Fance frowned. She studied him, then brightened, refusing to let him bring her down. “You sure don’t look like her. Which means,” she said, pouring honey into her voice and looking him over slowly, “that your dad was one handsome, dark-eyed devil.” Her clothing lay on the bed, ready for her turn in the bathroom. He grabbed up a black outfit, the kind his mother called “a little black dress.” “What’s this for?” “Why so grouchy all of a sudden? It’s to wear tonight.” “I want you to look hot. Not like you’re going to a damn funeral.” He heard the edge in his voice. He was pissed. Dammit. Her admiration for “Cooking For Lovers” had pushed the button that always triggered the same old, uncontrollable response. Why did everyone in the whole world worship at his mother’s shrine? If they only knew…. Fance slid out of bed, stood, found her purse, and pulled out another smoke and the lighter. Her lips twisted into a taunting smile. “You want me to look like a stripper. Gotcha.” Instead of placing the cigarette between her lips, she held it between her teeth, lips parted while she lighted it, a gesture that somehow conveyed the fact that she’d do what he wanted, but she held a small part of herself away from his control. The cigarette was her dignity at the moment. Her defiance. Hell. Only a first-class loser would do anything to make Fance feel bad. Which pretty much everyone who knew him or knew of him thought he was. A loser. A fuck-up. A playboy. He especially hated that one. Everyone saw him that way except Fance. Well, and Grandmere. He ignored the cigarette, and headed for the kitchen. “There’s a phone message,” she called from the bathroom before shutting the door. In the kitchen of the elegant art deco pied-a-terre that he rented for a nominal fee from Grandmere he listened to the most recent message. John, darling, it’s Mom…I’m not sure what’s in the press, but I’m just returning from…a very rough trip to Bangladesh. Grandmere is going to be with me at the Tabor Towers tonight. We’re hoping you’ll join us there for brunch tomorrow morning. At ten o’clock. Please…I miss you….I’d love to see you….We’re going to watch you in the tournament….I love you, son.” Oh, yeah. Love. Lots and lots. Right. He hit erase and turned on the kitchen portable to watch ESPN. Tennis rankings. Talking heads predicting tournament winners while showing shots of favorites—which didn’t include him. I am such an asshole. God, I should have let Fance wear the black dress. She was a knock-out. No one would miss that no matter what she wore. He’d hurt her for the worst of reasons—he’d wanted to shock dear Mom. Fance stepped into the room. He took one look at her and felt all the blood in his body race to one spot. Jesus. A dropped-waist swatch of silver that hugged her hips would probably count as a micro-mini skirt. Legs…miles of them. Tan, smooth, flawless. Bare. A dancer’s thighs and calves. Slim ankles strapped in silver. Spiked silver heels. “Is this what you had in mind?” she asked, voice playful. She’d forgiven him. As usual. He was working his line of sight upward, and couldn’t quite speak. A silver knit halter-top hung skimpily over her peachy breasts. Great cleavage. More breast exposed at the sides. His heart worked hard to support biological imperatives. She turned, lifting the long hair to fully reveal her tanned bare back, its groove at the base of the spine being one of his favorite places to kiss and caress. She started to sway her hips the way she did in her act. “Don’t do that.” His cheeks puffed out as he exhaled. “I need some ice water.” He moved toward the kitchen. She stopped him. “I’ll get it.” She left, hips still swaying, taunting. He thought about his tennis rating. That ought to calm him down. She returned with chilled water, which he gulped. He drew a breath, set the glass down, and put his arms around her. She smelled faintly of lilacs. A multi-string choker of what looked like tiny ice cubes glimmered at her neck. He parted the sparkles, kissed the cleft between her collarbones and worked his way up to her ear. “It’s not like I want to be a jerk,” he whispered. She kissed him on the nose. “Stay close to me tonight,” he said. Fance smiled her showgirl smile. “Let’s go give them something to talk about.”