Constant Craving: Book Two, page 8
“You might be less sweaty if you took off some of these covers.”
She doesn’t answer.
“Justi?”
She lets out a little snore, and for the first time in forever, I’m excited about sleeping next to a woman. I just hope my nightmares don’t interrupt us.
11
Like a Drug
For a woman who’s never been married and who has only lived with one man—me—Justine sure knows how to play house.
I’m in the dining room of the villa, two laptops, three phones, and at least ten files spread around me. I should be looking at details about the paper, studying the Madrid project, and analyzing why a deal with an affordable housing complex in Miami fell through, but all I can concentrate on is the sound of Justine cooking in the kitchen. She’d gone to the store, bought seemingly the entire produce section and half the meat section, and is cooking what smells like pork.
Now there’s chopping sounds and beeps from the stove, and she’s even humming in a soft, lilting tone. She never hummed while cooking before. My stomach rumbles.
I should be happy about all of this. The sex that Justine and I had this morning, her laughter at breakfast, the aroma of a well-cooked meal instead of another overpriced salad at the country club in Miami—it all should make me feel at home.
But I’ve been in a semi-funk all day. Perhaps it’s because I hadn’t slept well last night. I’d dodged bad dreams for hours. The first, which woke Justine, had been my usual about coming to Florida on a raft as a boy. I was ashamed Justine had seen me this way once again. As I’d slipped back into a fitful sleep, my dreams got darker. In one, Justine had laughed at me as she’d boarded a train. I’d screamed something unintelligible.
In my dream, she was leaving me. Again.
“Rafecito? Rafa?”
Her voice startles me, and I look up from one of the laptop screens where the spreadsheets have made my eyes swim. “Sí?”
“I’m going to make a spinach salad to go with the ham. Does that sound good to you?”
I pretend to be absorbed in my work. “Um, sure, whatever.” Doesn’t she remember I’ll eat anything she makes?
She walks over and squeezes my shoulder, which feels awkward somehow, especially after how we’d ravished each other last night and this morning. “I just want to make you happy. That’s our arrangement, right?”
I grunt a yes, and she goes back in the kitchen. For some reason, her words sting.
She wouldn’t be here, making dinner and spending time with me, if I hadn’t offered to give her money for her paper.
Everyone has a price.
Maybe Justine isn’t too different from the many women I’ve met in Miami over the years. Most of the women I’d met were eager to snag a rich guy, which is why I’d largely kept to myself. I’d always assumed Justine was different. The thought makes my mood turn darker.
You know who was different? Christina. She’d come from money and had taken the job with me so she could learn how to organize and manage an office. She’d told me once that she’d hoped to use that knowledge to run a small arts nonprofit back in Spain. She’d never seemed impressed by my wealth.
But I’d never felt comfortable around Christina like I did, or do, around Justine. Even if Justine is using me for money and sex—and I’m beginning to wonder if she is—I’m myself around her. I don’t have to pretend to be macho or positive or anything at all.
I can be me. Grumpy or goofy or nerdy. I don’t have to be slick or all-powerful.
Except, of course, when I’m being paranoid about Justine only wanting me for my money. I scrub my hands over my face, annoyed at myself for circular thinking.
I’ve got to stay focused.
My phone buzzes with a text, and it’s David, my VP. He briefs me on the Madrid project and tells me he’s in the middle of going through the Times deal.
Call me, I text. I hate having business conversations via text. He rings immediately.
“Things aren’t great at the paper. I’m not sure you’re going to like my recommendation,” he says.
I heave a sigh. “I’d like to see if I can run the business bare bones for a year or two, maybe lay off a third of the staff and squeeze some profit out of it before I sell it.”
“I’ll let you know what I think. How is it there in St. Augustine, anyway?” he asks.
“It’s okay here. A little boring. Not like Miami. But it’s cool. I’m enjoying myself.” Not like I’ve actually seen much of the small city, since all Justine and I have been doing is fighting or fucking. I don’t say that, though.
David mentions something about his sister’s charity event in a few weeks, and I scribble myself a note. I support several children’s charities in Miami and have my own small fund helping kids in the city. Sara’s charity is the largest in the Caribbean and Latin America and is trying to eradicate malaria. She’s doing probably the most important work of any nonprofit in the Western Hemisphere, and I admire it immensely.
“Give a big, big kiss to Sarita, okay?” I say to David. “I would have liked to have spent time with her. But oh well. I’m stuck here. I’ll see you Monday. You have the address for the paper?”
David and I hang up. I inhale, and the smell of pork hits my nostrils. I’d skipped lunch and am ravenous. Maybe Justine bought something I can snack on. I stroll into the kitchen. “Smells delicious, querida.”
She’s slamming cabinet doors and drawers. I frown. What now? She hands me the wine and the corkscrew, then rests her hands on the counter. Her gaze is so fierce she might set the wooden cabinets on fire.
“I heard you say you were bored in St. Augustine.”
“Listening to my phone calls. Charming.”
“Whatever. You said it.”
“I said it was small and boring compared to Miami. It is. That’s not bad, it’s just a fact.” I wonder if Justine also overheard my plan to lay people off at the paper and then sell it. My muscles tense up, anticipating a blowout fight.
Justine mentions something about Sarita. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she was jealous. I take the wine and the corkscrew from her and strop off the foil at the top of the bottle. From her line of questioning, I don’t think she heard the part about the paper. I swallow hard, feeling guilty.
I ease the cork out of the bottle. “For the third time, I’m single. I was telling my vice president to say hello to his sister for me. He’s coming here on Monday to go through the financials of the paper. You should be grateful.”
I open the wine and pour, then take a long sniff into the glass. My attempt at changing the subject so we won’t fight fails. Justine suggests we call off the deal, and now I’m getting angry. Maybe it’s because she’s grilling me, or maybe because I’m suddenly feeling guilty about what I’m about to do with her beloved paper.
I didn’t anticipate feeling guilty about my plan, didn’t anticipate having actual, complicated feelings for the woman who broke my heart. I scowl into my wine.
“You can leave today or tomorrow, and we can resume our lives. I think I’d rather have the paper fail than be with you for a month.” She crosses her arms.
I smirk and swirl the wine. “Would you? I think you want to save your newspaper and will go to any lengths to do so.”
We go on like this, bickering, for many excruciating moments, and then she asks me how many women I’ve loved. She knows the answer.
We stare at each other, and something about the defiant flash in her eyes makes me want her. She’s so damned sexy and maddening, and Jesus Christ, I need her when she’s like this. Standing behind her, I seize her ponytail and kiss her neck.
That’s all it takes for both of us; within minutes she’s clawing at me, and I’m spanking her, and the heat of the kitchen isn’t coming from the oven.
Dios, how does she do this to me? Why does she push me to the brink of sanity? When she takes my face in her hands and kisses me, I don’t care if she’s using me. I need her like a drug—cliché but true.
Those are my only thoughts as I enter her and as I orgasm. It’s violent and powerful and I’m panting.
But when I see the shredded condom a few seconds later when I pull out, my heart sinks. Because that’s part of what all this tension is about. That’s what we keep verbally dancing around.
Her miscarriage.
Our miscarriage.
It was the only time I’ve failed at anything. When she’d gotten pregnant, I’d been terrified. But also proud: Justine, my perfect woman, having our child. And then, for whatever reason, she’d lost the baby. I’d decided to all but ignore it, thinking that if I worked harder, made more money, that the pain would go away and we’d get back on track.
The idea of her being pregnant now sends a jolt of fear through me. Even though I have enough money to support a small country, I suddenly feel like I’m in my twenties again, scared and unprepared.
“The condom broke.” I try to hide all emotion.
Justine, who is standing naked and sipping a glass of wine, swallows hard. She shoots me a disgusted, angry look. Is she that revolted by me?
“We can go to the doctor tomorrow and get you a morning-after pill.”
Her knuckles gripping the wine glass look awfully white. I hope she doesn’t break the glass in her hand. “Do you think after what happened to me—what happened to us—all those years ago that I would take a morning-after pill if there was even a chance I was pregnant?”
She always knows exactly how to make me feel like a shithead.
“If we just conceived a child, would you want me to take a morning-after pill?”
Jesus, this conversation is painful. A baby. Is that what she wants, after all these years? Confusion swirls in my brain. I will never comprehend women, especially this woman.
I never understood why she reacted the way she had, why she’d gone from depressed over losing the baby to leaving. Although, as the years passed, I’d come to the conclusion that maybe I’d never understand because I wasn’t a woman. That Justine’s experience was her own, and it should have been up to me to accept her feelings and not try to sweep her sadness under the rug.
Frankly, I’m still not sure if I did the right thing or not when it comes to the miscarriage. It’s a question I’ve turned around in my mind for years, beaten myself up over, and on occasion, blamed her. I’d even read about how men and women have different reactions, and it took me years to realize that, although Justine and I were seemingly so alike, losing our baby was a much more visceral experience for her.
I’m still confused about that whole period, and when I think about it, my chest hurts. Like it is now. I pour myself a glass of wine and gulp it down. She scowls at me.
The thought of having a child with her tortured me. Like I’d had any expectation of having a family after what I’d been through. After being abandoned by both parents. Like I’d know how to be a proper father and husband. The idea of being part of a family makes me feel vulnerable, and vulnerability of any kind leads to anger. Maybe because I don’t know any other way to act.
A baby would tie us together forever.
“Having a baby wasn’t part of my plan when I came here.” I’m nasty, I know this, and I even suspect I’m being unfair. It’s my defense mechanism because my carefully constructed life seems to be careening out of control by the hour.
Justine stalks out of the room and stomps upstairs. I head to the downstairs bathroom and wash up, put on my boxer briefs and nothing else because I’m sweating, then return to my work. My heart’s still pounding from the sex and the condom breaking. I must try to think of something, anything, else.
I click on an email from David.
R —
You sure you want to do this deal with the Times? A cursory look at the paper’s finances is dismal. I don’t see how you can make money if you buy the paper and then hold onto the asset for a year or two. This is a loser of a deal, and ten million is a lot. Why not cut your losses now and pull out before anything’s publicly announced? Or, if you’re dead set on developing the building into condos, why not just buy the paper and close it right away? Offer to pay Justine’s debts and the market value of the building and be done with it. Three million max. Save yourself some cash and headaches.
— D
I sit back in my chair and run my fingers through my hair. The day has gone to hell fast.
Buying the paper and closing it had always been my plan. Over the years, as I’d earned a million, then five million, then a hundred million, I’d dreamed of the day when I could come to St. Augustine and prove myself to Justine and her father.
Why do I now feel so shitty about carrying out this plan?
12
Do You Really Want to Hurt Me
I man up and call Christina. Normally I’m not this reluctant to face potential confrontation, but something about Christina’s persistence doesn’t sit well in my gut.
It’s Monday morning, and with a sense of dread in my throat, I tap her digits into my phone.
“Rafael!” she squeals. “Good morning! How are you?”
“Christina. I’m great. You?”
“Wonderful. I’m in Miami right now, planning to do a little shopping with my mother in Coral Gables today.”
Her voice is so casual that I feel like a dick for not calling her back. My gut must’ve been wrong. “I’m so sorry I’ve been out of touch and haven’t returned your calls. I’m up in St. Augustine for a month, working on acquiring a company. It’s taking up a lot of my time.”
There’s a pause. “St. Augustine?”
“Yeah, it’s about four hours north of Orlando, the oldest city in Florida. Quite charming.” I’m on the sidewalk in front of the newspaper, and I fiddle with my collar. It’s gotten cool here, much cooler than Miami, but I’m sweating a little.
“Isn’t that where June lives?” Christina asks, her voice suddenly frosty.
“June? Huh?”
“Your ex.”
“Justine. Her name’s Justine.” I clear my throat. “And yes. It is. I’m actually acquiring her company. Her newspaper.”
“I see. Well, good luck with that. Anyway—” her voice turns to a purr “—the reason I called is because I’d love to have dinner with you. When will you be back in civilization?”
I frown. This offer sure is out of the blue. “Possibly sometime this month, but I’m not sure yet. I’m headed to Spain in March on business, and I’m not sure I’ll be in Miami much before then.”
“Perfect! Well, let’s catch up there. I’d like to tell you about something I’m sure you’ll be interested in.”
“You can tell me now. Or does it have to wait?” I look down at my polished, black-alder leather derby shoes. They’re from a top designer and new, but I’m not sure I like them.
“I think it should wait. It will take a while to explain.”
Just then, I see Justine coming out of the building with Diana. She’s looking heartbreakingly beautiful today in a simple black wrap dress and black flats. Her hair is loose, and something about her looks soft and girlish. She and I lock eyes, and she turns to Diana. As they head toward me, slow because Diana’s not moving fast these days, I rush to get off the phone.
“Sure, sure,” I tell Christina. “First week of March in Madrid. I’ll put it on my calendar.”
“Perfect. Can’t wait to catch up! Ciao ciao, Rafael!”
* * *
The next week goes by in a whirl of money and sex. They’re two of my favorite things, but lately, I adore the latter much more than the former.
The paper and its finances are a time-suck of epic proportions, and David and I roll up our sleeves to un-screw the situation. At the end of every day, my mind drowns in numbers and loose ends, and each day’s to-do list grows exponentially.
I actually enjoy the challenge. If I can make even a little bit of profit on this deal, it will be a hard-won miracle. I wasn’t lying when I said those things about free speech and freedom of the press. I believe them.
Because part of me is beginning to think this paper should be saved in some fashion. Maybe not the form that it’s in now, an outdated paper product. Maybe it would be greater revenge on Edward Lavoie to change his newspaper to make it unrecognizable. To put my Miami-Cuban stamp on it. The thought is heady, and at night, when I drift to sleep with Justine in the crook of my arm, I dream of my own media empire.
And Justi. Being with her again is downright psychologically intoxicating, or maybe it’s just the lust I’m feeling every minute of every day I’m around her. We’d put aside our fight after the condom broke, and I think my talk to the paper’s employees impressed her. Regardless, I’ve made peace in my mind that I’m here on business, and I’m enjoying the hell out of fucking her. She’s indicated the same, and any twinge of guilt I might have had about this absurd proposition is absolved.
We’re both getting what we need.
One night, after we’ve had a late dinner at that same tapas place she’d taken me to the first night I was here, we go back to the villa. As always, I open her car door, and instead of guiding her inside, I kiss her deep and forceful, right there in the driveway under the stars.
“I’m going to blindfold you tonight. And do some other things,” I murmur, and she shivers. I’ve been planning this for hours, ever since I drove by a sex shop at lunch and stopped to buy a few toys. “Do I have your permission?”
When we were younger, I’d always make sure I had her okay to do anything even slightly crazy in bed. I’d been hesitant to be dominant at first, and I had wanted her to know she could say no to anything, at any time.
“Yes,” she whispers, leaning in to kiss me again. She tastes like sparkling water, and her tongue is cool.
When we get inside, I point at the stairs. “Go to the bedroom. Take off your clothes and cover your eyes. A scarf, that sleep mask you have, whatever. I don’t care. Wait for me on the bed.”
