Chapter 3
His eyes opened. He stared through the darkness toward the ceiling. He felt Barbara in the bed with him, lying with her back toward him as far on the other side of the bed as she could get.
He glanced at his watch, squinting to see the luminous dial. Three o'clock. He felt out of breath, as if he'd been running--or frightened. He must have been dreaming.
Bob searched his memory, and he knew what had awakened him.
Queer! Fairy!
It wasn't true!
He tried to shut the scenes from his mind, but they wouldn't go. How had she known about Paul? How long had she known? All the time? Is that what she was punishing him for? There had to be some reason!
The memory washed over him. Paul. Slim, blond, sensual lips. College. Beer party with an unsuccessful attempt to pick up two girls.
They went to his room. Paul had never been there before. He'd never even met Paul before that night. Yet they went into his room with their arms around each other, playing at being more drunk than they really were, the way horny young men will do after a beer party.
Creak, on the bed. Laughter. Foul language about cunts and pricks and fucking and how they'd missed out on it all at the end when the boy friends showed up. Horny cocks. More laughter. The urge to urinate, the smell of stale beer.
Creak, off the bed. Sneaking down the quiet hall into the john. Much splashing as they pissed at the same time. A soft hand on his cock suddenly. Frightened eyes looking into hot ones. A few pumps, and his cock was hard again, the way the teasing blonde girl had kept it all night.
Bob rolled over in bed and groaned, trying to shut the rest of it from his mind. He heard harsh breathing and clamped the pillow down over his head to shut it out. But it was his own, the way he'd breathed that night, sitting on the toilet seat with Paul's head buried between his thighs, the blond hair bobbing up and down, making him groan with the intense pleasure of his lips and tongue sucking, licking his cock.
Bob sat up in bed quickly, sweating, his chest heaving up and down. He looked over at Barbara. She was sleeping soundlessly. He could see the rise of her hip under the covers.
He got out of bed and staggered into the bathroom, feeling his stomach going around. He closed the door and turned on the light and looked into the mirror, his arms shaking as he leaned against the sink.
His face was pasty white, his lips nearly blue.
"It's the vodka," he told himself, whispering harshly. "That and no dinner."
His stomach churned, and he was violently sick. When he was finished, he sat on the toilet seat and shook. Then he groaned with guilt, because that was the way he'd been sitting for Paul.
He remembered hitting Paul afterward. Balling his fist and smacking him solidly in the groin when he rose up to present his quaking prick to Bob's face.
Paul had cried out, fallen, cursed vilely, and vomited. Then Bob was pushing him down the stairs of the rooming house, kicking him in the ass to get him moving faster. At the bottom of the stairs, Paul threatened to get even--some time, some place. And that was the only time he'd seen Paul again.
But the memory lingered. And the guilt. And the fear that he'd make his promise good. Perhaps he had.
How else would Barbara have known?
He got off the toilet and shut out the lights. In a moment he went back toward the bed. He lay on his back and wanted to cry. It wasn't fair. None of it was fair. He had to do something about his marriage or go out of his head with frustration.
Tomorrow. He would explain it all to Barbara tomorrow. Maybe they could start over somehow.
Bob rode in the elevator toward the top of the building. It stopped at another floor, and he glanced at his watch as a fat man got on. He was half an hour late already. He was never late for work. Neither was Mr. Crandall.
The door slid shut, and the box hummed from somewhere. The fat man puffed heavily and tried once more to button his suit coat. The elevator stopped again, and the fat man got off. Bob had the urge to kick his fleshy butt out the door to speed him up.
When he got to his floor, he turned toward Crandall Investments and hurried down the hall, through the door, down past the row of peering secretaries, and into the shelter of his office. Janice was standing beside his desk, putting a memo on it.
"Good morning, Mr. Miller," she bubbled. "My, you look like you took my advice and had two more for good measure."
He hung up his coat, feeling strange. He'd thought the episode of yesterday would be over, that she would be back to her old casual but proper self. He was wrong. The sparkle in her eyes told him that she was counting on seeing him tonight.
"Janice...." he began.
She must have sensed it. "Before you do anything this morning, Mr. Miller, Mr. Crandall wants to see you--immediately."
He stopped. "What's he want?"
She shrugged prettily. "I don't know."
"I mean, what did he act like?" "Upset."
"Upset? About the report?"
"I don't know, Mr. Miller."
He watched her leave the room. All thoughts of Janice and Barbara and anything connected with them left him. He felt apprehensive. It was a good report. But there must have been something wrong with it after all.
He put his coat back on, and then he was standing in front of Crandall's desk, watching the old man watch him over the tops of his half-glasses, peering from black, beady eyes in an alarming way.
"I was hoping I'd get to study your report last night, Miller," he said. "Do you have it with you?"
He looked at Bob's hands, seeing damn well that he didn't have it with him.
"I left it with your secretary last night, Mr. Crandall," he said, frowning. "I saw her bring it in myself."
He removed the glasses, already tired of the inquisitor game.
"I don't seem to have it here," he said, thumbing through a stack of papers. He pushed a button on his desk, and Betty came in.
"Yes, Mr. Crandall, I put it right there," she said positively, pointing at his desk corner.
"All right, Betty, thank you." When she was gone, he leaned back in his chair. "What the hell's going on here?" he questioned rhetorically.
Bob didn't know what to say. "I'll check my own desk again, Mr. Crandall. But I know I gave it to Betty."
Crandall shrugged and raised his eyebrows. "You gave her something," he said. "But it wasn't the report."
Bob didn't say what he was thinking. "Yes, sir," he said instead. "I'll take another look, but I know...."
"All right...."
The conversation dwindled away. The black eyes stared. Bob turned, the feeling of having been sentenced hanging over him for some reason.
He went to Barney Grafton's office and looked inside. The desk was clean and empty.
"Mr. Grafton's not in today."
He turned and saw Wilma, his secretary, grinning foxily at him.
"Where is he?"
"He phoned in sick," she said, running paper into her typewriter. The keys clacked noisily. "I'll bet," Bob muttered.
He went back to his office. Janice wasn't around. He closed the door, apprehension gripping him. That bastard Grafton had the report!
To prove himself right, he slammed his drawers open and closed. The fourth one made him pause and stare. The report was in it, stacked neatly on top.
That bastard!
He paused again, feeling his fingers shaking. That was the drawer he would have put it in if....
He searched his memory. Then he was going through the motions of what had happened yesterday afternoon when Janice had brought it in. He'd been sitting in the chair with his cock stiff, flustered....
When he was through, he couldn't remember anything except the pretty, bubbling form of Janice, the way his prick throbbed. Maybe he had given Betty the wrong sheets of paper.
Insecurity washed over him. No more vodka, he swore to himself. He went out the door to Crandall's office. He handed the report over the big desk. Crandall peered at him over the tops of his glasses, playing inquisitor with him once more.
Back in his office again, his hands shook. He was going to hell. He was getting there very fast and with a good deal of help. Christ, he didn't know how he could even survive the day without more sleep.
Damn you. Barbara!
Damn, damn, damn!
He was nodding in the chair when the phone rang. He picked it up, and his voice was husky with sleep.
"Miller, come into my office."
That's all there was. No pause for response, no warmth, nothing. A death knoll. Crandall's voice reverberated through his foggy head ominously, keeping him ragged and apprehensive.
The black eyes stared over the tops of the glasses again. It was inquisitor time once more.
"I'm not happy with this report, Miller," Crandall said.
"I know it's not the popular position, Mr. Crandall, but--"
"I'm not talking about the position. I'm talking about the report. Your argument against merger has the rambling, defensive hysteria of a bachelor talking against marriage. You completely ignored the potential market over ten years of better than a million dollars that will ensue from a merger. The report is inadequate, Miller. Do it again, with all the factors."
Bob watched him push the papers across the desk, his eyes never once leaving Bob's face. Bob stood there a moment, feeling his feet prickle inside his shoes. Nothing was going right any more!
"Miller?" "Yes, sir?"
The glasses came off. A ghost of a smile appeared. He was human after all!
"I don't like having personal affairs show up in your work. You are married, aren't you?"
"Yes, sir."
There was a slight nod. The glasses went back on and the silvery head bowed toward a file of papers.
"The meeting's been postponed a week. I'll give you until Friday to get your report straightened out. That's all."
Bob turned, not yet hung but sentenced. He went back to his office in a daze. He sat down and tried to read through the report, but his eyes blurred. He picked up the phone to call Barbara. There was still no answer.
She was gone when he got up this morning. She wasn't there for lunch. It was nearly five again, and she was still gone. He slammed the phone back into the cradle.
So that's the way it's going to be! he thought. He thumbed the button for Janice.
"Yes, Mr. Miller?" she greeted him, bubbling over as usual.
"I hope it's going to be Bob before the night's over," he said. She grinned, understanding. "Bob-bob-bob!" she giggled, moving her head up and down between her arms in pantomime of sucking his prick. She looked up and grinned again.
He had to laugh at her. "You're a pretty good teaser," he said.
"I'm good at a lot of things, Mr. Miller. By the way, I told Wally."
"What?"
"He thought it was a fine idea!"
She reached under her short skirt suddenly and did something with her fingers. He could see her knuckles bunching up at her crotch, flapping against the material of the skirt. He stared in amazement.
"What are you doing?"
"Scratching, Mr. Miller. I've been wanting to do this all day, but I can't out there in the office. I'm glad you have a door so I can come in and scratch my pussy. It itches. I've been thinking about tonight for so long my pussy leaked, and now I've got the itchies. Ahhh, that's better!"
She pulled her hand out from under her skirt, her arm lifting it high enough for him to see the sausage-skin tightness of her panty hose as it cupped her puffy-lipped cunt. He sat at his desk and looked along the top of it right into the vee of her thighs.
"Better cut that out," he said. "I'll get another hard-on."
"You mean you don't have one now? Goodness, we'll have to do something about that!"
She pulled her skirt up slowly. She pushed her hips and pelvis forward, making the front edge of his desk put a crease in the soft flesh of her thighs. The smooth, nylon-covered skin gleamed in the light. The skirt bunched above her abdomen. She held it there with her dainty fingers and then slowly rocked her ass back and forth, fucking his gaze with her cunt.
He could see it under the panty hose. The blonde curls were mashed, and her pussy lips were flattened. She spread her thighs a little, and the petals to her pussy parted slightly-just enough for a whiff of her aroma to come to his nostrils. "Ohhh, my God," he breathed quietly. She laughed warmly and dropped her skirt. "I'll bet it's hard now," she said.
He looked down in his lap. He could see the front of his pants bulging upwards, and he could feel his dick pounding hard. He nodded and licked his lips, knowing that what had happened last night was nothing more than physical release. He was still horny as a brass band emotionally.
"I'll meet you after work at Zorin's, all right?" she said. "Wouldn't look right if we walked out together."
"All right," he said, swallowing hard. He watched her close the door, and then he moaned. He didn't even look over at Barbara's picture.