Part I: Kellerman
Kellerman isn't altogether sure how not to come off as a asshole. As a senator, bleeding money and power, former secret service agent, he should be used to this. Coming off as an asshole. But that's one situation where he would really rather not to.
Sara sits opposite his desk, slouched on the chair which is used to couture and Armani.
For sure, a world away from what Sara is wearing.
It's like looking at her for the first time tonight, and not because three years have passed.
They should have been hard years on her, taken their toll. Although he probably shouldn't store that much information in his mind about a woman he tortured—it's unhealthy, and he has standards—he knows Sara has just turned thirty-one. Still young. Too young, for Kellerman's liking. He has a thing for older women. Years of alcohol and drug use might have aged her, true, slammed her with an extra decade. Made her more his type.
But she looks astonishingly her age, with eyes so wide they will give her an ingénue air till her deathbed.
Not that she looks like an ingénue now.
Her black dress hugs her body in ways he pretends not to notice. The V-neck plunges, deep—she has more of a cleavage than Paul would have expected from such a skinny frame. She's lost weight since he last saw her, and not weight she could afford.
But the real change isn't her clothes.
No.
It's the provocative slant of her mouth, as she stares at the wall. Her posture, both legs gathered atop the arm of the chair, holding her face propped with one fist, like she can barely keep herself awake. Please, her body says. You're boring me to tears.
Before his eyes is the teenager then young adult Frank Tancredi must have dealt with, many times. He gets a flash of sympathy for the old man.
How did I get into this situation? Paul thinks. Become the father figure to a woman I've tortured, then saved, only so she could toss her life down the toilet?
"I realize this is uncomfortable," he says.
Silence.
"My aim isn't to humiliate or infantilize you."
He taps his thumb against the side of his index. Maybe she's mad, not because he bailed her out of jail, but because it sheds light on the fact that he's been keeping an eye on her. Has witnessed her recent downfall—well, downfall is probably too grand a word for it.
Since Michael died, six months ago, Sara's path has been a spiral into chaos. Kellerman has watched it from afar, with a kind of pain he can't really account for. The powerlessness was the worst. What was he supposed to do, when he caught wind of her hitting the bars? What right had he to barge into her life and give her a big brotherly sigh of disapproval? Come on, Sara. You're better than this. Do you think this is what Michael would want?
No right at all. The PI he's hired to keep a constant surveillance on her didn't sit idle. Pictures of Sara, French kissing guys on the hoods of their cars, and doing more things, which Kellerman, out of decency, left sitting unwatched at the bottom of the pile. Not two weeks after Michael's death, she was getting drunk, and screwing men who, frankly, made Kellerman look like Bachelor of the Year.
Everyone copes in their own way.
Not like he was in a position to pass judgment.
But pretty soon, it was morphine, and Kellerman felt something dislodge, deep inside him. Sara could have gotten over her husband's death, and a relapse into drinking. But morphine meant business. And she was not going to shake it—not if she kept going like this, anyway.
How did she get her hands on it?
Men, mostly. Men who were courting a prison sentence, or had a long-lasting love affair with jail. Men who weren't known for being especially gentle to women.
Kellerman sighs.
That's your cue to step in and be the good guy, Paul.
Of course, there was no way to be the good guy to a woman you half-drowned in a bathtub without coming off as an absolute jerk.
We all have our crosses to bear.
"If that's what it's about," he lies, "I haven't been stalking you."
A grin teases the edges of her lips. She still refuses to make eye-contact.
"I got a call from the chief of police at the Chicago PD. The guy's a friend. Owes me a few favors. Anyway, he knows I've got a—a history with you."
He almost said 'interest', but history is more neutral. Doesn't let on Paul has an agenda.
"It didn't sit right with me to leave you sitting in jail for the night."
"Gee, Paul," she says. The first time all night he's heard the sound of her voice. "I wonder what that looks like. The pile of things that sit right with you, and those that don't. I am fascinated by your moral compass. That's twice you've stopped me from going to jail, now. You must really think that's bad for me. But then, you thought torture, death and I were a pretty good fit. Curiosity is killing me. What is it about seeing me in orange that doesn't sit right with you?"
The grin reaches full fruition. She still hasn't looked at him.
"Maybe it's the fact that you can't see me, while I'm in prison. That it's somewhere even someone with your connections can't go. Am I getting warm?"
He is.
He shifts in his chair. Clearly, there's no use in taking her for an idiot. "Do you want me to apologize? For Gila? Because I—"
"Paul, really. I don't care if it's the been the decisive event in your redemption arc. Save it for your priest. Or your memoirs. By the by, write me a cheque when it hits the libraries. I want three percent off the royalties if you use the torture story."
He stares at her a while.
It occurs to him he's only ever met Sober Sara, and he has no idea what to expect from the woman who sits before him now.
"You've changed," he says.
"You haven't."
A knot sits in his stomach. He's got to say it, anyway. Even if she's not going to hear a word of it. "I want to help you, Sara."
Her laugh bleeds into him, clean as a slaughter knife.
"I do. You can't fall back on your father's money anymore—I know that's all gone. I want to give you a way out of this."
"Let me guess. Rehab."
"To start. But it doesn't have to be rehab. You can get clean any way you want to—I'll help you, no matter how you wanna go about this. Anyplace you think would be right. A log cabin in the woods, a ski resort in the Appalachians. I can send you scuba-diving in Alaska or sight-seeing in Paris. Anything. You have your whole life ahead of you."
"My whole life."
He doesn't like the way she repeats this. Something about it rings funny. A private joke only she can hear.
"You could be anything you want. You're smart. You're young. You—"
She pivots to face him.
It snatches the breath from his lips.
Sara was always beautiful. He remembers thinking so, the first glimpse he caught of her out his rolled down window as she strode down the street. Not a lick of makeup, fresh from an overdose, and glowing. It was absurd, he thought. And a little insolent, if you considered the rest of humanity.
But he has never seen her like this, has never seen her beauty sharpened into a knife that she wields expertly.
"You know, Paul," she says. "That story sounds kind of familiar. I think I've heard it before."
The way his name comes out, he knows that she knows, the effect she has on him.
"You want to help me. It's hilarious how many men in my life want to help me. You, especially. No, don't take offense. We're past hurting each other's feelings."
She bites her lip, puts her legs down on the floor. He catches the gleam of a red heel. Her arms splayed over the chair, as she takes possession of the premises, takes control over the conversation—over him.
"Let's play it down, all right? Your little savior fantasy. You send me wherever the fuck I can't get my hands on morphine. Alaska. I liked the Alaska thing. So, you send me to Alaska. I go clean. There, I dive into the ice every day, and alone with my thoughts, in the middle of the sea, seeing sights only a handful of scientists have seen, I confront my feelings. I cry as they pull me up and enter the first stage of grief. I come back to America a changed woman. You and I sit in this office again, where a slice of blueberry pie waits for us—no, that's too on the nose for you. Still, it has a kind of cyclical touch to it. I don't exactly thank you, you don't exactly apologize. But we're aware we've changed each other's lives for the better. Finally, you've made amends, and you can sleep guilt-free knowing you helped put me on a better path. The kind of path you're on now, right? It makes it to the sequel of your memoirs. Ideas for a title? Man of Steel. Where does that leave you and me?"
She joins her fingers over her lap.
Paul sits, immobile, incapable of an answer.
"Maybe we part with a handshake, or a respectful nod. Maybe I tear up a bit, and you hand me a tissue. That's about right, isn't it?"
He stares at her. Finds he cannot do anything else.
"That's the best case scenario," she resumes. "For your fantasy."
He makes himself break out of his paralysis. "I hadn't thought of it in such terms."
"But, now that you have."
He sucks in his bottom lip. "I suppose it's not the worst ending for either of us."
A spark catches into her eyes. He wants to scream, ridiculously, that it's not fair for a drugged-out, malnourished woman who was sitting in jail not an hour ago to look so stunning and know it.
"You're going to go through all that trouble," she says, "all for a handshake? A few tears of gratitude? My God, Paul. Aren't you supposed to be a ruthless son of a bitch?"
"Thank you," he manages a dry answer. "I'm trying to quit."
She laughs.
It almost feels like a victory.
Until she speaks.
"Best case scenario, and you get, what? A paternalistic hug from me? For heaven's sake. Wouldn't you rather I just sucked your dick?"
His jaw comes loose. He must look ridiculous. The spit in his mouth fizzles out like he's turned into coals. Even if it hadn't, every word in his vocabulary has been wiped out.
She holds eye-contact. Looks serious as death.
"I—" he starts. Jesus. An actual stutter? "I don't see what that has to do with anything."
"Let me rephrase. You bailed me out of jail. Thinking, in exchange for the bail money, I owe you a redemption story."
"Sara, I don't expect—"
"Shut up. Of course you expect. You're a politician. I'm an addict. We both know the only true thing about this world is that nothing in it's for free. You gave me a get out of jail card. Now, you want me to quit morphine. I'm offering, instead, to suck your dick."
He fights off the thrill that crawls down his spine at the sound of it.
Stop it. Stop it, right now.
He's not about to take advantage of this woman. God knows, Paul did a lot of screwed up things in his life, but sexually abusing a vulnerable Sara is not about to make the list.
He forces out a sigh, which he hopes sounds more detached than he feels. "Look, Sara, clearly you're not—"
"Oh, you prefer the version that ends with a handshake, do you?"
She doesn't point her index at him. But somehow, the force of her stare pins him to the back of his seat.
"Don't make me laugh, Paul. Please. Tell me, what was your initial idea, when you were Lance the Addict? I believe a platonic relationship was only Plan B. You didn't intend to seduce me, wash Michael out of my thoughts, so I'd confide in you?"
He is aware, in the back of his head, that it's the first time she mentioned her dead husband. No change in her voice. No cracks in the façade.
"That was different. It was my job."
"So, you were ready to fuck me, back then—which by the way, would have been rape. You were willing to torture me and kill me. But now, you take issues with my going down on you in exchange for bail money?"
He really wishes he could get her to stop talking about going down on him. Come on, Kellerman. Sound cold. That's one thing you know how to do. "Again," he says. "I fail to see what point you're making."
Her smile whispers that she sees right through him. "My point is, you don't give a damn about morals. Well. Not too big of a damn. My point is, you don't want for me to get clean, so you can pat me on the back and play my daddy. You want the other deal. You just don't think I'll do it."
She gets up. In the matter of three strides, she's crossed over to his side of the desk. Paul has time to swivel on his chair, but she pushes him back in with the heel of her palm when he motions to get up.
His heartrate picks up.
His mouth is a desert. This is when I stop her. He thinks up the words, 'Stop, Sara. This is a bad idea.' Pictures himself grabbing her shoulders, gently, and putting her at arms' length. He sees all of it happen but for some reason, he just sits there. Even as she gets to her knees.
Heat flashes to his face.
He feels himself getting hard and, no, Jesus, no. This is not going to happen.
She's close enough for him to smell the lemon pie shampoo in her hair.
"So," she rolls the word, and it sounds sensual. But it might be that, when she kneels between his legs, anything she says becomes sensual. "Here's the deal. If you don't stop me, I'm going to give you a blow job. That's payment, for getting me out of jail. If I find myself in jail again, and you want to get me out—"
"Sara."
He manages her name in a groan, so primal, he can't really count it as a victory.
"What?" She feigns to frown. "You are a consenting participant, aren't you, Paul? You haven't frozen up on me."
He exhales. "No."
"Okay, good. I'm not as comfortable with sexual assault as you used to be. As I was saying," her hand latches around his belt.
Paul stops breathing. He can feel his erection pressing against the crotch of his pants.
"If you get me out of jail again—and you might have to—this is why you do it. Not remorse. Not a redemption story. I'd just like for you to own up to it, when you look in the mirror to shave in the morning."
She tugs the belt out of his pant loops. Tosses it on the floor. Tugs the zipper down with her teeth.
"Sara—"
The warmth of her breath against his boxer hits him, and his blood boils, because this is actually happening. And he's too much of a shit to do anything but sit there with his mouth watering.
"Oh," she says. "One last thing. If this goes into your memoirs, Paul? I want five percent, not three."
She yanks his boxers down and a sword of solid pleasure cleaves through his stomach as she takes him in her mouth.
He grips at the arms of his chair, leaves crescent nail prints in the faux-leather. A moan gets out when her tongue flicks against the head of his penis.
Maybe there's a few seconds there of retribution—a mild interest in teasing him. In taking power, maybe as complete as he ever had over her. Maybe more.
Because right at this second?
There's no denying the effect she has on him. And he feels, in a very real way, that he would die if she stopped what she's doing. Though maybe that's just him being an asshole again.
She makes him yearn for it, for a beat. Sucks on the tip, runs one slow finger down the length of his shaft to feel him shudder.
Quickly, though, she starts working him with a mindset wholly bent on the endgame. Her rhythm is factory-fast and crushingly effective. It crosses his mind this is not the first time she gets down on her knees to get something from a man, and he knows he'll feel like a piece of shit in the morning. His breath quickens, fills the room, and a vague sense of alarm fleets by, almost in reach. That the door of his office is unlocked. That anyone could walk in.
His hands burn to grab the back of her head, sink his fingers into her hair. But he doesn't know if he could stop himself from urging her down on him, and he won't be that man—will hold on to the fact that, at least, she controlled every second if it.
Pleasure pools down his stomach, a hot wave of nuclear white. He grinds his teeth. Hope he has the sense not to cry out in ecstasy like this is his first time.
"Sara," he breathes. She keeps up her pace, and he feels himself building toward climax. Tries to gather the spit and the decency to warn her.
Not that she can't tell what is happening. His hips rock despite his good will. She takes him deep in her throat, and though he manages a ragged, "Stop," lets him come in her mouth instead of pulling away.
He hears rather than sees her spit a mouthful of cum on the carpet.
Absently, he pictures himself trying to scrub the stain out tomorrow, and cannot bring himself to regret this.
A flash of strawberry red fills his vision. He blinks, in time to see her walk back to the visitor's side of the office, grab her purse, and wipe her lips.
She seems to move in fast-forward, or maybe it's just him, stuck in slow motion. "You're leaving?"
Her eyes meet his over the desk. "Of course. What do you think I'm going to do? Spend the night? Sit in your lap? Watch the morning news with you?"
There doesn't seem to be an appropriate answer.
Her tone is anger-free. Really, aside from those first few moments of teasing, where he thought he could trace the traces of a grin against his cock, nothing about what just happened felt personal.
As he stares at her, he tries to piece back together the woman who pressed a burning iron to his chest and jumped out of a window to escape him.
But he can't.
It occurs to him, black on white, riding this strange moment of clarity as the tension evaporates from his body, that the Sara who stands in front of him doesn't care about their history. There is no rage at the thought he tried to kill her, at the pain he put her through.
Untethered.
The word flashes before his eyes.
This is a Sara who has stopped caring about anything.
What is right, or wrong, holds not the least bit of merit.
"Well," she says. "Goodnight."
Absurdly, he repeats, "Goodnight."
She slips out the door, and he sits limp in his seat, trying not to replay the last half hour, pretending the smell of sex and lemon pie shampoo is not prodding at the bounds of his sanity.