Pepperpot by Peekash Press

Author:Peekash Press
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: ebook, book
Publisher: Akashic Books
Published: 2014-03-20T04:00:00+00:00

V

I started college in 2001, thinking everything would be different. I was mistaken. I was homesick, sure, but the foreign students always are. To make matters worse, the pall of the terrorist attacks hung in the air like a shroud. After the initial rallying together in the face of a national trauma, things silently returned to the status quo, the mistrust of foreigners. It wasn’t exactly the best time for foreigners to be in New York.

Incomprehensibly, one of the people I missed the most was one I’d been in a hurry to leave behind. When I told Rick I was going away to study, he’d been upset but there was nothing he could do. I was beginning to feel suffocated by him and couldn’t pack my bags fast enough. It wasn’t that I didn’t like him. I did; our relationship was exciting. There’s nothing better than secret sex; I’d never been able to have any other kind. But Rick kept acting as though we were a normal couple—he threatened me with violence when he knew I was with another guy—as though he couldn’t have been brought up on charges as a sexual offender if my father found out what we were doing.

In those first weeks on the campus, however, I missed him, and I maxed out my credit cards on plane tickets for him to come up so we could be together almost every weekend.

When my father was finally confronted with the bill, he was furious. “Who the hell is this man you’ve been screwing?” he shouted at me over the phone. Across the ocean I could hear the single ice cube in his Glenlivet hit the side of his glass.

I was thrilled that he was jealous. “You don’t know him,” I taunted. I remembered Troy, the boy from my class I’d dated for a week in my senior year, just to see what his reaction would be. I’d invited Troy over to study with me in my room every evening. At the end of the week, my father had come into my room and told me that if he ever saw another boy there he would kill me.

“Sweetheart,” he said now, his voice low and soft, the voice I hoped he used only with me, “you mean more to me than my own life. You know that. I know these past few years have been, well, I know you’ve felt abandoned—you know why—but I love you.” He was flying to New York the following week.

I met him at his hotel in Manhattan one chilly October night while rain misted down in the streets. Beneath my trench I wore a black leather catsuit that had a zipper up the front. I’d packed an overnight bag that contained sexy new La Perla playthings that I didn’t even wear for Rick.

When I called up to his room, a woman answered. I knew her voice instantly.

He was still Mr. Movie Star. He wore tan leather boots, a sports blazer, and his jeans tight, as though they were a second skin.

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