Fifty-One

I appreciated that. But, "You're wasting your time."

"I don't think so. However, even if I'm wrong, it's worth it. I find you interesting and very attractive."

Huh? "You're asking me on a date?" I said in complete disbelief.

"Yep."

"Why?"

"Did you hear the part about interesting and attractive?" He paused but I didn't say anything. "Okay, six o'clock then. I'll pick you up. I know where you live."

I spent more than a few minutes that week thinking about what Jack said. Truth be told, the failure to see an article published had upset me. My plan had failed. Doubly bothered me because I knew that my cowardice in what I sent was the reason. Do I trust him? Does it matter? He has me over a barrel. He found me; Winterthorne could.

And sometimes I thought about Jack himself. Truth be told in that as well, he wasn't unattractive. About ten years older than I was -- that was nothing outrageous in my book -- and not bad-looking in a sandy-haired, everyday-guy kind of way. Take him for a romp?

It had been longer than I normally went. But the last few months since Trey had me in an odd mood. It had been building for a while. Somehow, the thought of one-night stands wasn't as appealing as it once was. What I wanted was a fuckbuddy, someone regular who wouldn't judge or demand anything.

Mostly it was fear. One of the girls at the store had caught something. It brought home that I couldn't know the history of the guys I met out there, and some of them were probably man-whores. I was a statistic waiting to happen, despite carrying my own condoms with a strict must-use policy. I needed a partner who'd scratch my itches while I scratched his in a fairly exclusive manner.

There was another reason, one I barely admitted to myself. I was lonely. The thought of repeated contact with someone that didn't involve putting their stuff in brown paper bags was appealing. I didn't need or want romance, but a little conversation beyond, "What's your sign?" was attractive.

But Jack's presence and what he represented scared me, and STDs and loneliness weren't necessarily impetus enough.

I let myself out, not inviting him in. As I passed by, I caught the quick, head-to-toe checkout from the corner of my eye.

"Do I pass inspection?" It came out a little more acerbic than I intended. Honestly, as long as a guy exercised a modicum of politeness and didn't blatantly stare, touch, or make a crude comment, I was okay with him being attracted to what Mother Nature intended him to be attracted to. It's possible I took a glance at how a guy's jeans fit myself. I was just edgy, and it made my tone sharp.

"Well, I had plans for a three-star French restaurant, but I guess those are out the window," he said. "Mom and pop Italian okay?" I felt bad about my casual clothes for an instant, and then I looked at his cords and oxford shirt and realized he was kidding.

"Anything, as long as it's not Chez Emerick's." That surprised him. "Let's just say the Emerick family and I have a history. Plus, the food's a little too ..." I made a face.

"Well, of course the food is too ..." He made the same face. "What do you expect from people who don't realize there shouldn't be an apostrophe-S on the end?"

I looked at him for the first time with something other than annoyance or wariness. It wasn't quite respect; let's call it an appreciation for the humor and quick intelligence. "I like Italian."

"First things first," he said as we settled into the corner booth. "There are three things I want to accomplish. One of them is to convince you to let me see the other tapes. Another is to find out what you wouldn't tell me the other day." The waitress appeared.

"Okay," he went on as she left with our orders. "Will you let me see the tapes?"

"What is the third thing?"

"To spend a pleasant amount of time flirting with you. Now, will you let me see the tapes?"

"Who says I want you flirting with me?"

"Lila!" His tone was reproving although he was smiling. "It's very important to me to get the first two things out of the way so that I can do my best job at the third without interruption. So, can you please focus?"

I looked at him with exasperation, but he didn't budge. "Right now, I'm not certain if I'll show you the other tapes. And there's nothing else to tell you from the other night."

He settled back, undaunted. "Are you afraid of the Winterthornes?"

"Are you saying I should be?"

"Are you going to answer every question with a question? And the answer to yours is that, if I could figure out who you are, then he probably can too." I couldn't stifle the reaction. "Lila, have you tried to blackmail him?"

"No!" My response was fierce.

"So," his voice was gentle, "are you afraid of the Winterthornes?"

"Yes. Are you going to tell?"

"I know you don't particularly believe me, but I'm not trying to screw you."

"Really? Wasn't there that third thing you wanted to do tonight?" Bravado was something I had learned years back.

It was the first time since I'd met him that I managed to jolt him out of his calm, self-confident persona. There might have been the faintest trace of flush, then he recovered. "Not in that sense either."

Before I could make another flip remark about maybe being offended, he pushed on. "You sent the tapes because you wanted something published. That didn't happen. So, you didn't accomplish anything except, maybe, get yourself in trouble if Winterthorne follows the same line of reasoning I did."

"He won't." The minute the words left my mouth, I regretted giving him more leverage. Sure enough, he pounced.

"Why?"

"Because I made it look like a burglary. There's a broken window and sand like someone climbed in."

He smiled and gave a little salute. "I'm not sure that will be enough, but I applaud the effort."

That didn't do anything to reassure me. I wasn't some forensic genius and didn't know squat about breaking into places. I sat there mulishly. Food arrived and we dug in. I knew he wasn't done, but I was hungry. He tried a different tack.

"Why did you want to ruin his marriage and maybe screw up his election chances? I assume that was your goal."

I didn't answer. His head tipped as he studied me. "Suddenly I'm wondering if that assumption was wrong." I remained mute. "Lila ..." The first hint of exasperation. "If you want to do whatever it is that you wanted to do, you're going to have to trust someone. It might as well be me. I promise that everything you say right now is off the record until you give permission."

"Is that legally binding?"

"No." At least he didn't try to lie. I already knew the answer. You don't spend twenty or more hours a week with your nose in books and not learn all kinds of little things. "But it's unethical and would kill my reputation as a journalist if I breached it. I'd never get people to trust me again, and I'm too young to retire."

All of a sudden, I knew I was going to cave. The fear of Winterthorne coming after me; the weariness at being alone with this secret; the belief that I clung to, that I was a good person no matter whose genes had made me or how much my life wasn't "proper" ... it was overwhelming.

"My original plan--" I broke off. He didn't push, just waited. "My original plan was that stories of his infidelity would get published, letting him know that someone wasn't afraid to use the videos. Then I was going to send him an anonymous letter. All it was going to say was: 'I will know if you do it to someone again, even once. If you do, I will release all of the other ones to every news station in New Jersey and New York. If you don't, you'll never hear from me again.'"

I waited for the interruption, either to ask why Winterthorne would care once one video was out -- after all, damage done -- or to question how I would know if he did, but it never came. Jack had set his fork down and was now waiting patiently. A sudden fear struck me. "Are you recording?"

"No. I never record anything off the record. Too much chance for a mistake to happen."

I believed him again. He went back to listening. I took a deep breath and committed myself. "Mr. Winterthorne would know what 'it' meant. He would know that I meant he needed to stop raping women."

That made twice in one night I'd thrown him off his stride, only this time it was with shock. He paid me what, in retrospect, was a compliment: he didn't ask me if I was sure or tell me I must have been mistaken.

"And the other tapes have evidence of this?"

I nodded.

After a moment of thinking, he continued. "And you didn't send them because, by giving him an out with no blackmail demands, he might not feel forced to hunt you down?"

I nodded a second time.

"I think that was super optimistic." He read my expression perfectly. "Don't panic yet. His first guesses are probably either one of the women or some rival. We can think this out."

My mind tended to latch onto other things when it was afraid. Now I decided that the cacciatore was unbelievably delicious and required my full attention plus much sauce-sopping with bread. I looked up to find him studying me.

"The two concrete links are the stuff in your house and the fingerprints. We'll hide the first. For the second, I'll wipe down the tape when I get back."

"The Star-Ledger has one. I thought I was careful with them, but apparently, I wasn't."

"I'll propose an I'll-show-you-mine-if-you-et-cetera deal with my buddy. He'll agree. Every surface will get smudged in the process. I won't tell him."

"Protecting your scoop?"

"That's a very distant second reason." Looking back, that's the instant I knew that, if this guy wanted to do it, I was going to say yes. Not out of gratitude, I didn't use sex that way. Out of sheer liking him. "Tell me, without detail please, what's on the other ones," he said.

So, I told him about the first one I watched. Then about a couple of others where the sex got rougher than the women were happy with. "But there was this one ..." I fumbled to be clear. "I mean, in all of those others, a lawyer is going to claim the woman gave some kind of consent, and that there was a misunderstanding, and that Mr. Winterthorne was under the impression that blah-blah-blah ... even though it would all be total bullshit.

"But there was this one where it was plain as day. It started like that one I sent you, out in the living area. He has other cameras, and I guess the guests thought it was fun to play with one because this video changes hands a lot. Anyway, this one woman drinks too much and ends up passed out on the couch. You can hear people making jokes about her when the camera zooms in, but it's pretty tame. You hear Mr. Winterthorne say she can sleep in the guest room.

"Then it cuts and restarts in his bedroom. And she's there on the bed naked. She's not tied down, but she's totally wasted. And then that fucker and this other guy come into view and they're both naked too. And then they just use her. She sort of wakes up as they start, and she starts saying, "No, no, no," over and over again and sobbing. They don't stop. They just take turns and sometimes even at the same time they ..." I trailed off, too embarrassed to say what I'd seen, but Jack understood.

"You don't need to go into any more detail." He signaled the waitress. "Let's go."

He pulled up in front of my house after a silent car ride. "I'd like to see them, but it's late. Will you let me tomorrow?"

"Yes."

As I started to get out, he spoke again. "I said I wanted to get around to flirting tonight, but the mood just isn't there anymore."

I nodded in agreement.

"But I would like to mention one thing. I said before that I thought you were attractive. That goes doubly now, and I'm not talking about how you look. Will you let me come by tomorrow to see the videos, and then will you go out with me some day next week where we don't talk about Winterthorne at all?"

"Okay."

"To which?"

I gave him my best Mona Lisa smile and left him a happy man.

"Give me the tour," was his opening salvo the next day.

I hesitated, standing there in the front hall. I hadn't let a male in the house since 1975, not that many came knocking. But, in for a penny, in for a pound.

"Dining room there ... kitchen ... living room."

"I'm seeing a pattern." He gestured toward the end tables in the living room. "Books everywhere."

"I read a lot."

"Cool. Upstairs?"

I hesitated, but his face was guileless.

"My room." Glance in, no move to enter on his part. Score a point for him. "Guest room that I use for books."

Now he stepped in, running his eyes over the plank-and-cinder-block shelves. "Mysteries, science fiction, fantasy, romance." He turned to me. "A real genre fan."

"That's not all I read," I said defensively. I pointed to shelves on the other side.

"Relax. I'm a sci-fi fan too." He looked where I pointed. "Steinbeck, Hesse. Oh!" He pulled down a well-worn paperback. "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. That was one of my favorites."

"Mine too."

Back to the hall. "Bathroom. Parents' room. I never use it." I waited for the inevitable question, but none came.

Halfway down the stairs, I heard him say gently, "You're not unknown. Especially to someone with newspaper archives at their disposal."

I tensed.

"I'll never ask you about that. You can talk if you want, and I'll listen. But it's none of my business otherwise."

Okay, a dozen points for this guy.

We went through five of the seven VHS tapes I had left. "Two of them, plus the two I sent, seemed consensual," I explained.

"Will you let me take some of them?"

"No." There was still a small fear that he was just a good con man and, tapes in hand, I'd never see him again except when Winterthorne hauled me before a judge.

He accepted that answer immediately, another point for him. "You don't have a movie projector. Will you let me take the four movie reels?"

I considered and then nodded yes.

"I suggest you rent a storage unit out in PA and put the player and videos in it."

"I can't afford one."

He pulled out his wallet. "Here's enough for a couple of months." As I started to protest, "It's a business expense, and having them here is a problem if someone comes looking. It's how I got interested in you, remember?"

I did as he suggested the next day.

The date that week did not go as envisaged. It's obvious what I expected: a drink, a meal, a suggestion to which I'd say yes. Then I'd deal with disentangling from him if needed.

Instead, there was a drink, a meal, and then a suggestion of an after-dinner drink at the pub. I almost demurred, remembering the last time I'd left the pub, but then I laughed at myself. That was years ago. It's probably not even the same bartender.

Jack got me to talk about my life in general terms, which segued into a conversation about books that lasted the rest of the drink. We didn't have the same tastes, but there was enough overlap that we could argue about the relative merits of Dune and The Lord of the Rings.

"Come on. There's a reason it won both the Hugo and the very first Nebula Award."

"Yes, but do you honestly think that more people have read it and loved it than Tolkien?" I countered.

"No, but I--"

"Then I win this argument," I interrupted, "and you buy us another round."

He wasn't ready to give in. "But--"

"Another round? You know, for the winner?" I interrupted again, smiling.

"I'm driving," he grumped. "But fine." Settling back into our booth, I watched as he got another beer for me and a soda for himself. He wasn't ripped under those clothes like some guys I'd known, but that wasn't a turnoff. I wasn't some prima donna who only dated studs. Honestly, an average bod and an average face were just fine as long as they contained a pleasant personality and bedroom habits that weren't selfish.

Jack turned back and saw me watching him. He smiled. I answered his smile, feeling warm about later. Which made the end of the evening surprising.

The kiss was soft and gentle. I started to lean in a fraction, anticipating a second one, when he said, "Good night, Lila. I had a wonderful time."

Huh?

"I'd like to go out with you again. I'll call you tomorrow if that's okay. By the way, did you hide the tapes?"

Somehow, I stumbled out an answer, feeling awkward.

"I'm glad. I'll call you tomorrow."

I watched him walk back down my sidewalk in shock. I'd had guys turn me down before. Of course I had. In six years of getting some occasional relief, there were guys who didn't find me enticing or weren't on the lookout. I didn't take it to heart. You were either attracted or you weren't, and I wasn't some stunning beauty. I'd turned down a dozen or two guys myself.

But this was the first time a guy who was obviously interested hadn't followed the metaphorical trail of breadcrumbs. I didn't know whether to laugh or be indignant, so I settled for being bemused and fumbled in my bedside drawer for some battery-powered help.

We went out again the next weekend to a movie and then a burger at the diner.

"I'm not really into boyfriends but" -- I shrugged -- "I'm twenty-four and need some kind of social life, so occasionally I'll go out with somebody." That seemed safely euphemistic and obscure.

"Not the same guys?"

"Not really."

"So, the fact that you've gone out with me twice makes me kind of special?"

I laughed in answer to the twinkle in his eyes. "Oh, so special!" I mocked.

"So, do special guys get a third date?"

I'd already done my calculation about a steady partner, so I didn't have to think too much. "We'll see about that after we get the judges' score for this time." That got a flash of expression around the eyes that I couldn't read, but the smile didn't dim.

Hopefully, that score will be a good one. I'm not picky, Jack. Just don't be an asshole, and don't roll over and fall asleep before I get mine.

And sunuvabitch if that son of a bitch didn't end things exactly the same way. This time I made sure there was more than just a peck on the lips. He got tongue. He got two hands on the back of his neck, which automatically meant he got the twins against his chest.

"That was nice," he said with a huge grin. He leaned in for another quick kiss. "Can we do this again next week?"

Jesus, Jack! It's been four months. Throw a girl a bone. No pun intended. "Sure."

Okay, third date's a charm, I told myself, primping in the mirror. We were headed into the City for some Off-Off-Broadway show he'd heard was good. That was followed by dinner at a tiny trattoria in the Village.

"The article's going to be published," he announced as our entrées arrived. "There's still some fact-checking to be done, some Is to dot and Ts to cross with the attorneys, but we got one of the women to confirm that he wouldn't listen to the word no. She demands to remain anonymous, but it's enough."

I felt a shot of adrenaline course through me, brought on by both fear and excitement. This was the first he'd mentioned anything about the paper's plans. "There was stuff on the films I gave you?"

He nodded. "One was just sex. Two had totally drunk women. They were in no condition to say either yes or no but, if that's all we had, the lawyers would balk. Consent while drunk can be a crapshoot with a judge and jury, I'm told.

"But one tape had some paydirt. It started fine, then that second man you saw -- who's Winterthorne's best friend, by the way -- came in. The girl was high as a kite, but she clearly says, 'Not him. No. Get him out of here.' They ignore her even though she never stops protesting."

"I wish to God this country allowed castration."

"Your cheeks have gone red."