pulling her close. Their bosoms touch, and it seems to Kennedy that all activity on the horizon has ceased. The ebony woman with her hair cut dangerously close to her skull and the heavily painted-on gold lip gloss has evaporated. The twin, coked-up white models, poster children for the Dolce & Gabbana Women’s Collection—their chatter ceases, as does their motion. And even Michael, caught leaning forward, mojito poised at his lips, glass tilted, ice cubes twinkling, seems to have faded into darkness. Now it’s just Kennedy and this lovely creature, Makayla, and the feel of her breasts, soft and warm, on her own. And Kennedy experiences a quickening desire to close the gap farther still and feel this delightful thing’s hot breath on her own mouth and tongue. But instead she smiles, gliding back to a safe, respectable distance, Pebbles morphing into Earth, Wind & Fire, and now her horizon is in motion once again.
Kennedy makes eye contact with her husband, and in that unspoken language they’ve shared and perfected over the years, she lets him know that it’s time to leave.
Michael understands perfectly.
Chapter 8
The room key slides into the card reader and the LED blinks green. Michael pushes open the door and stands aside. Kennedy enters, followed by Makayla.
The drapes are open, providing an unobstructed view of the city. Makayla utters “Wow” while going to the window. The Hudson is dark, almost black, and moving slowly, giving the illusion of molten lava. A large cruise ship, its lights ablaze, has docked at the Manhattan Terminal adjacent to the West Side Highway. Michael excuses himself to grab some ice. He returns a moment later as Kennedy is pulling off her boots and getting comfortable on the bed.
“What can I get you to drink?” Michael asks of Makayla, opening the walnut minibar near the television and dresser.
“I’m in the mood for a Piece of Ass!” She flicks a glance over at Kennedy as she laughs.
“Oh, BEHAVE!” Michael replies in his best Austin Powers voice. He bends down and checks out the minibar.
“A beer is fine,” she says, taking off her pumps and reclining on the chaise lounge, crossing her legs at the ankles.
“Ken?” Michael asks his wife.
“Mind whipping up a rum and coke?”
“Sure, baby.” Michael fixes her drink. He hands it over and takes a beer for himself.
“A toast,” he says, holding his bottle in the air. “To new friends . . . and swimming with bowlegged women!”
“Ignore him!” Kennedy shouts. Makayla takes a swig from her beer and tips her head back, closing her eyes.
“Mmm, this hit the spot!” she says. Kennedy sips her drink as Michael goes to the clock radio and flips it on, searching for an appropriate station. He finds one—smooth jazz—and turns it up as Kennedy raises her glass overhead and moves it along to the slow jam.
“Can you dim the lights?” Makayla asks, opening her eyes to look at Michael. “That is, if you don’t mind.”
“Good idea,” Kennedy seconds.
Michael switches on a lamp by the bed and cuts off the overhead light. He takes off his jacket, draping it on the edge of the bed by his wife’s feet. He leans against the wall, dividing his stare between Makayla, who is watching him, and Kennedy, who is observing Makayla.
“This is . . . nice,” Makayla says.
Kennedy considers her for a moment more before rising from the bed and going to the chaise lounge. Makayla tracks her silently. She sits on the edge of the lounger, draping an arm over Makayla’s legs. Makayla tips her beer up to her lips and takes a swig. She swallows hard, staring into Kennedy’s soft eyes. Makayla puts the bottle down as Kennedy scoots up, positioning herself near Makayla’s thighs. Kennedy uses her fingernail to trace figure eights on Makayla’s honey-colored skin. She focuses on the action for a moment, no one saying a word, the music soft, hypnotic, and soothing. Makayla emits a mellifluous moan.
Kennedy finds the hem of
Kennedy makes eye contact with her husband, and in that unspoken language they’ve shared and perfected over the years, she lets him know that it’s time to leave.
Michael understands perfectly.
Chapter 8
The room key slides into the card reader and the LED blinks green. Michael pushes open the door and stands aside. Kennedy enters, followed by Makayla.
The drapes are open, providing an unobstructed view of the city. Makayla utters “Wow” while going to the window. The Hudson is dark, almost black, and moving slowly, giving the illusion of molten lava. A large cruise ship, its lights ablaze, has docked at the Manhattan Terminal adjacent to the West Side Highway. Michael excuses himself to grab some ice. He returns a moment later as Kennedy is pulling off her boots and getting comfortable on the bed.
“What can I get you to drink?” Michael asks of Makayla, opening the walnut minibar near the television and dresser.
“I’m in the mood for a Piece of Ass!” She flicks a glance over at Kennedy as she laughs.
“Oh, BEHAVE!” Michael replies in his best Austin Powers voice. He bends down and checks out the minibar.
“A beer is fine,” she says, taking off her pumps and reclining on the chaise lounge, crossing her legs at the ankles.
“Ken?” Michael asks his wife.
“Mind whipping up a rum and coke?”
“Sure, baby.” Michael fixes her drink. He hands it over and takes a beer for himself.
“A toast,” he says, holding his bottle in the air. “To new friends . . . and swimming with bowlegged women!”
“Ignore him!” Kennedy shouts. Makayla takes a swig from her beer and tips her head back, closing her eyes.
“Mmm, this hit the spot!” she says. Kennedy sips her drink as Michael goes to the clock radio and flips it on, searching for an appropriate station. He finds one—smooth jazz—and turns it up as Kennedy raises her glass overhead and moves it along to the slow jam.
“Can you dim the lights?” Makayla asks, opening her eyes to look at Michael. “That is, if you don’t mind.”
“Good idea,” Kennedy seconds.
Michael switches on a lamp by the bed and cuts off the overhead light. He takes off his jacket, draping it on the edge of the bed by his wife’s feet. He leans against the wall, dividing his stare between Makayla, who is watching him, and Kennedy, who is observing Makayla.
“This is . . . nice,” Makayla says.
Kennedy considers her for a moment more before rising from the bed and going to the chaise lounge. Makayla tracks her silently. She sits on the edge of the lounger, draping an arm over Makayla’s legs. Makayla tips her beer up to her lips and takes a swig. She swallows hard, staring into Kennedy’s soft eyes. Makayla puts the bottle down as Kennedy scoots up, positioning herself near Makayla’s thighs. Kennedy uses her fingernail to trace figure eights on Makayla’s honey-colored skin. She focuses on the action for a moment, no one saying a word, the music soft, hypnotic, and soothing. Makayla emits a mellifluous moan.
Kennedy finds the hem of
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