An Easy Dare Read online

  “Not that long ago,” Gabe said. “And not that much has changed. Not as much as you think. I could still break your face, for example.” He clenched his fist—the same fist that had gotten him into so many fights, and so much trouble.

  “You do that here and you’ll be carried out of here on a fucking stretcher in handcuffs,” Cort said.

  Gabe’s face broke into a smile, followed by a laugh. It was the mocking laugh that used to make Cort stomp off toward home, muttering about how he’d get him “one day.” Apparently that day still hadn’t come—when Gabe laughed, Cort got the same look on his face as he did when he was a boy.

  I took his arm and pulled him gently. “We don’t have time for this.” I turned my eyes to Gabe.

  “You’re right,” Cort said. “We don’t have time for this trailer-park bullshit.” I always thought it was funny how Cort used that trailer-park line—even when we were kids—even though Gabe had never actually lived in one. But this probably wasn’t the best time to bring it up. Actually, Cort, he lived in a shithole near Magazine, not a trailer park. Facts, dear husband. Facts.

  When Gabe saw me take Cort’s arm, he unflexed his fist and backed away. He looked at my hand on Cort’s arm as if it were a giant spider then took another step back and turned around. As he walked away, Cort called, “You many have some cash now, but you’ll never have any class! You will always be white trash!”

  Gabe didn’t turn back. He simply faded into the crowd.

  “My God, he turned into a hottie,” Delilah said, her face still aglow from the near scuffle. “I guess he’s available now, huh, Cat?” She winked at me.

  I stopped myself from gouging her eyes out.

  With Gabe gone, I felt a hole in my chest—an aching, gaping hole. I wanted to find a corner and hide. Cry it out with Anna, maybe. But a blushing bride is never left alone, and soon I was surrounded by heaps of congratulations and chatter, and I had to play the part of newlywed.

  It was a role I now considered with growing dread, and we hadn’t even gone on our honeymoon.

  -5-

  During the wedding planning, Cort had insisted that we go straight to the airport from the reception. At first I thought it was too much to shove into a single day, but then he said those magic words – the sooner we get on an airplane, the sooner my parents will back off – and suddenly it wasn’t such a bad idea.

  Besides, right now I wanted to be as far from New Orleans as possible, and I was looking forward to my first island vacation. I was relieved to finally be alone with my thoughts in the limousine, getting lost in the lights whizzing by the window as Cort gloated on about our “big day.” His words ran into the sounds of the city—sounds that you never seem to notice until you step outside of your life.

  One of Cort’s favorite things was being recognized, not necessarily as “Cort,” but as a Belrose. When we went to dinner or drinks with friends he would always act like he was embarrassed. He’d say, “Can’t I go anywhere without people wanting to talk to me?” and pretend to be tired of all the attention, but I’d known Cort my whole life, so I knew better. The awkward little boy that still lived inside of him thrived on being treated like a star and loved being respected, even in a superficial way. When we were teenagers, Anna and I secretly called his act “the Cort Show.” The show would be running full-force in Martinique, where he’d wanted to go for our honeymoon. His family still had holdings there, just like the other ancient French families of New Orleans, back when they had been the Bellarousses. There was timelessness to the Belroses, but not the charming kind I imagined when I was a young girl. They were elegant, but in the same way as fine drapes—lavish, but blocking the light.

  My sleep was restless on the plane. I dreamt of my past. The way Gabe would kiss me under the streetlights. The way our clothes stuck to our bodies as we embraced in the rain. The way his hands felt on my body, the way I would feel him grow hard against me. I woke up wet and ashamed.

  I need to focus on something else, I thought. Something productive.

  I turned toward Cort, who’d fallen asleep next to me, then took out my sketchpad. I never thought of myself as any great artist, but sketching always took my mind off things and Cort’s face was so angular that it was easy to draw. Gabe had always been more of a challenge. Especially that scar on his chin—the one he got when he was eight years old by trying to help me up a fence.

  By the time Cort woke up I’d drawn three sketches and the pilot announced we were approaching Martinique.

  Cort glanced at my sketchbook. “Doodling, huh? Well, at least you don’t have to pocket a bunch of old trash to do it.” He winked.

  As soon as we landed we were met by three men who waited on us hand-and-foot. Cort brimmed with pride. When we got in the car he told me the same story I had heard so many times, about how his family came here from France and built the sugar plantation that eventually led them to enjoy centuries as New Orleans royalty and blah blah blah. Many years ago a great uncle had turned the old property into an island resort. When we got there it was like the island’s king and queen had ascended. Only the queen was feeling pretty bitchy.

  I’d wanted to go to Jamaica, where we could lounge around anonymously, but Cort frowned and said, “Everyone in my family honeymoons in Martinique. It’s where a Belrose marriage starts.”

  All of these traditions. I guess that’s what comes with always being rich. I wouldn’t know; I came from a family of strugglers, the kind that had worked for people like the Belroses for generations.

  Not anymore, my father said, when Cort told him we were engaged. Now, we have our own status.

  “What’s wrong with you? You look miserable. Put on that big smile I can’t get enough of. The people here have gone through so much trouble to make you feel like a queen.” We were sitting in the back of a luxury sedan, being taken to the resort. “You’re a Belrose now. It’s your duty to approach the world with a smile.” When I failed to be coaxed into smiling, he winked and said, “I guarantee you’ll be smiling later tonight.”

  Sex with Cort. It wasn’t exactly the part of the honeymoon I looked forward to most.

  I wondered how I would feel at this moment if Gabe had never come back. It was like he was a ghost returned from the dead. It had been years since I’d seen him and here I was starting my honeymoon, the way he held me on the dance floor brought me right back to those rainy days and I longed to escape from Cort, even if just for a few minutes, to indulge myself in the memory.

  But there was no time. The Cort Show was all set to begin. The staff brought us to a dining room and set forth one of the most lavish meals I’d ever seen. More than eight waiters served our table and as the courses zoomed by, the stark light of reality brought me back in check. Cort was right. I was a Belrose woman now.

  By the fourth course an intoxicated Cort was looking at me the way he always did when he wanted to “get randy,” as he liked to call it—a phrase I’d never heard anyone in their twenties use. I once asked Anna if any of her phone clients ever used the phrase “get randy,” and she told me that if she ever used a phrase like that her clients would probably hang up in her face. They want a sweet tart who likes to screw, not a hag that’s too afraid to use the word ‘fuck,’ she’d said. And if some guy told me he wanted to get randy, I’d say, Who the hell is Randy? This is Viv. Wrong number. Click.

  Now every time Cort said he wanted to get “randy,” I thought of Anna hanging up on him. Thank god I never told her why I was asking.

  No matter what he called it, I wasn’t in the mood to get randy or anything else on that first night, so instead I suggested we have drinks at the beach bar after dinner. For Cort, liquor and the Show always trumped sex.

  The tropical bar was set against a backdrop of gentle wind and swaying palm trees that served as the entrance to a calm and quiet beach, blanketed with soft white sand, not the grainy kind the Gulf spit out. After an hour of tending a bar stool I was able to slip away and leave Cort holding the court
of his paid listeners. Tonight, like many nights, he couldn’t see that his audience was indulging his bragging because of his status. Other times people let him rant because they were uncomfortable, but mostly it was because of his wallet. He could be such an ass, but that was one of the tragic things about him. He couldn’t see it. I liked to be as far from the Cort Show as possible when it was in full gear.

  As the Martinique employees pretended to hang on every word of Cort’s tales—true and untrue—I quietly slipped off my shoes and made my way to the beach. The gentle crashing of the small night waves gave me comfort as the sand sneaked quietly between my toes. The night sky looked like a souvenir plate, filled with varying hues of purples and blues. Hints of pinks smeared across the sky like it had it had been done by a toddler with finger paints. It was well past sunset and the sky bled with so many unusual colors. I wished I had my sketchbook. I tried to look for things to add to the willow tree, but the beach was so clean that the only thing I found were a few half-cracked seashells that wouldn’t be able to hold the weight of glue.

  As I walked the beach I had another thought: I wish I could feel that water. I considered abandoning my clothes and taking off into the water so I could feel the gentle waves run across my body. The coolness of the water would feel so good—refreshing.

  Unfortunately, my moment was interrupted by one of the hotel attendants calling my name. I turned and watched him run toward me in his white dress uniform.

  Good thing I didn’t get naked.

  “Ma’am, Mr. Belrose said he wants to see you immediately,” he said.

  I raised an eyebrow. “Immediately, huh? Tell him I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  The attendant took off again. I lingered for a few minutes before making my way back to the beachside bar to see an even drunker Cort still weaving stories.

  “Oh, hey,” he said, tipsily lifting his glass. “Where’ve you been? I sent for you a long time ago.”

  “Yes, I know you ‘sent for me,’ but I wasn’t ready yet. I was walking the beach. Thinking about sketches.”

  “My wife has a little hobby,” Cort said, to the staff. “She likes to doodle and pick up trash from the street.”

  He laughed.

  “You shouldn’t leave a man alone on his honeymoon,” he added.

  “You’re not alone,” I said. “You’re entertaining all these people, and I think you’ve kept them past their quitting time.”

  Several of them shifted off their seats, thankful that I’d let them off the hook.

  “Not yet,” Cort said. “I’m not finished with my story.”

  Cort was drunk with a reluctantly rapt audience, so now he was wearing his Southern gentleman personality, but he was too flagged to be any sort of gentleman.

  Time to pull the plug.

  “Cort …,” I said.

  “You’re right, you’re right.” He looked at the anxious staff. “I must be an idiot, trying to stay here when the lady wants to leave, am I right?” He winked and stumbled from his stool, completely perceptionless. “Let’s get to honeymooning, mon cherie.”

  If he and Anna were friends, I’d have her school him in the art of dirty talk. But for now, I was left with “randy” and “honeymooning.”

  Either way, we never got around to it. He barely made it up the stairs and passed out as soon as his head hit the pillow. In the morning, as he slept heavy with a hangover, I left with my sketchbook to explore the island.

  As I walked through a patch of tropical paradise that looked like scenes I had only seen on postcards or travel shows, I thought of Cort and Gabe. They were always the two men in my life—Gabe, the man I’d loved since forever and Cort, my lifelong friend. For years I was the only friend Cort had because he’d pissed everyone else off in one way or another. He once said that was why he loved me—because I understood him.

  Funny, Gabe used to say the same thing.

  Part of me always thought that I would end up with Gabe, no matter how long he had be gone, even as the days slipped into months and then years without hearing from him.

  I thought of this as I sketched flowers and leaves. About ten feet from the shoreline I discovered an abandoned pair of flip-flops and I decided to sketch those, too.

  You’re just like these shoes, I thought to myself. Left behind because of an unreliable force.

  Halfway through the picture I stopped sketching and thought: You’re truly losing it, Cat. You’re comparing yourself to a pair of flip-flops.

  Gabe may have abandoned me, but at least I knew he was safe now. For so long I’d wondered what happened to him, where he was, if he was safe. I probably didn’t even know this new Gabe, who wore designer suits and threw around flash cash. Still, when we danced, something stirred inside me.

  He left me. I needed to remind myself of that. I wouldn’t be toyed with and I wouldn’t be deserted and that was exactly what Gabe did and was doing. I’d repeat this to myself until Gabe stopped invading my mind—gorgeous, sexy Gabe, with his rugged face and strong hands.

  Dammit.

  I laid my sketchbook safely on dry sand, dangled my arms at my sides and shook them. I imagined I was shaking Gabe out of my mind and body. This was a trick Anna taught me not long after he left. Visualize that’s he’s leaving every thought of your body. Visualize. Visualize, she’d say, over and over. Can you picture it? Can you picture it? After a few minutes, I told her that the only thing I pictured was me taping her mouth shut. She just shrugged and said I wasn’t doing it right.

  The fact that I was doing this same exercise on the beach of Martinique on my honeymoon proved how desperate I was.

  I shook my hands until they ached.

  Get out of my head, Gabriel Augustine. I’ve moved on from you. I’m focused on Cort. He made promises to take care of me and my father. All you did was break promises.

  When I felt consumed with this new resolve, I quickly charged my way back to the hotel.

  As I walked the lobby I caught Cort in a shadowy corner, the furthest end from the elevator. He was irritated and speaking in hushed tones. I hoped that he wasn’t looking for me, but it appeared he wasn’t. The person on the other line had his full attention—until he caught my eye. He mumbled something quickly, ended the call and strolled across the room smiling.

  “Good morning,” he said.

  I glanced at the clock on the wall. “More like afternoon.”

  “Well it wouldn’t be a celebration if we didn’t start it off by partying and entertaining the people. I’m sure it’s been exciting for them to have an actual Belrose visit the property.” Cort Show aftermath. He smiled. “How’s your hangover?”

  I didn’t bother to tell him that I hadn’t been drunk. I’d only had two drinks. Not that he ever noticed those things.

  Then again, Cort was typically lit after only a couple. He could never hold his liquor, not even during his years in the frat.

  “Who were you talking to?” I asked.

  He looked at his cell phone like he’d only just discovered he was holding it. “What? Oh, that? It was nothing, just a few problems with one of the restaurants. Don’t you worry about it, Mrs. Belrose. We’re on our honeymoon.”

  He clasped my hand and led me into the nearby elevator. His hands were coated in a blanket of sweat. He’d had this problem ever since we were kids—sweaty palms. It was made even worse by the softness of his hands; the kind of hands that never saw a hard day’s work. Touching them now made me think of how Gabe’s hands felt. Strong. Thick. Focused.

  Cort eyed me as we rode up. He’d only just woken up, but his blond hair was already brushed and styled. Anna always said he looked like one of the preppy bad guys in an 80s movie.

  “You know what I’m feeling? I’m feeling …,” he said, smiling.

  Don’t say it, I thought. Don’t say it.

  “…randy,” he finished.

  Wrong number. Click.

  The smell of his fresh hair gel and clean cologne mingled in the space of th
e elevator and suddenly I felt nauseous.

  When the elevator doors opened Cort squeezed my hand tighter and sped-walked us down the hallway. Instead of carrying me across the threshold, he threw open the door and smothered me with kisses before we even made it inside, his tongue clumsily searching my mouth as always. After the door knob clicked, he pulled me close—close and tight. Too tight. I closed my eyes, dropped my sketchbook and tried to take in the experience, but I couldn’t shake this unnamable awkward feeling, this internal stiffness. I could smell Cort deeply now, past the grooming, past the cologne and as the faint scent of his hangover sweat intensified with his arousal I found myself growing increasingly sick. I wanted to stop, until I reminded myself where I was and what choice I had made. I’m sure I wasn’t the first “Belrose wife” to be less than thrilled about consummating her marriage.

  Cort’s hands moved me toward the bed and fumbled with the buttons of the uncomfortable linen dress Delilah had me buy—it’s so Martinique, she’d said, and you better get used to charging up Cort’s card; it’s a wifely perk isn’t it? Especially for someone like you. She’d looked at me like I was one of the piss-soaked drunks that arose in the dirty, misty-morning humidity that is only New Orleans, where the drunks surfaced from the dark corners of the Quarter, only to be garnished by a few straggling, naïve tourists who would spend the rest of their lives telling the story. It didn’t matter that Delilah regarded me this way; it was the norm with her—so much that it wasn’t even offensive anymore.

  This is what I am thinking of in my wedding bed, I thought. My sister-in-law and Bourbon Street boozers. I looked up at Cort as he put himself inside me.

  “Love you,” he said.

  I smiled. “Love you.”

  I do love him.

  -6-

  “When you describe sex with Cort I feel like I’m watching C-SPAN,” Anna said, as she fumbled with the cherry stem from her drink and leaned over the bar of the Blue Note to snatch a napkin. Anna always ordered “candy drinks,” as we liked to call them. Not that she didn’t drink her share—she could take on a beer-guzzling southern frat boy any day—but she was in her element with a Hurricane, Cyclone, Jolly Rancher or whatever was the latest pop for the tourists. I liked to tease her about it, but it was also one of my favorite things about her—it was the symbol of her childlike wonder.