Page 25 of The Square

I’m out of control. I know this. I’m a fucking fiend for her body. I don’t even let her put clothes on anymore. I make her walk around naked. I’m hard all the time.

We don’t talk much.

I’m not sure I have anything to say.

And she doesn’t ask any questions.

Oh, every time I come at her she gives me this look like… Again?

But then one touch, one twist of her nipple or one pull of her hair and she forgets that she wasn’t in the mood because she is suddenly in the mood.

And I don’t know if it’s lust, or the heat, or why the fuck she gives in like this. The only thing I know it’s not is fear.

She likes it.

I think that’s why we don’t talk.

And I don’t care anyway.

All I know is that the depression lifted back in the Cook Islands and I’ve got her to myself for a few more hours. Just a few more hours and then we’ll be docking at the beach club in LA and heading to the airport, where we’ll get on a jet to London, and then this whole thing will be over.

We might never talk about it again.

Or maybe we will?

Maybe she’ll tell Alec all about it when we get him back and he’ll say something like… Fok, Fortnight. I need to see this side to you.

And then we’ll all become the same kind of freak I am. We’ll all go dark, and get dirty, become purple instead of blue and do things that we’ll never talk about.

I kinda hope it goes that way.

But it won’t.

I know it won’t.

It’s late afternoon when we get to our boat slip at the very tip of the dock in the west channel of the LA Harbor. We’re not members of this club anymore either, but that’s not enough to prevent us from handing over a fat wire transfer to keep the yacht safe until such a time as we decide to come back for it.

Maybe we’ll never come back for it?

These people don’t care. They got their money and as long as that wire transfer comes in every month, they’ll shut the fuck up and do what I tell them.

They even give us a complimentary room at the hotel next door so we can freshen up and wait for their concierge to arrange a private jet to London.

“We can just take a commercial flight,” Christine says, once we’re in the room. It’s weird being on land again after so many weeks on the sea.

“Fuck that,” I say. “I’ve been frugal for years. Time to spend that shit.”

She’s brushing her hair, looking at me via her reflection in the bathroom mirror.

“What?” I ask.

“You,” she says.

“So?”

She shrugs. We’re doing that shorthand thing again.

What she’s really saying is, Who the fuck are you, Danny Fortnight?