kiss, then released him. “I got to run.”
“Hey, let’s both be late to work.”
“Celebrate after.” She blew him another kiss. “Good luck—and I love you.”
“Love you too, Mercy. Don’t be too late.”
“He’s got so much talent,” Mercedes explained to three of her subordinates around the coffee urn. “He just won’t compromise. That’s what’s held him back.”
“Well, I think it’s just wonderful that you’ve stood by him for so long,” said one. “So many couples these days...”
“It isn’t easy,” Mercedes confessed. “Rock stars—well, you know...”
They nodded, waiting to know more.
“Drugs and booze,” confided Mercedes. “Wild parties in hotels. Teenaged groupies. All that backstage sort.”
“And you put up with Sean despite all this?”
“I have to—because I love him,” Mercedes said tragically. “I know what he does, and I don’t care.”
“That’s life in the fast lane, for sure,” said someone, as Mercedes returned to her office. “Sort of makes you wonder.”
“She loves him,” concluded someone else. “That’s all that matters to her. Poor kid.”
Twice each week she took a long lunchbreak in order to see her latest therapist. Trafford knew about it, of course, and, of course, he approved. She kept it a secret from Sean.
Dr Ruckerman was a fiftyish and heavyset woman who looked as if she ought to be wearing tweeds and decimating grouse, but she favored pastel polyester pantsuits, and she was listening to Mercedes instead.
Mercedes shifted squeakily upon the leather chair, wishing for a mirror so she might evaluate her composure.
“It’s hard to say,” she said with difficulty, “but I hate him.”
She cast her eyes downward, almost blushing. She’d practiced. “I understand that it’s hard to say,” prompted Dr Ruckerman. “I also understand that you feel this need to express such feelings.”
“I love him, but he’s changed—changed from what I loved. He’s lost all ambition, given up his dreams. He’s a stranger to me now. Sometimes he frightens me.”
“Has he threatened you?”
“Several times—whenever he’s drunk.”
“Is that often?”
“Every night. He’s so typically Irish.”
“Have you tried to urge him to seek help?”
“That’s when he becomes abusive.”
“Does he have a job?”
“I support him. He used to perform in rock bands, but he never made it. I guess it was because of the drugs.”
Dr Ruckerman checked her watch and her notes. “I think next time we should talk less about him and more about you.”
Nicki opened another bottle of French champagne and started to pour. “Sean—where’s your glass?”
“Two’s my limit tonight,” Sean begged off. “I got to get home to the wife and kids.”
“Shit! You and Mercy got kids?”
“Soon, I hope. We’re working on it. But she’s expecting me. Working late herself.”
The studio was crowded and just a bit sweaty, and the party was ready to break up. Billy Spree and entourage were trying to sort out limos, the media were finishing notes and caviar, and tomorrow an interested public would know that Billy Spree was reforming The Terminators with Sean O’Brien doing lead vocals. Billy Spree could raise the dead with his guitar, but there his genius ended, and by now even he knew it.
“Where’s she at? ” Nicki poured champagne onto his foot. “We’ll take a limo and go pick her up.”
“Got a presentation to finish. Mercy’s turned yuppie on us.”
“Shit.” Nicki missed his nose with his coke spoon, passed the phial to Sean. “That woman sure loves you. Can’t think of anybody else who’ve kept together so long. Been...?”
“Married for over ten.” Sean returned the phial.
“Oldest married couple on earth. What’s your secret?”
“Vitamin E.”
“Yeah? Really?”
“For sure. You squish the suckers open, and then you spread the oil...”
Mercedes wiped her cunt once more, then held some folded tissues there until she snugged the cotton-lined crotch of her panties securely in place. No wet seat on the cab ride back to the East Village.
Trafford remained sprawled across his office couch, watching her dress, smoking a cigarette, his cock limp upon his right thigh. “What’s the rush?”
“My husband, remember?”
“So what?”
“He’ll start to raise shit if I’m not back.”
“So what?”
“I told you what he’s like.” Mercedes fitted her breasts into her bra. “He’s a drunken jealous sadist.”
“Word is that you have a perfect marriage.”
“Whose word? Sean’s? I let him believe that. I have to. He’d hang me up by my thumbs if he thought I was in love with someone else. In love with you.”
Trafford sat up on the couch. “Hey, lover. Pull off that brassiere and come back here.”
He gripped her head and pushed her face onto his cock.
She readily accepted its familiar length deep into her throat. She could identify a dozen