Inn on the Edge (24 page)

I found it.

Josh made a gurgling sound and his erection leaped in my
hand, got even harder, although he was already so hard it didn’t seem possible.
Everything was in place now. My fingers tight on the magic spot, recalling the
Lesson and trying to do everything just right, I began to jiggle his cock.
Slowly. Up. Down. Up. Down. Then faster. Up, down,
up
, down. Then I
added the last, best part—a smart flick of my pinkie on the very tip of his
penis with each upstroke.

Stroke,
flick!

Josh gasped and stiffened. “Good god, woman! Who taught you that?”
He took a shuddering breath, his eyes screwed tightly shut. “But wrong, yes. So
very wrong.”

Stroke,
flick!
Stroke,
flick!

“Angie,” he said, barely audibly, “can I call you by
her
name?”

Stroke,
flick!

I brushed my lips against his ear. “Um. I guess. If you need
to. But I’d rather you didn’t.”

Stroke,
flick!

He whispered in my ear, his words falling in perfect time
with our lovemaking. “Nikki…oh Nikki, you’re the best. You’re so hot. Nikki…”

Stroke,
flick!

“Nikki!”

Stroke,
flick! Flick!

For some reason, I was making the flicking part of the
sequence more painful than I necessarily had to. Much more. He shuddered,
moaning, with each one.

Stroke,
flick! Flick!

His fingers were on the move again. They explored deeper,
deeper, deeper within me, making me moan softly. And then he made his own
surprise move, touching a mysterious something far inside me—my G-spot, it had
to be—then doing a crazy, wild, galloping, screaming
something
to it, a something
that had me gasping for air and shrieking and seeing fireworks. My nipples
burst with sensation, my clit sang for joy and I sprayed his hand and wrist
with warm juices. I thought I might pass out.

“Angie, my love,” he said.

“Josh,” I answered.

I clung to him, shuddering. Apexing. Again. And again.

Stroke,
flick!

Flick…flick…flick!

And then it was both of us, together, heaving and gasping,
flinging ourselves against each other, apexing in glorious multiple rushes. The
waves of feeling cascaded through us, ran rampant through our taut bodies then
drained slowly away. Josh and I slumped against the wall for a long, long time,
our hands still on and in each other, letting the warm shudders slowly
dissipate. Then… I hate this part. I know I’ve said it before, but I really do
loathe it—every time I hate it more. His fingers left my body and I was alone
again. I sagged against his still-trembling chest. After a moment I looked up
at him. He smiled shyly at me and we were ourselves again, just plain old Josh
and Angie. “Zora taught me that,” he whispered. “What do you think?”

“I approve.” I kissed the closest part of him, which was the
side of his neck. “Very much. Yes.”

Josh felt for my hand and brought it to lips. He kissed the
knuckle of my big finger, then took it into his mouth. “I’m glad,” he said,
sucking, his words all smooshed and wet-sounding.

And that was when it all came crashing down.

Mr. Abiba’s mocking, cackling laughter invaded our
stairwell. He was laughing at
us
. Piercing, high-pitched, crazy. Going
on and on and on. Cutting into me like icicles. Skewering me.

Bastard.

We froze.

“He hates me,” I whispered, my vision going dark as floating
black blobs crossed in front of my eyes. “He doesn’t love me, he hates me!”

“Maybe it’s both. Maybe he can’t tell the difference.”

“I don’t understand!” My voice rose at the end, a cry of
bewilderment. “Why does he act like this? Why is he nice sometimes and so
horrible at others? Why does he bother with Lessons? With Guides? With Tools?”
I wiped tears from my face. “Why does he help us have amazing sex, then turn
around and terrify us?
Why?
”

Josh’s eyes were huge. “Maybe it comes with the territory. With
being…whatever he is.”

The laughter died off. We didn’t move.

Josh stared at me, his face working. “Angie, I’m so sorry,”
he whispered. “Calling you by her name. That was so horrible! I don’t know what
got into me.”

“Hedid
—he
got into you.”

Mr. Abiba’s voice came booming from the dining room. “Angela
Taylor! Joshua Taylor!”

We stared over the banister, holding our breath.

“Time to stop playing and come to breakfast!”

I took a step back. Pulled my underwear up and patted my
skirt down. Breathed in controlled gasps. Pushed the last vestiges of my apexes
right back where they’d come from—Hell. I pushed away other things too. Hurt
feelings. Embarrassment. Fear. Josh tugged up his pants and zipped, looking
white-faced. We hesitated, not wanting to leave the safety of the stairs, not
ready to join whatever was passing for merrymaking in the dining room. Besides,
we were in need of a quick wash up, a touch of Mr. Abiba’s salve and new
underwear. At the very least.

“Come along, dear hearts! We’re waiting for you.”

Josh took me by my upper arms and turned me toward him.
“Listento me. Ignore him for a minute. Angie, I’m sorry. I’m
apologizing to you. I never should have called you by someone else’s name. Never.”

I stared at him, unable to formulate a response. What could
I say, anyway? That I didn’t mind having been called by someone else’s name?
That it had been all right for him to call me
Nikki
when his fingers
were deep inside me? Because it hadn’t.

“Angie, please. Say something.”

But Mr. Abiba’s voice cut through Josh’s anguished plea,
squelching any answer I might have come up with. “Join us, my darlings! No need
to hide!”

There was laughter again—a room full of it. Josh and I
jumped apart, skittish. “What the fuck is going on down there?” Josh whispered,
letting go of me, peering over the banister again. “Are they laughing at us?
We’d better hurry.”

I felt defiant. “Not yet. Let’s go back to the room and
clean up. Mr. Abiba can wait for five minutes. No, ten. I’m going to jump in
the shower.”

Josh whistled softly. “Ooh. A bit pissed off, aren’t you?”

Ten minutes later we tiptoed back down the stairs, scurrying
past the landing where we’d just had apexes. We gave one another a fortifying
hug in the hall outside the dining room, gathered our courage and went in.

And then we stopped short, baffled.

We were late—very late. Way more than “ten minutes plus sex
on the landing” late. The meal was well underway, almost finished. Half-eaten
plates of food littered the table, the familiar platters of donuts and pastries
and muffins all but empty. Our friends, leaning back in their seats, were
enjoying a last sausage, a nibble of blueberry Danish, a fat dripping
strawberry, a sip of coffee. They stared unabashedly at us, curious.

What on earth? Why hadn’t anyone told us the breakfast hour
had been changed? If it was meant to throw us off, it was working.

Mr. Abiba lounged at the near end of the table. He’d turned
around to see our grand entrance, his long arms artfully slung over the backs
of the chairs to either side. He watched us through heavy-lidded eyes, looking
pleased with himself, like a fat cat who thinks he owns the world after eating
an entire can of premium cat food, the kind with gravy and niblets, the kind that
costs more than a hamburger.

“Good morning,” he said, the edges of his mouth twitching.

He beckoned us closer, and timidly, Josh and I complied. Mr.
Abiba stared at me, his nose twitching. “Angela Taylor, my sweet. Ah! You
look…” He sniffed, long and deep. “Absolutely lovely. Ravishing, in fact.” Two
spots of color rose on his cheeks, making his smile look ghoulish.

Josh stiffened at my side.

My eyes flew to Zenith, who was sitting at Mr. Abiba’s side.
His arm was around her, hiding her hand. She nodded at me, her eyes shadowed,
giving away nothing.

Zenith.

I felt faint. How was she? How was her finger? Did she know
what Josh and I had been up to on the stairs? Did they all know?

Josh clutched my hand.

“So good of you to join us!” said Mr. Abiba, his eyes
lingering on my thighs, my hips, my belly, my chest, my face. Did he realize my
smile was fake? That I was holding on by a thread? That not fifteen minutes
before I’d experienced lust such as I’d never known existed and that none of
it, not one iota of it, had been for him? That what I felt for him was a cold
morass of loathing and fear? Mixed with—I admit it—admiration for his joy in
everything erotic and jaw-dropping awe of his sexual aids. I was a squirmy mess
but Mr. Abiba didn’t seem to be aware of it. Or perhaps he knew my every
emotion in great detail and he just didn’t care.

“My darlings! Do take a seat.”

He motioned for me to sit in the vacant chair at his side.
That left a seat for Josh at the other end of the table, about as far away from
me as possible. We shared a quick look. Why go to such lengths to separate us?
Did Mr. Abiba know what we were up to? That we were planning to engage his
Guides in active revolt?

“Sit
down
, I said.”

Reluctantly we sat.

Mr. Abiba took Zenith’s hand—the hurt one—in his own, lacing
his fingers with hers as if he owned her. Then, for my benefit and for Josh’s,
he held up their joined hands, making sure we were watching. We were. Lord, how
could we not be? We couldn’t tear our eyes away. Zenith’s hand was unbandaged.
Unbloodied. Unhurt but for a thin line of pale scar tissue near the tip of her
little finger…which was clearly, undeniably
intact
. I shot a quick,
horrified look at Josh, but his eyes remained glued on Zenith.

“All right then!” boomed Mr. Abiba, ignoring our dazed
reactions. He let his hand and Zenith’s fall to his lap, his objective
accomplished. “What a shame you missed our merry-making! We were telling
stories for each other—rousing tales of our histories, of our accumulated
sexual triumphs and erotic missteps. My goodness, such entertaining
adventures!” He laughed loudly, throwing his head back, his chest shaking. “You
simply
must
ask Geoffrey about the time he and Jonathan lost their minds
over their good friend who… Ah, but I mustn’t spoil the punch line. Delightful.
Delightful!” He stopped laughing then, as if a switch had been thrown. “But my
dears, time is passing. We must move on to the next item on the agenda. Angela,
Joshua—eat up! Zettia is already starting to clear the table.”

So they hadn’t been laughing at us after all? I frowned,
confused and unhappy. The laughter wasn’t important, not really, not in the
scheme of things. What I really wanted to know was what in God’s name had
happened to Zenith’s finger?

And then a voice, gloating and boastful.

Angela. Oh Angela.

Inside my head, insistent, speaking to me and only to me. An
invasion of my mind, an unwanted jolt of someone else’s thoughts where only
mine should be.

You think you know me but you don’t.

Mr. Abiba. Of course it was Mr. Abiba. Who else could it be?

You have no idea what I’m capable of. None!

I held my breath, trying to force him out of my head. It
didn’t work.

You want to play mental games with me? You want to engage
me in a game of endurance, of strength, of passion? Then we shall play! I shall
give the lady what she wishes for. Let it begin.

The presence in my head—Mr. Abiba—faded away. I was left
gasping for air, wondering what had just happened to me. Like so many other
things in this wretched inn, the words I’d heard were already starting to fade
away, going dim in my memory. I was left staring at the empty plate in front of
me, counting the tines on my unused fork, picking at the corner of my napkin,
wondering if I were the insane one, not Mr. Abiba.

“Eat,” said Mr. Abiba in his regular voice, all smiles now.
“We don’t have all day.”

I reached out and took the last blueberry muffin from a
platter, feeling heavy, as if I were moving through breakfast porridge. Josh
took an almond croissant but neither of us made a move to eat the pastries we’d
chosen. I didn’t feel well. My head hurt. My genitals ached. I couldn’t stop
worrying about Zenith’s hand. I stared glumly at my muffin, trying to remember
what the voice in my head had said. Why was it so hard to remember? And why did
I suddenly feel so odd? I stole a baffled look at Zenith but she was studying a
puddle of leftover syrup on her plate. Her face was carefully blank.

Mr. Abiba clapped his hands. “Today is special,” he
announced. He looked slowly around the table, letting his gaze fall on each of
us in turn. “It’s Wednesday, my lovelies. The halfway point of our journey
together! And what a journey it’s been. Ah, the memories we have shared! The
apexes worthy of heaven itself. The friendships, the passions, the sexual
explorations.” He sighed long and loud. “It’s enough to make an old man’s heart
sing. Indeed it is.”

I glanced at the others, thinking,
But he isn’t old
anymore! Haven’t the others noticed?

“And now, my dear guests, it’s time to thank you for all
you’ve given me. Zettia, leave those dishes be. Bring in the gifts!”

Zettia turned, holding a donut platter and an almost-empty
dish of those tiny sausages Logan adored. She smiled benignly at Mr. Abiba,
shaking her head. “In a moment, Adi dearest. Must you always be in such a
hurry? One must learn to wait for the good things in life.” She accepted a
stack of dirty dishes from Rhonda-Lynne, a handful of serving spoons from
Jonathan and a dispenser of fresh strawberry syrup from Vane. She stacked
everything slowly and neatly, picked it all up and disappeared into the
kitchen.

I shared a look with Josh. Was Zettia the only person
allowed to talk back to Mr. Abiba?

Who is she?
I wondered again.

In silence, Zettia bustled back and forth from the kitchen,
graceful and tall, so very tall. When the table was cleared of each plate and
napkin and salt shaker and stray blueberry and Mr. Abiba looked as if he were
about to expire from fidgety impatience, she carried in the first armload of
gifts, all shiny and perfectly wrapped in gold tissue paper and shimmering
ribbons and fluttering bows. She set them down in the center of the table, then
went back for more.

I was intrigued in spite of myself. Who doesn’t like a gift?

Mr. Abiba was smiling again. He held out an arm and caught
Zettia’s hand in his as she passed by him. “You were right, my dear! As always.
So much better to have a clean table to show them off. My darlings! Send the
boxes my way, won’t you? That’s right—scoot them down the table. Let me pass
them out! This feels like a birthday party. Oh what
fun
.”

Within a minute all the boxes were in front of him. Big
ones. Small ones. Long, narrow ones. Several boxes so large that they sat on
the floor beside him. Everyone at the table leaned forward, studying them,
wondering what they held, trying for a glimpse of a tag. Mr. Abiba wasted no
time. He took the nearest box—the largest one on the table—and glanced at
Rhonda-Lynne. He smiled. “Ah, yes. A perfect gift. Delivered especially for
you, my dear Embroidery Queen.” He laughed, delighted, like a child at a
birthday party. “And I wrapped it myself.”

Rhonda-Lynne sucked in her breath. “You did? For me?”

Graciously—the perfect, benevolent host in every way—Mr.
Abiba nodded. He nudged the box toward her outstretched arms. Rhonda-Lynne tore
away the paper, her face a picture of radiant glee. I studied her, trying to
remember how happy she’d looked when I got around to painting her portrait in
the Fine Arts Room, forgetting for a moment that I had no intention of painting
a single thing more, ever, for that monster.

Rhonda-Lynne shrieked. “A sewing machine!”

It was top of the line, spectacular, complete with hundreds
of stitches and programmable embroidery patterns. “The machine will facilitate
your finish work, if I’m not mistaken. Just as we discussed the other day?”
asked Mr. Abiba, leaning forward on his elbows.

The look Rhonda-Lynne gave him was one of pure joy. “Yes,”
she whispered, patting her new machine. “Exactly like we talked about. I didn’t
know you were actually listening.”

“I always listen. Don’t you know that?”

“I do now.”

We all did.

He passed out gift after gift. Geoffrey received a personal
note from a leading Hollywood director who promised to read his newest
screenplay, take him out to dinner and introduce him to the right people. Logan
received a camera with three scary-looking lenses. Tim received two tickets to
Machu Picchu. And so on. Each gift was better than the last, each perfect in
every way for its intended recipient. Soon there were only two gifts left. Josh’s,
and mine.

Mr. Abiba lifted a large oblong package onto the table.
“This one is special, even by my standards,” he said to my husband, his voice
wavering, sounding suddenly shy. “Come—stand next to me. Open it in front of
me, will you?”

My God. Mr. Abiba blushing? Would he never cease to amaze
me?

Josh rose to his feet. He made his way to the head of the
table and stood beside Mr. Abiba. I scooted my chair over to give him space. He
reached for the box. Picked off a bit of tape. Pulled back a flap of gold
tissue paper. Saw something that made him choke up, made his eyes fill with
tears. “I can’t,” he whispered, patting the torn paper ineffectually back over
it, shoving the package away. “No, it’s too much. I can’t.”