They say when a man wants an adventure, he travels. When a woman wants an adventure, she has an affair.
In the Gutter, those two are one in the same.
In the Gutter, those two are one in the same.
Next Week: Tennis Lessons by Nick Kolakowski
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Olivia Fairchild was tired of the high life. Those shiny cars
that zoomed her along the Causeway at eye-watering speeds had lost their zip.
Even the largest jewels glowed a little dimmer once you’d worn them to the
hundredth black-tie soirée. A mere two years after marrying Clyde Fairchild III,
CEO of FairCorp and inheritor of billions, Olivia wanted something that money
couldn’t always guarantee: a good time.
That was the problem with Clyde—he lacked fun. His idea of a
rockin’ night was putting some Pavarotti on the kitchen speakers and singing
until the dogs howled back. For a couple years, that had been okay. It sure
beat her old life, which had centered on washing dishes at the diner, scooping
up fifty-cent tips left by toothless truckers, and keeping the bottle of
whiskey in the trailer away from Mom. But it only went so far, and she told Clyde
so.
“I don’t pretend to know why you’re bored,” Clyde would say
between bites of egg-white omelet, his eyes locked on the morning’s Wall Street Journal. “Is there anything
you don’t own?”
“Well, volunteer for a good cause.” Clyde never looked up. “Or
take tennis lessons.”
Instead she went with Option C: have an affair.
Within two hours of Clyde flying to Anguilla on the G5 for a
business conference, she’d thrown on an old Guns ‘N Roses T-shirt and headed to
a flop bar in Miami Beach, where she let a blond surfer named Steve chat her
up. Steve yammered about the quality of his home stereo set, his oh-so-subtle
way of inviting her over. Olivia waggled her eyebrows at the bartender for
another screwdriver and said, “Okay, whatever.”
It turned out that when Steve said, “my house,” he meant, “my
broken-down trailer in the middle of nowhere.” They took their own cars.
Early the next morning, she awoke in the disconcertingly
fragrant confines of Steve’s single bed, most memories of the previous night
blissfully obliterated by a sledgehammer of a hangover. Well, that was stupid,
she thought. Never, ever do that again, sweetie. Now, where are those car keys?
Two minutes and several stealthy commando-moves over Steve’s
snoring form later, she was outside and racing across the fifty feet of beach
that separated the trailer from where Steve’s street-racer Honda and her
bathtub Porsche sat parked side-by-side. The sun had just begun to peek over
the horizon but already the sand was roughly a million degrees on her bare
feet.
Her purse was still underneath the passenger seat of the Porsche,
with the fresh pair of panties balled in the large pocket. Praise the Lord.
There was even a mostly- ull bottle of water in the dashboard cup holder, which
she drained greedily while taking stock of the environs. A low-rent trailer
park, nestled in the dunes facing a nondescript swath of shoreline. Good thing
you didn’t step on any broken glass, she thought. After a late night with Steve
and the boys, I wouldn’t be surprised if every square inch of ground was
covered with beer bottles ready to puncture your . . .
Those high-heeled Jimmy Choos, painful on the ankles yet so
good-looking in the mirror—how could she have left them behind? (Thanks,
hangover.) And Steve was probably upright by this point, scratching his
softening abs as he took stock of last night’s destruction: no way his loud
snores had been anywhere close to genuine.
Slinging her purse over her shoulder, she tromped double-time
across the sand for the trailer, ready to swoop in and out of there with a
smile and a prissy little wave. No, sorry, can’t stay for toast and warm beer,
but thanks for the offer, you really are too kind . . .
She heard the roar of engines coming up the road. On instinct,
she veered toward the beach, taking cover behind a dune as a pair of
tricked-out black BMWs squealed to a stop only a few yards from Steve’s abode.
The car doors opened, unleashing six men in black suits. With
the synchronization of a Broadway chorus line, they whipped back their coats
and drew compact submachine guns. Six fingers pressed down on six triggers. The
guns chattered and spat flame. The aluminum sides of the trailer held up under
the bullets about as well as a piece of paper trapped in a table fan. Glass
shattered. From inside came the snap-crackle-pop of Steve’s precious guitar
collection reduced to kindling.
Even if Steve had been sort of a limp noodle in the sack, Olivia
didn’t think that was punishable by firing squad.
Scooting backwards on her belly, she put together a reasonable
plan: wait until these bad boys left, head home, take a shower, fry up a mess
of bacon, and do her best to give an uninterested “Huh” if somebody mentioned a
gangland slaying at Happy Trails Trailer Park.
The largest and scariest-looking of the men murmured to the
rest, who turned as one and climbed back into the BMWs.
Oh dear.
She barely managed to throw her arms over her head before the
doublewide did its best impersonation of a rocket ship, sending pieces of
Steve’s life everywhere. A crescent-shaped fragment of kitchen counter plunked
into the sand near her head. Flaming pieces of paper burned her arms. She
snatched a scrap in mid-air and saw an imperial nose, fatherly eyes staring
back at her: A piece of a hundred dollar bill. It was raining money.
The BMWs boomed away in reverse, their engines tearing a hole in the morning. Olivia lay there with the half-burned bill in her hands and told herself: Next week, go with tennis lessons.
The BMWs boomed away in reverse, their engines tearing a hole in the morning. Olivia lay there with the half-burned bill in her hands and told herself: Next week, go with tennis lessons.
