Steven.
“Drink your whiskey and come with me.”
He didn’t move. Not that he hesitated—he just wasn’t at all ready to follow her.
“Drink your whiskey and come with me or leave.” Her eyes were hard but her voice was broken, somewhere between a command and a plea. Punishment for having seen, for just a moment, her broken façade.
He lost everything. Just like us.
I don’t want to lose anymore.
Steven shot back the whiskey and Delilah signaled the bartender, who handed her the bottle of sherry. Those unfriendly eyes, to Steven, had grown more so.
“Delilah,” the bartender whispered, holding the bottle. Some communication passed between them, a powerful force, and Steven felt a heat in his blood. Something heavy.
But then Delilah got the bottle free, and as if some battalion drummer had counted out the command, they turned and walked along the edges of the room, the fringes of the party—past Stella, who held Sam’s small frame in her soft arms—to the staircase that led to the bedrooms on the second floor.
Girls gathered there at the banister in a sea of white linen and faded silks. They watched with wide eyes as Delilah walked past them, Steven in tow.
This
, he thought,
does not happen very often
. He wasn’t sure if he felt special or doomed.
At the end of the hallway Delilah used a key from a long chain around her neck to open the door. She stepped inside the dark and shadowed room.
“Come in,” she said.
And he’d come too far to be a coward now. He stepped in after her and closed the door behind him.
“Do you want me to light a lamp?” she asked. “Or is this something you need to do in the dark?”
“Dark or light, I don’t think it will matter.” Despite the heat in the room, coming up through the floorboards from downstairs, cold sweat tricked down his back.
There was the flick of a match and the small noises of a lamp being lit, and the room was illuminated in a soft light.
A forgiving light. Delilah looked softer, her hard edges blunted.
“You a virgin?” she asked.
He shook his head no.
“I hope you don't require a virgin,” she said with a smile. “I’m gettin' one next month. A prize to be won in a card game organized by a man from Georgia. Apparently she was a rather notorious Northern spy, or at least that is what we're all led to believe.”
“Sounds barbaric.”
Delilah blinked. “I suppose so,” she said. Perhaps she was entirely used to being barbaric. “Care for sherry?”
“I don’t normally drink.”
“What do you normally do?” she asked, pouring herself a glass and then quickly drinking it.
“It’s been so long I’m not sure I remember.”
“It’s our animal instinct. Everyone remembers. Do you normally pay for the services of a whore?”
“Not in some time, no.”
“Well, I’m a very good whore, so you need not worry.” That broken tone was back in her voice. She began to peel off her long black gloves, revealing plump arms white as moonlight. “Now, let me guess, you have some secret desire your wife is unwilling to satisfy. You want to hit me.”
“No,’ he said, horrified at the thought.
“You would like me to hit you?”
“No.”
She put her gloves on the small table with the lamp. “Pity.”
He blinked. “I don’t… want violence. Or to debase you. Or be debased.”
“Then what brings you to my door so full of self-loathing, Steven? Because I can smell it on you. Like gangrene.” He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. He was not able to talk about himself in that way.
“Can't we just...?”
“Fuck?”
He swallowed and nodded.
“Not without telling me what's got you tied in knots. Sad sex is not interesting sex.”
“I have an…aversion.”
“Aversion, perversion, they are much the same.” She stroked his shoulder.
At her touch he jerked back so hard he nearly knocked a lamp off a table.
Mistake
, he thought, panting in the humid, close little room that smelled like woman and his fear.
This was a
“Drink your whiskey and come with me.”
He didn’t move. Not that he hesitated—he just wasn’t at all ready to follow her.
“Drink your whiskey and come with me or leave.” Her eyes were hard but her voice was broken, somewhere between a command and a plea. Punishment for having seen, for just a moment, her broken façade.
He lost everything. Just like us.
I don’t want to lose anymore.
Steven shot back the whiskey and Delilah signaled the bartender, who handed her the bottle of sherry. Those unfriendly eyes, to Steven, had grown more so.
“Delilah,” the bartender whispered, holding the bottle. Some communication passed between them, a powerful force, and Steven felt a heat in his blood. Something heavy.
But then Delilah got the bottle free, and as if some battalion drummer had counted out the command, they turned and walked along the edges of the room, the fringes of the party—past Stella, who held Sam’s small frame in her soft arms—to the staircase that led to the bedrooms on the second floor.
Girls gathered there at the banister in a sea of white linen and faded silks. They watched with wide eyes as Delilah walked past them, Steven in tow.
This
, he thought,
does not happen very often
. He wasn’t sure if he felt special or doomed.
At the end of the hallway Delilah used a key from a long chain around her neck to open the door. She stepped inside the dark and shadowed room.
“Come in,” she said.
And he’d come too far to be a coward now. He stepped in after her and closed the door behind him.
“Do you want me to light a lamp?” she asked. “Or is this something you need to do in the dark?”
“Dark or light, I don’t think it will matter.” Despite the heat in the room, coming up through the floorboards from downstairs, cold sweat tricked down his back.
There was the flick of a match and the small noises of a lamp being lit, and the room was illuminated in a soft light.
A forgiving light. Delilah looked softer, her hard edges blunted.
“You a virgin?” she asked.
He shook his head no.
“I hope you don't require a virgin,” she said with a smile. “I’m gettin' one next month. A prize to be won in a card game organized by a man from Georgia. Apparently she was a rather notorious Northern spy, or at least that is what we're all led to believe.”
“Sounds barbaric.”
Delilah blinked. “I suppose so,” she said. Perhaps she was entirely used to being barbaric. “Care for sherry?”
“I don’t normally drink.”
“What do you normally do?” she asked, pouring herself a glass and then quickly drinking it.
“It’s been so long I’m not sure I remember.”
“It’s our animal instinct. Everyone remembers. Do you normally pay for the services of a whore?”
“Not in some time, no.”
“Well, I’m a very good whore, so you need not worry.” That broken tone was back in her voice. She began to peel off her long black gloves, revealing plump arms white as moonlight. “Now, let me guess, you have some secret desire your wife is unwilling to satisfy. You want to hit me.”
“No,’ he said, horrified at the thought.
“You would like me to hit you?”
“No.”
She put her gloves on the small table with the lamp. “Pity.”
He blinked. “I don’t… want violence. Or to debase you. Or be debased.”
“Then what brings you to my door so full of self-loathing, Steven? Because I can smell it on you. Like gangrene.” He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. He was not able to talk about himself in that way.
“Can't we just...?”
“Fuck?”
He swallowed and nodded.
“Not without telling me what's got you tied in knots. Sad sex is not interesting sex.”
“I have an…aversion.”
“Aversion, perversion, they are much the same.” She stroked his shoulder.
At her touch he jerked back so hard he nearly knocked a lamp off a table.
Mistake
, he thought, panting in the humid, close little room that smelled like woman and his fear.
This was a
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