Free Sexual Solstice by Tracey B. Bradley Page B

the tropics. There was a knock at the door, and a subdued voice saying “room service.”
    “Please come in,” she called, and then turned off the bath. The knock came again, she went to the door, and opened it. “Sorry, I thought in this day and age you’d have a master key.” She turned and led the waiter into the room. “Can I add a tip to the bill? I don’t have any American money with me. I’m sorry I know what a pain that is.” She looked up at a face that had barely changed in the twenty odd years since she’d left Brooklyn. “Good God. It’s you!”
    Clear blue eyes under curly brown hair looked quizzically back at her. There were a few fine lines around the eyes, but the skin was still smooth as a baby’s. There was the slightest hint of grey at his temples.
    “It’s me! Gillian! Gillian Sheridan, well, Pritchard now.”
    “Brooklyn Irish? Is it you?”
    “It is I, for damn sure! That voice! A dead giveaway. I hope you’re still acting.”
    “Sure, what the hell. What the fuck are you doing staying in a dump like this?”
    “Me? Look at you. You lucked out. Tips must be decent! Bob Mason. Or is it Robert Mason? And how is the acting going? Mister Robert Mason. Didn’t you leave Paddies for a TV pilot?”
    “It’s great. It’s going great, despite this. Well this is a big money maker so I can’t scoff. Especially around Christmas. Who cares? I can come and go as I please as long as I let the supervisor suck my dick! I start rehearsals Off Broadway in January for a limited run and then, get this, I’m in a fucking Broadway play by that new English playwright, rehearsals start in April.”
    “Congratulations.”
    “It’s a small part but they needed at least one American when it transferred.”
    “There are no small parts, especially from what I remember––
    “Gillian looked at Robert and couldn’t help but think of the times behind the bar when he’d drop something, or pretend to, and then get down behind the bar and gnaw at her leg.
    “Are you still––”
    “Married? Nope.”
    “No I just meant are you still a total animal. Do you remember behind the bar?”
    “Man I have had a hard-on for you for the past twenty years, pardon my French. Pardon my hard-on.”
    “Do you still wear no underwear?”
    “Oh come on. I wasn’t that obvious.”
    “Of course you were. You were like the pub pervert. Why didn’t we ever do it?”
    “You were dating that guy you’d met at Nathan’s.”
    “Oh yeah, actually I wasn’t. I lied about that. You scared me. You were too damn horny. I didn’t know how I’d control the reins, you know. I mean shit, if what you did to my calves and knees was any example, you’d be wild. Are all actors that bad?”
    A beeping came from Robert’s belt. “Man I have to go. Shit.”
    “Why don’t you come back later? Have some saké?”
    “Your husband mind?”
    “My husband has gone AWOL. He didn’t even make it across the Atlantic.”
    “Well, what fucking luck is that?! I get off in an hour, then we can get off for hours.”
    “You are so bad. Here take my key. I’m not going anywhere. Just wake me up.”
    The door closed and Gillian smiled. New York wouldn’t be an absolute bust after all. Robert had been a great co-worker.
    Gillian dimmed the lights, moved a chair around by the window, took the saké and curled into the chair and watched as tiny snowflakes started to drift past the window. Edgar, where in God’s name was he? She knew something was up. But what? Was it business? Was he trying to vanish from the face of the earth? Avoid something or someone? That’s it. He must have seen someone and then decided to make a run for it. A former client perhaps. No. Even that seemed improbable. Well, he was a big boy and could take care of himself. Meanwhile Gillian would be treating herself to room service. How odd. How damn odd to be sitting in a room that went for fifteen hundred a night, and meeting an old friend. Neither of them had