Femme Fatale and other stories Read Free

knees.” An odd expression for her to use, one that pre-dated her own birth by quite a bit. She laughed at its irrelevance and Bryon laughed, too. She felt as if she had been drinking brandy Alexanders instead of venti mochas. Felt, in fact, the way she had that first afternoon with her second husband, when they left the bar at the Drake Hotel and checked into a room. She had been only thirty-five then, and she had let him keep the drapes open, proud of how her body looked in the bright daylight bouncing off Lake Michigan.
    â€œI bet you were. I bet you were. And all the boys were crazy about you.”
    â€œI did okay.”
    â€œOh, you did more than okay, didn’t you, Mona?”
    She smiled. “That’s not for me to say.”
    â€œWhat did you wear, Mona, when you were driving those boys crazy? None of those obvious outfits for you, right? You were one of those subtle ones, like Grace Kelly. Pretty dresses, custom fit.”
    â€œRight.” She brightened. Clothing was one of the few things that interested her. “That’s what these girls today don’t get. I had a bathing suit, a one-piece, strapless. As modest as it could be. But it was beige, just a shade darker than my own skin, and when it got wet …” She laughed, the memory alive to her, the effect of that bathing suit on the young men around the pool at the country club in Atlanta.
    â€œI wish you still had that bathing suit, Mona.”
    â€œI’d still fit into it,” she said. It would have been true two months ago, before she discovered Starbucks.
    â€œI bet you would. I bet you would.” Bryon’s voice seemed thicker, lower, slower.
    â€œI never let myself go, the way some women do. They say it’s metabolism and menopause”—oh, she wished she could take that word back, one should never even allude to such unpleasant facts of life—“but it’s just a matter of discipline.”
    â€œI sure wish I could see you in that suit, Mona.”
    She laughed. She hadn’t had this much fun in ages. He was flirting with her, she was sure of it. Gay or not, he liked her.
    â€œI wish I could see you in your
birthday
suit.”
    â€œBryon!” She was on a laughing jag now, out of control.
    â€œWhy can’t I, Mona? Why can’t I see you in your birthday suit?”
    Suddenly, the only sound in the room was Bryon’s breath, ragged and harsh. It was hard to see anything clearly, with the lights shining in her eyes, but Mona could see that he was steadying the camera with just one hand.
    â€œYou want to see me naked?” she asked.
    Bryon nodded.
    â€œJust … see?”
    â€œThat’s how we start, usually. Slow like. Everyone has his or her own comfort zone.”
    â€œAnd the video—is that for your eyes only?”
    â€œI told you, I’m an independent filmmaker. Direct to video. A growing market.”
    â€œPeople pay?”
    Another shy nod. “It’s sort of a … niche within the industry.”
    â€œNiche.”
    â€œIt’s my niche,” he said. “It’s what I like. I make other films about, um, things I don’t like so much. But I love watching truly seasoned women teach young men about life.”
    â€œAnd you’d pay for this?”
    â€œOf course.”
    â€œHow much?”
    â€œSome. Enough.”
    â€œJust to look? Just to see me, as I am?”
    â€œA little for that. More for … more.”
    â€œHow much?” Mona repeated. She was keen to know her worth.
    He came around from behind the camera, retrieved a laminated card from the drawer in the vanity table, then sat on the bed and patted the space next to him. Why laminated? Mona decided not to think about that. She moved to the bed and studied the card, not unlike the menu of services and prices at a spa. She could do that. And that. Not that, but definitely that and that. The fact was, she had done most of these