Chapter 5: Caron's Surprise Arrival
The Pacific was doing its usual sunset trick—bleeding orange and pink across the water like somebody upstairs had knocked over a paint bucket. Maggie had her head tipped back against the jacuzzi's edge, cigarette smoke curling up into the salt air, her free hand moving lazy circles beneath the bubbling surface.
"I'm bored," she announced to no one in particular.
Jim floated a few feet away, eyes half-closed, a crystal tumbler of Macallan balanced improbably on the jacuzzi's marble lip. "You're always bored. It's part of your charm."
"Charm." She snorted, took a long drag. "That's what we're calling it now?"
The buzzer rang.
Maggie's eyes snapped open. That particular buzz—sharp, insistent, once and done—meant only one thing. She turned her head toward Jim, a slow grin spreading across her face like honey.
"Early bird gets the worm," she said.
Jim was already rising from the water, rivulets streaming down his chest, his swim trunks hanging low on his hips. Sixty-two years old and the bastard still moved like a man half his age. Maggie watched him go, appreciated the view, then stubbed out her cigarette in the seashell ashtray perched on the deck.
She heard the gate first—that familiar creak they kept meaning to fix—then Caron's laugh, bright and unguarded, the kind of laugh that made you want to do terrible things just to hear it again.
Maggie's hand drifted lower beneath the water.
Jim reached the gate and there she was. Caron. Fresh from her spa day, her blonde hair still holding that just-washed shine, her skin glowing like she'd been dipped in candlelight. The sundress was white, sheer, and utterly criminal. He could see everything—the curve of her hips, the shadow between her legs, the outline of nipples still sensitive from whatever treatment she'd received.
"You're early," he said.
"Couldn't wait."
He pulled her through the gate and into him, one hand finding the back of her neck, the other sliding down to palm her bare ass through the flimsy fabric. She tasted like mint and champagne and something sweeter underneath. Her moan vibrated against his tongue as she pressed closer, her hands fisting in his wet hair.
"Missed you," she breathed against his mouth.
"Liar. You were getting pampered all day."
"Missed this." She ground against his thigh, making her point.
Jim laughed—that deep, rumbling thing that started somewhere in his chest and rolled out like thunder. He squeezed her ass once more, hard enough to make her gasp, then released her.
"Get in the water. Maggie's waiting."
Caron's eyes flicked past him toward the deck, where Maggie was visible through the steam, still working herself slow and steady beneath the bubbles. Their gazes met across the distance. Caron's smile turned sharp.
"Hello, trouble," Maggie called out.
"Hello, darling."
Caron stepped out of her heels, then reached for the hem of her dress. She pulled it over her head in one fluid motion, dropping it carelessly on the marble. Her body caught the dying sunlight—those impossible breasts, 34EE and defying every law of gravity, the nipped waist, the hips that flared out like a violin. She was fifty-eight years old and looked like she was forty-eight years old and had been sculpted by someone with a very specific fantasy.
Maggie's hand stopped moving. She just stared, cigarette forgotten, mouth slightly open.
"You're drooling, Mags."
"Shut up, Jim."
Caron walked to the jacuzzi like she was working a runway, hips swaying, skin flushing pink from the spray mist. She stepped into the water and sank down across from Maggie, the bubbles rising to kiss her collarbones.
"This is nice," she said, looking around. "You've added torches."
"The ambiance matters," Jim said, climbing back in beside them. "Speaking of which—"
He gestured toward the silver tray waiting on the deck. Three neat lines of cocaine, a bottle of Belvedere sweating in its ice bucket, and beside it, a small black case. Maggie's eyes landed on the case and something flickered across her face—hunger, fear, want. All three braided together.
"Patience," Jim said softly, noticing. "We have all night."
Maggie's tongue wet her lips. "You know I don't do patience."
"No," he agreed. "You don't."
Caron looked between them, catching something unspoken in the air. Her hand found Maggie's knee underwater.
"What's in the case?"
"Party favors," Jim said.
"Good ones?"
"The best."
He climbed out of the jacuzzi and padded across the warm marble, water dripping from his body. The sun had dipped below the horizon now, leaving the sky a bruised purple, and the tiki torches flickered to life in sequence—Jim had wired them to a timer because of course he had. The effect was theatrical, golden light dancing across skin and water and the night-dark sea beyond.
Jim picked up the tray and brought it to the jacuzzi's edge. Set it down on the marble with a soft clink. He arranged the cocaine into three perfect lines using a black AmEx. Maggie and Caron watched him work, both of them still now, the only sound the bubbling water and the distant crash of waves.
"You first," Jim said to Caron.
She rose from the water, breasts breaking free of the bubbles, rivers streaming down her torso. She leaned over the tray, her wet hair falling forward, and pressed one nostril closed with a delicate finger. The line disappeared in a sharp inhale. She switched sides. Inhaled again.
Her head snapped back, eyes wide, pupils already dilating.
"Oh," she breathed. "Oh, that's good."
"Your turn, Mags."
Maggie was out of the water before Jim finished the sentence. She took her line with practiced efficiency, then tilted her head back and blinked at the stars that hadn't been there a moment ago.
"Fuck," she said, and laughed.
Jim did his line, slow and deliberate, savoring the burn at the back of his throat. Then he picked up the black case.
Maggie's laugh died. She watched him open it, watched him pull out the syringe—sterile, pre-filled, the needle gleaming in the torchlight. She'd been the one to load it, hours ago, when Jim was still out on his afternoon sail. She'd needed it to be ready. She'd needed to know it was there.
But this—Jim holding it—was different.
"You said you wanted to share," he said quietly.
"I didn't think you meant—" She stopped. Swallowed. Her throat clicked.
Caron looked between them, her high making everything soft and luminous. "What are we doing?"
"Jim wants to play doctor," Maggie said. There was a sharpness in her voice that hadn't been there a moment ago. Old fear, wearing new clothes.
Jim stepped closer to Caron. The syringe rested light in his fingers. "You remember the first time?"
Caron's breath caught. Of course she remembered. Ten years ago, back when she was still his wife, back before the divorce that wasn't really a divorce. They'd been in this same jacuzzi, actually—newer then, before the renovations—and he'd pulled out a needle and she'd said what is that and he'd said trust me.
She'd trusted him.
She'd been chasing that particular feeling ever since.
"You want to?" he asked.
Caron's eyes were on the syringe. The world was already swimmy at the edges—the coke singing in her veins, the champagne from earlier, the warmth of the water and the sight of Maggie's body still gleaming wet in the torchlight. She felt like she was floating a few inches above herself.
"Yes," she said.
"Bend your arm."
She lifted her left arm, palm up, the pale underside of her elbow exposed. Jim took her wrist, his grip steady. His thumb found the vein—that blue river running beneath her skin—and pressed.
"You've got good veins," he murmured. "Always did."
"You always said that."
"Because it's true."
He uncapped the needle. Maggie made a small sound in the back of her throat but said nothing. She watched, frozen, as Jim brought the syringe to Caron's arm. The needle touched skin. Paused.
"Deep breath," he said.
Caron inhaled.
The needle slid in—easy, almost bloodless, just that brief pinch and then the strange pressure of the plunger depressing. Jim pushed slow and steady, watching Caron's face the whole time. Her lips parted. Her eyes fluttered.
"Oh," she whispered.
"That's it."
"Jim—"
Another push. Her pupils went wide and dark, swallowing the green of her irises. Her body softened, a muscle in her jaw going slack. The tension she'd been holding—the residual anxiety of the car ride, the lingering sharpness from the coke—all of it melted.
The plunger hit the end. Jim withdrew the needle, pressed his thumb over the tiny wound.
"Hold that," he said.
Caron's hand came up automatically, pressing where he showed her. She was already gone—riding that first wave, her breath coming slow and deep, her head lolling back against the jacuzzi's edge.
"Fuck," she murmured. "Fuck, Jim."
"I know."
"I feel—I feel—"
"Everything," he finished. "You feel everything."
Maggie finally moved. She crossed the distance between them in the water, reaching Caron as her knees buckled. Caught her. Held her.
"Hey," Maggie said softly. "Hey, look at me."
Caron's eyes found hers. They were enormous, shot through with something that looked like wonder and something deeper—trust.
"Hi," she said.
"Hi yourself."
"I feel amazing."
"I bet you do."
Maggie's hand cupped Caron's cheek. Her thumb traced Caron's lower lip. Then she leaned in and kissed her—slow, deep, tasting the champagne and the coke drip and whatever else belonged to Caron's mouth.
Jim watched them, the empty syringe still in his hand. The torchlight flickered. The ocean hummed its eternal rhythm against the cliffs below.
He'd done it. He'd pushed the needle into his ex-wife's arm, and now she was floating somewhere above the world, and Maggie was holding her like she was something precious, and the night was still young and hungry and his.
He reached for the vodka.
"Room for one more in there?" he asked.
Maggie looked up, her mouth wet from Caron's lips. "Always."
Jim smiled. It didn't reach his eyes.
He poured three fingers of vodka, drank it down, and stepped back into the water.