The Winners Circle Page 5

  She started kissing him, unbuttoning his shirt. From the start, they’d anointed her as the aggressor—the one who set the pace. There was nothing better than watching Chelsea strip. He was king of the world.

  Her sweater and bra hit the floor. She straddled his legs, undoing his belt.

  He examined her chest. The nipples were tight and excited. The size was just right for her proportions. He cupped them in his hands. “You see there’s nothing wrong with these.”

  “You’ve just gotten use to them.”

  She reached down to make him erect. She liked to bring him along fast, and then stretch the act out for a long time. He had no other experience with women but heard that they preferred a great deal of stroking and foreplay. Not Chelsea, she wanted him inside her right away, top or bottom, and then she made him work for as long as he hung in there. She wanted him to sweat.

  “I like you as you are,” he said.

  “Things will get better.”

  “I don’t need better.”

  “You’ll see.” She dropped between his legs to force the issue. She was ready. He smelled her.

  He felt her mouth bring him in, yet his thoughts drifted between her and the touch of her extraordinary lips. He worried about the changes: different mouth, bigger breasts, and God knows what else.

  “Jerry?” She looked up from his thighs. She was kneeling on the floor between the coffee table and couch.

  “Keep going, honey.”

  Chelsea went to work again, but the more she tried, the softer he became. “Are you tired?”

  “No, no.”

  “Okay then.”

  He fought to remain cool, but inside, his thoughts ran wild. His head resembled a lottery machine. Each numbered ball was another lousy notion, bouncing around his brain, fighting to take hold. He’d never, ever done this before. Chelsea always lit his fire. He always delivered.

  She used her hand, but his penis grew limp, a completely useless device for the occasion. He heard the grandfather clock chime the half hour. He was losing, and he tried forcing the blood to his groin. Damn, he actually wasn’t going to do this.

  “Jerry?” She crawled up his to stomach. Her lip curled. “Is everything okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Are you sure?”

  He didn’t like the tone of her voice, but he didn’t look in her eyes. Even though she lay across his stomach, he never felt further away from her. He grabbed onto her shoulder. He tried to recall the first time. He tried to remember it being new again. It was in his head somewhere. Somehow he could reconnect the past to the present.

  CHAPTER 5

  The Last Laugh

  “We need to do more of this.” Chelsea held the wheel of her new hunter green Jaguar sport coup. The car emerged from the Holland Tunnel. The burl walnut appointments on the dashboard glowed beneath the overcast summer sky.

  “I don’t see why?” Jerry was cramped in the passenger’s seat, ferreting extra space for his feet and knees. He felt uncomfortable in the baggy pants and sport coat that Chelsea instructed him to wear. He should’ve put on his old wedding suit and been done with it.

  “You promised you wouldn’t complain.”

  “I know.” He recalled his last public outing. His former workmates had rushed him into a bar for the afternoon—his least favorite activity. ‘You’re buying,’ they said.

  “I want you to mingle.” Chelsea checked her hair in the mirror. “These are our peers.”

  “We’ve never met them before.” He watched her steer onto the Westside Highway. The skyscrapers infringed upon his peripheral vision, slicing it up with towers of stone, steel, and reflective glass.

  “It’s a party for lottery winners. They’re millionaires like us. They have our issues.”

  He studied her profile. Her lips were plump and sexy, awash in desert rose. Her larger breasts hung firm and high. A black cotton shirt detailed her tight torso. A matching skirt hugged her hips and the sleek contours of her thighs. She’d spent hours with a personal trainer and even more time with a clothes designer and makeup consultant. Jerry feared that merely touching his wife might ruin the finish.

  “I’m doing this for you,” Jerry said.

  “You should be doing it for yourself.” She shot a sideways glance, insouciant yet disapproving. She was a living, breathing glamour photo of herself. She’d pulled off the miracle, acquiring the face and body of a star, and she’d done it without him. “Sometimes I worry about you.”

  He sat up, bumping his head on a rib in the convertible roof. “I’ve told you one thousand times that I’m alright.”

  “You’ve been on the farm for the whole summer. You need to get out.”

  “I’m out this afternoon.”

  “Under protest.”

  “I’m here.”

  “What would you do if ...?”

  He waited for her to finish. He hated when she didn’t. It drove him crazy. “What would I do if what?”

  “Nothing.” She pulled into the barbed-wire parking lot for The Manhattan Cruiser. A hulking orange and blue ferry rocked beside the pier.

  “Finish your sentence.”

  “Don’t you have any hobbies?”

  She was his hobby. He cooked gourmet meals for her. He managed the farmhouse. “I’m a gentleman farmer.”

  “Then where are the crops? How about those horses?”

  “I’m working on it.”

  “I thought so.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Don’t sulk, Jerry.”

  “I’m not sulking.”

  Chelsea presented their passes to the man at the gate. She tossed the keys to the kid by the valet station, as if she’d done it hundreds of times before.

  “Oh no,” she said. “Did you pop a pill?”

  Jerry rolled down his window. A stale sea odor gusted from the pier. The Hudson River looked gray and choppy, and crests of foam rode the mini swells. “Big boats never make me sick.”

  “Will you be alright?”

  “I’m fine.” He’d left his motion pills on the counter at home. He’d have to rough it.

  “Do you want to stay ashore?”

  He forced a pleasant expression. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

  Pulsating music greeted them as they boarded ship. Jerry disliked loud music and blinked his eyes, barring against the sonic assault. Millionaires churned to a familiar dance tune. They dressed in evening attire. Some were studded in diamonds and gold, as champagne and cocktails drifted past. One man draped his arms around two women. Another staggered from the crowd without shoes. It was two-thirty in the afternoon.

  Jerry paused before the extraordinary scene. It was another example of what he’d learned about lottery winners. They owned no sense of time. They weren’t bluebloods or corporate raiders with eminent careers and estates to manage. The men and women assembled on the Manhattan Cruiser were dislodged from routine, roaming the planet without a firm agenda. Jerry’s buddies on the assembly line used to fantasize about this kind of free time—days filled with nothing better to do than fish, watch ballgames, or hang out in bars—an endless blue collar weekend, only this version had black ties and caviar.

  Chelsea’s feet moved in a half-strut, already picking up the beat. “This is what I call a party.”

  Jerry held his tongue. This is what I call an excuse to leave.

  “I’m going in.” She sashayed into the crowd, a flurry of blonde perfection.

  He watched her head bob to the music. Men twisted their necks to check her out. They noticed the line of her stockings over her calves and the shape of her tight ass tugging beneath her skirt. He considered joining her on the floor but didn’t picture himself inside her halo of glory.

  The boat jarred loose from its moorings and coupled with the choppy water. Jerry recovered his balance with a quick sidestep. The stilted peeks of the skyline rolled through the oval portal windows. He felt a twinge in his gut. He grabbed the studded steel po
st, which supported the upper deck.

  Someone was watching. Jerry noticed a man at the next steel post. The stranger came forward. He had short-cropped hair and a pointed nose. He wore a black turtleneck, a tweed sport coat, and precisely creased pants. He dressed like one of the catalogs Chelsea kept flashing in Jerry’s face.

  Jerry waited to engage the stranger. He’d have to speak with someone at this shindig. He pivoted toward the dance floor to catch Chelsea’s eye. He was being a good husband, meeting the other guests, but she was mixing it up herself. She wove in a chain of dancers around the edge of the floor. A man with glasses clutched her hips. He whispered in her ear, and she laughed hysterically.

  The man with the short hair held his gaze upon Jerry. “Your first time?”

  Jerry prepared for small talk and a quick retreat to the outside railing. “Yes.”

  “You look new.”

  Jerry checked his watch. “When do we get back to the dock?”

  “I’m with you. This is a bore.”

  “I didn’t say that.” Jerry knew he was blowing it. He better summon some charm and pretend he was having a good time. “This is nice.”

  “This isn’t my idea of a party. I come because it keeps me in touch. I get to see who’s who.”

  “So who’s who?” Jerry thought he recognized celebrities.

  “That’s a good question.”

  “So what’s the answer?”

  “This party’s not for our benefit.” The man pointed out the camera crew standing beside the bandstand. “It’s a promo for Super Pick Millions. Haven’t you seen the commercials?”

  “I think so.”

  “Life’s a non-stop party once you win. That’s what they’re selling.” The man looked to the dance floor. Heads shook with the music. Chelsea folded inside the crowd. “If the poor slobs only knew the truth.”

  The stranger was thinking out loud, and Jerry didn’t like it. You shouldn’t be inside someone else’s head.

  “Dick Leigh,” the stranger said. “Pleased to meet you.”

  “Jerry Nearing.”

  Dick raised his chin. “The pitchfork man?”

  It took a moment for Jerry to realize what Dick meant. He recalled the ordeal on the farm during the spring and the awful snapshots in the newspapers. The reporters had smuggled photographs off his property, and the papers mocked him up as a millionaire farmer gone mad—the pitchfork man. “I guess you heard about that.”

  “I saw it in the news like everyone else.”

  “It was embarrassing.”

  “It was great for morale.”

  Jerry saw Dick’s eyes. The fine lines beneath them were smiling.

  “We need more of that take charge kind of attitude,” Dick said.

  “The newspaper almost pressed charges.”

  “But they used your story instead.”

  “Right.”

  “That’s what they wanted from the beginning.”

  “Everyone wants something.” Jerry shrugged, wondering what Dick wanted.

  “Welcome to the club.” Dick shook Jerry’s hand. His grip was as intense as his stare. He used it to draw closer to Jerry. “From here on out, hold onto your wallet.”

  “So it’s like that for you too?”

  “I have a buffer.” Dick looked past Jerry’s shoulder. “You have to be careful. You don’t want to end up like him.”

  Jerry turned and recognized one of the celebrity guests. He was a former NY Yankee who was arrested so many times for cocaine possession that his convictions became a spectator’s sport of its own. He was bald now but retained a fresh athletic look, regardless of the endless urine test failures and rehab stints. He was a walking poster child for genetics and strange luck.

  “I never use drugs,” Jerry said.

  “Not him. The chubby man with the dark curly hair coming this way.”

  Jerry refocused his sights. “I don’t know him.”

  “Tom Veris, a friend of mine. Seven million completely down the drain. One stupid business decision after another.”

  “I can’t imagine that.”

  “It happens.”

  “Is he broke?”

  “More or less.”

  Tom arrived holding a vodka tonic and a foaming beer in a tall fluted glass.

  Dick snatched both glasses from Tom’s grasp. “Do you like beer?”

  “Sometimes,” Jerry said.

  “Do you want something else?”

  “This is fine.” Jerry accepted the foaming glass, obliging with a sip.

  “Wait a minute.” Tom’s voice was higher than Jerry expected.

  Jerry pulled the glass away from his lips. “Is this yours?”

  “Why don’t you get yourself another?” Dick said.

  Tom frowned and retreated to the bar.

  “Does Tom work for you?” Jerry asked.

  A young man with broad shoulders stood several feet away. His ears curved from the side of his head like satellite dishes. He was listening, snickering at Jerry’s questions.

  “That’s Tucker,” Dick said, “my bodyguard.”

  Tucker nodded to Jerry and then panned a disinterested gaze on the party. He plugged his ears with headphones from a portable stereo. He looked like a Secret Service agent in need of a President.

  “Bodyguard?” Jerry asked.

  “He’s Australian, the best, rugged people. You might think about one for yourself.”

  “I can handle things.”

  “That’s right. You have that pitchfork.”

  Jerry wanted to switch the subject. He saw Dick’s friend at the bar. “What did Tom do for a living?”

  “That’s not really discussed here.”

  “Why not?” You just told me he blew seven million.

  “If you must know, he owned a bakery.”

  “What’s so secret about that? Isn’t it appropriate to know where people come from?”

  “We try to forget the past, and you should too. You cashed it in with your first lottery check.”

  Jerry filed the comment away. Chelsea was forgetting the past. She buried it deeper with each surgical procedure and change of clothes. Every catalog and portfolio that arrived in the mail seemed to cover the past with another disguise. He hardly recognized her, much less saw her around the house.

  “There’s no looking back once you’ve won,” Dick said. “Even Tom can’t. He’d trade a leg to be tossing loaves of bread in the oven again.”

  Jerry scanned the bandstand. The people on stage were a popular 80’s dance group, rendered gray and overweight from the passing decades. They performed a medley of their hit tunes. Jerry struggled to attach a name to the bouncy songs. Why did he ever like them in the first place? Their computerized beats held the appeal and longevity of a paper cup.

  “It’s like the old adage.” Dick stirred the ice in his glass with a plastic cocktail straw. “Even if you stand still, things will change.”

  Jerry realized Chelsea had vanished from sight. He returned to Dick Leigh, no longer interested in his candor. Why do people with money feel the need to philosophize? Does idle time spawn the illusion of wisdom? “I know things change.”

  “It’s evolution.”

  The boat swayed in the open harbor. Jerry searched for a distant point to fix his sights, but the skyline undulated in disconcert with his stomach. “I need to get up top for a while. We’ll talk later.”

  “I plan on it.”

  Jerry checked Dick’s neatly groomed facade and set the beer glass on a passing tray. He left without another word.

  The dance floor resonated with the heat and smell of millionaires at play. Jerry nudged through the grinding bodies to reach the stairs, but crossing the deck felt like strolling atop the ocean. The boat rode the breakers in the harbor. In the distance, Lady Liberty waved her torch.

  Near the stairs, Jerry spotted Haskell Cogdon. His wiry silver sideburns reflected in the portal light. Even indoors, he wore those brown tinted shades.

&n
bsp; Haskell snatched a pair of champagne glasses and faded from view. Jerry felt glad that he’d jettisoned that man from his life. People never changed, contrary to Dick Leigh’s speculation. Haskell was probably canvassing other suckers at the party.

  Jerry climbed to the upper deck. A warm breeze whipped off the Atlantic. He grabbed the railing and aimed his face into the wind. The whitecaps sprayed salty water upon his bare arms and face. He focused on the horizon. The ocean curved off the end of the Earth. He tried to be still inside.

  Tom Veris came beside Jerry. His face was tan, plump, and pitted like the head of a bran muffin. Perspiration caught in the dark curls near his forehead. A half-empty glass of beer dangled from the tips of his fat fingers. “So you’ve met our fearless leader.”

  “Dick Leigh?” Jerry asked.

  “Yeah, he runs the group.”

  “What group?”

  “The Winners Circle.”

  “Is that what you call this?”

  “Not this. It’s a chat group.”

  “You chat about what?”

  “Think of it as therapy. We discuss our lives, issues, whatever. Dick’s a psychologist. We meet on Tuesdays at the Trenton JCC.”

  Jerry returned to the horizon, attempting to settle his stomach. He gulped the air. “That explains a lot.”

  “What does?”

  “The shrink part.”

  “That’s just the tip of the iceberg.”

  “Oh?”

  “I suppose Dick didn’t say anything about himself.”

  “He was lecturing me about change.” And spilling your story instead.

  “Change is a big theme lately. I think he’s planning something.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “You two hang around a lot?”

  “Dick doesn’t have many friends.”

  Jerry understood that. He used to have friends at the car plant. They used to share lunchtime and talk. You might call it a chat group about cars, home repairs, and sporting events. And Chelsea had her friends, who became his too, but ever since the lottery, things grew weird. People treated them like they were different, special even. He had become alien to familiar places, greeted instead by silence and watchful eyes.