Disclosure_ A Novel - Michael Crichton [39]
He looked at her face, saw the way the makeup cracked at the corners of her eyes. Around her mouth.
She had her hands on his shoulders, tugging him toward her. “Oh please . . . No . . . No . . .” And then she turned her head aside and coughed.
Something snapped in him. He sat back coldly. “You’re right.” He got off the couch, and pulled up his trousers. “We shouldn’t do this.”
She sat up. “What are you doing?” She seemed puzzled. “You want this as much as I do. You know you do.”
“No,” he said. “We shouldn’t do this, Meredith.” He was buckling his belt. Stepping back.
She stared at him in dazed disbelief, like someone awakened from sleep. “You’re not serious . . .”
“This isn’t a good idea. I don’t feel good about it.”
And then her eyes were suddenly furious. “You fucking son of a bitch.”
She got off the couch fast, rushing at him, hitting him hard with bunched fists. “You bastard! You prick! You fucking bastard!” He was trying to button his shirt, turning away from her blows. “You shit! You bastard!”
She moved around him as he turned away, grabbing his hands, tearing at his shirt to keep him from button ing it.
“You can’t! You can’t do this to me!”
Buttons popped. She scratched him, long red welts running down his chest. He turned again, avoiding her, wanting only to get out of there. To get dressed and get out of there. She pounded his back.
“You fucker, you can’t leave me like this!”
“Cut it out, Meredith,” he said. “It’s over.”
“Fuck you!” She grabbed a handful of his hair, pulling him down with surprising strength, and she bit his ear hard. He felt an intense shooting pain and he pushed her away roughly. She toppled backward, off balance, crashing against the glass coffee table, sprawling on the ground.
She sat there, panting. “You fucking son of a bitch.”
“Meredith, just leave me alone.” He was buttoning his shirt again. All he could think was: Get out of here. Get your stuff and get out of here. He reached for his jacket, then saw his cellular phone on the windowsill.
He moved around the couch and picked up the phone. The wineglass crashed against the window near his head. He looked over and saw her standing in the middle of the room, reaching for something else to throw.
“I’ll kill you!” she said. “I’ll fucking kill you.”
“That’s enough, Meredith,” he said.
“The hell.” She threw a small paper bag at him. It thunked against the glass and dropped to the floor. A box of condoms fell out.
“I’m going home.” He moved toward the door.
“That’s right,” she said. “You go home to your wife and your little fucking family.”
Alarms went off in his head. He hesitated for a moment.
“Oh yes,” she said, seeing him pause. “I know all about you, you asshole. Your wife isn’t fucking you, so you come in here and lead me on, you set me up and then you walk out on me, you hostile violent fucking asshole. You think you can treat women this way? You asshole.”
He reached for the doorknob.
“You walk out on me, you’re dead!”
He looked back and saw her leaning unsteadily on the desk, and he thought, She’s drunk.
“Good night, Meredith,” he said. He twisted the knob, then remembered that the door had been locked. He unlocked the door and walked out, without looking back.
In the outer room, a cleaning woman was emptying trash baskets from the assistants’ desks.
“I’ll fucking kill you for this!” Meredith called after him.
The cleaning woman heard it, and stared at Sanders. He looked away from her, and walked straight to the elevator. He pushed the button. A moment later, he decided to take the stairs.
Sanders stared at the setting sun from the deck of the ferry going back to Winslow. The evening was calm, with almost no breeze; the surface of the water was dark and still.