Darlene by Avyn Pearl Page A

people know me as Darlene Finch or Darlene Nordeman. Or by some of the other names I use. I was born in Victoria, British Columbia and raised all over. My half Greek, half Haitian mother is a professor of women's studies at the University of Chicago. My Canadian-born father is a prominent cardiologist in Chicagoland. I have a sister, Claudine, who's married to a lawyer. I went to the best schools, as did Claudine, who's a family therapist, by the way. Perhaps because our home was so happy growing up, Claudine feels like she needs to figure out why everyone else is so damn weird. I'm serious—we had a great life.
    I'm twenty-nine. And no, I'm not panicking about hitting thirty. I'm living my best life. I have a bachelor ’s degree in economics from NYU and a master’s degree in international marketing from Yale. What? I needed something to do. My family thinks I work for a marketing firm based out of New York City, and that I travel all over (I needed something to explain all the postcards from all over the world, didn't I?) and I pull off this great, whopper of a sham with the help of my friend Priscilla Grulay. I affectionately call her Nelly, since her middle name is Janelle. Besides, if I'm ever caught talking to her by phone, no one would know who she is.
    I'm a gem thief. And I'm good at it.
    I sit at this nondescript corner café, like I have just about every Friday afternoon since I've been in Houston with Paulo. It took me three days to meet Peter, who's an environmental lawyer. I've fucked so many lawyers, I've lost count. Clearly Claudine and I have this in common—she used to hang around the University of Chicago Law School, flipping that long ass hair until she found one for the long term. And as I watch Peter approaching, joggling slightly as he jaywalks across the street, I feel a slight slipperiness between my thighs. It's a warm but breezy day, and the silk-blend shirtdress I'm wearing ripples slightly with the breeze. A pair of thongs is all I wear underneath. Luckily I'm blessed with great breasts. Okay, let me be honest: I bought great breasts.
    "Hey, beautiful," Peter says, kissing me on the cheek. "I missed you last week."
    "I know." I was working, but I don't tell him. Peter thinks I'm a barista. I think that's hilarious. "Let's go."
    " Oooh," Peter smiles. "You're feisty today." He slips his arm in mine in that chivalrous way he has about him, escorting me down the street. A couple of women gawk as we walk by their table. I agree that I'm hot, but it's probably because they notice what I'm feeling: my nipples are as hard as rocks already thinking about the next frame in this beautiful movie. "Same place?" Peter reaches for my face, delicately skimming a finger across my chin.
    "Definitely. I like that place."
    We walk a few blocks and arrive at our spot. It's a cute boutique hotel we happened upon when the Westin was full on account of some stupid insurance conference. We love the beds, the rooms are spacious and the food is delicious. I sit in one of the oversized chairs in the lobby pretending to read a copy of Glamour as Peter gets a room for us. As he moves toward the elevator, I follow. I'm pulsing between my thighs, anticipating what's to come. Peter's been away on business so I haven't had sex in over a week and I feel like I could die. I can tell Peter's anxious too, his footsteps are quicker today. Peter's married, of course. He's told me plenty about his kids, mostly because I ask, but very little about his wife, probably because I don't ask. I just know he's bored and feels unloved.
    He can barely swing the door shut before we reach for one another. We hold our embrace longer than usual. His slightly wet kisses start at my collarbone and move up toward my ear. He breathes in my scent. "Ummmmm," he murmurs, "you're wearing the Gucci I bought you."
    "Yes," I whisper, gently tugging at his leather belt. "Peter …"
    "Yes, I know," he responds. And he does know.
    Peter's hands glide up my