One Saturday afternoon in September 2004, Dan was lying on his couch watching college football when his phone rang. A friend of his from work was on the other end. "Dan, this is Scott, what's up?"
"Just watching the end of the USC game. What are you doing?"
"I've been in the office all day and need to meet Lauren for dinner at 8 or so. Wanna grab a few drinks with me before."
"Mmm, sure. I'm supposed to meet a few friends later. Mind if I have 'em meet us?"
"Not at all. Why don't you meet me at Gibson's? We're having dinner at Hugo's." Hugo's Frog Bar was right behind Gibson's.
"Sure. Give me half-an-hour or so. I need jump in the shower and then grab a cab. Should be down there by 6:30 or so."
"See you there." Dan got up from the couch, took a shower, and hailed a cab to Gibson's. Gibson's was located in what has become known as the Viagra Triangle. It, and many of the bars and restaurants near it, was frequented by forty-something's looking for love. Or sex, whatever was convenient. Gibson's was particularly renowned for catering to older men looking for younger women, and older women for younger men.
As the cab neared Gibson's, Dan called one of his friends that he was supposed to meet that night, but got his voicemail. "Steve, this is Dan. I'm meeting a friend from work at Gibson's for a few drinks. Meet me there at around 7:30 or so. Oh, and call Jeff and let him know. See you later." Dan folded his phone as the cab pulled up to the curb in front of Gibson's.
Scott already had a high table, drink in hand, when Dan entered. "Long day at the office?" Dan said, taking a seat.
"Not really. I just went in for a few hours."
When a waitress appeared, Dan ordered a Stoli and tonic. "What do you have going on?" he asked Scott when the waitress left.
"Nothing much. I just have a big report due in New York Monday morning, and I wanted to take a last look before I e.mailed it over."
Dan and Scott spent the next half-an-hour or so talking about office gossip, complaining about high-maintenance clients, and people-watching. Even though it was still early, the Gibson's regulars (or at least Dan assumed they were regulars) were all present, staking out their turf. It was comical to watch, really.
Dan was about to respond to something Scott had said when something – someone – caught his eye. At one end of the bar, he saw Donna Morgan. He had known Mrs. Morgan for upwards of ten years. He and her son, Steve, went to high school together and had run with the same crowd. They still did; in fact, Dan had just left a voicemail message for her son. The Morgans lived down the street from Dan's family in Winnetka, and he and Steve had been best friends in junior high and high school. They drifted apart some during college, but still maintained a very close friendship.
Their friendship when they were younger had been such that Steve sometimes accompanied Dan's family to their house in Beaver Creek, and Dan on occasion traveled to Naples, Florida with the Morgan family. Dan had always found Mrs. Morgan extremely beautiful, in the trophy wife sort of way, but she was a complete bitch, cold and aloof. She acted as though everything was a bother to her, like she was way above everyone surrounding her. When he and Steve were growing up, she couldn't be bothered to drive them to the mall or pick them up from football practice. The PTA? Forget it; not in a million years. She'd rather be shopping on Oak Street and downing bottles of wine with her friends at Tavern-on-Rush or Bistro 110.
Part of that was her upbringing; her father had been a top personal injury attorney in Chicago. Rumor had it that her trust, which she received when she turned twenty-five, was in the eight-figures. Another part was her husband. Mrs. Morgan was clearly a trophy wife. Dan didn't really know her age, but with Steve being her son, and based on how good she looked, he guessed she was in her mid-forties. Mr. Morgan, on the other hand, was in his late-fifties, at best. He was in venture capital, and provided very well for the family.
At the end of the day, being born into money and then marrying it all over had given Mrs. Morgan a serious superiority complex. Dan remembers that when they were growing up, she would barely acknowledge Steve's friends when they were around the house. She would breeze in after shopping all day, and march through the house, bags in hand, with barely a hello. Given their financial security, the Morgans had full-time help; in Dan's view, Mrs. Morgan did not treat them very well, but instead ordered them around with a distinct lack of respect and compassion. All in all, Mrs. Morgan was a fucking cunt.
Despite this, she was absolutely stunning; no one could rightly deny that. Looking at her across the bar, Dan estimated her height at five-feet-eight-or-nine inches. She had long, dirty blonde hair that flowed over her shoulders and hung a few inches past. Dan cannot recall ever seeing her hair in anything so pedestrian as a ponytail; rather, it looked like she went to stylist every day, and that night was no exception. As rude as she typically was, Mrs. Morgan usually kept her eyes averted from anything as bothersome as Steve's friends, so Dan could not really recall ever seeing any magic or brightness in them, and only knew that they were a shade of blue. This night was a little different; he could see life there. She was enjoying herself.
The small crowd between Dan and Mrs. Morgan parted, giving him a more complete view of her. 'Wow,' he thought. He had to revise her estimate of her height, because she was in three-inch open-toed heels crafted in black patent leather; her toenails gleamed with red polish. As his eyes traveled up her lean, lightly muscled legs – one straight and the other cocked at the knee – he noticed no telltale signs of stockings or pantyhose.
A tasteful black skirt hung from her trim waist, falling two or three inches above her knees. A white knit top clung to her upper body. It was sleeveless, and had a button in front to keep the two sides together. Dan had never seen a top like this, and didn't know what to call it. Whatever it was, it exposed a large part of her flat, tanned stomach. The button – there was only one – joined the lapels at her breast line. It must have been a strong button; Dan had never noticed before, but Mrs. Morgan's breasts were quite large, a large C-cup or a small D-cup, at least. He could see her nipples tenting the fabric. A large diamond pendant hung from her neck and fell between her cleavage. When she turned away from him for a moment to order another drink, Dan was treated to a tight little ass hiding beneath that skirt.
When her drink arrived, Mrs. Morgan brought the low-ball, now filled with a brownish liquid, to her red-painted lips just as Dan turned back to Steve. He saw her French-manicured nails gripping the glass, and her wedding rings sparkled in the faint light of the bar. "Yeah," he said, answering Steve. "I worked on that account for a few months about two years ago, before I got pulled back to Chicago. Not fun. The client wants miracles, and thinks it can happen overnight."
As their conversation continued, Dan's eyes strayed back to Mrs. Morgan. He was alarmed to see her staring at him, her drink paused right before her lips. Dan thought he could see the color drain from her deeply tanned cheeks. After a moment, she appeared to regain her composure, and put her drink to her lips, placing it back on the bar after taking a strong pull.. She leaned over to the person she was talking to, placing a hand on his arm, and walked away from the bar towards the main entrance. As she did so, she beckoned for Dan to follow, crooking a manicured finger at him.
"Gimme a minute, Steve, I've gotta say hi to someone." Dan met her at the main entrance. "Mrs. Morgan, so good to see you," he said with mock sincerity, holding out his hand. He really did hate her. He would kiss some of his friends' moms on the cheek when seeing them, but not Mrs. Morgan. You'd probably get slapped for messing up her make up.
"You, too, Dan," she responded with the same artificiality, taking the offered hand. Rather than continuing, she just stared at him.
"What can I do for you, Mrs. Morgan? You summoned me over here." Sarcasm dripped from his voice.
"I . . . I didn't want you saying anything . . . to Steve, I mean. Well, er, anyone, for that matter." The usual confidence was missing. Dan knew what was going on: Mrs. Morgan was on the prowl. Needless to say, this surprised him. He couldn't image this bitch being friendly enough so that anyone would want to deal with her. And despite her beautiful face and sexy body, he had never really imagined her having sex. Her holier-than-thou attitude – which is to say 'bitchy attitude' – did not inspire such thoughts.
