The Dinosaur Heist

by K. B. Spangler

  As they flew, the rest of the flock followed them. There were a few more passionate gasps from the trees, but the birds quickly settled down.

  “Nicely done.” Chanda had come up behind me. “I wasn’t sure how to get them to be quiet.”

  “Do they do that often?” I asked.

  “Never,” Chanda replied, as she stared up into the tree. “They’ve been acting strange the last few days, I guess, but they’ve never waited for me like that.”

  “How did you end up with crows as pets?”

  She chuckled, and ran her hand through the crook of my arm. “They’re not pets,” she said, as she led me towards the house. “They’re family. Their family and mine have been together since my grandparents moved in. I grew up with their last two generations, and this one is mine to look after.”

  “Your neighbors must love them.”

  “We’ve had words,” she admitted. “But the crows are mostly a local curiosity. They get a fluff piece in the paper at least once a year. I talk about who’s died, who’s had babies, all of that. People love it.”

  “Really?”

  “Yup!” We had reached the front door. Chanda found her keys and opened it for us. “Some of the kids down the block set up an Instagram account for them, so if you see any teenagers taking photos, ask before you chase them off.”

  “Can do,” I said, as Chanda hit the light switch.

  Her house woke up, with the hallway light coming on in a dim glow, followed by a dozen candles set in high niches along the walls. The plantation blinds were already shut, and rugs with a thin pile were spread across the wood floors. Most of the furniture was leather or wood, or a combination of both. If you didn’t know what to look for, you’d think Chanda had designed her house for casual living.

  If you did know what to look for, you’d realize that everything was extremely sturdy and easy to clean.

  (I could explain why I loathe flimsy plastic Venetian blinds, but you can probably guess.)

  “What are your preferences?” she asked, as she set down her purse.

  “Condoms, always. I don’t like to cause or receive pain,” I said, as I started to unbutton my shirt. “With the exception of certain fantasies, everything else is negotiable.”

  “We might need to discuss those fantasies, but I can work with that,” she said, and then paused before saying, “I’ve got a proposition for you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Since you’re bed-surfing, you’re welcome to stay here until we get bored with each other.” Chanda looked me up and down, as if evaluating exactly how long it would take her to get tired of me. “Or two weeks, whichever comes first.”

  “Let’s start with three days,” I laughed. “If you still want me around after that, we’ll talk.”

  “Deal,” she said, and then she stepped into my arms.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The next morning dawned bright and early. I woke in Chanda’s bed, with Chanda nestled against me, her short brown hair tickling my chin. We were both naked, and curled beneath a single overstuffed comforter. I also had an erection hard enough to beat the band. That’s an expression I’ve never fully understood, but at that moment I probably could have used my dick to bludgeon an entire marching band to death, so it was at least appropriate.

  Chanda was…

  There was a reason I had woken up ready to go. We had kept each other up until long past midnight, playing, testing our limits. It had been a pleasant night of mostly vanilla sex. Chanda had used the phrase “exploratory committee” once, and I had agreed: we were figuring each other out, learning what we liked so we could focus on that the next time.

  Well, there was no time like the present.

  I moved my free hand down between her legs.

  Chanda made a slight noise but didn’t wake up, so I began to run a knuckle along her sweet center line. I loved exploring this part of a woman. There’s that persistent, hateful myth that women who love sex literally become loose. No. That’s just not how bodies work. Take it from me: a woman who enjoys sex and engages in it on a regular basis won’t be that much different from a woman who doesn’t.

  Except for that little ridge.

  It’s a line of hardened tissue, right along the center of the skin between the vagina and the anus, where the hymen used to be. I don’t know what it’s called. If it’s a scar, it’s the kind of scar that becomes more sensitive to the touch than ordinary skin. I’ve never been able to see it with the naked eye. I can only tell it’s there by touch, this subtle mark that only women who’ve engaged in a lot of sex can wear.

  It.

  Drives.

  Me.

  Wild!

  Chanda had that little line. I wet my little finger and ran the tip of it along the ridge, feeling her sensitive skin twitch at my touch. Sometimes I wondered if this was how it felt to touch a sleeping tiger, sleek muscles shivering at the stimulation.

  Chanda’s legs came together, a gentle movement, trapping my hand so all I could move was my thumb and forefinger. “What a way to meet the morning,” she murmured, as I took my thumb up, up, sliding inside her. I stroked her as slowly as I could, pushing my thumb into her as I ran the knuckle of my index finger against the tiny bump of her clit.

  She arched her back as she made a sleepy noise of arousal, and released my hand. I pulled her against me, tucked her into a little spoon, and put my cock between her legs. She was already wet; I could have pushed inside her without any effort at all. But why would I do that? Not when I could run my cock along the hollow of her thighs, feeling her tremble as the head of my cock ran against her clit, down against the hot center of her, finally coming to rest against that tiny invisible ridge.

  Chanda started to turn towards me, so I dropped my free arm between her breasts, pinning her against me. “Oh no, you don’t,” I whispered.

  “What if I want to get up?” she purred in that low, sexy voice of hers.

  “Then I’ll let you up,” I promised, even as I kept stroking my cock between her legs. “But you don’t want that, do you?”

  She said something I couldn’t hear, and ground her hips against mine.

  “What was that?”

  “I said…” she gasped as I stopped stroking and instead pushed the full weight of my cock up between her legs, the head protruding from between her thighs as if it belonged to her, too. “I said I want this.”

  “Good,” I said, as I began to stroke against her again.

  She moaned, and put her hands between her legs, cupping the head of my cock. Her fingers grasped me in loose circles, gently tugging and releasing me in slow, careful motions. Her breasts were heavy along my arm, swallowing me up.

  I wasn’t inside her yet, and I was already inside her, and I loved it.

  “Now,” she whispered, and since I already had a condom on I moved my cock up, just a fraction, just a hair, and then was sliding deep, deep inside, moving along that sweet wet center line until every part of my cock was within her.

  The two of us began to move together. I was still holding her against me, cradling her, keeping her almost completely immobile except for where we had joined ourselves together. She squeezed herself tight, wrapping me up; I thrust in slow, circular movements, my focus on contact instead of force or speed, pushing myself into her until there was no space left between us, just her and me, together.

  It’s not necessary to rush to orgasm. It’s the frosting on the cake, a little bit of extra sugar, but the rich center is the best part. We didn’t force ourselves, instead slowly working to find our way together, a series of joined movements which took us along a rising tide.

  “Now,” she whispered again, and I began to move more quickly, still keeping each stroke deep and strong. When we came, it was gentle, a release of tension instead of an earthshaking climax, and it was as sweet and as rich as buttercream.

  Chanda relaxed in my arms with a sigh. “That’s a great way to wake up,” she said, and then sat up and stretched.


  “Want to go again?” I asked, as I hopped towards the bathroom to take care of the condom.

  “Yeah, but after last night, I need something to eat,” she said, following me. “I want the first shower. Go get yourself some coffee,” she said, nudging me out of the bathroom with her hip. “I want you to be good to go again in thirty minutes.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I replied, as she tossed a damp washcloth to me.

  I pulled on my boxers and raided Chanda’s closet for a t-shirt, then found my way downstairs to where the automatic coffee maker gurgled away, filling the air with the promise of caffeine. I started going through her cabinets and found the coffee mugs on the second try. All of her mugs were huge and handmade, with thumbprints pressed into the pottery. I was sure there was a story attached to each of them.

  I found myself wanting to know those stories. In fact, as I puttered around Chanda’s kitchen, familiarizing myself with the digital devices in the room, I found myself wanting to know all about Chanda. I wanted to learn about her childhood, her reasons for moving into her grandparents’ old home…all about her past, and her present, and maybe her future.

  I realized what I was doing, and laughed quietly to myself. Rachel’s right. I do fall in love too fast.

  I was still smiling about that when the rock came flying through the kitchen window.

  Whoever threw it had great aim; the coffee mug broke apart in my hand, and hot liquid splattered across my bare skin.

  I was out the back door in a flash.

  The rock-thrower was already halfway across the backyard, headed towards a short fence topped with wrought-iron spikes which separated Chanda’s property from her neighbors. The crows were shrieking; some of Chanda’s ladies swooped down from the trees, flapping and screaming at the person in the purple hoodie. One of them came pretty close to the rock-thrower’s face, and they stumbled and fell as they tried to bat the crow away.

  It was enough of a delay for me to make up the distance between us. I grabbed them by the back of their sweatshirt and threw them back to the ground again.

  The purple hood fell away, revealing the rock-thrower as a man about my age. He was a white guy with dark blond hair, and would have been handsome except for the anger twisting his face into ugly knots.

  “Fuck you!” he snarled, as he pulled back his foot.

  His kick didn’t land. I kicked him in the ribs hard enough to flip him over, and then pulled his hood back over his face. Unable to see, he lashed out, and I hit him with a few solid punches. He changed tactics and tried to push the hood back; I hit him in the face until he stopped.

  The man gave a wordless roar and tried to tackle me. He had enough peripheral vision to know where I was standing, so he grabbed me around the waist and tried to bring me to the ground with him.

  I planted my right foot in the dirt and spun in a circle. The man went flying a second time, and landed in an old rosebush with canes as thick around as my wrist. Chanda’s ladies, who had been shrieking from the safety of the trees, broke cover and swarmed him, beaks and talons flashing.

  “Thanks for the assist,” I told the crows, as I reached into the rubble of the rosebush and hauled the man out by his sweatshirt. One of the birds made its grunting sex noise at me in acknowledgement.

  I dropped him on the ground and asked, “You want to go again?”

  He kept swearing at me. I had hit him in the mouth too many times, and I couldn’t understand most of what he was saying. Finally, he paused, spat out a mouthful of blood, and said, “Fucking…machine!”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Hi. Let’s go ask the homeowner and see if she wants to press charges for trespassing and property damage.”

  The sound of footsteps came from behind me. “Travis!” Chanda, wrapped in a bathrobe with her hair soaking wet, sounded appalled.

  “You know him?” I asked.

  The man—Travis?—pulled himself to all fours and readied himself for another attack. As he did, all of Chanda’s ladies started screaming at the top of their lungs.

  “I wouldn’t,” Chanda warned him, as she pointed towards the trees. “You remember the last time you came sneaking around here, right?”

  Oh! I wanted to smack myself in the forehead. Travis hadn’t been passing through Chanda’s backyard and happened to see me in her kitchen. He hadn’t thrown that rock because of an anti-OACET mentality. No, he wasn’t here for me at all.

  “He’s an ex-boyfriend?” I asked.

  “He’s an ex-something,” she replied. “The cops should be here soon.”

  “You fucking whore,” Travis growled. “You’ll fuck anything! Your vibrator wasn’t good enough for you, so now you’re fucking a bigger machine?”

  “May I?” I asked her.

  “I’ve got this,” she said, and kicked Travis straight in the balls.

  “That might technically be assault,” I told her, “since he’s already incapacitated.”

  “Really?” Chanda kicked him again, this time in the ribs. “Are you a lawyer?”

  “I passed the bar before joining law enforcement, but I’ve never practiced.”

  “Fascinating,” she said, as she kicked Travis a third time. “Absolutely fascinating.”

  The cops arrived not long after that. They were two female officers who seemed to know Chanda, and their conversation left no doubts that this was a semi-regular occurrence.

  “Someday, one of these guys’ll get lucky,” an officer warned, and she threw a meaningful glance at me. “They all seem nice at first.”

  I kept my mouth tightly shut.

  It took about thirty minutes to get Travis processed and stowed into the back of a police cruiser. By that time, we had moved to the front yard. Neighbors had gathered in doorways and windows, and a couple of them even walked past the house. Those neighbors who took the time to make that slow walk had the same kind of nasty smirk that I had seen on the faces of some of Chanda’s coworkers.

  After the cops tapped on the horn to say goodbye, Chanda turned towards her house and went straight inside.

  I followed her. There wasn’t much more I could do.

  “Shower’s all yours,” she said, as she pointed towards the staircase.

  “Chanda—”

  “I don’t want to hear it,” she said, as she opened a closet and took out a dustpan, a sheet of clear plastic, and a roll of duct tape. She went to the kitchen and began cleaning up the broken glass with practiced efficiency. When she got to the broken mug, she turned the handle over in her hands and sighed.

  “I don’t want to hear it,” she said. “Especially from you.”

  “I know,” I replied. I had my share of stalkers, but the cops had never shown up at my house and warned me that I should stop sleeping around. The folks at the community center might give me pep talks about being a better role model, but they didn’t warn people to stay away from me. And my coworkers and neighbors might make jokes at my expense because of my lifestyle, but it was never malicious…hell, in OACET, I was everybody’s go-to if they wanted a quickie in the supply closet!

  There was absolutely nothing I could say to put this right. All I could do was kneel down beside her and help her pick up the pieces.

  CHAPTER SIX

  We were still working on cleanup when the crows exploded into a cacophony of sex noises.

  “The ladies must really like you,” Chanda muttered, as she brushed the last of the glass into the waste can. “When someone’s at the door, they usually just go caw, caw.”

  “Someone’s at the door?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Fuck ’em,” Chanda said. “I’ve got video security out there. If it’s a neighbor, I’ll call them back and see what they wanted.”

  The doorbell rang. Then rang again.

  “Oh, Jesus, I am not in the mood for this!” Chanda snapped. She yanked the cord of her robe a little tighter, and stormed towards the door.

  I hung back, letting her manage her own house. I’m not a dinosaur; I can learn and e
volve.

  A moment later, I heard her call: “Josh?”

  I came through the kitchen door to see a man in clean-pressed black livery, a black limousine purring quietly at the curb behind him. He had the look of a double-duty staffer, one who drives the car and also keeps the passengers safe. He nodded to me. “Agent Glassman, Dr. Kelson. Your presence is requested.”

  “Thanks!” I said, and started towards the car.

  Chanda seized my arm. “What are you doing?” she whispered. “Do you know him?”

  “Nope,” I said. “C’mon.”

  “You can’t just get into a mysterious limousine! I mean, we’re…” She gestured at herself in her bathrobe, and me in all my post-sex post-fight t-shirt-and-boxers glory.

  “This’ll be fun,” I promised.

  “How do you know?” she protested, as I led her down the path towards the waiting car.

  “Because it’s always fun.”

  The rear doors to the limo opened silently, revealing a long pair of legs topped with the hint of a miniskirt. I grinned: I knew those legs.

  “Mrs. Leung,” I said, as I slid into the car. The leather seat was butter-soft, and the gentle yellow of an early autumn leaf. A tray of mimosas was waiting, the drinks resting in wide champagne flutes.

  The owner of the legs was a stunning Chinese woman, her long black hair shot with lines of silver. Those legs (and the body attached to them) put her in her late twenties, while her hair put her in her early fifties. Her age could have been anywhere in between, but I thought she was closer to fifty. You didn’t get to be someone like Mrs. Leung without experience.

  “Agent Glassman,” she said, as she gestured to the glassware. “Always a pleasure.”

  “Likewise.” I took a glass and made myself comfortable. Beside me, Chanda tentatively reached for one of the glasses, sniffed it as if it might have been poisoned, and then took a cautious taste. Her eyes widened in delighted astonishment: fresh orange juice in something pricey from the Le Mesnil-sur-Oger region of France will do that to you.