Live Girls

by Ray Garton

  When she backed away from Davey's hand, stood up straighter, he thought it was over, thought that perhaps she wanted more money. But her smile seemed to say, There's more, my friend, much more....

  Very carefully, she pulled his sleeves back down and gently pushed his arm out of the hole. Her eyes remained locked with his. She gave his hand a small squeeze as it slipped out of the hole.

  When he felt her hand on his leg, Davey looked down and saw her arm snaking through the hole. He watched as her hand glided across his thigh to the bulge beneath his pants. Her arm twisted slowly until her palm was facing upward. She tucked her elegant fingers between his legs, just below his crotch, laid her thumb flush with the line of his zipper, and squeezed. Just a slight whisper of a squeeze, but enough to send white threads of electricity up the center of his body.

  Davey looked through the glass again, saw the lids of her eyes grow heavy as she cupped his genitals in her palm. She pulled the zipper down with dreamlike slowness and wriggled her fingers through the opening. Through the thin material of his briefs, Davey felt her fingernail travel the length of his erection teasingly and he moaned, a long breathy moan. Her fingers pulled open the front of his briefs.

  Her fingers were cool and velvety; they wrapped around his penis and pulled it carefully out of his pants.

  Davey leaned forward and pressed a hand to the wall on each side of the window. His head drooped and he looked down at her hand, smooth and gentle, as it tugged him toward the hole. He took a small step forward. Another.

  She nodded encouragingly to him, fondling a breast with her free hand. Her lips parted just enough for her tongue to ease out and slide across them, glistening lusciously.

  “Oh, God,” Davey breathed as he allowed her to pull him through the hole. Its hard, ungiving edges, so harsh compared to her glassy-smooth skin, made him wince. He leaned almost his entire body against the thick glass as her tongue lightly touched him, her black hair draping each side of her head like curtains on a window, private and concealing. She flicked her tongue over the darkened head of his penis first, then slipped it underneath, running it the length of the shaft slowly, lovingly.

  Davey swallowed several times.

  She pulled her mouth away for a moment and held him close to her face, her fingers caressing him as she moved his penis just a bit to one side, holding it as a jeweler might hold a precious stone.

  Davey felt her lips wrap around the side of his shaft, felt her wet, pillowy tongue, her teeth, then a slight sting so sudden that, amid all the other overpowering sensations, he wasn't even sure it was real.

  She took him all the way into her mouth so swiftly that Davey's knees began to buckle and it was only with effort that he kept them from collapsing completely. She began sucking on him hungrily and he grunted as if he'd been slugged in the stomach.

  He cried out, softly at first, his breath clouding the glass.

  Cooooool, he thought, she feels sooo cooooool.

  His orgasm pounded inside him like an animal throwing itself against the bars of its cage, and when it was just a breath away from release, he clenched his teeth to hold back the cry. It came anyway, ripping from his chest as he slammed against the glass and shuddered uncontrollably, sweat rolling down his body, his heart drumming in his ears.

  She finally slid her mouth from him but continued to stroke him with her hand.

  His eyes were closed and he didn't seem to have enough energy left to open them. The panel began to hum down over the glass and he opened his eyes in time for one final glance, and saw her smiling, her mouth sparkling with his juices and ... something else ... smeared lipstick?

  She was gone.

  He pressed his cheek to the panel as she continued to stroke him on the other side. Then she let go and he pulled away, fell to the wall on his right, and slid down until he reached the floor. He remained there, curled up like a baby, trembling, trying to catch his breath, staring with wonder at the panel, at the hole through which soft light cast a glowing bar that landed in a distorted puddle on his hanging overcoat.

  With effort, he stood, leaning on the wall. He zipped up, took his coat from the hook on the door, and clumsily slid his arms into the sleeves. He kept looking at the panel. Before he opened the door and left the booth, he reached out and touched his fingertips to the hard wood.

  He burst from the booth and hurried through the shadows of Live Girls. He passed the cage by the entrance and looked through the bars as he went by. He saw nothing in the darkness, but he knew that someone was sitting there, someone with large, beautiful, pale hands. Someone watching him.

  2

  ____________________________

  CASEY THORNE HEADED FOR THE LOUNGE AS SOON AS SHE arrived at Penn Publishing, lighting a cigarette as she walked down the corridor. She was a small woman with a fast, lively walk that swept her into the lounge like a sudden gust of wind. She went straight to the coffeepot, ignoring Chad Wilkes.

  “Hey, Casey,” he said happily. “G'morning."

  “Morning, Chad,” she said with an intentional chill as she took a styrofoam cup from the stack on the counter and tipped the steaming coffeepot over it.

  “Your hair looks wet. Forget your umbrella?"

  Her short strawberry-blond hair was damp and stringy; strands of it were still sticking to the sides of her face. “My umbrella broke this morning,” she replied slowly, trying to keep her voice from raising. All the way from the lobby up, people had been asking her, “Forget your umbrella?"

  Not only had her umbrella broken, but her alarm clock had not gone off and she'd slept too late to fix breakfast or even have coffee. She'd gotten caught in the middle of a fight between her roommate Lisa and her boyfriend, Selig, then she'd missed her bus.

  It was Monday.

  Hunger was beginning to gurgle crankily in Casey's stomach as she tucked her cigarette between her lips. Chad was sitting at one of the two long rectangular tables in the lounge—the one closest to the tray—eating a Mars Bar, a cup of coffee on the table next to a manuscript he'd apparently been reading. He smiled at her as she stepped around the chairs that were scattered in disarray along the table, trying not to spill her coffee. She did not smile back.

  Chad was smartly dressed, as usual. There wasn't a wrinkle in sight anywhere on his stylish gray suit, his narrow maroon tie lay straight as an arrow against his blue shirt, and his blond hair was perfectly in place. The only thing that kept Chad Wilkes from being attractive was his face, his mouth in particular. It was very small, the lips were thin, and it looked a bit like a little rectum that had formed beneath his nose. He wore little wire-rimmed spectacles over his squinty eyes. He had a personality to match those tight, pinched features: most everyone at Penn agreed that he was an asshole.

  “You have a good weekend, babe?” he asked.

  Casey turned her back to him as she puffed on her cigarette, pouring some cream into her coffee. “You know, Chad,” she said casually, “I've told you before to stop calling me babe. If you do it again, I'm going to sneak into your apartment one night and poke holes in all your rubbers.” She glanced over her shoulder and saw the shock that passed briefly over Chad's face, as if he thought she might actually be serious.

  “Come on, now, Casey, honey,” Chad said good-naturedly. “You're so mean to me. We have to work together, you know. We might as well be friendly, don't you think?"

  She turned to the table where Chad was sitting, leaned forward, and tapped her cigarette over the ashtray in front of him. “I'm perfectly happy with our relationship the way it is, Chad,” she said. “Filled with hostility and intense dislike.” She tore open a blue packet of artificial sweetener and shook some of it into her cup. She could hear Chad chewing on the last of his candy bar, wadding the wrapper up, and pushing his chair away from the table.

  “Well,” he said with a smile in his voice, unfazed by her remark, “I've got to be off. Miss Schuman has asked to see me. I don't want to keep her waiting."

  Casey turn
ed and watched with relief as Chad walked briskly to the door.

  “Have a good day, hon,” Chad said with a little wave and a pursed smile. “See you later."

  “The later the better,” Casey muttered. She went to the row of cupboards above the sink and opened the one closest to the wall. There was a mirror on the inside of the cupboard door and Casey stood on tiptoes to see her reflection. “Oh God,” she sighed, frustrated. She reached up with a hand, her cigarette between two fingers, and plucked at her hair hopelessly. It was a mess. In the mirror, she saw Davey come in behind her.

  His curls were loose from the drizzle outside, his tan overcoat was spotted with water. His shoulders sagged and ... was he limping? Just a little? He didn't notice her when he entered.

  “Hi, Davey,” Casey said, turning around and closing the cupboard.

  Davey stopped suddenly, startled. “Hi,” he said. His voice was tired.

  Casey stepped forward and put a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, you don't look so good, mister."

  “Mm?” He smiled, and his face, although very pale and drawn, seemed to regain a little life.

  “You look kinda sick. You okay?"

  “Yeah, I suppose."

  “You suppose. Coffee?"

  “Please.” He went to the sink and washed his hands.

  Casey put her cigarette out in an ashtray, set down her coffee, and poured a cup for Davey. “How was your weekend?” she asked.

  “Oh, I've had better.” Davey's hands smacked wetly as he rubbed them together under the stream of water, rinsing off the soap.

  “You want sugar in this? Cream?"

  “Black."

  She went to his side and set the coffee on the counter as Davey dried his hands.

  “Trouble with Beth again, or what?” Casey asked. She watched his eyes slide slowly to her, heavy-lidded. It was a look of inward weariness, a silent What do you think? She decided not to pursue it just yet. She knew he would get to it in his own time. He always did.

  Davey reached for his coffee, but leaned forward heavily, his hands clamping the lip of the counter, a look of surprise on his face as his knees buckled.

  “Davey!” Casey gasped, grabbing his arm. “Jesus, sit down!” She pulled a chair away from the table for Davey, who seemed barely able to stand. “Sit!"

  Davey fell into the chair and leaned forward with his elbows on his thighs.

  She squatted down beside him, her hands on his arm.

  “Is there anything I can do?"

  “No, no,” he breathed, “I'm fine, really."

  “Fine?” she said softly. “Fine is not falling in the sink, Davey. What's wrong?"

  He looked at her. His eyes seemed sunken, the rich brown color that she loved so much dulled, and the flesh beneath dark and sagging. Even his cheeks seemed hollow. His skin was ashen, made even worse by the fluorescent lights in the lounge. One corner of his mouth trembled.

  “I didn't sleep last night. I'm just tired."

  Casey reached up and wiped away a drop of rainwater just below Davey's hairline. “Did she leave again?"

  Davey leaned back in the chair and exhaled slowly, nodding. He reached up and massaged his neck.

  Casey stood and folded her arms over her breasts, thinking, God, how I hate that woman.

  “She took everything with her this time,” Davey said. “She's not coming back.” He started to stand, but Casey put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Want your coffee?” she asked.

  He nodded and she handed it to him.

  “Stay there for a while."

  He blew on the coffee a few times. “It was inevitable, I guess."

  Casey knew exactly what was coming and closed her eyes a moment, hoping she would be wrong and he would surprise her. He didn't.

  “I suppose it's my fault,” he said quietly.

  Casey pushed herself away from the counter and got her coffee. “That did it. I don't want to hear any more."

  “What?"

  “If it's your fault—and, of course, it always is—I don't want to hear any more.” She faced him, one hand on her hip. “Somehow, Davey, you always manage to get involved with women who are such experts at relationships that it's impossible for them to make the smallest mistake. So you, a complete clod, come along and single-handedly ruin one relationship after another. Every time, without fail."

  Davey avoided her gaze.

  “I hope what I just said sounded stupid to you, because it was. But it's how you think,” she said with frustration, “and I wish, for Christ's sake, you would stop it, because it takes two people to make it and two to break it!"

  He stood carefully and paced slowly to the other side of the lounge. “Yeah,” he said, “but I ... I think I...” He stopped, staring with tight lips at the floor between his feet. “She said that I'm ... well, what it boils down to is that she thinks I'm too good!” He looked across the room and she saw clearly the confusion and hurt in his eyes. “What the hell's that supposed to mean? I didn't beat up on her like her old boyfriends. I was faithful, which is more than I can say for her! And she says”—he started laughing through his words; cold, disbelieving laughter that sounded very unlike Davey—“she says she can't stand me because I make her feel like a jerk! I don't know—I mean, I just—” He shook his head in defeat.

  Casey had heard this before; a few times, in fact. It hurt Casey to see that puppydog look he always got on his face. It made her want to hug him, hold him tight. Kiss him.

  They had spent one night together about two years ago and Casey had thought, for a while, that Davey was finally exhibiting good judgment. But things, for some reason, had not clicked after that, despite how well the evening had gone. It had not happened again since.

  But not for lack of trying, girl, she thought.

  “So,” Casey said softly, “what if she's right?"

  “Hm?"

  “It is possible, you know, to be just a bit too nice. So nice that you turn yourself into a victim. I've always said that Beth is a mercenary bitch, and you'd be a hell of a lot better off without her. But the woman is right on that point, I'll give her that.” She sniffed, waiting for his reaction.

  He simply stared into his coffee.

  “But that's not what you want to hear, is it?"

  Davey shrugged finally, shook his head. “I don't know. I guess I just want to hear that there's nothing wrong with me.” He looked at her. “You know, my mother used to tell me that whoever I fell in love with, no matter how great it seemed, I would always get hurt. ‘That's the way love is,’ she'd say."

  “Oh?” she replied. “So you feel some obligation to prove her right? Sounds like a self-fulfilling prophecy to me."

  “Well,” he said, frustrated, “maybe she was right."

  “Prove her wrong."

  “Any suggestions?"

  “Yes. I would love more than anything to say there's nothing wrong with you, Davey, but I can't. There is: your taste in women and your lack of spine, Davey. You have no spine.” When he didn't respond, Casey started to go on, but was interrupted by Chad.

  “Hel-lo there!” he exclaimed, grinning as he took broad steps to the coffeepot. His fingers were snapping at his sides and his shoulders were bouncing, as if he were listening to music no one else could hear. “Glad you're here."

  “We're having a talk here, Chad,” Casey said. “Do you mind?"

  “Not at all, go right ahead. Um, do we have any tea bags left? I really don't think I'm in the mood for coffee right now."

  “No tea bags, Chad. Could you excuse us?"

  “Sure. But before you go,” he said, standing before them and holding up both palms, still grinning, “I'd like to give you both the opportunity to congratulate me. Christ, Davey, you look like hell."

  Casey sighed and gestured with her hand toward Chad, an okay-get-on-with-it wave.

  “Okay, okay,” he said, snapping his fingers again, “I just got back from Stella's, um, Miss Schuman's office, and she's informed me that I am
to fill the position left behind by Fritz.” He spread his arms at his sides, gloating, self-satisfied. “How do you like that?"

  Casey felt her stomach shudder as she realized how Davey must be feeling. She looked over at him, saw the sudden looseness in his jaw, the disbelief in his eyes.

  “She...” Davey whispered, then cleared his throat. “She gave you that job?"

  “Yes, isn't it great?"

  Casey saw the glimmer in Chad's eyes. He knew exactly what he was doing to Davey. And, Goddamn him, he was enjoying it.

  “Chad,” she said with distaste, “don't you have something else to do right now?"

  “Yes,” Chad said, frowning suddenly, “as a matter of fact, I have an appointment with my doctor. A general physical. They'll probably take blood. God, I hate that.” He went back to the coffee tray and began searching the rectangular compartments for a stray tea bag. “I especially hate it when the nurse pops the cap off the needle and smiles and says, ‘Just a little blood, Mr. Wilkes. This won't hurt a bit.'” He shuddered slightly. “I could've sworn there were some bags in here earlier."

  “Chad, you are such a fucking creep, it brings tears to my eyes,” Casey said softly.

  “What? No congratulations? No slap on the back?” He grinned again and stepped closer to Casey. “In fact, I thought you and I might even go out for a little celebration tonight."

  “I have plans,” Casey said without the slightest pause.

  “We could go to the Trench. They're gonna have a great live band there tonight, and we could—"

  “I said I have plans, Chadwick."

  His mouth snapped shut—she actually heard his teeth clack together. He hated being called by his full name.

  “I'm ... I'm going out with Davey,” she improvised.

  Chad's eyes got big and round and his mouth pulled into a tiny O. “Ooooh,” he said, glancing at Davey, who was staring at his feet silently. “Do I have some competition here?"