The doors of the nearest elevator stood wide open.
He saw no one.
He stepped toward the elevator.
Empty.
Why did it even stop here? he wondered.
For me.
Step right in, he thought. And leave. And never come back.
He smiled wistfully.
It’d sure fix Monica. She wouldn’t know whether to shit or lay eggs.
But where would I go? he wondered. I’ve gotta get off my feet. Can’t just go out and wander the streets. I’d need someplace to spend the night.
Check into a different room here?
Might be possible...
As if losing patience with Owen, the elevator shut its doors and descended without him.
Chapter Twenty-Three
HEAT
Can’t she even open the door for me?
The job required two hands, so Owen set the ice bucket on the floor in front of his feet. Then he pulled his wallet out of his left rear pocket. He fingered open its bill compartment and plucked out the plastic key card. After glancing at the diagram near the door handle, he turned the card around and ran it through the lock slot. A tiny green light came on. He quickly pushed down on the handle lever and shoved the door open.
Holding it open with a knee, he put away his card and wallet, then crouched and picked up the ice bucket. He shouldered the door wide and entered the room.
“I’m back,” he announced.
Monica didn’t answer.
The bathroom door was shut. From the other side came the muffled hiss of spraying water.
She’s taking a shower?
“Great,” Owen muttered.
I can’t have half a minute off my feet without being sent for ice, and the moment I’m gone she heads for the shower. Very nice.
He carried the ice bucket over to the dresser and set it down. Then he sat on the end of the bed and pulled off his shoes.
And sighed.
It felt so good to have his shoes off.
He was tempted to massage his feet. That’d really feel good, but then his hands would smell like sweaty socks and he wouldn’t be able to wash them until Monica got out of the bathroom. Which might be half an hour.
Or longer.
The longer the better, he thought.
Stay in there forever, for all I care.
Feet dangling off the end of the bed, Owen eased down onto the mattress. The instant his head and back met the bed, his aches and soreness started to melt and flow away. He filled his lungs and sighed.
Don’t get too comfortable, he warned himself. Still have to get up when Monica comes out.
Have a cream soda with her.
Change for bed, wash, brush my teeth...
He fell asleep, but not for long.
The clink of an ice clump dropping into a glass woke him up.
He raised his head off the mattress, then propped himself up on his elbows.
Monica, standing at the dresser, had her back to him as she popped open a can of cream soda. Her hair was wrapped in a tower of pink towel. She wore the black nightgown that she’d bought especially for this trip, that she’d modelled for him last night.
It left most of her back bare. It draped her buttocks and surrounded her legs like a veil of smoke. She wore nothing underneath it.
Owen felt a squirm in his pants.
As cream soda gurgled into Monica’s glass, he pushed himself up to his elbows.
“How was the shower?” he asked.
She swiveled toward him, smiling and giving him a side view of her right breast. Though covered by the nightie, it appeared to be cloaked in nothing but a shadow. “It was grand,” she said. “I feel so much better. You should try it.”
“I don’t think I can stand up.”
She eyed his groin. “Something is.”
He blushed, then sat up so his bulge wouldn’t show.
Smiling, Monica turned away long enough to set her can on the dresser. Glass in hand, she faced Owen. After a glance at his lap, she met his eyes. She raised her eyebrows high. Then she turned her face aside, raised her glass and tilted back her head. As she swallowed cream soda, she shifted her stance, thrusting her hips to the left and standing mostly on her left leg.
Posing.
Keeping her eyes away from Owen.
Keeping her arms out of the way so they wouldn’t obstruct his view.
From where Owen sat near the edge of the mattress, she was almost close enough to touch. Her breasts swelled out at him, looking as if they might burst through the frail material holding them in.
The gown drifted in front of her groin, caressed her thighs, concealed nothing.
As Owen gazed at her, she glided her right foot forward and sideways. Then she lifted her right knee. Bare toes pressing against the carpet, she swayed her leg lazily from side to side. The motion drew Owen’s eyes to where she obviously wanted them.
“What’re you looking at, Owie?” she asked, her voice a teasy sing-song.
Blushing again, he quickly raised his eyes. “Nothing,” he said.
“Nothing, huh?” Monica lowered her glass. It was empty now except for some small clumps of ice. Reaching behind her, she set it next to the soda can. Then she eased backward against the edge of the dresser. She sat on it, put her arms down straight by her sides to hold on, and stretched out her legs. Then she smiled languidly at Owen.
“I bet I know what you want,” she said.
“What?”
“Nothing,” she said. She spread her knees, opening herself wide to his view, then swung them back together.
Owen smiled. “What’s going on?” he asked.
“Nothing.” She opened and shut her legs again. “What makes you think something’s going own?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “You don’t usually ... act this way.”
“Don’t I?” Instead of spreading her legs, she swiveled her shoulders. Her breasts, confined only by her flimsy nightgown, lurched heavily from side to side.
“What’re you doing?” Owen asked.
“Nothing,” she said.
Her shoulders stopped, but her breasts didn’t. The rough lurching came to an end, but they continued to swing from side to side, gradually slowing to a gentle sway before Monica stopped them with her hands. Holding them, she looked into Owen’s eyes.
“How’s that?” she asked.
“Fine.”
“And how’s this?” she asked. Fingers hooked, she clawed the wispy fabric down, ripping it from her breasts, breaking both shoulder straps.
“Jesus!” Owen blurted.
As Monica’s hands returned to the edge of the dresser, the gown drifted into a pile below her waist.
Owen gaped at her.
She’s lost her mind!
“You gonna just sit there?” she asked.
Owen shook his head. He felt a little breathless. His mouth was dry, his heart pounding, his penis hard and achy. “Are you okay?” he asked.
She smirked at him. “Do I look okay?”
“You look great,” he said.
“Do I?”
“Yes.” And she did look great. Except for her eyes and smile. Something wrong there. Something mocking and haughty and a little frantic.
“Am I the fairest of them all?” she asked.
The question made something squirm in Owen’s bowels.
“Sure you are,” he said.
Monica pushed at the edge of the dresser, lifting herself. No longer trapped under her buttocks, the nightie slid all the way down her legs and pooled around her feet.
“Are you sure about that?” she asked, sitting down again.
“Huh?”
“Who’s the fairest?”
“You are.”
Her smiled died. “Fairer than Dana?” she asked.
The name slammed through Owen.
“Who?” he asked. He knew he must look shocked. He felt sick.
“Dana,” Monica said. “Your pre
cious Beast House guide.”
“Huh? I don’t even...”
“Oh yes you do.”
“The guide on the bus?”
“Dana!”
“Huh? Do you mean the big one? The blonde?”
“Don’t play stupid with me, Owie. I know you way too well. I see right through you.”
“I don’t even know her.”
“But you lust for her, don’t you?”
Shaking his head, he tried to smile. “I lust only for you.”
“Sure. Like I believe that. I saw how you were looking at her.”
“This is ridiculous. She was just there. So what if I looked at her? If I hadn’t looked at her, I might’ve bumped into her.”
“Ha ha. Not very funny.”
“You’re making a big deal out of nothing. I don’t know her. I don’t care about her. I’ll probably never even see her again.”
“Probably?”
“There’s a pretty slim chance of it, don’t you think?”
“Do you want to see her again?”
“No. Why should I?”
Monica smirked and made a snorting sound. Then she pushed herself away from the dresser. Standing straight, she reached up with both hands and unwrapped the towel from around her head.
Eyes on Owen, she rubbed her hair with the towel. “Why would you want to see Dana again?”she asked. Her breasts jiggled and hopped with the motions of her arms.
“I wouldn’t,” Owen said. “Can we stop talking about her now?”
Monica lowered the towel. Her hair was a dark, wild tangle. Tossing aside the towel, she stepped toward Owen. She bumped against his knees, so he moved them farther apart. She halted between his knees and started to unfasten the buttons of his shirt.
He reached up for her breasts.
She clutched his wrists. “Not so fast, Owie.”
“hug?”
“You can’t touch me till I say you can.”
“Huh?”
“Huh?” she mimicked him. “It’s your punishment, dearie.”
“Punishment for what?”
“We don’t want to talk about her anymore, remember?”
“For God’s sake, Monica.”
“It’s my way or the highway, sweetheart.”
The highway, he thought. Screw this. She’s turned into some sort of raving, jealous lunatic. Over nothing. Nothing!
I’ve gotta get away from her.
But not now, not now.
He didn’t know why, it made no sense at all, but he wanted Monica more right now than he’d ever wanted her before. He acbed for her.
“Your way,” he gasped.
“Okay,” she said, and released her grip on his wrists. Owen lowered his hands. He rested them on his thighs and gazed at Monica’s naked body. He wanted to lick the sweat off her skin. He wanted to suck on her breasts. But he forced himself to sit still while she finished unbuttoning his shirt.
She pulled the shirt off his shoulders and down his arms.
As Owen freed his hands from the sleeves, she clutched his shoulders and pushed him backward. The mattress felt good under him.
Standing between his knees, Monica bent over him and unfastened his belt. She opened the waist button of his jeans, then slid the zipper down.
Owen sighed.
“You like?” Monica asked.
“It was feeling awfully tight in there.”
“Baby needs his freedom.”
“Yeah.”
The fingers of both her hands slipped beneath the elastic waistband of his underwear. They lifted, and he felt all the confinement go away.
“Ooo,” Monica said. “Look at you.”
He couldn’t look without lifting his head. And he didn’t care to look. Not at himself. His gaze was latched on Monica as she struggled to tug his jeans and underwear out from under him. Rolling slightly from one side to the other, he helped her.
No longer trapped under his buttocks, the pants raced down his legs as Monica scurried backward, pulling.
Then she lifted his feet, one at a time, and peeled off his socks.
Standing between his knees again, she bent over and glided her hands slowly up his thighs. Her thumbs rubbed against the sides of his groin.
Face looming over his penis, she said, “Ooo, you are so big and hard.”
Owen felt her fingers encircle him.
They squeezed gently, and he groaned.
“Hard as a rock. Oh, Owie, I’ve never felt it so hard.”
Her fingers glided slowly upward.
“You must be awfully turned on.”
Her fingers went away.
“Bet you just can’t wait to slip it into me,” she said. “Can you?”
“Huh-uh.”
“Into my hot, wet pussy.”
Her fingers returned, curled lightly around him, and slid downward.
Owen squirmed.
Monica let go, gently patted his thigh, and said, “Afraid you’ll just have to wait, honey.”
“Huh?” He lifted his head off the mattress.
Monica, smiling and shaking her head, backed away from the bed. “No fucky-wucky for you tonight, Owie. You’ve been a bad boy.”
“What?”
“Too bad Dana can’t be here for you.”
“What?”
Turning aside, she waved at him, said, “Ciao,” and walked out of sight. A moment later, Owen heard the bathroom door bump shut. Next came the click of its lock.
When he woke up, the gray light of morning showed through a gap in the curtains. He was still naked, but he no longer lay at the end of the bed with his legs hanging over the edge. Sometime during the night, he must’ve gotten up and crawled under the covers. He had no memory of it, though.
The last thing he remembered, Monica had locked herself in the bathroom and he’d stayed on his back, feeling cheated and angry.
At first, he’d been tempted to jump up and run to the bathroom door, break it open and grab Monica and slam her against a wall and shove it in.
Fix her good. Fuck her till she can’t see straight.
But he knew he could never do anything like that.
What he could do, he could walk over calmly to the door and talk to her. Apologize to her.
Apologize for what? She’s the one who went nuts!
Just say whatever it takes, he told himself. Take all the blame for everything. Beg her if you have to. Just get her to come out.
She didn’t take her nightie with her,
She’s naked in there,
Get her to come out, and we can pick up where we left off.
Except that Owen felt as if he’d been bludgeoned.
She had no right to treat me that way.
He had a heavy ache in the pit of his stomach and he was limp and he wanted to slap her a good one across her smirking face.
Thinking back on it now, Owen couldn’t recall getting up from the bed or moving his postion at all. Nor could he remember Monica coming out of the bathroom.
She must’ve come out after he’d fallen asleep.
She was in the bed now, near him under the covers. From the sound of her slow, easy breaths, Owen supposed she was probably asleep.
Not so much as glancing in Monica’s direction, he eased himself slowly, silently out of the bed. The room felt chilly.
Starting to shiver, he glanced at the clock. Ten till six.
He crept past the foot of the bed. Her nightgown was still on the floor.
Seeing it, memories rammed through him. His throat went tight. A knot formed in his stomach.
He looked over at Monica.
She seemed to be lying on her side. Her hip made a high bulge in the covers. Her left shoulder protruded above the edge of the blanket, bare. He couldn’t see her face at all, just her black hair spread over the pillow. The hair looked sleek and smooth. She must’ve brushed it while hiding in the bathroom last night.
Owen supposed she was probably naked under the covers.
He
supposed he might pull them away and take a look. He might slip into the bed with her, wake her with gentle kisses and caresses.
You never know, I might get lucky.
Call that luck?
Even though he stood there naked, imagining how it could be, he felt no stir of arousal.
Instead, he felt slightly gleeful.
If I can get away with this...
Silently, he gathered clean clothes for himself. He took them into the bathroom, eased the door shut and locked it. He wanted to take a shower, but didn’t dare. He bad to pee, did so, but refrained from flushing. With water running slowly and quietly from the faucet, he washed his face and brushed his teeth. He didn’t bother shaving. But he did comb his hair.
Then he got dressed and silently eased open the bathroom door and stepped out.
Monica still lay on her side, her bare shoulder sticking out of the blanket.
Owen had never unpacked his suitcase. He’d simply left it open on a luggage rack inside the closet and removed items as he’d needed them.
It took him only a few minutes to gather his things and throw them in. He shut the suitcase. He carried it to the door, set it down, then silently made his way back through the room.
Monica remained on her side, apparently still asleep.
Owen picked up his overnight bag and his camera case, swung their straps over his shoulders, and walked silently back to the door. There, he hefted his suitcase. He slipped into the hallway and eased the door shut.
A smile tilted the corners of his mouth.
He walked away quickly.
Downstairs, the lobby was nearly deserted. Piped-in piano music played quietly. Owen recognized the melody as “I Left My Heart In San Francisco.” A couple of guests were busy pouring themselves free cups of coffee. The young, uniformed woman behind the registration desk was looking through a magazine and paid no attention to Owen as he walked by.
Just outside the entryway, he found a cab waiting.
He took the cab to San Francisco International Airport.
Where he headed straight for a car rental agency.
Chapter Twenty-Four
FRIDAY MORNING
Dana woke up. She was lying on her side, snug in bed.
Above her, a breeze lifted and swayed the curtains. The morning air felt chilly on her face.
Her alarm clock hadn’t gone off yet.
The Midnight Tour Page 25