“Oh?”
“That one would be ideal,” she said, “but that swaggering bulldyke got there first.”
“Have a look to their right, why don’t you.”
“How did I miss her? But isn’t that—”
“Susan.”
“No, but that’s close. Suzanne.”
“Suzanne it is. We called her Suze, as I recall.”
Which rhymes with cooze, she thought.
“Which rhymes with cooze,” he said, predictably enough. “She was delicious. And she really didn’t want to play, not at first.”
“She wanted to play with me. She didn’t get unhappy until you joined the party.”
“And then she got very unhappy.”
“Yes. Fear and anger in equal parts. I have to say it added a little something.”
“But she got over it. In fact by the time we were done with her I was afraid she was going to propose marriage.”
“She did show some enthusiasm, didn’t she?”
Her own name was Angelica, or at least that was the latest variation on the theme. Her parents had named her Angela, which early on got shortened to Ange and Angie. And then she resumed being Angela again, until for a while she morphed into Angelique, but that never felt entirely natural. She’d barely considered Angelica, until one night that was her response when someone asked her name, and she’d been Angelica ever since.
She was beautiful, and she knew it, but there was a portion of her psyche that would never entirely believe it. You could be better, it had said, always and forever, and it had led her to lighten her hair the slightest bit and warm its tone to a rich honey blonde. You could be better, it told her, through four minor plastic surgeries, smoothing the imperceptible bump on the bridge of her nose, lifting her full breasts a few degrees, erasing a crease here and a wrinkle there. “Gilding the lily,” her São Paulo surgeon said on her most recent visit, but she knew what she wanted, and he did the work.
“Suze the Cooze,” Brady said. “What an eager little thing she turned out to be, and inventive in the bargain. I’ll tell you, I wouldn’t mind a return engagement. And I don’t think it would be all that hard to persuade her.”
“No.”
“No? You certainly had a good time, at least the way I remember it.”
“Another time,” she said. “Tonight I want someone new.”
“You want the conquest.”
“I do,” she said. “I want the yielding, the submission. And then I want the fear, the shock and awe, when she discovers she’s getting more than she thought. And then that delicious moment when she yields all over again.”
“To me, you mean.”
“Yes.”
“I love that part,” he admitted. “And if she doesn’t yield, well, in certain ways that can be even nicer.”
“It’s delicious either way,” she said. “That’s what I want.”
“Well, I want what you want, my dear. And she’d be perfect, so it’s a shame your little dark-haired friend is taken.”
“But I don’t think she is,” she said. “Watch.”
“Thank you,” she said. “But no.”
“Hey, I just got here, you know? My name’s Bobbie.”
No response.
“You’re not gonna tell me your name?”
“I’m not interested.”
“Hey,” Bobbie said. “I’m just being friendly, you know?”
“I’m still not interested.”
“Man, that’s cold. All I said was my name and I’d like to buy you a drink. I wasn’t suggesting we take a place together and go pick out drapes.”
“You’re not my type,” she said. “So why should we waste each other’s time?”
“I’ll bet you’ve never been with anybody like me. Am I right?” She didn’t answer, and the woman took that for assent. “You don’t know what you’re missing, sweetie.”
“And I won’t find out,” she said, putting a little steel in her voice. “Not tonight, at any rate, so why don’t you go find someone who’s looking for what you’ve got on offer?”
“Women,” Bobbie said, heavily, and sighed. And got up from her seat.
“My turn,” Angelica said.
Brady watched her go. His eyes clung to her bottom as she crossed the room, and he didn’t have to check to know that his were not the only eyes on her. She was beautiful, and they were gorgeous together, he and she, and they hunted as a team, spotting their prey, cutting her off from the herd, running her down together, and sharing in the feast.
Always a delight. And sometimes it seemed to him that the best part of all was afterward, when it was just the two of them together, and no matter how much energy they’d already spent, they always seemed to have enough left for one final embrace.
When she was standing beside the girl, he watched their body language. She was wary, the little darling, but not resistant as she’d been with the butch. Definitely interested, he decided, and his decision was confirmed when Angelica seated herself beside the girl and beckoned to the bartender.
Often in their hunting it was he who made the first contact. “I’d like you to meet my wife,” he’d say. “I think the two of you would like each other.” And the woman’s face would fall, because she thought she’d been making a romantic connection and the man was already taken, and thought she and his wife would make good friends. But then she’d learn just what sort of friendship they had in mind, these two beautiful and charming people, and the next thing she knew—
But it was different in a venue like Eve’s Rib. Then it was up to Angelica to make the move, and to decide what came next. If the woman was bisexual, as so many seemed to be these days, and imbued with at least a minimal sense of adventure, Angelica would beckon him forward, and they’d all three go off together. If, on the other hand, the woman was a genuine lesbian, Angelica would raise an index finger to send him a message. Then Brady would slip away, only to turn up later as a lovely surprise.
This girl wouldn’t want a man. It would be up to him to make her change her mind. Or to have her anyway. Whether she wanted it or not.
*
“I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.”
“My first time,” she said.
“I’m Angelica.”
“That’s a beautiful name,” she said. Without thinking about it, she’d let her voice come out higher in pitch than usual, and soft and breathy. “Mine’s a long way from beautiful.”
“Oh?”
“It’s Missy.”
“Why, that’s a sweet name!”
“My parents named me Melissa, but all anyone’s ever called me is Missy. I guess it fits me.”
Had she ever called herself Missy before? Not as far as she could remember, or Melissa, either. She’d picked Missy out of the air when she walked into Eve’s Rib, and now it struck her that she’d made the perfect choice. It was properly soft and girlish, submissive Missy, and that ought to be catnip for this one.
“A few minutes ago,” Angelica said, “I thought you might need rescuing.”
“Why would I—oh, that woman. Bobbie.”
“I couldn’t help noticing that you weren’t interested, and that she rather emphatically was.”
“She’s not my type.”
“No, I wouldn’t think so. You’d want someone secure in her identity as a woman.”
“Yes.”
“But strong,” Angelica said. “Someone a few years older than yourself, I should think. Someone who’d be prepared to lead, and allow you to follow.”
Angelica turned to look at her, and she hesitated, but only for an instant. Then she met Angelica’s eyes and returned her gaze, holding nothing back, letting herself drink the woman in through her eyes.
For a long moment they sat on their stools, gazing silently into one another’s eyes. Then she drew a quick breath, and said, “Wow,” and took another breath, and said, “I’m not sure what just happened, but—”
“You and I,” Angelica
said, “just happened.”
“Wow.”
Angelica put an arm around her, cupped her shoulder gently but firmly. “You’re a beautiful girl,” she said.
“You’re the one who’s beautiful. I’m just—”
“Stop it. You’re extraordinarily attractive, and I’m going to make it my personal business to make you realize how stunning you are. Missy?”
“Yes?”
“You and I,” Angelica said, “are going to have a perfectly wonderful time.” And Angelica’s index finger tapped three times on her bare shoulder.
TWENTY-SIX
Brady was spinning a fantasy when Angelica put her arm around the girl, but it didn’t keep him from spotting his cue. The index finger, tapping three times.
He got to his feet, put a twenty on the tabletop, weighed it down with his wine glass. He’d scarcely touched his Chardonnay, and Angelica had taken no more than a sip of hers. Twenty dollars for two sips of so-so California wine, and worth every penny, because his woman had just connected with a sweet young thing who was going to make them both very happy.
He slipped out the door, found Angelica’s Honda squareback in the lot, and drove off in it, leaving his own Lexus for her. It was a much more luxurious car, and would make more of an impression on his wife’s new friend. While it hardly mattered what car got him back to their house.
They always took two cars. On the rare occasion when their connection was effected as a couple, they’d leave the Honda and come back for it in the morning.
Before the signal, tap tap tap on the bare shoulder, he’d imagined what might have been. Suppose, just suppose, that Angelica had headed not for the sweet little ingénue but for the swaggering butch. That one, with her short hair and her broad gym-muscled shoulders, would have thought she’d missed the brass ring only to get a solid gold one dropped in her lap. Angelica, supermodelbeautiful Angelica, picking her out and hitting on her? Butch would have thought she’d died and gone to heaven.
He didn’t know about heaven. But she’d have to die.
Because the only way he’d be able to have her was by force, and he couldn’t delude himself that he could make her learn to like it. It would have to be rape, and while that wasn’t altogether unappealing, it made for complications at the end. They couldn’t just drop her off on a street corner and expect her to be so ashamed of herself that all she wanted to do was forget the whole thing. If she didn’t go straight to the cops and the newspapers, then she’d come back with a couple of friends and a gun.
He couldn’t let that happen. So he’d have to kill her.
And he knew just how he’d do it. He’d read descriptions of the method, and he’d seen it demonstrated more than once in action films. You used your hands, you took the chin in one hand and gripped the back of the head with the other, and you twisted abruptly, forcing the chin up and to the left, yanking the head down and to the right, and if you did it properly you were rewarded with the sound of the neck snapping.
If it didn’t work the first time, well, she wouldn’t be going anywhere. You could keep trying until you got it right.
His hands tightened on the steering wheel. It was funny, he thought. Angelica had just connected successfully with the most attractive woman in the place—well, next to herself, anyway. The most ideal prospect for the evening, certainly, and she’d be bringing the girl home, and a wonderful time was virtually guaranteed— for the two of them, certainly, and very likely for the girl as well.
And here he was wishing she’d picked up the bull dyke instead. Whose face was handsome enough, perhaps, and who’d have a nice healthy body, but who was by no means his type, or Angelica’s either. Oh, he’d enjoy forcing her. He’d get pleasure from the sex. But the only thing that made the butch so irresistibly appealing was the fact that she’d have a broken neck by the time the evening was over.
Something, perhaps, for him to think about.
Once she’d signaled to Brady, all Angelica wanted to do was corral the girl and herd her out of there. But she forced herself to give him time to get home and get settled in, forced herself to listen, or at least pretend to listen, to some tedious story Missy was telling about a childhood pet. Forced herself to take a taste of the girl’s Orange Blossom and speculate as to what the mystery ingredient might be, along with the gin and orange juice. Missy thought it might be Grand Marnier, but wasn’t too clear on what Grand Marnier tasted like all by itself.
That sounded like a cue, and Angelica offered to buy her one, but Missy said she didn’t want any more to drink, and that one Orange Blossom was plenty. “Because, you know,” she said, “it dulls the senses. It picks you up at first, but then it sort of numbs you.”
“And you don’t want to be numb?”
The girl did whatever it was she did with her eyes. And her lips were just the least bit parted. “No,” she said. “No, I don’t want to be numb.”
“Would you like to come home with me, Missy?”
“I shouldn’t.”
“Oh, I think you should.”
“I’m a little afraid, to tell you the truth.”
“Afraid? Afraid of what?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re not afraid of me, are you?”
“Maybe I’m afraid of myself. And of you, in a way.”
“Oh?”
The girl looked away, as if the words would be easier to say without eye contact. “I always hold back a little,” she said. “With you I think I might not.”
“You might let go.”
“Yes.”
“And find out who you really are.”
“Yes.”
“And would that be so bad?” She didn’t wait for an answer, but stood up and took Missy in tow, holding her upper arm with a grip that was gentle but firm. And led her, wordlessly, out of the bar.
The car was a Lexus, which suggested that Angelica was not living on food stamps. That was all to the good, but only confirmed what the woman’s dress and manner had already established.
And none of that mattered much, not to her, not now.
Angelica triggered the remote to unlock the doors, then held the passenger door open for her. Well, wasn’t that courtly? It was rare enough for a man to hold the door for you. Who would have guessed a woman would do it?
She started to get in, then stopped and straightened up. Angelica asked her if something was wrong. For answer, she turned toward Angelica, thinking Come on, what are you waiting for?
And Angelica kissed her. Oh, sweet, she thought, and held back at first, then yielded to the embrace and let herself melt utterly into it.
The kiss lasted a while, and when it ended she drew a breath and held onto the car roof as if for support. She was acting, but only in part, because the kiss had turned her on something fierce. She liked the way Angelica’s mouth tasted, liked the way she smelled, liked the way their bodies felt together.
She’d thought she would like it, but how could you know for sure until you actually tried it? What was that song, something about I kissed a girl and I liked it? Well, there you go. She did and she did. And now she knew.
She said, “You could do anything you want to me. You could do me right here, in the parking lot. And you could make me do anything, anything at all.”
Even as he triggered the remote to open the garage door, Brady had a moment of fear that he recognized as irrational—that the door would lift to reveal the Lexus, that Angelica and her new playmate would have beaten him home. That was impossible, he’d left while they were still getting acquainted, had driven straight home while they’d almost certainly dallied long enough for the first lingering kisses. And, if he knew his wife, a little preliminary fondling to set the stage and raise the temperature.
He, on the other hand, had driven directly home, and knew the garage would be empty, and of course it was. He tucked the Honda into its spot on the right, lowered the garage door, and let himself into the house.
A drink? No, whatever for?
He used the downstairs lavatory because one really didn’t want the nuisance of a full bladder in medias res, poured himself a glass of Evian water because one didn’t want a dry mouth, either, and mounted the stairs to the master bedroom.
And that, he reflected, was a singularly appropriate name for it. The bedroom of the Master, and of the Mistress. And, on nights like this, of their...what? Companion? Slave?
Victim?
He checked the bedroom. Angelica had already done so before they left the house, setting the stage, but he fussed over it anyway, lowering the already softened lighting the slightest bit, then changing his mind and returning it to pretty much the level she had chosen.
Busywork, he thought. He went over to the bed, already turned down in invitation, and ran his hand over the linen. Percale sheets, high thread count, properly silky and luxurious. An abundance of pillows, to cushion the head or elevate the hindquarters, as circumstances required.
He checked the drawers in the little bedside chests. Toys in one, ties in another. He pictured the girl, imagined her naked, face downward, spread-eagled, wrists and ankles tied to the brass handholds he’d mounted on the corners of the bed frame. A pillow under her, presenting him with her little-girl bottom, offering him a choice of sheaths for his weapon.
And there’d be plenty of time to try them both.
Was that the Lexus? Even if it was, he had plenty of time. But there was no need to dawdle. He stopped on the way out, adjusting the position of the three-panel Japanese screen, and deciding, as he’d decided with the lighting, that it had been just right to begin with.
More busywork, and it only served to show the stake he had in what lay ahead. So it was a good sign, wasn’t it? As often as they’d entertained themselves in this fashion, you might have thought he’d be more casual about the whole enterprise. Even blasé.
There was a small room just next to the master bedroom, a third bedroom, really, but he used it as a den. He settled himself in there now, and closed the door.
By the time he heard the Lexus, heard it stop at the driveway, heard the garage door as it ascended, he had taken off all his clothes, hanging his slacks and jacket in the den closet, tucking his socks into his shoes, placing his folded shirt and underwear on an arm of the easy chair.
Getting Off: A Novel of Sex & Violence (Hard Case Crime) Page 21