In the Arms of the Dragon Princes

by Jessica Miller

  I answer his call by opening my mouth as wide as it will go, inviting his tongue to tango with mine. We kiss, our tongues swirling, while his right hand continues toward my pussy lips.

  Holy fuck, I think, realizing how wet I’ve become. I can feel myself dripping and he hasn’t even gotten near my clit yet. It’s no lie—I haven’t been intimate with a man in over a year. Could it be that a year’s worth of juices are flowing out at once?

  I want him now, and there is no force that will deny me of my desire.

  *****

  Amos

  I’m no fool. Nick may not realize it, but standing on a roadside corner to watch the sunset isn’t as indiscrete as it may seem. I watched him from thirty yards away through binoculars from Bert’s Malibu penthouse. I nearly spit out my chardonnay at his little ruse with switching out the Jeep and the van. That tactic only made it easier for me to follow him now.

  Driving back toward Los Angeles on the Pacific Coast Highway I keep my distance and always remain at least five cars back. I’ve borrowed one of Bert’s Mercedes, something that would never be my taste in vehicle, which is what makes it perfect for shadowing Nick. I’m not trying to do anything dangerous or illegal, really. I’m just very curious as to what he plans to do with the art in the back of the van.

  Instead of continuing on the highway, Nick begins to turn down side streets, zig-zagging every few blocks but always heading northeast. At this rate I can only assume he’s trying to stay north of Hollywood and make it into Los Feliz. He’s either dealing somewhere directly in Los Angeles or here for a limited time on business. I spent enough money making sure the prick would never board public or private transit again, and I know for a fact that I made it impossible for him to ever get a valid driver’s license again in his life. Part of me feels my trigger finger reaching to dial the police on my cellphone. However, in my core, all I want to do is to follow him until he believes his guard is down, and then strike when he least expects it.

  Murdering Nick Caran and acquiring Lora Zombie’s Deviled Legs will not only be killing two birds with one stone, it will also feel like I am defying the will of the universe and creating my own destiny. It’s only a matter of time before man conquers all.

  ***

  Nick

  I try not to crush Carly with my weight as I slip my tongue into her warm mouth. She’s so petite and fragile looking. I don’t want to hurt her, yet at the same time I want to fuck her totally; I want to possess her. Reaching down a little farther I put the tip of my penis between her pussy lips until I find her clit hiding under a thin layer of moist flesh.

  Wow, I think, she’s already drenched down there. Way to go, Nick. With the first touch she lets out a moan of ecstasy, confirming what I’d thought, that she’s been holding back her sexual energy for a long time. If she’s already on the verge of orgasm what is going to happen once I put my shaft inside her?

  “Be as loud as you want, Carly,” I whisper into her ear. Her blond hair has turned a brilliant neon pink from the glow of the red light hanging above us. To silence and reassure her, I barrel my lips back down onto her mouth, puckering like wild, smacking my lips like a camera taking endless snapshots. She starts to giggle. Now I’ve reached her with my power, my sex appeal, and my charm. I have her right where I want her.

  Allowing my hand to press harder, I rub her clit with the knuckle below my index finger while searching for the opening between her lips with my middle and ring finger. It is so wet down there I will have no problem diving in and curving my hand up into her. Making her squeal is my prerogative at the moment. My own pleasure will come soon enough.

  Carly’s hands grip the sleeping bag, balling up its cheap material in her fists while she clenches her teeth. I hold her bottom lip between my lips, sucking on it like I will her clit momentarily. I enjoy foreshadowing what I am about to do for a woman. It only makes their climaxes that much more memorable.

  “I can’t believe this is happening,” she lets out through a mouthful of her own hair. Her body writhes now that my index finger is in full swing. She thrusts her pelvis forward just like she did with her butt earlier. It is cute how eager she is for me to put my hands all over her and inside her. She literally cannot wait.

  “I want you to feel me enter you,” I say, sliding the tips of my two fingers into her simultaneously.

  “Whoa,” she says, and I nearly laugh because it admittedly sounds like a sorority girl’s response to a first touch. “That’s like, really nice.”

  “Is it nice, baby?” I ask, playing along. I’m not here to judge a woman for how she behaves when she’s intimate. I sealed the deal with the painting and now I get to slay a sexy little urbanite that has no idea what she’s in for. This is turning out to be the perfect end to a perfect day.

  “Yes,” she answers. “It’s more than nice.” Her eyes are closed, which is normally a turn on for me because I don’t like it when women stare. But for some reason I’m longing to look into Carly’ eyes in this dreamlike red atmosphere. I want to reach up and pry them open but I’d rather keep digging my fingers deeper into her center.

  “I want your cock,” she says. Wow, I think. She’s a lot freakier than I thought.

  “You’re going to have to be patient,” I say, freeing her bottom lip from mine so that my face can smooth its way toward the crevice between her legs. I can already get a minuscule whiff her aroma and it’s making my mouth water. “I need to get a good taste of you first, and then you of me, and then maybe I will put my dick inside you. Does that sound good, Carly?”

  “Yeah, that sounds good,” she answers obediently. The right side of her face touches her right shoulder as she watches me descend, tongue stretched out to her flesh. “Oh my god,” she moans. I take my hands and spread her legs open by gently pushing on the bones between her thighs pussy. I stick my tongue out as far as it can go, press it against her clit, and let the tip enter her sweet, hot flower.

  ***

  Carly

  When I open my eyes, I’m still covered in the red glow of the storage room light, but Nick is nowhere to be scene. I can still smell his sweat lingering on me, and I feel the smooth residue of his come on my stomach. We made love gently, yet aggressively, and not soon after his orgasm I fell fast asleep in his arms. How did I sleep through him lifting my head off of him, putting his clothes on, and exiting the gallery? He must have drained me thoroughly.

  Holy shit, I think, suddenly. There’s no way he could have locked up before leaving.

  I stumble to my feet and pick up my dress from its nest on the ground and rush to the storage room door, madly attempting to get the dress over my head. “Nick?” I call out, praying that maybe he just got up to use the restroom. That’s it, I think. He’s just peeing after sex. No big deal.

  Yanking open the gallery’s bathroom door, I shriek to find nobody inside. Maybe a little overdramatic, but I really wanted to believe that he would still be here. “Nick?” I call again. “Are you here? Where did you go, Nick?”

  No answer. All I hear are bells ringing outside and the honk of the horn from the corner fruit stand. Daylight shines through the gallery. I must have slept all night without realizing that I was prone to robbery or attack. For all I know a homeless person could have already meandered in here and hid in the ventilation shaft.

  Don’t be paranoid, Carly, I tell myself. Think of the safety protocol you meticulously prepared for in case of an emergency such as this. I make a dash for the front desk and open the side cabinet, revealing the mess that has accumulated since I moved to LA. I scramble through old coupons and business cards until I find my little pink pepper spray bottle. I take the weapon in my hand, the only form of defense I stupidly have in this gallery, and raise it out at arm’s length like I’m ready to fire a gun. I’m paranoid, I’m frightened. I expect a crazy person to jump out at me any moment.

  My eyes land on Deviled Legs, still hanging on its place on the wall. Last night was the final time I would see the painti
ng in darkness. Right now is the last time I will see it period.

  Well, who knows? Never say never. Right?

  I walk the perimeter of the gallery, checking the front locks, every corner and possible hiding spot for drifters. As I should have guessed, the gallery is completely empty except for me and my irrational fears. Once I calm down, I prepare myself a cup of chamomile tea and take down the Lora Zombie piece while the tea steeps.

  Anytime I touch one of the pieces I own, I wear cotton gloves so that I won’t get any sweat or oil from my hands on any of the work. However, this time I chose not to use the gloves because I want to touch the very paint that Lora Zombie herself touched. Is it awful that since I will no longer own the piece I no longer care about protecting it properly?

  Or maybe I don’t mind touching it with my skin because I’m subconsciously feeling spiteful toward Nick without saying good-bye. No, I wasn’t expecting breakfast in sleeping bag or anything, but a nice gesture or a wave would have sufficed just fine.

  *****

  Amos

  I look out for Roger’s Hummer, which should be cutting off Nick’s van any minute now from Santa Monica Boulevard. I’ve kept him updated by tagging me on his GPS, so when the right moment strikes we can hit the van. While I take the art, Roger will take care of Nick. I can only pray that he’ll take care of him for good.

  I’m now three vehicles behind him, and I’m getting a little too close for comfort but in this backed up traffic I don’t really have a choice. Something tells me that he’s somehow spotted me following him all the way from Malibu, because he has made a few lefts instead of rights, practically making circles.

  Shit, I think. I can’t fuck this up. Not now. I’ve come too far. I pick up my cell phone and dial Roger.

  “Oi,” he grumbles. “What the fuck does this nut job thing he’s doing? Got you doing figures eights, he does.”

  “I know that, Roger,” I say, turning left on from Fairfax onto Sunset. “What I need to know is what the hell we’re going to do now?”

  “We’re going to smash his fucking head in,” he laughs. I hear heavy metal music blaring on his radio. When he revs himself up for doing damage he goes all out.

  “Don’t forget that I need the painting, Roger,” I scream so that he hears me over the atrocious music.

  “I didn’t forget, mate,” he says. “I know how precious your artsy fartsy stuff is to you.”

  Nick makes another left on La Brea and picks up his speed, no longer caring for rules of the road or speed. He knows that I’m on to him, and he probably even knows that there’s someone else involved, as well. I can tell by the way he swerves around traffic that he has a destination in mind.

  Why do I feel like he’s guiding me to Carly’ gallery?

  *****

  Carly

  The first thing I do is put the money in a wall like Nick told me. I’ll take some of the cash and buy a safe soon enough, but for now I am anxious about the grocery store bag full of hundreds of thousands of dollars sitting in my cheap gallery space. In the storage room there is one panel in the wall that has always been loose. Behind the panel is a space just big enough to hide a towering stack of bills.

  It takes me about an hour to get all of the money from the Whole Foods bag neatly layered in the space between walls. I take out exactly five thousand dollars before plastering the space where the hole once was. I will leave the money there until I need it. I’d like to think that this five thousand would be enough to solve all my immediate financial worries.

  I thumb through the thousands in cash watching the plaster dry, the red glow from the storage room light reflecting brightly off its glossy white surface. Suddenly, I hear a loud knocking at the front door of the gallery. Getting to my feet, I rush out the storage room door and see Nick standing at the gallery door in his floral shirt and khakis. The aviators on his face are now cracked, and a stream of blood trickles down his face.

  What the hell did I get myself into? I wonder. I hesitate before going to the door to let Nick in. My emotions are in upheaval—with his desperate eyes staring at me through the glass door, he doesn’t even need to mouth words for me to know that he needs me. Should I let him in the gallery, dripping blood onto my clean floors? Or should I call the cops and erase this forever?

  Again, his eyes call to me like a snake charmer and I’m already slithering toward the door—but this time I’m like a python ready to strike. I unlatch the lock on the door, swing it open, grab him by the soaked collar of his floor shirt, and pull him inside, locking the door behind us.

  “What the hell happened to you, and why did you leave with saying good-bye after sleeping with me?” The questions come out in rapid succession, but my heart is really burning for the answer to the latter part.

  “I’ve got maniacs on my tail,” he says, that perfect smile burning white through the dried blood.

  “I knew you’d be trouble,” I say. Why do I suddenly feel like I’m in a B-Movie remake of Casablanca? “It’s about the money, isn’t it?”

  He laughs, combing his sweaty bangs back with his hand. “Surprisingly, no. But it has everything to do with Deviled Legs.”

  “What are you talking about, Nick?”

  “I’m talking about the fact that you somehow got your hands on a piece of art that many people want. And now it’s catching up with us.”

  “I don’t get it,” I say, taking him by the hand to guide him away from the front window. Now I feel like I’m on his side, like I’m protective of him. I ought to train myself not to get so attached after one night of intimacy.

  Outside I hear a car door shut, followed by a second, even louder one. I look out the window and am shocked when I see a familiar face.

  Amos Torrany. The man who tried to buy Deviled Legs on the night of the opening.

  This can’t be one big coincidence. “Nick!” I cry. “I’m scared!”

  He takes my chin in his fingertips and lifts my face upward to meet his gaze. “Don’t be, Carly,” he says, then puckers his rough lips to my soft ones. The kiss only lasts a second until Nick steps in front of me, guarding me from the coming danger.

  I knew there was something that initially disturbed me about Amos. But how is it that both of these men knew about the Lora Zombie piece? The tension here feels like it is beyond me, even though Nick said it was all about Deviled Legs. These guys must have some fierce, deadly rivalry going on.

  ***

  Amos

  The fact that Nick brought Roger and me to Carly’s gallery is a sign that there is something cosmic going on here. I’m not really a spiritual man, but I’m also not dumb enough to ignore the signs in front of me. Hell, at this point I wouldn’t be surprised if Lora Zombie herself showed up with wings like an angel to inform us that the apocalypse has already passed us by.

  “Listen, Roger,” I say, holding my arm out to prevent him from bashing the gallery windows in, “the stakes have just changed. Old Nick Caras here has pulled another fast one, and now there is something on the line more important than the painting.”

  “More important than the painting?” Roger asks, taking off his sunglasses to make sure he heard me right. “You must be having an existential crisis, mate.”

  Coming from Roger that sounds like a prophecy for disaster.

  “I think you’re right,” I answer. “Keep your phone close by. I need to handle this one by myself for now.”

  “Copy that,” he says. “Don’t fall too hard on your face.” He smacks my back like we just won a football game and climbs inside his Hummer again. I wait until he reverses back onto the main road before I approach the gallery door waving my white flag.

  Nick’s white van is parked crooked in the street, irresponsibly askew. I’m almost tempted to get the keys from him and park it proper just to protect the damn art inside. How could he be so thoughtless with Deviled Legs begging to be stolen out of a crappy white van in Midtown LA?

  Standing in front of the gallery door, I go to o
pen it but I can already tell that it’s locked from the inside. I put my face to the glass and see Nick standing in front of Carly.

  Why is his face bloody? I ask myself. I didn’t do that, and as far as I know, Roger didn’t, either. So what’s the gimmick here?

  I hold up both palms over my head as a signal to both of them that I come in peace. One thing that I must admit is that my adrenaline urges my body to beat the pulp out of Nick. I can’t get the thought of this man ghosting me for years. He’s been after my life, and now he has put his hands on the one woman I’ve felt anything for in nearly a decade.

  My skin crawls at the thought of Nick having slept with Carly. How is it that a scumbag who came from nothing can acquire so effortlessly what I could not? Why am I never good enough?

  For all I know they could already have police on the way, and here I am standing around waiting for them to cuff me. I try to look past Nick and only see Carly. Behind them both I see the empty space where Deviled Legs hung only two nights before. If only I could communicate with Carly telepathically she would know that I’m not the shallow, calloused individual that she thinks I am. Since the moment she spoke to me I’ve wanted to have her.

  The instant I finish my thought she steps out behind Nick and walks toward the door, her gait steady, already determined to unlatch it and let me in. Or so I hope.

  Once the door is ajar she peers into me with her brows furrowed. “What are you doing here, Amos?” she asks.