by Alten-Steve
‘Tut-tut … all room charges have already been taken care of.’
Sia looks at Danny, then back at Merchant.
‘The two of you are lucky, very lucky indeed. It seems someone up there likes you.’ Merchant points a manicured finger toward the ceiling. ‘A guardian angel.’
‘I don’t understand,’ says Sia. ‘Who are you?’
‘The name’s Merchant, Benjamin Merchant, but you, dear Sylvia, may call me Ben. I have been and remain the private secretary and personal confidant of Mrs. Lucien Mabus, but for tonight, I’ll be your exclusive escort as you venture upward to Paradise Lost.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Paradise Lost, darlin’. A wondrous place just north of heaven. Come, dear cherubs, your chariot awaits.’ Merchant leads them down a short hall to a private glass elevator. ‘This lift will take you straight to the penthouse. Mrs. Mabus’ll be waiting for you there.’
‘Mrs. Mabus wants to see us?’
‘Nothing to fear, Danny Boy. Like I said, this is your lucky day. All your financial woes are about to disappear.’
Danny looks at Sia, then back to Merchant, who is holding the elevator door open, beckoning them in. The couple enters.
‘Bon voyage.’ The doors close on Merchant’s smile, sealing them in darkness.
‘Danny?’ Sia grabs his arm as the lift races skyward.
The elevator stops before they can exhale. The doors part.
Sparkling before them—the Miami skyline—a tapestry of mirrored skyscrapers blazing in rainbows of neon beneath a clear autumn night. Mesmerized, they step out onto the polished onyx-marble floor.
The elevator door hisses closed behind them.
‘Hello?’ Uncertain, they leave the alcove and enter a living room, the plush carpet the color of sable, the leather furniture and wraparound bar done in various shades of red. Immense bay windows wrap around 360 degrees.
‘I’m Lilith.’
Danny turns to see a woman pouring drinks behind the bar. The vixen’s skin is chocolate, her hair the color of pitch, long and wavy, trailing down her back. ‘Lucien wishes he could be here to greet you, but he’s been sick lately, poor dear.’
Danny’s eyes widen as she walks around the bar, handing them each a glass. Lilith is wearing a see-through negligee, her dark breasts and shaved crotch pressing against the sheer fabric. She motions them to a couch. ‘So the two of you are newlyweds?’
‘Uh, yes. Just married three days ago.’
‘Four.’ Sia shoots him an elbow, disrupting his gaze. ‘How long have you and Mr. Mabus been married?’
‘Just long enough to want him dead.’ A high, piercing cackle as she turns her sociopathic gaze toward Sia. ‘Thank Satan for vibrators, eh girl.’
Danny focuses his attention on Lilith’s exposed brown nipple, drooling like an intoxicated mouse eyeing the cheese.
‘It’s late,’ Sia stutters, feeling out of her element.
‘The night is young,’ Lilith purrs, ‘but you’re worried about something.’
‘We lost a lot of money. Danny borrowed from his expense account.’
‘Sia!’
‘Now, now, we’re all family here at the Mabus. Tell me, Daniel, how much did you lose tonight in our little lion’s den of inequity?’
Danny breaks eye contact. ‘I don’t know. Everything we had left.’
‘Sia’s ring, too?’
Danny nods, his emotions welling.
‘And all of your savings?’ Lilith Mabus—so endearing—like a priest at confession.
‘The credit card. Our wedding gifts.’ Danny pinches tears from his sleep-deprived eyes.
Sia eyes shoot daggers at Lilith as the vixen circles the coffee table to sit next to her husband.
‘Daniel, scoot closer and place your hand on the coffee table’s access pad.’
He complies, the woman’s scent filling his nostrils, wondering what he’d do if Sia wasn’t in the room.
‘Computer, access the financial statement of Mr. Daniel Diaz.’
A holographic account ledger appears above the pewter coffee table. Danny’s eyes widen in disbelief.
The neon blue credit balance at the bottom indicates a recent deposit of $200,000.
‘I think that should more than cover your losses.’ Lilith sits back on the cushion.
‘This is … crazy,’ Danny says, ‘I don’t understand?’
Lilith smiles, her bleached white teeth bright against her Mesoamerican-African-American complexion. ‘A gift, Daniel. From one who has—to one in need.’
Emotion crumbles Danny’s face. Glee. Tears. Relief. Exhaustion. ‘I don’t know what to say?’
‘Just say thank you.’
‘Thank you! Thank you, thank you, thank you—’
‘What’s the catch?’ Sia asks.
Lilith smiles. ‘Maybe I’m just trying to buy my way into heaven?’
‘I doubt that.’
‘Sia!’
‘It’s all right, Daniel. Your wife is right to question my motives. I’ve heard it said that sin is the Devil’s daughter. Do you know what’s worse?’
‘No.’
‘Fear.’ Lilith stands, allowing her hand to casually tease Sia’s hair as she walks by. ‘I was raised by fear. For as long as I can remember, fear dominated my dreams and every waking thought in between. It robbed me of my childhood, stole my innocence, and left me its victim. Fear of death. Fear of abuse. Fear of being abandoned, of being alone. Fear of losing love.’
She settles on the sofa opposite Daniel. ‘You know what the worst thing about fear is? It keeps us from recognizing our one true power … that each of us possesses free will. Fear kept me in check for fourteen years, feeding off me, until it pushed me to the brink of suicide. And that’s when I grew angry. Anger mobilized me to take risks. From that moment on, I stopped being life’s victim. I learned to use the powers of the flesh to get what I want.’ She motions with her hands.
Danny nods, mesmerized by her words and his Ecstasy-laced cocktail.
‘You married wealth,’ Sia states. ‘What risks did you ever take?’
Lilith spreads her legs slightly and winks at Danny, offering him a tantalizing view of her crotch. ‘It takes talent to marry into wealth, Sylvia, especially when you come from nothing. Wealth must be seduced … teased. Power requires trust, trust—deception. Look at Daniel. He took a risk tapping into his company’s funds, no doubt seduced by your own greed and ambition. I admire that. The ability to seduce makes us powerful, don’t you agree?’
‘And thank God for it,’ Danny says, feeling giddy.
‘God may have given us our sex organs, Daniel, but it was Lucifer who taught us how to use them. Now show me yours.’
‘Huh?’
‘My presence makes your wife jealous. Use it to your advantage.’
Danny’s pulse throbs. ‘I … I don’t understand?’
‘Show me the new Daniel Diaz, the man you always dreamed you’d be. You have your money, now take control of the moment. Order Sylvia to perform oral sex.’
‘You’re nuts, lady.’ Sia stands to leave. ‘Keep your damn money, I’m nobody’s whore.’
‘We’re all whores, sister. Watch me, I’ll show you how it’s—’
‘No!’ Sia pushes Lilith aside. Quivering with anger and adrenaline, she stumbles around the coffee table to her husband. ‘Take off your pants.’
‘Sia—’
‘Shut up and do it. She paid for a show, we’ll give it to her.’
Danny moans as his bride takes control, burying her face in his groin.
Lilith moves closer. ‘It’s all about power, isn’t it, sister. Who controls who.’ She grabs Sia by her hair and yanks her face away before Danny can climax.
‘Hey—’
In Lilith’s free hand is a small box. Sia opens it.
Inside is her engagement ring.
‘Sisters share.’
Sia feels dizzy, lost, as if she is living the moment from someone el
se’s perspective. She watches as Lilith places her mouth against her husband’s erect organ.
Danny lays his head back and closes his eyes.
For Daniel Diaz, senior structural engineer at NASA’s Top-Secret Project: GOLDEN FLEECE, the night is indeed still young.
Fraternity Row, University of Miami
Lauren wraps her arms tighter around Sam’s waist as he propels the Harley-Davidson HY-1200 motorcycle along College Avenue at 96 mph. Wind whistles past her headgear, the sleek black-and-chrome hydrogen-powered cycle cutting a hole through the humid evening air.
Sam banks hard, directing his hog into the student parking lot. He reaches for Lauren’s hand, but she pulls it away. ‘Come on, don’t stay mad.’
‘Why this Tanner woman? Can’t someone else interview you?’
‘It’s part of my PCAA obligations, Lauren. What am I supposed to do, insist on a male reporter?’
‘Yes!’
‘Well, I can’t, okay? So just drop it.’
‘Fine.’ They walk down Fraternity Row in silence. ‘You know, Sam, maybe it’s time we see other people.’
‘Come on, Lauren.’
‘No, I’m serious. We’ve been together since ninth grade. It’s not healthy.’
‘Says who? Your friend, Tierney? She’s just jealous.’
‘Maybe … but she has a point. We need a break before we get married. You should experience some other people.’
‘Lauren—’
‘I’m serious. If I get that research grant, I’ll be gone for four weeks. Use the time to “grind some fresh bone.” Get it out of your system. If you don’t do it now, our marriage’ll never last.’
‘And what about you? You planning on “draining” some park ranger while you watch Old Faithful?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Bullshit.’ He spins her around, then sees the tears. ‘Lauren, I don’t want to grind other women.’ He smiles. ‘I just want to grind you.’
‘Okay. But I swear, if I find out you were with that—’
He kisses her, cutting off the expletive.
Lauren kisses him back. Passion replaces fear as she grinds her pelvis into his, drawing him in deeper. ‘Let’s … skip … the party.’
‘Can’t.’
‘Yes you can.’ She continues kissing him, rubbing her hand along his crotch.
‘I can’t … okay maybe … no, wait—wait, stop, Lauren, stop—I have to make an appearance. Just a couple of minutes, okay?’
‘Why?’
‘Because they’re my teammates.’
She stops teasing him. ‘Some teammates. If you ask me—’
‘Which I didn’t—’
‘—they’re more like your employees. All they care about is their damn playoff bonuses. You need to look out for you. You should have turned pro last year.’
‘Well, I didn’t. Now come on, we’ll stay for an hour and finish this in your apartment.’
‘No we won’t.’ She pushes him away. ‘I won’t be in the mood.’
‘Fine.’ He takes her hand, leading her toward the frat house. ‘Hey, maybe I’ll meet some fresh bone—’
He winces as she slaps him upside the head.
The orange-and-white-stucco, horseshoe-shaped two-storey structure affectionately known as ‘Jock-U’ is an open-air hacienda-style mansion containing an in-ground football-shaped swimming pool, hot tub, and, for those annoying rainy days—a retractable sunroof. The facility sleeps 112, has a full-time staff of cooks, trainers, maids, and tutors on the premises, and like Sam’s Harley, is paid for out of the PCAA athletic budget.
The Professional Collegiate Athletic Association took roots back in 2008 when the former governing body of ‘amateur’ intercollegiate athletics, the National Collegiate Athletic Association, lost a class-action lawsuit filed on behalf of five thousand student-athletes who charged the NCAA had no right to prevent them from receiving nonathletic-related monies while enrolled in school. Faced with the reality of finally having to pay their breadwinners, the NCAA voted to reorganize into a separate and independent governing body dedicated solely to ‘professional’ collegiate athletics. Encompassing Men’s Division I-A football and men and women’s Division I basketball, the Professional Collegiate Athletic Association (PCAA) established standardized pay scales and benefit programs for its revenue-generating participants. This included full tuition, room and board, school supplies, a monthly stipend (based on undergraduate status) and a bonus program, which rewarded grade point average as well as postseason tournament participation. To remain eligible, a PCAA student-athlete was required to attend class (in person) and demonstrate satisfactory progress toward a five-year degree. Any athlete could try out for the professional leagues at any time and still return to school—provided they had not yet accepted a pro signing bonus (usually held in escrow until after final cuts) or played a minute of regular-season ball. Any PCAA athlete who did turn pro prior to graduation was required to immediately refund from their signing bonuses all stipend monies earned while at school. Athletes choosing to remain in school until graduation earned a ‘diploma bonus’ a figure based on the team’s won-lost record during their years of participation.
By 2017, the PCAA football playoffs were generating revenues surpassing those of the National Football League and National Basketball Asociation.
Lauren follows Sam through the Art Deco security arch leading to the front entrance. He places his hand upon the SID pad.
A holograph appears—a well-endowed topless blonde wearing a G-string. The model’s computerized face has been replaced with Coach DeMaio’s, the voice with that of teen pop singer Lacy Wong. ‘Good evening, Samuel Agler, you hunka-hunka burning Hurricane love. Please enter me so I may please you.’
‘Uh, thanks … Coach.’
They pass through the weapon detector’s violet indicator beam. The double doors slide open, allowing them entry into a high-ceilinged hall engorged with loud technomusic, neon holographic creatures, flashing lights, and mobs of mostly naked bodies.
Lauren leans over, yells, ‘It’s like the last days of Rome meets disco.’
K. C. Renner, who is wearing an aluminocloth shirt and boxer shorts, is the first to greet them. ‘My bonus baby, gimme some bone.’ Renner’s and Sam’s knuckles collide.
‘Good evening, Lauren.’ Renner’s voice turns sarcastically stuffy. ‘So glad you could join us.’ The quarterback shakes her hand, then licks it.
‘You’re disgusting.’
‘Thank you. Food’s everywhere, plenty of strange … oops, sorry. M’casa es su casa.’
The staccato pulse of the bass, originating from surround-sound speakers strategically placed beneath the porous floorboards, is literally sending music vibrating up through their bodies.
‘Isn’t it a bit loud?’ Lauren yells.
‘Yeah, great crowd. Hey, everyone’s out by the pool. Come on.’ Renner leads them through the packed hall. Groping blue-and-yellow-tinted hands reach out to touch them as they pass.
A set of soundproof Plexiglas doors part, allowing them to escape the noise into a home entertainment holograph suite. The doors hiss close behind them, shutting out the hallway acoustics.
The room is black, backlit by matching columns of ceiling-to-floor lava lamps and a 3-D holographic movie projecting in front of the far wall.
As Lauren’s eyes adjust to the dark, she notices movement along the floor—couples, making out in sensory body bags.
K. C. directs them through a second set of soundproof doors. They pass the food prep room and exit into the courtyard.
Humidity and the heavy scent of the pool’s ozone filtration system hits them square in the face. The soothing calypso sounds of Cuban heartthrob, Elian, comes from palm tree speakers planted along the periphery.
Cheerleaders, groupies, and prostitutes, most of them naked, lounge in and around the football-shaped pool in clusters, a dozen of Sam’s teammates drifting from one group to the next. Lauren spots Jerry Tucker in t
he hot tub, the enormous lineman sandwiched between two bare-breasted Jamaican-dyed Asian girls. Another teammate is lying on the deck behind him, passed out in a puddle of vomit.
She shakes her head. ‘Miami’s gridiron warriors. Pillaging the village before their next conquest.’
Ken Hudak, the team’s heavily muscled, pine-green-dyed middle linebacker, struts toward them, dragging his date, a Haitian girl wearing only a bandanna around her waist. Lauren stares at the couple’s his-and-her hip tattoo, which creates the illusion of two bulldogs doing it doggy style when the pair are making love with the girl on top.
‘Mule—we gotta talk, man.’ Before Lauren can object, Hudak drapes his arm around her fiancé and leads him away.
K. C. shrugs. ‘Sam’s a popular guy.’
‘Too popular.’
The Haitian girl slides over to K. C., grinding her bare groin into his hip. ‘I’m tired of playing defensive ball. How ’bout teaching me a little offense?’
K. C. winks at Lauren. ‘Back in a minute.’
‘Yeah, go grind your brains out.’ She watches him lead the girl away.
Lauren’s eyes search for Sam. She spots him by the hot tub, surrounded by most of the team’s defensive starters, all of whom are dyed the same shade of Miami green.
The hell with this … She heads back inside.
‘You’re accusing me of tanking it?’ Sam shakes his head in disbelief.
Hudak leans in, spewing his garlic breath. ‘We lost. No way we lose to the fubishitting Seminole-holes if you’re running the way you usually do.’
‘I had 104 yards on the ground, 54 more receiving. I scored a touchdown.’
‘Don’t diss us, Mule,’ says Keith Plourde, the Hurricanes’ cocaptain. ‘You haven’t run for less than two hundred yards since you were in grade school.’
‘I need that playoff bonus, Mule,’ Brian Mundt whines. ‘I’m fuupdass without it.’
‘Maybe you wouldn’t be so fucked-up-the-ass if you learned how to tackle,’ Sam says, pushing the defensive end out of his face.
‘I heard a ton of gamblers lost money on the point spread today,’ Keith Plourde states, accusingly. ‘Maybe you were in on the action, huh?’
Sam lunges for Plourde, pile-driving him backward against a palm tree.