by Ken Douglas
“ Why is that?” He seemed amused.
“ You seem so independent, in control, a sports car kind of guy.”
“ Well, I guess I like all this pig iron around me. No question if I get in an accident with one of those little Jap cars who the winner is going to be.”
For a second she felt a twinge. Was that a racist statement? She hoped not, he was such a caring man, she couldn’t imagine that it was.
As if answering her thoughts he said, “I hope I didn’t sound like I have a problem with the Japanese, I don’t. I just don’t like tiny, tinny cars. I spent a good deal of my Army time in Germany in a tank and I guess it rubbed off. I feel safer in a big heavy clunker.”
“ I can understand that,” she said, getting into the car. She leaned back into the worn Naugahyde and closed her eyes. She couldn’t remember when she’d felt so good.
“ We’re here,” he said.
“ What?” she opened her eyes.
“ You fell asleep.”
“ I’m sorry.”
“ Don’t be. You don’t snore.”
“ Would you like to come in for a drink?”
“ I was hoping you’d ask.” He seemed tense to her.
“ What are you thinking about?” she asked.
“ Happier times,” Sam Storm said.
“ And times aren’t happy now?”
“ They’re getting there.” He smiled, getting out of the car. He walked around to her side and opened the passenger door.
“ I don’t think I’ve ever known a man that’s done that for me,” she said.
“ A lady pretty as you should never have to open her own doors.”
“ Why thank you,” Judy said, leading him up the walk to the front door. She fumbled with her keys at the porch as he stood by and watched. “Got it.” She opened the door.
Once inside he reached for her shoulder, spun her around and covered her lips with his. She tried to protest, but he hugged her to him and it was all she could do to breathe. She reached her hand up to his shoulders and was starting to push away, when she felt his hand cup her buttocks and pull her in to him. She gasped when she felt his hardness.
He broke away from the kiss and lowered his mouth to her ear, “Will you obey me?”
Judy knew that she was at a crossroads. Something from down deep told her to say yes, or else, and besides she told that inner voice, a part of her wanted to submit to this man.
“ What do you want?” she asked.
“ Music, something slow.” He opened his arms to let her go to the stereo.
She toyed with the idea of running, the situation was getting out of control, but realistically, she asked herself, how far could she get. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, and still there was that part of her that wanted to submit, to abandon her problems and worries and wallow in a night of sexual pleasure.
She went through her CDs and decided on Saxuality by Candy Dulfer, a soft, soothing saxophone piece.
“ I like that,” he said.
“ So do I.”
“ Dance.”
“ With you?”
“ No, with the music.” He crossed over to an easy chair and sat down. “I want to watch you.”
She looked into his eyes and saw a touch of evil and started to dance. Whatever this man wanted, she decided, she would do.
She closed her eyes and started to sway with the music, moving her hips with the rhythm. Humming along with the saxophone, she tried to imagine that she was dancing for Rick Gordon, surprised that his image planted itself in her mind. She smiled coyly, kicked off her shoes and began moving with the music.
She was getting into it when he said, “Take off your dress.”
Without opening her eyes or breaking her rhythm, she reached and grabbed her dress below the waist and lifted it over her head. She continued to dance, clad only in her bra and panties. She knew he could see her nipples and pubic hair through the thin fabric and she was both thrilled and terrified.
She reached behind her head, swaying with the music, and took out her ponytail. She swung her head back and forth, fanning her hair and waiting for his next command. She felt goosebumps on her skin and a tingling sensation running up and down her spine. She was dancing on the edge, sliding on a razor with no end in sight, more alive than she could remember.
Now she knew what freefall felt like, the stark terror of wondering if the chute would open or if she would Roman candle into the earth. She had no idea where this night would lead or how it would end, but she knew she would remember it always.
“ Take off the bra.”
She felt her smile broaden, in spite of her reservations, as she reached behind her back and undid the clasp. She gasped as her breasts sprang free and began to wonder what this big man would be like in bed.
She started to think about Rick in a sexual way about two months after Ann died, but she was tired of waiting for him to come home. This man was here now, and he obviously wanted her. Her fear was gone, she was enjoying herself and she was going to enjoy herself even more.
“ Play with your tits.”
She opened her eyes, meeting his dark glare, and she widened her smile, showing her perfect teeth. Then she did a slick bounce, bouncing her breasts like buoys on the water. She cupped one in each hand, pointing the nipples at him and she gently squeezed, moaning along with the saxophone.
Then she started to involuntarily undulate her hips. She felt her panties start to dampen as the orgasm approached. It hit her hard, almost knocking her over. She opened her mouth and let out a pleasure scream. She was unashamed and unable to stop. She stayed with the music till the orgasm ran its course, then started to slow as the rhythm slowed.
“ Take off your panties and keep dancing.”
She pushed them down, stepped out of them and faced him totally nude. She raised her hands toward the ceiling, spread her legs and swayed her hips, letting the jazzy sound rule her. Never in her wildest fantasies did she think that a man’s cold stare could make her come.
“ Play with your cunt.”
She lowered both hands to her pubic region, inserting two fingers of her left hand, massaging herself with the beat.
“ I’m going to do it again,” she moaned. “It’s coming, it’s coming, it’s coming.” Then she screamed and collapsed to her knees, keeping her fingers in place, eyes locked all the while on the big man’s steel grays.
Satisfied, but wanting more, she watched as Sam Storm stood and stripped off his shirt. He was a muscular man who obviously worked out. His biceps bulged without trying. His stomach was as flat as a high school athlete’s and he had a thin mat of dark hair on his chest which accented his masculinity. She was a little afraid, a lot excited and she wanted to run her fingers through those hairs.
He kicked off his loafers and bent to take off his socks, while she watched, salivating like a dog in heat, all fear gone, ruled only by excitement and anticipation, watching, wanton and wicked as his hands went to his belt buckle and unclasped it.
Still on her knees, she started massaging herself afresh as he slid his zipper down. She picked up the pace, leaving the beat of the music far behind as his pants fell, leaving him clad only in bulging Jockey shorts.
“ I want to see it,” she mouthed, eyes glued to the bulge. He must be huge, she thought.
Pumping her fingers furiously, she gaped, mouth open, making animal sounds as the Jockey’s went down and his manhood came into view.
“ Oh, my,” she moaned as the third orgasm tore into her, and despite the racking pleasure running through her body, she wondered if any woman could take in something so big.
Then it happened. Something stole into her mind, pushing her into the background. All pleasure left her body as she fought to stay in control. A tortured pain ripped into her brain, causing a scream that had nothing to do with ecstasy or euphoria to shoot out of her mouth.
And then she was gone.
“ Smell-your-fear,” Sam Storm said.
; “ Smell yours!” Judy Donovan said.
“ I don’t understand,” Storm said.
“ We’ve met before, you and I.” She glared into his eyes.
“ No,” he croaked.
“ We have, and we’ll meet again.” She sensed his fear. “I’m going to the bathroom to clean up. When I get back, be gone.”
He was out the door before she started the shower.
She felt the water, prickly cold, cascading down her back. She reflexively grabbed the hot water spigot to warm up the beating spray. She was in the shower, safely enclosed by the stone brown tiles and the sliding glass door. Familiar surroundings, but how did she get there?
She remembered the dinner and remembered that maybe she’d had too much to drink. She remembered leaving the restaurant. After that everything was a blank. Except for that horrible black out.
She was revolted. She must have had a lot more to drink than she thought. Blacking out was a new experience for her, and one she didn’t want to ever repeat again. She felt used, abused and incredibly thirsty. She raised her mouth to the spray and drank, hoping that the nauseated feeling would vanish with her thirst. It didn’t.
She thought of Sam Storm, charming and delightful. She remembered the tempting thoughts she had of enticing him to her bed and she realized she was sore. So she did have sex with him, and from the way she felt it must have been wonderful.
“ Damn,” she muttered. Wonderful sex and she couldn’t remember and over a year without. Did she politely resist, then let him persuade her or did she submit willingly and jump straight into bed? She wished she could remember.
She opened the shower door slightly and reached out for the shampoo. She poured a generous amount on her wet hair and soaped it thoroughly. Then with a soapy hand, she rubbed herself between her legs and winced. She really was sore. She vowed never to drink again and she wondered if she would ever see Mr. Sam Storm again.
She rinsed herself off and stepped out onto the cold tile. She was kind of glad the mirror was covered with steam, because she wasn’t in the mood to look at herself and she was afraid that tonight she might not be the fairest of them all.
She toweled herself off, wrapped the towel around her hair, turban style, then padded into the bedroom and was startled to see the bed still made up. She’d expected it to be rumpled with the covers and pillows tossed on the floor. Where had she done the deed if not in the bedroom?
Trying to puzzle it out, she left the bedroom, crossed the hall and went into the living room, where she found her clothes strewn all over the floor.
Did she grab him, pull him down on top of her and do it right here on the floor? She didn’t think so, more than likely she walked in alone, drunk, tore her clothes off and made straight for the shower. Therefore, she concluded, they must have gone to Sam’s motel after dinner for fun and games and after they were finished, he probably dropped her at the door without coming in.
He probably didn’t want to be here in the morning when J.P. came home. What a gentleman, she thought.
Maybe it would all come back to her after a good night’s sleep.
She made her way back to the bedroom, satisfied that she had the evening figured out and eager to hit the pillows. She turned down the bed, turned off the lights, unwrapped the turbaned towel, shucked the robe, climbed between the sheets, and wondered why she was thinking about Rick Gordon as she dozed off to a deep, dreamless sleep.
Chapter Eight
Sam Storm sat four tables away from the stage and brooded. Damn the woman. How dare she? How could she? How did she?
Everything had been going along just fine. She had been doing exactly what he’d wanted, but when the time had come to kill her, she’d made him do what she’d wanted. It wasn’t the way things were supposed to be. Ever since that day in the convenience store, he had been in control of his destiny, right up till three days ago.
Now he was tormented with confusion. New York had been easy. Tonight would be easy, but something had happened and that woman was responsible.
The next time he would tie her, blindfold her and make her suffer.
He felt the knife under his jacket and a hot glow coursed through him.
He could be whatever he wanted. Do whatever he wanted. After he rid himself of Rick Gordon. But before Gordon died, he would know that everyone he loved had been destroyed. Gordon would suffer before Storm captured him and skinned him alive.
That was his task, make Gordon and all his bootlegger friends pay for the humiliation he’d suffered all these years. Nobody made a fool out of Sam Storm and stayed alive.
And he owed it all to the knife. The knife gave him the strength. No longer was he hampered by liberal laws. He was Sam Storm and he would stamp out the bootleggers. And then, when free of those that had shamed him so often, he could finally rest.
He pulled his thoughts back to the task at hand and watched the man on stage, who he planned on killing before the evening was over. He was tall, gangly, bearded and in the middle of an Irish folk ballad, his fingers running up and down the neck of the guitar like a tape on fast forward.
Like with the one in New York, he had no set plan for killing Danny Morrow. He would wing it, but he was beginning to soften toward Danny, the Dylan collector. He liked Irish music and Danny Morrow played it well.
He had been drinking draft beer in the Bourbon Street Irish Pub for the last three sets, clapping and stomping with the music, enjoying himself as he hadn’t done since college. He luxuriated in Danny’s New Orleans brand of Irish folk humor and was laughing and clapping at the end of a bawdy joke, when he noticed Danny signaling the audience to silence with raised hands.
“ Ladies and gents, I have to leave early tonight.” He was interrupted by shouts of “No,” “Stay,” and, “More,” but he kept his hand raised till the audience quieted. “Sorry, but I’ve got a date with a river tomorrow in West Texas. We do, however, have what I think is a pretty fair replacement for you tonight. Ladies and Gentlemen, may I present Susan O’Malley.”
Storm gasped as a stunning blond ascended the stage with an electric violin in her right hand. She was wearing an A shaped, white muslin skirt that fell halfway between her knees and the floor, allowing a hint of shapely legs, but what really tore at Storm’s eyes were the twin globes of her rising breasts, reflecting the stage light as the moon does sunlight. She was both girl-like and woman-like in her peasant Spanish blouse. Her bare shoulders and creamy skin stole the looks of every man in the audience.
He was so taken with her that he didn’t notice the man he’d come to kill leave the stage, nor did he feel Danny Morrow brush past him as he made his way through the crowd on his way to the exit.
Storm, captivated by the girl’s Southern beauty, sat through four sets, applauding each song like a teenage lover. He wanted the night to never end, but at the end of the fourth set another band took the stage and his heart growled in protest. He jacked his head round the pub, but she was nowhere to be seen.
He paid his bill and left.
Once on the crowded walking street, he headed in the direction of the Sonesta Hotel. Bourbon Street was thronged with tourists, buskers and prostitutes, and flashing signs promising burlesque, boylesque, voodoo, female mudwrestling, tee shirt boutiques, bars and more bars.
He stopped at the crowded bar across from the Sonesta and looked in at all the people who seemed to be having a good time and he felt a pang. He didn’t want the good time he was having to end. It had been so long since he’d been able to enjoy himself. He fought through the haze of his memory and tried to recall an earlier time when Rick Gordon and bootleg records occupied only a fraction of his life. A part of him was tugging him toward his hotel, where his car waited in the underground parking garage, but another part dragged him into the bar.
He pushed his way to the bar and ordered a Hurricane, the tall red drink that every tourist seemed required to try at least once. The heavily alcohol-laced drink caused him to stretch his facial muscles an
d reminded him of the last time he had been in this city of fun and excitement. He had been young and handsome and his wife had been alive.
Hurricane lips, he thought, Louise had Hurricane lips, her lipstick matched the red of the drink he was holding. He smiled at the memory of her. She loved New Orleans and New Orleans was the last happy time for her. She went into labor two weeks after their return to California and died in childbirth. The baby, born dead, had been a girl.
He raised the drink and drained the glass. The drink itself was too sweet for his taste, but the soothing effect of the alcohol was welcome. He chewed on the ice while he waited for the bartender to notice his glass was empty.
Two drinks later he left the bar and crossed the walking street to the hotel. He pushed through the door into the lobby with a slight nod to the girls at the reception desk. He continued to the back of the lobby and the stairs down to the garage below, where his rental car was parked.
Ten minutes later he drove by the big corner house where Danny Morrow lived. He turned the corner and parked. The house looked unoccupied, but Morrow left the pub more than three hours ago, maybe he was asleep. Storm shut off the engine and got out of the car. The street was middle-of-the-night silent and Storm took care not to make any noise as he crossed it and lifted the latch to the back gate. He eased himself into the backyard and studied the turn of the century house and, for a fleeting second, thought about returning to the car and leaving town.
He banished any thoughts about turning back. He’d come to kill a man. The mission demanded it, so he wondered how he was going to get into the house. He tried the back door. It was locked. He checked the two windows that were accessible from the back porch and discovered that they were also locked. It was a big house, with a lot of windows. He started working around to the side and discovered a window with a broken pane on his fifth try. He reached his hand through the opening, unlocked it, raised it, and climbed into the house.
While his eyes were getting used to the dark, his nose told him that the house was a dusty, dusky kind of place. He knew Morrow lived alone and that he was reconditioning the house, bringing it into the twentieth century, but he had no idea the place would be covered with a decade’s worth of dust. When his eyes allowed limited sight, he saw paint peeling from the ceiling and walls and that the room was devoid of furniture.