Heat Wave

by Alison Tyler

  Jack is silent. Finally, “Are you okay with what just happened?”

  “Perfectly...I love you.”

  “Okay.”

  When your breath returns you tell him about the men in the store and their conversation. You start to laugh, Jack laughs, and you fake another orgasm together, sending it out across the water to the ears tuned into the night.

  On Sunday, well past eight, you kick the Harley back to life. The road seems longer in the bright hot sun. It looks different, too, on the long ride back to the city. The snake becomes a little less wild, its stripes seem to fade as the lanes split from two to four, to six. The tall pines will give way to hardwood and yellow fields, which yield in turn to concrete and overpasses, blaring horns, choking fumes. You have plenty of time to think of Jack, in the forest, by the water; plenty of time for the throb of the bike to stir your insides, rub your abraded snatch. Plenty of time to miss him already.

  Who’s the Boss?

  LYNNE JAMNECK

  It was Saturday, and it seemed a healthier African sun had never shone down on the beaches of Cape Town. A sexy, balmy day that promised pleasure in the passing of each minute. People watched as Micky, my PA, joked about with the swimsuit models. He was having a bitch of a time getting them to put down their cigarettes and Perrier. I couldn’t believe the number of expletives I picked up, whispered under his breath. I was putting up the portable CD player, loading in the flashback Bruce Springsteen music that accompanied my shoots everywhere. As The Boss began belting out “Cover Me” across the beach plateau of Sandy Bay, I felt the distinct tap of a finger on my shoulder. Camera in hand and singing along to Bruce, I turned to see Micky with a dangerous smirk on his face, his foot tapping in the hot sand.

  “What now?” I asked, shoulders hitched. “Don’t tell me—one of the models forgot her portable barf-bag at home?”

  Micky offered me a conspiratorial look. “I daresay not. No, I think you have bigger problems, lovey. Have a peek over there.”

  Over there was, by first look, the sexiest piece of jeans I had seen in a long time. Diesels that fit her legs like she’d just slipped away from a wicked, wild west movie shoot, with the stealth-inclined boots to boot. Pity there were no holsters. I have a soft spot for a woman with a pistol. When I could tear my eyes away to look further, they came in blissful contact with a spaghetti-strapped vest that did nothing but accentuate the sculpture of her arms—and reveal that she wasn’t wearing a bra.

  “Pssst. You’re staring.” Micky showed me a mouthful of teeth as I tried to avert my eyes discreetly. Too late; she’d seen my transgression.

  “Fuck,” I muttered, inspecting the camera as if there was something horrendously wrong with it.

  “Nice. Well done. Want to know who she is, maybe?”

  “That would help.”

  “She’s the lighting tech. The one Jackie sent to stand in for Meg. Poor chick’s still in bed, puking her guts out after last night’s poisoned chicken.”

  “That’s ’cause she was eating the wrong chicken.”

  “It’s a wonder you get laid with a mouth like that.”

  “No, Micky, it’s because of this mouth that I do.”

  “Dyke.”

  “Tutti-Fruity. Shit, she’s coming over here.”

  “Have fun. I’m going to start lathering up the girls, before they fall asleep. I don’t want a repeat of the last shoot.”

  “You do that,” I replied, as he minced back to the bikini bods draped over their beach chairs. Springsteen launched into “Glory Days” as Ms. Jeans stuck out a strong hand to my stomach. I shook it, smiling, looked at her suntanned face, and thought: Fuck me.

  “Hi, I’m Dean.”

  “As in James?”

  She laughed; a throaty, cigarette sound that made my dyke sensibilities throb. A whiff of coconut swam past my nose, and I was vaguely aware of squealing titters in the background from lathered models.

  “In the wink of a young girl’s eye.”

  “Excuse me?”

  She cocked her head. “The Boss. Knew what to sing about.”

  Hot damn. Was I blushing? Luckily the sun always made my cheeks look the color of beetroot, so I assumed I was fairly safe.

  “And your name is—”

  I stopped short of saying “Anything you’d like,” reserving my dignity. For now. I could always relinquish it later if things worked according to plan. Why in the world had Micky referred to Dean as “trouble”?

  “Kim. I’m Kim.”

  Stop repeating yourself. Micky gave me a hurried thumbs-up, models lazily rubbing the last dregs of lotion into their skin.

  “Guess I’d better get the fans going,” Dean smiled. “What’s a beach shoot without that wind-blowing-throughmy-tresses look.”

  I felt myself smiling, then watched her confident back as she strode up to where Micky was trying to direct covert glances my way without being noticed. Trouble, he said. What a laugh. But what can you expect from a guy who’s never had the pleasure of female carnal knowledge. Fru-Fru fairy.

  But the Fru-Fru had been right all along. Damn him. And double-damn me for being blinded by my hormones. It’s happened before, and by the looks of things, will no doubt happen again.

  The trouble started with the commencing of the shoot. When I instructed Dean to turn the fan jay, she blithely turned it nay. When I instructed spotlight No. 3, she had the balls to tell me that No. 4 was better. Actually, no—she insisted. Who the fuck was the photographer around here? I asked her that, and she replied by asking me just who the fuck was the tech?

  The models found the whole thing amusing as hell. Chiefly, I presumed, because some of them had previously tried to get in my pants and been declined. A fabulous body amounts to nothing if you don’t know how to use it. They were having a ball watching me crap out someone I obviously wanted to ravish. Models were only brain-dead when you didn’t need them to be. I made a mental note to kill Jackie.

  The only reason I didn’t stop the whole shebang right then and there was that I was still blindsided by wanting to dive into Dean’s body head first. Yes, even I knew as much. She was about to turn the fan once more in the absolutely WRONG direction when I shut my camera off. A couple of not-so muted “uh-oh”s rose from the bikini gallery. I strode purposefully through the sand, trying to ignore the strain on my calf muscles. Dean tried to ignore my wrath by lighting a cigarette, which I promptly plucked from between her kissable lips and stomped into the sand.

  “What the fuck?” As if she had no idea.

  “Care to just shove your technical expertise up the wazoo, and do what I tell you?”

  “Sure. Once you get around to telling me the right thing.” She was purposely trying to rile me up. I got the picture, loud and clear. In the mood for some dishing, was she? Well, I hoped for her sake she’d be able to take it, too.

  Some of the yuppie beachcombers were looking our way, expectantly. A beach fight was something of a rarity, and I imagine various parents who were there for the sake of the kiddies were looking forward to a little excitement to pep up the lazy atmosphere.

  “I’ve been telling you for the past hour, Dean. Have you no sense of hearing?”

  She stuck her hands on her hips. “Kimmy, people are staring.”

  Micky had been approaching us, probably to keep me from decking her, but stopped dead suddenly, his mouth opened in a silent O of fear.

  If rage could boil my blood, I probably would’ve pulled a Vesuvius right there. At the top of a very long hate list is the combination of letters that spell out “Kimmy.” (As in: “Kimmy, when are you and that nice boy going to go on your first date?” “Kimmy, you’ll look so much nicer in a dress, my dear girl.”)

  “What did you just call me?” The words seethed from between my lips like slippery, poisonous snakes.

  “Kimmy.” And she had the impudence to smile. Damn her for being so fine. Because I didn’t know what else to do, I bunched my hands into little fists, shaking them angrily at
my sides. Two clenched little volcanoes about to explode.

  Dean watched me curiously, as if studying an interesting new life form, then said, “You know, I don’t have to take this crap.” She was cool, unfazed. “You’re way too temperamental to work with. I’m going to have to have a word with Jackie.”

  With that, she turned on her booted heel and sauntered off toward the dunes, giving off smoke as she lit a fresh cigarette. My eyes bore into her back. I hate people who stay cool under pressure.

  “Snap out of it,” Micky hissed in my ear. “The models are sitting down, for chrissakes! Have you any idea what bribery will be required to get them off their sugar-deprived asses again?”

  I turned to him and without a word shoved the camera into his hands.

  “Hold this.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To make a point.”

  I ignored his fruitless pleas, and stalked over to the dunes in the direction I’d seen Dean disappear. I had quit smoking a year ago, but suddenly craved nicotine. Why was I getting so worked up over this chick? Jesus, didn’t those skinny-assed models give me enough grief to be able to handle a situation better? And this had been one of those rare mornings I’d awakened without even an inkling of sex on my mind. The nerve of the woman.

  I kept marching into the cluster of dunes that initiated a stretch of beach off limits to swimmers. The water here experienced sudden changes in current and was deemed unsafe. Far away, I heard the disappearing sound of Abba’s “Dancing Queen.” It was official: Micky had taken over the CD player. The sun baked down and the thrilling sounds of summer chimed lazily through the still air.

  Our eyes met as I turned the corner upon a knot of four sand piles. Dean was lying on her back, propped against one of the bigger dunes.

  “Oh, hello,” she said, smiling, as if seeing me for the first time in her life.

  I flashed a cocky smile. “I get it. You’re one of those dykes who have a problem with authority. It’s okay; I understand where you’re coming from.”

  Dean burst out laughing, a whopper of a belly laugh that made the hair on my arms stand up.

  “You’re full of shit, you know that?” I said, angrily.

  “And you’re a control freak,” Dean retaliated, offering me a sexy smirk. “Come here.”

  “What for?” I asked, wanting to seem oblivious.

  “Come here,” she instructed again, and the authority in her voice made me feel like a sixteen-year-old. I knelt down in the sand beside her, and before I could say or do anything, she grabbed a handful of my T-shirt and pulled me on top of her. Our bodies fit together like the hand and proverbial glove. We kissed, and the tasty blend of salt and coconut on her tongue made a beeline for my groin.

  “See,” I muttered, between stolen gasps of air, “the Kimmy in me would never do this.”

  “Fuck Kimmy,” Dean replied, as she guided my hand to the buttons of her fly. Her hips arched at the soft touch of my fingers, but I held her down. I wasn’t going to just relent and give her what she wanted. Not after the insubordination I got in front of those cheeky models. No, sir. Lightly, I used the tips of my fingers to circle the smooth, faded texture of her crotch. Not popping those buttons right then took some restraint, believe me.

  “What is it you want me to do, Dean?”

  “‘Fuck you,” she replied, halfway between a smile and a curse.

  “You mean, fuck you, don’t you?”

  “Shit,” she moaned, as my whole hand suddenly applied pressure to her no doubt swollen clit. Small children shrieked, somewhere. I glanced over my shoulder, but the dunes blocked my view of the rest of Sandy Bay. Please god, don’t let them kick their beach balls in here, or I’ll be very, very upset.

  I lowered my head between her legs and started yanking buttons with my teeth. Dean had one hand on my head, tangled in my hair, urging me on as the smell of sun and sand drifted up my nostrils. Her other hand pulled at the base of my T-shirt, letting the sun underneath, cradling my skin in its delicious warmth.

  Christ—she was wearing white cotton panties. Innocent looking things that brought back all sorts of high school shenanigans. The insides of her thighs felt like silk, and as my hand traveled down the leg of her pants I could feel her muscles flex expectantly. Far in the distance, Lenny Kravitz started mouthing off, and I knew for sure that Micky’d turned everything into one big beach party in order to keep the temperamental bikini girls happy. Surely he must have discovered the bottle of bourbon in my backpack. He was going to kill me, regardless. Somehow, I thought it would be worth it.

  Dean pulled me up to her face, but I stopped midway to taste the lotion on her dark, chocolate-brown nipples. Time slowed as my tongue worshipped the sweet hardness. I took them between my lips in turn, softly nipping at the swollen tips, vaguely aware of Dean’s breathing above me getting shallower, quicker. Then we were kissing again, and my hand was back inside her underwear, never wanting to leave again. Her knee inquired persistently between my legs, her hands on my ass, while her mouth whispered naughty things that made my ears burn. My fingers paid deft attention to the space between Dean’s legs, and the fact that there was barely enough room for my hand to move only made the whole experience more intense. Caught between the smooth feel of cotton and the wetness of her cunt, my hand started taking charge. The control was automatic—instinct took over.

  “Kim, you have to fuck me,” she breathed.

  “Thought as much,” I continued to tease. “Absolutely no patience.”

  “Now,” she demanded. Her hand grabbed my wrist and thrust my fingers deep inside. Insatiable wench. I let my weight push her down, one hand underneath her divinely tight ass as she squirmed and bucked below me. It was hard, and it was hasty; needy and furtive, with just a dash of dominance—of course it was the way she wanted it. She’d been testing me all along, but I was ready for her.

  “You’re going to listen to me when we get back down there,” I instructed, in her ear, my fingers working her into ecstasy.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You’re gonna do as I say because I’m the boss, and you’re the tech.”

  “Yes…oh god, yes.”

  I kissed her tanned stomach, licked droplets of sweat from the curve of her hip. “No more back talk.”

  “No more back t—”

  I felt her muscles tighten, her cunt taut around my fingers. We were locked in a frenzied tempo of pleasure, rays of heat blazing down and blessing our vigorous union.

  “Glory fuckin’ days indeed,” I quoted The Boss, as Dean came into my hand, cleverly clamping a hand over her own lips so as not to alert any passersby to what they were missing. We stayed locked together for a moment, trying to regulate our breathing, and getting rid of flushed faces before daring to venture back down to the beach.

  “This never happened, of course,” Dean stated, as she shook bits of coral from her hair.

  “Of course not,” I replied. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

  “One thing before we get back, though.”

  She offered me her mouth in a kiss that made me want to pull her down again. I felt her hand in my back pocket, then our lips separated and she was walking back down to where Micky was, no doubt, getting mercilessly drunk. I watched her for a moment, the sensuous curve of her back, boots sinking into the loose, golden sand. I’d been pistol-whipped after all. Then I took the business card from my pocket.

  Dean Taylor

  Photographic Technician

  I’m the Best

  Call Me

  Hot and Hazy

  DEBRA HYDE

  Opening the various poolside umbrellas was something Kit did every morning once summer rolled around, but as sweat formed over her upper lip, she wondered whether shade would make any difference this day. Already 84 degrees, she thought. How can anyone do anything in this weather?

  As she set to skimming the pool, she wished New Englanders would use colorful colloquialisms to describe a heat wave. Things like �
��It’s as hot as a Texas sidewalk on an August afternoon” or “hot as a skillet on a stove in hell” would liven up such insufferable weather. But New England Yankees were a quiet people. They minded their own business and said little more than “Hot enough for you?” or the even terser “Hot out, eh?” And even then, these were reserved for rhetorical acknowledgment only. Just because a New Englander mentioned the weather didn’t mean he wanted to talk about it.

  Yes, New Englanders were a private sort, and although Kit’s chatty Midwestern demeanor sometimes clashed with their reserved ways, they did afford her something she rarely received back in Illinois: the privacy to do as she wished.

  As she unbuttoned and dropped the oversized shirt from her body, Kit appreciated the fact that neighbors weren’t about to venture onto her property and into her backyard. You never got that back in Illinois, she thought, as she stepped naked into the pool and lowered herself into the water. Back there, everybody knew your business before you did.

  Kit dived underwater, glided deep, and came up sopping wet and happy. The water washed away every trace of sweat from her body, and whatever dripped from her hair would, she knew, keep her cool. She backstroked across the pool and reveled as cool water rippled over her body. It felt beautiful, as if an ancient water goddess had deigned to touch her, to feel her mortal skin. Luxurious, it was luxurious.

  And so much better than what Saul was doing this morning. How, she wondered, could anyone play tennis in this heat? That he’d left the house at 7:30 for an 8:00 A.M. game didn’t make a stitch of difference to her; if the sun was up, it was too hot for running around.

  Especially with all this mugginess, she thought. Hell, I’m sleeping with a fan and the air conditioner on at night.

  The sun started to beat down on Kit again as she pondered all this, and she plunged underwater to escape it. When she came up for air, she found herself startled by something tossed onto her head. She struggled for air, arms tearing whatever it was away from her face. Spitting water and wiping it from her eyes, she discovered it was the shirt she’d dropped at pool’s edge.