Strip Poker

by Lisa Lawrence

  So I phoned Roxanne up with the good-news-bad-news scenarios, vintage No Doubt coming loud and clear through the phone, “I’ll email my brother back and say we’ll accept the Argentine guys if you’re cool with it.”

  “What, are you mad?” she snapped.

  “You want to take a pass on them and wait for a British publisher?”

  “Teresa,” said Roxanne, and I heard her exhale a long stream of smoke from her latest cigarette, “don’t be daft. Take the other one.”

  “But they don’t want your—”

  “I don’t give a shit, love. How much you think they pay illustrators for children’s books?” She let out one of her high-pitched giggles and added, “I did it as a larf, and it didn’t take me very long. And you forget, you threw some dosh my way up front for the effort ages ago.”

  Yes—yes, I did. Not a lot, mind you, but I did pay her because if the book never found a home, I didn’t want all her work to be for nothing and have her resent me. Everybody’s got to eat, and if I didn’t like being messed around or ducked by the occasional deadbeat client then I should sign a cheque promptly when I hired someone for myself.

  “I’m compensated,” Roxanne assured me. “No worries. Do you know how much I make off one of my regular jobs?”

  “More than they would ever…?” I trailed off and heard another affirmative giggle over the line.

  I thanked her profusely, she congratulated me, and all was right with the world for one hour. I opened a nice expensive Cabernet I’d been saving (actually for when I wrapped up Helena’s case) and clinked a “Cheers” with an empty second glass on the dining table.

  I was cleaning out the fireplace later, muttering “slob” at myself because of the Pyramids of Ash Giza behind the grate when there was a knock at the door. Uh-huh. That meant a) someone had got past the security lock in the foyer, and b) it could be trouble, because if they were a friendly face, they could have buzzed me through the intercom.

  “Hello?”

  There was a rustle at my feet, and I looked down. Sliding under the door was a pen sketch of Donald Duck. You’d swear it came off a DVD box. Now Roxanne was a good artist, really good, but even she couldn’t rip off a Disney character from memory like that. I only knew one person with cartoon drawing talent.

  “Hello?” came the voice behind the door.

  Simon. At my home. My real home. Not tracking me down through Helena. Who knows how he found me, since my phone number’s ex-directory.

  Okay, he’s here. So deal.

  Behind the still locked door: “Miss Knight, I have this wonderful proposition for investment involving RNA strands to use for—”

  “All right, all right,” I said, and I opened the door and waved him in.

  “Anything to drink?” And he cast a hopeful glance at the bottle of Cabernet and the still-empty second glass on the dining table.

  “Don’t push it,” I warned.

  “Nice catching up with you, too,” he answered cheerfully. “How was your date with Ayako?” When I didn’t respond, keeping my face carefully blank, he added, “That good, eh?”

  “Don’t be too smug. There’s always the chance you’ll have to go neon some night with Vivian.”

  He made a dramatic show of trembling at the thought. “Ugh. You’re just being cruel.”

  “What are you up to, Simon?”

  “I might ask you the same thing, darling,” he replied. “Aslan Biosciences? I particularly like the market slogan: ‘From cell to sell.’ Nice touch.”

  I tried a lame bluff. “Who’s to say I’m not working for them? That’s pretty insulting of you, Si.”

  He was roaring now. “Oh, please! Maybe others will buy ‘smokescreen-dot-co-dot-uk,’ but I’m not. It took one quick trip to Companies House to check your business registration. The rest of ’em must be pretty dim! And if I remember correctly, you don’t even have a humble Bachelor of Sciences or an MBA, let alone what you’d need to evaluate biotech start-ups!”

  I sighed. Give it up, Teresa. “Okay, you know. So what do you want, Simon?”

  “I want to know what you’re after.”

  I scoffed at that. “I can’t tell you that! You could be the bastard responsible.”

  He seemed to look above my head as a revelation hit him, muttering, “Shit. Why didn’t I see it before? And it’s so fucking obvious.”

  “Go ahead and share.” And if you’re wrong, I thought, I’m not about to dissuade you.

  “You’re working for Janet Marshall,” he said, pacing my living room. “She’s up for the High Commission job in South Africa, and someone’s putting the squeeze on her. They’re going to waltz over to The Sun or News of the World with nice juicy pictures of her fucking those society types, but first they want to drain her bank account. You do realize they’ll take her money and expose her anyway, don’t you? You’re a fool, Teresa, if you think you can keep a lid on this thing.”

  “Someone’s got to try,” I answered. It hardly mattered that he’d guessed wrong about my employer, he was already close enough to the truth. And then he floored me.

  “After all that self-righteous arguing of yours back in Sudan, and now you’re willing to protect a murderer?” he asked. “Or did you do it yourself? Granted, Lionel Young isn’t my model of a businessman, but he had to be the stooge for someone else and to off him for the sake of a political career! Have you actually become one of those…? How much could she possibly pay you to get you to do a dirty job like—”

  Oh, my God, I thought because I had to wonder if he was for real.

  Here I was suspecting he might be Lionel’s killer. And there he was, thinking the same of me, that I would clean up a politician’s messes like some hired gun. He had got it into his head that because he could shoot a man down, anyone could.

  And that I had.

  Unless he was a very good actor.

  “It wasn’t you,” he said softly, almost to himself. “But if it wasn’t you then…?”

  Before I could say anything, he added, “Teresa, darling, if you’re very smart, you’ll tell your Ms. Marshall to book herself a holiday in Martinique or Biarritz or wherever she wants to play and get the hell out of London for a while. And you ought to go with her. This is going to get uglier than I thought.”

  “Still thinking you know what’s best for us, eh, Simon?”

  “Teresa, you don’t know everything that’s going on! Back in the Nuba Mountains, you could say I was playing soldier, but we’re here. It’s a different country this time, a different—”

  He cut himself off. I hadn’t said a word, simply staring at him. He knew his temper might make him blurt out something important.

  “Oh, no,” he said, once more cheerful. “I can see this conversation is only going to help one of us.”

  “You’re working for somebody, too, Simon. Tell me who it is.”

  “Cards on the table, so to speak? Uh-uh. By the way, I like your place.”

  And with that, he casually walked back to the door and let himself out.

  I got two calls at home later in the week, both surprises. The first was that wonderful low voice saying “hello” with such intimate affection that I immediately melted.

  “Been a while,” I said.

  “Yes, I’m sorry about that,” said Neil. “You, um, know how I said there was someone I’ve been close with, and we’re on and off again, and…?”

  Thud. As in pick up your ego, Teresa.

  “And you’re on again,” I finished for him, trying not to sound pissed off. Well. You predicted a reconciliation, didn’t you?

  “No, no,” he said quickly. And then with a note of bitterness, he added, “They, um, came around a little too late for my taste, and…”

  “I think you can say she, babe,” I told him. “It’s not making it any more delicate, taking the gender out of it.”

  He laughed self-consciously and answered, “You don’t let a guy get away with anything, do you? Okay. She came by and we talked,
just talked. And I’ve had a chance to review our relationship and how this person isn’t exactly there for me. Hey, it was you who turned up at the station, not her—”

  “Maybe she didn’t know,” I suggested.

  Oh, the lameness.

  “She heard about it soon enough,” he growled. “Anyway, I think it’s time she and I called it a day since we both seem to want different things, and—well, I didn’t really call to talk about her. I was hoping you and I could go out Friday night. Maybe do something normal couples do and keep our clothes on for a little while. Not a long time, mind you—” Infectious laugh again. “But a little. Drinks, dancing, movie?”

  “Does it have to be Friday?”

  “Oh, hey, you have plans. Sorry, if you got something on then—”

  “Any other night would be wonderful.”

  “There’s a game on Friday night, isn’t there?” he asked, suddenly remembering. And becoming suspicious.

  “I think there is, yeah.”

  “Is that what you’ve got going?”

  Oh, oh.

  I took a deep breath. “Look, Neil. I like you. A lot. But something tells me you’ve had these same issues with that ‘other person.’ And I don’t feel like filling her shoes, so let’s get this stuff out of the way right now. I won’t ask you to give up anything—for the time being—if you do the same. Then if it’s good, we can see where it leads. You go and think about what you really want. Then call if you still want to be in the dark with me. At a movie or anything else.”

  I heard him say my name, but he got tongue-tied. No counter-argument ready. I took advantage of the pause to say, “Talk to you later, babe.”

  He wouldn’t know how much I really, really wanted him to call me back.

  Second phone call. Even less pleasant and even more out of the blue. From, of all people, Anthony Boulet, Janet’s political right-hand man.

  “Teresa, do you have an operative in your employ? You got a contract fellow who does research or something?”

  “I wish!” I said, blown away by the question.

  “I’d like to believe you,” said Anthony in that peevish way he had, which instantly got my hackles up. “But entertaining the notion for the moment that you don’t want to be candid with me, I’ll ask you to please call off your dogs.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I thought I made it very clear at the awards how loyal I am to Janet. And frankly, I’m insulted you or your…your Richmond-upon-Thames Madam friend could think I’d have anything to do with this! Let alone murder that loose faggot who—”

  “Whoa, whoa!” I said. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I am talking about your white shill going around digging into my old cases. I do have friends in court archives—the CPS, the Met, the Beeb, all over—and I’m onto you. I know you’re doing your job, but I am telling you now: back off. You are barking up the wrong tree, and if you keep it up, it just might fall on you.”

  Click.

  Simon. Couldn’t be sure, but my best guess. Digging around and thinking Anthony was a suspect as well? Or was he our culprit, and he was out to create more chaos?

  I wouldn’t know how to rein him in even if I knew what he was up to.

  The Lotus Eaters is one of those private SW clubs in London with a very exclusive members’ list. There’s the attached hotel, an impressive gym, plus a chef who could perhaps spin off on his own and do a Jamie Oliver books/TV/ endorsement thing but knows how good he’s got it. Saudis are welcome, but no football icons, material girls, or disgraced author MPs who, having served their sentence, now want to be welcomed back to the fold. They hold a lot of posh events there. Sometimes people get naked at them.

  Naturally, the poker crowd I’d been seeing lately were all members, except for Giradeau (who maybe wasn’t going to be around long enough, or perhaps they didn’t want an American) and, surprisingly, Vivian. I would have thought these would be choice hunting grounds for her—not for lovers, necessarily, but for her next financial merger, i.e., a good marriage.

  I was wearing another long skirt with a deep slit up the side and an elegant black halter top with a tie neck and sequins around the trim, and I found relatively low heels worked better for the sweep and movement of the skirt. One thing for sure, if I had a bad run tonight, I’d be naked as a jaybird in only three hands. And maybe that was my point. I looked forward to losing, to showing off. I scared myself in liking this so much.

  I held out a perverse hope that Neil might actually show up for the game. I had this bizarre fantasy that he would turn up as he had for Janet Marshall in the past, and we would go through the motions of a game merely to be in each other’s arms. Put on a show like we did the first time.

  Another part of me, however, tingled with anticipation about the unknown, about who I might win or lose to.

  Neil didn’t show. Mercifully, neither did Simon.

  But Ayako did. And so did George. And Daniel. And Gary Cahill. And Vivian.

  And Janet Marshall.

  Obviously, she had had her fill of playing it safe. Blackmailer or no, she wanted to have fun. No Neil holding her back anymore. She’d show him.

  “We’ve missed you, darling,” said Cahill. “What’s the occasion for the return of our prodigal daughter?”

  “Independence Day,” laughed Janet. She gave me a wink, and it was clear she was tipsy.

  “As far as I’m concerned,” said Janet boisterously, “this is my night! We only live once, right, Teresa?”

  I gave Janet a neutral smile and said, “You want to pack all your living into one go, huh?”

  “How is it you Americans put it?” giggled Janet, nudging Giradeau. And then she mimicked a Brooklyn accent as best she could, declaring, “Goddamn straight!”

  We played Texas Hold’Em. Nobody expected Janet would play very well when she was so obviously pickled. She was caught out in what seemed to be a couple of silly bluffs and a few lacklustre hands, and it wasn’t long before I saw that lovely body I admired for her age live and in person at the table. I even spotted a couple of the stunts she taught me to distract the men. She was witty, she was giggly, she was drinking two drinks to my one, and then she blew us all away by betting the men at the table a rug burn. Not one fellow. All of them.

  “You mean F.O.D.?” I asked.

  So that she could call in her markers and spread them over a week or something.

  “Oh, no!” laughed Janet. “I want an assembly line right here!” Sounding a little too much like Vivian tonight.

  Of course, none of them folded. They were guaranteed sex whether they won or lost, the hand a flimsy charade. Not that the cards mattered anymore, but Janet took them all with a straight.

  She clapped her hands together like a little girl, throwing back her head and declaring, “Yes! Come on, boys!”

  She was going neon with all the trimmings, three guys of her choice. And I looked on as the woman who could be our ambassador to South Africa giggled and threw herself down on the rug, opening her legs so that everyone had a generous view of her shaven pussy. Her glistening labia and her hangman’s clit. George cast one guilty look my way, his mouth freezing into a tight line of resentment, and I said nothing. I understood. If I didn’t want him then he was a grown boy, free to pursue Janet if he wished. And he had wanted her for a while.

  As he pawed her full tits, Janet was already breathing hard, and then Cahill thrust in his thin needle of a cock. I watched George kiss Janet greedily, and Cahill came in an anti-climactic rush. Janet half yelped, half laughed, saying, “Wait a minute” before she rolled onto her knees. Giradeau and Cahill traded places, Giradeau fucking her from behind, and now Janet moaned loudly. I was embarrassed yet spellbound. It was one thing to see Vivian, Ayako or one of the other girls in the throes, but Janet—

  George still kissed her, but she showed little passionate interest in him—too distracted by the pounding fullness in her vagina. George’s hand in
her hair, tracing two fingers along her open lips, wiping the perspiration from her forehead. She gritted her teeth as she came, and Giradeau kept hammering away, his hands squeezing the cheeks of her wide backside. At last he seemed to swoon as he pumped her full of his cum, draping himself over her back for a moment, wanting to feel her tits before he fell away.

  Then it was finally George’s turn, pausing only a moment to insist she roll onto her back, and he opened her legs anxiously before he took his penis in his right hand and guided himself in. He was a construction worker on the job, wanting to drill her violently, and perhaps from other games he knew what would get her off. I watched her second orgasm build in her eyes, brimming with cathartic tears. I watched George come with a long groan, the way his middle-aged buttocks tensed with surprisingly youthful vigour. I was past my embarrassment. It made me wet, watching her taken like that by multiple partners. I was barely conscious of how I had begun anxiously touching myself through a fold of my skirt.

  Me with my breasts out and my nipples hard, my halter top long gone, with only a skirt on and no panties. And then Ayako. Completely, exquisitely nude. Her hand down there under my skirt. Fondling me, making me gasp and lean against her. I didn’t mind at all. Her little body could be so warm, and tonight she tasted like cherries. Her clever little hands, one of them down below, one of them cupping my tit, squeezing and circling, squeezing and circling in a rhythm she knew drove me wild. Her small white teeth nibbled my earlobe.

  I had the uncomfortable mild fear that the men would tire of Janet and turn to Ayako or me and expect us to join in. There was something vaguely unpleasant in the idea of becoming contestant number two for this gang of stud bulls tonight. It was too raw, all because of Janet’s open need. And yet I was turned on by the spectacle, couldn’t tear myself away. They all knew Ayako had won her F.O.D. with me, so let them think I’m a bi case. And I didn’t really know how much was an act for the others’ benefit anymore.