Dark Video

by Peter Church

  “This is the new me.”

  “I love the new you,” he managed. “But I don’t want you to…” He was looking for the word “rush.”

  She looked at him, determined, intense, hooked her thumbs into the elastic of her panties and wiggled them provocatively down the extent of her legs, to her feet, over her toes, kicking upwards suddenly, laughing. The G-string landed at his feet. He stared at it for an instant, flimsy black lace, almost unbelieving. This was Terri Phillips, as pure as a fresh mountain stream. No longer a scared little girl in the woods.

  “Terri.”

  “No talking! Undress!”

  “We…”

  She advanced on him and attacked the buttons on his shirt, pushed it over his shoulders, thrusting him backwards, her breasts in front of his eyes.

  “We…”

  “What?” she interrupted, laying her hands on his bare shoulders, staring into his eyes.

  “We haven’t even kissed properly yet,” he said softly.

  She brought a knee up on to the edge of the bed, straddled him, slipped her tongue into his mouth.

  “Mmm.” It sounded like she was humming.

  She withdrew, for assessment, looking at him, as if checking a gauge. His eyes dropped from hers, down her body, he could see the goose flesh on her skin; breasts, stomach, he couldn’t bring himself to look any lower.

  He laughed.

  “Why are you laughing?”

  “I’m just thinking. I mean…” One week ago, it seemed his life was over. Now it was dreamlike. Dark Video was gone; Devon said they were in the clear. “I don’t know. I don’t know.”

  She pulled his hands around to her bottom, the taut flesh cool in his hands. She dug the nails of her left hand into his back and started to work on his pants with the right.

  “No. Wait.” He pulled back.

  “What’s the problem?”

  “I want to look at you,” he replied, holding her at arm’s length.

  She retreated, climbed off him and stepped back from the bed, held her shoulders, crossed a leg, suddenly self-conscious under his scrutiny.

  “Is this a test?”

  “Terri, before I can go on, I have to tell you something about me first. I have to. If you still want to make love to me after…”

  He reached for her hand, guided her to a sitting position on the bed next to him. He turned his body to face her, looking rattled, shirt gone, pants half off.

  “I don’t trust myself with you,” he said. He noticed the G-string on the floor, reached down to retrieve it and passed it to her.

  “I’m not your type?” She was nervous, confused, the confidence of earlier gone.

  “You’re so my type, Terri, I can’t tell you. But I am the most selfish person you know. I give nothing; I get everything. I have everything.”

  She leaned forward and pinched him lightly on the leg. “You seem OK to me.”

  “Pinch me again.”

  She did, left her hand on his knee.

  “I met you. And I…” Alistair didn’t know where he was going with this. “But in the Rose Garden. I thought about what happened to you. How terrible it was. It churns me up inside…”

  Terri retracted her arm and dropped her face into her hands; her elbows covering her breasts. She shook her head, breathing in deeply through her fingers.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked.

  “Here I am trying to perform the great seduction with the lady slayer, Prince Charming, Mr. Handsome. Trying something new and different. And now he’s giving me reasons not to….It’s a bit of a blow.” She threw her arms apart. “What wrong with this?”

  He looked at her, open arms, the way her breasts moved as she spoke, her slender legs tapering over the edge of the bed, her feet bouncing nervously up and down on the carpet.

  “I’m trying to tell you something, Terri. Something you must know.”

  “I know. I make you happy. Do something for me now, for heaven’s sake!”

  Alistair’s racing thoughts dissipated in an instant, a moment of clarity as he gazed at Terri, the warm sensation returning to his chest. He instinctively reached for her, gathered her in his arms, kissed her on the mouth, long and wet, rolled on to her. Hand in the small of her back, he lifted her body, slid her backwards up the bed, the hand slipping under her buttock, along her inner thigh, spreading her legs, slipping downwards on her body, his face into her, feathery hair tickling against his lips. He softly split her with his tongue, probing inside, then out and against the nub of her clitoris in a slow arcing movement.

  “Mmm.” A gentle hum from her lips.

  She smelled clean, peaches and talcum powder, unlike any smell of sex he knew. Up and down he traced with his tongue, arms around her waist, raising her up, pressing deeper into her. The pitch of her humming lifted, steady gyrations pulsing through her body, the rhythm of her approaching climax. Her hand grasped his hair, willing him deeper. The humming struck a crescendo, then an exhalation of air as a deep moan enveloped her, a long shiver, rolling to her side, hands at her groin grasping for the pleasure.

  “My god!” she whispered, flopping her arms back above her head, warm skin glowing with perspiration. She lay still for a minute, chest heaving. Alistair rested his head on her stomach, drew lines on her thigh with a languid finger.

  “What just happened there?” she breathed in amazement, her query rising up to the thatched ceiling. She propped herself up on her elbows, looked at him, mouth open, shaking her head, half laughing. Then she grabbed his face in her hands, hooked her legs up behind his buttocks, dragged his body onto hers. In a moment he had slipped inside her, wet, his back tensing and arching. Her free hands cupped his face, as their bodies ground together.

  “Alistair, look at me.”

  He opened his eyes.

  “Look at me.”

  “You’re so beautiful, Terri.”

  Alistair supported his weight on his arms, eyes not leaving hers, felt the intensity spread, euphoria to be inside her, a feeling he had never experienced.

  They lay together under a cotton sheet, skin on skin in tight embrace, Alistair behind Terri.

  “My god, Alistair,” she repeated. “I’ve never…”

  He squeezed her, arm across her chest; she hummed.

  Neither have I, thought Alistair. It felt like the windows of a stuffy room had been forced open, clean air circulating inside, gentle music, the aphrodisiac scent of love.

  “Terri.”

  “What?” She turned her face.

  “I don’t want to move. I want to stay like this forever.”

  “Well, we can’t.” She wiggled her bottom.

  “Why not?”

  “For one, I need the loo. And for two, my phone is ringing.”

  “Leave it.”

  “I would, but number one can’t wait,” she said, slipping off the bed. “And now that I’m up, I may as well answer!”

  She picked up the cellphone from the dressing table, turned to him and winked. “Hello.”

  He watched her movement, not bothering to cover herself, easy with her body, relaxed with his eyes on her, the object of his obsession. She stepped into the bathroom, closing the door behind her.

  “Hello?” he heard her repeat.

  “Who was it?” he asked a minute later.

  “No idea. Number withheld.”

  She deposited the phone back on the dresser table and leaped back onto the bed, laughing.

  Alistair sat on his bed in the Anchor Room, alone, Terri sleeping soundly in her room. He held his cellphone in his hand.

  Three missed calls. Devon. Devon. Devon.

  The warmth was gone.

  He walked to the kitchen in his boxers, poured a glass of milk from the fridge. Checked his phone again.

  Devon. Devon. Devon. Heart beats.

  What happened to hasta la vista?

  The key to the back door poked out from under the plastic cutlery tray. He reached for it, unlocked the door, stepped
outside, not thinking. Light from the full moon, dropping from the sky, illuminated the cliff top, disappeared behind swirling, dark clouds.

  A bad moon?

  The Arniston lighthouse cued to the west, emitted three sharp pulses. Alistair blinked his eyes, waited. The lighthouse pulsed again. The phone rang in his hand.

  Devon.

  Alistair’s heart thumped. He muted the phone.

  What did he want at four in the morning?

  He watched the light of the phone pulsing in his hand, Devon’s silent name reaching into his soul, the terrible images returning to his head. Forest, Sasha, Johnny, shark, Devon.

  The pulsing stopped. One missed call.

  Alistair turned off the phone and walked back inside, locked the back door, replaced the key. He checked on Terri, lying naked on the bed like Snow White, sheet cast off her body. He removed his boxers and fed her legs through the openings, drew them up to her waist, pulled the sheet over her.

  Hurt her, you’re dead.

  He ran his hand across her forehead, buried his face in her hair, her neck, drew in her scent.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

  Back in the Anchor Room, he turned his phone back on, scrolled down, hit CALL.

  “Shelley?”

  “Alistair?” The croaky voice of his youngest sister. “What the hell? It’s the middle of the night.”

  “I’m at Arniston.”

  “Yes?”

  “I just wanted to tell you I was thinking of you.”

  Silence.

  “Are you drunk?”

  “Wildly.” Then a pause. “Drunk with love, I suppose.”

  “Love? Alistair, what’s going on?”

  “Shelley, you were right about me. You should know that. But I’m going to change, I swear.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m going to make it right.”

  “OK, Alistair. I’ve got to sleep now.”

  Phone turned off again, he returned to Terri’s room, wrapped a towel around his waist and pulled up a chair close to the bed. He settled in, watching her sleep, morning approaching.

  Terri lay on a sofa in the living area, her legs tucked under her, wearing only Alistair’s shirt, loosely buttoned. He slumped down next to her. She lowered her book.

  “You look terrible,” she said.

  “Thanks.”

  “After last night, you should be on cloud nine—like me!”

  He laughed a tired laugh, kissed her leg.

  “I think it’s the medication you’ve been taking. You better get off those anxiety tablets.”

  “I am. Have sworn off them. A good thing, otherwise…” He remembered the embarrassment of his last encounter with the nurse.

  “Otherwise?”

  “Never mind. What’s that book?”

  “Oh this. Brer Rabbit. I found it in the guest room. Look here.”

  She turned to the cover page. An inscription in child’s handwriting read, “Alistair Morgan age 8.”

  “I loved this story,” she said. “My mother used to read it to me.” Her voice morphed into a Brer Rabbit impersonation. “Lippity clippity, clippity lippity. Please Brer Fox. Anything. Anything. But don’t throw me in the briar patch.”

  “Oh yeah,” Alistair remembered. “I used to read this all the time. Brer Rabbit and Brer Fox—mortal enemies. Rabbit looks doomed when the fox catches him but tricks the stupid fox into throwing him into the briar patch, where all his burrows are. Sneaky bugger.”

  “I’m sure you learned a lot of valuable lessons from this book,” teased Terri. “Do you know the moral?”

  “Know your enemy?”

  “Uh-uh. Know where your holes are.” She giggled.

  “You’re naughty. You ever played the Brer Rabbit game?” he asked.

  “There’s no Brer Rabbit game, you moron.”

  “There is,” he insisted.

  She slammed the book shut.

  “You’re Brer Terri, I’m Brer Alistair,” he continued.

  She giggled again. “Am I the fox or the rabbit?”

  “You’re the fox,” he said. “Quite clearly.”

  “OK, I’m going to drown your ass in the waterhole, Brer Alistair.”

  “Brer Fox does not say ass!”

  “Well, I’m Brer Terri.”

  “It’s scratch out my eyeballs. Or tear my ears out by the roots.”

  “I want to drown your ass.”

  “Whose game is this?”

  “OK, OK. Brer Alistair, I’m gonna scratch out your eyeballs and tear out your ears by the roots.”

  “Anything. Anything, Brer Terri. But don’t take me to the Anchor Room and ravage me like last night.”

  He ducked as the pillows came flying.

  Sunday afternoon, Alistair dropped Terri at Tugwell. He watched her skip away, turned to wave, then was gone. The air suddenly felt stale again, murky. Devon.

  He phoned him from his room, nosy Silverman mercifully absent.

  “Where’ve you been, Alistair? Christ, I’ve been trying to get hold of you for a day.”

  “I’ve been away.”

  “Where?”

  “Away.”

  “We have to talk.”

  “About what? I thought we were done.”

  Hasta la vista.

  “We were. Some issues have come up.”

  Alistair fumbled in his drawer. The envelope, still there, untouched, some lecture notes. There: the phial. He popped it open. Two tablets.

  “I don’t know if I can deal with this, Devon.”

  “They want us to sort out Sasha.”

  “What do you mean, sort her out. We agreed…”

  “Carlos doesn’t agree. He’s putting pressure on me. Alistair, are you there…”

  “He can’t force us to do anything. We…”

  “There’s more, Alistair. Terri. I warned you about seeing her. Now listen to me. If you continue to see her, you’ll place her life, and ours, in danger.”

  “What? Why?” Alistair was sweating; he wiped his brow, ran a hand through his hair.

  “The client who reserved her video…Carlos is paranoid about Terri finding out about the video. Cut ties, Alistair. Now. Today. Stop seeing her or there will be consequences.”

  “I want no part of this, Devon. I told you, I’m out.”

  “I realize that and wish I could just let you go. Richard feels the same. But what’s done is done and we’ve got to face the consequences. We’re in over our heads here.”

  “How can Dark Video threaten us?” Alistair asked, suddenly incensed. “If they expose us, they’re finished as well.”

  “Alesandro, we’re in trouble here, OK. Carlos is insistent. We’re too far in to back out. But if we do what they say, we’ll be cool.”

  Alistair could feel his pulse thumping, blood racing through his body, his world collapsing around him. Terri….He’d go to the authorities, there was no other way, he’d get his father involved.

  “No, Devon, listen to me! This was never part of the deal. If we don’t make a stand now, they’ll never leave us alone.”

  “Carlos is a businessman, Alesandro. And he’s ruthless. If he’s threatened, he’ll make business decisions. Sasha is a risk. Johnny made her a risk, which means she’s our responsibility. But I can take care of it.”

  “What does that mean? Take care of her? Kill her?”

  “Christ, Alistair. Who do you think I am?”

  Alistair didn’t reply. He lifted the cuff of his shirt, held it to his face. It smelled of Terri. He slid the sleeve across his face, the scent of her everywhere. His throat constricted.

  “I’ll handle it,” Devon continued. “But promise me. You can’t continue seeing her.”

  “Never see her again?”

  “That’s about it.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Just like fucking that! Jesus, Alistair, women throw themselves at you. There are oceans of pussy out there. Find someone else to fuck.
Get rid of her!”

  Alistair couldn’t speak. It didn’t seem real. Nothing was real.

  “If he thinks she’s a problem, Carlos will send Warnabrother and he’ll tear her to pieces,” Devon said calmly, rationally.

  “I can’t believe they’re so worried about her, though. It doesn’t make sense, Devon…”

  “Whatever, I don’t care. I’m not going to fuck with Dark Video. You’ll do as I say, Alesandro. For our own good. For Terri. Never again, you hear?”

  Never again.

  Alistair put his hand in front of his mouth; sank to his haunches, his veins burning as if filled with acid. He wanted to scream out.

  “Are you there?” asked Devon.

  “What’s going to happen to Sasha?” he said quietly.

  “I told you. I’ll make a plan. I’ll get her out of town. Tell DV that we’ve dealt with her. Just promise me, Alistair. No more Terri. If this thing blows, we’ll either be dead or in jail. Do you want that?”

  Alistair rolled another two tablets from the brown phial. “I don’t want that.”

  BIG BLACK GUY IN THE ROOM

  The first thing Alistair noticed about the big black guy in his room was the pale blue shirt he wore. It seemed strangely incongruous, given its owner’s occupation.

  “Nice pad,” said the hit man. He sat on the counter at the edge of the window, the furthermost point from the door. He raised a bottle of wine in his right hand, Alistair’s prized Buiternverwachting, and gestured to him to come in. The cork and the wrapper paper from the neck of the bottle lay on the Persian.

  “I believe you know me as Warnabrother.”

  For a moment, Alistair contemplated making a dash for it. Surely Warnabrother wouldn’t try anything here in res? He decided against it.

  “How did you get in?”

  Warnabrother held the bottle up to the light, took a swig and scrunched his nose; set the bottle down on the desk; dug in his top pocket, found a match, started picking at his teeth.

  “How did you get in?” Alistair repeated.

  “The door was open.”

  The high pitched voice was also out of place; it didn’t suit his massive frame. But it didn’t make him any less frightening. “It wasn’t.”