by Bill Orton
“Sweet Jesus,” said the highway patrol officer, after leaning in enough as to see December. He looked across to Larry and back to Lori. He shined his flashlight to Lori’s face, but she didn’t stir. “She okay?” Wagging the light so it danced across Lori’s face produced no movement. “License and registration please.”
Larry reached to open the glove compartment, inches below his hands. The officer poked his head fully into the cabin, speaking angrily to Larry. “Not you,” said the officer. “Her.”
“I’m sorry, officer,” said December, “but my license is in my bag in the back. I didn’t expect to drive, but she got tired.” She pointed to Lori. “Must be because it’s so hot tonight.”
“Registration and proof of insurance, please.”
“I have a letter,” said Larry. “It explains....”
“Sir, I said not you... her,” answered the patrol officer. “Miss, what is your name”
“December Carrera.”
“December?” said the officer, as one would pronounce the name of a new flower.
“And it’s not Miss Carrera; it’s Miss December,” she added. “Hef said it’d confuse everyone if I was Playmate in a different month.”
The officer seemed to have difficulty speaking. “Hef?”
“Hugh… Hugh Hefner,” she said, in a matter-of-fact tone. “He runs a magazine.”
The officer shined the light onto Larry. “What’s this letter?”
“In my pocket, my front shirt pocket,” said Larry. “My friend’s District Manager is loaning her the car for her vacation from work.”
The officer shined the light at Lori, who still did not flinch under the light.
“I thought the car was stolen, but it’s not,” said December.
“Show me this letter,” the officer demanded to Larry, following the movement of his hand with the beam of light. Larry reached into his shirt pocket and produced a note and a slip of paper giving proof that insurance was paid through the end of the year. “Registration?” December leaned so she could reach into the glove compartment. She pulled out the white, square DMV envelope with the single sheet of paper inside, which she then handed to the officer. “I’ll be right back.”
The officer headed back to his car with the registration and proof of insurance.
“A note!” said December. “Like a cop is gonna believe a note!”
The CHP officer walked to Larry’s side and tapped the window. He kept his light aimed at December, illuminating her entire upper body. “Sir, can see some identification?” Larry hesitated and then spoke slowly. “I’m not exercising... a privilege of the State for which I need identification,” he said, unmoving.
“What did you say?” the officer demanded. Larry repeated his statement and the flashlight swung so the beam was directly on Larry’s face. After a moment, the light fell back on December’s shoulders. “I guess that’s true.”
“I understand, officer, if you have to give me a ticket,” said December. “You don’t want people getting hurt, I know.”
“That’s right, miss,” said the officer, his voice beginning to reveal the hypnotic power of light and shadow.
“December....”
“Right... Miss December.”
“Just December.” She squared her shoulders in the light.
“This time, I’m going to just give you a warning....”
With a slight shimmy in her shoulders, the light and shadows danced and she murmured agreeably. “Oh, officer... I know everyone drives so fast.”
The officer handed back the papers and quickly turned away.
.
“Harris Ranch should be coming up soon,” said Larry. “I just saw the sign for it.”
December, again in her sweatshirt, spoke flatly. “I know where we are. My family drove up and down this Five. We moved a lot.” A long silence. “But we never ate at the Harris Ranch, except to buy cantaloupe and pistachios at the farm stand.” More silence. “Up and down.”
“Like migrants?”
“Part that,” said December, “and partly my parents just didn’t know where they wanted to live. Sucked for me. Never had friends. Teased for this weird name. But so what. Who’s laughing now?”
“Do you wanna dig out your license when we get to the hotel?”
“I don’t got a license,” said December.
“But you told the cop....”
“I don’t got no license. I’m a Dreamer,” she said. “Dat’s why I like to drive, cuz I never get to.” Downshifting, December exited and headed to the grand hacienda glowing against the darkness. She slowly drew up to the hotel’s main entry and parked outside the lobby doors. A teenaged boy ran to open her door, and she put her hand into the air, for him to assist her from the car. He did exactly that and she smiled at him. The teenager circled to Larry’s door, opened it and let him climb out unaided. Larry leaned in to the car, calling Lori’s name several times. Larry unlatched the roof on the passenger’s side and, with December being walked in by the teenager, walked around the car and unlatched the driver’s side and wiggled the roof open. He leaned close to Lori and whispered. She opened her eyes, sat upright, wiped her mouth, and climbed over the seat and stepped out of the car.
CHAPTER six
Putting on the Ritz
“C’mon, we need a big room, hunny,” cooed December, looking through a brochure showing Harris Ranch room packages and configurations. “These photos are tiny. Do you have big ones?” With the answer a nod, she continued, “... of the Luxury, Triple Crown and Presidential suites... thank you.” She looked up to Larry and smiled. The desk clerk returned carrying three small bound sets of photographs.
Lori approached the counter, face freshly washed and wearing a David Bowie tee-shirt. She walked up to December and Larry. “Grade Double A…. Triple A.”
“Pretty, too, huh?” asked December, as she looked at photos.
“Amazing bathroom,” said Lori, absently. “Just so... elegant, so simple... so… classy.”
“Me, I’d recommend the Presidential,” said December. “The Triple Crown’s nice, but the real value is the Presidential.”
Larry turned to Lori, who stood, silent and refreshed. “What’ta ya think?”
“What? For, like, the room?” asked Lori. “I’d like to lay in a bed, yes.”
December pulled the Presidential photo pack forward and pointed for Larry. “Driver girl can sleep in this separate bedroom area and look at all the space we have to do my show... see? Here, by the fireplace, and here.... Wouldn’t that be nice, hunny?”
Behind the counter, a middle-aged man with a badge identifying himself as a manager, took over the booking, while December showed Larry features, pointing, “equipment there,” “I come in here,” “you shoot up,” “I’ll need several costume changes,” and, finally, “we’ll have fun.”
Larry looked to the manager, who was shaking slightly. “How much is the Presidential?”
“Sir, please believe me,” said the manager, “if that is what she suggests, that is definitely what you want.” The man appeared ready to weep, as he rang Larry’s VISA card and transacted a signature on the room account.
Quickly, four bell staff were leading the trio, carrying the single suitcase, a SpongeBob bag, December’s purse, two grocery bags with Larry’s clothes, Lori’s duffel bag and a large sack filled with snack foods to the suite.
As Larry unlocked the door, December said to the two bell staff closest to her, “Wait, okay? Don’t leave ‘til I come out.”
“Uh, okay,” said one of the bell staff.
“Can I just go in,” said Lori.
“Sure, yeh,” said Larry.
The four bell staff stood while Larry followed Lori in. They stayed outside, shifting. The door opened, and December stepped into the hallway, in a Harris Ranch robe. The four stood at attention. “I wanted to ask if this is the right thing to wear by the pool tomorrow at eleven?” December pulled her robe open, revealing her thousands-of-mon
thly-subscribers body, tightly packed into a candystriped-patterned bikini that somehow projected purity and innocence, and also made each seemingly impossible. “Thanks for staying, boys,” she said, handing them the paper bag of snacks.
December returned to find Larry sitting at the kitchen table, carefully studying a menu of the Harris Ranch restaurant. She picked up a second copy and focused on the breakfast menu. She abandoned breakfast and began flipping through pages.
“They open in about an hour. Let’s go eat,” said December. “Your girl is out. She’ll be down for hours. We’ll pick her up something to go.” December stood and let her robe fall open, revealing red-and-white candystripes. Larry kept at his studying. She smoothed her robe, smiled, and walked to the bathroom. “I’m going to freshen up, hunny.”
From the master bath came sounds of water running. Twenty minutes later, as Larry poured over the beverages and sides, December came out, wearing only a towel. “I’m almost done,” and slipped back into the master bath. Ten minutes later, wearing very little makeup and a top as clingy as any fabric could he, her cleavage a deep abyss, December stepped next to Larry, who didn’t turn his head. December cleared her throat.
“Gazpacho, the half cantaloupe, a croissant, granola and coffee,” said Larry.
“Wha...?” asked December.
“For Lori,” said Larry. “I think that’ll be good.”
December laughed. “You t’ink, huh?”
.
At a wide, heavy table, in wood chairs that didn’t move except with deliberate effort, and with big, white mugs filled with steaming coffee, December and Larry went back-and-forth over menu details for almost ten minutes before signaling the server. Watermelon lemonade and grapefruit juice, two coffees and an orange juice. Chilled Pacific prawn cocktail. The ranch hand breakfast with bacon and country potatoes. Huevos rancheros with corn tortillas. Two Belgian waffles. Extra berries and cream. Cottage cheese; 4%. Seasonal fruit.
“Oh, and the warm spinach salad,” added December. “And tomato juice.”
The two folded their menus and handed them to the server, who spent several minutes repeating back and clarifying the order.
.
Larry and December swatted back several hands that attempted preliminary table-clearing, as they talked and poked through the remnants. “So your filming is mostly on the milkshakes, and a lot will be on your knees or back or laying down and the milkshakes will be waving. ‘Hi,’ say the milkshakes. I think the fireplace is a classy backdrop, real good for the show, don’t’chu?”
December held her arm aloft, and three female wait staff passed their table before a young male waiter crossed three bays to reach her. “How come you don’t got no desserts on dis list?” asked December. “I want a Berry Boost, but dat’s not a sweet. What’ta you got dat’s sweet?”
Larry ordered the gazpacho, half cantaloupe, croissant, granola, coffee and tomato juice for delivery to the room, billing everything to the Presidential suite. The two sat back, satiated, as the table was cleared and December’s dessert was prepared.
.
Lori, in jeans and a B-52s tee-shirt, was eating heartily, as December and Larry entered.
“See? We took care of you,” said December.
“We ate great,” said Larry, sitting at Lori’s room service cart, which she had rolled next to the kitchen table. Half of the plates held nearly-full portions, with only the gazpacho emptied. Lori had poured the seeds and brown sugar into her granola, but no milk. She dipped her croissant into her coffee quickly and smiled, but did not cease eating until, suddenly, several minutes later, she stopped. Within two minutes, all of the covered plates were in the spacious refrigerator.
Lori stood and stretched, her long body toned, muscular and fit, with nothing surrendered to age, indulgence or infirmity. Like a dancer ready to perform, like a paratrooper waiting for the next jump, she stretched.
“Nice out. Hot, though,” said December. “Good day for a long swim. If you want, I got a swimsuit dat’ll look good on you. You’ll be raging hot, if you wanna go swim.”
“Taking a day off from swimming, thanks,” said Lori.
“Dey got a big jacuzzi, too,” added December. “It’s big. Round, too.”
“Won’t be doing the jacuzzi, thanks,” said Lori.
Larry sat in a reclining leather chair, near the fireplace. In a panel on the armrest was a button with a chimney icon. When Larry pushed it, the light under the button glowed as, across the room, a flame in the fireplace sparked into ignition, blues and yellows suddenly dancing with other colors. Larry pushed the illuminated button again and the fireplace self-extinguished.
December’s tone sharpened and she picked up speed in her talk with Lori.
“Maybe you wanna work out and if you don’t go out, fine, but me and your hunny are gonna pay the bills,” said December, her arms and hands in full motion. “I can set you up with a sizzling hot two-piece, or you can have the kitchen table area,” she said, waving possessively, “but the fireplace and this area is for show time.”
“Whatever,” said Lori. “I got some thinking to do.”
.
“With Adlington sidelined and the Gill Sisters trading in open-water river swims for their first Olympiad, it was 36-year-old Lori Lewis, of Long Beach, California, who gave England a run for the gold. Absent on the winners platform in women’s freestyle swimming were the American teenagers and 20-somethings who sparkled in Omaha, and instead this former army sergeant astounded everyone by showing that age really must be just a number. Originally on the American team only to swim in the grueling 800 meter freestyle and the 10K open water event, Lewis picked up slots in four freestyle event and the four-by-one-hundred, due to the late-season flu, and immediately won silver in both the 50 and 100, chasing Baljinder Gill, who scored gold in each for England, with baby sister, Jazz, taking bronze.”
.
“If I am gonna move around, dere is too much furniture,” said December, sweeping her hand with an air that suggested she would not lifting anything. “We can lose all the chairs, and doze tables.” She pointed to the leather recliners. “Both of deze, too.”
“No,” said Larry, quickly. “You’ll wanna keep those.”
“Okay,” said December. “I’ll go with dat.”
.
The leather recliner was back in its furthest position. Larry, holding a camera, was on his back, about a third of the way slid down the chair. December, her feet straddling him, counted from four, and, at one, said, “and… go.” A green light on the camera went red.
December moved her hands under her breasts, lifting them; to the sides of her breasts, pressing them together; across her breasts and back down under, gripping and shaking them, before resuming the circular pattern. She slipped her thumbs under the low-cut neckline of her clingy top and pulled the fabric down such that each breast slipped out of her top with a silent ‘pop.’
Larry, on his back, aimed the camera up to Miss Milkshakes, hovering and swaying above him. He filmed. December writhed and wobbled. She sat squarely onto his stomach and, able to leverage the couch with her knees, used her elbows and arms more freely to squeeze her breasts together. She leaned forward and hoisted each breast to the camera, and then leaned in so her breasts hung no more than a foot above the camera. She swung and jiggled, then only swung, and alternated back to jiggling, as Larry took in more and more shallow breaths, until, at last, he began to cough, causing the camera to jiggle. “Turn off da volume,” said December. Larry just coughed. December reached to the side of the camera and disengaged the sound.
December leaned forward, her crotch now pressing into Larry’s torso, as he gasped for breath. He slowly released his grip on the camera, his eyes rolled back and the camera slid to the floor. Larry passed out.
Lori slid her key card and opened the front door to the suite, where Larry lay limp and lifeless under a barely-clad December. Lori rushed to Larry, quickly handing the camera to December, so she c
ould kneel next to Larry. December set the camera on the desk next to the computer, its light still glowing red, as Lori checked Larry’s airway and breathing, placing two fingers against his neck. She lifted him to lay him higher in the chair and turned to December.
Viewers of the live webcam then saw – but couldn’t hear – the two women yelling at one another, arms waving. December shoved the blonde away and soon Lori had December pinned in the second reclining chair, which was also laid back as far as it would go. December swung from under Lori’s body and sprung up, standing and then leaping onto Lori. As the fight continued, December’s monitor showed the cam-feed and a chat window where subscribers cheered on the blonde “AngryGirl” and the raven-haired Miss Milkshakes. December was still topless and Lori – her own shirt pulled and ripped – pulled off the B-52s and made a move to slap December, who caught her wrist.
Larry woke up in the recliner. Lori was topless, like December. The two were wrestling in the other recliner. The only sounds the two were making were grunts, each clearly not ready to stop until victory was theirs. Larry saw the red light, laid back and closed his eyes again. He smiled.
.
Larry woke up in a darkened room, equipment stacked on side tables, cables carefully coiled. He was covered by a thin blanket. A pillow was lodged into the area under his left hip. He got up. December and Lori were each asleep in the California king, in the master bedroom, both only partly covered by a sheet. Larry lingered. Lori appeared to be wearing only panties. December was in a nightshirt. Larry returned to the recliner, stretched out, moved the pillow and threw the blanket over himself.
.
The sounds of Lori and December jostled Larry awake.
“No, I don’t do hotel pools,” said Lori, with insistence in her voice. “When I am at a pool, it’s to swim… alone.”
“You have to do this with me,” said December. “You have to.”
Larry rose from the recliner, walked over to the kitchen counter, and set about to make coffee.