by Dan Taylor
She raises an eyebrow. “No need.”
We’re silent a couple minutes. Regan stubs out her cigarette. “Are you ready for round two?”
I look down. “It seems I am.”
“Shut the fuck up and fuck me.”
She throws the bed sheets off herself, opens her legs and invites me in. “I’m a little exhausted. You’re going to have to do the work this time.”
Turns out it’s much more fun fucking your ex-wife when you know it isn’t awakening any feelings you’ll have to extinguish afterwards. Much more fun. We fuck like a pair of rhinoceroses during the peak of mating season. No soppy kissing. Just flesh pounding against flesh.
When we’re done—her three times, me the standard once—we sit side by side, breathing heavily. Between breaths, I say, “Just to make sure, I haven’t just fucked some love back into you, right?”
She rolls her eyes. “It was good, but not that good.”
“Not even a little bit?”
“Not even a smidgen. I still hate your guts.”
“That’s the best thing I’ve heard all day.”
She pauses. “Jake Hancock, will you divorce me?”
“It would be an honor and a privilege.”
She pats me on the head, gets out of bed.
I ask, “Where are you going?”
“To wash you off me before I go and see Omar.”
“You’re such a lady.”
She sticks her middle finger up at me as she disappears into the bathroom.
She leaves the door open, and I crawl down the bed, peek round the doorframe, catch her using that bar of soap again. I hope the chamber maid remembers to throw that thing out.
Regan catches me looking. “You pervert.”
“Admit it, you kind of like me watching.”
She doesn’t answer. A moment later she says, “Are you going to get your scrawny butt in here and wash my back or do I have to make it more obvious?”
I get out of bed, go to the bathroom. She hands me the bar of soap.
Just as I’ve worked up a lather, there’s a knock at the door.
50.
“REGAN, IT’S ME, OMAR.”
I drop the soap, then whisper, “What’s he doing here?”
She turns to me. “I phoned Detective whatever-his-name-is, and told him to tell Omar I’m here. Oops.”
“Oops?”
“I thought he’d be there all night, getting questioned or whatever.”
There’s a knock at the door again.
I say, “What the hell do we do?”
She thinks a second. “You get dressed, hide under the bed. I’ll get rid of the champagne bottle and glasses…somewhere.”
“No way!”
“Why not?”
“It’s the first place he’ll look.”
“Why would he look?”
“He’ll be able to tell that we…that you…you know.”
“How?”
I point at her chest, which has that inflamed look it always gets after multiple orgasms. Damn my pneumatic drill-like hips.
She whispers, “Okay, we both get dressed. I hide the champagne bottle and glasses. I let him in, then I make up some reason for us to go out of the room so you can escape.”
“What excuse?”
“I don’t know…I’ll tell him I feel like a late-night dip in the pool.”
“Just after you’ve taken a shower?”
He knocks again. “Regan…?”
She whispers, “This is Omar we’re talking about.”
“Good point.”
I tiptoe out of the bathroom, put on my clothes, then get down and roll under the bed.
Regan says, “Just a minute, Omar. I’m in the shower.”
“Okay, baby.”
Poor son of a bitch. I almost feel sorry for the guy.
Regan gets dressed, opens the door. “Omar, thank God you’re alive!”
“Thank Jake, you mean.” There’s silence a second. “Where is that lovely man? I want to shake his hand.”
“He’s not here.”
I wince.
Omar says, “Why would he be?”
Then I see Timberland-boot-clad feet enter the room.
Regan says, “No reason. There’d be no reason for him to be here.”
“I need to give him a call. Thank him for his tireless efforts to get me and the rest of them rescued.”
She snaps at it. “Or we could go swimming?”
I wince again.
“I was thinking physical activity, but a different kind, if you—how do you say?—catch my drift.”
“I catch your drift, Omar. But I’m a little tired.”
“Didn’t you just say you wanted to go swimming?”
“I meant swimming in the Jacuzzi, which isn’t really swimming at all. More like bathing…I want to go for a late-night bathe, and then we can come back here to fuck each other senseless. How does that sound?”
“It sounds great, baby.”
I hear them kissing.
Then Regan says, “Quick, or we’ll end up sharing it with a three-hundred-pound middle-aged guy with hair on his shoulders.”
They nearly make it out of the door before Omar says, “Wait, aren’t you going to bring a bathing costume?”
“Nah…come on, quick.”
“Come to think of it, I don’t have one with me.”
“They’ve got rentals poolside.”
“Oh, okay.”
They nearly make it out again. “Wait, I don’t think they’re going to have your size, baby.”
“Will you just get out of the room? We’re going bathing or to the bar or somewhere. Anywhere apart from here.”
Smooth, Regan. Real smooth.
I hear the quick patter of feet, as though Regan pulled him out by the wrist.
I wait five minutes then exit the room.
51.
AS I WALK PAST the bar, Omar and Regan are sitting by it; she’s drinking a cocktail and he an energy drink. I try to hurry by undetected, but Omar spots me. “Jake, there you are, my friend.”
“Hey, there you are.”
I go up to them.
Omar says, “Why were you in such a hurry?”
“Because I was trying to find you. You know, because I just missed you two so much.”
Omar turns to Regan, says, “What a guy your ex-husband is.” He turns back to me.
Regan has a plastic smile on her face, her eyes scolding me. She says, “It was so nice of you to come and check at the bar for us, instead of going the wrong way, through the exit on the other side of the foyer.”
Omar nods along. “It was nice of you, Jake. Let me get you a drink.”
“No, I couldn’t, really. I need to go and see Randy and Mary.”
Omar frowns, says, “But you just got here.”
“That’s why I was in a rush, as well. So I could say a quick hi then be on my way.”
“Nonsense. I won’t hear of it.”
“I should really go and see my sister and nephew, who’ve just been rescued after being kidnapped.”
“I’m sure they can wait an extra ten minutes or so, after waiting so long to see their hero.”
He grabs a stool and practically forces me down onto it.
Regan’s burning a hole in me.
Omar waves over the barman. “What do you want, Jake?”
“Oh, I don’t know…a glass of champagne to celebrate.”
At some point during the conversation, I agree to be Omar’s best man at their wedding. And I’m pretty sure that Omar is forcing me to give away Regan, in the absence of her father, who died from lung cancer a few years back.
After all the marriage talk has died down, talk turns to the money that Omar and Regan are going to inherit, the O’Cain estate. I really don’t want any of it, but Omar’s not going to take no for an answer. Eventually I agree, thinking I’ll use some of it to book a flight for a little trip to Nebraska. Go and see a Howie DoGood.
Omar makes a toast, thanking me again for getting him rescued. I finish my champagne, shake Omar’s hand, and kiss Regan on the cheek. Then I’m on my way.
I walk out the way Regan suggested, going through the foyer, out the main entrance. Once outside, I look up and down Hollywood Boulevard, breathe deeply, and mutter under my breath, “Thank fuck that’s over.”
I meant a lot of things when I said that: the day; the ordeal with that group of unpredictable and manipulative criminals; my marriage with what surely isn’t a woman who should marry again, but who will probably make that dumb Nigerian happier than a bull in a cow field; and finally, the worry that I would be alone in this world, without Randy and Mary. Sure, I have my fleeting romances with bubble-brained young women, have amazing sex, which is nice, and live a comfortable lifestyle, in a great apartment, but what I’ve really learned…who am I kidding? It’s great. Fucking fantastic, in fact.
Before I go to meet Randy and Mary at the police station, which is bound to be soppy, I’m going to leave you with a metaphor. Think of my life as two big fake tits. They don’t feel quite right, but they look great, and every female wants some, and every male wants to experience them, but they wouldn’t be complete without a pair of nipples. The big prominent ones, like cigar butts. Wait, don’t women get those from breastfeeding? Don’t quote me on that, but I think that’s true. The metaphor falls down a little, there, as my tits look way too good to be on some woman with a large family. But fuck it, Randy and Mary are those nipples. They complete the tits that are my life. They’re the small part of my life that’s organic, that means something. If someone were to chop them off, my life would just be two plain mounds of flesh. And if my life were to get pregnant, they would start producing life-giving milk…okay, this is getting sick.
Bye for now, and remember, what matters is the nipples, my friend.
52.
I PULL UP OUTSIDE the police station in a cab. See Mary and Randy waiting for me there.
I run up to them, bend down and try and scoop them up in my arms, so that I can hug them and spin them around at the same time. But Mary, my sister, who I go to lift first, has gained a few pounds over the years because of her crippling illness, so I end up just hugging her ass instead, pulling in Randy for a hug, too.
I let go, then ruffle Randy’s hair while examining every inch of him, as I say, “Hey, kiddo. How are you doing?”
Mary answers for him. “They treated us quite well, actually. No violence. Got to go to the bathroom whenever we wanted.”
Randy says, “And they made great peanut butter and jelly sandwiches!”
I say, “That’s great!”
I’m shit at the whole interacting-with-family thing. Most things are great! On one occasion, one of Mary’s more unpleasant symptoms reoccurring was great!
Dryly, Mary says, “I was going to book a trip to Disney World, but I think I’ll just wait for the next time someone kidnaps us.”
Randy looks up at her, says, “Can we, Mom? Really?”
She shakes her head, then laughs, which turns into cries of relief. I stand up, hug her in the normal fashion. Then I say, “It’s so great to have you guys back.”
We’re silent a second as we hug, Mary still sobbing. Until I say, “Wow, they really did treat you well.”
After a moment’s silence, Mary asks, “Did you just smell my hair?”
I laugh, tears streaming down my face. “I think I did. I couldn’t help it. It smelled all…fruity.”
“That’s totally gross, Jake. I’m your sister.”
“Just shut up and hug me, Mare.”
After we’ve finished hugging, I put my arm around her shoulders, take Randy by the hand, and lead them to the waiting cab.
Randy says, “Where are we going, Uncle Jake?”
“We’ve got a date with a Mr. Steven Seagal I’m late for.”
“Who’s Steven Seagull?”
Mary answers, “He’s a guy with a ponytail and pot belly who kicks bad guys’ asses. Your uncle and I watched him together as kids all the time. But back then, he was still quite slim, and actually looked like he could fight.”
“Cool! But isn’t it past my bedtime?” Disappointed.
I look to Mary, who says, “It’s a school night, but I think we’ll give it a miss tomorrow.”
I squeeze her shoulder.
We walk silently a second, before Randy asks, “Did you kick any bad guys’ asses tonight, Uncle Jake?”
“I did. But instead of using a karate chop, I whacked a guy over the head with a dildo.”
Playfully, Mary elbows me in the side.
Randy asks, “What’s a dildo?”
“Something that lonely women use to make themselves happy after a few too many glasses of White Zinfandel on a Friday night.”
“Like chocolate?”
“Exactly like chocolate, kiddo. Exactly like chocolate.”
The End
Prologue
Somewhere in Antarctica…
“SO, YOU’RE THE NEW guy,” Dmitry says, closing the door behind the American.
“I am. And you must be Dimitri.”
“No.”
Snowflakes, which were blown in from the gale produced by the helicopter, fall around him as Dmitry sizes the American up. He looks like a pretty boy. He was sent on short notice, as a replacement for…well. For the other guy. The German.
The American asks, “You’re not…” He takes out a notepad, flicks to a specific page, then continues, “You’re not Dimitri Bratislova?”
“There is no one in this observation station who answers to that name.”
The American looks around the station, making obvious note of the confined space.
Dmitry goes over to his workstation, where he spends twelve hours a day, and sits down. He begins grazing on chili peanuts with the crunchy shell around them.
After a moment, he glances over at the American, who looks a little flustered. He takes one step to his right, then back again, flicks through pages in his notepad, unsure if he’s in the right place.
He decides to give the American a break. “I’m your partner, the guy you’ve been told about. But you’ve put a few extra i’s in my name, killed the y.”
“Oh, sorry. Nice to meet you, Dmitry.”
Dmitry smiles and shows his yellow teeth. He says, “That’s better,” as the American comes over and shakes his hand. He doesn’t stand as he does. But he does wipe the oil and chili flavoring off his hands and onto his jeans before. “And you’re Troy Kellerman.”
“That’s me.”
“You may as well take a seat. And get used to it.”
The American glances at the second seat by the side of his. The one with the broken backrest. He gives a wry, little smile as he sits down.
The American says, “I was told you’d brief me on the day-to-day running of the station.”
“There’s plenty of time for that. First, I need to ask you a question.”
“Shoot.”
Dmitry pauses, taking his time. “What’s the longest you’ve gone without pleasuring yourself?”
The American’s taken aback. “Excuse me?”
“You heard right.”
“And you want me to answer?”
“That tends to be how questions work.”
The American goes bright red. “Well, I guess it’d have to be…let me see…two weeks. When I moved into my college dorm.”
“Ahh.”
The American’s silent, and isn’t as keen as he was to make eye contact before the question was asked.
“You see, I have two fast-and-hard rules in this station: One, we only use the septic tank to go one. Never two. That you can do outside. It doesn’t smell because the poop freezes. Second rule, no jacking off, whacking off, or choking the slant-eyed trouser sausage—whatever you Americans call it.” He spins in his chair, making use of the stiff backrest, indicating the tight space of the observation station with an open palm. “We’re in a tight sp
ot here.”
“Figuratively?”
Dmitry stops spinning. “Huh?”
“Never mind.”
“We’re within coughing distance of each other most times of the day. Apart from when one of us goes two and when I go out to see if I can spot a polar bear.”
The American looks around at the observation station: the short bunk beds in the corner; the observation terminal by which they’re sitting; the tiny bathroom, inside which is the can with said septic tank attached, a small shower, and a wash basin; and the kitchenette.
The American says, “Let me guess. You haven’t spotted any.”
“Not a one.”
“Plenty of penguins, though, right?”
Dmitry smiles, showing his yellow teeth again, though not warmly this time. “Are you having fun with me, American?”
“Troy is fine.”
“I don’t care if you’re fine or not. Just as long as you can stay awake and adhere to the rules.”
“I can do that.”
“Good. Then we’ll get on.” He leans in close, points an accusatory finger at him, gives the same warning he gave the German upon his arrival. “But don’t let me come back from one of my polar bear-spotting trips and catch you choking your trouser sausage.”
“I don’t think that’ll be a problem.”
Dmitry gets up, walks over to the bunk beds. “You, American, will be using the bottom bunk. Is that okay with you?”
“That’s fine.”
Dmitry smiles warmly. “I think we’re going to get on well. Much better than I did with Snitchzel.”
“Was that the last guy?”
It could be cabin fever, or that joint he smoked last night, but Dmitry’s sure there’s subtext to what the American said. He’s grinning like an idiot, his two neat, shining rows of teeth exposed in a dumb but knowing grin. “That was the last guy. Wandered out one night. The tight spot we’re in must have got to him. Drove him crazier than a bunch of bananas. Just like I wrote in my report.”
The American keeps on grinning, then looks away. Turns his attention to the observation console. “When are you going to show me how to use this thing?”
“No stress. We have plenty of time for that. Can you turn away from me, American.”