Getting Off

TWENTY-SIX

Brady was spinning a fantasy when Angelica put her arm around the girl, but it didn’t keep him from spotting his cue. The index finger, tapping three times.

He got to his feet, put a twenty on the tabletop, weighed it down with his wine glass. He’d scarcely touched his Chardonnay, and Angelica had taken no more than a sip of hers. Twenty dollars for two sips of so-so California wine, and worth every penny, because his woman had just connected with a sweet young thing who was going to make them both very happy.

He slipped out the door, found Angelica’s Honda squareback in the lot, and drove off in it, leaving his own Lexus for her. It was a much more luxurious car, and would make more of an impression on his wife’s new friend. While it hardly mattered what car got him back to their house.

They always took two cars. On the rare occasion when their connection was effected as a couple, they’d leave the Honda and come back for it in the morning.

Before the signal, tap tap tap on the bare shoulder, he’d imagined what might have been. Suppose, just suppose, that Angelica had headed not for the sweet little ingénue but for the swaggering butch. That one, with her short hair and her broad gym-muscled shoulders, would have thought she’d missed the brass ring only to get a solid gold one dropped in her lap. Angelica, supermodelbeautiful Angelica, picking her out and hitting on her? Butch would have thought she’d died and gone to heaven.

He didn’t know about heaven. But she’d have to die.

Because the only way he’d be able to have her was by force, and he couldn’t delude himself that he could make her learn to like it. It would have to be rape, and while that wasn’t altogether unappealing, it made for complications at the end. They couldn’t just drop her off on a street corner and expect her to be so ashamed of herself that all she wanted to do was forget the whole thing. If she didn’t go straight to the cops and the newspapers, then she’d come back with a couple of friends and a gun.

He couldn’t let that happen. So he’d have to kill her.

And he knew just how he’d do it. He’d read descriptions of the method, and he’d seen it demonstrated more than once in action films. You used your hands, you took the chin in one hand and gripped the back of the head with the other, and you twisted abruptly, forcing the chin up and to the left, yanking the head down and to the right, and if you did it properly you were rewarded with the sound of the neck snapping.

If it didn’t work the first time, well, she wouldn’t be going anywhere. You could keep trying until you got it right.

His hands tightened on the steering wheel. It was funny, he thought. Angelica had just connected successfully with the most attractive woman in the place — well, next to herself, anyway. The most ideal prospect for the evening, certainly, and she’d be bringing the girl home, and a wonderful time was virtually guaranteed— for the two of them, certainly, and very likely for the girl as well.

And here he was wishing she’d picked up the bull dyke instead. Whose face was handsome enough, perhaps, and who’d have a nice healthy body, but who was by no means his type, or Angelica’s either. Oh, he’d enjoy forcing her. He’d get pleasure from the sex. But the only thing that made the butch so irresistibly appealing was the fact that she’d have a broken neck by the time the evening was over.

Something, perhaps, for him to think about.

Once she’d signaled to Brady, all Angelica wanted to do was corral the girl and herd her out of there. But she forced herself to give him time to get home and get settled in, forced herself to listen, or at least pretend to listen, to some tedious story Missy was telling about a childhood pet. Forced herself to take a taste of the girl’s Orange Blossom and speculate as to what the mystery ingredient might be, along with the gin and orange juice. Missy thought it might be Grand Marnier, but wasn’t too clear on what Grand Marnier tasted like all by itself.

That sounded like a cue, and Angelica offered to buy her one, but Missy said she didn’t want any more to drink, and that one Orange Blossom was plenty. “Because, you know,” she said, “it dulls the senses. It picks you up at first, but then it sort of numbs you.”

“And you don’t want to be numb?”

The girl did whatever it was she did with her eyes. And her lips were just the least bit parted. “No,” she said. “No, I don’t want to be numb.”

“Would you like to come home with me, Missy?”

“I shouldn’t.”

“Oh, I think you should.”

“I’m a little afraid, to tell you the truth.”

“Afraid? Afraid of what?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re not afraid of me, are you?”

“Maybe I’m afraid of myself. And of you, in a way.”

“Oh?”

The girl looked away, as if the words would be easier to say without eye contact. “I always hold back a little,” she said. “With you I think I might not.”

“You might let go.”

“Yes.”

“And find out who you really are.”

“Yes.”

“And would that be so bad?” She didn’t wait for an answer, but stood up and took Missy in tow, holding her upper arm with a grip that was gentle but firm. And led her, wordlessly, out of the bar.

The car was a Lexus, which suggested that Angelica was not living on food stamps. That was all to the good, but only confirmed what the woman’s dress and manner had already established.

And none of that mattered much, not to her, not now.

Angelica triggered the remote to unlock the doors, then held the passenger door open for her. Well, wasn’t that courtly? It was rare enough for a man to hold the door for you. Who would have guessed a woman would do it?

She started to get in, then stopped and straightened up. Angelica asked her if something was wrong. For answer, she turned toward Angelica, thinking Come on, what are you waiting for?

And Angelica kissed her. Oh, sweet, she thought, and held back at first, then yielded to the embrace and let herself melt utterly into it.

The kiss lasted a while, and when it ended she drew a breath and held onto the car roof as if for support. She was acting, but only in part, because the kiss had turned her on something fierce. She liked the way Angelica’s mouth tasted, liked the way she smelled, liked the way their bodies felt together.

She’d thought she would like it, but how could you know for sure until you actually tried it? What was that song, something about I kissed a girl and I liked it? Well, there you go. She did and she did. And now she knew.

She said, “You could do anything you want to me. You could do me right here, in the parking lot. And you could make me do anything, anything at all.”

Even as he triggered the remote to open the garage door, Brady had a moment of fear that he recognized as irrational — that the door would lift to reveal the Lexus, that Angelica and her new playmate would have beaten him home. That was impossible, he’d left while they were still getting acquainted, had driven straight home while they’d almost certainly dallied long enough for the first lingering kisses. And, if he knew his wife, a little preliminary fondling to set the stage and raise the temperature.

He, on the other hand, had driven directly home, and knew the garage would be empty, and of course it was. He tucked the Honda into its spot on the right, lowered the garage door, and let himself into the house.

A drink? No, whatever for? He used the downstairs lavatory because one really didn’t want the nuisance of a full bladder in medias res, poured himself a glass of Evian water because one didn’t want a dry mouth, either, and mounted the stairs to the master bedroom.

And that, he reflected, was a singularly appropriate name for it. The bedroom of the Master, and of the Mistress. And, on nights like this, of their…what? Companion? Slave?

Victim?

He checked the bedroom. Angelica had already done so before they left the house, setting the stage, but he fussed over it anyway, lowering the already softened lighting the slightest bit, then changing his mind and returning it to pretty much the level she had chosen.

Busywork, he thought. He went over to the bed, already turned down in invitation, and ran his hand over the linen. Percale sheets, high thread count, properly silky and luxurious. An abundance of pillows, to cushion the head or elevate the hindquarters, as circumstances required.

He checked the drawers in the little bedside chests. Toys in one, ties in another. He pictured the girl, imagined her naked, face downward, spread-eagled, wrists and ankles tied to the brass handholds he’d mounted on the corners of the bed frame. A pillow under her, presenting him with her little-girl bottom, offering him a choice of sheaths for his weapon.

And there’d be plenty of time to try them both.

Was that the Lexus? Even if it was, he had plenty of time. But there was no need to dawdle. He stopped on the way out, adjusting the position of the three-panel Japanese screen, and deciding, as he’d decided with the lighting, that it had been just right to begin with.

More busywork, and it only served to show the stake he had in what lay ahead. So it was a good sign, wasn’t it? As often as they’d entertained themselves in this fashion, you might have thought he’d be more casual about the whole enterprise. Even blasé.

There was a small room just next to the master bedroom, a third bedroom, really, but he used it as a den. He settled himself in there now, and closed the door.

By the time he heard the Lexus, heard it stop at the driveway, heard the garage door as it ascended, he had taken off all his clothes, hanging his slacks and jacket in the den closet, tucking his socks into his shoes, placing his folded shirt and underwear on an arm of the easy chair.

He sat in the chair, and unconsciously he touched himself, more for reassurance than anything else. Could something have gone wrong? Had Angelica come home alone? That was always a possibility. Sometimes one of them changed her mind. A woman’s prerogative, after all. To change one’s mind.

No. He heard voices, the two of them in conversation. He couldn’t make out what they were saying, but it was enough to know they were both there together.

So the girl had not changed her mind. And now it was no longer her prerogative. She was theirs.

When they turned on Ordway Avenue, she said she didn’t know they had apartments here. Angelica told her she lived not in an apartment but in a freestanding house. “A townhouse,” she said. “That’s what they call it. It’s part of a development, and the association takes care of all the exterior maintenance, the lawn-mowing and landscaping and all that. But in every other respect it’s a private home.”

“And you live there all by yourself?”

“I’m married, Missy.”

“Oh.”

“He’s the perfect husband,” she said, “in that he makes a lot of money and doesn’t care how I spend it. And best of all, he travels a good deal of the time.”

“Is he away now?”

“He’s out of town,” Angelica said, “and I’m out on the town. That’s how it works.”

“Does he know—”

“How the mouse plays when the cat’s away? It’s hard to say what he knows and what he chooses not to know. One time he said, very pointedly, that he wouldn’t like it if I was with another man. And he put the emphasis on man, which left me feeling that he had his suspicions, and that he didn’t mind if I found a playmate now and then.”

“And when he’s home—”

“I keep him very happy.”

“I see.”

“Do you, Missy? And when he’s away, I keep myself very happy. I drove him to the airport this morning, and he called this afternoon to let me know he was safe and sound in Kansas City. From there he goes to Omaha, and then I forget where in South Dakota. And so on, and he won’t be back for ten days.”

After a moment she said, “And when he comes home you’ll sleep with him.”

“Indeed I will. You disapprove?”

“No, I just wondered. I mean, do you enjoy it?”

“I like girls more, Missy. But that doesn’t mean I don’t like boys.”

“Oh.”

“And you?”

She paused, as if considering the question. “Just girls,” she said at length.

“You’re so sweet,” Angelica said, and put a hand on her thigh. “You wouldn’t believe the fun we’re going to have.”

Angelica’s hand stayed on her thigh until she braked the car in front of a well-proportioned two-story house, a center-hall Spanish Colonial with a tiled roof and an attached garage. The hand moved to the visor, and Angelica worked the remote and raised the garage door, then parked alongside a smaller Honda.

She said, “His car?”

“Mine, actually. But when he’s out of town I get to drive his Lexus.”

“You get to do just about everything, huh?”

“Everything good,” Angelica said.

They both got out of the Lexus, and the garage door descended as they approached the door leading to the kitchen. She was a few steps behind, resting her hand on the Honda’s hood while Angelica turned the key in the lock.

Click!

What the hell was Angelica doing? Giving the little darling a guided tour of the downstairs? And, while she was at it, nailing her on the couch?

Waiting like this was sweet torture. But at length Brady heard their feet on the carpeted stairs, heard them walk down the hall and turn at the bedroom. And now he could make out their voices:

The girl: What a big bed.

Angelica: In case you want to hide from me.

The girl: And then you’d have to search for me.

Angelica: I found you at the bar, didn’t I? I think I’ll be able to find you in the bed, Missy.

Ah, so her name was Missy. And she had a little-girl voice, to go with her little-girl name.

Missy: This is nice. Is it Japanese?

The screen. They always noticed the screen. And more often than not looked behind it, perhaps unconsciously needing to reassure themselves that there was no one lurking there. Because there could be a man there, a savage creature with a shark’s grin and a massive erection, an unwelcome intruder in a girl — girl scene, but no, the screen was purely decorative, and there was no one for it to conceal.

Angelica: My husband saw it in a shop in San Francisco. He bought it and had them ship it here, and the first I knew about it was when the UPS truck turned up.

Missy: It’s beautiful.

Angelica: He has an eye for beautiful things.

Missy: Well, that’s obvious, isn’t it?

Angelica: And so do I. Come here, you beautiful thing.

If you were going to try going to bed with a woman, she thought, it might as well be a beautiful one. Angelica was that and more, and it wasn’t surprising that she proved to be a gifted lover. She had been certain of that from the first touch, the hand on her shoulder, and had been certain of her own response from the first kiss in the parking lot.

And in certain respects it was easier to be with a woman. She always felt the slightest bit shy the first time she undressed in the presence of a man. It was a sort of reflexive timidity, and it never lasted long, but it was always there. Tonight though, when she was about to do something she had never done before, and thus had every reason to be apprehensive, the act of disrobing had no attendant shyness.

Because she’d been comfortable undressing in front of women ever since she’d been a little girl, changing in and out of gym clothes at school, getting into a bathing suit at the beach. Angelica looked her over while she undressed, but other women checked you out all the time; if they weren’t interested in you sexually, then they were sizing you up as potential competition.

Whatever it was, she was entirely at ease. And if she had any anxiety about joining Angelica in bed, any concern that she wouldn’t know what to do, that was gone in no time at all.

Angelica made it easy for her by taking the lead, which was no real surprise. Their roles in this performance were a given, with herself as the bottom and Angelica as the top. “Just close your eyes,” Angelica said, in case there was any doubt, “and lie back, and let me love you.”

Easy enough to comply. Easy enough to give herself up to Angelica’s hands and Angelica’s mouth, and, really, what could there possibly be to object to in any of that? There wasn’t a thing Angelica did to her that hadn’t been done by men, and if some of those men had been awkward or clumsy or in a hurry, not a few had known what they were doing and done it with skill.

Angelica, a woman herself and the experienced lover of women, knew what to do and how to do it, and picked up cues from her responses. And Angelica was in no hurry for her to arrive at her destination. Instead she kept taking her to the brink, keeping her right on the edge, then easing back and letting her cool down just a little before she started in all over again.

There was an element of torture to it, because she reached a point where she really wanted to come, and yet it was all so exquisite that she didn’t want it to end. It was a little unsettling to have a lover who was so utterly in control of her responses, and at the same time it was quite wonderful.

Oh, and there was something she hadn’t been expecting. Angelica’s spit-lubed finger, finding its way unerringly into her bottom. And moving in an insistent rhythm, but not the same rhythm Angelica was employing elsewhere. Jesus, the woman was playing her like an African drum. With a tap tap here and a rat-tat-a-tat there, and, omigod, oh, yes…

Don’t stop, she thought. Please don’t stop.

Jesus, did she speak the words aloud?

It didn’t matter. She wasn’t going to stop this time, she was going to come, yes, and she kicked her feet and thrust with her hips and cried out, because why not, men liked it when you made a little noise, so why shouldn’t a woman like it, and what difference did it make who liked what, because she could no more hold back her cries than she could hold back her orgasm.

Yes!

Was there anything more beautiful than two women making love?

If so, he couldn’t imagine what it might be. He was not, in ordinary circumstances, a voyeur. He could neither imagine himself as a Peeping Tom, lurking at bedroom windows in the hope of a glimpse of the forbidden, or as a spectator at orgies, watching others having sex. Watching a man with a woman, or a man with a man, held no appeal for him.

But two women, that was somehow different. And when one of the women was his woman, his Angelica, the appeal was irresistible.

And this one, this Missy, this doe-eyed ingénue, complemented her perfectly. He couldn’t imagine a more ideal partner for his magnificent wife.

He’d given them a few minutes in bed before leaving his den and taking up his position behind the Japanese screen. He was barefoot and the floor carpeted, so no one could hear his footsteps, and the screen was so situated that his brief passage from the doorway was invisible to anyone in the bed. Even so, he’d walked lightly and quickly, and held his breath until he was where he wanted to be. Then he put his eyes to the tiny viewing slits, and saw the two of them, and he’d been watching them ever since.

He never tired of watching Angelica bring a partner to climax. She loved to tease, and he sometimes suspected that he was no less the object of her teasing than the woman upon whom she was performing. He fancied that he could feel what Missy was feeling, that her excitement was his excitement, and when she came he felt a tremor of the spirit, a sort of psychic equivalent of orgasm.

And now it was Missy’s turn.