The Blonde

4:05 a.m.

Sybian Lounge, the Hot Spot

Can I ask your name?” “Call me Angela,” she said, unbuttoning her tuxedo shirt to reveal a plain white bra beneath. The shirt was heavily wrinkled in places, and one of the cuffs looked like it had a splotch of tomato sauce on it. “What’s yours?”

“Jack. So Angela isn’t your real name?”

The girl looked scandalized. “My real name? Sorry. I don’t do that. True names are powerful totems. Revealing my true name, without knowing yours, would lead to an imbalance of power. Do you want me to unbuckle your belt for you? Or can you do it with one hand?”

“I didn’t realize you were going to fasten me to a wall; otherwise, I might have taken care of that ahead of time. Look, can we talk for a minute?”

Angela took another two steps backward and kicked off her boots, peeled off her black socks. The black slacks slid down her legs and bunched up on the floor. She stepped out of them. The floor was concrete. It looked cold to Jack.

“You come all the way here. At this time of night. In this kind of place … to talk? Oh, Jack, my man. You could have saved yourself a lot of money and gone to Silk City Diner down the street. There’s always some interesting conversation there.”

Her panties were purple but, like her bra, very basic. No satin, no thongs. Just functional, everyday underwear. The kind Jack’s wife wore, except on their anniversary or for weddings.

“I need a moment to think,” Jack said.

“And I want to get off,” Angela said. “Very badly.” She reached up and grabbed a remote that was hanging by a wire from the ceiling. She pressed a button. The plastic nub hummed to life, and even though Jack had never seen anything like it before, its design and purpose were suddenly clear. “Don’t you?”

Jack didn’t answer, because as soon as he figured out the saddle, another fact hit him cold. The saddle was across the room. Easily more than ten feet away.

And Angela was getting ready to mount it.

“No!” Jack yelled. “Wait!” He pushed his weight against his arm restraint; it was fiercely strong.

Angela took the remote in her hands and thumbed the button. The humming stopped. She looked wary. Afraid, even. Fuck. He couldn’t afford to have her run out of the room. That would be his death sentence. The owners would come back and find a brain-dead white guy bolted to the wall. Explain that one.

Explain it to Donovan Piatt.

Or Callie, someday.

Okay, Jack, calm down. Callllm down. Ask her for her help with something. Anything.

Then it came to him. His pants.

“I need help with this,” he said, holding his belt buckle in his free hand.

“I can’t touch you…. You know that, right? One of your buddies on the force explained this to you, I hope.”

“Sure.” Force?

“People can have all kinds of ideas. Like me being a hooker, or something. I don’t play that way.”

Angela walked up to him and unbuckled his belt. She smelled like she’d been in an Italian kitchen all night. There was perfume there, too, something warm and flowery and lush, but beneath that was the scent of garlic and tomatoes and even cigarette smoke.

She was careful not to touch his skin, only leather and buckle and fabric. And then his pants dropped to the floor.

Think, Jack, think. …

“What if you moved that closer to me? That saddle thing?”

“The Sybian?”

Lightbulb. All of a sudden, the driver’s reference to a “Sybian club” made sense. Clue phone, for Mr. Jack. Line one.

Angela regarded him carefully now. Suspicion was in full bloom. “This isn’t your first time here, is it? Because I specifically requested that—”

“No, no … I’m just slow this late at night.”

She looked at the Sybian, then back at Jack, who was still pinned to the wall with metal clamps and brackets.

“You seem like a nice guy. But I’ve had trouble before. In fact, I was the stone-cold bitch who insisted that they move that thing back a good ten feet, away from the wall. I’m all for the mutual masturbation, up until the point where you catch a hot load in the face.”

What was Jack supposed to say next? That he was nearsighted? The words mutual masturbation echoed in his skull. The situation was finally starting to make sense. This wasn’t a whorehouse or a strip joint. This was some kind of swingers club where nobody touched. Angela here wasn’t an employee. She was a member Right off work, most likely, from her waitressing gig. Some Italian restaurant. Serving manicotti and ravioli and meatballs and aching to finish her shift so she could sit in a room and hop on an electrically powered dildo-equipped saddle while some strange guy with his pants around his ankles yanked one off. Maybe she’d repeat the process a few times. Was this how the club got around a tilted male/female ratio? Men were good for one pop, maybe two. But women could be repeat customers.

“So I’m going to go over there, okay?” She took a tentative step backward.

“What if I didn’t”—Jack searched for the phrase—“do anything? Just watched, I mean.”

That suggestion, apparently, was as bad as not knowing how to identify the garden-variety Sybian.

“And I’m supposed to what, just watch you staring at me while I come?”

“Then unlock me. I’ll be good.”

“Until you decide to rape me. Uh-uh. No thanks.” She patted his wrist. “Look, I’ve had a long night, and if it’s okay with you, I want to hop on the machine and screw my brains out. If you don’t want to jack off, whatever, at least humor me and pull your dick out. Or if you’ve changed your mind, I’ll go get someone to escort you out of here. You tell me.”

With a flick of her thumbs, her panties slid from her hips, then made their way down her legs. They stopped at her knees.

“So?”

“Thing is,” Jack said. “I’m nearsighted.”