The wake-up

18

Thorpe lay on his belly, squinting under the couch and wondering what he was doing here at 2:00 a.m. He had just gotten back from his trial run at the Strand when his phone rang. He jiggled around the golf club, a four iron, stirring up dust balls. "Are you sure it went under here?"

"I thought so," said Pam.

Thorpe looked back at her. Pam was perched on one of the end tables, legs drawn up, wearing only an XXL 50-Cent T-shirt and pale blue panties. He could hear Claire cursing nearby. "You did see a rat, though?"

Pam nodded. "Big one. He hadn't brushed his teeth for a long time, either."

"You two shouldn't leave the dog door open. You don't even have a dog."

"We shut the dog door, how are we going to get in when we lock ourselves out?" asked Pam.

"Keep the dog door closed. That's your problem."

"The problem is the city's cut back on rat abatement for the last four years," said Claire, peering under the brown leather reading chair, her own golf club ready-a putter. She wore dark blue silk pajama bottoms and a T-shirt with Serena Williams's picture on it. Her butt was in the air.

"He's checking out your ass, Claire."

Claire looked over at Thorpe. They were both low to the floor. "Is that right, Frank?"

"Guilty."

Claire shook her head. "Men. You call them up in the middle of the night for help, and instead they scope out the goods."

"Just kill the rat; then you two can flirt," said Pam.

Thorpe got up. "Mr. Rat's not under here."

Claire stood up, too, her short dark hair falling around her face. "Ditto."

"Well… he's got to be somewhere," said Pam, still on the end table.

Thorpe had been getting ready for bed when Pam had called, still exhilarated from seeing the crowd outside the movie theater, thinking of what he was going to do if he saw the Engineer in line Saturday night. He was going to let him watch the movie, catch him on the way back to his car, him and his bodyguard, catch them unaware. Thorpe imagined asking the Engineer how he'd liked the movie. Then the phone rang and Pam was yelling, and Claire was telling her to relax.

Thorpe walked into the kitchen, yawning.

"I already checked the kitchen," Claire called.

"I'll check it again," said Thorpe. One of the cabinets was half-open. He bent down, started to open it with the golf club.

Claire touched his side and Thorpe jumped. She laughed, clucked like a chicken.

Still laughing, Thorpe opened the cabinet, gently nudged aside cereal boxes with the head of the golf club. The rat stared back at him, a big one, too, just like Pam had said, dirty brown and beady-eyed, his whiskers brushing the face of the white-haired Quaker on the cardboard oatmeal canister.

"Do you see anything?" asked Claire.

Thorpe shifted his weight. The rat followed his movements, turned its head, and seemed to make eye contact with the Quaker. Thorpe whacked the rat with the golf club, but it was a glancing blow. The rat scurried across Thorpe's hands and onto the kitchen floor.

Bam! Claire swung the putter, missed, and smacked the floor. The rat's legs slipped on the tile as it tried to get away, squealing, desperate now. She swung the golf club again, hit the rat a glancing blow, and sent him sailing. The rat bounced off the stove and lay stunned. Claire advanced on him, the putter raised high. The rat got to its feet, reared back, showed its yellowed incisors, snarled at her, eyes bulging.

"I think he's in love with you," Thorpe said to her.

The rat made a dash toward the living room, then cut back as Claire swung and missed, headed back toward the doggy door.

Claire raised the golf club, but Thorpe grabbed her arm before she could take another try, and the rat raced out through the doggy door, out into the night. Claire shook Thorpe off. "That was stupid."

Thorpe walked to the doggy door, slid down the metal locking plate over the entrance. "Tough guy like that, he earned his freedom." He leaned his four iron against the wall.

Pam peeked in the doorway. "Is it safe?"

Claire reached over, pinched Thorpe's bare nipple.

Thorpe howled, rubbed his nipple. "That hurt."

"It was meant to hurt. I wanted to kill it."

"You're licensed by the state of California to offer psychotherapy?" Thorpe's nipple felt hot. The other one had stiffened in sympathy. " You need treatment, lady."

"What a baby," said Claire. "And don't call me 'lady.' "

"Are you guys gonna fuck right here on the kitchen table?" asked Pam. "And if you do, can I watch?"

Claire looked at Thorpe.

"I'm celibate," said Pam. "I have to have some fun."

Claire took Thorpe's hand, led him toward her bedroom.

"Rat hunting really turns you on," said Thorpe, exhilarated and nervous and trying not to think too much. "Who knew the killer ape was female?"

"Shut up." Claire closed the door behind them, the room in twilight, sheer curtains on the single window. It smelled like Claire. Thorpe had never been there before. There were photos on the walls that he couldn't make out, and a large desk with a computer and books piled on one side. A bed, too, low to the ground, with lots of pillows.

He looked over at her, and Claire was hesitant, unsure, too, and that convinced him. Thorpe kissed her gently, knowing that this was a bad time to start something, but he kissed her anyway, and she kissed him back, eager now. They undressed each other, not speaking, their little bites and nips silent introductions to their dark places, their flesh warming.

"You still think this is a bad idea?" whispered Claire as they eased onto her bed, the flowery sheets cool against their skin, goose bumps rising, her breasts pebbled, and he warmed her with his tongue. " Do you?" she gasped.

"Probably."

She arched against him, her hand sliding up along his thigh. "You want me to stop?" Her touch was feathery. "I can stop, if you want."

Thorpe buried his face in her hair, inhaled her fragrance as she caressed him. He groaned, bit his lips shut, shifted his weight, on top of her now, kissing his way past the hollow of her sternum, trying not to hurry, but sensing her eagerness matched his own.

Claire's legs curled around him. "That's good."

He made his way lower, licked her belly button, tasted her sweet salt sweat. She made tiny crying sounds as he kissed her lower still.

"This is okay, what we're doing, isn't it?" Claire's back arched as he licked her, and she was warm and slick, waxed smooth. She reached down, breathing hard, held the back of his head in place. "I… I don't want… don't want you to be sorry we're doing this."

Thorpe started laughing.

"That tickles. I'm talking too much, aren't I?"

Thorpe looked up at her, his face glistening.

She averted her eyes. "I'll shut up."

Thorpe entered her, and she was soft and deep; then she gripped him so tightly, the two of them gasped. Neither of them talking now. Just the two of them, alone in the vast twilight, driving into each other, lost and mindless and free. He hardly thought of Kimberly at all.

They lay quietly afterward, arms and legs tangled, tickled by the surface-tension sweat, exhausted and exhilarated. Moonlight softened all the outlines, all the sharp edges. Through the wall came the faint sound of the television in Pam's bedroom. Thorpe stroked Claire, felt her pulse beating through her flesh, and he would have ridden that rhythm all night. He loved the afterward more than the sex. Afterward was more intimate. The barriers broken, no illusions, no lies. For the moment anyway. A moment was good enough. He breathed in the warmth of her, knowing it was too good to last.

Claire rested her head on his chest. "Where did you get so much anger?"

Thorpe shifted.

"Don't be upset. I had a good time. A wonderful time. I was just surprised at the rage inside you, that's all." She blew her hair off her face. "Not anger at women, not a bit of it-I know you better than that. I steer away from those kind of men."

"Gee, thanks."

Claire rolled onto her pillow. "Sometimes an angry fuck can be really great, but your anger… it just keeps cycling around in your brain. It must be like having a head full of wasps." She traced his mouth with a forefinger. "I've hurt your feelings."

"I'll get over it."

"Don't be like that. The first time is always weird. At least you didn't keep changing positions like a gyroscope, showing off your fancy moves."

"I usually wait until the second date to break out the trapeze."

She played with the hair on his chest. "I've wanted to make love to you since you first moved in."

"Anticlimactic, wasn't it?"

"Not exactly."

Thorpe brushed his lips across her breast, lingering. "Do I get another chance?"

Claire played with his fingers. "Do you want to know the exact moment I was sure it was going to happen?"

Thorpe ran his nails down her long legs.

"It was the day you moved in, and you came by to borrow a couple of eggs, and even though I invited you in, you stayed in the doorway. Hard to get… that's very attractive." Claire kissed his fingers one by one. "I could feel your eyes on me as I crossed to the refrigerator, and I didn't hurry. I took the eggs out of the carton, two in each hand, and I offered them, and you stood there, smiling, waiting me out. That's when I knew."

"You're a scary date, Claire." He liked saying her name.

"You're not scared." Her eyes were bright as she rocked against him. "That's one of your games. You downplay yourself, pretend to be in over your head, but you're not."

He watched her, knowing why he had kept his distance. So much for following your instincts. His hand traced along the inside of her, the two of them trembling with the moment, that quiet point when all good and dangerous things were imminent. "Turn on the TV," said Pam.

Thorpe blinked himself awake, Claire beside him, rubbing her eyes.

Pam stood in the bedroom doorway. "Quick, turn on the TV."

Claire fumbled for the remote, popped the TV on. She kissed Thorpe.

"Haven't you two had enough?" asked Pam. "Oh, here it is."

Thorpe sat up as the image of Betty B came on-screen, a still photo of the columnist in one of her signature hats.

"… The longtime columnist for the Gold Coast Pilot was struck and killed last night by a hit-and-run driver as she left the Rusty Pelican in Newport Beach. Police ask anyone who might have information on the accident to please contact them."

"Betty B put me in her column when I did that suntan oil commercial in Huntington a few months ago," gushed Pam. "She called me an 'up-and-coming spokesmodel with a killer bod.' Isn't that just the wildest coincidence?"

Thorpe stared at the screen. "Yeah… it is."