Vegas Moon

26.

Gwen calls from the lobby. I give her the room number, then say, “I’ll leave the door slightly open so you can walk in without knocking.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you,” she says.

Moments later she enters the room, turns her back to me while closing the door, and locks the dead bolt. In the movies, this is where she spins around, holding a gun on me. The audience gasps in shock! But of course this ain’t the movies, and Gwen doesn’t have a gun. Her purse is too small, remember?

She crosses the floor, puts her arms around my waist, holds me tight. Then she tilts her chin and kisses me with good intentions. I kiss her back with bad ones. We go at it awhile, good and bad intentions, moving around the room, backing into the desk, her against the wall, me against the wall, neither of us against the wall, all while making breathless moaning sounds. We sound silly, like teenagers imitating movie romance.

But laughing is not an option.

Success in fighting means not coming at your opponent the way he wants to fight you. Success in lovemaking is just the opposite: you’ve got to come at her the way she wants to fuck you. And tomorrow she’ll want you to come at her a different way. I’d give you the whole seminar, but I’m too busy right now. Plus, she’s asking me something.

“You’ve wanted to do this since the day we met,” she says.

“Yes.”

I decide not to remind her we met exactly twenty-eight hours ago.

She breaks the embrace and backs up to the bed, removes her sandals, and sits down. A small cloud passes over her face.

“What’s wrong?”

“I want to say something,” she says. “About this morning.”

I kick off my shoes and sit beside her on the bed. She scoots to the far side and lies down, motions me to join her. When we’re face to face, she gives me a small kiss. I trace my fingertips over her thigh, from the end of her shorts to her knee, and back again.

“What about this morning?” I say.

“I wanted to thank you for what you did.”

“At the restaurant?”

“Uh huh.”

I lean over and kiss her, softly.

“My pleasure,” I say.

She raises up to a sitting position and reaches her hands behind her head to unroll the scrunchie from her ponytail. Then tosses her head a single time, and ah, the joys of youth: every hair falls magically into place. Except for one tiny wisp that’s hanging over her eye. I reach up and smooth it to the side.

We kiss again, a quick peck, and she says, “You haven’t asked why Lucky would allow that man to feel me up at the restaurant.”

“No.”

“How come?”

“I try not to judge people.”

“You just execute them?”

“I’d like to dress it up nicer than that,” I say, “but…”

“It is what it is?”

“It is.”

We kiss again.

“Can I ask you a question?” she says.

“Of course.”

“Promise you won’t try to read too much into it?”

“I’ll try.”

“How much would you charge to kill Lucky?”