by Jerry
She nodded at the folder in his hand. “Anything caught your eye?”
He shrugged. Shook his head.
“One or the other?” she said. “Nothing?”
“Yes. No.” His voice was a crack, disjointed. It was as if he were talking on two different planes moving towards each other but not quite together yet.
“We’ll find something,” she said. “I’m sure.”
She led him by hand to an inside chamber, a room that smelt of lavender, primulas and cyclamens. It, in fact, had those very flowers in colourful array in a vase.
Liam noted a leather head on a Rustler king bed of solid timber in the Pharaoh suite.
“Fix you up in a minute,” she said. “Undress.”
She left him to it.
Uncertain of the room—or the bed—Liam felt around it first. He sobered quick enough to acknowledge that he was utterly new to this kind of thing. Through all ages, men had fallen prey to blackmail, having been caught in compromising positions. Not knowing where it was headed and leaving nothing to chance, with a face of extreme trepidation, Liam stripped down the bed, nearly tearing foam in a search for bugs. Partially content that the room was not wired, he was startled to find Sugar watching by the doorway. Bemused.
“You,” she said, “are the height of bad manners. Done being silly?”
He nodded. Even had the grace to lower his eyelids a little. He studied her from the corners of his eyes. Useless, she was thinking, he figured, the way she shook her head. Another one for a hospital job.
Rowdy start.
He would have been content with a simple dismissal. But the woman had something in store. And though he worried about that part of his body no longer being capable of caring, Sugar sensed his severe mental baggage. He was new as a maiden. She treated him like one on the critical list.
Taking a warm tone with him, “Come here,” she said, and led him by hand to the Rustler. And though he was a little wooden and awkward, loose connection (if any) in his responses to her caresses, she took him tenderly. Handled him as though she were carrying the weight of his broken world.
He let her guide him in, sweet, angelic missionary. Orthodox at that. He panicked one moment, afraid of releasing early, so long had it been. He thought of how, cycles back with Nero, girls had flocked around them. How Jenny (butterlips, they called her) so turned him on, he burnt his ticket too soon.
That’s a killer, Jenny said, disappointed.
A quick single, he had said. His body wouldn’t stir. It was laughable.
“Move away from me,” Butterlips said. “Move, stupid.”
Away . . . he shrivelled.
But he didn’t shoot early with Sugar. Couldn’t shoot early. She controlled the exact phase he was at, squeezed him home. They came together. Almost. He collapsed half a second early but carried enough pulse to soften her knees. It was excellent delivery on a Pharaoh bed, one that reduced him to tears.
“That was fish & chips,” she said. “No fixtures, no fittings.” Gentle teeth nibbled his ear. “Best part’s not over yet. What you need is a super burger, a dose of sleep.” Swinging a leg across him, she climbed him. Elbows pressed against his ears, bare nipples touching his shoulder.
He was alarmed to find himself growing almost immediately, soaking up another ride. She coaxed him, taught him. “Roll the dice baby,” she said to his ear, and took him to new dimensions in fluid movement, adding a squeeze of flavour each sequence. He surrendered. Pleasure tightened towards his anus and melted his groin. She fixed him up all right: she hit every note true.
“I’m a body artist,” she whispered as he came.
The weather was wild when he stepped outside the building. He hunched against a whooshing wind. Cold air touched his nostrils, inside a heady scent of warm cinnamon bread from Hoochi Mama. His jacket flapped about until he clutched the ends.
Hoochi Mama was impossible to resist.
“How you doing, hombre,” said a heavy mono-eyed woman with a bust ten melons wide.
“Fine, fine, ma’am. I’m good. You are lucky to be inside.”
She followed his eyes out the flapping shutters.
“Does that to people, the bread,” she said with a grin and a twinkling eye. “How many bread you want?”
He settled for one loaf.
She peered into the oven. “Cooking, cooking. Ready in a minute.” Her R dragged. “Drink-a coffee? How you take it? No sugar? Good.” Gave him marks with index and thumb joined in a circle with the word ‘Good’. It was a compliment. “Too much sugar no good. Look-a me!”
He joined her honest-as-music laughter. The coffee when it came was kick-arse. Hell stronger than a tall macchiato, three squats. One sip tightened his nipples.
“Have-a some apple cinnamon, eh?” she said. Wouldn’t take no for an answer. The bun was crispy and golden outside, perfectly baked inside. It fell apart like snow in his mouth. He closed his eyes to linger the taste.
“You drink-a more coffee?” He couldn’t. But she tossed a puffed bun anyhow into the brown paper bag with his crusty cinnamon bread.
“Don’t insult-a me, hombre,” when he tried to pay for the coffee.
In the car on the way back, he pondered Sugar, how she fitted in his picture of healing. Why exactly had Nero directed Liam to her?
When confronted, Nero mounted a very scientific argument. “You needed a score, baby. Been running on reserve, man. Seeping to sub-zero.”
“But why?” Liam demanded.
“Why were you on reserve? You tell me!”
“Why, Nero? Why did you give me Sugar’s number?”
“Listen, matie. You can back out any time. Your past existence has been largely dominated by a woman who tossed you out like a bin. Audrey’s kaput. I helped you. So there. You were standing on a precipice and needed to step back. Now you’ve got some momentum to find a purpose beyond Audrey, you ask me why?”
“I thought the number was for a shrink or something,” Liam said. “But Sugar?”
“You wanted a shrink?”
“No-o!”
“Listen, matie,” Nero put a hand on Liam’s shoulder. “I did a bust once. Explosives. Look at me, I’m serious. I was green. I knew jack. And there were explosives. Know what the officer-in-charge did? He said: ‘If you hear a big boom, lurch out the nearest exit, hop into a car and drive.’ That’s what our officer said. ‘Drive like mad. Don’t try and be a hero.’ ” He removed his hand. “You are in a boom, mate. One hell of a plonker. Drive.”
True. Liam was so fragile, his esteem so punctured, it stood on a single smile or a scowl. Even from strangers. “But Sugar?” he said.
“You don’t seem unduly upset by it,” Nero said calmly. “Sex therapy. Works magic. I provided shoes for the occasion. You don’t like it, kill it. Kill it now. But if you like it—enjoy it. Sugar’s far better than you mooning, planted in bed like a veggie. Keep that up and you’ll begin to sprout.”
“Yes. Well. Fine one to say. But—” he had to know. “Nero, how did you . . . er . . . surely . . . What in heaven will Viv think if she knew I knew from you—?”
“Not from me, you didn’t. Leave my wife out of this.”
Liam finally squeezed it out of him: “First time I met Sugar, she was a tarot card reader.”
“But where did you two meet?”
“I’m not saying shit,” Nero said.
“Common!” got no straight response.
Finally—yes—Nero did know about the menu in Sugar’s no-red-carpet apartment. One could lie on his back and watch the world go by as lips, tongue and scented fingers kick-started things below. No early fumbles; Sugar just gave something special that knocked one’s balls.
“Have you attempted Fish & Chips, Sleeping Pill, Signature, Snowgum, Vim & Vigour—zone for the athletic, End of Season, Husband Mix, Vintage?”
“I know about them,” Nero laughed.
He clammed about all else.
But Liam did, in fact, like it. He liked it enou
gh to enjoy it: the silent dimming of light, a thigh brushing lightly against his hips. The warm feel through feather latex as Sugar swallowed him, an inner muscle guiding him in, gripping him—until he felt heady; until a vein of excitement climbed his spine; until he cried spent in her arms. By Jove he liked it. It was mildly in his interest to like it.
Nero the shrink. In his insight, he had targeted the source of Liam’s disarray. Libido. And Liam was willing to explore. He did not fully understand the process—or pace—of things. He was not anxious and, at this point, was not overly pressed to understand much of anything.
Sugar paced him. She ran him through her menu, one that left no boaty burp. Sure, sometimes she cooked. But whatever it was in that menu, it had little to do with food—unless it was spotted dick.
More flexible than Kama Sutra pose 19c, Sugar gave him a flavour boost piece by piece per sitting. Liam quickly found himself getting stiffer, tingling, saddled up for the next ride, anticipating each meeting. Smooth gold. Sugar made for a great game. Such delights. She ranged from rubbing and shoving to sultry Lambada, sometimes with operations simultaneously executed. But though Liam still wept, he was dismayed to find that instead of fading with time and activity, Audrey hung on in his head, memory refusing to let go.
He left lengthy messages on her mobile. She never answered, never called back. But he was possessed by the woman. Couldn’t quite shelve her. She spread, filling every brain cell of him, growing more and more beautiful each dream. He soon succumbed to the realisation that he was a well-adjusted slob: Audrey had left an indelible scent of herself in his head; an imprint like a blood stain that constantly reminded him of a death.
Through it all, Sugar was a gun. Calibre, skill and philosophy. She had the product, and she sold it well. A bit more each time. One day, sensing his deep helplessness, his neediness as he sobbed in her arms with no self-preservation, tears a sky high orgasm had galvanised, she set him straight.
“I give no absolutes,” she said. White-as-white hair flicked. “Falling in love is a no-no.” She squeezed him gently. “That’s one potential danger slot.” Sweet saucer eyes sucked him in. Black candy eyes that went deep and deep.
And though his heart raced tall as a macchiato, he understood her words. They were simple. He could take what she offered. Use it, need it even, but he could never, could never ever control it.
He accepted that space: no complications.
And thanks to resident fears, it was just as well. He was home and hosed when it came to no complications. Liam could hold his own on that one. Love to him was black-eyed venom. Absent Audrey possessed him. If he could magic her away, scissor her to tiny shreds off his life, boy oh boy, wouldn’t that be something.
It took twelve full lunar cycles of Sugar and Hoochi Mama’s hot cinnamon bread before Liam’s application to the force was screened and processed. Before he knew it, he was a recruit. Then he was a cop. It had taken a while getting his faculties together but he was no longer morose and maladjusted. Sure, he still wept on ejaculation. But the rest of him was in form, kicked to a new dimension. Sugar had repaired him to good nick. Keen career prospects were beginning to look his way. He was making tracks. Sure money and stars down his professional path. The rate he was going, Nero was hinting at ballistics.
One day, Sugar upped the ante.
“New item on the menu,” she said. “Obsessavaganza.”
She tossed her white-as-white hair. He ran his fingers through it. In a plucky move, not knowing what risk was involved, he agreed. Welcomed it.
“You can do anything to me,” he said. “I’m game.”
Obsessavaganza.
It was ecstasy, a dance drug, a spa. Firepower. Release. Pressure. Release. Heightened senses pulsated in every inch of him. Liam’s life stood still, then he was flying. He rammed home, swallowed his cry—only just. Something snapped and exploded. His body whistled in all parts. Climax after climax, it was like scales falling off a fish or gutters overflowing from ruptured pipes.
Obsessavaganza.
It worked. Stamped Audrey right off his head, a complete whitewash, an absolute cracker. In a twinkle, Audrey Rivers was an obsession no more. He was drop pad on his way, back on strike again. Liam nearly danced outright. He actually started a chainsaw victory dance with his hand when Sugar restrained him.
“This is a significant milestone,” she said. “You have matriculated with honours.”
“Sex therapy,” he said in wonder.
A magic healer.
To celebrate, Sugar cooked for him. She tossed a live, squirming lobster into an angry frying pan spitting oil. Stirred it with a wooden spoon until the shell snapped. Inside, the meat was white and tender.
They ate from one bowl with their hands, spat shells into another. Liam’s fumbles with the lobster, pinching its legs with thumb and index fingers, snapping clumsily to arrive at moist meat inside, amused Sugar.
“Tastiest thing I’ve eaten since Audrey left,” he confessed between a swig of Cab Sauv imitate from a cheapie round the block.
Tender, juicy, fresh—that lobster eaten so primitively was far different from Audrey’s thread-thin bream, ribboned bell pepper arranged on a plate in a bouquet of purple, green and orange around baby strips of beef. No classical music, Valkyries and the like. Just a screw cap to accompany the feast, and Sugar’s fat laughter that tinkled, prickled and spread bigger than a sneeze.
Liam scored well in the ballistics entrance exam. His keen eye at the range, a ninety percent bulls-eye on the radar firearm—a weapon of such distinction, it dissolved a skeleton on impact—made him favourable candidate for selection. There was still a panel interview to frown about, but he had no Audrey demons to goad him.
Sugar was Vintage. So she said. But she was addictive. With a girl-next-door demeanour, candy soft eyes and big white-as-white hair, she was no spread for a magazine cover. But she mastered a fine art few women could boast. After Obsessavaganza, Liam never thought of Audrey. Not once. In fact, she had receded to a very thin memory that did not significantly upset.
No sterner measures were necessary for healing at this point.
Yet to oblige Sugar—or perhaps to expand his horizon—Liam tried, in a pivotal moment, Erase. Sugar dropped a gloop of oil on his abs, and greased him up. Assuming total control, pure animal, she lunged at him in tackles that demanded early interest from his groin. One knock and down he went on flexed knee clutching at his ribs.
She swung a hook in an unprecedented back flip, Brazilian Jiu Jitsu that had plenty on it. She swooped him butt naked, fire in all cylinders. Kneed him on the under belly, punched him, kicked him, threw him, choked him, tonged him, cuffed him, chained him, concussed him. Left purple bruises bigger than grapefruit on his skin. He caved, driven half-mad with pain and pleasure. Pleasure that high-kicked to a hot spot. Another death drop, and bare buttock flesh smacked obscenely with new slaps that promised and gave animal release.
He knew that when he left Sugar’s to stop at Hoochi Mama’s, she might ask, “You run-a red light? You bang-a into a wall?” He could well have slid under a freight train, the way he looked. Or upset bikey men in helmets and leather jackets on a Friday night. Really upset them. Winded, he amazed at the strength of the woman. But, instead of scrabbling to safety, he couldn’t stop himself blasting home like a tap in mind-blowing orgasms that imploded his lungs and pulverised any existing record on that score.
Belushi, can of baked beans! he thought on a whopper flyer. Celestial. Pigs might fly.
They lay side by side on a fuchsia carpet, feet touching. A lime sky streaked with smoky cloud out the far window. Tall glasses sizzled with bubbly between them. It was the first time, he realised, she’d got a sparkly for them.
“What did she do to you?” Sugar asked.
“Who?” he asked, tongue lazy with vintage fizz. Distinct apricots, acid and a blend of something biscuity toyed on his lips.
She raised on her elbows. “Audrey. What did she do to you?”
Light from a white, shifting sun caught the mahogany wood of a chiffonier, warming the mood of the room.
“What do you mean?” he hedged.
“Why did her leaving mean so much? Make you like you were? Break you?”
He was silent for a moment, not sure where this question had come from. Bothered him where it was headed. “I don’t know,” he said quietly at last. “I really don’t know.”
A distant plane soared across the streaked sky. Liam followed it with his eyes until it vanished beyond the window. Even then, he still thought and wondered about it. Why Audrey’s making tracks with ‘His name is Flint’ had left him so off the rails. Broken him enough to need fixing.
Sugar rose from the floor and stood there in a Fanta-orange kimono by the chiffonier. Layers of age formed unique contours on the wood. She gazed peculiarly at him.
Slowly, his words began to form. He let them spill out in bits and fits as they came. “She was the works. Audie was. A prime cut.” Sugar nodded lightly. “Never thought she’d leave me. I couldn’t see life beyond her. Part of me collapsed when she left.” There was no texture in his voice. “Collapsed big time. I couldn’t stop—needing her. The need wouldn’t go cold. It burnt me. No frills around it, just a burning need. I almost died wanting her. I tried. Couldn’t make the wanting stop. Sugar, I tried.”
“You did, sailor,” she said. She wore a small, sad smile. “You tried. How long, champ?”
“How long?”
“How long was she gone before you came to me?”
“Five lunar cycles. Maybe seven. Can’t remember now.”
“A fine, fine lady she must have been.”
“She wasn’t.”
“Then life insurance. Was she life insurance to you, Liam?”
“Hell no.” Texture came back to his voice. “Never.”
Sugar laughed. A tickling, prickling whooper laugh that spread enough to make him smile.
“Then she was a fine cigar,” she said when she stopped laughing. “Or beautiful music you couldn’t dance to.”
