by Steve Alten
Emotion crumbles Danny’s face. Glee. Tears. Relief. Exhaustion. ‘I don’t know what to say?’
‘Just say thank you.’
‘Thank you! Thank you, thank you, thank you—’
‘What’s the catch?’ Sia asks.
Lilith smiles. ‘Maybe I’m just trying to buy my way into heaven?’
‘I doubt that.’
‘Sia!’
‘It’s all right, Daniel. Your wife is right to question my motives. I’ve heard it said that sin is the Devil’s daughter. Do you know what’s worse?’
‘No.’
‘Fear.’ Lilith stands, allowing her hand to casually tease Sia’s hair as she walks by. ‘I was raised by fear. For as long as I can remember, fear dominated my dreams and every waking thought in between. It robbed me of my childhood, stole my innocence, and left me its victim. Fear of death. Fear of abuse. Fear of being abandoned, of being alone. Fear of losing love.’
She settles on the sofa opposite Daniel. ‘You know what the worst thing about fear is? It keeps us from recognizing our one true power … that each of us possesses free will. Fear kept me in check for fourteen years, feeding off me, until it pushed me to the brink of suicide. And that’s when I grew angry. Anger mobilized me to take risks. From that moment on, I stopped being life’s victim. I learned to use the powers of the flesh to get what I want.’ She motions with her hands.
Danny nods, mesmerized by her words and his Ecstasy-laced cocktail.
‘You married wealth,’ Sia states. ‘What risks did you ever take?’
Lilith spreads her legs slightly and winks at Danny, offering him a tantalizing view of her crotch. ‘It takes talent to marry into wealth, Sylvia, especially when you come from nothing. Wealth must be seduced … teased. Power requires trust, trust—deception. Look at Daniel. He took a risk tapping into his company’s funds, no doubt seduced by your own greed and ambition. I admire that. The ability to seduce makes us powerful, don’t you agree?’
‘And thank God for it,’ Danny says, feeling giddy.
‘God may have given us our sex organs, Daniel, but it was Lucifer who taught us how to use them. Now show me yours.’
‘Huh?’
‘My presence makes your wife jealous. Use it to your advantage.’
Danny’s pulse throbs. ‘I … I don’t understand?’
‘Show me the new Daniel Diaz, the man you always dreamed you’d be. You have your money, now take control of the moment. Order Sylvia to perform oral sex.’
‘You’re nuts, lady.’ Sia stands to leave. ‘Keep your damn money, I’m nobody’s whore.’
‘We’re all whores, sister. Watch me, I’ll show you how it’s—’
‘No!’ Sia pushes Lilith aside. Quivering with anger and adrenaline, she stumbles around the coffee table to her husband. ‘Take off your pants.’
‘Sia—’
‘Shut up and do it. She paid for a show, we’ll give it to her.’
Danny moans as his bride takes control, burying her face in his groin.
Lilith moves closer. ‘It’s all about power, isn’t it, sister. Who controls who.’ She grabs Sia by her hair and yanks her face away before Danny can climax.
‘Hey—’
In Lilith’s free hand is a small box. Sia opens it.
Inside is her engagement ring.
‘Sisters share.’
Sia feels dizzy, lost, as if she is living the moment from someone else’s perspective. She watches as Lilith places her mouth against her husband’s erect organ.
Danny lays his head back and closes his eyes.
For Daniel Diaz, senior structural engineer at NASA’s Top-Secret Project: GOLDEN FLEECE, the night is indeed still young.
Fraternity Row, University of Miami
Lauren wraps her arms tighter around Sam’s waist as he propels the Harley-Davidson HY-1200 motorcycle along College Avenue at 96 mph. Wind whistles past her headgear, the sleek black-and-chrome hydrogen-powered cycle cutting a hole through the humid evening air.
Sam banks hard, directing his hog into the student parking lot. He reaches for Lauren’s hand, but she pulls it away. ‘Come on, don’t stay mad.’
‘Why this Tanner woman? Can’t someone else interview you?’
‘It’s part of my PCAA obligations, Lauren. What am I supposed to do, insist on a male reporter?’
‘Yes!’
‘Well, I can’t, okay? So just drop it.’
‘Fine.’ They walk down Fraternity Row in silence. ‘You know, Sam, maybe it’s time we see other people.’
‘Come on, Lauren.’
‘No, I’m serious. We’ve been together since ninth grade. It’s not healthy.’
‘Says who? Your friend, Tierney? She’s just jealous.’
‘Maybe … but she has a point. We need a break before we get married. You should experience some other people.’
‘Lauren—’
‘I’m serious. If I get that research grant, I’ll be gone for four weeks. Use the time to “grind some fresh bone.” Get it out of your system. If you don’t do it now, our marriage’ll never last.’
‘And what about you? You planning on “draining” some park ranger while you watch Old Faithful?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Bullshit.’ He spins her around, then sees the tears. ‘Lauren, I don’t want to grind other women.’ He smiles. ‘I just want to grind you.’
‘Okay. But I swear, if I find out you were with that—’
He kisses her, cutting off the expletive.
Lauren kisses him back. Passion replaces fear as she grinds her pelvis into his, drawing him in deeper. ‘Let’s … skip … the party.’
‘Can’t.’
‘Yes you can.’ She continues kissing him, rubbing her hand along his crotch.
‘I can’t … okay maybe … no, wait—wait, stop, Lauren, stop—I have to make an appearance. Just a couple of minutes, okay?’
‘Why?’
‘Because they’re my teammates.’
She stops teasing him. ‘Some teammates. If you ask me—’
‘Which I didn’t—’
‘—they’re more like your employees. All they care about is their damn playoff bonuses. You need to look out for you. You should have turned pro last year.’
‘Well, I didn’t. Now come on, we’ll stay for an hour and finish this in your apartment.’
‘No we won’t.’ She pushes him away. ‘I won’t be in the mood.’
‘Fine.’ He takes her hand, leading her toward the frat house. ‘Hey, maybe I’ll meet some fresh bone—’
He winces as she slaps him upside the head.
The orange-and-white-stucco, horseshoe-shaped two-storey structure affectionately known as ‘Jock-U’ is an open-air hacienda-style mansion containing an in-ground football-shaped swimming pool, hot tub, and, for those annoying rainy days—a retractable sunroof. The facility sleeps 112, has a full-time staff of cooks, trainers, maids, and tutors on the premises, and like Sam’s Harley, is paid for out of the PCAA athletic budget.
The Professional Collegiate Athletic Association took roots back in 2008 when the former governing body of ‘amateur’ intercollegiate athletics, the National Collegiate Athletic Association, lost a class-action lawsuit filed on behalf of five thousand student-athletes who charged the NCAA had no right to prevent them from receiving nonathletic-related monies while enrolled in school. Faced with the reality of finally having to pay their breadwinners, the NCAA voted to reorganize into a separate and independent governing body dedicated solely to ‘professional’ collegiate athletics. Encompassing Men’s Division I-A football and men and women’s Division I basketball, the Professional Collegiate Athletic Association (PCAA) established standardized pay scales and benefit programs for its revenue-generating participants. This included full tuition, room and board, school supplies, a monthly stipend (based on undergraduate status) and a bonus program, which rewarded grade point average as well as postseason tournament participation. To rem
ain eligible, a PCAA student-athlete was required to attend class (in person) and demonstrate satisfactory progress toward a five-year degree. Any athlete could try out for the professional leagues at any time and still return to school—provided they had not yet accepted a pro signing bonus (usually held in escrow until after final cuts) or played a minute of regular-season ball. Any PCAA athlete who did turn pro prior to graduation was required to immediately refund from their signing bonuses all stipend monies earned while at school. Athletes choosing to remain in school until graduation earned a ‘diploma bonus’ a figure based on the team’s won-lost record during their years of participation.
By 2017, the PCAA football playoffs were generating revenues surpassing those of the National Football League and National Basketball Asociation.
Lauren follows Sam through the Art Deco security arch leading to the front entrance. He places his hand upon the SID pad.
A holograph appears—a well-endowed topless blonde wearing a G-string. The model’s computerized face has been replaced with Coach DeMaio’s, the voice with that of teen pop singer Lacy Wong. ‘Good evening, Samuel Agler, you hunka-hunka burning Hurricane love. Please enter me so I may please you.’
‘Uh, thanks … Coach.’
They pass through the weapon detector’s violet indicator beam. The double doors slide open, allowing them entry into a high-ceilinged hall engorged with loud technomusic, neon holographic creatures, flashing lights, and mobs of mostly naked bodies.
Lauren leans over, yells, ‘It’s like the last days of Rome meets disco.’
K. C. Renner, who is wearing an aluminocloth shirt and boxer shorts, is the first to greet them. ‘My bonus baby, gimme some bone.’ Renner’s and Sam’s knuckles collide.
‘Good evening, Lauren.’ Renner’s voice turns sarcastically stuffy. ‘So glad you could join us.’ The quarterback shakes her hand, then licks it.
‘You’re disgusting.’
‘Thank you. Food’s everywhere, plenty of strange … oops, sorry. M’casa es su casa.’
The staccato pulse of the bass, originating from surround-sound speakers strategically placed beneath the porous floorboards, is literally sending music vibrating up through their bodies.
‘Isn’t it a bit loud?’ Lauren yells.
‘Yeah, great crowd. Hey, everyone’s out by the pool. Come on.’ Renner leads them through the packed hall. Groping blue-and-yellow-tinted hands reach out to touch them as they pass.
A set of soundproof Plexiglas doors part, allowing them to escape the noise into a home entertainment holograph suite. The doors hiss close behind them, shutting out the hallway acoustics.
The room is black, backlit by matching columns of ceiling-to-floor lava lamps and a 3-D holographic movie projecting in front of the far wall.
As Lauren’s eyes adjust to the dark, she notices movement along the floor—couples, making out in sensory body bags.
K. C. directs them through a second set of soundproof doors. They pass the food prep room and exit into the courtyard.
Humidity and the heavy scent of the pool’s ozone filtration system hits them square in the face. The soothing calypso sounds of Cuban heartthrob, Elian, comes from palm tree speakers planted along the periphery.
Cheerleaders, groupies, and prostitutes, most of them naked, lounge in and around the football-shaped pool in clusters, a dozen of Sam’s teammates drifting from one group to the next. Lauren spots Jerry Tucker in the hot tub, the enormous lineman sandwiched between two bare-breasted Jamaican-dyed Asian girls. Another teammate is lying on the deck behind him, passed out in a puddle of vomit.
She shakes her head. ‘Miami’s gridiron warriors. Pillaging the village before their next conquest.’
Ken Hudak, the team’s heavily muscled, pine-green-dyed middle linebacker, struts toward them, dragging his date, a Haitian girl wearing only a bandanna around her waist. Lauren stares at the couple’s his-and-her hip tattoo, which creates the illusion of two bulldogs doing it doggy style when the pair are making love with the girl on top.
‘Mule—we gotta talk, man.’ Before Lauren can object, Hudak drapes his arm around her fiancé and leads him away.
K. C. shrugs. ‘Sam’s a popular guy.’
‘Too popular.’
The Haitian girl slides over to K. C., grinding her bare groin into his hip. ‘I’m tired of playing defensive ball. How ’bout teaching me a little offense?’
K. C. winks at Lauren. ‘Back in a minute.’
‘Yeah, go grind your brains out.’ She watches him lead the girl away.
Lauren’s eyes search for Sam. She spots him by the hot tub, surrounded by most of the team’s defensive starters, all of whom are dyed the same shade of Miami green.
The hell with this … She heads back inside.
‘You’re accusing me of tanking it?’ Sam shakes his head in disbelief.
Hudak leans in, spewing his garlic breath. ‘We lost. No way we lose to the fubishitting Seminole-holes if you’re running the way you usually do.’
‘I had 104 yards on the ground, 54 more receiving. I scored a touchdown.’
‘Don’t diss us, Mule,’ says Keith Plourde, the Hurricanes’ cocaptain. ‘You haven’t run for less than two hundred yards since you were in grade school.’
‘I need that playoff bonus, Mule,’ Brian Mundt whines. ‘I’m fuupdass without it.’
‘Maybe you wouldn’t be so fucked-up-the-ass if you learned how to tackle,’ Sam says, pushing the defensive end out of his face.
‘I heard a ton of gamblers lost money on the point spread today,’ Keith Plourde states, accusingly. ‘Maybe you were in on the action, huh?’
Sam lunges for Plourde, pile-driving him backward against a palm tree.
Hudak and Mundt intercede before the first punch is thrown.
‘Knock it off!’ The veins in Hudak’s thick neck bulge like garter snakes. ‘We know Mule wouldn’t do that, K. P. What we don’t know is if our soul brother is turnin’ pro?’
‘Not this season.’
‘Yeah, but what about next year?’ asks Jeff ‘Bubba’ Larsen, Miami’s six-foot-three-inch, three-hundred-pound all-American strong-side linebacker.
‘I don’t know.’ Sam stares down Larsen, his heart pounding with adrenaline. ‘I haven’t decided.’
‘Fuck!’ Now it’s Larsen who is ready to strike. ‘You leave after this year, and we’re all fuupdass. Between stipes and bonuses, we’re talkin’ a buck forty large a piece.’
‘One forty-five,’ corrects Mundt.
‘Most of us don’t got two-hundred-million-dollar GFL contracts waiting out there,’ growls Matt Eterginio, the starting free safety.
‘None of us have,’ Sam corrects. ‘You’re supposed to be an English major, Matt. Of course, you’re also supposed to be a free safety, but that didn’t stop FSU from takin’ it to the house on you all afternoon.’
‘Okay, everybody just calm down,’ commands Hudak. ‘Look, Mule, we’re your teammates. Your brothers. Brothers stick together.’
Brothers stick together … The words seem to echo in his brain.
‘Are you gonna be there for us, Mule?’
They crowd around, creating a pine-green wall of flesh.
*
Lauren surveys the banquet table of food and drugs in the dining hall. The sushi and Chinese ribs look tantalizing, but she passes. The last time she ate at one of K. C.’s parties, she ended up playing naked volleyball on the dean’s lawn.
She hears cheers. Bored, she follows the sound to the entertainment suite.
A dozen football players are lying on body cushions, drinking beer and watching a 3-D holographic replay of the Miami-FSU game. Lauren grabs a juice pouch off the cooler tree and takes a seat on the floor.
The projection is playing Miami’s opening drive. A hovering spherical-video end zone cam zooms in on K. C. Renner as he mouths incomprehensible signals, the action set at ultraslow motion. The quarterback takes the snap and pitches the ball to Sam, who heads to
his right, where several Seminole players are waiting.
Wild cheers of ‘Mule … Mule … Mule’ as Sam executes an eye-popping pirouette, races back toward the line of scrimmage, then stiff-arms his way through a wall of defenders like a mad bull, opening up his own hole.
Lauren feels goose bumps. She allows herself a smile. Maybe I won’t be tired tonight …
The camera zooms in tight on Sam’s face.
