by Red Hammond
The others on Kristen’s list bothered him because they were female. They were teenagers, but that wouldn’t stop them. He was either a natural magnet for fucking or he gushed pheromones unlike anyone else on earth. The guidance counselor, well, he’d have to wait and see.
Hopper pushed through the front gate of his French Quarter apartment building, hidden down Burgundy Street, half-occupied. He didn’t pay much attention to the other tenants. The fountain in the courtyard was overflowing today and draining loudly into the grate. It seemed to Hopper that the whole city felt wet all the time now, even more so than before. Only a matter of time before they gave up trying to stay dry and became an American Venice. He stepped through a half-inch of rushing brownish water on his way to the stairs. At least the plant life was flourishing, maybe even taking over. Hopper had to push giant tropical leaves out of his way as he climbed. If he had to describe the smell, he’d say “a strong but sweet decay.” He’d seen a few snakes down there among the algae, weeds, vines, banana plants, and other wild-stemmed jungle species he could not name.
Inside, he had three messages from his older sister. Her name was Violet. He never thought of her by name, though. Always “Sister.”
First: “It’s too early for you to be working. Where are you? Give me a call soon, please. Colin just left for the Gulf.”
Colin was her boyfriend of the last few years. He worked oil platforms in the Gulf of Mexico, oil fields in Iraq, and was often back for a few days here and there before departing for weeks on end. Hopper imagined Colin had girlfriends waiting in most of his ports of call.
Second: “You’re holding out on me. This rain…my head hurts a little. I’ll be okay for awhile. Call soon.”
Hopper fell into his old mentor’s leather chair, reclined, and rubbed his temples with a thumb and finger. Most of the furniture was left over from the old man. The newer pieces were cheaper Wal-Mart buys, out of place and not covered with as much dust. Hopper didn’t want to call his sister.
The third message: (Long silence, then a sigh) “You don’t even have to call first, but I’d like you to. Please, Hopper. I need you to come over and fuck me.”
He would never understand her motives. A sickness, maybe the same type that screwed up the teacher who got knocked up—twice—by a seventh grader and went to jail over it. Maybe it was power, like the therapists say. Sister wasn’t an unattractive woman, and she obviously could hold down real relationships such as the one with Colin, and she had been married once for nearly six years before the husband realized he wanted children desperately and Sister would never provide.
Whatever the cause, the disease, the impulse, Hopper didn’t exactly feel like a typical victim. She’d always been the mother in his life since he was eleven. At the time, nudity between a seventeen-year-old high school senior and her younger brother was part of everyday life. Thinking about it years later, Hopper wondered if it wasn’t all part of some master plan. Sister had bucked the system, convincing their grandparents and a rich uncle that she should keep the house, raise the boy, and she could still attend college through a scholarship and some help from the extended family. She got her wish—persuasive, clever, sexy girl.
She would have boyfriends over. They would make out on the couch, on the porch swing, in her bed, in her parents’ old bed. She knew Hopper was watching, even if he was hiding in closets, peeking around corners. He knew she knew because after the boys would leave, she would call out for him. Shirtless, braless, her jeans unbuttoned as the MTV played INXS and Poison, she’d ask her brother, “What did you think of him?”
“He was ugly.”
“Just rough around the edges. I didn’t like how he touched me, though.” She’d stick her tongue out, make a face. Or if she did like the way he touched her, she’d run her hand down her neck until she reached her nipple, cover her breasts with her forearm.
“What was he doing when he put his hand in your pants?”
That’s how Hopper learned about sex, asking questions after these “demonstrations” from his older sister, and she would put her naked arm around him, pull him beside her on the couch, and explain it all.
“It’s fingering. You want to get a woman off, you can finger her, go down on her, or fuck her.”
When he was thirteen, he was still a novice with a lot of untried info. Videos and movies only gave him a little bit more than Sister was feeding him. Then he watched one of her boyfriends pull out his dick and start playing with it while he fingered Sister. She pushed him down to the living room floor, straddled his legs, and put his dick in her mouth. Every once in a while, she’d pull away and work him with her hand. It was during one of those moments when she said, “You’d better come. You’d better come now.”
Hopper was feeling his own hard cock by then, not exactly sure what to do with himself. He watched as the guy on the floor groaned, grunted, and then erupted. This gluey mess shooting out of him, hitting his sister’s chest, running down her hand. Then he calmed down. He was breathing hard. Sister and he laughed like they knew a secret.
“I’ll be ready again in a half-hour,” he told her.
Sister laughed louder like she knew a secret. “Dude, I’ve got the boy to deal with. School tomorrow, you know. Rain check for now.”
“That’s all I get?”
“More than I got. So wipe off and get out. I’ll bring you a towel.”
When he was gone, Hopper slipped up to his room, the erection still at full attention, aching, and Hopper really wanted to pee but couldn’t.
He sat on the edge of his bed, finally pulling his shorts down and letting the thing flick into the air. Much better. The front of his underwear was wet, and clear fluid was glazed on his tip. So he did what the guy downstairs did—wrapped his hand around it, tugged. It needed to be slippery. He licked his palm and tried again.
What the hell?
You usually think you’ve felt the range of things your body can feel after surviving childhood to become a teenager. You knew sex was out there, and people having the sex couldn’t get enough, but then you discovered why.
He was barely getting started when she knocked on the door. In that house, the knock meant she was going to open it immediately. So there she was in his doorway, T-shirt nightgown barely covering her blue panties, leaving bare her wide hips, seeming to get wider each year, and sculpted legs, tiny feet. She saw her brother with his cock in his hand, and she kept a straight face. Her throat made this noise, a deep hum that Hopper didn’t know what to do with. He stopped cold, covered himself with his sheet, reached for his shorts.
After a moment, Sister said, “It hurts, doesn’t it, when you can’t do anything about it?”
He said, “I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize. This is natural. We’ve talked about it.”
“Talk didn’t feel the same as this, though.”
That got a grin from her. He noticed she stood with her ankles crossed now, her torso moving in a little circle. She said, “Are you going to finish?”
“Later.”
“It’s still hard now, isn’t it? Do it now.”
Hopper knew no matter what he’d seen her do that the vice versa wasn’t supposed to happen. She was the older one, so why did she want to watch a brand new teenage man jack off?
“I can’t. Let me do it later, on my own.”
She took in a deep breath, slipped a hand under the bottom of the T-shirt nightie and tugged her panties down her hips until they fell to the floor on their own. She took a slow walk across the room to her brother, whipped the sheet off. Easing his hand away, she said, “Let’s do something about it.”
It didn’t really hit him until a month or so later, finally noticing the girls his age in school and what they lacked compared to Sister, but he still lusted for them without having to think twice. It didn’t hit him until Sister got mad when he turned her down a few times, the way she made him feel guilty about it. That’s when he started waking up in the mornin
gs, his naked sister next to him in bed, and running into the bathroom to vomit. It was wrong, what they were doing. She wasn’t going to let him stop.
Not ever.
Hopper ignored Sister’s last message and called the teen girls’ parents. He arranged to speak with both girls at once. Less dangerous that way. The parents would be in the room next door. Funny how they didn’t seem to have a problem with it, both saying something like, “As long as you’re not a cop. You’re really not a cop, right?”
“I’ve never been a cop.”
“Good enough for me.”
Something about “New Orleans” and “police”—the words didn’t mesh.
The frat boy was next, but Hopper knew he’d have to trap him, surprise him when he least expected. The current boyfriend, squeeze him in there too. And the guidance counselor, Hopper arranged a dinner meeting. Out in public. He had learned to pad himself that way, couple of layers of insurance.
He changed into fresh khakis, fresh Polo, fresh sport coat. On his way out the door, the phone ran again. He waited. Two rings. Three. He almost let the machine get it, but something pulled him to the receiver, in his hand before he could stop himself. He held it to his ear, didn’t even have to speak.
“I’ve been worried,” Sister told him.
“We have a new case. I have people to interview.”
“Can’t they wait a little while?”
“Every minute counts.”
One of her hums. Sister had filled out over the years, but her body was still erection-inspiring. Something about the wide hips, full saggy breasts, and her long hair, almost black. She had soul-piercing eyes. They drained you.
“It’s a full day, and I’m not sure when I’ll be done,” Hopper said.
“Surely before midnight, right? Ten?”
He closed his eyes, let the words out and stopped trying to stop them. “Yeah, by ten. I can be over by ten.”
“What will I do until then?”
“Take a shower.”
“Not until after. You’ll wash me, won’t you?”
Stomach cramp. “Yeah. Clean as your heart, Sis.”
While the parents of Janice and Layla were more than happy to let Hopper have some time alone with them to help track down poor Yasmin (“And give her mother some peace, the dear…”), the girls looked annoyed and bored. Most teenage girls looked that way to adults, but these two made a show like this was school.
The parents ceded the front sitting room to them, a narrow corridor with the nice new-but-antique furniture no one sat on much. A table to pile mail on in the afternoon, an uncomfortably small couch where the girls sat, and a high back chair and ottoman. Hopper took the ottoman, his knees too high to take notes on his lap. He’d need to remember and jot it down after in the car. The parents said they would be in the kitchen, out of sight, probably out of earshot if he could keep it down, but he knew they’d try to catch some of the conversation.
Janice was one of those rail-thin girls too short for her age. Maybe by her senior year she’d bloom, but now the only thing going for her was clear skin, no braces, a fairy tale cuteness to her face. Layla, on the other hand, was already chesty but also overweight, enough to make her look cramped in the tight low-rise jeans and stomach-baring tiny T-shirt. Her hair was straight, oily, and her lips took a natural downturn.
“I’m not saying anything different than what I said to the cops, so why do I have to keep doing it?” Layla said.
“It’s only twice, right?”
“The cops asked everything, like, four times. It was stupid.”
Hopper nodded, grinned, hoped to make them feel at ease. “I’m not a cop, and I’m not looking to uncover an elaborate illegal scheme. I’m not going to take you to jail or turn you in. All I want is to find Yasmin.”
The girls didn’t turn to each other, both staring at the hardwood floor instead. It was a move they must have practiced exactly so they wouldn’t turn to each other, give the game away. They knew something, Hopper was certain.
“Anything?” he said.
Janice shrugged. Layla started to, then said, “We saw her at school, she was fine. We had stuff to do or we would’ve called her that night.”
“Both of you?”
“Extracurricular activities,” Janice said.
Legitimate ones, Hopper thought.
He tapped his pencil on his knee. When the metal band around the eraser struck, it stung. “Hard to believe with cell phones and instant messages and texting that she didn’t even try to contact you.”
“The cops already checked us on that. We’re clean,” Layla said, causing Janice to bite her lip, giggle.
Layla nudged her. “Quit it.”
Janice giggled louder, and Layla grinned. “Shut up!”
“You!”
Hopper sighed. The girls stopped the horseplay and watched him, lips slightly parted as if they’d never seen a man so troubled before, not even a substitute teacher—there’s always one, young and new and all the kids asked him, all day every day, if he was gay. Hopper knew what was ahead of him the rest of the day, into the night, and he was already tired. The girls caught it. They seemed…sympathetic.
“If she’s alive, I can help her. Whatever it was that made her run, I promise to help her and not give her up if that’s what she wants.” Memories of Cynthia surged as he said it.
Janice was quiet for a while, then mumbled something like, “She was a hot mommy.”
Layla’s eyes went wide and she hissed through her teeth. Hopper was about to follow-up when a knock sounded on the wall by the archway leading to the rest of the house. Janice’s dad stuck a grinning face into the room. He was late-thirties but dressed for fifty, golf clothes as casual wear. Must have been success that led to that. Not a working class trait.
“Everything going well in here?” the dad said.
Hopper nodded, thought about getting up, but he didn’t want to invite conversation with him. Useless, just when the girls seem to be giving way a little.
“We’ll be finished soon.” Hopper winked. “They’re telling me exactly what I need. Can’t thank them enough. Five more minutes.”
The dad shot him a thumb’s up, said, “I’ll be right over in the kitchen when you’re done.”
“Got it.”
He disappeared. Hopper had no idea what sort of Morse Code these girls had passed between them in that thirty seconds, probably sealed the lid tighter than…never mind. They sat with palms together between their knees, Layla the only one willing to make eye contact.
“What did you say, Janice?”
She rolled her eyes.
Layla’s eye contact turned into an examination, all over Hopper’s body. She was getting past the thick glasses and bad haircut and seeing the muscles, the strength, maybe the outline of his cock resting against his thigh. To the girls, most thirty-year-olds were too old to be attractive, but they knew their favorite actors were getting up there in age, so maybe cute was cute and the times had changed. Hopper hoped not. He hoped they saw him as a crummy authority figure without a glint of sexuality.
Layla said, “We’ll tell you what you want to know if you do something for me.”
Shit.
“What would I have to do?”
The girl blinked and leaned her head in Janice’s direction. “Kiss my friend.”
Hopper put on his best fatherly disapproval grin (maybe he could pass for an uncle at best) and said, “Yasmin’s life is at stake here. There’s no time for this.”
“Just a quick kiss. She’s never had one before.”
Janice yelped. “I have too!”
“That guy didn’t count. He bit your lip. This man can show you how it’s supposed to feel.”
Sweat dripped from Hopper’s armpits down his sides, pooling at his waist. “This is really inappropriate. I thought we were making progress here—”
Layla lowered her voice to a whisper. “One kiss. Hurry. Then we give you a clue.”
He g
lanced towards the archway, wondering how much time he had before the next parent came to check on him. He heard voices faintly, discussing politics or something they saw on A&E. He stood, hoping that the slightest appearance of doing it would be enough to satisfy the girls. Janice was perfectly willing, head tilted back just a little and her eyes bright like a couple of raindrops reflecting sun. Hopper leaned over and aimed for her cheek, his dry lips bouncing off, a tiny smack for effect, but he lingered a moment, Janice’s wet glossy lips moving, searching for his, starting to open. He backed off, rose to full height.
“That okay?”
Layla reached over and slapped his leg. “No, that wasn’t right. You’ve got to tongue kiss her. French her.”
Another glance at the archway. Thoughts of jail. Thoughts of rape at the hands of the more moral criminals—murderers, dealers, gangbangers—who didn’t take kindly to “short eyes.” “It was only a kiss.” “That’s what they caught you doing. God knows what you’d’ve gotten away with. Bend over.”
Hopper worked it out: She’s sixteen. She’s older than Lolita. She’ll tell you what you need to know. You’ll never see her again.
He eased down to his knees, tried to make it fast and not meet her eyes. He didn’t shut his, but she did. Lips, together. Moist, a faint watermelon taste from the gloss. Her tongue like a dart. The boys she had kissed treated it like an attack. He pushed her tongue away, teaching her rhythm, patience, tenderness. It was about stimulation, not strangulation. He forgot time for a second, Janice finally getting it, her lips and teeth and tongue reminding him of how it could be when the kiss was the thing.
