Outburst

by R. D. Zimmerman

  ALSO BY R.D. ZIMMERMAN

  Innuendo

  Closet

  Hostage

  Tribe

  Red Trance

  Blood Trance

  Death Trance

  Mindscream

  Blood Russian

  The Red Encounter

  The Cross and the Sickle

  And by R.D. Zimmerman writing as Robert Alexander

  When Dad Came Back As My Dog

  The Romanov Bride

  Rasputin's Daughter

  The Kitchen Boy

  Deadfall in Berlin

  Outburst

  A Novel by

  R.D. Zimmerman

  ScribblePub

  Minneapolis, MN

  the most original of the original™

  Outburst

  Copyright © 1998 by R.D. Zimmerman

  www.robertalexanderbooks.com

  MOBI ISBN: 978-1-61-446009-1

  ePub ISBN: 978-1-61-446008-4

  Published in the United States of America

  All rights reserved

  Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the authors or the publisher.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Cover Design by Christopher Bohnet / www.xt4inc.com

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  eBook design by Rickhardt Capidamonte.

  Acknowledgments

  Many thanks to those who so generously shared their expertise and encouragement, including investigative reporter Gail Plewacki, producer Cara King, Senior Assistant Hennepin County Attorney Kathryn Quaintance, Sergeant Rob Allen, Dr. Don Houge, Gail and Betsy Leondar-Wright for their insights and wisdom, Ellen Hart, Katie, Lars, Chiara, my wonderful editor Tom Spain, and, of course, the very many transgendered people who've shared their joys, hopes, and triumphs both in a number of books and on the Internet. I tried to get it right, forgive me if I didn't.

  While there have been cases of genital injury, this novel is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents in this novel are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Outburst

  Prologue

  Late June

  Sex was the last thing on her mind when she'd agreed to help cater the benefit, but it was the first thing she thought of when she saw him.

  Dressed in a snug black-and-white uniform, Kris was carrying a tray of canapés—little half-moon pastries filled with smoked duck and a tiny bit of chutney—when she turned from one small group of guests to the next. And there he was, standing in front of the dark-oak bookcase. Tall. Brown hair gone quite silver. Blue suit, blue tie, blue eyes. A strikingly handsome face, perhaps once a bit boyish, now simply and utterly endearing.

  She, a born-and-bred Minnesota beauty with short blond hair that she curled to give it height and body, held out the silver plated tray, found her voice, and said, “Care for an appetizer, sir?”

  He turned from a man in a brown suit with whom he was discussing something about the stock market—Up, up, up, isn't it great?—glanced over the platter of beautifully arranged food, then looked at her. And that's what scared Kris, for their eyes met and held on, which in turn sent a rush coursing through Kris's lithe body. She was so quickly aroused that later she would look back on the moment and think that it was as if he'd thrown a switch on in her—no, a circuit breaker, she would silently laugh, because she'd never felt anything so powerful before—but right then and there she concentrated on holding the tray steady. Which proved no easy feat, for he reached for one of the hot canapés and brushed the back of one of his large, warm, hairy hands against her long fingers. Kris tremored as if she were being penetrated—whatever you do, girl, don't drop this fucking tray, ‘cause you'll get your ass fired and you need the money, you know you do—then quickly turned.

  She was in her early twenties, he had to be in his mid-forties if not early fifties. Surely this guy, whoever he was, was old enough to be her father. Get away, that was all Kris could think of. She looked the innocent sort, but the stark truth was that she'd had trouble enough in her young life, had done more in bed with more guys than most women would do in a lifetime, and so she was wise well beyond her years. She knew what had just happened here, just as she knew it could come to no good.

  Escaping from him, Kris continued through the largest home she'd ever been in, a stucco mansion built by some farina heir ninety years ago, a huge butter-cream structure that fancied itself on the hills of Tuscany rather than on the west side of Lake of the Isles in Minneapolis. Kris scurried from the library and into the massive entry hall, a vaulted space with a black-and-white marble floor and now filled with perhaps fifty or sixty guests sipping champagne and munching everything from the smoked-duck pastries to pepper-crusted beef crostini. Only one person, a slim, short man of average looks with what seemed a perpetual frown, had neither food nor drink.

  Kris could turn on her manners as easily as she could her coyness, and she extended the tray of hors d'oeuvres to him and said, “Wouldn't you care for something? You've been standing by the front door all evening.”

  “No,” he said, pushing up his glasses with his right index finger and glancing quickly at her. “Not while I'm working.”

  Such was this law clerk, the host's assistant, who by all accounts was a tad nerdy. Obviously brilliant. Very severe. He'd not only taken it upon himself to welcome each and every guest into the McMartin home—the McMartins, scions of the local newspaper family, were off hiking in Tibet and had loaned out their house for tonight's event—but to oversee virtually every aspect of the event. And back in the kitchen Kris had been forewarned that this guy, not his boss the judge, would be the difficult one to please. In other words, beware the hired pain in the ass.

  “Of course,” Kris replied, her lips parting into a gentle smile, for she was first and foremost a temptress. “But how will you know if our food is up to your expectations if you don't try anything?”

  “Oh, right,” he said, focusing on the canapés with workman-like concentration.

  Offering him a napkin, Kris added, “The duck ones are my favorite. They're luscious.”

  After examining them all he chose one and shoved the entire thing into his mouth. When fresh guests suddenly appeared at the door, however, he all but jumped and all but swallowed his food whole. He then quickly, carefully, nervously wiped his right hand and held it out.

  “Thank you for coming to the fundraiser. I'm the judge's law clerk, Douglas Simms.”

  Turning back to the guests, Kris foisted the rest of her food on several clumps of people, then headed toward the living room. But first she glanced back. No, he hadn't emerged from the book-lined room, wasn't lingering in the doorway, as she had both half hoped and feared. Nothing. That was nothing back there, she told herself. And you should be glad.

  Carrying her empty tray, Kris descended two steps into the living room, a huge space that alone was bigger and taller than most houses. There were supposed to be some three hundred people here, which it most definitely seemed there were, to raise money for the Poverty Law Foundation. Kris even recognized some, including the Milquetoast mayor of Minneapolis and a clump of media personalities. Turning, she even saw that gay guy from TV, Todd Mills, who was now trying to bear up as Babs Curtis, the larger-t
han-life radio personality with the large voice and pearls, was assaulting him with her large banter. Kris even scored a scowl from Ms. Curtis, who, unseen by virtually anyone else, puffed out her chest as if to say, Young lady, you may have gorgeously slim legs, lips like an overripe plum, a nice flat tummy, and the most lascivious of faces, but, girlfriend, those titties of yours are nothing compared to these bazooms. And thank God for that, thought Kris, hurrying along. Sure, she could use a little more chest, but not jugs like those.

  She proceeded along the back wall of the living room and past the grand piano, where some bald guy in a tux was playing light classical music that was all but drowned out by the buzz of the crowd.

  As she slipped past the Steinway, the musician, who was certainly old enough to be her grandfather, swooned toward her and mouthed, “I love you!”

  Shit, she thought with a sour smile, too much makeup. Kris had waitressed before, but she'd never worked a catered party, and she was here only because her neighbor and pal Burt had begged her just three hours ago. Two of our waiters have this summer flu thing, he'd pleaded, I'm beyond desperate!

  “This is the biggest contract Travis has ever got,” Burt said, referring to his boyfriend, Travis, with whom he owned Peacock Catering. “And every rich person in town is going to be there, because the buzz is that this really isn't about raising money for some stupid foundation. No, they're saying this is really Judge Stuart Hawkins's debutante ball—supposedly he's just a few weeks away from resigning so he can run for governor. We blow this and Travis might as well flush his business down the toilet. We succeed and we'll be catering banquets for the future governor, because if Hawkins does in fact run he's sure as hell going to get elected.”

  Okay, Kris had said, but how was she supposed to know that you weren't supposed to outshine these matrons, that six o'clock in the evening was much too early for the depth of her eyeliner and the richness of her lipstick? She was only just learning how to tone down her beauty, that only a hint of makeup made her blue eyes and high cheekbones look more classic than cheap. Yes, she with her short blond hair and her slim but regal stature was a real Scandinavian beauty. She knew that for a fact, couldn't help but pass as such.

  On the far side of the room Kris climbed two steps and passed through an arch into the dining room. And there he was, so utterly handsome and so obviously waiting in ambush. An empty glass of champagne in one hand, a crumpled napkin in the other, the silver-haired man fixed his eyes on her as steady as headlights on a doe. More than several people noticed, Kris was sure, and this time her pale skin flushed not with desire but with embarrassment.

  He took a half-step toward her. His thin lips parted. And Kris ducked to the right, whooshing through a swinging door, passing through a pantry that was lined with fine dishes and crystal glasses, then entering the huge kitchen. Kris swung her doily-covered platter onto the center island and stood there. Oh, shit, why had she agreed to this?

  “Whatsamatta, doll face?” asked Travis, dressed fully in chef drag, replete with the tall hat, as he used a pastry bag to squirt a dollop of artichoke mousse on a line of five-dozen toast points. “You look all red. Listen, there's no way in hell you can get sick, too, but if you are, you go down through that door over there. You go into the basement where we got all our extra dishes and you puke down there. Am I clear?”

  Kris nodded. “I'm fine.”

  “Good. Then don't just stand there, get these frigging toast points out of here.”

  She reached for them.

  “No!” screamed Travis. “Get yourself a new doily, Kris! That one's all greasy! And put some parsley in the middle, for Christ's sake!”

  Jan, red-haired and voluptuously plump, whooshed in with her empty tray, saying, “Travis, Judge Hawkins loves the phyllo triangles. Got any more?”

  “Oh, fuck!” Travis raced to the stove, threw open the door, and pulled out two cookie sheets of spinach-and-feta appetizers, the phyllo darkly browned but not burnt. “Thank God!”

  There was no space let alone time to linger in here, so Kris loaded up her tray again, then headed out. Entering the dining room, she scanned the chamber. Flowers, tall and lush and colorful, stood in a vase on the long dinner table. Scattered about on mirrored trays were blanched asparagus spears wrapped in prosciutto, imported cheeses, delicate crackers, and turkey tartlets.

  And on a sideboard sat huge silver coffee servers, rotund and steaming.

  But he was not about.

  Relieved, Kris continued with the job at hand, passing the artichoke mousse on toast points, which—considering this moneyed crowd—were seized with unsophisticated glee. Kris made it only midway into the living room before her fare was gone. She glanced through a group of people, saw the piano player lifting both hands from the keyboard and blowing her a schmaltzy kiss. No one, though, seemed to notice his broadcasted affection or, for that matter, the pause in music, since you could barely hear anything above the din of conversation. Only another hour and a half, thought Kris, and this would be over. These fancy folk would go back to their world, and she would retreat to hers.

  When she turned to head back to the kitchen, however, there he was. Kris's heart skipped along like a rock on water, then sank into heavy pounding. He stood in what could only be superficial conversation with a much older man in a double-breasted navy blue blazer and a gray-haired woman dripping with gold bangles and rock-sized jewels. Oh, shit, thought Kris. She'd always been attracted to older guys, but that had never meant someone over thirty. Yet here was this guy and he was, she swore, the most attractive man she'd ever seen. And when their eyes locked again, this time so briefly, she knew in a flash that they'd both been transported to the same lustful fantasy. Nearly paralyzed, Kris watched as he broke away from his conversation and started toward her, her flushed body telling her mind exactly what she didn't want to hear: Yes, he really wants you.

  Forget it, she told herself. Stop it. Not long ago she'd sought her future in California, but instead had discovered trouble, the big kind, when she'd spread her legs for a hot guy. And this, she sensed, was no good, too much the same. She spun the other way, heading not toward the kitchen and another load of canapés, but away from him and out the other end of the packed living room. As she made her way up the two steps, she saw him following. Oh, no. Please. The cumbersome tray in hand, she darted past the judgmental eyes of Mr. Major-Domo by the front door, past the library, down a narrow hall, and to a staircase that curled downward. She glanced back, thought she'd lost him. Just to make sure, though, she descended, following the wooden steps down and into an old entertainment room, which in this grand house had a huge fireplace, wrought-iron light fixtures, dark-oak woodwork, and a billiard table in the middle. Perhaps, thought Kris, she'd be able to hide here until the party was over.

  But, no. Footsteps, heavy and sure, on the stairs sounded the alarm. Tossing her silver tray like a Frisbee onto the billiard table, she darted toward a door, pulled it open, and entered a dark, unfinished basement. Kris passed beneath old pipes, dangling wires, while overhead, just atop those heavy beams, the party continued, footsteps clomping, voices laughing, and somewhere—broadcast better down here via vibration—the piano. She came around a corner, entered a workroom filled with old screen windows, a dusty air conditioner, and proceeded to a long workbench covered with a mound of tools and household supplies. She, Kris told herself as she leaned against the bench, was going to get her life in order. That was why she'd fled Los Angeles and returned home. It was about getting away from the dark shadow of that cop and his toxic brother, about healing, about getting her life in order. She deserved to be happy, damn it all. And she deserved a good man.

  She froze when she heard his steps glide across the concrete floor.

  With a husky tone, he called across the dank room, saying, “You're the most beautiful young woman I've ever seen.”

  She wanted to cry right then and there, unable to believe that he was seeing her as such. Oh, God, you're not supposed to be
lieve in this kind of guy. The perfect kind, the Prince Charming stud. But he was just that, wasn't he, or shouldn't she at least find out? No, she should bolt away. He had to be like the one back in L.A., nothing but a hurricane of problems. There was another way out of here, wasn't there? A staircase that would lead up to the kitchen?

  Yet Kris didn't move. Her back to him, she clutched the edge of the grimy bench and stood there in her tight black waitress uniform, her blond hair flopping into her eyes. As his feet shuffled closer, Kris closed her eyes, bit her bottom lip. She wasn't a whore. She just wanted love. Someone who'd wrap his arms around her and tell her that all the pain she'd already experienced in this short life of hers was done. Over. No more.

  And he did just that. He came up behind her—she counted the steps. Five. Kris tensed as if she were about to be attacked, then felt his arms slip around her trim waist and pull her against his strong, warm body.

  She started trembling, shaking all over. What was happening here? Couldn't he read her? Didn't he realize that it was she who was the black hole of chaos?

  He said, “It's okay.”

  And by the way he said it she understood that he didn't mean, It's okay, I won't hurt you. No, he meant, From now on everything's going to be fine.

  Kris swooned, yet he held her steady. She wanted to stand like this forever, facing a sea of chaos with this mountain of security embracing her from behind. But of course that was impossible, because through their layers of clothing she felt the strength of his erection rise and press up against her ass. In one swift whirl, she spun around, lifted her mouth to him, and they were kissing, her full lips pressing hard against his thin ones. Their tongues exploded and intertwined, and Kris reached beneath his suit coat and clawed at his back, used all the strength her thin arms could muster to pull him closer, closer, closer. She let herself be gobbled up, ran her moist lips over his clean-shaven cheek, drank in his cologne, felt his mouth on her ear. Above the flagrant lust it flashed in Kris's mind: This is it, this is him, this is what I want. He reached down, caressed her tomboyish chest, then leaned over, kissed her neck. And of course, then he reached down, ran his meaty hand down her flat stomach, lower, lower, lower.