by Frank Zafiro
In prison, most men couldn’t sleep out of fear.
For Richard, it was a simmering anger that kept him up. Just as soon as he’d start to fade into sleep, images popped in his mind. Almost always, it was that little punk Stefan Kopriva. Le fils de pute! Richard saw him over and over, how he tricked a confession from him outside the locker room. Then testifying against him in court. Playing his little tape recording. So smug.
Richard knew he would see Kopriva again.
He wouldn’t be in here much longer.
The lawyer was good and the judge sympathetic, but most of it was simply because he was Phillipe Richard, hockey player. Grand-nephew of Maurice Richard, the Rocket, but he played like Dave “The Hammer” Shultz. On his way to the NHL on the power of his fists before that little piece of merde—
Richard stood, drew a long, deep breath and let it out.
He’d accepted a plea bargain. Three year sentence for manslaughter instead of second degree murder. He had twenty-two months left, counting good behavior.
His cell-mate slept peacefully on the top bunk. Richard stared at him malevolently, jealous of his repose. Todd’s quiet breath filled the cell. The dainty outline of his chin, nose and mouth made Richard grind his teeth. They reminded him of Kopriva.
Mon Dieu, he should not have to stare at that.
He reached out and nudged Todd. The smaller man could roll over and face the wall. If Richard could not sleep, at least he didn’t have to be reminded of Kopriva constantly.
Todd stirred awake and saw the hulking Richard looming over him. His eyes widened in panic.
“No, please! I—”
“Roll over.”
“Don’t hurt me,” Todd whimpered. “I’ll…I’ll do what you want.”
Richard’s lip curled in disgust. “Relax. I am no pédé. I just want you to—”
“Please,” he pleaded.
Richard clenched his jaw. He was Phillipe Richard, hockey player. Enforcer. He wasn’t some kind of pervert. He loved women only, not—
“Just don’t hurt me,” Todd said.
Anger flared up in Richard. He reached out and grabbed Todd by the shoulder and jerked him up right.
Todd screamed.
Richard whipped a huge fist into Todd’s face. He felt the cheekbone snap beneath his knuckles.
Todd screeched and thrashed on the bunk. Animal rage flooded Richard and he pumped his fist into Todd’s head like a trip-hammer. He felt like he was on the ice again, gloves and sticks discarded, in the heat of battle. Kopriva’s face flashed before him and he unleashed his hatred into each blow.
Light flooded the block. Richard punched.
Buzzers. Clanging metal. Cries of men.
His fists were wet. And red.
A jolt went through him and his body went rigid. He collapsed to the ground to the clacking, zapping sound of electric current. He couldn’t move.
The current released him. A mass of bodies descended on him, pinning him to the ground. Someone ratcheted handcuffs onto his wrists.
“Oh, Jesus,” someone else muttered.
One of the guards stood him up. Zimmerman. His eyes were round with wonder.
“Why’d you do it?” he asked Richard.
Richard glanced at the still form on the top bunk.
“Jesus, Richard,” Zimmerman said. “You were out of here in twenty-three months.”
“Twenty-two,” Richard murmured, staring at Todd’s collapsed face.
“Well, you’ll do life now.”
Phillipe Richard didn’t answer.
Cassie
I was paying bills when the tentative knock came at my door. I wasn’t sure if it’d been mine or a neighbor’s until the second series of taps. I eased the door open and peered through the crack.
Cassie.
She wore a loose T-shirt that hung a couple of inches above the waistband of her faded jeans. Her navel peeked out beneath the white cotton. Her eyes were cautious, but when she saw me, a hesitant smile touched her mouth. The slightly crooked tooth at the edge of her smile glinted at me.
A strange rush of emotions washed over me. Desire. Curiosity. Shame, because of recent events.
“Stef,” she whispered.
I motioned her inside and closed the door.
What could I say to her? I’d just spent fifteen days in jail on a gun charge and had my name dragged through the streets like Hector in the dust behind Achilles on his triumphant lap around Troy.
“Are you okay?” she asked me.
I nodded.
“Is it true? What the newspaper wrote about you?”
“No,” I answered automatically. I hadn’t read the newspaper, but experience told me it wouldn’t be accurate.
“I…I didn’t think so.”
We stood still for a tense, awkward moment. The weight of unrealized, brooding desire all those long months hung between us. I motioned toward my kitchen. “Can I get you—”
She stepped into me, catching me on the mouth in mid-sentence. Her lips were warm and soft. After a moment’s surprise, I returned her kiss. Body heat radiated from her as she pressed into me. Her tongue found mine, chased it. Caught it.
I reached around her, pressing my hand into the small of her back. She clutched at my shoulders and pulled me tighter. My surprise faded, replaced by an erection that came on so suddenly that it hurt.
A first kiss is always magical, whether surrounded by romance or awash in passion. Her lips and tongue sent zinging thrills out to the ends of my hands and feet. All sound in the room faded. My whole world became Cassie. Her warmth. Her electric touch. The scent of her excitement and light perfume rising in waves off of her body.
We struggled out of our shirts, breaking off from kissing for just the barest of moments. I reached out for her breasts. She gasped. Pants and underclothes were stripped away, I barely remembered how. We staggered back into the table. I swept the bills and my checkbook aside and sent them clattering onto the floor. I lifted her onto the edge of the table. She moaned into my mouth.
I entered her in one deep thrust and groaned at the sensation of her wet warmth and she answered me with a long sigh. Her heels dug into the back of my thighs, pulled me deeper, forcing her hips forward to meet my thrust. Our mouths mimicked the connection below, hot, wet, urgent.
I felt pressure building and willed it down, but it had been too long. Too long since I’d known a woman. Too long that I’d wanted her.
I broke away from her mouth. Her moans turned to gasps. Every stroke, I went as deep as I could and held for half a beat.
I kissed her neck. Her head lolled back. She dug her fingers into my upper back, pulling me ever tighter.
The familiar ache began to build. Two strokes later, the ache became ecstasy and washed over me. I let out a guttural cry and thrust into her. She matched my movement. For a long moment, we froze, bodies tense and rigid and pressed together. Ribbons of warmth flooded out of me and into her.
We held that position for a lifetime.
Afterward, we moved to the bed. She nestled her head onto my chest and draped her leg over mine. The sweet, pungent aroma of our sex hung in the air. Sound returned to my world. The ticking of a clock. A distant car horn. Muffled voices in an upstairs apartment.
Neither of us said a word. I was afraid to break the spell. I knew the first words after this were important ones, but I didn’t know what they should be.
“I didn’t believe them,” she finally whispered.
She meant the newspaper. I’m sure they’d had a field day with me. Arrested with a fourteen year old runaway in my car, outside the house of an admitted pornographer. No doubt the implications were lurid, but the truth was that I’d found the girl as a favor to her father. I was getting her out of there. And even though Detective Jack Stone hated my guts, he couldn’t twist the truth into anything but what it was. The newspaper could, though.
I stroked the long braid of her hair. “They wanted to sell papers.”
W
e fell silent again and eventually, to sleep.
When I woke, she was gone.
I haunted the Rocket Bakery, even after I learned she didn’t work there anymore. I kept hoping somehow that she’d change her mind and come back to her old job. To me.
The summer passed, hot and slow.
Fall came. Hockey season started. I took a job helping a player named Phillipe Richard. Huge mistake. After that, I quit going to games at the arena.
Instead, I thought about her all the time.
Thanksgiving came. Christmas approached. A subpoena arrived for me to testify in the Richard case in January. I taped it to the fridge.
Three days before Christmas, I heard it again. That same tentative knock. This time I knew it at the first tap. I pulled the door open. She stood there with puffy, red eyes. She’d cut her hair short.
We stood silently, staring at each other. I tried to think of the right words, but before I could, she burst into tears.
“I didn’t know who else to go to,” she sobbed and fell into me.
I held her close, standing in my doorway while she cried. Once her sobs lessened, I swung the door shut and guided her to my kitchen table.
“What’s wrong?” I asked her as we sat down. A jumble of different emotions screamed at me. I wanted to help her with whatever made her so upset. To know why she came to me eight months ago like she did and why she left just as suddenly. And what was it I really felt for her? Lust, or something more? Had it ever been anything more?
She wiped at her eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
She shook her head. “I am. I’m sorry I came here like this. And for leaving before, without saying anything.”
I didn’t know how to answer that. Instead, I asked, “What’s wrong?”
“I’m in some trouble.”
“I gathered.”
She met my eye. I thought I saw a flicker of the passion that had flowed out of them eight months ago. “I’m sorry I left. I didn’t know what else to do.”
“You could have stayed, that’s what else.”
“You’re right.” She bit her lip. “I was just scared.”
“Of what?”
She sighed. “Everything. You and me, just getting started. What the paper wrote about you. A new job.”
I ignored the first item on her list. “The paper lies. What new job?”
“A nursing job. I graduated from school while you were…”
“In jail,” I finished for her.
She nodded. “Yeah. I got a job offer in Seattle, but I didn’t want to leave without seeing you. Then I came over and we…well, it was all just too much.”
“That’s where you’ve been? Seattle?”
“Uh-huh.” Her eyes brightened slightly. “It’s a good job.”
“Better than schlepping coffee, I imagine.”
She smiled. “That wasn’t so bad. Some of the time, it was even pretty good.”
I swallowed. I wanted to tell her how much I’d missed her, even though I couldn’t say why. I couldn’t even explain it to myself. I wanted to ask her to leave her job in Seattle or let me leave River City and go with her. I wanted everything.
This time it was me that leaned into her. Instead of raging with passion, our kiss was slow and sweet. Careful. I touched her tongue with mine with a gentle hesitation. Her hand brushed my cheek, then cupped behind my neck and pulled me deeper into the kiss.
Neither of us moved with any great speed. Steadily, though, I pulled her to me. She straddled me in the chair, pulled my face into her chest. My hardness strained against the denim of my Levi’s as she rocked slowly atop me. Her small breasts pressed into my face. I reached up and caressed them with both hands. A low moan escaped her throat.
In that chair, we rocked together, we rubbed together, like we were dancing to some ancient tribal song. Clothing peeled off and fell away. The warmth of her skin radiated against mine. I flicked my tongue over her hardened nipples and was rewarded with a sharp intake of breath. Then she lowered herself onto me and it was my turn to make noise.
The first time had been frantic and then it was gone. That’s why I think we took it so slow this time. She barely rocked on top of me. I hardly returned her thrust. I traced my fingers up from the small of her back to her shoulders, delighting in the softness of her skin. She took my face in both hands and rested her lips next to mine. We tried to have the longest kiss on record. I don’t know if we succeeded. I know that after a minute or an hour or a year, I felt her stiffen and clamp her thighs tight to my hips. I recognized the urgent sound the spilled from her lips when they broke away from mine. I felt the beads of sweat form on her brow. They rolled off hers and coursed down mine.
We rocked for another slow forever until I made urgent sounds, too. She never stopped moving until my sounds ended and my face fell forward into her breasts.
She held me there and silence found us again.
Much later, we moved to the bed. She toyed with the hair on my chest. I stared at the ceiling until she was ready to talk again.
“I’ve made mistakes in my life,” she finally said without prelude. “Stupid things, when I was younger.”
I smiled bitterly but said nothing. My mistakes were legion.
“I dated a guy named Erik Yeager about eleven years ago. I’d just turned twenty. He was a few years older.” She ran her fingers through my chest hair. “I let him talk me into things. Maybe I wanted to do them. I don’t know.”
She was quiet for a moment, then went on.
“A few pictures was all at first. Then he convinced me to let him videotape us having sex. He said we’d erase it afterward.”
Lies, I thought. The check is in the mail. I love you. And I promise not to come in your mouth.
I said nothing.
“I thought he did erase it. Even after we broke up, I figured the tape was gone and all he had were a few pictures of me in sexy poses. One topless, that was the worst of it.” She sighed. “Until about a month ago.”
“He contacted you?”
“He sent me a DVD.”
“Of the sex.”
“Yeah. From the videotape.”
“Why’d he send it to you?”
She burrowed her head into my chest. “Blackmail.”
“How’s that?”
“He wants five thousand dollars or he’ll post it on the Internet.”
The Internet. My mind flashed to the case that landed me in jail and the shady fucks I’d rescued Kris from. If that experience was any indication, the Internet was full of videos like Cassie’s. Or worse.
“Is that all?”
She shook her head. “No. He said he’d send the link to everyone at the hospital I work at.”
Son of a bitch.
“I’ll lose my job,” she said. “It’s a religious hospital. They won’t want to deal with the scandal.”
“You could get a job at a different hospital,” I offered. “Nurses are in demand.”
“I could. But I like it there. It’s a good job. Besides, it isn’t just the job.”
“Then what?”
She paused. “It’s hard to describe.”
“Try.”
She heaved a sigh. Her breath blew across my chest in a hot rush. “When I was young, I felt differently about things. Sex was just sex. Love was a myth. Everything was for fun.”
“And now?”
“Now?” She sighed again. “Now, I just know that there should be a certain dignity to it. Some kind of meaning. Not trotted out onto the Internet for some horny perverts to look at and…”
“Can you pay him?”
She snorted. “No. I’m up to eyeballs in student loans and it’s expensive to live in Seattle.”
“Did you try to reason with him at all? Offer less money?”
She nodded. “I offered fifteen hundred. He said no.”
He should’ve taken the deal.
“What are you going to do, then?” I asked, though I
knew what the answer would be.
But she didn’t answer.
She didn’t have to.
Erik Yeager’s house was a California split-entry on the fringe of the Hillyard neighborhood. Beyond a haphazardly shoveled walkway, there were no signs of habitation. The windows were absent of Christmas decorations.
I knocked, reverting to the authoritative rapping of a police officer, even though those days were more than a decade behind me.
A red-headed man without a shirt opened the door. Flaccid nipples hung from his soft chest above a roll of fat at his middle. “Yeah?”
“Erik Yeager?”
“Who wants to know?”
“Cassie,” I said.
His eyes narrowed. “What about her?”
“You think we should talk about blackmail out here in front of you neighbors?”
His glanced darted left and right. “You got the cash?”
“Let me inside.”
He pursed his lips for a moment, then swung the door open and stepped aside.
“Lead the way,” I told him.
He gave me an irritated look, but turned and stomped up the stairs.
I stepped inside and closed the door behind me. Almost immediately, the gamey scent of body odor assaulted my nostrils. There was another smell, too. I’d encountered it when I’d done walkthroughs of the dirty book arcades. That was years ago, but there’s no forgetting the pungent stench of stale come.
Yeager stood in the center of his living room, his arms crossed in front of his flabby chest. “You got the money?” he asked again.
“No,” I said.
“Then why are you here?”
“To negotiate.”
“Who the hell are you?”
“I’m a friend of Cassie’s.”
He studied me for a moment, then smiled. “You’re banging her, aren’t ya?”
I didn’t answer.
He took my silence as affirmation. “She still a hot number?” he asked. “Because she was a fine piece of ass back when I had her.”
I ground my teeth. “Listen—”
