Out of the Blue

by JR Carroll

  He lit a cigarette, forgetting he already had one in the ashtray, and said, ‘If someone can die that stupidly, it doesn’t really seem right that I can just dust myself, does it? So when I taste gunmetal I automatically think of Michael, and he talks me out of it. I guess you could say he’s my failsafe mechanism.’

  Monica took her hand from beneath her chin and put it on top of his slightly trembling one, stilling it. She didn’t speak for a full minute, then whispered, ‘I like you.’

  ‘I like you too, Monica.’

  Eleven o’clock came and went and he failed to notice the hotel thin out. The lounge had become silent and now only they remained. Brett had already put the stools up and switched off most of the lights and now he and one of the girls were collecting glasses and wiping the tables.

  Monica glanced around, then looked at her watch. ‘Home time,’ she said.

  ‘Like a coffee at the bar first? I’ll do it.’

  ‘All right.’

  So he made coffee and they drank it companionably in the muted light. Monica sat on a stool and Dennis, drawing on a cigarette pulled from a freshly-opened pack, his third for the day, leaned on his elbows and faced her from behind the bar. Brett had left. Speaking in her low register now, Monica asked when he thought he might sell, and Dennis said that it would have to be late January, that he wished it could be sooner now that he had made the decision. When he folded his arms on the bar-towel and asked Monica about her plans she gazed dreamily over the top of her cup, and said that she hadn’t thought much about the future but that she would consider moving back to Adelaide, where her family still lived. Possibly she would study. When she’d said this she put the cup down, absently brushed the back of his knotted hand with her finger-tip and said how much she had liked the evening. The first stirrings of an erection came to him involuntarily at that moment. Sex had not been on his mind at all, but here it was rearing its head like a creature coming out of a deep sleep. Looking at her face in the dim light, he said that he had enjoyed himself too and thanked her for coming in and letting him sound off, and then, making a big effort, she finally said goodnight, stretched luxuriously, picked up her bag and went to the door. When she was about to go out, Dennis reminded her to put that ad in the paper, and she laughed again and waved gaily before closing the door behind her. Dennis washed out the two cups, switched off the percolator and locked the door, seeing no one in the street but hearing a car start, probably Monica’s. Ten minutes later he was lying naked on his bed, cigarette between his lips and hands behind his head as usual, watching smoke trail up through the lamplight, thinking of Monica and then of other things, allowing his thoughts to run around in his mind like trapped animals trying to find a way out.

  SEVENTEEN

  When he heard a car door close quietly somewhere behind the hotel he paid no attention, but then shortly afterwards there came the sound of discreet footsteps crossing the yard and then on the back steps, and that was different. He sat up straight and put out the cigarette. Someone hesitated, then began climbing the steps. He thought, YOUR NEXT. THINK ABOUT IT ARSHOLE, got up fast, pulled on his jeans, felt for and withdrew the Walther from the back of the closet, then slipped soundlessly out into the dark hall in bare feet. No one was staying in the hotel and no one had business coming in the back way. He checked the firearm and moved stealthily along the wall. A half-moon sent slabs of white light through the high windows across his body. The footsteps reached the top of the staircase and stopped. Dennis stood still. There was no sound anywhere except for the ringing thump of his own heart. He crossed the door so that when it opened he would be behind it. He held the gun alongside his cheek and watched the doorknob. Nothing happened. Then it turned and the door started to open. Someone opened the door and stepped inside.

  In an instant he grabbed the figure, threw him into the wall by the throat and jammed the weapon into his cheek; the shape screamed and then he knew who it was, released his hand, swore and closed his eyes, lowering the gun.

  ‘It’s me!’ she shrieked. ‘Monica.’

  ‘I know, I know. It’s all right, Monica. I’m sorry.’

  ‘My God!’ She sagged against the wall.

  ‘I thought you might be a burglar or something,’ he said. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Christ. I guess so. Unless you count a heart attack.’

  Still holding the gun he put his arms around her, standing still in the moon-slashed hall. He could feel her heart and her body shaking and then her sweat-filled hands slid on his shoulder blades. He held onto her and then when she’d steadied he ruffled the hair at the back of her head and kissed her cheek fleetingly, then drew back.

  In the semi-darkness her big eyes stared into his. ‘I’ll know better next time,’ she said quietly.

  ‘You should’ve yelled out or something.’

  ‘You might have shot me.’

  ‘No. Still on safety, see?’

  She couldn’t, but took his word for it. ‘Are you always this jumpy?’

  He shrugged. ‘I have been lately.’ Monica was looking at his chest, hair-coated and white with moonshine.

  ‘Did I get you out of bed?’ she said.

  ‘Uh huh. But I wasn’t asleep.’

  ‘Sorry for sneaking up on you. I didn’t mean to.’

  ‘Sorry for giving you a fright.’ He touched her face and took his hand away again. Monica breathed slowly out and then laughed noiselessly, a nervous reaction.

  ‘This is a dumb lock,’ he said. ‘I have to leave it unsnibbed or the guests can’t get in. Should put a deadlock I guess, but …’ He shrugged again, spread his arms, and she saw the gun catch moonlight and glitter briefly.

  She nodded, collected herself and said, ‘I got home and thought—I didn’t want to be there.’

  ‘Didn’t you?’

  ‘No. I wanted to be here,’ she said. ‘With you.’

  He did not speak.

  She waited, looking, searching his face. ‘Will I go away again?’

  He moved closer. ‘Why would you do that? You just got here.’

  He places the gun carefully on the windowsill behind her, takes her face in his hands. Monica stares up at him. He kisses her dry lips; she closes her eyes, breathes in his face; he holds her and kisses her again, pulling her head into his, tongue-kissing. Bristles scrape her skin and then his hands are in her shirt, feeling, fondling, rubbing her; he starts to unbutton her shirt, fumbles, pulls; buttons pop; the shirt disappears and he is kissing the top of her breasts, still bra-cupped; he unclips that, it falls, he feels and kisses her breasts, kissing and sucking both nipples and then driving his hand down inside her jeans and feeling cunt-hair; she groans, twisting, pulls his neck against her; he is dragging her jeans down; she wriggles, kissing his face; the jeans fall past her buttocks and then her panties too; he looks at her stomach and breasts, fondling them, feeling their firmness; they are trembling and puckered in the cool air.

  ‘What if someone comes?’ she says hoarsely, dragging him to her.

  ‘There’s no one else here,’ he says. He is kissing her throat, feeling up and down her body, rubbing it, rubbing everywhere, fingering her.

  ‘Wait,’ she gasps. ‘Wait.’ She puts a hand on his chest and he stops, steps back. He watches while she drags off her jeans and panties, kicks them away. She stands straight, tosses corkscrew hair. She is naked and lovely. He gazes upon her. She brushes a hand over her body, touches her pubic hair, holds it there, parts her legs, feels herself; he hears a wet sound. She lets the hand fall. Waits for him.

  They kiss, a long, hard kiss; she feels his crotch; he gasps in her mouth; she strokes the hard jutting shape, rubs it up and down, holds it, rubs, feels its size, rubs faster; they are still kissing; at last she undoes him, his cock in her hand now, Monica pulling it, pulling him off; he is hugely, burstingly stiff. Kissing stops; both gasp; foreheads touch, breath mingles, hearts thump, he leans on the wall, palms flat; legs quaking, cock on her stomach; he looks down, sees it, blood-gorged
, massive, her hand a blur, tugging him—

  ‘Monica,’ he breathes—

  ‘I know,’ she says—

  Quivers thrill; he is dizzy; she feels the surge of sperm; pleasure peaks, fills him; he explodes violently, sprays her belly, tits, throat, sprays himself, streaks of thick come flying, hitting; he groans, heaving; sags, legs rubber; she beats on; he comes and comes, spurts weaken, become dribbles; her hand, come-smeared, slows; he softens, dribbling still; she squeezes the last drops into her hand as deftly as a milkmaid.

  She strokes his trembling back, a wetly sliding hand. He leans, holds her head. She does not speak; he cannot. He takes her hand, the wet one; places it on his chest. He is a thumping heart, only that. She kisses him lightly, feeling the heartbeats. She is come-spattered, pools of it starting to break and trickle. He holds her in his arms, a whole body hug; presses against her. She squirms stickily. They stand in the dark, moon-striped hall, hugging, squirming. He kisses her shoulder, cups her buttocks. Wordlessly they stand. He stares through the window at the empty yard. When they break there is the sound of paper tearing.

  On the bed, arms flung back, legs jack-knifed, she watches through the V of her legs. Kneeling, he pushes her legs further apart. His cock is stiff again, throbbing. He is stroking the insides of her thighs.

  She breathes deeply through her nose. He touches her cunt, tickling it; the air is sucked from her lungs; she grasps the pillow beneath her head. He tickles, then fingers her, a wet clicking sound; her knees sway. With his fingers he finds her clitoris, holding one of her knees to still her. Then he comes forward, kisses her, strokes her face. His mouth slides down her body, kissing; she watches, follows him with her eyes; he kisses her nipples, her quivering come-stained belly, then her cunt. Over her mound she can see the top of his head, fair hair streaked with grey, moving in circles. He licks strenuously; he probes, licking the pulpy pink hole which she thrusts in his face. Juice runs out of her. His hands are beneath her buttocks, lifting them, licking, kissing the buttocks and her sweet soft thighs, kissing all the way up her leg, wet, juice-smeared kisses—

  She says, ‘Please—’

  He enters her at last; a guttural cry escapes her. He has filled her completely. When he fucks it is with deep, languid strokes, sliding in and out, his arms enfolding her neck; she shudders, comes quickly, crazily, tossing her head, comes again, his sliding dick working her; she comes again; he quickens his thrusts, she feels him build, grow thicker in her; he is grunting, gasping, fucking fast, driving to the line—

  She pleads, ‘No—not yet—’

  He stops, stays still—so close. She knows this. One stroke now and he is gone. She waits, rubbing his face, shoulders, rubbing his mass of chest-hair; he shows her a defeated, helpless face; all is useless. He finds it quite impossible not to move around in her. She gives in, relents, thrusts upwards—‘Go on then—’

  He does, creaming instantly.

  Lying contentedly. It is late. Dennis knows it is after three. He is extinguishing a cigarette, turning his back momentarily. Her finger traces the length of his spine. It is a non-sexual gesture. He returns to her, smiling, ruffles her corkscrews. Monica laughs through her nose. He puts a finger between her teeth and she nips it. He plays with her breasts, admiring them, strokes her raised hip.

  Monica pats down his chest-hair, stiff with dried come. She is taken with his body hair, a wide band of knotted brown curls that extends from his throat to his genitals. She plays with his cock, a harmless rodent resting in its nest of hair. This is idle fondling, devoid of sexual intent. Even when it begins to fill with blood she regards it with a detached interest, as if it is an object of curiosity rather than a potential source of pleasure.

  ‘You’re pretty well-stacked,’ she says when he is fully erect. He can see her mentally measuring.

  ‘So are you.’

  She smiles. ‘I always had the biggest tits at school,’ she says. ‘I was so embarrassed then. I refused to wear a bra so they wouldn’t stick out.’ He laughs. She strokes his erection. ‘Now I don’t care. I walk down the street and every man I pass stares at them. Even when I’m talking to someone they’re always trying to sneak a good look without getting caught in the act. Of course I flaunt ’em a bit.’

  ‘You’re such a tease, Monica.’

  ‘Well. You shouldn’t say that.’ Wide-eyed outrage.

  ‘No, I guess not.’

  Still playing with him, she says, ‘While we were talking last night I suddenly got the hots for you.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘I got really … antsy, you know? Started wetting my knickers. I was sure you’d notice.’

  ‘That’s funny. I had a hard-on just before you left.’

  ‘Really? Should’ve told me. You could’ve had me on the bar—or I could’ve had you.’

  He smiles, picturing it. ‘That would be an interesting variation. Not very comfortable, though.’

  She puts his cock in her mouth and sucks it tenderly for a moment. A flutter goes through him, but she is still only playing.

  ‘You really got it out of your system last night, didn’t you? In the hallway,’ Monica says.

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘I got a hell of a surprise.’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  She has it in her mouth again, sucking so delicately he can barely feel anything. This stimulates him more. His prick gleams, a column of stone sheathed in skin. She is eyeing him, teasing. He gives a little moan and she picks up the signal.

  ‘Don’t mind that?’

  ‘Do it all you like.’

  ‘Thought you were getting a bit that way.’ She takes the hint and goes at it more seriously, adjusting her position so that she is across his body with her back to him. He cannot see it happening, but feels her mouth doing its lovely work. For ten straight minutes she sucks religiously, cradling his balls; the corkscrew head rises and falls. He fondles her behind, fingering the cleft; she wriggles her butt towards him. She does a little squirt in his palm. She masturbates him too; tugging, sucking; he floats, haze-wreathed; pleasure rides in his legs and groin; he bursts forth, sings from the tips of his tingling fingers to the soles of his tingling feet.

  ‘I’ve never gone that hard for anyone before,’ she whispers.

  ‘I appreciate it, lover.’

  When she kisses him he tastes semen.

  Later she says, ‘Did you really think I was a prowler?’

  ‘There were no house guests. I wasn’t expecting anyone.’

  ‘You were pretty quick off the mark. Were you expecting someone? A particular prowler? You said you were jumpy lately.’

  He hesitates. Why not tell her. ‘I did have someone in mind, yes.’

  She turns interested eyes to him. ‘Who?’

  ‘Two men.’

  ‘Two men,’ she parrots. ‘Who are they?’

  ‘I don’t know their names. I know what they look like.’

  ‘Really. Do they want to rob you?’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe they want to do more than that. Maybe they want to kill me. Maybe I’m making the whole thing up.’

  She props on an elbow. ‘Why would anyone want to kill you?’

  ‘I wish I knew, Monica.’

  ‘How do you know what they look like?’

  ‘They were in the hotel last Saturday.’

  ‘Shit. What do they look like?’

  ‘One’s short and nasty, with tatts. The other’s taller, poofy.’

  She throws him a wide-eyed, child’s stare of disbelief. ‘I saw them too!’ she says.

  ‘Did you. Where?’ He is taking more interest.

  ‘In the street. They were standing outside the Blind Eagle.’

  ‘What time?’

  ‘About—half-past three.’

  He nods. ‘They’d just left here.’

  She constructs the scene. ‘That short guy was one mean-looking dude.’

  ‘He’s a jailbird. I don’t know what the other one is. You didn’
t happen to hear either of them speaking, did you?’

  ‘They were speaking, but I don’t remember what about.’

  ‘You didn’t hear a name mentioned?’

  ‘No, sorry. I’m not much good, am I?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that, Monica. I’d say you were outstanding.’

  She rests her head on his chest, thinking. His heart beats in her ear. Her eyes sting and she would like to sleep.

  ‘You’re a bad man, aren’t you? A good man, but a bad man too. I can feel it in your body.’

  ‘Can you?’

  ‘You fuck very aggressively. You’re full of violence, aren’t you?’

  ‘So they tell me. Must be something in it.’

  ‘You fuck with deadly intent.’

  The phrase, coming from her, shocks him mildly.

  ‘I don’t mean to insult you. Don’t misunderstand me. You fuck beautifully too, but—’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘You’re sort of—desperate. Manic. Nothing else exists.’

  ‘That’s a failing I’ve had all my life,’ he says. ‘It’s got me into a lot of trouble.’

  She says, surprising him again, ‘When you were in Vietnam, did you kill anyone?’

  A cloud crosses his face, which she cannot see. ‘No.’

  Monica sleeps. It is four-thirty. He has turned the light out and pulled up the blankets. She snores quietly on his shoulder, his arm enfolding her. He is thinking about Monica, how she makes love as naturally as a bird flies or a fish swims. She can pull off a man in the hallway of a hotel and think no more of it than grabbing a microphone and singing to a crowded bar on Saturday night. Although she is thirty-four she has a child’s simplicity of outlook and, like a child, asks endless questions that change tack without warning. He thinks of her as a child in a grown-up’s body, and a fine one too. But a child. He knows he will not see her again. Karen had been his one shot, the miracle every man dreams of, but now she has been taken from him and he is back where he started, behind the eight ball.