Naked Addiction

by Caitlin Rother

  He took a bandage out of the cabinet. When he turned around to sit down next to her, she had a blank look on her face. She obediently let him clean the wounds and wrap them. That’s when he noticed the scars on her wrists for the first time.

  “What happened here?” he asked, wondering how he could have gotten so involved with such a sick girl.

  “I was playing when I was little and got cut,” she said quietly.

  He knew she was lying and decided that was the last night they would spend together. On the edge was fine. Over the edge was not. He saw her at Pumphouse after that, and still sold her as much coke as she wanted, but there was no more playtime.

  The sun went behind a cloud at the beach and Seth rolled onto his back, putting on his sunglasses to cut the glare. As he went over the night he met Tania, he realized that she was possibly the only woman he’d ever met who was worth remembering. And now she was dead. How was that for irony?

  Seth had noticed her as soon as she came into the bar on Friday night. It was the way she moved, as if she knew she was being watched. He immediately imagined her naked. She was one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen. He had to have her. He approached her table, and to his surprise, she seemed rather indifferent, yet at the same time, it was if she’d been expecting him.

  “Hello,” she said, extending her hand as if she wanted him to kiss it. He did, and she smiled, knowingly. He’d never met a young woman so sure of herself. Seth felt a little turned around, his body humming with an unfamiliar energy. Was he actually scared to ask her to dance in case she said no? But she didn’t. She was an incredible dancer and when he put his lips to her neck, her skin smelled intoxicatingly sweet. It wasn’t an artificial scent like perfume, but rather a human soap-and-water smell that would have been ruined by anything chemical. He couldn’t get enough of it.

  “Meet me outside and I’ll take you home,” he whispered to her. She didn’t answer. When they finished dancing, he asked her again. She thanked him for the offer, but said she preferred to take a cab. He figured she was just playing hard to get, but that was fine. It only made him want her more. And he could play a game as well as anyone. So he left. He knew they weren’t done yet.

  Clover was outside, waiting for him next to his car in the parking lot. “Why her, Seth?” she snapped. “I thought you only liked blondes.”

  He had zero interest in Clover at that point, not even as a way to relieve the sexual charge shooting through his veins. “Clover, don’t be like this. You’ve got to let go.”

  “I don’t want you seeing her again,” she said, angrily. “She goes to that beauty school I told you about, and we’ve gotten to be friends.” Clover flung her arms around his neck, and started crying. “Let’s go back to your place. I want to make you feel good.”

  Seth felt only pity for the woman, and wanted her to get the hell away from him. He could see Tania standing on the curb at the other end of the lot and he was worried she would see them together. But when he tried to push Clover away from him, she slapped him.

  “Fine. Fuck you,” she said, charging off into the night.

  Seth couldn’t be sure Tania hadn’t witnessed their little drama, so he decided to pretend nothing had happened and hope for the best. He cruised over to where she was standing and rolled down his window. She looked so sexy standing there in the moonlight, the curve of her back sloping down and around to that perfect ass. He could think of nothing but that smell of hers, how much he wanted to explore the rest of her body and kiss her some more.

  “Seriously, why don’t you let me give you a ride home?” he asked.

  Tania smiled and shrugged and climbed into his car. Neither of them mentioned Clover.

  Seth’s daydream came to an abrupt end as a wave crashed, crept up the sand and licked the bottom of his feet. He shot up, whipped his towel away before it got soaked, and moved to higher ground. He lay down, closed his eyes again, and tried to bring his mind back to Friday night. He ran his fingers through the sand and tried to remember how it felt to skim his fingertips over the unbelievably soft skin of her back, her breasts, her stomach. How she’d kissed him even more sensuously in her living room than she had in the bar, softly sucking away the wall of resistance he’d felt with other women. Until that block came down, he’d never even realized it was there. Until that night, he would’ve said it was an impossible scenario: At twenty-seven Seth Kennedy was finally in awe of a woman.

  She took him by the hand and led him to the kitchen, where she gave him a choice between some very nice wines or a chilled bottle of Dom. He picked out a bottle of 1985 Cabernet Sauvignon from a vineyard he’d visited with his parents. She opened it like an expert, poured them each a glass and they toasted.

  “To new friends,” she said.

  Then she kissed him again, teasing him with her lips and barely touching his chest with her breasts. He could feel her nipples harden against him. He was on fire. They spent the entire night, the next morning and into the early afternoon, alternating between making love and sleeping.

  As his mind went over the images that followed, the cloud moved away from the sun and Seth saw only red. He realized that he’d never used the phrase “making love” before, even in his own head. For a few moments, his body trembled with the memory of her touch.

  Chapter 18

  Goode

  Goode punched the pillow, but it barely bounced back. It just sat there, flat and lumpy. He felt mildly pissed, first at the motel and then at himself. Why would he check into a cheesy motel and then expect the pillow to bounce back? Not only that, but the room smelled of stale smoke. He’d specifically asked for a no-smoking room.

  Feeling a spring poke into his butt, he moved over a bit and slid slowly into the valley that was the middle of the mattress. If he continued to dwell on the lack of amenities, he’d never get to sleep. The neon red numbers on the clock read 11:45 P.M.

  Just as he was dozing off, a car alarm ripped through the damp night air. Goode leapt up and pulled back the orange and green plaid curtains. They felt thin, a little slimy and were coated with rubber nubbins. The streetlights cast a glow over a beat-up red truck, a yellow Honda Civic the size of a six-pack, and a dark blue Camaro, all of which had seen better days.

  The noise seemed to be coming from the Camaro, which was parked under a pepper tree in the back corner of the lot. Every fifteen seconds, the sounds switched from a high-pitched siren, to a low staccato beep, an even louder siren, and then back to the beep. Goode wanted it to stop. Now. Or somebody was going to get hurt.

  If he wanted to impress the brass, Stone said, he shouldn’t go crazy splurging on an expensive hotel, so Goode had gone low-end. But he would be no good at the funeral if he got no sleep. He would do things differently the next time—spend his nightly travel allowance and then pay the difference so he could get a decent room. In the meantime, he had to kill that alarm.

  He called the front desk and sputtered into the phone: “Can’t you do something?”

  The night clerk said something in a Middle Eastern accent, then hung up. A few minutes later, he came to the door in his slippers, offered a light bulb to Goode and mumbled something unintelligible. Goode slammed the door, sighed, and shook his head. Then he felt bad that he’d yelled at the poor guy, who was still standing there when Goode opened the door to apologize. The detective pointed down to the Camaro and put his hands over his ears. The man shrugged indifferently, said something incoherent, and shuffled back downstairs to the front office.

  Goode figured it would be at least an hour of hell before the car battery went dead, and by then, he’d be ready to shed his own skin. Searching the room for a distraction, he tried picking up the TV remote, but it was glued to the bedside table. It was David Letterman time, and he couldn’t get the damn thing to work. The battery was probably dead. How ironic was that?

  Goode was really exhausted. It felt good to lie down, even on a crummy bed. He’d spent the afternoon cruising around the Beverly Hill
s neighborhood where Tania had gone to high school. He’d interviewing a number of witnesses, many of whom were still living with their parents. The homes were like fortresses—expansive estates with high walls, coniferous trees and tall iron gates. One of them had a beautiful Japanese garden, with decorative rocks and a black marble fountain, circled by bonsai trees.

  He didn’t learn anything that he hadn’t already gleaned from the diary. His picture of her was becoming more three-dimensional, although it was still pretty focused on her sexuality. Her friends said she was a well-liked, beautiful girl, but on the edge of the popular crowd because she was in smarter classes than the rest of them. Nonetheless, she was still voted Homecoming Queen, probably because she exuded sexuality, but also because she was very friendly. In the end, he didn’t find any of her friends to be likely escort candidates, but vice wasn’t his area of expertise.

  After having talked to Tania’s mother, he was curious to put a face with the voice. He wondered if she knew how complicated her daughter had been and whether Tania had taken after her. But because Tony and Helen Marcus had already talked to Stone that morning at headquarters, he decided to let them grieve in peace and leave his prurient curiosity unsatiated for the moment.

  The saliva samples from Seth and Keith would be analyzed by the time the memorial service started the next morning, so he would withhold judgment until then, but keep his eyes open for clues that could be helpful later.

  Goode still had no cause of death and no motive. But the more he read of the diary and the emails, the better chance he had of connecting the multitude of dots he was collecting. As he lay there, he felt a little scattered, overwhelmed, in fact. Maybe it was the caffeine, or maybe not enough sleep. He looked forward to the moment he could say, Aha! Perhaps he felt he needed to go over the reading materials more carefully so he could start seeing those connections.

  He was embarrassed to admit, even to himself, that he’d been in a more or less constant state of arousal since he started reading Tania’s writings. He hadn’t been able to stop imagining how she’d moved, the scent of her hair, and the taste of her lips.

  But it’s only natural to picture what she was like, right? Plus, I have to really know her to find her killer. . .Don’t I?

  Pulling out the binder of emails from his overnight bag, he opened it to a page two-thirds of the way through, from the previous summer. It was addressed to felicity@girls.com. He seemed to remember Girls being the name on one of the magazines in the stack under her bed.

  I could describe it as a craving. A sexual craving is not all that different from a physical hunger, because starving myself sexually can produce a hunger all its own—a longing and an emptiness that I feel compelled to quiet and fulfill. It usually hits me on a Friday morning and distracts me from work until I plan a night on the town that promises some interaction. I’ve tried fantasizing instead, but it’s only good in a pinch. I’ve come so close to the real thing in my head as I’m lying in bed, touching myself, that I can actually feel my body tense and my breathing speed up. I imagine tangled limbs, soft strokes alternating with firm squeezes. Being engulfed by a man’s muscled arms or held inside the bend of his leg. Him kissing me up the back of the neck and rubbing my ass. Bending me over the arm of the sofa and pulling my skirt up. The problem is, no matter how much I fantasize, or even how much a man actually touches me, I always want more. You know what I mean?

  Totally, Felicity wrote back. You have a way with words. Send me more of your writing and maybe we can publish you again in the next issue.

  Goode was impressed that this girl had already been published by the age of twenty-four.

  What an interesting mind this young woman had. I wish I’d known her, even if only for one night.

  He skipped ahead, and found another note to Felicity, but this one sounded full of more angst than fantasy.

  You know how some days you wake up in someone else’s bed and you wonder, “What am I doing here? Do I really need to be held that badly? Do I really want someone I don’t know all that well to touch my most private parts, even when I know those hands were touching someone else the night before?” I had one of those interludes last night, and now, I feel so detached and alone. My body feels like it doesn’t even belong to me. I guess I’m in transition mode, getting ready to move from LA to San Diego, and then who knows where. Maybe that’s why I’m just jumping from one guy to the next. A med student to a doctor, a law student, a screenwriter, an actor. . . What’s next? I’ve always wanted to date an architect, so he could help me design my life. Like Jason, the art director I worked with this summer, told me, “Just keep thinking white space. You don’t always need to fill it with something.” That’s easy for him to say.

  How could this woman be only twenty-four? Goode allowed himself one last email before he put the binder away. Maybe he’d have more pleasant dreams than usual.

  Sometimes I don’t even know who I am. Like last weekend, I wore knee-high boots, tight black jeans and a low-cut black sweater. Kind of trashy, really, but it worked. I caught the eye of that cute bass player at the Spritz Club. He took me back to his place and showed me his pierced nipple. It was such a turn-on I almost melted. Last Thursday, I wore a flowered dress with a high-necked collar and a string of pearls, and I felt virginal. Ha. That’s pretty funny. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to let a man get too close to me ‘cause I don’t want anybody trying to figure me out, asking me questions like that therapist did last year. He was so gross, so old and so wrinkled, not to mention lecherous. I’m still pissed my Mom made me go see him. Like she couldn’t find someone other than Dad’s golf partner to send me to. Well, I guess my friends are pretty bizarre too. Rachel told me yesterday that she only sleeps with black guys. And Joanne likes men in uniform. She’s been out with security guards, police officers, firefighters, even with that guy who runs the elevator at the Hyatt. I don’t get that at all. I’m just looking for a guy who can hold my interest.

  Goode fell asleep imagining what she looked like in those knee-high boots.

  Chapter 19

  Goode

  Tuesday

  The alarm on Goode’s watch roused him out of a dream in which he was being chased by a man with a pierced nipple. His T-shirt was clammy.

  “Showtime,” he whispered as he pulled back the covers. He’d slept as well as could be expected, given the alarm mishap, the bad pillow, and the Valley of the Mattress.

  The cold bathroom tiles felt good on his feet after sleeping in Santa Ana heat. He took a deep breath and felt a stinging in his nose. That evil dust was still in the air. He’d definitely had enough of the stifling hot, dry winds and he’d forgotten to bring his allergy medication. He hopped into the shower, expecting a nice soothing wake-up, but the water kept going from hot to cold, hot to cold.

  Goode was shaving when he heard his cell phone ringing on the sink. It was Stone, calling from home, and he sounded pissed. Said he was just getting ready to go play catch with his son in Balboa Park when the lieutenant called. Another beauty school student was dead in PB, a redhead named Sharona Glass.

  “So now we definitely know there’s some connection to the beauty school,” Stone said.

  “Shit,” Goode said.

  “What, did you know her?”

  “No. Maureen told me a couple of weeks ago that she’d met a few women from a new beauty school in La Jolla. I didn’t think anything of it until I found Tania Marcus. I called and went by Maureen’s house in PB before I hit the road yesterday, but no one was home. I should have gone in. . . .”

  “Simmer down now,” the sergeant interrupted. “You go to the memorial service and I’ll send a unit over to Maureen’s and see if she’s all right. I haven’t seen her around for months. What’s the address?”

  “It’s on Turquoise Street near Cass. The address fell off the house but it’s white with yellow shutters. Her roommates are two surf-bum pool cleaners. Call me when you get a chance and let me know if you hear anything, ok
ay?”

  “Will do. You just concentrate on the funeral and see if you can figure out what that connection is. I’ll have Byron process the new murder scene. When you’re done up there, head down to PB as soon as you can, and he’ll bring you up to speed. It’s one of those apartment complexes right near the beach on Chalcedony. By the way, Slausson and Fletcher said they trailed Seth, Keith and Jake for a while, and the three of them didn’t meet for a giant drug pow-wow or do anything else suspicious. Seth and Keith mostly went separately to real estate appointments. Jake got up early—really early—to drive up to UCSD and went into the biochemistry building. So it sounds like he told us the truth about being in the master’s program up there. Looks like a dead end to me.”

  “What about those cross-checks between Tania, Samantha Williams, Seth and Keith? Anything there?”

  “Sorry, no. Dead end. No connections at all, at least with the names we’ve got for them.”

  “What about the taxi driver? Did Slausson catch up with him?”

  “Yeah, the guy swears he dropped off Alison and never met anyone named Tania Marcus. He grumbled about the short fare but said she gave him a nice tip so it all worked out.”

  Goode jotted down notes as Stone rattled off the information, then hung up. He was late for the funeral but decided to try Maureen’s number one last time. After listening to the rambling voice mail greeting again, he left a message in that fatherly tone she hated. He couldn’t help it when he was this worried.