by Ray Hoy
* * *
I awoke around 3:00 a.m., momentarily confused to find a moist, warm body curled up next to mine. A long, trim leg lay across my hips. Her face was against my chest, her long chestnut hair spread across my belly. My left arm was under her, and it had gone to sleep hours ago.
I didn’t want to wake her, but I just had to get some help for that arm. I started to slip it up over her head when she sat straight up, turning quickly to stare at me, wide-eyed. “God, Jack! You scared me!
“My arm died,” I said.
“Oh, poor baby,” she said, shuffling around on the bed until she sat cross-legged, facing me. She picked up my dead arm and dropped my hand into her lap, palm down. I stared at it, resting there on that field of kinky black pubic hair, while she massaged my arm with both hands.
“I can’t wait,” I said.
“Can’t wait for what?”
“For the feeling to come back in that hand.”
She looked down and laughed. “You’re terrible.” She worked on me for another minute or two, then sat back, gave me a slap on the arm, and said, “There.”
She touched the long white scar that runs the length of the bottom edge of my right jaw. “Where’d you get this?”
“In a jungle somewhere. I forget.”
She looked at me with new awareness. “And this one?” She touched a long scar running across my stomach.
“Knife fight, New Orleans, right after Katrina.”
“What happened?”
“He was faster than he looked.”
She grinned at my black humor. She touched a long ugly scar that ran from under my rib cage, across my stomach to my left hip bone. “And this one?”
“Let’s talk about something else.” I locked my fingers behind my head and lay there admiring this beautiful female animal. She was golden brown, the result of many days spent on a Lake Mead beach, she said. And, interestingly enough, she was tan all over. “Hmmm. When are you going to Lake Mead again?”
“Tomorrow. It’s my day off.”
“It just so happens it’s my day off, too.”
She chuckled. “Yeah, I remember that about you. Every day seems to be your day off.” She looked at me with a sly smile. “Wanna come along?”
“I thought you’d never ask. Ten o’clock?”
“You’re on.” She got out of bed with a groan. With her hands on her hips, she arched her back, then stretched. Then she turned and looked at me with a sleepy, satisfied smile. “God, you’re almost more than I can handle.” She slid her long fingers under a gold belly chain, and rubbed her sore stomach muscles, grimacing as she did so. Her naked body gleamed with perspiration.
She looked around and shook her head. “This RV is simply beautiful—and huge! It must have cost you a small fortune!”
“It would have if I’d bought it, but I’m just renting it. Living in an apartment is out because of you-know-who.” I pointed toward my sleeping Doberman.
She padded over to Ripper, who lay on his rug, his nose on his paws. Before I could open my mouth, she reached down to pet him. The big predator was on his feet in an instant, lips pulled back over those razor sharp teeth. She jumped back, hand over her heart, and whirled to face me. “My God! What’s with him!”
“He’s not big on people.”
She walked back and climbed into bed, thoroughly shaken. I didn’t bother telling her that there had been just one woman that Ripper had liked, and she’d been dead now for five months.
She picked up my hand and held it against her heart. It was doing an interesting rumba beat.
“You have a very nice heart,” I said.
She finally settled down. Her eyes took on a heavy look, and she slowly looked me over from head to foot. “I want you,” she said, her voice husky.
“Again?” I said with an incredulous smile.
She lowered her head and began nibbling on my stomach muscles. Slowly she kissed her way up my body until she finally reached my mouth. She attacked me like a hungry animal, but by that time, I was interested, and ready.
She rolled over on top of me and sat upright on my hips, leaning forward, bracing herself with a hand on each side of my head, offering her breasts. I looked up at her, still in a playful mood. I was about to make a wise remark, when I recognized the look on her face.
Time to stop talking and get to work.
She lifted slightly off my hips, squirmed a bit until she was positioned where she wanted to be, and with a shudder, settled onto the full length of my erection. She planted herself on my hips and whispered the challenge in my ear. “Bet you say ‘Uncle’ before I do.”
* * *
The next day at the lake was a long, wonderful time of lust, loving, and swimming. It was the kind of day lovers need every now and then to keep their sanity. She was inexhaustible, constantly demanding more, taking me to my physical limits. It was a day I’ll remember for a long time.
I found myself staring at a bright cloud drifting overhead, wondering what in the world I had been thinking of, moving here for the sole purpose of squaring things with Varchetta. At the moment it seemed insane. Felicia is dead. Exacting revenge on Varchetta won’t bring her back.
I slapped myself, mentally. What the hell am I thinking! That little bastard is going to pay, and pay dearly!
I propped myself up on my left elbow and took a long look at Susan. Her naked body was covered with beads of perspiration. I settled onto my back again and closed my eyes. She’s one of the lucky ones. Her needs are basic and simple. Real fright, pain, or hunger happen only to other people, never to her. She comes from a small, wealthy family that had loved, guided and educated her, then sent her off into the world full of confidence. May she never knows anything else.
I got to my feet and hopped across the hot sand. I waded waist deep into the clear water of Lake Mead, then swam straight out about twenty yards. I rolled over on my back, closed my eyes, and floated for a while.
“Hey! What are you doing out there?”
“Humping a whale!” I yelled back.
She laughed. “A gal can’t turn her back for a moment!”
I looked in her direction just in time to see her hit the water in a flat racing dive. She powered toward me, a strong swimmer. Just before she got to me, she went under.
“Oh no!” I yelled, trying to roll over in the water, knowing what was coming. But it was too late. She pulled me under, one arm locked around my waist, her free hand groping for my crotch. I was laughing as I went under, and I took on enough water to quench a camel before I managed to struggle back to the surface.
“Dam—” I said with a strangled laugh, but I never got the word out before she pulled me under again. She was strong! We sank several feet down into Lake Mead as we struggled. Finally I got a grip on her and popped to the surface, her back to me, my right arm wrapped around her waist, my left hand cupping one full breast.
“Help! Rape!” she yelled at the top of her lungs, just as I dunked her. She gurgled to the surface, laughing and coughing. I spun her around and pulled her to me. She locked her arms around my neck, and wrapped her legs around my waist.
We sank beneath the surface again as she kissed me with a fierceness that took me by surprise. Finally, a long way down, she let go and we began clawing for the surface, lungs burning. We got there at the same time, laughing and sputtering, gasping for air.
I struck out for shore. She churned past me, and I knew that it was going to be a race. I’m a strong swimmer, but she beat me to the beach by a full three yards.
I stood as soon as my feet could find bottom, and watched her bend over to pick up her beach towel. Now there’s a fanny worth following anywhere. I watched her with frank male admiration as she toweled herself dry. She was a good six feet tall, with graceful dancer’s legs that went on forever. Her waist was small enough to get both my hands around and touch fingertips. She had a flat, hard belly that only comes from lots of tough hours keeping it that way. Her full breasts were s
et wide apart.
She pulled on a pair of cutoffs and shrugged into a thin white tank top. Then she stood there, hip-shot, looking like something right out of a girlie book, a golden female with wet hair and lovely brown nipples poking through her damp shirt.
I waded out of the lake, walked up to her, and stood very close. Her eyes seemed enormous as she saw the serious look on my face. “You are one very beautiful woman.”
“Thank you, Jack Frost. I needed that.”
We drove back to Vegas with the windows rolled up and the air conditioner on low. We’d both had too much sun, and were feeling whipped.
I became aware that she was studying me. “What do you actually do for a living, Frost?”
“I’m retired.”
“At your age? Retired from what, football?
I paused too long before answering. “Yeah, I’m retired from football.”
“Now I really don’t believe you!” she laughed.
“Why?”
“You’re terrible at lying! Terrible!”
“I’ll work on it.”
“C’mon, Jack, what do you do?”
“Why do you care?”
“Do you answer every question with a question?”
“I don’t know, do I?”
I had a weird feeling that I’d been through this quiz before—and then I remembered. Felicia had asked me pretty much the same questions.
Susan persisted. “As to ‘why do I care’ . . . well, you happen to be a pretty foxy guy, you know? I mean, you’re handsome, rugged, an ex-football player and an ex-military something or other, obviously tougher than nails. You have a beautiful old classic car, and you’re single, which is a big bonus.” She looked at me hard. “You are still single.”
I laughed. “Oh, yeah.”
“You’re obviously not hurting for money, yet you don’t seem to have any visible means of support. Now I ask myself, how can this be?”
She put her bare feet on the dash and hugged her knees. She leaned over, laid her right cheek against her knees, and fixed those beautiful violet eyes on me. “How come you never married?”
“The price is too high.”
“Yeah, I know about that.”
I looked at her, surprised.
“Mike died seven years ago, long before I met you. He was a member of the Thunderbirds, flying out of Nellis. He was killed one beautiful, bright day, practicing touch-and-go landings. As he pulled up, the engine flamed out. For some reason he was unable to eject in time.”
She was quiet for a few moments. Then she said, “He always wanted to be a fighter pilot. He was handsome and daring, and he had an exciting occupation—all of those impractical things that fascinate a woman and scare the hell out of her at the same time. A woman should never fall in love with a man like that.”
She looked at me. “And here I am, hanging with you.”
I could think of no reply to that remark, because she was right, of course. Felicia Martinez had fallen in love with a man like that: Jonathan Flynn, the now-dead race car driver.
Chapter 4
I cooked dinner for myself that evening in the quiet solitude of my RV. I didn’t feel like going out, and Susan needed some “alone” time. I rummaged through the refrigerator, throwing anything that looked halfway decent into a frying pan. I was getting the cold shoulder from Ripper, who stared at me from a corner of the kitchen. He always did that when I left him alone for the day.
“You don’t have to go everywhere I go,” I said, stirring what passed for hash in the frying pan. He continued staring at me without saying a word. I made a cup of coffee while I tried to figure out a way to break the silence.
I hate it when he does that.
A few minutes later dinner was ready. I fed Ripper, then walked into the living room area of the huge RV, slipped a CD into the player, and turned the volume to where it was comfortable. I settled down with my plate of hash and cup of coffee.
Ripper finished his bowl and strolled to his rug, licking his chops. He settled down and promptly went to sleep. I finished my dinner, then walked into the kitchen and tossed the plate into the sink. I stabbed a table knife into the top of a frosted cake that I’d bought at a Las Vegas bakery, and carried it back to my chair, along with a fresh cup of coffee.
I stuck a single candle into the frosting and looked at it for a moment. It was a rather sad looking birthday cake. “Well, what the hell . . . it’s the thought that counts,” I said. I lit the candle and cleared my throat. Ripper’s ears went up and his eyes opened as I began to sing: “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy b-i-r-t-h-h-d-a-a-y dear Ja-ack, happy birthday to you!” I sat there for a moment, then blew out the candle, cut a big piece of cake, and slapped it on my plate. I ate it while I looked dejectedly around the RV.
I wished I’d mentioned my birthday to Susan today. This being alone business gets old now and then.
By nine-thirty I’d listened to every CD worth listening to, and had absorbed so much coffee that I was twanging like a slapped rubber band. Finally, I said, “Screw it!”
Ripper jumped up when I got to my feet. I said, “Not you, Ripper.”
He gave me his I-knew-it-all-the-time-you-selfish-bastard look. I walked outside with him for a few minutes. He strolled around for a while, then finally found a suitable bush to piss on. And with that, he walked regally past me and into the RV without a word, and flopped on his rug.
I left, shutting the door behind me. I didn’t bother to lock the rig. With a grumpy Ripper watching the store, I could relax knowing my humble little abode was as burglar proof as any place in Las Vegas.
I put the top down on my vintage roadster, then pulled out of the nearly deserted RV park and onto Blue Diamond Road. A short while later I turned right on West Charleston and headed for the city.
When I reached the Strip, the electronic display on top of the Sahara hotel gave me the time and temperature: 10:00 p.m., 102 degrees.
I drove around for a while, then found myself pulling into the circular driveway of Varchetta’s hotel and casino.
Somehow I always wind up back here.
I handed the car over to a lethargic young parking attendant, in exchange for a parking stub. His boredom disappeared the minute he dropped into the bucket seat of the Jaguar. He lit the rear tires as he pulled away while I stood there pissed, my hands on my hips.
I walked into the casino’s chill air. Business was slow, which I knew would cause a lot of wringing of hands in the various casino staff meetings around town. And more than a few heads would roll until things picked up. But in the end, no matter who does what, one thing is certain: bad times come and go, but there will always be a Las Vegas.
I walked into the lounge and took a seat. After ordering a Rusty Nail, I sat back and listened to a terrific young female singer, followed by a so-so magic act, and a really miserable Elvis impersonator.
I was working my way through my second drink when she sat down. She was beautiful, probably in her early twenties. From her extreme nervousness, it was obvious that she was not one of the house regulars.
“Do you have a light?” she said. I smiled at the use of possibly the world’s oldest opening line. I picked up the glass candle holder on the table and held it up for her. She leaned over and lit her cigarette. In the glow of the flame her eyes betrayed a deep-rooted excitement at this game she was playing.
I looked around. “Alone?”
She appeared nervous. “Yes, why?”
“Ever been in here before?”
“No.” She looked even more nervous. “Why?”
“The people who own this joint aren’t too thrilled with freelancers working their private territory,” I said.
“Freelancers?” Then she understood. I saw the faltering look, and realized that she was embarrassed. I had the feeling that I was this kid’s very first customer.
Before I could change the subject, a huge security guard leaned over my shoulder and said, “Sir, is this ‘la
dy’ bothering you?”
I looked up at him. “Bothering me? The only thing that I’m bothered about is that she was supposed to be here an hour ago.” I looked at her, my face stern. “Darling, I told you to meet me here at nine o’clock.”
She hesitated for a moment. “I’m sorry sweetheart,” she said. “After I got off work my car wouldn’t start, and I had to have somebody give me a push.”
I lifted both hands in mock disgust and looked at the security guard. “She’s never been on time in her life,” I said. The guard looked intently at me, then at her. “Thank you,” I said, a note of dismissal in my voice. He hesitated for a moment, then walked away. The young woman slumped in her chair, obviously relieved.
“Let’s get out of here,” I said. I didn’t have to say it twice. She was on her feet immediately.
We walked into the suffocating Nevada night air and waited for the attendant to bring my car around. Minutes later he pulled up, opened the driver’s side door and got out and simply blew past me, rushing to the passenger side where he helped my beautiful companion into the car. Then he closed her car door and hurried back to me for his tip.
I couldn’t blame him for catering to my newfound buddy. She was all show biz. The black evening dress was wispy and revealing, great for dancing and turning a man’s head. She had great legs and excessive breasts, and all that female machinery moved easily under the silky material as she ankled along with an exaggerated grinding of those great hips. Her shining black hair hit her at the waist, which somehow completed the image of RoboHooker. Nevertheless, she was stunning.
I eased into Strip traffic. “Jack Frost,” I said, holding out my hand.
She glanced down at my hand, a surprised look on her face. Then she offered hers and said, “I’m Julie.” Then she laughed. “Jack Frost! What a cute name!”
“You think so? You should try growing up with it.”
We laughed together. I looked over at her. “Where do you live?” She gave me an expensive address on Alta Drive, and I pointed the car in that direction.
