Dark Passions

by Jeff Gelb

  “Of course, I’d like to keep you on ...”

  “I love working for you, sir.”

  He took another long sip of vodka and smiled. “Fortunately, we may be able to work something out.”

  “Oh, I’d be so grateful.”

  “I may be able to promote you out of the secretarial staff and make you my personal assistant.”

  She gave a slight gasp, and her fingers moved as if to calm her racing heart. “That would be wonderful.”

  “Of course, it would require a new and greater commitment on your part, you would have to take on additional responsibilities. You’d be required to do everything necessary to help me perform up to the best of my abilities, so I can do my own work as successfully as possible.”

  “Whatever it takes,” she said eagerly. “Whatever you need or want me to do, sir, just tell me, and I’ll do it. I won’t disappoint you.”

  “Come here and look at these figures.”

  She went and stood close beside him, bending forward to peer at some chart he had picked up. While he nattered on about revenues and costs and other nonsense, he stared down her blouse, now just inches from his face. His right hand slid up under her skirt, his fingers caressing her thigh, then her ass, and finally slipping inside her thong. Two fingers, moving, rubbing, pushing inside her.

  “Just study this graph for a moment.”

  “Yes, sir.” Gasping slightly, licking her lips.

  His other hand came up and opened her blouse more, then lifted her bra up, freeing her breasts. He squeezed them and tugged her nipples, then rolled the palm of his hand over them.

  “There’s a lot of stress in my job,” he told her. “I have a great deal of responsibility on my shoulders.”

  “Oh, I know, sir. That’s one of the reasons why I admire you so much and enjoy working for you.”

  He pulled her around to the front of his chair, so that she stood between his open legs. His hands still playing with her.

  “And sometimes the pressure and tension become so great ...”

  “When that happens, you need to relax, sir.” She dropped to her knees and reached for his zipper. “You just sit back and let me help. This will take a while; it can’t be rushed. But you’ll feel much better... .”

  And when he came, her mouth was open, her face uplifted, her tongue sticking out. The cumdump he enjoyed so much.

  The snow was falling at a steadier and heavier rate by the time they were on their fourth round of drinks. They were on the living-room carpet, in front of the television, playing Grand Theft Auto. Not her favorite game, but one of his. Drew had a dress code for video games too. He wore only a pair of flannel pajama bottoms, and Gretchen could only wear bikini briefs or a pair of flimsy boy shorts, some shade of blue.

  She could tell that he had a nice buzz working now. It was easy for her; all she had to do was keep serving the drinks and do whatever he felt like doing to pass the time. He was a man of simple wants and needs.

  Gretchen had moved in with Drew at his condo seven months after they started going together. She’d been sharing a large apartment on Dwight Street in New Haven with Carolyn and Sue. That wasn’t bad, but it was hardly ideal. When their lease came due for renewal, Gretchen was ready to pull out. She was staying overnight at Drew’s place more and more often as it was, so the time for such a move seemed perfect to both of them.

  Gretchen loved Drew, and he loved her.

  She was twenty-four and had never lived with a guy before, so there were some inevitable adjustments. Looking back now, she could see that it was mostly a matter of getting to know him: to know him truly.

  Drew was an investment counselor, or a broker. Something like that; Gretchen wasn’t exactly sure. He worked at a small but reputable financial firm in New Haven. In the first few months they started going together, Gretchen got to know three guys on Drew’s work team: Gary, Rick, and Ron. They were more than co-workers; they were Drew’s main friends. Like Drew, they were bright young go-getters, eager to advance themselves and to make a great living. And like Drew, they were vodka lovers. The four of them would get together every couple of weeks to kill a bottle of some new brand they had discovered. They were okay. They clearly looked up to Drew. He was their team leader. The first couple of times Drew hosted vodka night, Gretchen had felt excluded and ended up reading a book or watching TV in bed. But she did adjust; she knew she had to let Drew have some space of his own to enjoy with his buddies. She didn’t like or dislike them.

  Game over, Drew tossed the controller aside.

  “Hey, open your mouth, baby.”

  Gretchen opened her mouth, and he slid three fingers between her lips. She licked and sucked them. He loved that, loved the way she’d roll the tip of her tongue across his fingertips. Give him that, he could be ready fast—and frequently. He steered her onto her belly and pulled her briefs down. Gretchen wasn’t wet, but he seldom made her wet anymore. He didn’t seem to notice, or mind. He pushed into her, working back and forth until her body did begin to cooperate and loosen up, seemingly on its own.

  It hurt a little, then her mind could kind of lose itself for a while in the rhythmic pounding, and then it was over.

  “Another drink?” Drew asked her as he stood up.

  Gretchen scrambled to her feet. “I’ll get them.”

  “That’s okay. My turn.” He was a little tottery.

  “No,” Gretchen insisted, placing a hand on his chest and gently pushing him back toward the sofa. “I’m serving you, remember? You wanted to go to the islands, and I promised I’d serve you all weekend.”

  He hesitated for a moment. Then she could see it coming back in his mind. “Oh yeah, cool,” he said. “I’ll put a movie on for us.”

  “Good idea.”

  Gretchen measured and poured his drink carefully. It amazed her that when the time had come, earlier that evening, she didn’t hesitate. She’d never imagined that she would be capable of such intense emotional focus and sense of purpose. Nor that it would feel so right.

  “This is good shit,” Drew said as he took the drink.

  “Cheers,” she replied with a smile.

  Gretchen tried to follow the movie, one of those smash-bang action jobs that Drew found so engrossing. The little things you learn about another person: their taste in movies, music, food, clothes, cars. Maybe they tell you something, or maybe you just think they do.

  After the first couple of months, the fun started to go out of it for her. He was, somehow, different. Or maybe her expectations were. He was not as affectionate as she would’ve liked. One time, when they had squabbled about some trivial matter, she tried to end it happily by putting her arms around him and saying “I need a hug.” But he firmly stepped away from her embrace and said, “I gave you one a couple of hours ago.” And he went into his office and closed the door hard. He was making her learn his way.

  Sometimes he would look at her—and she would get this crazy feeling that he was laughing inside. At her. Maybe she was crazy.

  Still, Gretchen knew she probably would have carried on with things as they were, learning to adjust, accept, and abide. A relationship is not a simple thing to cast aside easily or quickly. No one likes to admit defeat or failure, or to be alone again.

  But that day came. She was working from home because she had a bad head cold and a very sore throat. She had to e-mail some urgent documents, but her laptop froze; the hard drive had crashed. She had the documents backed up on a memory stick, so she went into the office to use Drew’s computer to send them out. Gretchen saw a corner of a photograph sticking out from a pile of papers on his desk, and she recognized a bit of her hair and the office carpet. The photo had been printed from the computer. It was a picture of her. Eyes closed, mouth open, face uplifted, tongue out, all splattered in white. A few minutes later, she found the e-mail—Drew had sent that photograph to Gary, Rick, and Ron. His team. The vodka buddies.

  Gretchen turned her head and looked at Drew. He was complete
ly absorbed in the movie.

  “Hey,” she said. “You’re ready for a refill.”

  She remembered the exact occasion, because it was the first time he asked her to let him give her a facial. She was a little surprised, because he’d never hinted at it before. But now that they were together, if that was one of his fantasies, Gretchen didn’t mind.

  The photograph was a different matter. She might even have agreed to let him take it, if he’d asked first. It was obvious how he’d done it. Drew owned one of those little digital cameras the size of a credit card. Didn’t make any noise, didn’t need a flash. The picture quality was mediocre, but it did take a photograph. He came, he shot the pic while her eyes were closed, and he put the camera behind him on the desk or stuck it in his shirt pocket. It wouldn’t have taken but a couple of seconds.

  E-mailing it to the guys was the betrayal beyond retrieval.

  “Let’s go to bed,” Drew said.

  “It’s not late,” Gretchen replied. “Have one more.”

  “Ehhh ...”

  “Come on, have a nightcap with me.”

  “If I agree?” Drew bargaining as usual.

  “Handjob.”

  “Okay,” he said. Then added, “While rimming me.”

  “Of course,” she said, taking his glass.

  Gretchen must have slept well, because she woke up the next morning feeling rested and refreshed. Drew was still asleep when she slipped out of bed, his breathing a low rumble. She went to the window and looked outside. The air was full of snow, snow falling thickly and heavily in huge fluffy flakes. It looked so beautiful; it reminded Gretchen of times she had played outside as a child while the snow was falling, gleefully running around and catching flakes on her tongue.

  She went into the kitchen and put the kettle on for tea. It was a few minutes before noon. Well, they had been up kind of late.

  That decisive day a few weeks ago, she knew immediately that she was going to leave Drew. But her anger was so great that it wouldn’t let her just throw some things in her car and drive away. He had more than that coming to him, and for all she knew, he might not even be that upset if she did bolt. No, Gretchen realized that she had to think and plan. The pain she felt demanded its own form of articulation, one that would take time.

  I know why I’m doing this to you, she thought. But I still don’t know why you did that to me.

  Because that is who you are? Is that all?

  Drew stumbled out of the bedroom around two-thirty that afternoon. He felt dizzy, he said. He complained of a stomachache. He couldn’t get down one sip of coffee. Gretchen sat him down on the couch, but he was so drowsy he soon stretched out on it. She propped him up with a couple of pillows and tucked a light blanket around him.

  “Honey, I don’t feel so good.”

  She smiled. “You have a first-rate hangover, is all.”

  “Yeah, I guess. Jesus, I’m hurting.”

  “I’ll get you a glass of sparkling water. It might help settle your stomach a little, and you’re probably dehydrated anyhow.”

  “Okay,” he said weakly.

  She turned the television on for him and placed the remote in his hand. When she returned with the water a minute later, Drew was shaking his head listlessly.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Picture’s kinda blurry and jumpy.”

  Gretchen laughed gently. “You’re the one who’s blurry and jumpy, is what I’m thinking.”

  Drew looked toward the window. The units on the other side of the courtyard were completely hidden by the tremendous snowfall in progress. He seemed to want to say something but couldn’t find the strength. He put his head back on the pillow and closed his eyes.

  “You want to sleep some more?” Gretchen asked.

  “No. I’m just resting.”

  “Okay. If you need me, I’ll be in the kitchen tidying up.”

  She picked up the bottle of Latvian vodka. Wow, Drew had consumed about two-thirds of it. With her encouragement, of course. She put the bottle back in the liquor cabinet, where it belonged. She took Drew’s tumbler and washed it thoroughly in warm soapy water. She then rinsed it and set it on a paper towel on the counter, to dry in the air. She took a jar from the collection of spices at the back of the counter. It had contained thyme, but she’d thrown the thyme away last week, and now the only thing inside the jar was about a quarter-inch of clear liquid. Gretchen poured that down the drain, and washed and rinsed the jar. She dried it with another paper towel and put it with the other empty bottles and cans in the recycling bin by the kitchen door. She dropped the plastic cap in the trash basket beneath the sink.

  The only time Drew got up over the next eight hours was to go to the bathroom. He reeled and lurched as he moved, and Gretchen had to help him get there and back.

  “I’m soooo sick... .”

  “Maybe you should get some food inside you.”

  “Noooo ...”

  “Drew, you have to have something.”

  “A little more water.”

  “Okay.”

  She brought him another glass of San Pellegrino.

  “I still can’t follow the TV,” he said. “I, like, move my eyes, and it hurts inside my head.”

  “You had a lot to drink last night. I was surprised when I looked at the bottle on the counter and saw how much was gone.”

  “Yeah, but ... never this bad.”

  “Just close your eyes and rest. That’s the best thing.”

  He wasn’t feeling any better at eleven that night, when Gretchen helped him back into bed. He appeared to fall asleep almost immediately. She stayed with him for a while, sitting on her side of the bed. His body moved restlessly, and he let out a groan every couple of minutes.

  Gretchen was tired. She went into the living room and stretched out on the sofa. She pulled the spare blanket around her.

  She went over it in her mind yet again. Had she done it correctly? Had she measured accurately? Were her calculations right? Would it work? She’d done her research well, or so she hoped. Something that would soon disappear in the body without leaving a trace. Leaving only permanent damage. It had to be easy to acquire from any number of ordinary retail outlets, with no way to connect her to its purchase.

  Yes, there was such a thing. Now it was just a question of exactly how extensive and permanent the damage was.

  She wouldn’t leave him right away; that would look bad. Gretchen knew she had to stay for a while and take care of him. Besides, she had a lot of things to do and preparations to make before she could leave. Find a new place to live, for starters. But she also knew that it wouldn’t be long; a couple of weeks? A month or so? She still had a life ahead of her. It wasn’t here, and it wasn’t with Drew.

  She woke early on Sunday morning. The snow was still falling steadily outside, and it was at least two feet deep against the kitchen storm door. She turned on the TV to get the latest report. The storm was stalled over the area and would continue to dump snow until early afternoon.

  Gretchen thought it was beautiful.

  Sudden sounds of Drew thrashing around in the bedroom, his voice frantic. She rushed to the door and saw him half-standing, holding on to the bed for support. He’d knocked the clock radio off the nightstand. He had a wild, vacant expression on his face, his eyes darting back and forth.

  Methyl alcohol.

  “Gretchen! I can’t see!”

  Good. The damage done.

  “I’m right here.”

  His face turned toward her, but she stepped a couple of yards to the side. “No, I’m here.”

  “I can’t see you. Just—blurry shapes.”

  It will get worse.

  She moved again. “Drew, I’m right here.”

  His head swiveled, his eyes scanning uselessly.

  “You have to get me to the hospital. Right now!”

  “Honey, that’s impossible. There’s more than two feet of snow on the ground, and it’s still falling. The roads are c
losed, and the plows won’t be out until late this afternoon. If you’re not feeling better tonight or tom—”

  “Gretchen!” he screamed.

  She stepped toward Drew, to help him back into bed.

  “I’M BLIND!”

  Gretchen smiled at him as she took his arm.

  I hear you. I get the picture.

  Nocturnal Invasions A Cal McDonald Mystery

  Steve Niles

  I’ve been called a lot of things in my life, but sexy is not among them. I’ve heard junkie, bum, crazy person, and fucking lunatic, but never sexy, not even from the few lovers I’ve had.

  I mean, I got a body covered with bumps, bruises, and contusions almost twenty-four–seven. Not the kind of thing you want to cuddle with, ya know.

  My name is Cal McDonald. I’m a private detective, and I deal with the weird shit, the macabre, and the bizarre.

  I don’t have the best luck with women. I had a steady a couple months back, but she bolted. Her name was Sabrina. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss her.

  I was in bed on a Saturday, trying to remember what I did the night before. My head pounded like a hammer, and my stomach gurgled. I’d blacked out. Again.

  My knuckles were bruised and bloody. In the caked, dried blood I found a blond hair. My hair is dark. I also found a tooth fragment lodged in a flap of broken skin on my left fist.

  So I’d been in a fight. No big deal.

  What bugged me was the wet spot on my crotch and the acute soreness that radiated from down under. If I didn’t know better, I’d say I’d been fighting and fucking the night before, and, lucky me, my mind was a blank. All I had was a hair, a tooth fragment, and a sticky wet mess in my pants.

  I knew myself well enough to know the injuries and the sex were not related. I don’t mix the two, and I don’t like people who do. I’d most likely beaten the shit out of a dude and then somehow hooked up with a woman before or after. The two might not even be related.