When we went out, she treated the waiters and other service people like dirt under her shoes. For any slight, real or imagined, she berated them loudly, insisting the supervisor severely reprimand the unfortunate person, or better yet, dismiss him or her. I think I understand why she acted so harshly toward them. Inheriting the Teague money was a process as close to emergence as a human can experience. She hated her old self in the way many of us reviled the person they were before emergence. The people serving her in manifold ways on a daily basis reminded her of where she came from, who she used to be, what she endured.
After Sam entered my life I dropped Laura as a candidate for prey. During the fragile early stages of our relationship, I thought my former pole dancer acquaintance might complicate things. I skipped to the second and third names on the list, even though I hadn’t performed as thorough a screening on them. Only after the night time talk with Cynthia, when I understood the depth of my feelings for Sam, did I gain the confidence to hunt Laura without being distracted by her significant physical attributes. I kept her name, but because Cynthia supplied us generously it gradually fell to an obscure corner of the paperwork on my desktop.
The last time I came across her was in a photograph inside the local About Town magazine. She sat at a table with a couple gal pals, wearing an expensive gown and dripping jewelry. Blue eyes glowed in a tanned round face as she unabashedly displayed a ring with a ruby as big as a marble. Her friends were not dressed nearly as well and their jewelry appeared to come from the cases of Sears or K-Mart, at least when compared to Laura’s. Most likely they were gold digging colleagues who didn’t strike it quite as rich or trust fund babies from the low end of the scale. Besides their common interests in partying hard, Laura kept them around to remind the world she sat at the top of the fortune hunting hierarchy. Their flattery didn’t hurt, either.
I checked my watch. A few minutes past midnight. Laura probably partied at a trendy nightspot. I rummaged through a notebook for her cell number, hoping it hadn’t changed. Finding it, I dialed.
A female voice answered. In the background a rock band blasted away. The sound of it made the phone itself pulse. “Laura,” I said, “This is Jim. Jim White, remember me?”
“Jimmy Boy! I should be mad at you,” she shouted over the room noise on her end. “You haven’t called in ages.”
“I apologize, but I’ve been out of town a lot on University work. I’m back now. May we meet somewhere?”
I waited for an answer, not sure if she believed my explanation, but even if she didn’t she possessed all the excuse she needed for us to get together. “Sure. Do you want to come here?”
“No. Someplace more quiet.” In truth, loud band noise overloaded my hearing, ruining it for days. “Meet me at the Weston?”
“Jimmy Boy, I am impressed!” she gushed. “I thought you were a Holiday Inn man.”
“What can I say? The traveling I did for the University widened my horizons.” I had good reasons for choosing the Weston. Due to demands for discretion from certain segments of the clientele, it placed no security cameras at the entrance. The back stairways had only one, which I knew how to avoid. I borrowed the suite maintained by the modeling sensation, The Fashion Model Known as Cynthia. I brought slime to muddle the elevator security cameras and a specially designed slide card to defeat the system that recorded room key card entries. Cynthia developed the bypasses with help from a technology minded friend in New York in case she needed the room to process prey. If everything went according to plan it would be as if I had never been in either the hotel or room.
I gave Laura the room number and told her to come directly up. “As usual, don’t tell anyone,” I told her.
“Oh, Jimmy boy,” she giggled. “I just love it when you get mysterious.”
Whatever!
Returning to our room I nudged Sam. “I have a line on a liver. I have to go out for a bit.”
She smacked her lips. “That’s nice dear. Be careful.”
The room was not Malvina’s penthouse suite. Still no one would be ashamed to be seen in it. I checked the unlocked mini-bar refrigerator. It contained anything Laura and her expensive appetites could desire. No need to involve Room Service. I drew the drapes and placed cleaning items in the shower for later use. I removed the hotel’s bed linens, replacing them with a set from home, including a plastic sheet for the mattress.
After a short wait a soft knock tapped on the door.
Laura brought one of her gal pals, another tall blonde. I brightened at the prospect of a double kill, enough prey for almost a year. “This is Melissa,” she slurred by way of introduction. “She wanted to come along when I told her what they say about the peckers of men with big hands is true, and yours are the biggest.”
Each of them stared at my hands, then my crotch, and back to my hands, which I rigidly and self-consciously plastered to the sides of my legs. They half-staggered into the room and, collapsing on appropriate pieces of the furniture, demanded something to drink.
Besides being ready for sex, I checked them for drugs. Laura had done a couple of lines but Melissa was clean. Being drunk didn’t count. The metabolized cocaine wouldn’t affect me but I didn’t know what it might do to Sam and the babies, so I reserved Melissa for Sam. Laura became mine.
“Come in,” I said, closing the door behind them.
In less than an hour two beautiful blonde corpses, still wearing their party dresses, lay on the king sized bed, doomed once I screened Melissa. After drinks I took Laura down in the bathroom as she washed up. When I entered she turned.
“Can’t wait, Jimmy Boy?” she purred with a sly lascivious expression. She’d stripped down and stood erect in bare feet, covered by a deep uniform tan except for the white thong marks across the waist and between her buttocks. In front a narrow pale ‘V’ tapered toward the juncture of her thighs.
She must have thought I wanted to do it right there because she sat on the pedestal sink, spreading her legs to receive me. She didn’t have a hair on her body below the neck.
“I had it all lasered off in L.A.” she once told me.
Her ever delectable bald sex unfurled like the slow blooming of a pink flower bud. In the close room, the scent of her readiness saturated the air. Her head tilted forward with blonde hair falling all around small breasts with pink sensitive nipples.
She liked to do it doggie style. I remembered sliding in and out of her from behind, rubbing inflamed aureoles with saliva wetted fingers or kissing and licking the hard muscled flesh between her shoulder blades.
“Touch me inside,” she invariably implored from the edge of orgasm as I fulfilled the ardor of her wet core.
For a second I contemplated having her for old time’s sake, but Sam would smell the scent on me when I returned home. Before becoming pregnant she understood the necessity for sex in a hunt and took a longer view of situations like this, but with the raging hormones fuelling fears centered on being forever fat and unattractive, not so much. I wouldn’t jeopardize what Sam and I had. If the strength of our love resisted Cynthia’s wiles, Laura’s had no chance. Not to say I wasn’t turned on.
Eyeing the bulge of my erection, Laura rasped. “I can’t wait to feel that cannon inside.” Firm and pliant thighs parted. Her cleft issued its fragrant invitation, beckoning like a pink vertical leer.
I leaned forward as Laura opened a crimson lipstick rimmed mouth, expecting my tongue. Instead I put my hands to her face, locking her body in place with my own. Her eyes widened with a rustle of expectant curiosity at the new sex trick she was sure Jimmy Boy had up his sleeve. The expression flashed to confused terror when I morphed, turned her head to the side, and bit into an artery.
To the expression frozen on her face as the Kutzu raced through her veins, I said, “By the way, I hate the name Jimmy Boy.”
I eased her to the floor. Cleanup had to wait, because outside Melissa groused impatiently. She heard the muffled conversation and movement behind the closed do
or. “Don’t start without me,” she warbled more than once.
I left Laura in the bathroom, returning to the main part of the suite in human form. Melissa sat on the bed still wearing a dress, a small yellow thing. The hem rode past mid-thigh. She previously removed her underwear. It lay on the carpet in a small, white silky puddle, reeking of her scent. She tucked one knee under her chin. I have to admit I checked out her sex. The light fell perfectly for a leisurely gaze. In the tight little apex of her thighs, nestled a thatch of curly blonde hair covering fleshy honey colored lips pressed tightly together.
To Melissa’s unspoken curiosity I said, “Laura will be a while.”
“That’s her problem. Are you ready for a little Melissa?”
“You have no idea,” I answered.
Melissa frowned. “These sheets are awful,” she complained in a whiny, nasally voice as I undressed. “They feel like mine at home. You’d think a hotel like the Weston could do better.”
“You would think so,” I mumbled as I walked around the bed and stood naked beside her.
As she studied my burgeoning manhood she snuggled expectantly down into the bed linens, pressing shoulders back, seemingly as hard as she could while lifting her pelvis. Her gaze continued to fix on my erection. “Ohhh, Laura’s right about big hands going with big peters.”
I straddled her torso, locking it between my legs, leaning forward as if to spend quality time with her breasts. As she lifted one of them for my ministrations, I held her head between my hands and wrenched it around, snapping her neck. Her head lolled to the side, a trickle of blood leaking from the open mouth.
I wrapped Melissa in the sheets I brought from home and returned the hotel’s coverings. After redressing Laura along with cleaning the bathroom, I put each woman in a body bag and carried her down the back way to my car. A few sprays of air freshener later, I departed, leaving behind no trace or evidence of my presence.
At home I hung Laura in the walk-in and prepared Melissa for Sam. This was the first prey I took since the homeless woman, who with Sam’s increased appetite didn’t last five months. I lived on fluids from prey Cynthia killed for Sam. With Laura put away, my food supply became secure again.
I took the liver immediately, cutting it into quarters, bringing a fresh piece to Sam and putting the rest in her freezer. By the time I finished with Melissa, the glow of morning light reflected on the window shades. Bertie awoke with first light to prepare breakfast. The room filled with fumes of cooked bacon and eggs, a daily occurrence since she arrived. They overwhelmed the scents of our rarer cuts. Since emergence, I had not smelled human food cooking in any residence of mine. I still wasn’t used to it. I know it made Sam nauseous. She would have to adjust because with arrival of the triplets, it would become routine until well into their teens. Too late to go back to sleep, I shaved, changed clothes, brushed my teeth, and went to work thinking how much easier life could be if I could find an occupation more compatible with my hunting schedule.
That night I found the answer.
* * * *
Sam and I curled in bed watching television. Her belly, full of babies, rested on mine. As usual they kicked up a storm.
“Do you want to try the vibrator?” I asked. At that stage of the pregnancy we were willing to do anything to calm the little ones.
Cynthia brought it from New York, dropping it off as she breezed through on her way to a photo shoot in the Bahamas.
“I guess…” Sam replied.
I had left the vibrator on the top of the toilet tank after a shared shower. I got up to get it while Sam started to idly channel surf. I passed the closed door of the walk-in. In there, a comatose Laura hung suspended by a nylon rope attached to eyebolts in the ceiling. I reached for the knob to take a quick peek. She should look pretty fresh since taking her less than two days ago. I had not drawn off enough fluid to show signs of desiccation.
“Leave her alone,” Sam commanded.
Spare me hormonal jealousy.
I jerked my hand back as if I touched a hot stove. “A guy’s gotta eat,” I offered sheepishly from the distance between us. A brief, skeptical laugh erupted from the aura of continuously pulsating light as Sam rolled through the channels.
“Get the damned vibrator and come to bed,” demanded the voice that went with the laugh.
By the time I returned from the bathroom Sam settled on a program, a televised poker tournament. “Check it out,” she said.
“It’s called Texas Hold ‘Em,” I told her, putting aside the vibrator.
“How does it work?” she asked.
“Each player gets two cards face down. They bet and three cards called ‘The Flop’ are turned up. All players use them. They bet again and another card, called ‘The Turn’ is flashed. The last card, ‘The River,’ comes after another betting round. They bet again and the best poker hand, made from the two cards in each player’s hand and the five in the middle, wins.”
“But,” Sam said, “the better hand doesn’t always win.”
“Yes, it is called ‘bluffing.’ It occurs when a player uses aggressive betting to convince the others he or she holds the best hand.”
“These tournaments appear to offer a lot of money for the winners.”
“Oh yes, a successful player can make millions. It is an extremely popular game these days.” Watching a pony-tailed blonde woman come out of her seat to rake in the proceeds from a winning hand, I experienced a minor epiphany. “I should be able to know from scent when an opponent is bluffing or thinks he is bluffing,” I said.
“That’s nice.” Sam lost interest in the subject as her gaze fell on the vibrator. She turned to me with a wink. “What do you say to a little Texas-hold-the-vibrator-on-each-other?”
* * * *
The following weekend I took a trip to the coast where a couple of cruise ships operated casinos on day trips outside the U.S. territorial limits. The arrangement allowed me to come and go the same evening, minimizing time away from home. I emptied our bank account and hit the Hold ‘Em tables with high confidence. As it turned out, detecting a bluff by scent was not as easy as it first looked. Each player emanated a unique odor. I lost over two-thirds of the bankroll before understanding this, but from that point on it became Sherman’s march through Georgia, and D-Day all wrapped into one. I won over five thousand dollars.
I returned the next Friday evening, and racked up another ten thousand in winnings.
I wanted to skip the Saturday session but Sam insisted I go. “I’m not due for another four days. You have your cellphone and I have Bertie to look after me. Doctor Ortiz arrives tomorrow. Go on, we’ll be fine.” Her smile flashed to a wince from an outburst of fetal calisthenics, returning when the discomfort passed. “Besides, you enjoy it so.”
I went, choosing another cruise ship. Stupidly, I didn’t realize the casino managers shared information regarding successful players. I prepared to redeem my second night’s winnings when two security guards met me at the cashier’s window. “A moment, Mr. White,” one of them discreetly said and took my elbow, leading me toward the business offices. The casino announced last call at all of the tables. The ship would be docked within an hour.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“Management requests a word with you.” The two of them propelled me toward an innocuous door located in a corner of the casino.
I could have pulled away and throttled them both without morphing, but what then? Still at sea, I was trapped on the ship. Acquiescing to the temporarily inevitable, I accompanied them through the plain door into plush, well-appointed back offices, if you like the nineteenth century bordello motif.
A weasel-faced little man sat behind a vast mahogany desk. One of the security guards offered me a richly cushioned, red velvet chair. After I sat, the two of them retreated back to either side of the exit.
The weasel-faced man read from a folder with fast cutting eyes. After a minute he said, “Mr. White, you have had an exceptional ni
ght.”
“And the problem with that is?”
“Believe me. No one is happier than we are when a player experiences a bit of success at the tables, but you went far beyond credible good fortune.”
“Wait a minute,” I snapped, sounding more defensive than I wanted, “I won fair and square. I expect to collect my winnings and return home tonight.”
The weasel-faced manager spoke with a tone of false obsequiousness, saying, “Mr. White. We see it differently. You defied by six standard deviations the probabilities of accomplishing what you did this evening.” His face hardened. “We are not leaving this room until I know what help you received.”
The vibrator on my cellphone tingled. My chest tightened with excitement and a twinge of apprehension. “Excuse me,” I said. “I have to take this.” I flipped the phone open. Bertie sent the text. It read, “Contractions at three minutes. Birth is imminent. Get home.”
“I have to be somewhere,” I said. “My wife has gone into labor.” For simplicity I referred to Sam as wife rather than as mate. As for the politically correct term significant other—it simply sucked.
The weasel-faced man smirked. “So you shall,” he said. “As soon as we have the information we require.”
I came out of my chair and leaned across the desk. Our faces were not a foot apart. “I did nothing illegal. I plan to leave as soon as the ship moors.”
One of the security guards made the mistake of grabbing me. I turned in almost a blur and sent him crashing into an étagère full of Old West artifacts. Dazed and taken aback by the speed and surety of my attack he stayed down, clearly in no particular hurry to return to any ensuing fray. Then I grabbed the weasel-faced man by the throat.
“I could crush your windpipe in a heartbeat,” I whispered to him in the moment between when the first guard flew across the room and the second came toward me with his weapon drawn. “Tell your man to back off.” To make my point I morphed for a second, giving him a glimpse of what the darkest myths and fairy tales of his childhood said lurked out there.
The Other Kind (The Progeny of Evolution Series) Page 18
