Bullets of Rain

by David J. Schow

  "No, no, you don't understand," she said hastily. "I just realized I probably left my bag at Price's. God-dammit-dammit! Do I have my bag? No. Did I stomp out of Price's without it? Yes. Am I a fucking moron? Absolutely. Shit!" She blew off a huge wave of frustrated epinephrine, knowing how limited were her options.

  Art wanted to talk her down. "Was it important, as in the usual stuff, or as in serious?"

  She wiped a hand down her face as if trying to squeeze it into a different expression, something less nakedly emotional. "You must know what it's like to lose your bag; it's like, your identity."

  Art considered how often he might have lost a purse, then stayed kind and did not say anything. He did not even make a funny face; oh. these women and their foibles.

  "It's just a bag; I don't want the Asshole to trip over it. He'll be looking at my checkbook for my bank balance and then he'll swipe my credit card and sell it to some hacker. He'll take all my numbers. There's a single twenty-dollar bill in my wallet that'll probably wind up in some stripper's crotch up in the Mission. Where did I put it down? I had it when I was talking to Dina, because I got her a Kleenex out of it, because that cocaine cowboy was locked up in the bathroom. If Dina got the bag, it'll be fine. The Asshole never slept with Dina, so he'll treat her decent if he spots her."

  "She'd look out for it, for you, wouldn't she?"

  "If she doesn't get so plowed that she loses hers and mine. Oh, well… put it down to paying the party toll, I guess." She smacked her forehead with the palm of her hand. "Stupid." Blitz was gawping at her, uncertain how to proceed, and she gathered his coffinshaped head in both hands. "It's okay, sweetie, it's not your fault. It's just another one of life's little shit sandwiches."

  Blitz, being a dog, didn't think a shit sandwich was such a bad notion. Those cat turds he sometimes found were pretty tasty.

  "Maybe you should just call"-Art had to summon the name from memory-"Michelle, at the house."

  "Yeah, before anybody gets any more wasted. Good idea."

  "Landline's in the kitchen. You know the number?"

  "It's written down in my bag. But it's easy to remember: OK-o-holyman. The numbers make a word. The second O in OK-o is a zero. I probably don't need the area code, right?"

  "No, just holyman by himself is good."

  She smiled as she disengaged from the sofa-reluctantly. "You're never sure how to do things out here in the sticks."

  Art was completely disarmed by his visitor. Part of him figured out that Price's number was 465-9626, while another part was content to watch Suzanne's breasts shift around beneath one of his own sweatshirts. The garment would come away fragrant with her. Even in sweats her waist was pinched; she possessed a classic hourglass shape that had fallen out of fashion in this week's version of youth culture, which was still grimly prejudiced toward models that resembled anorexic jailbait or androgynous junkies who looked like glassy-eyed greyhounds, living heartbeat to heartbeat until discarded or fully consumed. Suzanne did not strike him as callow. She was the difference between "Art" and "normal," which struck him with the distance he had managed to stray from the walking world in general.

  He rubbed his eyes. He was spacing out. Too long, too much, too weird, no sleep. Suzanne's voice echoed in the kitchen, rising and falling tones indicating the presence of someone else in his house. Art did not eavesdrop.

  "It's pretty okay," Suzanne reported. "Dina's got my bag and she's not leaving anytime soon. She found my shoes and spent some time looking for the rest of me."

  "Kind of comic."

  "Yeah. Michelle teased me about finding something better than the Asshole, and wandering off to seduce total strangers. I can go back whenever. But, you know, that guest room sounds awfully tempting. You mind if I just take you up on it, to decompress?"

  ***

  Art ran her through the protocols. Where stuff was. Extra pillow. Warned her not to open any exterior door due to the alarm. The guest bathroom featured extras like single-serving toothbrushes and toiletries, mostly appropriated from various airlines. Soaps, little flossers, mints.

  "I'll zip you over there when we wake up," he said. "You need anything, just tap on the last door in the hall."

  "I'll do that." She disappeared into the bathroom again, giving him a last-minute peek-out. "Thanks. Really."

  "My pleasure, no problem." He waved vaguely and felt if he didn't get horizontal within the next few moments, something very dire would happen to his whole body. Lack of sleep and a liberal overdose of alcohol had started his self-destruct countdown ticking. We now end our broadcast day.

  Blitz padded into the bedroom and assumed his sleep post at the foot of the bed. His habit was to circle, then drop. After a few moments he roused and went into the hall. There was a visitor, a new scent here, and he had to keep track of everybody.

  Stretching his neck back over wadded pillows felt heavenly, and Art managed to pop a few vertebrae when he twisted left to right. Darkness eased the pain in his temples. Suzanne was a total stranger, but what was the worst she could do-take the silverware?

  Steal his dog? He possessed few items a common thief would find tempting; most of the things he valued were not obvious. There was an ivory Eskimo carving, a drum-dancer tupilak made from whale tusk, that looked like a piece of plastic Halloween kitsch. There was a genuine Ming bronze on the mantel, but if you didn't know that, you'd think it was a roughcast, knockoff sort of flower vase. His petty-cash stash was locked up in the gun-room safe, accessible only through the bedroom. Suzanne did not seem the type to snatch up kitchen cutlery and disembowel him for no reason, a spree psycho. She was accountable, had given him names and numbers freely. It wasn't watertight-nothing was, if you worried enough- but it would serve, so Art had no real roadblocks to the downtime his body craved. She had certainly livened up his evening, made him feel part of the world again, a social being instead of a soul so tortured it might have invented the whole Derek scenario, just to have busywork.

  For her to sleep here, she had to trust him, too. A minimum, entry-level kind of trust.

  Thoughts of her body flickered around the outlands of his mind as unconsciousness quickly claimed him.

  He bolted awake in the dark, hand grabbing for a pistol that wasn't there. No dreams. The wind was really getting serious, making a lowering sound like a wounded predator, then a keening, high-pitched noise Art had only heard before as a cheesy haunted-house sound effect. He marveled briefly that real wind could sound that way.

  The silhouette of Suzanne's head was peering through the partially open bedroom door.

  "Hey. You asleep?"

  Blitz sat up. Art drew in a long breath. He was wrung out, drowsy and fatigued. Was he asleep? "Sort of.''

  She invited herself farther into the dimness. "I'm all fired up. I should be nodding off but I can't. Can I lay down with you?"

  Whatever he said-it might have been "uh''-was adequate. She was across the room and out of her sweat clothes in an instant. The next, she was sliding under his sheets, her calf brushing his as she settled in. "A little human contact is a good thing," she said. "Especially on a night like this."

  "Whoa, wait," he said. "Suzanne, wait-I-" He fizzled out. "We just met each other." Some parts of him were waking up faster than other parts, and began to pester him with demands.

  Her eyes luminesced in the near dark. She was on her left side with the comforter pulled up to her collarbones. "I can't think of a quicker way for two people to get acquainted, can you?"

  "But we-"

  "But nothing." She slid a leg over his body and straddled him, keeping the blankets over her shoulders. "Don't lose the heat shield yet," she said. "Not until I warm up."

  Art felt crisp pubic hair abrade his stomach. He saw her breasts move in shadow, rounded and gravid, achingly sexy. Her expression was obscured by the tilt of her clean-smelling hair. It was in his mind to say something else useless, to try to make this collision conform to a method he understood. She put a finger to his li
ps.

  "Shh. I want you to kiss me." She leaned forward, nipples skirting his chest, followed by the full press of her tits, and formed an exacting seal on his lips with hers. He felt a surge of heat. His cock would be curving up between her buttocks, prodding her, but it felt as if the tactile information was getting garbled in transit. She made a little noise of pleasure-mm mm-as though she'd just eaten a chocolate.

  She worked his mouth tenderly and teasingly, brushing his lips, seeking his likes and dislikes with flicks of the tongue, then coming on so strongly they both had to breathe nasally, then backing off for more affectionate ministrations. She kissed his closed eyelids. He wanted to chew on her shoulders, on the back of her neck as her hands got lost in his hair, tugging and pulling and bringing his mouth back into range. His hand found her breast and felt her heartbeat, which was amped up and hammering as she stroked him with her entire body in a slow, easy rhythm. She was totally excited, and completely available to him, already generating moisture against his leg. She was urgent and hungry, and it was easy to let himself be pulled along by her magnetism.

  It was as though he was being towed under by the whirlpool of a sinking ship, and he had to remind himself to grope for the bedside drawer, and condoms that were live years old. His hand blundered into assorted dusty toys, including a grotesque strap-on phallus that Lorelle had gotten as a gag gift, and kept mostly to tease him. Suzanne divined what was going on and beat him into the drawer. He heard the strand of foil packets crackle.

  "You don't mind, I'm sorta on my period," she said. "I took a shower and everything, but don't be grossed out."

  "It's okay."

  "I mean, your sheets-''

  "The sheets are black. Don't worry about it."

  "I just find that, sometimes, if I can do a little vigorous fucking, it actually makes the cramps better, did you know that?"

  "So this has actual therapeutic value."

  "You got it." She popped the condom in her mouth and installed it on him orally. He could feel the slight grating of her teeth on his prick and it was excruciatingly good.

  She placed her hands on his shoulders, arched her back in a luxuriant stretch, and like magic he was sunk inside of her all the way to the latex roll around the base of his penis. She made a sound like someone who has just heard the best news of her life. He grabbed her hips, unwilling to let her go even for thrusting. He wanted to stay inside her as she rose up high enough to lose him on each stroke, only to feel her lips part anew for each reentry into the warm center of her.

  He orgasmed almost immediately. He couldn't help it. His senses were overloaded. She made another little sound; the sound of someone pleased with getting what they ordered. She slid down, disposed of the condom, and took him into her mouth. He was rigid again in no time.

  The covers were flung away now, unneeded as she turned to give him a full view of her sumptuous ass as she planted herself onto his cock, commencing a quick, scooping motion while holding on to his ankles. His entire lower body felt feverish and hypersensitized. She settled into a frantic pace that started her huffing softly and going yeah between husky breaths. When she came it sounded like something was literally tearing its way out of her, and as Art listened and reciprocated and gorged himself on passion, he felt himself ejaculate again. He could feel her entire system declaring itself through the vibrations and contractions in her cunt.

  ***

  "Oh, god, that's better," she whispered, still starving for air. She grabbed a pillow and slammed down next to him like a fallen tree. "What is this mattress? A futon?''

  "Yeah."

  "I love futons. Rock solid, no bouncing, no squeaking. Good for your back."

  "Not a water-bed person, hm?"

  He expected some ribald comment about a burst water bed when she said, quietly, almost shyly, "Do you… mind if I sleep here with you for a bit?"

  He dragged sheets and blankets and comforters back from where the floor had claimed them. The air in the bedroom was still turbid with sex. "Are you kidding? You're joking, right? Of course you can sleep right here. You don't even have to move."

  That brightened her, as if she had expected to be booted out. Probably had, by some of her past caveboys. Bitch set out. "I refuse to sleep without moving," she said. "I think sleep without moving is when you're dead. I'm gonna hit the bathroom."

  Watching her walk across the room naked was like some kind of reward Art did not know what he had done to merit.

  "How about something to drink? I'm dry as a sandbox."

  "Got any seltzer? Club soda? Something fizzy with no caffeine?"

  It was a good idea. Booze was a terrible idea. Half the soft drinks in the fridge would merely add more stimulants, more depressants to the poisonous stew already in his bloodstream. Fruit juice would leave a flat, tacky taste if he drank it before sleeping. Club soda was, in fact, a thoughtful idea.

  How many times has she done this? he thought. Had this same conversation, done the same things in the same order, then breezily requested a club soda? It seemed as though she was really good at it. Seasoned.

  She was lingering by the door to the bathroom. "Do you have any, um-?"

  "Look in that upper cabinet. I've got all the girl supplies you could imagine."

  Suzanne made a face. "How often do you restock?" she said with a sly expression that really asked, Just how many women come trooping through this sex den, pal?

  "Most of it was my wife's." Meaning that it was as old as his quaint little tote of rubbers.

  He brought two tumblers of seltzer, which they drained. Suzanne burped in the darkness, a racketing, window-rattling report, then giggled. "That's almost as much fun as coming. You feel like if you don't do it, you'll explode, and then you sort of explode anyway. You don't have to, like, wake up at the crack of your ass, do you?"

  "Crack?" was all he could utter.

  "Early in the morning," she translated.

  "No. Especially not after this."

  "Outstanding. Be right back." And heigh-ho, she was off to the loo again.

  He bent his neck back over the pillows and felt it unlock. Someone had gassed these pillows with sedative. The toilet flushed but the sound seemed to come from the next county.

  He wasn't aware of her return from the bathroom. Sleep battered him down. He felt her thigh push up past his knees and nestle right below his testicles. Her hand closed around his penis, not a grip, just holding it in a way that was oddly intimate and protective, as he swooned toward slumber.

  The calm fire of his muscles mellowed in relaxation and he dreamed of Lorelle, who had returned to make a strange visit to the bed they had once shared. She said nothing, but put her head down next to his. She behaved as though they still had a lifetime ahead. She touched him gently, not in a hurry. He inhaled her breath, which brought back everything he had lost into a moment of limbo where he felt he was forgiven for whatever he had done wrong, however he had mishandled their lives.

  Lorelle worked her way, a kiss at a time, from chest to belly to his cock, which Art felt gloved in heat as her lips collected it. She wanted him. Her tongue and teeth moved in familiar ways, up, down, generously slow.

  ***

  Art's eyes fluttered open. It might have been an hour later, or five minutes. His clock was not visible. It was still dark and the wind outside was howling. Drifts of harsh rain pelted the roof and windows. Suzanne was sucking his penis, lubricating him with her saliva, and he was as hard as a railroad spike.

  The transposition hit him in an opiate wave. Suzanne had obviously sampled Lorelle's perfume, still in the bathroom cabinet, unopened for years. Objet d'Art, just a drop in the hollow of the throat, enough to bring Lorelle back to bed with her. The sheet made a silken whipping noise as she swung one leg over and embedded him deep within her. He felt himself bump against the little knob of uterus. She held his shoulders down and began chopping toward an orgasm she had to find, a prize she had to win, buried treasure she was absolutely compelled to excavat
e. It was all Art could manage to hang on to the sides of the bed, to press down with his heels to stabilize her sudden and almost scary determination. When she came, the sensation lifted her thunderously into crescendo. She stopped her rearward fall with arms spread, in a pose that made her look like sculpture in the bluish night-glow.

  Art continued the motion and dumped her on her back, her head hanging off the edge of the bed, his own need shoving everything else aside and culminating as he began to piston, fast, hard, and mechanically, an endurance motion intended to destroy all obstacles to climax. Suzanne held on, her throat whitely exposed, her mouth open as she felt blood rushing to her brain, her view of the room upside down and distorted, as she let the pounding precipitate another orgasm, a bone-shaker that caused her to grab his ass in both hands and bite into his shoulder.

  Their bodies were attempting to fuse into a single being. She was fucking herself with him, pulling him home, ramming her pubic bone against his, and when he came he thought he could see sparks of lightning inside his eyelids. His balls were contracted, drawstrung, and the spasms had their way with him, but he could not have possibly delivered anything more into her. She had hoarded the drops, the fumes, and his tank was dry.

  She made a noise, a low, drawn-out hum. "That's… better," she said between breaths, with a tiny chuckle because she knew it was what she had said the first time. She crawled as though blind back to a right-side-up position on the bed, and managed to crawl several baby paces, hands and knees, before she collapsed like a canvas bag of rice, head hitting the pillow mostly by lucky accident. She curled on one side and was asleep before Art could start another conversation.

  He knew his crotch would feel scoured in the morning. He did not care. His senses were delicately beaten into general radiant numbness edged with a rawed sensitivity, and that's how he wanted it. The biggest turn-on for him had been Suzanne's sudden, unheralded, and almost desperate need, right out of nowhere.