Wild & Steamy

by Carolyn Crane

  She checked the time. Almost six. Robert would be leaving soon to go home. Or would he? He’d always been a night owl.

  “Focus,” she said aloud, putting the car in gear. She would go through Robert to get to the Monk. But she needed smarter tactics. You didn’t threaten Robert. You didn’t bribe him, either—saying No to her would be far more valuable to him than any amount of money. And trickery wouldn’t work—she’d been stupid to try. She needed more information. Robert liked directness. And Scotch and curly fries, too.

  *** *** ***

  She steeled herself, standing at his door, bag in hand. She took a breath and knocked.

  “Come in,” he said.

  And she swept in. “Robert.” She said his name like a secret between them.

  He spun around, regarded her warily. “What are you doing here?”

  She set the fragrant hot bag on the desk; grease stains spread over the Moe and Curly’s logo. He eyed it. He knew what was in there. She set down the bottle and pulled a matching pair of funny woodland animal shot glasses from her purse. Robert appreciated a certain level of humor. When you knew his sculptuary work, you could see that. His creations could sometimes be amusing in their extreme precision, their audacity. They made you feel happy, because they showed you his heart and his honesty.

  “How are you?” she asked.

  “What do you want?”

  “Fine.” She opened the bottle. “I need to see the Monk, and I know you know where he is. And how to get to him. I need a location. Packard told me you would know.”

  “What?” he said.

  “Do I need to repeat myself or are you just saying What for the hell of it?” She sat up on the counter and poured an inch into each of the glasses.

  “You want a different answer? How about No.”

  “That’s not the answer I’m looking for either.” She pushed a glass toward him with one finger.

  “It’s the one you’re getting.” He took the glass and drained it, and Sophia did too. As illegal teen drinkers, they’d always had a thing about drinking like adult men, or how they thought adults drank, with an open-throat shot.

  She poured another and put the cap back on, glancing over her shoulder at the view. “What the fuck are you doing here, Robert? You holding this thing up?”

  “You think I am?”

  “You’re doing something.”

  “Is that why you came? To discuss the Sidway multi-turnpike?”

  “Don’t call it that.” Again she glanced at it. Why would he stay, even to keep it from falling apart? Was it possible he blamed himself? But why? He should hate that thing. A puff of steam came out when she opened her bag of fries. She set out the wax paper and put Robert’s double order in front of him. “Got extra ketchups.” She put out her curly fries.

  “You think all this will make me tell you?”

  She slid onto the desk, not quite in front of him.

  “I’ve got work to do, Sophia, and we’ve got nothing to say.” He rolled his chair over and typed on his computer, but she couldn’t see what.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Part of what the Tanglemaster does is to manage the ramp lights. After six-thirty they need different timing.”

  “Ugh.” She poured a couple more shots and threw hers back, then looked out the window. Robert had always wanted so badly to capture essence, whether he was creating a likeness of somebody or vivifying a junky old alley. What was the essence here? A dead end job, she thought, watching the circling cars.

  Misery.

  “How can you stand to look at that thing?”

  He gazed up from his computer. “I like looking at it.”

  “Right.” She snorted. “The only people who like the Tangle are murderous hobos, fugitives, suicides, and cannibalistic sleepwalkers who file their teeth to better tear into living victims’ bellies.”

  “The Tangle resonates with them.”

  “Don’t mess with me. We’re not talking about art. We’re talking about the Tangle.” Was he punishing her even now? That was Grentano’s thing: the public as artistic collaborator, even if only to destroy the art. “He lives down there, doesn’t he?”

  “Who?”

  “The Monk.”

  Robert rolled back; his smile was smug. Imperious, even, but still, something in her belly tingled. God, she’d always loved when he smiled.

  She crossed her legs. “Though, maybe he doesn’t live down there anymore, huh? I know he’s supposed to be dangerous, but, what’s he going to do? Zing the cannibals? Destroy their faith and hope? Turn them into good cannibals? I mean…” She waited.

  He drained his glass and slammed it down. Said nothing.

  “Maybe the Monk’s down there preaching to all the freaks,” she tried. “Maybe he has some freaky church of freaks. The sleepwalking cannibals wouldn’t attack a crowd.”

  He looked up at her. “As a matter of fact, he does lead a church down there, and it is called the freaky church of freaks.”

  She smiled. She used to love when he’d do that—take something silly she said and make a serious thing out of it. If this was old times, she’d laugh and make up more stuff about the freaky church of freaks.

  “Shut up,” she said, feeling like her heart was breaking all over. Looking at him there on his chair, she knew exactly how she’d fit on his lap, how they used to nestle in to fit themselves to each other. How it felt to kiss him, to rub her cheek over his, and run her hands over his shoulders, his chest. She used to love to feel the solid heft of his limbs beneath his soft clothes.

  He ripped open a ketchup packet and squeezed it over the fries.

  And she might feed him a fry, too, if this was then. He used do this thing where she’d try to feed him something, and he’d snatch it from her hand and toss it onto the floor and suck in her finger, maybe multiple fingers, and not let go. He’d suck and suck, and it would feel so fabulously lewd, and it would make her instantly wet.

  “Why do you want to see him?”

  She swallowed. “I have business with him.”

  “You’re going to have to tell me what that business is.” He dragged a fry through the ketchup and bit it in half, seeming to evaluate the taste, then he ate the rest of it. “Crispy,” he said.

  “But of course.” They’d always ordered their fries well done. Nothing worse than soggy curly fries. “If I’m going to do a fat bomb, it better be delicious.”

  Sullen gaze. A look that meant, Stop being full of shit. A compliment.

  She felt flustered. Couldn’t think how to proceed. “Why are you up here doing this traffic management shit and not down there doing your real work, Robert? Your sculptuary?”

  “Traffic management is useful. Usefulness is a form of truth, too.”

  “Unlike the bullshit you’re feeding me right now.”

  He gave her a hard look, which she answered with a sly gaze. Their old connection was all there again, pure and true as a bell.

  Shit! What was she doing? She had no right to re-engage like this. No right to him in any way, shape or form. She really was evil. Get in and get out, she told herself. She crossed her arms. “Come on, I need to see the Monk.”

  “Why?”

  “There’s somebody who needs to be disillusioned.”

  “Only Packard sees the Monk. Packard and the targets.”

  “I don’t know if you follow the news, but Packard’s not exactly available right now. Would Packard have told me to come here if he didn’t want me contacting the Monk?”

  “No go, Sophia.”

  “No go? What does that mean?”

  She didn’t like the hard gleam in his eye. “Means you’re not seeing the Monk.”

  Frustration surged up in her.

  “Packard doesn’t roll this way,” he added. “So why don’t you tell me what’s really going on here?”

  “Did you ever think Packard might be rolling differently?”

  “Nope.” Robert ate another fry, seeming full of pri
vate thoughts.

  “What? Does he send an engraved invitation for the Monk to meet him? Dearest Monk, would you do me the honor…”

  “That would work.”

  “Sometimes a person doesn’t have time for an engraved invitation, Robert.”

  “Packard would make it happen if he wanted to.”

  Casually she glanced out the window. So that’s how Packard did it? He’d send written instructions that Robert would carry to the Monk? She could probably get a sample of Packard’s writing at the restaurant. She could send instructions for the Monk to show up somewhere and she’d be the one to meet him. Maybe she’d need a note from Packard to give to the Monk, too. This was all getting a bit complicated, but at least she was making progress.

  She tried to get a few more details from Robert, without success. She needed to come at him fresh again. Lord, how many times would she have to revise him? He’d finished his fries now, and wiped his hands on his napkin.

  “Hey.” She slid over on the desk, so that she sat right in front of his chair, and leaned in. “You have an eyelash about to go into your eye.”

  He looked at her strangely. “Do I, now?”

  “Are you mocking me? Yes, you do. Hold still.” She rested her hands on his shoulders, a stolen enjoyment. “It’s in your left eye.”

  He looked at her. This was the part that was the sickest, where he gave her the clear stream of his trusting gaze, and she invaded it in order to rob him.

  The gate to recent memory was through the eyes, of course—for sighted people, anyway. The first thing she’d do would be to sync up with his gaze—it would give her a kind of hold, and even calm him, and then she’d deepen her hold and invade.

  “This’ll just take a second,” she whispered, as much for herself as for him. Robert seemed to be watching her with too much awareness—it was because it was him, that’s all. She’d felt like that earlier today, and, just as she had then, she tried to convince herself this was some no-name reporter who’d seen something he shouldn’t, just another job, just another pair of eyes. “Now hold still. It’s right there.” She placed a pinky on his cheekbone and worked on relaxing into the stream of his gaze.

  She just needed to get to that point, get control. Once she fully synched up, she’d start getting the rough images, and that’s when she had a person.

  Even when she had a person, she couldn’t read much of their memory—images were indistinct—but she could see enough to know where to erase to. Afterwards, if she wanted, she could imagine her own thing and plant it there, like playing a movie for both their minds to see. Or simply allow the person to lose time, which is what she’d do with Robert. He was such a daydreamer, he’d never know.

  A daydreamer with dark velvety brown eyes, watching, waiting. Her chest felt fluttery; it was taking forever to sync in. She just needed to get fully in and seize control, and then she could relax. She was right on the edge of it when she felt his hand on her knee.

  “Robert!” she scolded, her hold faltering. “Come on!”

  She pushed at his hand, sliding backwards on the desk, trying to keep the hold she had on his gaze, but he smiled and pressed another hand to her other knee, and then he slid both hands up her thighs. “Does this help?”

  “No!” She struggled to get back into sync, pushing back on his wrists, trying to stop his upwards progress. “Don’t be crazy!” But he was too strong, he kept moving his hands up her thighs, sliding, gripping, until his thumbs grazed the insides of her thighs. “Jesus,” she said. She was in sync with him, but not the way she intended.

  He stood and pushed roughly between her legs. All at once, his hands were around her, gripping her ass, and he dragged her to him.

  “Robert!” It was meant to come out like an admonishment, but it sounded husky, inviting even.

  He kissed her hard. His hold on her was fierce, like he was on fire, and she was the fuel. “You want me to stop?” he grated into the kiss.

  Him stopping was the last thing she wanted. She had no right, but she couldn’t help herself. “No.”

  His hands were at the front of her, pulling down the zipper of her safari jacket. “No what?”

  “No, don’t stop.” She closed her eyes as her jacket fell open.

  “Hey.” Gently he took hold of her hair, pulled her away. “Don’t check out now.” She opened her eyes to his piercing gaze; he seemed angry—at her? Himself? “Stay looking at me. Be here.” He let her go and she watched his brown eyes, his stubby Robert lashes, as he undid the buttons of her shirt. And he watched her. What did he want to see in her eyes? What was he looking for?

  The way he watched her, it was too much. She felt exposed, but she wouldn’t look away—she didn’t want to break this dark dream. Did he suspect? It didn’t matter. Later on, she would steal this experience from him as she had stolen the others, but for now she wanted to give him something. And take something.

  He pushed her shirt and jacket off her shoulders, and sighed. “Goddammit,” he said. And then he kissed her.

  God, she wanted him. And evil as it was, she liked that she had him. He continued to peel off her clothes, with those same furious movements, like he didn’t care, but like he cared too much. She pushed her fingers up under his sweater, pressing her hands to his chest, felt him tremble. He roved his hands all over her body, palms on her breasts, over her hips, her thighs, thumbs around her slick folds. This was wrong on every level. And oh, she was so turned on.

  She kicked off her boots. He wrestled her pants from her ankles and she grabbed her purse, remembering a condom in there. She held it out for him and he plucked it from her hand, not questioning where it came from, who it was for.

  ”You can have anything,” she breathed.

  ”Anything?” He watched her impassively. The pause between them went on for maybe a second or two, but it seemed like forever.

  Anything. It was a lie, of course. Or was it? What was stopping her from giving him anything he wanted—even the truth? “Anything,” she confirmed.

  They watched each other’s eyes. He was still wary, still shuttered. He didn’t trust her, and she saw it. And he knew she saw it; suddenly there was too much truth.

  “Put it on me,” he said, shoving the foil package back at her. “That’s all I want.”

  She opened the little package; she would never let him know how it hurt, that that’s all he wanted from her. Nothing more. But what did she expect? She was the ultimate taker; maybe on some level, Robert knew it. She unrolled the condom over his hard length, carefully, reverently—she would give him something even in this. She pressed it over him, smoothing it down to the base of his cock.

  He stroked her hair. The tender gesture surprised her. “That is so good, Sophia.”

  Inwardly she smiled—he’d always said that whenever she touched his cock in any way. Lightly she ran her fingers up and down the marble-smooth latex while she kissed his chest, the wiry hairs. She kissed the freckle by his left nipple. That little freckle, like an old friend.

  “That is so good,” he said. She straightened up and looked into his eyes. The whole tenor of their interaction felt different now, like the anger and angst had burned out, and there was just the echo of what was past, and a strange sadness.

  She put her hand to his face, slid her thumb along his forehead. “Come here,” she whispered, wanting to comfort him. Comfort him and protect him—from herself. Lord, she was twisted. “Come here.”

  He moved in close to her and she held him, kissed his neck, enjoyed the feel of his arms tight around her. The tip of his cock probed at her core, then slipped upward. He took it with his hand, dragged it around in her wetness, panting, forehead tipped to hers.

  “Yeah,” she whispered.

  Slowly he pressed into her, filled her. It was beyond delicious. She tilted, wrapped her legs around him so that she could take him all in.

  “Oh, that is so good, Sophia.” Like he’d discovered something unexpected. Always like he’d discovere
d something unexpected. He touched her legs, feeling them all the way around him. “So…”

  “Yeah,” she said.

  He thrust into her. They fucked slow, and then they fucked hard, not looking at each other, as though by agreement, like the truth had become too painful. She pulled him to her, licking his neck, maybe sucking it—she didn’t know, because his every thrust sent mindless sparkles into her nervous system.

  Later he pressed his thumb to her clit while he thrust, rubbing her. She’d always needed a little something extra to get off—sometimes a lot of something extra, and of course he remembered. The kindness of it hit her. When he paused, all she could think of was that he needed to start again, and the instant he started again she was over the edge, thrumming and throbbing with wild pleasure, only vaguely aware when he came too, with a Robert groan. He stilled, vibrating inside her.

  They stayed connected for a long time, him inside her, her face at his chest, him holding her. Their breathing sounded loud in the silence. She wanted only this, she didn’t want to think anything, face anything. Only this. She had a feeling he felt the same way. Wildly she wondered how long they could stay like that.

  A ringing sound startled her cold. The ring of an old-fashioned phone. Robert stiffened, and he pulled out of her, not meeting her eyes. He just turned and yanked to phone off its cradle. “Yeah.” He turned away from her, grumbling into the phone, which he held between his ear and his shoulder, fumbling around. She saw him throw the condom in the little garbage can, and he pulled up his pants.

  Quickly she pulled her clothes back on, feeling ashamed and abandoned. He was right there in the room, but gone. Maybe it’s how he’d felt when she’d left. Of course he’d be mad. He should be mad.

  Robert was typing now, fingers fast on the keyboard. Schematics appeared on one of his screens. Then he was barking questions into the phone. “Did he see a blue pillar? Any kind of machinery?” He gave what sounded like coordinates.