Scream Queen

by K T Morrison

  Million Dollar Boat

  Wednesday, June 26

  7

  There was a wealthy man in Dubai Ben believed would buy the boat he was here to see and make him sixty grand richer in the process. He was at the Boone Dry Dock in the Port Lands, on the eastern side of the waterfront where things remained more utilitarian. The Dry Dock was a ship repair and storage facility, a ship junkyard in some ways, and the guy who owned it, Earl E. Chambers, had snatched up three small yachts before they’d gone up for police auction where Ben would have had a chance at them. But he had a probable buyer for one of them, and he’d deal with Early (as he liked to be called), and still make a profit. The boats had been seized from some sort of organized crime element—he’d heard Russians—and Earl had the contact to get the jump on first choice. He’d probably slipped someone down at Metro Police the right amount of cash to get the heads up. But it was Ben Todd who had the connections to get full price and get it fast. So he’d pay Early’s markup, and in about two weeks of back-and-forth phone calls he’d finally ship one of these babies off to the Middle East somewhere. If not, there was someone in Taiwan who might be interested.

  So he was walking between the alleys of towering junkyard boats—sleeves rolled up, laptop under his arm, tie over his shoulder and sunglasses on—and he came around a forty-foot Chris-Craft that had to have been a real hoot in the early nineties but nobody in S.A. would be caught dead in. Next to it, however, was the sleek and beautiful yacht he was here for, lifted up, high and dry. That was when he saw the woman.

  Straight ahead, on the step-up ramp that led to the Chris-Craft, there was a slender girl with honey-blonde hair and cowboy boots sitting in the shade. She’d arrived by motorcycle, but he barely registered it, only noting it was fat and low, bulky and custom looking, maybe an Indian. She had a bottle of bright red cream soda with two straws in it. It was such an incongruent sight he did a comedic double take. The girl was looking down and hadn’t seen him yet. But here he was in this derelict chamber of dead nautical souls, creeping between dried out boats all by himself and coming to find what had to be a beautiful girl.

  Then she turned, and he saw it was Chelsea.

  The reaction was strange, because he brightened, smiled, his hand darting up to wave—then the events of the block party came down over his eyes like a blanket somebody was trying to suffocate him with. Shit. His hand fell, and he looked around to see if anyone was watching.

  “Hey, Ben,” she said, set down her soda pop and waved.

  “Chelsea?... What are you doing here?”

  She tapped something on the step next to her, like she was putting out a cigarette. Weed smell rode the draft channeled between the two big boats.

  She said, “What a coincidence. I was down here looking for a boat and then you come walking along...”

  “W-what?...”

  She put an elbow on her knee and planted her narrow chin in her palm, cocked her head at him. “Really, Ben?”

  He smirked and rolled his eyes. “I’m kind of stupid, huh?”

  “I’ve been waiting for you, Benjamin.”

  “How’d you know where I was?”

  “Aren’t you going to come any closer?”

  “Sure.” He slowly sauntered to close the distance between them. About six feet apart, he leaned his shoulder on the curved hull of the Chris-Craft. “What’s up?” he said, trying to sound cool—at least cooler than he’d sounded the night of the block party. She was phenomenally beautiful. That perfect face tilted up toward his, her slender shoulders showing because she had the sleeves of her threadbare Motörhead T-shirt rolled right up to her collar. Her jeans were tight and her cowboy boots looked like they were alligator and might cost a thousand dollars. He shifted uncomfortably; the girl was far too sexy.

  After staring at him for a long moment she finally said, “Libby told me where I could find you.”

  “What?... You talked to Libby?”

  “I went by your house this morning, you weren’t there.”

  “You were looking for me?”

  “I had a coffee with your wife. She said you’d be out here mid-morning looking at boats.”

  “What did you tell her? What did you say you wanted me for?”

  “I made up some bullshit. Told her I was looking for props from the theater and I thought with all your connections you might know someone.”

  “But that’s… You have guys that specialize in that...”

  She shrugged, made sleepy eyes. “Think Libby knows that?”

  “I don’t know. What do you want me for?”

  “Ben, Ben, Ben,” she sighed in dramatic fashion, like she was trying to calm him down. “It’s our secret—remember? I’m not fucking with you or anything, I’m not some crazy stalker. You think giving you a blowjob was like such a great experience for me I can’t stop thinking about it, aching to give you another one?...”

  “No, I don’t think that.”

  “I look like a stalker? You think I go kooky over a man?”

  He said, “No, you look like you have stalkers.”

  “I’ve had stalkers,” she said. “It’s no fun. I’m not a stalker, Ben. Just wanted to hang out with you.”

  “I’m working.”

  “I got the day off,” she said.

  “You went by the house?” He wanted to clarify that, showing her a troubled face.

  “Lib and I had a coffee before she had to go to work. She said you’d come down here to the Port Lands.”

  “Did you say anything else to her?”

  She shook her head, giving him a Get real face. Now she tilted her face up to look at the sky above the hulking boats. “I thought I’d come down here. You know I filmed a movie right across the street?”

  “No. Where?”

  “They shoot movies at the Hearn. Actually, wait—I’ve filmed there twice.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The old generating station, you drove right by it.”

  “It’s derelict.”

  “Not really. A movie company owns it. It looks good on film that way.”

  “Cool,” he said, shifting from foot to foot then stuffing his nervous hands in his pockets because he didn’t know what to do with them and the grip on his laptop was getting sweaty.

  She studied his anxiety. “Seriously, Ben,” she said, getting her sexy eyes thin again. She smirked like there was some hidden joke.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You really think I showed up here to get you inside one of these boats so we could fuck?”

  “I don’t know…”

  “Ben, come on,” she said, making her eyebrows tent in the middle. “I’m not looking for a prop, I’m looking for a set. Lib said you were out looking at boats. I really am considering a set. I got a buddy who’s in a play with me who’s making a film. It’s kind of like a music-video-performance-art piece, but I know he wants it to be nautical. Libby said you were gonna here, I popped by, told the old guy at the front I was looking for you, and he let me in.”

  “Okay,” he said, feeling foolish enough his cheeks went a little warm.

  “Really, Ben,” she said coyly, eyes narrowed in admonishment but smiling still. “I’m not here to fuck you. Get over yourself...”

  “All right,” he said laughing now, “look, what happened between us I feel really bad about...”

  “You didn’t like it?”

  “No, it’s not that. Just I don’t want to cheat on my wife...”

  “You didn’t. That happened in high school, right?”

  He said, “It didn’t happen at all.”

  “Right. It didn’t happen at all,” she said, face more serious, nodding. “We only both thought about it.”

  He watched her staring at him, this way-too-beautiful girl, the both of them in a quiet secluded space where no one was watching him. He looked around behind him, saw no one, and ahead of them no one. The boat yard was empty. He said, “What kind of boat is your friend looking f
or?”

  8

  With Ben’s hand gestured outward, Chelsea climbed the stairs ahead of him and stepped onto the open back-deck of the eighty-foot Pershing he was looking to buy. He joined her, but she turned and walked away, running her fingers over the white leather, coming to the slid-open smoky glass door and slipping inside. Sunlight beamed off the all-white trim making him squint even behind his sunglasses.

  He followed, found her in the yacht’s luxurious belly looking over all the brushed aluminum, the hardwood, the glossy black spaceship controls.

  “Shit, Ben, this is a beautiful boat. You going to buy this?”

  “Not me. My company. I have a partner, too. We buy and sell high-end stuff. Both of us have contacts and we pool our resources to buy hot items and then—”

  “You keep the markup.”

  “We keep the markup,” he said. He set his laptop, folders, and phone down on the low chrome coffee table, put his hands in his pockets. “So you think it’s a beautiful boat?”

  “It’s bad-ass, Ben, and you know it. Who’s going to buy it?”

  “A guy I know in Saudi Arabia.”

  “Oh, yeah? You ever go out there?”

  “Once or twice a year.”

  “That’s cool. I spent six months there.”

  “No shit?”

  “Maybe we know the same people.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Your people rich-ass Arabs?”

  “They are.”

  “I thought so.”

  Now he walked around her, moving into the kitchen, saying, “This the kind of boat your friend wants? Because I’ll probably ship it in about ten days... do you think he could get his video wrapped up in that time?”

  “Beats me,” she said, her back to him, still admiring the boat’s luxury interior. He looked over his shoulder and studied her sexy figure; the slender grace of her arms; the swooping silk of her honey hair; the way that ass fit in those slim-fit jeans. Her legs went on forever...

  She moved around now, her cowboy boots making clopping sounds in the small space. “You want me to ask him?”

  “Can you call him? I might be able to buy him a couple more days when I do my deal here, but I gotta know...”

  Chelsea spun on her heel, still looking around as if it was her deciding whether to buy the boat or not. She closed the distance between them, stopped right in front of him and leaned a hand out on the kitchen counter, staring in his eyes.

  He asked quietly: “What are you thinking?”

  “I think I want to test out the bed.”

  “He needs the bed in the video?”

  “What video?”

  “Your friend’s performance art thing...”

  “What friend?”

  “The friend you said you’re coming out here for…”

  “Sweet Ben,” she said, reached up and cupped his cheek. “Sweet Ben the nice guy...”

  “I am nice,” he said.

  “I don’t have any friend who wants to make a video.”

  “You don’t?”

  “You’re right, they have people for those things...”

  “So what do you want?”

  “I told you I came to test out that bed...”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Test it out with me, Ben,” she said, ran her fingernails down his arm, tickling his forearm hairs and then grabbing his hand and intertwining their fingers. “Come on, we’ll see if this bed can hold up...”

  “Wait,” he said, but she was pulling him, walking ahead, making him turn around, hand gripped tight on his. When he resisted, she turned on her heel and began pulling him backwards.

  “Come on, Ben. Show me how you fuck...”

  “I can’t,” he said.

  “So you’re as useless as Ronnie and all those other jerks from high school?”

  “No...”

  “You better than them or are you the same as them?”

  “Better.”

  “So come on and fuck me. Show me, Ben Todd. Fuck me.”

  “I can’t, Chelsea.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Can’t get it up?”

  “It’s not that...”

  She released him, but with one stride slunk her body up against his, hand between them and grabbing a handful of his hard goods. He went up on his tiptoes as she squeezed his balls too tight. A smile curled up her cheeks, and she said, “This little guy betrays you at every turn.

  “It’s not little.”

  She laughed, said, “I meant compared to the rest of you, Ben. Your dick is great. It was the perfect size for sucking.”

  “Okay,” he said, unsure, watching those confident eyes of hers knowing her vast history of sexual experiences.

  “Our secret, Ben. Come on, come show me this bed...”

  Now she pulled him by the erection, her hand squeezed over the front of his pants.

  “Don’t, Chelsea,” he said, taking two steps being led by his dick but now holding onto her wrist. “I can’t...”

  “Don’t you want to have fun, Ben?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “You already did it once. I told you I’m not going to tell anybody.”

  “I love my wife.”

  “I love my husband too. I’m not asking you to run off with me, make me an honest woman, Ben. I wanted to fuck you since high school, and you wanted it too. Both of us want it, why are you being such a dick?”

  “Chelsea, please, I’m not being a dick.”

  She eyed him sleepily again, cocking her head, letting his dick go and taking a step back. Now he watched her hands gather at her waist and she popped the top button on her faded Levi’s. Then one by one she undid the flight of buttons, and he could see that underneath those jeans she wore no underwear. His eyes were glued to that triangle of skin being revealed. The things he would’ve done to be with her when he was a teenager.…

  She came a little closer again, gripped his shoulders, then her nails ran down his arms again until she held his hands. “What are you so afraid of?”

  “I’m not afraid of anything.”

  “Are you a man?”

  “I am.”

  “What man turns this down?”

  “I love my wife.”

  She brought his right hand between them and put it down the front of her pants. And even though he didn’t want to, he couldn’t help himself. His fingers slipped down and explored the softness of her shaved mound. She said, “Put a finger inside me, Ben.”

  “Why?”

  “Can you believe you’re about to finger Chelsea Cunningham?”

  “No.”

  “Put a finger inside me, find out how wet you made me.”

  He groaned, his moral consciousness blotting out again. The room was still and quiet, the city sounds of traffic seeming so far away. He slipped his two middle fingers between the cloven hump of her sex, finding her greased and eager, slipping deeper into her pants, curling between the cleft of her vulva.

  “I’m wet, aren’t I?” She smiled wide and bit gently on her lower lip.

  “You are…”

  She whispered, “Put your fingers inside me.”

  “Shit, Chelsea.”

  “Just do it, Ben, don’t let me down.”

  Now he bit at his own lip—and slowly sunk both middle fingers up inside the hottest girl in his high school. His fingers entered inside her body, pushing apart that most intimate and heavenly part of her. She made an odd purring sound that got his cock flexing in his underwear.

  “Tell me you don’t want to fuck me, Ben.”

  “I can’t...”

  “Tell me you don’t want to.”

  “Of course I want to.”

  “I’m not going to tell anybody, Ben.”

  “It’s not that.”

  She shot a hip out, making his fingers slip around inside her, the slippery feel of Chelsea Cunningham’s insides making him lightheaded. “You’ve got to be the hardest guy to get into bed that I’ve ever met,” she
said. “You really play hard to get.”

  “Chelsea, come on, don’t.”

  Both hands on his wrist, she guided his hand out of her pants. She stepped back, smiling broadly, tilting her head, then crossing her hands in front of her and pulling her T-shirt off. She wore no bra, and he saw what she looked like topless.

  “Holy shit,” he sighed.

  Her breasts were flawless smooth creamy-flesh globes that barely sagged. The nipples were dark, pinkish but mostly a caramel color that matched her hair. They were full and perfect and it was ten times better seeing them like this instead of bouncing around in that quick-edit rampage where they bounced up and down and around as she fled the killer and his machete. A weakness seized his legs, and he felt like he might drop.

  She said, “You ever dream about this?”

  “Uh-huh...”

  Now she thumbed down her pants, seesawing her hips, using the instep of her boots to pry off the heels and stepping out of her jeans, getting totally naked now in this multimillion dollar boat he was going to buy.

  “Tell me you don’t want to fuck me,” she said, standing completely naked, the most outrageously beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

  “I want to fuck you.”

  “Show me how this bed works, Ben. You going to fuck me in the belly of this million-dollar boat?”

  “Four million.”

  “There’s my man,” she said, dipping her chin. “You gonna buy this boat today, you badass?”

  “I am.”

  “You going to fuck me in this boat today?”

  “I am,” he said.

  9

  “Come on and do it, show me how Ben Todd fucks,” she said, turned on a bare heel, marched out of the galley and stepped down to the mid-ship master state-rooms’s door, that beautiful ass swaying from side to side.

  He unbuttoned his shirt as he followed, pushed open the bedroom door and saw Chelsea Cunningham climbing up on some Russian gangster’s luxury small-yacht bed. The previous owner might’ve been a baller who killed guys, dealt guns and drugs and whatever, but there had never been a more beautiful woman on that bed than Chelsea Cunningham.