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Disclaimer: All characters and events in this story are fictitious, and any similarity to a real person, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and unintended by the author. "The Pretender" is a protected trademark of MTM Television and NBC and the characters of that series are used herein with no mean intent or desire for remuneration. It is, instead, a tribute to innovative television, that rare and welcome phenomenon.
The Third Highway Series Part 07:
The Downward Spiral
Chapter 1
Witch1
The Hard Rock Casino
Las Vegas, Nevada
Laura had decided to play just one more hand when her cell phone rang and the dealer gestured for her to leave the table if she wanted to take the call. "Cash me out," she told him, looking at the big pile of chips, and smiled one last time at the Sex Pistols quote next to the blackjack table: "The only notes that matter come in wads." She retreated to an alcove next to a Purple Haze slot featuring pictures of Jimi Hendrix at Monterey and flipped the tiny phone open.
Jarod's voice, sounding a bit tired, but still a very welcome sound. "Where are you, Laura? It sounds like a party."
"No, the call got forwarded to me here in Vegas--I'm on the gaming floor of the Hard Rock Casino--you'd love this place, Jarod--there are Grateful Dead lyrics on the craps tables and part of Otis Redding's wrecked plane on the way to the pool. I caught Beck in concert last night and he did most of the stuff from 'Odelay'-- amazing show, you cannot believe how weird it was to hear that stuff live, totally unbelievable--I wish you were here, Jarod: it's like the History of Rock, 101. Suddenly, Vegas is hip again!"
"I wish I was there, too. This Kaspari thing is leading nowhere, Laura. Either the trail is too cold or everything has already been swept away . . . "
"What about before that?" she asked, "How'd the sting go?"
"That was great!" he answered, suddenly much more cheerful.
"Big O and all? Of course, you're only doing it for the good of humanity, not because it gives you a buzz . .."
"Of course . . . " he replied. "I miss you. I miss your cynicism. I miss your tits. You don't think you could join me here, do you? I'd like your help with this. Maybe together we can find something else. "
"Absolutely!" Laura replied excitedly. "One thing, though: are you into some weird obsession I should know about? I mean, if you've, like, papered the room with baseball cards like you did in Valdosta or made a giant jello mold shaped like Pamela Anderson or are talking to me surrounded by Beanie Babies, just warn me now, OK? I mean, I still get the creeps remembering that thing you had with the wax lips . . . "
"Actually, I haven't had a serious obsession in several weeks," he lied, making a mental note to toss a few items out before Laura arrived.
"That's sort of spooky, actually--it means you're due. But Philly sounds good. I was going to go on to A.C. if I didn't get paid here-- maybe then Monte Carlo, but just before you called I broke 'two' so I'm a very happy girl. Philly sounds way cool."
"Two thousand?" Jarod asked.
"Get real--you know better than that, Jarod--try two hundred fucking grand! Yowza! I got my suitcase full of cash and I'm outta here, baby! I really, really wish you were here, Jarod--all this money is making me horny as hell. Of course, this is what's great about not being together all the time--I can't wait to see you and get your clothes off! Oh, hey, you'll never guess what I'm wearing--the full Victoria's Secret 'Jessica' rig, in peach."
He laughed. "You're a lousy liar--you only wear that stuff for me. What was that about not wanting to be mistaken for a lap dancer?"
"Right: and it still concerns me that you didn't need me to explain what a lap dancer is!"
"Well, be that as it may . . . I'm guessing you're really wearing a little white linen dress--couture, very expensive, but not overtly sexy. Sandals. Understated jewelry. You look elegant, sophisticated-- unapproachable. Unobtainable. I'm right, aren't I?"
Laura glanced to her right where a slim, handsome young man with dark hair, a small gold hoop in each earlobe and just the right amount of stubble had started feeding coins into a one-armed bandit featuring a picture of Sid Vicious and Sid's signature phrase, "pretty vacant." Vegas was definitely hip again, she thought, complete with major babes. He caught her look and smiled. A very nice smile. She moved closer to him--"Hang on a sec, OK, Jarod?" she asked--and smiled back, thinking he had a great butt.
"Could I ask for a favor?" she said to the guy at the slot, "don't worry, I don't want your machine. I was wondering, could you just take my phone and tell my friend here what I'm wearing?" He laughed a bit--a charming laugh, she thought--and shrugged and took the phone.
"Hello?" he began. "Yeah, nice to meet you, too, Jarod. My name is Peter. What's your girlfriend's name, anyway? OK, well, let's see: Laura is wearing this sort of a tight, like, sleeveless suit. Cream- colored. Well, I guess silk--it's sort of smooth and not real shiny but, well, nice. Ah, yeah, low-cut. Yes, like the whole top halves. Wonderful--breath-taking. No, not all that short but it has a slit up her thigh--Jesus, man, she just, like, put her foot up on the base of the machine and the slit sort of opened and she's wearing silk stockings and a garter belt--peach, right. Oh, absolutely. Ah--you want me to what?" He looked at Laura and then at the phone. "Ah-- Jarod says he wants me to, like, touch your thigh." She smiled at him, pressing her leg against his body, and he tentatively put his fingertips on the exposed part of her leg. And then the entire hand, stroking the inside of her thigh firmly, running his fingers under the lacy elastic of the garter belt and the edge of the stocking's top and then swallowing with effort. He remembered the phone, then: "OK, man--her thighs are really creamy and, ah, tight, hard--hot, very hot. Excuse me?" Peter took a deep breath and looked at the phone for a moment before continuing. "Well, yes, I'd say that's a totally excellent description of her body. Couldn't put it better myself. Not that I would say something like that about your girlfriend, man, I just mean- --No way, man, I can't ask her that!"
"You can ask me whatever you want, Peter" Laura whispered sweetly.
"OK," Peter said, "but I'm only asking because Jarod wants me too, you know? He wants to know: 'Are you wearing the french bikini or the thong?'"
Laura glanced around surreptitiously and took Peter's free hand in hers, working it up under her skirt and around to rest on her smooth and quite naked butt. He gulped and looked into her eyes. She smiled back with mock innocence and stole a glance at his crotch as he let his hand remain where it was just a moment longer than required, working his fingertips slowly, caressingly over her silky skin. They were still staring into each other's eyes. He again swallowed with visible effort. Laura guessed he was twenty-eight, max. She'd always adored younger men. He finally took his hand away and recovered enough to answer Jarod's question: "Definitely the thong. Trust me, man, OK? I know the difference. Look, you really don't want to know HOW I know--yes, actually, that's exactly what she did. Hey, do you two do this all the time, or what? What's that: a 'simulation'? I don't get your drift---Ah, Jeez! No, she just--we're going to get kicked out of here, man--she's unbuttoning her top. Slowly, actually, very slowly. Yeah--lots of those annoying little buttons that always drive you flippin' crazy--why do chicks buy stuff with little tiny buttons? OK-- no, she's flashing me, but, ah, slowly--this is cool with you, right, man? I mean, you're not, like, across the room watching and now you're going to come over and kick the shit out of me or something, right?" He looked around warily. "I mean, this is pretty freaking kinky stuff. . . I don't want to get in any trouble. Because I'm just trying to help, here--oh. Really--you're in Philadelphia, huh? Yeah, that sure is a continent away." Peter watched Laura closely as she started re-buttoning her jacket. "Ah, fantastic! Yes, amazing tits. Spectacular tits. The bra? Ah, sort of cut down low in the front and peach-colored, all lacy and shiny and--you know, oh, hell! I just thought about the security cameras, man--we are definitely going to get kicked out of here and this freaking slot machine owes me!" He handed the phone back to Laura and looked around in increasing paranoia.
"So, do you believe me now?" she asked Jarod.
"So completely that I suddenly think I need a shower--"
"Ah--time for a more extended simulation, I suppose. All those years in the Centre and you are truly the Grand Master of Masturbation, among so many other superlatives. I'll email when I have an arrival time into Philly--you will be thinking about me, right, Jarod?"
"Laura, believe me, you're ALL I'm going to be thinking of for quite a while! Seeing you through another man's eyes like that is-- fascinating. More than fascinating . . . in fact, I really do have to go since I sort of need both hands. What about you, any plans for tonight? Hey, why not take Peter over to the blackjack table and show him a good time?"
"That sounds sort of suggestive . . . besides, I thought you disapproved of what I do--you know: (she switched into a deep-voiced, Jarod impersonation) 'it's not really gambling if the house doesn't have a chance, Laura, it's stealing', all that moral high-ground bullshit of yours."
Jarod simply sighed and pondered all the things that Laura did that he used to disapprove of, back when life seemed simple and morality was crisp and clear, defined in vivid black and white. "OK: don't sleep with Peter. And don't tease the poor boy anymore--he sounds like he's just a kid! Tell him to keep his hands off your ass. Keep the alcohol intake moderate--at least by your standards. Try to avoid doing whatever new drug is hot right now, or at least doing lots of it. Don't take any more money than fits in one suitcase, unless it's just a small suitcase. How's that for my new, modified, pragmatic code of ethics, formulated just for Laura?"
She laughed, thinking that tolerance suited him, and they said goodbye and she flipped the phone closed, looking back at Peter, who seemed sort of numb. "You like blackjack, Peter? Or, let me put it to you this way: how would you like it if you always won?"
She led him to the nearest table and as she moved next to it she turned casually around once, imagining that she was drawing a circle around her as she did. She smiled at the dealer and tossed a handful of chips down, then pictured the circle lit up, a ring of light around her, one that rose upwards into a cylindrical wall of translucency that kept rising: up through the ceiling, through all the floors about, out through the roof and into the black desert sky above the neon glow, upwards even past the atmosphere, into the icy cold blackness above. Until surely and inevitably it was met by a line of light descending downward: from where, from what, she did not question. It was just there, as it always was, and when the two connected she felt the ecstatic shimmer, like a brief electric shot, pass over her body, inside and out: the tiny orgasm of the connection with That Which Is, the connection that opened the door, not just to the dealer's mind but to all possibilities, to all that made her what she was. The connection she kept a secret even from Jarod--the path she walked on alone.
She breathed in deeply--only an instant had passed and the dealer was still shuffling the deck. She tuned into his thoughts and watched through his eyes as he dealt and then checked his down card: nine of clubs, with the deuce of spades up. It was so easy when she was tuned in it was sort of scary. She smiled at Peter and reached out to the take his arm and pull him closer, picturing that the shimmering wall around her opened just then--like a slit in a tent--and let him smoothly inside, closing behind him. She saw him twitch slightly and heard his gasp as the buzz of it ran through his body; then his astonished stare. Men always experienced the connection as literal sex, she knew, remembering how Jarod had nearly been flung right off her bed by it the first time she had opened the connection up for him, the first time they had pressed their naked bodies together, the first time he had ever held a woman in his arms. She'd felt a bit guilty then, as she had many times since, because in some ways Margrit was right--it was a love spell: such a powerful sensation that even when Jarod had been off screwing, seemingly, half the women in America she had known it would bring him back to her. And of course she always pumped up the volume, as it were, for Jarod: what other woman could compete with that, a direct link to, well, whatever the hell it was? Peter had just gotten a very mild dose. But it had been more than enough: she felt for Peter's thoughts and was hit with just a torrent of desire and need and fantasy. She moved her hand appraisingly up his arm: strong, hard. She looked into his dark eyes-- very nice. He was an inch or two shorter than she was in heels, but inescapably attractive--there had been a time when would have been no doubt at all that she would have slept with him. In spite of Jarod's admonition--or perhaps because of it--that still might happen. Compared to Jarod, he seemed so refreshingly uncomplicated and cute. She pondered that fact and whispered to him: "Just look to me, OK? Play the cards like I tell you and I promise you'll walk out of here tonight a very, very happy man."
He still seemed shell-shocked by the entire experience but looked at her before he called for a card, and by the time he'd won four hands in a row and was up by a few thousand he began to understand. She saw the big goofy smile on his face that she knew all too well. Lingerie might indeed turn men on, but there was still no aphrodisiac in the world quite like a big pile of money.
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Peter was up by a bit over forty thousand when Laura felt the inevitable, discrete tap on her arm. The security guy was burly but well-groomed and excruciatingly polite: "Excuse me, Miss Greggor, but unfortunately we must ask you and the gentleman to leave the floor for the evening."
Peter was too gone into the craziness of winning to let go gracefully and immediately started to argue with the bouncer. "Wait a minute, the lady is just watching, man--I'm the one playing, here!"
"I'm sorry, but I have to ask you to cash out, now, OK? Everything you're won so far is your's, fair and square--hey, we only have so much cash in the vault, you know where I'm coming from, buddy?" He smiled at Peter and put his hand on his arm in an attempt at friendliness, but Peter shook it off brusquely. Laura noticed two more bouncers quietly come up and stand discretely behind the first.
"OK, OK, I get your point, man! Look, suppose I just change to another blackjack table--is that OK?" Peter asked.
The bouncer tried once again to defuse the increasingly awkward situation, pointing to Peter's pile of chips. "Why don't I just cash those out for you, buddy, OK? That's some nice piece of change--"
"Hey, if you have a problem with Laura, then tell HER to leave, OK? And if you think she's a card counter, then how about I switch over to craps: everything on one roll, huh? One freaking role of the dice: how's that sit with the guys upstairs?" Peter sputtered angrily.
"Peter," Laura whispered urgently, "I can't help you at craps--"
"I don't care," he hissed as the bouncer turned his back to them and spoke quietly into his head-set for a moment. "Look, Laura--I appreciate what you're doing, but this doesn't have the right buzz, you know? I don't know if you're a counter or a mind-reader or some genius that just has this game psyched, but this isn't fun, you know: there's no vibe, no mojo, it's not gambling--"
"No, Peter: it's winning! You move over to craps and you're back at the mercy of the fucking house--you're a smart boy, you must know the odds--everything is on their side--"
The bouncer turned back to Peter, a big, phony, conciliatory smile on his face. "Hey, everybody is freaking in love with the idea, sir! Let me just take your chips right over for you, sir--table four is open--right this way--"
Laura glanced over and saw a group of evidently less-than-high- rollers being herded away from the suddenly 'open' craps table. She shook her head and tugged at his arm. "Come with me now, Peter--walk out of here ahead for once in your life. It's pointless to throw all that money away like this--"
"No fucking way!" he responded immediately. "I'm on a roll. I can feel it--it's not just you, it's me: I'm hot! I can't lose, Laura-- come on, stay with me, babe. I promise--it's just one spin, OK? Then I want to spin you." He took her face in her hands and kissed her on the mouth, a wonderful, lingering kiss. Laura felt the warm glow of his desire spread over her, basking in it a bit, like a drug that heated her veins and washed all thoughts of Jarod away. She felt the glow spread over her body, focusing between her legs and her suddenly almost excruciatingly sensitive nipples. She wasn't made for monogamy and knew it: she wanted Peter terribly and immediately.
"Peter," she whispered, leaning close to his ear and running her hand down his back slowly, "I know how to do things that feel much, much better than dice--just walk away from it, OK?"
But he just looked at her blankly, shrugged, and then turned and walked away, heading for the craps table, seemingly forgetting she was standing there.
Laura winced and turned away as well. She'd seen that zombie look a million times as a kid--her dad sinking deeper and deeper into debt, always so sure he was just about to turn it all around, always more than willing to put it all on the line with his bookie one more time. She wasn't quite far enough away not to hear the collective groan-- with that high-note of giddy relief mixed in because it was Peter who had just crapped out, not them--as the crowd responded to his roll. She sighed, continually amazed by such casual self-destructiveness. Pretty but stupid, she decided--a combination that, she knew, in the past had had it's charms, but whose attraction was suddenly was quite lost on her.
She watched the elevator doors close and thought of Jarod, who risked his life just as casually, but at least didn't fuck around with money. There were limits to her tolerance. She imagined Jarod safe in his hotel room, taking a long, hot, hot, very hot shower--a comforting picture that brought an immediate smile to her face.
She went immediately to her laptop, checking her email and finding a cryptic note that had come in just moments before from Jarod, asking her to meet her at his hotel the next day, saying he'd leave a key for her at the desk. No explanation, typically: once he got involved in one of his missions he more or less retreated into his own little world. She sighed--she'd been looking forward to him meeting her at the airport--but then went immediately to her travel agent's website to order her ticket. She was exhausted, suddenly, and yawned broadly, stretching and pushing off her heels. She wanted a hot bath and sleep: she had a few hours before her flight. And then, as soon as possible, Jarod. No more crazed little stud puppets--they always turned out to be way more trouble than they were worth.
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Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
Jarod was restless, even after what should have been a relaxing and extremely satisfying shower, and got dressed again. It was a cold but beautiful night and he hoped a brisk walk would help him sleep. The thought of Laura alone in Vegas with the high she got from beating the house, dressed that way and with the temptation of Peter and who knew how many others was unsettling. There was a buzz that he got from it, from simulating her with another man, but the thought of it actually happening--perhaps even at that moment--was disturbing, nevertheless. He'd asked her, of course, about how many men there'd been in her life, but for once she'd been evasive, saying she'd lost count. An answer that didn't exactly help.
He left the hotel and started up the brightly lit street, the cold immediately biting right through his heavy jacket--which he experienced as a rather wonderful, sensuous caress, actually: after the Centre and a lifetime inside even the cold of winter was intoxicatingly glorious. He turned a corner and the big, exuberant wedding cake that was City Hall was right in front of him, with the bronze statue of William Penn way up on top. He was walking along absentmindedly, thinking about the Kaspari case again--the little girl locked in the Centre, the parent's both murdered--when he heard the vaguely familiar, female voice call his name.
He looked up, then, and for a moment was quite sure it was Laura standing there--impossible as that was--half a block away, waving madly and then running toward him. Tall, with dark, auburn hair, a big smile--it was Jenn, he realized with a start--throwing her arms around his neck, nearly knocking him right down with the force of her embrace, kissing him hard and then squeezing his butt, pulling his hips into hers, laughing.
"Oh, God, this is so totally amazing, Jarod! I cannot believe it's really you! You look great--you are just so, like, totally, amazingly- -"
"Jenn," he gasped between kisses as she hugged him so hard he had difficulty catching his breath. "Hey, hold on a minute, OK? Where did you come from--"
"I was just, like, walking down Broad Street and there you were! This is way, way too totally, awesomely cool---"
He took a deep breath, the scent of her hair warm and sweet, suddenly surrounding him, her mouth on his again, her hands moving over his body possessively, his erection so very demanding that he felt he was going to pass out right there on the street from lack of blood flow to his brain. "Suppose," he said, "I take you somewhere and warm you up? You feel sort of chilled, Jenn."
She laughed, running her hands over his back under his jacket, then down over his buttocks and flanks. He looked into her warm brown eyes and reached down to kiss her again, parting her lips with his tongue, feeling the chill of her face against his and the incredible warmth of her laughing mouth, getting quite lost in her happiness. And pushing aside the thought that this was, all things considered, one hell of a coincidence.
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Her looked up at her, at her glistening body, her wonderful, glowing skin and her firm breasts jiggling so marvelously with his every movement inside her and felt quite transported--away from everything else in the world, every memory, every pain and sadness. The initial, literal shock of her body next to his still lingered in his nerve- endings--when she'd finally pulled off all her winter clothes and reached out for him--almost an electric shock of welcome. He had nothing to say, really, no words at all for the supple smoothness of her skin and the delight of her laughter when he cursed not having any condoms: "Don't worry!" she'd said, rather proudly, all grown-up, "I have a boyfriend now and I'm on the pill so it's safe!"
He hadn't quite been prepared for how tight and enveloping her vagina had felt without that thin layer of latex between them--from the first instant when, unable to wait at all, he'd pushed Jenn down on the bed and thrust himself inside her he felt the same relentless rush of sensation, washing his brain with the chemicals of ecstasy. And something else about Jenn that reminded him, inevitably, of Laura- -that amazing, electric tingling all through his body whenever he touched her. He'd been completely unable to wait and totally selfish at first--just fucking her as hard and fast as he could without finesse, and shocked when as he felt his own climax gripping his body she'd screamed, digging her nails into his back, and clenched down on his penis, unmistakably coming as well.
She was astride him, now, riding him in a way that felt truly inspired, and it was all he could do to hold onto her hips as she thrust against him, lost in her own very evident need. She was gasping with each bounce, swinging her hair, and then caught the no- longer elusive peak of another orgasm, her vagina pulsing in a sweet spasm around his penis, a spasm that set him off, in turn, into his own universe of completion and perfection. She collapsed against him, quite past speech--a remarkable condition for Jenn, who he recalled as much as anything for her nonstop loquaciousness during sex. And for the incredible softness of her skin, of course, and her utterly amazing, extraordinary body. He held her tightly, her hair in wet tendrils across his face, her heart beat against his, and closed his eyes. Thinking, of course, that whatever this was that he was feeling, it was something quite other than what he felt for Laura, something quite different from love. Like a fool.
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Somewhere near Hobbs, Maryland
Half unconscious with the pain, Laura struggled again to drift away into a trance and move out of her tortured body. She'd given up on the ropes that bound her wrists together tightly and her ankles to the pipe that ran up from the concrete floor after she'd rubbed nearly all her skin off trying to loosen them and they began to stick to her flesh with dried blood. Time drifted away in the utter darkness and silence, and she was now seeking only freedom from the agony in her joints, the deep bruises from where she'd been kicked repeatedly, and the gashes on her head and face. She had once thought that death would be softened by her ability to slip out of body--that she would escape pain and despair on the third highway. Ironically, the truth was just the opposite: for her to block her pain required her to be focused on it and remain fully conscious. In a sense the pain kept her grounded relentlessly in her body, and it woke her even when she drifted into sleep, bringing her right back, to wake up once again tied up in whatever damp and cold room this was.
She's taken a red-eye out of Vegas, sleeping comfortably in first class and taking a cab to meet Jarod at the Adam's Mark Hotel. She'd thought that a bit odd--he knew she vastly preferred the Four Seasons when she was in Philly, but the desk clerk had a key waiting for her just as Jarod had promised and she was happily looking forward to waking him up, still aroused by their little sex game with Peter. And she'd been so excited about seeing Jarod that she'd walked right into the trap. She assumed she'd been hit over the head as soon as she'd opened the door, but she had no memory until she came to while two guys were trying to stuff her into the back seat of a car. She'd fought back even after one had put a gun to her head--stupid, but she figured she was as good as dead at that point, anyway, and there was no way she was willingly getting into that car. Instead of shooting her they'd punched and kicked her back into unconsciousness. She felt the stabbing pain in her chest with each breath and imagined at least one broken rib. And then there were just the ropes and the pain and the darkness. She lay quite still, willing the pain to recede, to lap at her only like a gentle wave at a beach, to move outward and allow her to find peace. Hunger had long since been replaced by a brutal thirst and she felt increasingly fragile and hollow--transparent, desiccated, infinitely weak. And very, very cold.
She had struggled as well not to think about Jarod. It hurt so much to imagine that she would never see him again that it choked her with grief. Had she ever told him she loved him? She couldn't recall, and it filled her with regret. After a while even that ceased to matter. All sense of time was gone and she lived from one breath to the next. More or less past caring.
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Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
Waking up beside Jenn gave Jarod more pause for thought than almost anything that had happened to him since he'd left the Centre. The situation was clearly unreasonable--he didn't even know her last name, where she lived or where her parent's could possibly think she'd spent the night. Plus there was a moment when, still half asleep, he had seen her dark red hair spread on the pillow beside him and just assumed she was Laura: he felt incredibly confused and drenched in self-loathing and guilt. But she'd been so damned cheerful and soft and warm and welcoming, and somehow he let go again and ended up making love to her in the shower, and then again back in bed after she'd wolfed down the huge breakfast room service brought. He'd wondered, of course, why he hadn't heard from Laura yet, and absolutely hated himself for being secretly glad he hadn't.
Not that he wasn't somewhat concerned about Laura--but she was incredibly self-reliant and he was sure she was fine. He hadn't told her where he staying or what name he was using, so he wasn't worried she'd just show up--unless she used the psychic thing to find him. Mostly he just felt guilty as hell for being with Jenn. But every time he started to suggest she should leave he would try to kiss her goodbye and the kiss would turn into desire and the desire would turn into need and the need would turn into a demand he simply couldn't resist. So that he found himself trying to work out flight times, figuring out when Laura would arrive if she left Vegas that morning, while grasping Jenn by her tight, slim hips and looking down to watch his erection sliding smoothly in and out of her as she bounced backward against him on her hands and knees, panting and clawing at the sheets. And his mind--or at least the analytical part of it--just went completely blank, quite overwhelmed by sensation as he let go with one hand long enough to grab a gloriously jiggling breast and, of course, lose himself completely in lust.
The Downward Spiral
Chapter 1
Witch1
The Hard Rock Casino
Las Vegas, Nevada
Laura had decided to play just one more hand when her cell phone rang and the dealer gestured for her to leave the table if she wanted to take the call. "Cash me out," she told him, looking at the big pile of chips, and smiled one last time at the Sex Pistols quote next to the blackjack table: "The only notes that matter come in wads." She retreated to an alcove next to a Purple Haze slot featuring pictures of Jimi Hendrix at Monterey and flipped the tiny phone open.
Jarod's voice, sounding a bit tired, but still a very welcome sound. "Where are you, Laura? It sounds like a party."
"No, the call got forwarded to me here in Vegas--I'm on the gaming floor of the Hard Rock Casino--you'd love this place, Jarod--there are Grateful Dead lyrics on the craps tables and part of Otis Redding's wrecked plane on the way to the pool. I caught Beck in concert last night and he did most of the stuff from 'Odelay'-- amazing show, you cannot believe how weird it was to hear that stuff live, totally unbelievable--I wish you were here, Jarod: it's like the History of Rock, 101. Suddenly, Vegas is hip again!"
"I wish I was there, too. This Kaspari thing is leading nowhere, Laura. Either the trail is too cold or everything has already been swept away . . . "
"What about before that?" she asked, "How'd the sting go?"
"That was great!" he answered, suddenly much more cheerful.
"Big O and all? Of course, you're only doing it for the good of humanity, not because it gives you a buzz . .."
"Of course . . . " he replied. "I miss you. I miss your cynicism. I miss your tits. You don't think you could join me here, do you? I'd like your help with this. Maybe together we can find something else. "
"Absolutely!" Laura replied excitedly. "One thing, though: are you into some weird obsession I should know about? I mean, if you've, like, papered the room with baseball cards like you did in Valdosta or made a giant jello mold shaped like Pamela Anderson or are talking to me surrounded by Beanie Babies, just warn me now, OK? I mean, I still get the creeps remembering that thing you had with the wax lips . . . "
"Actually, I haven't had a serious obsession in several weeks," he lied, making a mental note to toss a few items out before Laura arrived.
"That's sort of spooky, actually--it means you're due. But Philly sounds good. I was going to go on to A.C. if I didn't get paid here-- maybe then Monte Carlo, but just before you called I broke 'two' so I'm a very happy girl. Philly sounds way cool."
"Two thousand?" Jarod asked.
"Get real--you know better than that, Jarod--try two hundred fucking grand! Yowza! I got my suitcase full of cash and I'm outta here, baby! I really, really wish you were here, Jarod--all this money is making me horny as hell. Of course, this is what's great about not being together all the time--I can't wait to see you and get your clothes off! Oh, hey, you'll never guess what I'm wearing--the full Victoria's Secret 'Jessica' rig, in peach."
He laughed. "You're a lousy liar--you only wear that stuff for me. What was that about not wanting to be mistaken for a lap dancer?"
"Right: and it still concerns me that you didn't need me to explain what a lap dancer is!"
"Well, be that as it may . . . I'm guessing you're really wearing a little white linen dress--couture, very expensive, but not overtly sexy. Sandals. Understated jewelry. You look elegant, sophisticated-- unapproachable. Unobtainable. I'm right, aren't I?"
Laura glanced to her right where a slim, handsome young man with dark hair, a small gold hoop in each earlobe and just the right amount of stubble had started feeding coins into a one-armed bandit featuring a picture of Sid Vicious and Sid's signature phrase, "pretty vacant." Vegas was definitely hip again, she thought, complete with major babes. He caught her look and smiled. A very nice smile. She moved closer to him--"Hang on a sec, OK, Jarod?" she asked--and smiled back, thinking he had a great butt.
"Could I ask for a favor?" she said to the guy at the slot, "don't worry, I don't want your machine. I was wondering, could you just take my phone and tell my friend here what I'm wearing?" He laughed a bit--a charming laugh, she thought--and shrugged and took the phone.
"Hello?" he began. "Yeah, nice to meet you, too, Jarod. My name is Peter. What's your girlfriend's name, anyway? OK, well, let's see: Laura is wearing this sort of a tight, like, sleeveless suit. Cream- colored. Well, I guess silk--it's sort of smooth and not real shiny but, well, nice. Ah, yeah, low-cut. Yes, like the whole top halves. Wonderful--breath-taking. No, not all that short but it has a slit up her thigh--Jesus, man, she just, like, put her foot up on the base of the machine and the slit sort of opened and she's wearing silk stockings and a garter belt--peach, right. Oh, absolutely. Ah--you want me to what?" He looked at Laura and then at the phone. "Ah-- Jarod says he wants me to, like, touch your thigh." She smiled at him, pressing her leg against his body, and he tentatively put his fingertips on the exposed part of her leg. And then the entire hand, stroking the inside of her thigh firmly, running his fingers under the lacy elastic of the garter belt and the edge of the stocking's top and then swallowing with effort. He remembered the phone, then: "OK, man--her thighs are really creamy and, ah, tight, hard--hot, very hot. Excuse me?" Peter took a deep breath and looked at the phone for a moment before continuing. "Well, yes, I'd say that's a totally excellent description of her body. Couldn't put it better myself. Not that I would say something like that about your girlfriend, man, I just mean- --No way, man, I can't ask her that!"
"You can ask me whatever you want, Peter" Laura whispered sweetly.
"OK," Peter said, "but I'm only asking because Jarod wants me too, you know? He wants to know: 'Are you wearing the french bikini or the thong?'"
Laura glanced around surreptitiously and took Peter's free hand in hers, working it up under her skirt and around to rest on her smooth and quite naked butt. He gulped and looked into her eyes. She smiled back with mock innocence and stole a glance at his crotch as he let his hand remain where it was just a moment longer than required, working his fingertips slowly, caressingly over her silky skin. They were still staring into each other's eyes. He again swallowed with visible effort. Laura guessed he was twenty-eight, max. She'd always adored younger men. He finally took his hand away and recovered enough to answer Jarod's question: "Definitely the thong. Trust me, man, OK? I know the difference. Look, you really don't want to know HOW I know--yes, actually, that's exactly what she did. Hey, do you two do this all the time, or what? What's that: a 'simulation'? I don't get your drift---Ah, Jeez! No, she just--we're going to get kicked out of here, man--she's unbuttoning her top. Slowly, actually, very slowly. Yeah--lots of those annoying little buttons that always drive you flippin' crazy--why do chicks buy stuff with little tiny buttons? OK-- no, she's flashing me, but, ah, slowly--this is cool with you, right, man? I mean, you're not, like, across the room watching and now you're going to come over and kick the shit out of me or something, right?" He looked around warily. "I mean, this is pretty freaking kinky stuff. . . I don't want to get in any trouble. Because I'm just trying to help, here--oh. Really--you're in Philadelphia, huh? Yeah, that sure is a continent away." Peter watched Laura closely as she started re-buttoning her jacket. "Ah, fantastic! Yes, amazing tits. Spectacular tits. The bra? Ah, sort of cut down low in the front and peach-colored, all lacy and shiny and--you know, oh, hell! I just thought about the security cameras, man--we are definitely going to get kicked out of here and this freaking slot machine owes me!" He handed the phone back to Laura and looked around in increasing paranoia.
"So, do you believe me now?" she asked Jarod.
"So completely that I suddenly think I need a shower--"
"Ah--time for a more extended simulation, I suppose. All those years in the Centre and you are truly the Grand Master of Masturbation, among so many other superlatives. I'll email when I have an arrival time into Philly--you will be thinking about me, right, Jarod?"
"Laura, believe me, you're ALL I'm going to be thinking of for quite a while! Seeing you through another man's eyes like that is-- fascinating. More than fascinating . . . in fact, I really do have to go since I sort of need both hands. What about you, any plans for tonight? Hey, why not take Peter over to the blackjack table and show him a good time?"
"That sounds sort of suggestive . . . besides, I thought you disapproved of what I do--you know: (she switched into a deep-voiced, Jarod impersonation) 'it's not really gambling if the house doesn't have a chance, Laura, it's stealing', all that moral high-ground bullshit of yours."
Jarod simply sighed and pondered all the things that Laura did that he used to disapprove of, back when life seemed simple and morality was crisp and clear, defined in vivid black and white. "OK: don't sleep with Peter. And don't tease the poor boy anymore--he sounds like he's just a kid! Tell him to keep his hands off your ass. Keep the alcohol intake moderate--at least by your standards. Try to avoid doing whatever new drug is hot right now, or at least doing lots of it. Don't take any more money than fits in one suitcase, unless it's just a small suitcase. How's that for my new, modified, pragmatic code of ethics, formulated just for Laura?"
She laughed, thinking that tolerance suited him, and they said goodbye and she flipped the phone closed, looking back at Peter, who seemed sort of numb. "You like blackjack, Peter? Or, let me put it to you this way: how would you like it if you always won?"
She led him to the nearest table and as she moved next to it she turned casually around once, imagining that she was drawing a circle around her as she did. She smiled at the dealer and tossed a handful of chips down, then pictured the circle lit up, a ring of light around her, one that rose upwards into a cylindrical wall of translucency that kept rising: up through the ceiling, through all the floors about, out through the roof and into the black desert sky above the neon glow, upwards even past the atmosphere, into the icy cold blackness above. Until surely and inevitably it was met by a line of light descending downward: from where, from what, she did not question. It was just there, as it always was, and when the two connected she felt the ecstatic shimmer, like a brief electric shot, pass over her body, inside and out: the tiny orgasm of the connection with That Which Is, the connection that opened the door, not just to the dealer's mind but to all possibilities, to all that made her what she was. The connection she kept a secret even from Jarod--the path she walked on alone.
She breathed in deeply--only an instant had passed and the dealer was still shuffling the deck. She tuned into his thoughts and watched through his eyes as he dealt and then checked his down card: nine of clubs, with the deuce of spades up. It was so easy when she was tuned in it was sort of scary. She smiled at Peter and reached out to the take his arm and pull him closer, picturing that the shimmering wall around her opened just then--like a slit in a tent--and let him smoothly inside, closing behind him. She saw him twitch slightly and heard his gasp as the buzz of it ran through his body; then his astonished stare. Men always experienced the connection as literal sex, she knew, remembering how Jarod had nearly been flung right off her bed by it the first time she had opened the connection up for him, the first time they had pressed their naked bodies together, the first time he had ever held a woman in his arms. She'd felt a bit guilty then, as she had many times since, because in some ways Margrit was right--it was a love spell: such a powerful sensation that even when Jarod had been off screwing, seemingly, half the women in America she had known it would bring him back to her. And of course she always pumped up the volume, as it were, for Jarod: what other woman could compete with that, a direct link to, well, whatever the hell it was? Peter had just gotten a very mild dose. But it had been more than enough: she felt for Peter's thoughts and was hit with just a torrent of desire and need and fantasy. She moved her hand appraisingly up his arm: strong, hard. She looked into his dark eyes-- very nice. He was an inch or two shorter than she was in heels, but inescapably attractive--there had been a time when would have been no doubt at all that she would have slept with him. In spite of Jarod's admonition--or perhaps because of it--that still might happen. Compared to Jarod, he seemed so refreshingly uncomplicated and cute. She pondered that fact and whispered to him: "Just look to me, OK? Play the cards like I tell you and I promise you'll walk out of here tonight a very, very happy man."
He still seemed shell-shocked by the entire experience but looked at her before he called for a card, and by the time he'd won four hands in a row and was up by a few thousand he began to understand. She saw the big goofy smile on his face that she knew all too well. Lingerie might indeed turn men on, but there was still no aphrodisiac in the world quite like a big pile of money.
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Peter was up by a bit over forty thousand when Laura felt the inevitable, discrete tap on her arm. The security guy was burly but well-groomed and excruciatingly polite: "Excuse me, Miss Greggor, but unfortunately we must ask you and the gentleman to leave the floor for the evening."
Peter was too gone into the craziness of winning to let go gracefully and immediately started to argue with the bouncer. "Wait a minute, the lady is just watching, man--I'm the one playing, here!"
"I'm sorry, but I have to ask you to cash out, now, OK? Everything you're won so far is your's, fair and square--hey, we only have so much cash in the vault, you know where I'm coming from, buddy?" He smiled at Peter and put his hand on his arm in an attempt at friendliness, but Peter shook it off brusquely. Laura noticed two more bouncers quietly come up and stand discretely behind the first.
"OK, OK, I get your point, man! Look, suppose I just change to another blackjack table--is that OK?" Peter asked.
The bouncer tried once again to defuse the increasingly awkward situation, pointing to Peter's pile of chips. "Why don't I just cash those out for you, buddy, OK? That's some nice piece of change--"
"Hey, if you have a problem with Laura, then tell HER to leave, OK? And if you think she's a card counter, then how about I switch over to craps: everything on one roll, huh? One freaking role of the dice: how's that sit with the guys upstairs?" Peter sputtered angrily.
"Peter," Laura whispered urgently, "I can't help you at craps--"
"I don't care," he hissed as the bouncer turned his back to them and spoke quietly into his head-set for a moment. "Look, Laura--I appreciate what you're doing, but this doesn't have the right buzz, you know? I don't know if you're a counter or a mind-reader or some genius that just has this game psyched, but this isn't fun, you know: there's no vibe, no mojo, it's not gambling--"
"No, Peter: it's winning! You move over to craps and you're back at the mercy of the fucking house--you're a smart boy, you must know the odds--everything is on their side--"
The bouncer turned back to Peter, a big, phony, conciliatory smile on his face. "Hey, everybody is freaking in love with the idea, sir! Let me just take your chips right over for you, sir--table four is open--right this way--"
Laura glanced over and saw a group of evidently less-than-high- rollers being herded away from the suddenly 'open' craps table. She shook her head and tugged at his arm. "Come with me now, Peter--walk out of here ahead for once in your life. It's pointless to throw all that money away like this--"
"No fucking way!" he responded immediately. "I'm on a roll. I can feel it--it's not just you, it's me: I'm hot! I can't lose, Laura-- come on, stay with me, babe. I promise--it's just one spin, OK? Then I want to spin you." He took her face in her hands and kissed her on the mouth, a wonderful, lingering kiss. Laura felt the warm glow of his desire spread over her, basking in it a bit, like a drug that heated her veins and washed all thoughts of Jarod away. She felt the glow spread over her body, focusing between her legs and her suddenly almost excruciatingly sensitive nipples. She wasn't made for monogamy and knew it: she wanted Peter terribly and immediately.
"Peter," she whispered, leaning close to his ear and running her hand down his back slowly, "I know how to do things that feel much, much better than dice--just walk away from it, OK?"
But he just looked at her blankly, shrugged, and then turned and walked away, heading for the craps table, seemingly forgetting she was standing there.
Laura winced and turned away as well. She'd seen that zombie look a million times as a kid--her dad sinking deeper and deeper into debt, always so sure he was just about to turn it all around, always more than willing to put it all on the line with his bookie one more time. She wasn't quite far enough away not to hear the collective groan-- with that high-note of giddy relief mixed in because it was Peter who had just crapped out, not them--as the crowd responded to his roll. She sighed, continually amazed by such casual self-destructiveness. Pretty but stupid, she decided--a combination that, she knew, in the past had had it's charms, but whose attraction was suddenly was quite lost on her.
She watched the elevator doors close and thought of Jarod, who risked his life just as casually, but at least didn't fuck around with money. There were limits to her tolerance. She imagined Jarod safe in his hotel room, taking a long, hot, hot, very hot shower--a comforting picture that brought an immediate smile to her face.
She went immediately to her laptop, checking her email and finding a cryptic note that had come in just moments before from Jarod, asking her to meet her at his hotel the next day, saying he'd leave a key for her at the desk. No explanation, typically: once he got involved in one of his missions he more or less retreated into his own little world. She sighed--she'd been looking forward to him meeting her at the airport--but then went immediately to her travel agent's website to order her ticket. She was exhausted, suddenly, and yawned broadly, stretching and pushing off her heels. She wanted a hot bath and sleep: she had a few hours before her flight. And then, as soon as possible, Jarod. No more crazed little stud puppets--they always turned out to be way more trouble than they were worth.
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Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
Jarod was restless, even after what should have been a relaxing and extremely satisfying shower, and got dressed again. It was a cold but beautiful night and he hoped a brisk walk would help him sleep. The thought of Laura alone in Vegas with the high she got from beating the house, dressed that way and with the temptation of Peter and who knew how many others was unsettling. There was a buzz that he got from it, from simulating her with another man, but the thought of it actually happening--perhaps even at that moment--was disturbing, nevertheless. He'd asked her, of course, about how many men there'd been in her life, but for once she'd been evasive, saying she'd lost count. An answer that didn't exactly help.
He left the hotel and started up the brightly lit street, the cold immediately biting right through his heavy jacket--which he experienced as a rather wonderful, sensuous caress, actually: after the Centre and a lifetime inside even the cold of winter was intoxicatingly glorious. He turned a corner and the big, exuberant wedding cake that was City Hall was right in front of him, with the bronze statue of William Penn way up on top. He was walking along absentmindedly, thinking about the Kaspari case again--the little girl locked in the Centre, the parent's both murdered--when he heard the vaguely familiar, female voice call his name.
He looked up, then, and for a moment was quite sure it was Laura standing there--impossible as that was--half a block away, waving madly and then running toward him. Tall, with dark, auburn hair, a big smile--it was Jenn, he realized with a start--throwing her arms around his neck, nearly knocking him right down with the force of her embrace, kissing him hard and then squeezing his butt, pulling his hips into hers, laughing.
"Oh, God, this is so totally amazing, Jarod! I cannot believe it's really you! You look great--you are just so, like, totally, amazingly- -"
"Jenn," he gasped between kisses as she hugged him so hard he had difficulty catching his breath. "Hey, hold on a minute, OK? Where did you come from--"
"I was just, like, walking down Broad Street and there you were! This is way, way too totally, awesomely cool---"
He took a deep breath, the scent of her hair warm and sweet, suddenly surrounding him, her mouth on his again, her hands moving over his body possessively, his erection so very demanding that he felt he was going to pass out right there on the street from lack of blood flow to his brain. "Suppose," he said, "I take you somewhere and warm you up? You feel sort of chilled, Jenn."
She laughed, running her hands over his back under his jacket, then down over his buttocks and flanks. He looked into her warm brown eyes and reached down to kiss her again, parting her lips with his tongue, feeling the chill of her face against his and the incredible warmth of her laughing mouth, getting quite lost in her happiness. And pushing aside the thought that this was, all things considered, one hell of a coincidence.
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Her looked up at her, at her glistening body, her wonderful, glowing skin and her firm breasts jiggling so marvelously with his every movement inside her and felt quite transported--away from everything else in the world, every memory, every pain and sadness. The initial, literal shock of her body next to his still lingered in his nerve- endings--when she'd finally pulled off all her winter clothes and reached out for him--almost an electric shock of welcome. He had nothing to say, really, no words at all for the supple smoothness of her skin and the delight of her laughter when he cursed not having any condoms: "Don't worry!" she'd said, rather proudly, all grown-up, "I have a boyfriend now and I'm on the pill so it's safe!"
He hadn't quite been prepared for how tight and enveloping her vagina had felt without that thin layer of latex between them--from the first instant when, unable to wait at all, he'd pushed Jenn down on the bed and thrust himself inside her he felt the same relentless rush of sensation, washing his brain with the chemicals of ecstasy. And something else about Jenn that reminded him, inevitably, of Laura- -that amazing, electric tingling all through his body whenever he touched her. He'd been completely unable to wait and totally selfish at first--just fucking her as hard and fast as he could without finesse, and shocked when as he felt his own climax gripping his body she'd screamed, digging her nails into his back, and clenched down on his penis, unmistakably coming as well.
She was astride him, now, riding him in a way that felt truly inspired, and it was all he could do to hold onto her hips as she thrust against him, lost in her own very evident need. She was gasping with each bounce, swinging her hair, and then caught the no- longer elusive peak of another orgasm, her vagina pulsing in a sweet spasm around his penis, a spasm that set him off, in turn, into his own universe of completion and perfection. She collapsed against him, quite past speech--a remarkable condition for Jenn, who he recalled as much as anything for her nonstop loquaciousness during sex. And for the incredible softness of her skin, of course, and her utterly amazing, extraordinary body. He held her tightly, her hair in wet tendrils across his face, her heart beat against his, and closed his eyes. Thinking, of course, that whatever this was that he was feeling, it was something quite other than what he felt for Laura, something quite different from love. Like a fool.
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Somewhere near Hobbs, Maryland
Half unconscious with the pain, Laura struggled again to drift away into a trance and move out of her tortured body. She'd given up on the ropes that bound her wrists together tightly and her ankles to the pipe that ran up from the concrete floor after she'd rubbed nearly all her skin off trying to loosen them and they began to stick to her flesh with dried blood. Time drifted away in the utter darkness and silence, and she was now seeking only freedom from the agony in her joints, the deep bruises from where she'd been kicked repeatedly, and the gashes on her head and face. She had once thought that death would be softened by her ability to slip out of body--that she would escape pain and despair on the third highway. Ironically, the truth was just the opposite: for her to block her pain required her to be focused on it and remain fully conscious. In a sense the pain kept her grounded relentlessly in her body, and it woke her even when she drifted into sleep, bringing her right back, to wake up once again tied up in whatever damp and cold room this was.
She's taken a red-eye out of Vegas, sleeping comfortably in first class and taking a cab to meet Jarod at the Adam's Mark Hotel. She'd thought that a bit odd--he knew she vastly preferred the Four Seasons when she was in Philly, but the desk clerk had a key waiting for her just as Jarod had promised and she was happily looking forward to waking him up, still aroused by their little sex game with Peter. And she'd been so excited about seeing Jarod that she'd walked right into the trap. She assumed she'd been hit over the head as soon as she'd opened the door, but she had no memory until she came to while two guys were trying to stuff her into the back seat of a car. She'd fought back even after one had put a gun to her head--stupid, but she figured she was as good as dead at that point, anyway, and there was no way she was willingly getting into that car. Instead of shooting her they'd punched and kicked her back into unconsciousness. She felt the stabbing pain in her chest with each breath and imagined at least one broken rib. And then there were just the ropes and the pain and the darkness. She lay quite still, willing the pain to recede, to lap at her only like a gentle wave at a beach, to move outward and allow her to find peace. Hunger had long since been replaced by a brutal thirst and she felt increasingly fragile and hollow--transparent, desiccated, infinitely weak. And very, very cold.
She had struggled as well not to think about Jarod. It hurt so much to imagine that she would never see him again that it choked her with grief. Had she ever told him she loved him? She couldn't recall, and it filled her with regret. After a while even that ceased to matter. All sense of time was gone and she lived from one breath to the next. More or less past caring.
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Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
Waking up beside Jenn gave Jarod more pause for thought than almost anything that had happened to him since he'd left the Centre. The situation was clearly unreasonable--he didn't even know her last name, where she lived or where her parent's could possibly think she'd spent the night. Plus there was a moment when, still half asleep, he had seen her dark red hair spread on the pillow beside him and just assumed she was Laura: he felt incredibly confused and drenched in self-loathing and guilt. But she'd been so damned cheerful and soft and warm and welcoming, and somehow he let go again and ended up making love to her in the shower, and then again back in bed after she'd wolfed down the huge breakfast room service brought. He'd wondered, of course, why he hadn't heard from Laura yet, and absolutely hated himself for being secretly glad he hadn't.
Not that he wasn't somewhat concerned about Laura--but she was incredibly self-reliant and he was sure she was fine. He hadn't told her where he staying or what name he was using, so he wasn't worried she'd just show up--unless she used the psychic thing to find him. Mostly he just felt guilty as hell for being with Jenn. But every time he started to suggest she should leave he would try to kiss her goodbye and the kiss would turn into desire and the desire would turn into need and the need would turn into a demand he simply couldn't resist. So that he found himself trying to work out flight times, figuring out when Laura would arrive if she left Vegas that morning, while grasping Jenn by her tight, slim hips and looking down to watch his erection sliding smoothly in and out of her as she bounced backward against him on her hands and knees, panting and clawing at the sheets. And his mind--or at least the analytical part of it--just went completely blank, quite overwhelmed by sensation as he let go with one hand long enough to grab a gloriously jiggling breast and, of course, lose himself completely in lust.
