Read Online Lone Wolf #12: Phoenix Inferno by Mike Barry - Free Book Online
Authors: Mike Barry
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everything was closing in and the situation was as out of control as it threatened to be, but Carlin made the effort. Discipline. Everything came down to a matter of self-discipline and control. If you could not yourself be manipulated, then you would be able to manipulate other people. “Please, Janice,” he said reasonably. “We have to go.
It’s for your own good and you’ll appreciate it.”
She shook her head. “I don’t think
you
understand, Joe,” she said. “I owe you nothing, you owe me nothing, that was the arrangement from the first, right? I’m not a traveling companion. If you have to go somewhere, that never stopped you in the past from just doing it and letting me know you’d be back. I never asked you to stay.” She adjusted the sheet around her chin. “I’ll leave,” she said, “I was just going to get up in a little while and go.”
“You’re a fool,” he said. He knew he was starting to go out of control now, but Carlin didn’t care; there was a kind of luxury in going out of control. “You don’t really know what’s going on at all. You understand nothing.” He was sweating. He could feel the sheet of it against his face, flapping as if a hand was pressing down on his features, moving that film of water like a wave breaking over his head, diving into the water, submerged by it, sinking, drowning. He came toward the bed, took her by the wrist and pulled her up. Her breasts bounced as she reared out of the bed, then hung limply, near her navel. She was not, out of bed, a very attractive woman. Aesthetically speaking she was nothing at all. Her flesh was made for lying-down sex; dressed or merely standing she was completely out of proportion. Still, what the hell. He had never said that he was in it for aesthetic reasons.
“You’re hurting me,” she said. She twisted her wrist around in his grasp and he went with her. Cunning, she pulled the other way and he was left floundering, without support, while she came up with her other hand, hit him a hard blow on his jaw, striking him near the nerve, stunning him, and Carlin sat down rapidly on the bed gasping, wondering, pulling at the tight flesh of his jaw and not sure exactly what had happened to him, but knowing the pain.
She moved away from him and he could swear that she was smiling, although he would have wanted her eyes to show some despair that they had come to this. “Why?” he said, “why?”
“Leave me alone, Joe.”
“You had no right to do that,” he said. “What reason was there to hurt me?” and he realized that he was sniveling. He, Joe Carlin was whining and crying on the bed as if he were a child, and a charge of revulsion so clear and vicious that it might have been illness swept through him; there was no reason for him to take this, Carlin thought. He was entitled to better than this; he could not possibly take shit of this sort, because if the word got around, well then, he was done … and the gun was in his hand, he was pointing it at her stomach, and then as he saw the rage and panic twisting across her face he realized for the first time what he had done. My, he thought slowly, that was peculiar, I wonder why she’s backing away from me like that, and then he looked down at the gun and the situation slowly pulled itself into shape for him like a child clumsily tying a scout knot. “Don’t,” she said to him, “don’t do it Joe. This is me.”
“It’s not right,” Carlin said. He was not sure what he was talking about but the idea at least was clear to him. He had no doubt whatsoever of the idea. “It just isn’t right, it isn’t fair, you can’t do this kind of thing to me.”
“Joe,” she said, and now she was backed against one of the walls, her stomach shrinking and shriveling, her nipples alert with panic, standing up as if he had been playing with them. “Joe, I don’t know what you think you’re doing but you can’t. You can’t do this, Joe. You can’t do it to
It’s for your own good and you’ll appreciate it.”
She shook her head. “I don’t think
you
understand, Joe,” she said. “I owe you nothing, you owe me nothing, that was the arrangement from the first, right? I’m not a traveling companion. If you have to go somewhere, that never stopped you in the past from just doing it and letting me know you’d be back. I never asked you to stay.” She adjusted the sheet around her chin. “I’ll leave,” she said, “I was just going to get up in a little while and go.”
“You’re a fool,” he said. He knew he was starting to go out of control now, but Carlin didn’t care; there was a kind of luxury in going out of control. “You don’t really know what’s going on at all. You understand nothing.” He was sweating. He could feel the sheet of it against his face, flapping as if a hand was pressing down on his features, moving that film of water like a wave breaking over his head, diving into the water, submerged by it, sinking, drowning. He came toward the bed, took her by the wrist and pulled her up. Her breasts bounced as she reared out of the bed, then hung limply, near her navel. She was not, out of bed, a very attractive woman. Aesthetically speaking she was nothing at all. Her flesh was made for lying-down sex; dressed or merely standing she was completely out of proportion. Still, what the hell. He had never said that he was in it for aesthetic reasons.
“You’re hurting me,” she said. She twisted her wrist around in his grasp and he went with her. Cunning, she pulled the other way and he was left floundering, without support, while she came up with her other hand, hit him a hard blow on his jaw, striking him near the nerve, stunning him, and Carlin sat down rapidly on the bed gasping, wondering, pulling at the tight flesh of his jaw and not sure exactly what had happened to him, but knowing the pain.
She moved away from him and he could swear that she was smiling, although he would have wanted her eyes to show some despair that they had come to this. “Why?” he said, “why?”
“Leave me alone, Joe.”
“You had no right to do that,” he said. “What reason was there to hurt me?” and he realized that he was sniveling. He, Joe Carlin was whining and crying on the bed as if he were a child, and a charge of revulsion so clear and vicious that it might have been illness swept through him; there was no reason for him to take this, Carlin thought. He was entitled to better than this; he could not possibly take shit of this sort, because if the word got around, well then, he was done … and the gun was in his hand, he was pointing it at her stomach, and then as he saw the rage and panic twisting across her face he realized for the first time what he had done. My, he thought slowly, that was peculiar, I wonder why she’s backing away from me like that, and then he looked down at the gun and the situation slowly pulled itself into shape for him like a child clumsily tying a scout knot. “Don’t,” she said to him, “don’t do it Joe. This is me.”
“It’s not right,” Carlin said. He was not sure what he was talking about but the idea at least was clear to him. He had no doubt whatsoever of the idea. “It just isn’t right, it isn’t fair, you can’t do this kind of thing to me.”
“Joe,” she said, and now she was backed against one of the walls, her stomach shrinking and shriveling, her nipples alert with panic, standing up as if he had been playing with them. “Joe, I don’t know what you think you’re doing but you can’t. You can’t do this, Joe. You can’t do it to
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