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Authors: Mark Russell
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the stick's musky fragrance before turning on her tub's faucets. She glanced at the rusty watermark fanning down to the plughole, before inserting the metal plug. She flinched as gas-heated water swirled about her fingers. Dios todopoderoso, this sure beats that crappy burner in Havana, she mused, unleashing more cold water into the claw-footed tub.
She dried her hands, ground out a French cigarette, and pulled a phial of cocaine from her jeans. She poured the narcotic on to a front corner of the sink, then grabbed a razor blade from the medicine cabinet on the wall. She chopped and changed the powder into an even line. Using a tightly rolled dollar bill, she snorted the drug until not a crumb remained. The attractive young Latino groaned with pleasure and looked at a Jim Morrison poster (circa 1967) that she'd pinned to the peeling plaster above the toilet's cistern. Looking through the ghostly fingers of steam rising from the tub, she swore the dead musician winked at her, as if come to life, however lewdly, from his idolographic bondage on the wall.
But she was high, and getting more so. She hawked bits of powder down her throat and slid out of her jeans and panties. She squeezed an unstrapped breast through the tie-dyed cotton of her T-shirt, her other hand dropping to the dark triangle between her legs. She looked longingly at the Jim Morrison poster and threw back her head, savouring the ecstasy of her deft stroke. But with no peak in the offing, she wiped her finger across the powder-specked corner of the sink. She sucked on it and absorbed the rich taste. The familiar tang of the drug interspersed with the meaty salt of her arousal.
'God help me.' She groaned with throaty abandon. 'I'm so horny.'
'Hey,' her sister called from the other side of the bathroom door. 'Telephone.'
Belize wrapped a towel about her, turned off the taps, and opened the door.
'It's lover boy.' Her older sister tapped a dog-eared Spanish novel against her thigh, and looked put out.
'Now, now, don't be jealous,' snickered Belize, skipping past her to the hallway phone.
'Hello?'
'Hi babe, it's me.'
'Ah Scott,' she said in a husky tone that betrayed the pleasurable sensations of the narcotic she'd taken.
Goldman met Belize three months ago when she worked as a checkout girl in his local supermarket. She was attracted to him and knew he was to her as he tended to use her checkout when shopping there. Late one Saturday night they ran into each other at a newly opened Inner Harbor nightclub. They hit it off and partied into the early hours. They eventually ended up in Goldman's bed, and by dawn were sound asleep in each other's arms. Since that night they both enjoyed the fiery lovemaking that lay at the heart of their casual relationship.
'Belize, you haven't forgot about tomorrow night? You and your sister are still coming, right? My workmate Rod will be there.'
'Hey,' she chirped. 'I'm not some silly American girl. Of course I haven't forgotten. And Manuela's definitely coming.' She glared at her passing sister. 'Even if I have to drag her by the hair. She needs to get out of this goddamn house.'
Manuela eyeballed Belize and marched to her room, slamming the door on the conversation.
'I'm sure her and Rod will get on like ... how do you say it?'
'A house on fire?'
' Si , something like that.' Her accented voice lowered and she purred seductively. 'Listen, Scott, I just ran a hot bath and I'm shivering in the hallway with only a teeny towel about me, and I'm sure you don't want me catching a cold and losing my, ah, energia , huh? So, my lovable hombre , I'll see you tomorrow night, hmm? You know I can't wait. Adios , darling.' She made a long kissing sound and hung up.
Goldman listened absently to the dial tone before replacing the receiver. Hmm, he mused, short and sweet does it. He leaned back in the pillows and closed his eyes. He remembered Belize and the last time they made love. Rose and tan images of her writhing and naked
She dried her hands, ground out a French cigarette, and pulled a phial of cocaine from her jeans. She poured the narcotic on to a front corner of the sink, then grabbed a razor blade from the medicine cabinet on the wall. She chopped and changed the powder into an even line. Using a tightly rolled dollar bill, she snorted the drug until not a crumb remained. The attractive young Latino groaned with pleasure and looked at a Jim Morrison poster (circa 1967) that she'd pinned to the peeling plaster above the toilet's cistern. Looking through the ghostly fingers of steam rising from the tub, she swore the dead musician winked at her, as if come to life, however lewdly, from his idolographic bondage on the wall.
But she was high, and getting more so. She hawked bits of powder down her throat and slid out of her jeans and panties. She squeezed an unstrapped breast through the tie-dyed cotton of her T-shirt, her other hand dropping to the dark triangle between her legs. She looked longingly at the Jim Morrison poster and threw back her head, savouring the ecstasy of her deft stroke. But with no peak in the offing, she wiped her finger across the powder-specked corner of the sink. She sucked on it and absorbed the rich taste. The familiar tang of the drug interspersed with the meaty salt of her arousal.
'God help me.' She groaned with throaty abandon. 'I'm so horny.'
'Hey,' her sister called from the other side of the bathroom door. 'Telephone.'
Belize wrapped a towel about her, turned off the taps, and opened the door.
'It's lover boy.' Her older sister tapped a dog-eared Spanish novel against her thigh, and looked put out.
'Now, now, don't be jealous,' snickered Belize, skipping past her to the hallway phone.
'Hello?'
'Hi babe, it's me.'
'Ah Scott,' she said in a husky tone that betrayed the pleasurable sensations of the narcotic she'd taken.
Goldman met Belize three months ago when she worked as a checkout girl in his local supermarket. She was attracted to him and knew he was to her as he tended to use her checkout when shopping there. Late one Saturday night they ran into each other at a newly opened Inner Harbor nightclub. They hit it off and partied into the early hours. They eventually ended up in Goldman's bed, and by dawn were sound asleep in each other's arms. Since that night they both enjoyed the fiery lovemaking that lay at the heart of their casual relationship.
'Belize, you haven't forgot about tomorrow night? You and your sister are still coming, right? My workmate Rod will be there.'
'Hey,' she chirped. 'I'm not some silly American girl. Of course I haven't forgotten. And Manuela's definitely coming.' She glared at her passing sister. 'Even if I have to drag her by the hair. She needs to get out of this goddamn house.'
Manuela eyeballed Belize and marched to her room, slamming the door on the conversation.
'I'm sure her and Rod will get on like ... how do you say it?'
'A house on fire?'
' Si , something like that.' Her accented voice lowered and she purred seductively. 'Listen, Scott, I just ran a hot bath and I'm shivering in the hallway with only a teeny towel about me, and I'm sure you don't want me catching a cold and losing my, ah, energia , huh? So, my lovable hombre , I'll see you tomorrow night, hmm? You know I can't wait. Adios , darling.' She made a long kissing sound and hung up.
Goldman listened absently to the dial tone before replacing the receiver. Hmm, he mused, short and sweet does it. He leaned back in the pillows and closed his eyes. He remembered Belize and the last time they made love. Rose and tan images of her writhing and naked
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