Read Online The Quintessence of Quick (The Jack Mason Saga) by Stan Hayes - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Stan Hayes
Ads: Link
in a seated posture, zipped smartly across Chez Jock and through its east wall.
Well, Jack thought, at least that part hasn’t changed, but Flx did it with a bit more style.
The aroma of the beans that Jack had ground last night snaked its way down to her from the Chemex (one more piece of the wall-to-wall Mose-ness of this entire fucking place shoved under my nose, she thought; I’dve been better off sleeping on the goddamn boat). Linda rolled onto her back and stretched, long arms and legs a flat naked X, the electric blanket’s warmth shifting its caress to toes, pudenda, belly and nipples. Shifting out of the moist patch that lurked near dead-center in the king-size bed, she began working her way slowly backwards through yesterday, beginning with an inward chuckle at Jack’s rough reciprocal of her very thorough fellation on the drive back from the Dog House. One more thing I’ll have to teach him. How the hell did I end up with this job, anyway?
She twisted erect to sit on the side of the bed, soles recoiling from the floor’s chill. Was falling for Roger Brannon’s con job the start of it, or was he just the New York version of a type that’s been my downfall ever since dear old Dad? His act was by far the flossiest, she reflected, padding down the hall for coffee. The Petrel, the keystone prop, my sailor’s lust dragging me deeper every day that I lived on board, collaborating with the Coast Guard training courses to make myself its master. Roger himself a very close second in the prop closet, big New York ad man with prick to match, that I burnished to as high a shine as I did the Petrel’s binnacle. Fucking Peter Pan pissant; how the hell could I have gotten too old for him when he was ten years older than me? She poured coffee from the Chemex, looked for saccharin, found none, settled for sugar. Surveying the gray new day from the kitchen window, she watched geese consult each other at the far end of the pond, a couple in the water, the rest on the bank. That’s me; a fucking goose. A seagoing fucking goose. Or is that an Albatross?
Anyway, she reflected on her way back down the hall, Daddy missed his chance, and so did Moses, until much later. By then he was Peter. And what a Peter; short-circuited my mourning for Dieter to a very quick couple of weeks. Memories of him and those first intense months in Havana went up in smoke, burnt to a crisp by my passion for the man I’d first known as Moses. All I wanted to do was to live out my girlhood dreams with the man who’d been my mother’s lover. He’d wanted me, too, all those years ago in Baltimore. I never knew it, though, and channeled my yen for him into besting the desultory academics of high school, while old Mama Sarah fought him and fucked him, spiraling down into the alcoholic world in which she’s so comfortable. After I’d escaped to Johns Hopkins and found out he’d made up the considerable difference between my scholarship and what four years and summa cum laude actually cost, he’d disappeared. Just like Daddy. Then he shows up, years later, with “little” Jack in tow. And me hovering around the zenith of my sexuality, ready to take them both on, which I would have, given the chance. Not that they’d have gone for it; you didn’t have to be around the two of them for long before it was clear that he’d already adopted the boy. So I adopted him, too, in my way, with what turned out to be his full connivance. And Moses would have to wait, until he turned into Peter.
He put it to me so casually that night at Reuben’s. I’d just about had my fill of New York, both Roger and the Petrel streaming in my wake, or vice versa. “Why don’t you just close up shop here, run on back down to Baltimore and find a nice, seaworthy sportfisherman you like, and send me the tab? Shake her down, put a chart package together for a Baltimore-Havana run, and call me when you’re ready to pick up a couple of survivors from an unfortunate
Well, Jack thought, at least that part hasn’t changed, but Flx did it with a bit more style.
The aroma of the beans that Jack had ground last night snaked its way down to her from the Chemex (one more piece of the wall-to-wall Mose-ness of this entire fucking place shoved under my nose, she thought; I’dve been better off sleeping on the goddamn boat). Linda rolled onto her back and stretched, long arms and legs a flat naked X, the electric blanket’s warmth shifting its caress to toes, pudenda, belly and nipples. Shifting out of the moist patch that lurked near dead-center in the king-size bed, she began working her way slowly backwards through yesterday, beginning with an inward chuckle at Jack’s rough reciprocal of her very thorough fellation on the drive back from the Dog House. One more thing I’ll have to teach him. How the hell did I end up with this job, anyway?
She twisted erect to sit on the side of the bed, soles recoiling from the floor’s chill. Was falling for Roger Brannon’s con job the start of it, or was he just the New York version of a type that’s been my downfall ever since dear old Dad? His act was by far the flossiest, she reflected, padding down the hall for coffee. The Petrel, the keystone prop, my sailor’s lust dragging me deeper every day that I lived on board, collaborating with the Coast Guard training courses to make myself its master. Roger himself a very close second in the prop closet, big New York ad man with prick to match, that I burnished to as high a shine as I did the Petrel’s binnacle. Fucking Peter Pan pissant; how the hell could I have gotten too old for him when he was ten years older than me? She poured coffee from the Chemex, looked for saccharin, found none, settled for sugar. Surveying the gray new day from the kitchen window, she watched geese consult each other at the far end of the pond, a couple in the water, the rest on the bank. That’s me; a fucking goose. A seagoing fucking goose. Or is that an Albatross?
Anyway, she reflected on her way back down the hall, Daddy missed his chance, and so did Moses, until much later. By then he was Peter. And what a Peter; short-circuited my mourning for Dieter to a very quick couple of weeks. Memories of him and those first intense months in Havana went up in smoke, burnt to a crisp by my passion for the man I’d first known as Moses. All I wanted to do was to live out my girlhood dreams with the man who’d been my mother’s lover. He’d wanted me, too, all those years ago in Baltimore. I never knew it, though, and channeled my yen for him into besting the desultory academics of high school, while old Mama Sarah fought him and fucked him, spiraling down into the alcoholic world in which she’s so comfortable. After I’d escaped to Johns Hopkins and found out he’d made up the considerable difference between my scholarship and what four years and summa cum laude actually cost, he’d disappeared. Just like Daddy. Then he shows up, years later, with “little” Jack in tow. And me hovering around the zenith of my sexuality, ready to take them both on, which I would have, given the chance. Not that they’d have gone for it; you didn’t have to be around the two of them for long before it was clear that he’d already adopted the boy. So I adopted him, too, in my way, with what turned out to be his full connivance. And Moses would have to wait, until he turned into Peter.
He put it to me so casually that night at Reuben’s. I’d just about had my fill of New York, both Roger and the Petrel streaming in my wake, or vice versa. “Why don’t you just close up shop here, run on back down to Baltimore and find a nice, seaworthy sportfisherman you like, and send me the tab? Shake her down, put a chart package together for a Baltimore-Havana run, and call me when you’re ready to pick up a couple of survivors from an unfortunate
Similar Books
