the bloody Tampon from her vagina with his teeth and briefly displayed it like a prize before spitting it out on the bed. Tawny screamed as Cliff clamped his lips to her vulva—and sucked away.
The little stunt cost Cliff two more lines of coke.
Sunday evening about six their plane landed at LAX.
In the jet way Royce again pressed Cliff on the matter of the twins.
“Listen, we agreed to go fifty-fifty. What did they cost us?”
“My treat.”
“But—” Royce was about to say, but didn’t, that Cliff hadn’t even touched them. Wasn’t able to touch them.
“Listen, Royce. You can do something nice for me sometime. Okay?”
“Okay,” he replied uneasily. “Okay.”
In the terminal Royce checked in with his answering service and bought a blown-glass dolphin in the gift shop. After cutting Cliff loose with a non-negotiable “Later,” he caught a cab (leaving Darth in the airport lot would have been a sin) and rode out to Carly’s apartment in Redondo Beach. Her old gray Pacer was parked in her space.
When she greeted him, he presented her the dolphin (garnering himself a sweet peck on the cheek) and assured her San Francisco had been “Booooring.” He went further and made a big to-do about the elaborately wrapped gift on her dinette.
“Susan will be thrilled.”
She beamed proudly. “It’s a trifle bowl.”
“Neat,” he said, not knowing what the hell a trifle bowl was. He followed her into the tiny kitchen, where she was preparing a dinner of cottage cheese folded into warm noodles.
“Would you like some, Royce?”
“Love some,” he enthused, glad for the airline meal he’d had earlier.
“And we have Rice Krispie bars for dessert.”
“Your faves,” he chortled.
Carly removed the saucepan of noodles from the stovetop and poured the steamy pasta through a strainer over the sink. Royce eased up behind her, kissed her left ear as his hands fiddled at the waistband of her Guess jeans.
She set the cookware in the sink and tenderly squeezed his left wrist.
“Should we?” she asked softly.
“Yes.”
Royce’s fingers yanked the tail of her blouse up and stroked the smooth skin of her bony back.
“Oh, Royce.”
His groin pressed into her tush. Royce’s fingertips were now sneaking beneath the tea bag-sized cups of her bra.
“Royce…”
He squeezed the bumps, made them bigger—and fevered his mind with pornographic images of Plenty and Tawny.
“Ouch, you’re hurting me.”
4
Business Development
Fevered, sticky dreaming…
Day of the Long Knives.
With lead feet, in an abattoir of marble, crystal, brass and executive toys. Fear gnawing belly out.
Stench most foul today. Those beady, spider eyes. Killing floor is slick with wet.
This is my bid.
This is my offer.
Nothing else matters. Do you feel lucky?
Show some respect.
Down I go. Ho ho ho!
Royce was having a nightmare about performing fellatio on Michael Milken when Leslie shook him awake. Luckily, a carpet roll had broken his fall when the gas from the furnace exploded.
“Royce, you’re burned.”
“Les,” he said urgently. “Thank you for the watch.”
“I should get you to the hospital.”
“The furnace.”
“It looks okay now. The pilot light is lit, and I’ve opened a window to ventilate. You need a doctor.”
His right thumb and forefinger were blistered. He touched his face, grimacing. Sunburn city.
“No, I’m okay.”
His wife helped him to his feet and up the steep cellar stairs. Leslie had him sit on the edge of their bed while she rummaged through the medicine cabinet.
“Does it hurt much?”
“Only when my heart beats.”
He looked at the nightstand digital clock: one-twenty-three a.m. Christ. When would this dreadful night end?
She returned with a jar of Vaseline, popped the lid.
“I wouldn’t be looking at any mirrors for awhile,” she advised.
That did it. He waved away her ministering hands and went to the mirror. His face was pink, and flecks of singed hair
The little stunt cost Cliff two more lines of coke.
Sunday evening about six their plane landed at LAX.
In the jet way Royce again pressed Cliff on the matter of the twins.
“Listen, we agreed to go fifty-fifty. What did they cost us?”
“My treat.”
“But—” Royce was about to say, but didn’t, that Cliff hadn’t even touched them. Wasn’t able to touch them.
“Listen, Royce. You can do something nice for me sometime. Okay?”
“Okay,” he replied uneasily. “Okay.”
In the terminal Royce checked in with his answering service and bought a blown-glass dolphin in the gift shop. After cutting Cliff loose with a non-negotiable “Later,” he caught a cab (leaving Darth in the airport lot would have been a sin) and rode out to Carly’s apartment in Redondo Beach. Her old gray Pacer was parked in her space.
When she greeted him, he presented her the dolphin (garnering himself a sweet peck on the cheek) and assured her San Francisco had been “Booooring.” He went further and made a big to-do about the elaborately wrapped gift on her dinette.
“Susan will be thrilled.”
She beamed proudly. “It’s a trifle bowl.”
“Neat,” he said, not knowing what the hell a trifle bowl was. He followed her into the tiny kitchen, where she was preparing a dinner of cottage cheese folded into warm noodles.
“Would you like some, Royce?”
“Love some,” he enthused, glad for the airline meal he’d had earlier.
“And we have Rice Krispie bars for dessert.”
“Your faves,” he chortled.
Carly removed the saucepan of noodles from the stovetop and poured the steamy pasta through a strainer over the sink. Royce eased up behind her, kissed her left ear as his hands fiddled at the waistband of her Guess jeans.
She set the cookware in the sink and tenderly squeezed his left wrist.
“Should we?” she asked softly.
“Yes.”
Royce’s fingers yanked the tail of her blouse up and stroked the smooth skin of her bony back.
“Oh, Royce.”
His groin pressed into her tush. Royce’s fingertips were now sneaking beneath the tea bag-sized cups of her bra.
“Royce…”
He squeezed the bumps, made them bigger—and fevered his mind with pornographic images of Plenty and Tawny.
“Ouch, you’re hurting me.”
4
Business Development
Fevered, sticky dreaming…
Day of the Long Knives.
With lead feet, in an abattoir of marble, crystal, brass and executive toys. Fear gnawing belly out.
Stench most foul today. Those beady, spider eyes. Killing floor is slick with wet.
This is my bid.
This is my offer.
Nothing else matters. Do you feel lucky?
Show some respect.
Down I go. Ho ho ho!
Royce was having a nightmare about performing fellatio on Michael Milken when Leslie shook him awake. Luckily, a carpet roll had broken his fall when the gas from the furnace exploded.
“Royce, you’re burned.”
“Les,” he said urgently. “Thank you for the watch.”
“I should get you to the hospital.”
“The furnace.”
“It looks okay now. The pilot light is lit, and I’ve opened a window to ventilate. You need a doctor.”
His right thumb and forefinger were blistered. He touched his face, grimacing. Sunburn city.
“No, I’m okay.”
His wife helped him to his feet and up the steep cellar stairs. Leslie had him sit on the edge of their bed while she rummaged through the medicine cabinet.
“Does it hurt much?”
“Only when my heart beats.”
He looked at the nightstand digital clock: one-twenty-three a.m. Christ. When would this dreadful night end?
She returned with a jar of Vaseline, popped the lid.
“I wouldn’t be looking at any mirrors for awhile,” she advised.
That did it. He waved away her ministering hands and went to the mirror. His face was pink, and flecks of singed hair
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