Authors: Jonathan Kellerman
“Nothing dramatic. Call me tomorrow and I’ll run it by you. Meanwhile, go and do your civic duty.”
“What’s that?”
“Make sure Dr. Blondie gets home in one piece.”
He patted me on the shoulder and shambled to his car. Just as he drove away, the Escort’s engine caught and stuck. Linda fed it gas. I walked up to the shattered window.
“I’ll follow you home, Linda.”
“Thanks, but I’m okay, it’s really not necessary.” Her face was streaked with tears but she was forcing a tough look—almost comically grave. The hand on the steering wheel was taut and ghost-white. I touched it. She pumped the gas pedal several more times. The Escort made a noise like an old man clearing his throat.
I said, “You might have radiator damage, something that’s not obvious. The last thing we need is for you to get stranded somewhere.”
She looked up at me. Lots of fine pale hair had come loose. Her mascara had run, creating sad-clown streaks.
I touched her cheek. “Come on—what are friends for?”
She looked at me again, started to say something, closed her eyes, and nodded.
I followed her east on Sunset, then south, past the dark-ened movie marquees of a deserted, littered Westwood Village, all the way beyond Pico and the post-moderne excess of the Westside Pavilion. Not far from Overland Avenue, where I’d lived in a dingy flat during indigent student days.
The Escort clanged along—no taillights, one headlight—molting bits of glass and flecks of paint. The swas-tika made me think of a battered Nazi staff car. But despite its pathetic appearance, the wreck moved fast enough and I had to concentrate in order to stay with her as she made a series of abrupt turns down side streets. She came to a halt at an apartment complex at the end of a cul-de-sac.
The building was monolith-graceless, four stories of peach-colored texture-coat, with aqua-green tubular iron railing and just enough landscaping to satisfy the zoning laws. There was a low roar in the distance: Through the branches of a malnourished pepper tree, the San Diego Freeway was a frantic light show.
A steep drive led down to a subterranean parking garage blocked by an aqua-green gate. She put a card in a slot and the gate slid open. Leaving the card in place, she drove through. I pressed the card to keep the gate open, retrieved it, and followed her. The garage was half empty and I found a spot next to her.
“Home sweet home,” she said, getting out. Her hair was mussed, her cheeks rosy. She touched them. “Ah, the bracing vapors. There’s something to be said for open-air motoring.”
“I’ll walk you in.”
She said, “If you insist,” but didn’t sound annoyed.
We walked across the garage, took stairs up to the lobby, which was oppressively small, furnished with a single upholstered bench and a fire extinguisher, and papered in green foil patterned with silver bamboo.
“I’m on the third floor,” she said and punched the elevator button. The lift was closet-sized. As the doors slid shut, we found ourselves standing close together. Flanks touching. Smelling each other’s breath. Her perfume. My after-shave. All of it overlaid with the bitter, hormonal essence of stress.
She looked at the floor. “Some date, huh?”
“Just don’t say I never took you anywhere interesting.”
She laughed, then broke into loud, spasmodic sobs and tucked herself into a corner of the elevator. I put my arm around her and drew her to me. She put her head on my shoulder, hiding her face. I kissed the top of her head. She cried some more. I held her tighter. She looked up, mouth slightly parted. I wiped her face. Her cheeks felt frozen.
The elevator stopped and the doors opened.
“At the far end,” she mumbled.
We made our way down a green-foiled hallway that smelled of mildew, both of her arms around my waist.
Inside, the place was sweet with her perfume. The living room was small and boxy, with oyster walls, potted plants, teak and polished-cotton furniture, apartment-grade gold carpeting ruled with vacuum tracks. Everything neatly ordered and lemon-oiled. I sat her down on a couch patterned with a fleecy blue-and-pink stripe, put her feet up on a matching ottoman, and removed her shoes. She covered her eyes with one arm and reclined.
The kitchen was tiny and opened to a six-by-six dining area that barely accommodated a stout-legged butcher-block table. A Mr. Coffee machine, a stack of filters, and a can of Colombian dark-roast sat on the counter next to an unmarked blackboard labeled
THINGS TO DO
. I brewed a couple of cups’ worth and filled two
L.A. ZOO
mugs—zebra and koala—that I grabbed from an assortment hanging on an accordion rack next to the phone.
When I got back to the living room, she was sitting up, watching me, looking dazed, her hair still windblown.
I gave her the coffee, made sure she had a firm grip on the cup before taking a seat across from her.
She lowered her lips to the rim, breathed in coffee steam, and drank.
I said, “Anything else I can get you?”
She looked up. “Come closer. Please.”
I sat next to her. We drank, drained our mugs.
“More?” I said.
She placed her mug on the coffee table, said, “Oh, Lord, what’s next?” and rested her head on my shoulder again.
I put my arm around her. She sighed. I nuzzled her hair, smoothed it. She turned her head so that her mouth brushed against mine—the merest contact—then turned back the other way and pressed her lips to mine, first tentatively, then harder. I felt them yield. Her tongue was hot and mocha-rich, exploring my teeth, sidling against my tongue, pressing against it, teasing it.
Without breaking the kiss, I put my own cup down. Fastened, we hugged each other, squeezing hard.
She shuddered and stroked the back of my neck. I mas-saged her shoulders, allowed my hands to dip lower, run over the knobs of her spine, the lean contours of her body. She kissed me harder, made throaty urgent sounds. I touched padded hips. A knee. She guided me higher. I felt the inside of her thigh, smooth and cool and firm through nylon. She lifted herself, tugged down at her panty hose, denuding one long, white leg. I touched her. Bare flesh. Softer, cooler. Then a wave of heat. She flushed, shuddered harder. Her hands left my neck and scrambled at my fly. More fumbling, eyes closed. Then she located me.
Her eyes opened wide. She said, “Oh, God,” caught her breath, and lowered herself.
She attended to me as if praying. When the feelings grew too intense, I pried her away, kissed her mouth, took her in my arms, stood, and carried her into the bedroom.
Blue-black darkness, just a hint of moonlight filtering through apartment-grade windowshades. A narrow brass bed covered in something that felt like satin.
We lay down, embraced, connected still partially clothed, and did a horizontal slow-dance, kissing all the while, moving together as if we’d been partners for a long time.
She came very quickly, unexpectedly, crying out, tugging my hair so hard the roots ached. I’d been holding back, gritting my teeth. I let go and felt my toes curl.
She breathed hard for a long time, clutching me. Then she said, “Oh, God, I can’t believe I’m doing this.”
I lifted myself up on my elbows. She pulled me down hard, fastened her arms around my back, and gripped me so tight I could barely breathe.
We began kissing again, softer. Got lost in it. Then she pulled away, gasping. “Phew. Okay. I need . . . to breathe.”
I rolled off, caught my own breath. I was drenched with sweat, my clothing twisted and binding.
She sat up. My eyes became accustomed to the darkness, and I saw that hers were still closed. She reached behind her back and unzipped her dress, slipping her arms out of the sleeves and letting the fabric collapse around her. I made out the curves of her shoulders. White. Small-boned but strong. Delicious bumps atop each one. I kissed them. She gave a small cry, shook the hair out of her face, and leaned back on the flats of her hands. I unhooked her bra, freed her breasts, small but heavy. Hefted them, kissed them. She had tiny nipples, smooth and hard as pond pebbles.
We stripped and got under the covers.
She had a hungry mouth. A line of down that bisected her belly from umbilicus to mons. And those hips, jutting, nearly perpendicular to a small, tight waist. I gripped them and kneaded, felt fluid movement beneath the dermal sheath, heat and vitality. Her hands were warm again. She pulled me on top of her. Big, padded, welcoming hips, cradling me in a soft liquid core.
Again, she finished first, waited me out with a dreamy, content look on her face, then dropped off to sleep when I was through, holding me tight.
As she sank deeper and deeper into slumber, she main-tained her hold around my waist, nestling her head in the crook of my neck, snoring lightly in my ear.
So different from Robin, who’d always signed off with a friendly, firm kiss, then rolled away, yawning, needing to stretch out. Needing space . . .
Robin, of the auburn curls and almond eyes. Firm body, strong worker’s hands, musky, athletic pleasures . . .
This one. This stranger . . . soft, long-stemmed and white as a calla lily, almost limp in repose.
But this one needed me, held me fiercely as she dreamed.
One hand in my hair. The other clamped around my middle.
Holding on for dear life.
A soft prison.
I lay there, not moving, shifting my eyes around the room.
White furniture, prints on the walls. A couple of stuffed animals atop a dresser. Perfume bottles on a mirrored tray. Paperback books. A digital clock that said 1:45
A.M
.
A car with a souped-up engine roared by three stories below. Linda jerked and her breathing stopped, then quickened, but she stayed fast asleep.
I became aware of other sounds. A toilet flush somewhere in the building. Another car. Then a low hum, deep and constant as a Gregorian chant. Freeway dirge. A lonely sound. Years ago, I’d taught myself to perceive it as a lullaby. . . .
She nuzzled in closer. One of my hands was between her legs, beautifully trapped. The other had come to rest upon the stem of her neck. I felt a pulse, slow and strong.
I used one finger to tent the covers, peeked at our bodies plastered together, nearly the same length, but hers so much lighter, softer, hairless.
Salt-and-pepper still life on a narrow apartment bed.
I kissed her cheek. She gripped me tighter, dug her nails into my rib cage, and threw one leg over mine.
I wondered what I’d gotten myself into.
14
I awoke the next morning alone, smelling shampoo. The bathroom radiated moist heat as I passed it. She was sitting at the butcher-block table, wearing a black kimono printed with cherry blossoms. Her hair was wet and combed straight back. The water had darkened it to butterscotch. Her face was pale and scrubbed. Coral shells rode her ears. An untouched cup of orange juice sat in front of her. Without any makeup at all, she could have passed for a college student.
I said, “Good morning, Teach.”
“Hi.” Her smile was cautious. She drew the robe tighter. The few square inches of chest I could see were white dusted with a flush. I went behind her and kissed the back of her neck. Her skin smelled of lotion. She pressed her head back against my belly and rolled it back and forth. I touched her cheek, sat down.
She said, “What can I get you?”
“Just juice. I’ll get it myself.”
“Here, take mine.” She handed me the glass. I drank.
She said, “So.”
“So.”
I looked toward the kitchen. “I notice your blackboard is blank. Any plans for today?”
She shook her head, looked preoccupied.
“Something the matter?”
Another shake of her head.
“What is it, Linda?”
“Nothing. Everything’s fine.” Wide smile.
“Okay.” I drank juice.
She got up and began straightening a living room that didn’t need it. Her hair hung down her back, flapping in a wet sheet against black silk. Her feet were bare, narrow, with curving toes, the nails polished pink, though her fingernails were unpainted.
Secret vanity. A woman who valued privacy.
I went to her and slipped my arms around her. She didn’t resist but neither did she yield.
I said, “I know. So much so fast.”
She gave a short, angry laugh. “For a long, long time I’ve pretended I had no needs. Now you come along and all of a sudden I’m a bundle of needs. It feels too much like weakness.”
“I know exactly what you mean. It’s been a long time for me too.”
She turned around sharply, searched my face, prospecting for lies. “
Has
it?”
“Yes.”
She stared some more, then grabbed my face with both of her hands and kissed me so hard I felt myself spinning.
When we broke, she said, “Oh, Lord, the danger signs are all flashing.” But she took my right hand and pressed it to her left breast, over the heartbeat.
Afterward, she ran a bath for me, kneeled on the mat and scrubbed my back with a loofah. Too subservient for my taste but she insisted. After a minute or so I said, “Why don’t you get in?”
“Nope.” She touched her still-wet hair. “I’m already waterlogged.”
She kept scrubbing. I closed my eyes. She began humming, something in a major key. I realized her voice was something special—sweet, with a controlled resonance. Trained pipes. I listened more intently. She hummed louder.
When she paused, I said, “You’ve got a really great voice.”
“Oh, yeah, a regular diva.”
I opened my eyes. She looked cross.
“Ever sing professionally?”
“Oh, sure—the Met, Carnegie Hall, sold out the Super- dome. But the pull of the classroom was too darned strong. Hand me the shampoo.”
The strain in her voice let me know I’d touched another nerve. How many danger zones along the pathway to knowing her? Tired of backing away, I said, “How long ago was it?”
“Ancient history.”
“Couldn’t be too ancient.”
“College days. That’s ancient enough.”
“I played music in college too.”
“That right?”
“Played guitar at nights, to put myself through.”