Sunday April 4 2004

La Jolla

Roxanne lay in a deck chair by the pool, soaking up early-afternoon sun, nursing her first-ever hangover, and wallowing. She was sure the hangover would be her last-ever, as well, because she had resolved half a dozen times since waking that she would never, ever drink again. She was wearing her skimpiest suit and her darkest shades, because the same sun that felt so good on her skin, cooking the poison out of her through her pores, drove nails into her eyes if she opened them past a squint. She hadn't moved in the past two hours, except to reach for the cool tumbler filled with hangover remedy Anna continually supplied: some sweet-salty concoction that reminded her of Gatorade, with one addition.

"Ecch," she'd said at the first sip. "My taste buds are still messed up. It tastes like there's booze in this."

"There is," the little cyber had replied. "Not much. But 'hair of the dog' is a valid treatment for alcohol poisoning, if the dosage is administered carefully."

So she took her medicine, moving slowly and carefully so as not to set off the bomb inside her skull, thinking about what a fool she'd been the night before. Her estimate of Eric's character wasn't nearly as generous now; she still didn't really know how he'd managed it, but she was now certain that most of that bottle had gone down her throat, not his. Details were lacking, but she thought he'd also been pretty skillful getting her used to the feel of his hands before he'd made his move. She thanked God for whatever had caused her to blurt out her age in a desperate bid to stop her charming jerk of a host from carrying his thoroughly potted guest to his bedroom for fun and games.

She wondered if Eric carried rubbers in his wallet for 'emergencies'. She'd bet anything there was a whole crate of them behind one of his mirrored doors.

From Roxy's chair, turned sideways on the seaward side of the pool, she could see both the swimming pool and the beach. Sarah lay reading in a chair overlooking the ocean, wearing a bikini with a gauzy beach wrap around her legs, an ice tea in a tall glass near at hand. In the pool, the water humped and rolled as Kat swam its length doing laps. The two of them had been hovering around Roxy since she'd woken at noon and stumbled into the kitchen with a hand over her eyes.

Anna appeared with a fresh morning-after drink. "Feeling any better, sweetie?"

"Thanks, yeah." She checked the impulse to nod. "I'm just miserable instead of being totally miserable." Anna was wearing her usuals this morning: blue short-sleeved shirt and baggy jeans. Definitely not dressed to impress. But the little housekeeper got a surprising amount of attention from men who visited the property, from the security guards to the postman. Roxanne was sure she'd seen her flirting with the guy who cut the grass. "Anna. You ever kiss a guy?"

The little cyber paused with the empty tumbler in her hand. "I've touched a number of men, but never with my lips."

"Like the big black guy with the great bod?"

"'Bod'? Oh. You mean Dewayne. He is very well-developed. Rather like Mr. Lynch, but bulgier."

"You like him?"

The little cyber smiled. "I like a lot of people, sweetie."

"He ever try to kiss you?"

"I'm not sure. He put his hands around my waist once. That might have been the start of one before I slipped free."

"So, why didn't you let him?"

"It wasn't necessary," she said. "And it wouldn't have been prudent."

Unnecessary. Imprudent. Sounds like a capsule description of my Saturday night. She closed her eyes wearily. Great. A robot could have handled Eric better than I did. "You know what I said about never seeing him again? Now, I'm thinking, maybe I should see him just once more."

"Not worth your time," Sarah called from her chair.

Anna nodded. "I'd have to agree. It's over now, and it didn't turn out as badly as it might have."

Sarah held up her glass. "This is too sweet."

Anna took it from her hand. "It has the same amount of sugar in it as the last one."

"That one was too sweet too. Cut it by a third."

After the little housekeeper left, Roxy said, "Didn't take long for you to turn into a spoiled princess."

"You have absolutely no room to talk. At least I get my dirty clothes down the laundry chute. And if she's set on fixing my drinks, she should learn to do it right, don't you think?"

Kat rested her forearms on the edge of the pool. "She works hard to make us comfortable. Would it hurt to be nice to her once in a while?"

"Caitlin, when did you last pat the toaster and tell it what a good job it's doing?" Sarah turned a page. "Your sentimentality is one of the things I like about you both. But I don't feel any need to share your sentiments."

Anna returned with Sarah's glass, full, and a pitcher. "Take a sip."

Sarah sipped. "Better."

"Really?" Anna's eyebrows rose. "It's the same tea."

Roxy snorted, which hurt her head. Sarah gave her a dark look.

"I just wanted you to take it down a bit, because I added ice." The little cyber raised the pitcher. "I was going to add unsweetened to your taste, so I'd have it right from now on, but if it's okay like that after all, I'll leave it as is." She frowned. "Ah, ah…" She pulled a square of tissue from her shirt pocket and held it to her nose. "Hatchoo." She blew into it, folded it, and returned it to her pocket.

"What. Was that." Sarah set the tea on her bare stomach.

"I think I may be catching something."

"D minus, Anna," Roxy said. "That was the lamest-sounding sneeze and blow I ever heard. Not that I hear many fake sneezes."

"Would more practice do any good, do you think? I'm not made to expel air with much force."

"How boud you dust bragtiz dalkgig wid a blugged dose," Roxy suggested.

"Hm. Don't think I can do that either."

"As long as you're mimicking things you can't do." Sarah reached behind her head and pulled out the small round pillow she'd been lying on. She threw it six feet to Anna, who caught it against her stomach with one hand. "Why don't you tuck that under your shirt and pretend you're pregnant. Think of all the little performances you could put on. Backaches, chronic fatigue, mood swings, nausea. You could go into the bathroom and retch as often as you like. Bobby would spend all day lifting and carrying for you and asking you how you feel." She turned back to her book.

Roxy and Kat traded glances.

Anna looked down at the pillow against her stomach. "Sarah," she said gently, "Do you want children?"

The Apache Princess's eyes popped up. "Children. Me."

"You don't have to be hetero to conceive a child."

"It helps. Wherever did you get this idea?"

"Well, do you like kids?"

"I like kids about as well as I like boys." She put her nose back into her book. "And the idea of being impregnated makes me ill, whether the implement is a syringe or a penis."

"I didn't mean to offend, Sarah. I just-" Anna froze, as if she'd switched off. Then she turned towards the sea, looking at the spur of rock that jutted into the water to the north.

Roxy heard the motors just before she saw it: a cabin cruiser with a flying bridge, trimmed with a red stripe. "Is it-"

"I don't see him," Anna said, answering her next question as well as her first. "Just the other three."

The boat cruised towards them at a jogging pace, paralleling the shore eighty or a hundred yards out. The two boys in the open area at the back and the one at the wheel on the flying bridge all grinned at the house. Roxy half-smiled, despite her misery and the boys' association with Eric. What horn dawgs. Some guys never-

The boat's horn tooted. In unison, the three boys lifted champagne glasses in the air.

She felt dizzy. He said he wouldn't. Not to anyone.

The boy on the bridge produced a bottle. He held its base against his lower abdomen while he fiddled with the stopper. It flew off with a pop audible on shore. The boy continued to hold the bottle just above his crotch as the white foam fountained over the side. He beckoned, grinning: come and get it.

"Looks like Eric's been telling stories," Sarah said, her voice flat. "And he might have left out a few details, and changed the ending."

If it didn't hurt so much to move, Roxy thought, crawling to the pool and drowning myself would be an attractive option right now.

She was shocked again when Sarah lifted her glass, as if acknowledging the boys' salute. Then Roxy looked closer. Sarah was gripping the tall glass with her palm under the base, but only her thumb and three fingers were curled around it. Her long middle finger was upraised against the back, hidden from the boat's view by the dark liquid. It isn't much, she thought, but it's something.

The boat cruised down the shore. "Perverts," Kat said from the pool. "We should've holed their boat when you first suggested it."

"They're turning," Anna said. "Another pass, or perhaps this was a detour to somewhere else."

"Yes," Sarah said. "Back to the rock they came out from under." She set her book and glass on the table and stood. "Caitlin. Come with me. You two, stay where you are."

Kat climbed the ladder and wrung out her ponytail, her copper hair darkened from wetting. She turned to the lounger where her big beach towel hung. With all the men out of the house, she'd had no problem wearing the skimpier of her two suits, but Roxy was sure she'd sarong up as soon as she'd dried off if she wasn't going to stretch out on a chair. "Where are we going?"

"Just to the top of the stairs." Sarah's fingers worked the knot at her hip, freeing the wrap, then tossed it on the chair, baring her legs and hips. The Apache girl's eyes were as dark and unreadable as if she were wearing shades. She took two steps to the edge of the deck, where the stone steps led down to the beach. "Forget the towel. Come just as you are."

Kat changed course and joined Sarah, her wet suit clinging to her like white latex. "What do you want me to do?"

"Turn partway towards me like we're talking, Then just stand there being you." Sarah undid her hair and shook it free, a black satin sheet hanging down to the small of her back. "Hands on hips. Or you could cross your wrists behind your back. That would be splendid."

The boat had turned and was cruising back, a little faster than before; apparently, they'd had their little joke and were on their way to their next stop. But the engine throttled back abruptly when Sarah raised her hand over her head and waved, then turned sideways, bending her knees slightly, and slipped the strap of her suit down her shoulder.

Kat stood as ordered, which brought her shoulders back and made her already-impressive twins stand out like a pair of presidents on Mount Rushmore. She squirmed uncomfortably and shrugged her shoulders, which Roxy was sure was giving the guys on the boat fits. "Sarah, what are we doing?"

"Baiting the trap. Smile."

The boat slowed to a crawl as it neared the point of closest approach, the engines purring at idle. All three boys were watching the show, the two boys down below leaning far over the rail. A high-pitched "Hoo!" came across the water. The boy seated at the flying bridge pointed a thumb to the center of his bare chest and made a lifting motion. When Kat didn't comply, he gestured toward Sarah and repeated the show-your-tits gesture, grinning hugely.

Sarah shook her head and spread one hand across her chest while waving the other, palm-forward, in a negative gesture. Then she hooked a thumb in her suit bottom, pulling it off her hip and stretching it six inches. She let go, and it returned with a snap. She slapped her hip and rubbed it, then grabbed both sides of her suit bottom and stretched them out again. She rolled her hips as if she was dancing and pulled the bottom down a couple inches.

This time the "Hoo!" was accompanied by repeated calls from the horn and a loud whistle. One of the boaters at the back threw a leg over the side, as if about to jump overboard to join her. The other pulled him back, laughing.

"Sarah," Anna said, voice low, "what's the purpose behind this little burlesque?"

"Holding them in position," she answered in that flat voice again. "Just a little longer…" She abruptly took her thumbs out of her suit and straightened. "Surf's up."

Fifty yards beyond the stopped cruiser, a wall of water rose up, six or eight feet high, headed for shore – and the boat. The boys, their eyes glued to Kat and Sarah on the shoreward side, never saw it coming – not that it would have made any difference. It was on them in seconds.

The wave smashed into the side of the vessel, sending spray rocketing into the sky and pushing the boat a dozen feet towards shore. The crest rolled right over the sundeck at the back, and the two boys there disappeared under a blanket of water. The boat heeled over almost on its side, and the driver on the flying bridge was catapulted thirty feet into the air, bellowing and flailing his limbs, to hit the water halfway to shore with a huge splash.

The wave rolled past. Behind it, the boat righted sluggishly, much lower in the water and wrapped in mist, as its engines changed pitch, stuttered, and died. Two heads bobbed to the surface, also sputtering.

"Freak wave," Sarah said unsmiling, watching the two swimmers thrashing towards their boat. "Usually from seismic activity on the seabed miles from shore, but some of them seem to come from nowhere. The displacement is undetectable until it reaches shallower water and has no place to go but up."

The wave fell on the shore and covered the little beach, breaking on the steps with a splash. When it retreated, it left behind a harvest of sea life and a collection of odd junk from the bottom – and the third boater, lying ten feet from the bottom of the stairs. He rose to his elbows with seaweed in his hair and began retching up water.

"Rick?" Anna had the house phone in her hand. "It's me. Listen, there's been a mishap offshore. There are people washed ashore, and it looks like a boat is about to run aground behind the Onimuras'. Would that be something for the Coast Guard, or…" She listened for awhile. "I'll let you handle it then. Thank goodness someone knows what to do, I'm sure I wouldn't know where to start. Thank you, Rick." She hung up. "Police and emergency vehicles will be here in minutes. Everyone inside."

Kat snatched up her towel and wrapped it around her as she headed in. Anna helped Roxy put her feet from the deck chair to the concrete, and spread a towel over her shoulders as she sat up.

Sarah carefully gathered up her wrap and refastened it as she watched the guy on shore, her face still blank and unreadable. He got shakily to one foot and hand, trying to stand. He looked up and saw her watching, and started to say something, but whatever he saw in her eyes stopped his voice.

Holding his eyes, the Princess very deliberately hooked a thumb into the fabric joining the cups of her top and lifted, exposing her rack for two seconds, before tucking it back in place and turning for the house.

Roxy looked at the dumbstruck guy. "I never saw anybody get mooned like that before."

Anna helped her to her feet. "I don't know what that was about, but it's very clear those boys struck a nerve."

-0-

The menfolk came home without warning about an hour before dinnertime. Sarah was in her room, dressing after a shower. Even though she wasn't going out tonight, she'd felt an inexplicable desire to dress up, and now, dressed only in a sheer bra and panties, was lying on her bed, the one farthest from the door, squirming into her tightest jeans. They made her rear end look magnificent, she'd been told, and they were comfortable enough after she'd worn them for a little while, but they took some work to get into. She had them halfway up her thighs when she heard a tap at her door.

"Sarah," John Lynch said, "I need to talk to you."

She stopped pulling. "Come in, then," she said. "It's not locked."

He stepped in quickly and closed the door, then saw her and looked up at the ceiling; she noted he wasn't wearing his eyepatch. "I could come back in a minute."

"Why? You've seen more of me than this." She resumed pulling, wriggling her hips to get the waistband over them.

"For a brief second. Totally unnecessary."

She emptied her lungs and fastened the brass stud, then zipped up. "Around the pool, I mean."

"Your swimwear's not translucent."

"You're such a gallant knight." She raised one knee, then the other, stretching the seat. She gestured towards her tank, lying on the other bed a foot from his knee. "Mind?"

He tossed it to her and rounded the unoccupied bed. He sat down on its edge, facing her. She sat up as well, making no move to put on her shirt, and faced him, their knees almost touching. She put on a faint smile. "Do I make you nervous, Mr. Lynch?"

"You know you do. But not because of any calculated show of immodesty. I know an attempt at misdirection when I see one."

Something hard and brittle, something that had formed inside her like a crystal when those boys had staged their heartless joke, crumbled and disappeared. So did her smile. She slipped her shirt over her head and drew her feet up to sit cross-legged on the bed. "All right." Sorry would have suited her mood better, but she hadn't said that word since she'd left the rez to hitchhike to La Jolla; she'd said it enough for a lifetime in the scant hour she'd been with her family.

"I want to know why you nearly drowned three boaters practically in my backyard, bringing a platoon of official visitors to my door."

"They've been hanging around all weekend, making nuisances of themselves. Mr. Ricci's men ran them off once, but they just don't know when to quit."

"That's not the whole story. Not even close."

She took a breath and let it out. "No one was injured. Nothing points to us."

"It was reckless, Sarah. And, while I've seen you behave recklessly before, this was unlike you." His voice lowered. "I could question those boys. But I'd rather not. I'm certain their story would be different from yours anyway. What started this?"

-0-

"Roxanne," Mr. Lynch called down the basement steps. "Are you down here?"

Roxy traded glances with Kat, who was lying on the weight bench and talking with her between sets. It hadn't been much of an exercise session. She'd followed Kat down here on the pretense of spotting her sister, but, really, she was hiding. The guys had been home for half an hour, but she wasn't ready to look Grunge or Mr. Lynch in the eye just yet. "Do you think…"

"Of course he does," Kat whispered back.

"Down here, Mr. Lynch," she called.

He stepped down the stairs and approached the bench. "Caitlin, if you need a spotter, I can call Bobby down here."

Kat shook her head. "He's with Sarah by the pool. I think she dressed up to welcome him home. They're talking and everything. I don't want to interrupt that."

He nodded, then turned back to Roxy. "Do you want an audience for this?"

She folded her arms across her stomach. "Guess not."

"Then come with me." He led her into his bare office. Instead of putting her in the chair in front of the desk, he led her around the desk to the padded chair on the other side. As he settled into the guest chair, he said, "I was talking to Anna. And Sarah."

She nodded glumly. "So now it's time for my lecture."

"So now it's time to talk."

"I told them everything. Kat too."

He folded his arms on the desk. "I only asked Anna about the fallout from the boat incident, and the business earlier in the day. Sarah told me something about why she blew her cool today. They didn't tell me everything, and I didn't want them to." He leaned forward. "You're going to do that."

-0-

"It was stupid," Roxy concluded fifteen minutes later. "But it was all I could come up with. I should have done anything else, I see that now."

But Mr. Lynch didn't seem angry. "It was risky, I agree. But things could have gone much worse. And it worked."

"Too well, almost. I would have had it coming, I guess."

His brows gathered. "Eh?"

"If we'd ended up…" She shrugged. "You know, the way I acted. But I had to make him want to leave with me."

"Roxy, before he offered you a ride, did you ask him if he'd like to screw around?"

"What? No. But I'm sure he was expecting it."

"Did he suggest it?"

"Gawd, no. I'd never have gotten in the car."

He leaned back. "Then all you did was express an interest in his company, and he in yours. Everything else was still negotiable and conditional. You didn't buy a ride in his car with a promise of sex, young lady. When did you agree to go to his place?"

"Um, about five minutes before we got there. I didn't know he was headed that way."

He nodded. "Let's talk about the drinking."

She swallowed. "Rather not." Dinner was less than half an hour away, and would be the first solid food she'd had all day – if she could get it down.

"Let's anyway. If he was sure you were a willing partner, Roxanne, he might have shared a drink with you first, but he wouldn't have risked spoiling you for the main event by pouring booze down your throat until you had trouble walking." He leaned forward and put his arms on the desk again. "He wasn't trying to loosen you up. He was drowning your reservations."

She shook her head. How could he not understand? "What could you expect, Mr. Lynch? He's a guy." She looked at the desktop. "I mean, they are what they are, and they do what they do."

A moment of silence. "So I've heard you say," the Man in Black said quietly. "I just didn't understand your full meaning till now." He twined his fingers together. "Roxanne, how old was your mother when you were born?"

She blinked at the change of subject. "Seventeen."

"And when you were conceived?"

"Sixteen, I think."

He stood and looked towards the door, his back to her. "Alex would have been almost forty then. How did they meet?"

She shrugged. "She never told me. She said he was training at Fort Dix when Gramps was stationed there. I know she used to be super wild when she was younger. I figured they met at a party or something, and ended up getting stoned and stupid together in some motel." She shrugged again, even though he couldn't see her. "'S just what happens."

"And he didn't ask or care about her age, and forgot he was married with a child. It's just what happens. What if telling Eric your age hadn't deterred? What then?"

She shrugged. "Dunno. Guess I might have come home a different girl."

"I loved Alex Fairchild like a brother," Mr. Lynch said. "But sometimes, I so wanted to kick his ass. But never more than this moment." He shook his head. "The man had no governor on his libido. He chased every skirt that caught his eye. He never talked about it to me, but I'm sure he cheated on Colleen a hundred times. I wouldn't be surprised to learn you and Caitlin have sibs scattered across the U. S., Europe, and Asia." He turned to face her. "Roxy, do you really think that's all a woman has any right to expect from a man?" His voice lowered. "Do you think Bobby would ever get one of you girls drunk so he could screw you?"

"No. But… Bobby's special."

"All right, then, Roxanne, what about Eddie? Mister Rubbers-in-the-Wallet? Would he scheme a way to push a girl's objections aside to have his way with her?"

She looked at the desktop again. "No."

He leaned across the desk and lifted her chin with a finger. "You didn't sound nearly so sure that time."

She looked into his eyes, live and dead, and said slowly, "I'm sure. I just… I don't think he'd ever turn down an offer, though."

"Maybe not. But that's not the same as believing a woman's right to consent is just something to be gotten around."

Mr. Lynch, what are you going to do?"

He let go of her chin. "Whatever I do, you've got no part in it. Events have moved past you. Go wash up for dinner."

She huffed. "Yes, Dad."

-0-

Eric moved absently about his townhouse, preparing to go out for the evening – and checking the preparations for his return. He had a bottle of Dom and a meat and cheese tray chilling in the fridge, a chick flick waiting in the DVD player in the living room (and softcore in the one in the bedroom), and a few scented candles waiting to be lit. He didn't usually go out on Sundays, especially not on a pussy hunt, but the events of the previous night had left him restless and… dissatisfied.

Not that he hadn't gotten laid last night. The second girl he'd brought home had been some bleach-blonde cheerleader from USC who skied, studied art, and liked being handcuffed. She was all right, but nothing special; Eric, being a guy who seldom slept with the same girl twice, would have to be seriously hard up to ever call her again.

The incredible little dancer, Roxanne: that was what had stirred his loins last night. He really had been thinking of her most of the time he'd been banging Miss Bondage. What an epic tragedy she'd turned out to be jailbait. Not that he had a moral objection to that – old enough to bleed, old enough to butcher, as his dad said - but the conservative law firm where he was maneuvering for a partnership demanded an incident-free record, for fear of any scandal tarnishing the firm's spotless reputation. The senior partners lifted eyebrows over points on your driver's license; a morals charge, even if acquitted, would end any chance of rising in the firm, and might even cost him his position.

A conviction, of course, carried consequences to his future that didn't bear thinking about. But he'd have had no fears on that score. As a lawyer, he knew how easy it was to create reasonable doubt in the minds of a jury in such cases, so long as there was no physical evidence. And there wouldn't have been. He always used condoms, and no female left his place after sex without a thorough shower; he usually washed them himself, just to be sure, making the precaution seem like play.

Still. She'd been fun, just to play with and talk to, almost enough to make the evening worthwhile. And those eyes had a way of drawing you in and setting you floating on a sea of pleasant thoughts. But when she'd danced, she'd changed from a sexy little package into the goddess of sensual delights. He'd watched her moving to the beat like a flame in a gentle draft, every sinuous movement or touch of her hands on her own skin intended, seemingly, to fill a man's mind with imaginings of her in his arms and in his bed, and it had been all he could do to keep from crossing the room to take her. It was damn lucky she'd told him her age before they'd gotten to the bedroom.

The little-girl kiss at the gate had been a surprise and very weird; so had her talk about him being a 'gentleman'. It had made her seem even younger, and he'd felt a little twinge of guilt for still wanting her. Not that it had stopped him from staring hard at her ass when she'd gotten out of the car.

Skip had called this morning from the boat, asking about his night – asking if he'd scored at the party, really. Instead of telling him about the mediocre lay he'd picked up as Hobson's choice, he'd found himself recounting an edited tale of the one that got away. He'd only meant to drop a hint or two, but Skip had pressed him hard for details, and he'd found himself elaborating a bit at a time until, finally, he was sending him the picture of her he'd snapped on his cellphone camera. Skip's admiring remarks had finally led Eric to elaborate past truth. He'd never admit to having been led astray by jailbait, of course, so he'd left that detail out, and added the expected ending to the story. If only it had been true.

If she'd been just three years older, he really would have finished what he'd started with her, and she'd have woken up beside him next morning, puzzled and sore. And, instead of going out tonight in search of some sexual junk food, he'd have had her back for a rare encore performance. He was sure he could have talked her into it; the second time was always easier. He smiled. What the hell, it was the weekend; why let her go home at all? Till Monday morning, anyway.

Immersed in these pleasant thoughts, he pushed open the door to the garage. The light was on, which was odd; he was sure he'd turned it out earlier. Then he noticed the tires on his Jag.

He frowned as he stepped into the garage. The tires on this side were flat, the rims settled to the concrete; the way the car was sitting, the shoes on the other side must be down too.

He froze as the door behind him clicked shut. "Turn around," A deep gravelly voice said. "Let's have a look at you."

His first thought was that he was about to be robbed. He turned, keeping his hands at his sides, trying to look unthreatening. But then he got a look at his visitor, and decided looking threatening to this guy probably wasn't an option.

A comic-book villain was leaning with folded arms against the wall, where he'd been hidden by the door when Eric had entered. He was an older guy, and kind of looked like he was cosplaying Nick Fury, Agent of SHIELD: big and muscular, with a patch over his left eye, wearing dark clothes and a gun in a holster at his left shoulder. Only… the holster had rubbed spots, and the black gun had little scratches in the finish; they looked like they'd seen lots of use, and not at a pistol range. And the black outfit, though well-cared-for, looked like work clothes, not a costume. And the scars on the man's face and neck weren't makeup. This guy had been in a fight for his life with something once and come out on top. He might look like a comic-book villain, but he was as real as death.

Mercenary commander. SWAT captain. 'Security' consultant. "You're Roxanne's dad."

The man seemed about to say something, then paused. "Or someone here on his behalf." He straightened up and stepped towards him.

"I didn't know she was underage, honest to God," Eric said. "I didn't have a clue. I mean, she was smoking when I met her, for crissake. I took her straight home as soon as I found out."

"I know," the man said. "She told me. That's why we're having a conversation." He stepped closer, until they were less than an arm's length apart. "But I think, long before you knew she was a child in a woman's body, you saw past that worldly-girl façade. Not right away; she's been working on it for a long time, and many men wouldn't see through it at all. But women are a hobby of yours, aren't they, Eric? You enjoy being around them. You watch them, study them, admire them, even – just the way a deer hunter feels about whitetail." He folded his arms again. "And you display an equal lack of mercy once the hunt begins."

"Mister, I don't-"

The man went on talking. "You spotted the troubled vulnerable girl behind the mask before you arrived home, I'm guessing - or at the latest, when the alcohol first hit her. And you knew then that, whatever reason she'd had to leave with you, whatever it was she wanted from you, it wasn't casual sex."

Eric swallowed. Father, for sure. And thoroughly pissed.

"That was your chance to do the right thing, before you knew you could go to jail for touching her: take her back or take her home, and go back to looking for a proper one-night-stand. Or you could have taken her for her ride, even entertained her at your place. She's good company, if sex isn't the only pleasure you get from women. You could have kept it aboveboard and had a good time and brought her home at midnight, and I'd have thanked you."

Eric eyed the gun. If he fired it in here, the neighbors would hear. Probably. They wouldn't come to investigate, but they'd call the cops. Only, this man didn't seem the type to be worried about the police.

"Instead, you saw that vulnerability as an opportunity to use her. She just switched in your mind from 'easy lay' to 'easy prey', and you went to work. You never gave a thought to what you might be doing to her life." The dark man circled like a wolf, and Eric turned to keep an eye on him. They stopped when the man was between Eric and the car. "It would have been her first time, did you guess that? I think you did. Did it make your conscience itch, even a little? Or did it excite you?"

The man was no longer standing between Eric and the door, and it was just a step away. If he could get through the door and lock it …

"You don't want to run from me, son," the sinister-looking man said. "You really don't."

What are you going to do? He wanted to ask. Only, he didn't really want to.

The man inclined his head towards the Jag. "Beautiful car," he said. "What did it cost you, sixty kay?" Without waiting for an answer, he went on. "I'll bet you've lured more than one girl into it with a promise of a ride, haven't you? I found her shoes under the passenger seat, by the way. I'll be taking them with me." He put his face into Eric's and Eric couldn't help flinching away from that one-eyed stare. "When I leave here, there's not going to be a clean piece of sheet metal on your little pussy wagon. I'm going to smash the windshield, break out the headlights, and dent every body panel. Then I may bust the taillights, just to finish it off."

That put a little moisture back in Eric's mouth. The car was completely insured, of course; any damage this man did would be fixed in a week. Hell, if he totaled it, Eric would be driving a new one the next day. Being sure to keep his face and manner grave and penitent, he nodded. "Okay. I guess I deserve that."

"I thought you might say that, you toilet brush."

Eric's breath exploded out of him as he folded around the man's fist. As his vision darkened, he felt his shirt front and belt buckle being seized, and he was rushed, stumbling, to the car and flung over the fender and hood into the windshield. He rolled down the hood and dropped heavily to the floor, without breath to groan. He felt a stabbing pain in his shoulder: dislocated, or maybe something was broken.

A black shoe appeared beside his head. Strong hands grasped the back of his collar and belt, lifting him almost off the concrete. He found a little breath. "Whuh, wait…." He found himself on hands and knees, nose-to-nose with the Jag. The hood was dented, and the windshield was caved in and fogged with cracks.

The hands gripping him lifted again. "Headlights next."

18