Boulder Colorado
Monday November 27 2006
0857 hours
Frank Colby, Director of Operations for International Operations, rolled his wheelchair through his bedroom door into the public area of his hillside mansion, and found his assistant, Cheryl Carson, still sprawled out on one of his couches with a blanket over her sleeping form and a litter of paperwork on the coffee table in front of her. He brought the chair to the arm of the couch her head was pillowed on and gently nudged her shoulder. "Hey."
Her eyes slitted, then opened wide as she recognized him. She sat up hastily, throwing off the blanket. "What time is it?"
"About nine." When her head turned toward the window he added, "AM."
"Oh my God, no," the girl said, finger-combing her hair.
Colby lifted an eyebrow. "What, worried about being late to work?" Since Colby had hired her for an investigation eight months before, she had evolved into his personal assistant, relieved of other duties by Ivana herself, spending nearly all her waking time with him.
"My car's been in your driveway all night," she said, standing and turning toward the bathroom. "Your security is changing shifts right now. Before I can even get home, it'll be all over Central that I spent the night."
The Director looked pointedly at his legs. "They'd have to have a pretty good imagination to make something of it, Cher."
"If you really think so, you don't know what people are like around here." The bathroom door closed.
Colby picked up the paperwork and photographs from the coffee table and put them all back into the big file folder. For once, the research wasn't about the Lynch Mob, but a pair of Specials, runaways from Darwin, who had been located two weeks ago in Detroit but had somehow made their surveillance and slipped away. Colby's people hadn't been involved in the operation, but Gerry Ruche had asked him to look into it and offer suggestions about how it might have been handled differently. Frank was under no illusions that Ivana's Security Advisor had developed a fresh respect for the Operations Director's opinions and expertise; the man was just looking to dilute any possible blame by involving him. But that was all right with Colby. Since Chula Vista, his increasing involvement with the hunt for the Genactive fugitives had allowed him to more effectively divert IO from the course of investigations that got dangerously close to Lynch and his kids. If Ruche kept dropping items like this into Colby's lap, he might be of some help to other runaways as well.
The bathroom door opened. "Listen," Cheryl said, "would it be okay to take off for a couple hours? I really need a shower and a toothbrush and a change."
"Take the day off. You've earned it." When she opened her mouth to protest he said, "I'm not planning on going anywhere today, Cher. If plans change, I'll call you. I can get around the house just fine. Go on," he pressed, "go into town and do some shopping. Grocery shopping, at least. As much time as you spend here, you must not have much chance to stock the fridge and shelves in your room."
"As much time as I spend here, they might as well stay empty. About the only time I'm there is when I'm sleeping." The tall blonde pulled her coat from the closet by the door and shrugged into it, pulling her hair out of her collar and arranging it on her shoulders – she had grown it out since they had first met – before snugging a wool cap over her head; high Colorado in late November was cold.
As she turned to the door, Colby said, "If you want, you should pack a bag and drop it into one of the spare bedrooms, for contingencies." When she turned back to regard him, he head-shrugged. "If you're comfortable with the idea."
"I think I can weather the peril to my maidenly virtue," she said. "You sure?"
"We're not talking about moving you in. It's just a bit of a drive to Central and back. If you've got a change or two here, it gives us options."
She nodded. "I'll do that then." She opened the door. "Call me."
After Cheryl shut the door behind her, Colby rolled back into the kitchen. He set a kettle on the stove, intending to have a cup of tea to soothe his nerves – and also to give his assistant plenty of time to get down the drive and away.
Friendly and professional. They had agreed on that, verbally and without qualifications, when they had first begun working together, when he still had full use of his lower body – and a reputation for choosing psychos as love interests. But after his disabling injury, the girl's attitude had softened and warmed, bringing their relationship beyond professional – and she had dropped numerous clues that she was ready at any time to take their relationship beyond friendship as well. But Colby was far from ready to take any steps in that direction, pun very much intended. Physically, he supposed he was still capable after a fashion, and Cheryl Carson was an attractive and desirable woman. But a number of problems beyond the physical caused him to maintain a certain distance between them.
First and foremost, though he was sure Cheryl's feelings toward him were genuine, he also knew that she was Ivana's spy. He didn't think that she had much enthusiasm for that part of her job, but it would be foolish to bring the girl into his full confidence – or even to put her in a position to learn something of his secret activities - and thereby force her to choose between her two bosses.
Second, there was the Shop's policy against women getting in relationships with their superiors, a rule no less strictly enforced for being unwritten. If it became known, or even strongly inferred, that Cheryl was sleeping with the Director of her department, she would never be promoted on her own merit again.
Third, Cheryl was just too nice to be involved with a man with his numerous disadvantages. The male-to-female ratio at Central was at least four to one, and even discounting superiors in her chain of command, she should easily be able to find somebody she could love without having half the rungs above her on her career ladder suddenly removed, or risking a knock on the door in the middle of the night.
And besides, what kind of partner was he for a nice girl?
Once the water was heating, he took his 'lighter' out of his pocket, pressed the button that would foil any listening devices, and set it on the kitchen counter. Then he made a call.
"Frank?" Anne's voice, sounding oddly anechoic, as if she were in one of the Agency's indoor shooting ranges. "Are you all right?"
"Just fine." He pressed the phone to his ear. "Anne, where did you get those hair samples?"
A moment's hesitation. "I don't want to lie to you, Frank. But I don't want to tell you either."
"Then let me say this. You have nothing to be jealous about."
"What?"
"I'm assuming you picked these off something in the back of your boyfriend's closet." But didn't they lose all their clothing when their house in La Jolla burned down?
"Frank, I'm afraid you're being unclear."
He took a mental step back and started again. "The hairs belong to two individuals who work here. I know them both. So did Jack."
"Two, really?"
You sound surprised."
"I am, a little. Go on."
"The longer hair came from the head of an Operations trooper named Christine Blaze. The shorter one, it's…"
"A pubic hair, I know. Whose?"
"A Psy Ops staffer named Alicia Turner. Jack knew both of them."
"Knew them, as in 'knew' knew?"
"It was over with both of them long before he left IO," he said. "His affair with Alicia was a thing shortly after his wife left him – a result, not the cause. She was his grief counselor."
"I'd make a remark about service above and beyond, but I'm sure you'd think it was hypocritical."
He ignored that and went on, "I didn't even know him then, but their history was kind of an open secret, and he mentioned it to me once. Christie was a protégé, like me. They got close after he moved her into an X-Team. They broke up a few months before he bugged out, not on good terms. I doubt he's talked to her in a year." Not strictly true. He's seen Christie at least once, but I doubt it was a happy reunion. "So wherever you found them, it doesn't mean anything."
"Oh, on the contrary. I think finding them where I did is full of meaning. I'm just not sure what the message is yet. And no, I'm not jealous. My man knows who he's with."
The door bell he had rigged to report the arrival of a car in his driveway chimed a single note. Cheryl, coming back for something? "Gotta go. Things good with you?"
"Song in my heart, Frank. Thank you for being my friend."
He heard the door open again. Instantly he disconnected the call and disengaged the masking device. "I'm in the kitchen, Cher," he called. "Forget something?"
No answer.
"Cher?"
He gripped the wheels of his chair and rolled out of the kitchen.
A girl not Cheryl Carson stood in the living room. Even though she was turned away, studying the opposite wall, Frank recognized her instantly, and his mouth went dry.
She looked dressed for a party, in a sleeveless charcoal-colored dress that was open to the small of her back, snug but not tight around the thighs and hips, with a hem that ended just above her knees. A wide-brimmed felt hat protected the creamy skin of her face and neck from the sun, and short leather driving gloves her hands. Her shoes were four-inch spikes that shaped her calves beautifully. She turned his way, and he felt the same reaction he had on the night he'd woken to the smell of lighter fluid and seen Audrey standing over him, blank-eyed, a lit match in her hand.
She stood with a hand on her hip, posing. "Well, hello."
He couldn't answer, couldn't meet her eyes. Her lower legs looked just as lovely from the front, tapering up from her slender ankles to knees that were smooth and unblemished. The dress must be expensive and tailored, he thought, to show off her figure so well: without being immodestly tight, it followed every movement of her thighs and hips and torso, revealing the lithe athleticism of her figure. Her hips were rounded yet still slender, her belly flat with just a hint of contour that indicated perfect muscle tone, drawing the eyes to the hollow between her thighs.
He swallowed and lifted his gaze to chest height. The dress had no neckline, instead gathering at her throat to cover her collarbones yet leaving her shoulders bare. He tried and failed to raise his eyes from her breasts, which were not overlarge but full and perfectly formed; he was certain their shape and lift had nothing to do with a surgeon's skill or the artifice of undergarments. He thought he could just make out the gentle protuberances of her nipples…
She said with good humor, "I'm up here, Frank."
He blushed and swallowed again and lifted his eyes, past the silky-looking shoulders and the smooth slender neck. The face framed by the blue-black hair was oval in shape, the chin small but not pointed, the cheeks clearly defined but not prominent, every element of its structure symmetrical and in perfect proportion. The tip of her nose was slightly upturned. The full, pouty lips stretched, showing the tips of two front teeth.
Finally, feeling like a man paddling a canoe downriver who feels the current suddenly strengthen as a deep rumbling fills the air, he lifted his eyes to meet hers, incredible violet pools of seemingly endless depth.
"There now," she said. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"
He drew a breath. I'm a dead man. "Hello, Nicole," he said, voice carefully neutral and unwelcoming. "What are you doing here?"
Ivana Baiul's special interrogator took off her hat and tossed it on the couch to join her coat. "Can't I just be visiting a sick friend?" She started pulling off her gloves.
"We're not friends, Nicole. We don't see each other outside the Shop, and we hardly see each other inside. We're in different Directorates. We don't go to the same meetings or work on the same projects. We don't even greet in the hallways."
"Too true. It's almost as if we're avoiding each other, isn't it?" She stepped out of her shoes and wiggled her toes in the carpet. "Ahh. The floors at Central are murder on your feet, aren't they?" She looked at him. "Oh. Sorry."
His breathing shallowed. "I've been interviewed six times since Chula Vista. I told everything I know."
"Well, sure." She sat on the end of the couch and swung her legs up, putting her feet on the cushions and the small of her back against the arm. She raised one knee, and his breath stopped for a moment as her skirt slipped down, baring her legs to mid-thigh. "Ivana doesn't even know I'm here, Frank. I've got some thoughts on Chula Vista that I'd like to talk about, but if it makes you uncomfortable, they're not that important. Really. We can just chat about whatever comes up."
He pulled his eyes from her bare thigh and reflected a moment on how bad an idea that would be. "What are your thoughts about Chula Vista?"
She shifted her legs, knees brushing together briefly in a mutual caress. "To start, I want to rethink our assumptions about the Specials' relationships and motives. Some of the Lynch Mob's actions during the raid take them out of the pigeonholes we usually assign them. Kat and Bobby especially – who would ever have figured them to turn into badasses? But the real head-scratcher is John Lynch. Even people who've never met him can tell that he's an alpha dog just from a glance at his picture. For most of his career, he's been the man in charge, whether it's a solo mission or a team or a Directorate. But, at Chula Vista, our witnesses' observations seemed to indicate otherwise. He gave Caitlin advice, but only when asked, and he deferred to her orders at least once."
"He was on overwatch, flying the plane. He had to let someone else lead on the ground. You don't second-guess your field command. That's just good organization."
"Maybe so. But Kat seemed to be clashing with their Twelve-five liaison for control of the mission. That's not good organization. And it's not like Lynch to tolerate such a loose cannon on his team." She paused to look at him. "I can understand this being an upsetting subject. I know one of the things Dixie and Kat argued about was whether to bust you up."
He was upset, but that upset came from how closely the Shop's chief inquisitor was circling the truth he'd hoped was safely hidden forever. "It's okay. Finish your thought."
"Despite what Dixie told Caitlin, the orders to beat you within an inch of your life didn't come from your old friend and mentor.. If Jack Lynch had felt it was necessary, he'd have done it himself."
Colby nodded. "That's how I figured it too, but it was a personal opinion, no evidence."
"So what's the real relationship between Lynch's group and the Twelve-fives? We assume the little monsters are trying to recruit the kids, and Ivery reports that Caitlin said as much at Chula Vista. But the Twelve-fives aren't selling themselves very well, if they're arm wrestling with Jack and Kat over control of their own mission. That suggests they're relying on something else to drive the kids into their camp rather than wooing them. Does that sound reasonable to you?"
"You'd know better than me. I was there, but I didn't hear what Dixie told Fairchild in front of Ivery's cell. I only know that, whatever it was, it made her back down in a hurry." Colby's voice sounded rough in his ears.
"Ivery did. You didn't read his report?"
"My copy didn't include a transcript of the conversation."
"Oh." Her legs shifted again, and the dress slid a little further down. His anger drained away. "Ivana probably wanted to spare you. She's very fond of you, you know. We all are."
"She still shouldn't have done it," he said weakly.
"Maybe not. If you really want it, I'll see about getting you the full report. Mostly it was horror stories about what IO would do to the kids if they were caught again. Dixie seemed awfully knowledgeable about the initial post-manifestation doctrine, but she twisted it around to make the training and research team sound like a bunch of sex-crazed psychos hungry for victims. Kat was always a little jumpy about the subject of sex," she mused. "I can't imagine a better way to manipulate her."
Her other knee lifted briefly, and the skirt was now bunched almost to her hips. How can her underwear not be showing? Unless…. She tucked her skirt absently between her thighs while she spoke, and her hand lingered there; he held his breath for six seconds until she removed it. He swallowed and said, "So, you don't agree with the accepted story about her and Gierling?"
She huffed. "It would take more than four days in Darwin's basement to turn that girl into a killer. Or a seductress." She went on, "You said that Lynch's Twelve-five, Anna, was connected to the Resistance in some way, but you hadn't determined how before your cover was blown. The common assumption is that she's their liaison and recruiter, of course. But how did she connect with Jack in the first place?"
He shrugged. "Again, no answer." He was feeling a little more in control of himself, he decided. Maybe talking shop was keeping his mind off those creamy thighs being oh-so-innocently presented to him. He wondered what she'd do if he rolled up to her and laid a hand on that upraised knee, and then…
"Frank."
He blinked. "What?"
"Anna's connection to Lynch and the kids. You were saying?"
"I think she knew him before he left the Shop..." His skin prickled. He hadn't meant to say anything; that little tidbit, something Lynch had offered him at one of their clandestine meetings, had just floated up to the top of his head. My god, I'm being steered. "… but I don't know why. I could throw out ideas all day about Lynch and Anna and the kids and what they did to me. It's all just guesswork. And it doesn't change our mission. We'll get the real answers when we have them in hand. Look, Nicole, thanks for stopping by, but I'm really tired. I think-"
"You're not tired," she chuckled. "You're just trying to get rid of me. Okay, no more business." She stood and stepped to the bookcase that held his music collection. She ran her middle two fingertips over the shelved CD cases, a simple gesture that roughened his breath. "Compact discs. Funny. I was sure I'd see all your music stored on those huge black platters in the arty cardboard sleeves. What were they called?"
"LPs. And I did have a lot of my music on them, up until last year. Cassettes too."
She pulled one out and glanced at it. "Oh, right. Heard about that. Did she steal them or burn them?"
"A little of both. She was partial to heavy metal." He watched the gentle roll of her hips as she moved to the other side of the sound system and the rest of his collection. "I'd love to replace it all in vinyl, but some of it can't be had at any price."
"Why would you want to do that? Sentiment?"
"No." He shifted his legs slightly. He could feel the Glock in the holster sewn to the underside of the seat. He could reach it and point it in less than a second. Would it be fast enough? Stop it. Even if you manage to put one between her eyes, what then? Run? You wouldn't get a hundred miles before they caught you. You might as well eat the bullet instead. "On the right equipment, the sound quality's better. Lots. CDs have the capability, but they're not produced to the same standard. Too costly." You're talking too much again, he realized with sudden alarm.
"Really." She smiled as she pulled out one jewel case after another and replaced it. "I haven't heard of most of these artists. They all look like they're at a costume party. Frank, do you own anything that was written this century?"
He head-shrugged. "No."
"How about something recorded this century?"
"Doubtful." He swallowed. "Like I said, Nicole, we've got nothing in common."
She selected one and opened it. One eyebrow lifted. "Well, this looks promising." She showed him the sepia-toned picture on the inside: a thighs-up front view of a Eurasian-featured black girl standing shirtless with her wrists clasped on top of her head. Her breasts were concealed somewhat by another pair of hands, male, cupping them from behind. Her jeans were unbuttoned, unzipped, and turned down, low enough to possibly expose pubic hair if she didn't shave it off – an uncommon practice at the time the picture was taken. She stared into the camera, one eye nearly concealed in the waves of shiny black hair that tumbled off her forehead. "She's very pretty, don't you think?"
He shrugged. The look in the photo subject's dark eyes was cool and challenging at the same time, attractive beyond sexual suggestion, and had prompted him to buy the album twelve years before, despite his usual distaste for pop divas; he was uncomfortably aware that Nicole's present regard of him was a close match. He said, "Back when she recorded that, I used to see guys in T-shirts that said, 'Heaven is a planet where every girl is Janet.'"
She smiled at that, and extracted the silvery disc and inserted it in the player. "You don't mind?" Without waiting for an answer, she turned it on and selected a track. Janet Jackson breathed out of the speakers:
Like a moth to a flame
Being burned by the fire
My love is blind
Can you feel my desire?
That's the way love goes.
He'd always thought the opening of 'That's the Way Love Goes' was kind of hokey and overdone, an impossibly exaggerated description of desire; now, feeling Nicole's eyes heating his blood, the words seemed a perfect description of what was happening to him, and probably to any man caught in this girl's gravitational field.
The silky dance tune began, its rhythm building in a few beats to something that drew you along. Nicole clasped her wrists over her head, in imitation of the album picture, and twisted slowly to the music, her movements sinuous and erotic. Unbidden, an image rose in his mind of taking her breasts in his hands.
He gripped the chair arms tightly. "Didn't know you could dance."
Eyes softly closed, she smiled lazily. "This isn't dancing. It's just doing what comes naturally. Join me?"
The rocking of her hips drew his eyes against all determination. He forced his hands to the wheels and turned away from her, hoping it would help. But he couldn't will his hands to roll the chair any further. "That supposed to be funny?"
"No. Your therapist says you work hard, and she's very impressed with your progress. How badly do you need that chair, really?"
She's been reading my med reports? Or extracting information from the people at the therapy center… "If I lost a wheel and the house was on fire, I might make it to the door before it burned down."
"I think you could do better than that. Your thighs are still all muscly. I've been watching them flex." Her voice was in his ear. "And your upper body is even better than before the ambush, I think." She ran her fingertips down his left trapezius. "Hard as a rock."
He lost his breath at the indescribable sensation. His penis swelled and his buttocks tightened. He felt as if he'd just experienced ten minutes of foreplay in a second.
From the kitchen, a whistle rose.
Nicole said wryly, "How symbolic." She stepped past him, her derriere briefly close enough to kiss. "Do you always heat water in a teakettle?"
He worked his mouth to get some moisture in. "I'm old-fashioned."
She moved toward the kitchen. "You want tea, then? I can get it."
"Yeah." He could feel the sexual heat fading as she disappeared into the other room. "Bags in the… in the cupboard to the right of the stove."
The whistle died. He heard doors closing. "Big mug?"
"Yeah."
"How do you take it?"
"Teaspoon of sugar."
"I think I'll have some. Do you have…" He heard the fridge door open. "Nope." It closed again.
"Powder in the cupboard left of the sink." He was feeling almost normal now. She must be at the other end of the kitchen. He found he could roll the chair again, and jerkily backed it away from the kitchen door until he bumped into something.
"Come and get it, or bring it out?"
Keeping a kitchen table between them seemed like a good idea, but he couldn't force his hands to send the chair towards her. He swallowed. "Out here is good."
"Okay." Drawers rattled as she pulled them open and shut.
"The silverware drawer is-"
"Got it. I saw your girl Friday on her way out – Cheryl? She didn't see me, though. I've talked to her a few times. Polite, but not very friendly."
"Don't hold it against her."
"I don't. She doesn't like talking to me about you, is all. She's very protective, and worried for you. And more than a little jealous. You're more than a boss to her, you know."
"She told you all that?"
Amused, she said, "Well, she didn't mean to. How strong do you like your tea?"
"Black." He didn't really, but he wanted to keep her in the kitchen for as long as possible.
"That case, I'll wait to pour mine." She came out of the kitchen empty-handed. She paused, unclasped an expensive-looking watch, and set it on the dining table, eyes locked on Colby's. He stopped breathing.
He dropped his forearms off the chair's armrests just before Nicole set her hands on them. She placed a knee on the seat between his thighs and leaned forward until her lips were an inch from his. Her hair swung down to brush his face and shoulders like heavy silk. His nose filled with the scent of flowers, and his lungs expanded and drew it in of their own accord. He could feel her body heat on his chest and belly and thighs. Almost whispering, she said, "The bus is at the stop, boy. The doors are open. Are you getting on or not?"
It was a choice that was no choice. His hands rose off the wheels and reached for her.
...
"So this is what it feels like." Lying in the disarranged bed, Nicole's head shifted slightly on Frank's bare shoulder as he snugged her up a little tighter against him. "Other girls talk about it sometimes. It's just as nice as they made it sound."
"What?" Frank's throat felt dry and raspy. He swallowed and drew a forearm across her, gently pinning her upper arms.
"I've never been held after. They're always afraid to touch me." She rubbed her cheek against his collarbone and let out a long breath. "I like."
Frank swallowed again and said nothing. He was holding Nicole Callahan for the same reason an exhausted prizefighter clinches his opponent: he felt at the very end of his strength, and was trying to avoid further punishment. His legs were on fire, and his knees were screaming; his lower back and buttocks were twitching with tiny muscle spasms. But those complaints were nothing compared to the deep sick ache in his testicles, as if the last orgasm had been physically wrung from them.
The last one? How many… He tried to recollect. His last clear memory of any length was of snogging with Nicole in the living room, holding her sideways in his lap with her lower legs hanging off the arm of the wheelchair. Without a thought about impossibilities or consequences, he had gathered her into his arms, stood, and carried her into the bedroom.
Everything afterwards was fragmented and confusing, but very vivid: the feel of her skin and the play of her muscles underneath, her hair in his hands and on his skin, her voice as she whispered and chuckled and made other small sounds that shortened his breath. Pinning her wrists to the mattress, her look of surprise changing to a smile as his lips claimed hers. Moving together in half a dozen positions, sometimes inside her, sometimes not. Four times, he decided. At least.
The window, behind its heavy curtain, still glowed around the edges from daylight outside. She'd arrived just after nine, and it got dark early on this side of the mountains; it must be about six hours since she'd walked through his front door. No wonder I'm wiped out, he thought, trying to reassure himself. She must not be planning to spend the night, thank God. If this is her idea of a nooner…
But his exhaustion was more than physical. He felt a frightening disconnection from the world around him: it reminded him of a time he'd been gravely wounded, and the endorphins had been battling pain for mastery of his senses while numbing shock spread through his body, threatening to kill him faster than blood loss. His usually-exceptional situational awareness was gone, his sense of time folded on itself, his thinking labored. Only the pain in his body was real, that and the girl lying sated and sleepy in his arms.
"Don't usually do older guys," she murmured, eyes closed. "Ten years is my limit. Twenty, no way. Looked at you sometimes in the halls, sort of thought about it, but I let it drop. If I'd known what I was missing… saved you from all those crazy skanks." Her breathing slowed.
Lie quiet. Let her fall asleep. Then maybe you can slip out of bed and get to the door. Don't bother with the wheelchair, or getting dressed. Just crawl out of the house and away.
Just let her fall asleep.
"You smell like flowers," he murmured, almost too low for his own ears. He blinked in surprise.
She stirred, eyes still closed. "What?"
"Flowers," his traitor mouth said again, a little louder. "You, you smell like flowers."
She half-opened her eyes and tipped her head up. Her lips brushed his neck, and his whole body broke out in goosebumps as he shivered. "What kind of flowers?"
"Don't know," he squeezed out. "A garden."
"That is so sweet." Her breath was warm in his ear; he stopped breathing. "I've had men tell me I smell like chocolate, or leather, or sandalwood. Even rain, once. I think it's different for each. Always something pleasant, but nothing girlish, you know? Till now." She smiled up at him. "Thank you." Then her smile became one of invitation, and her hand slid down his abdomen, and all the pain disappeared and he felt strong as ten men.
...
Frank lay alone in his bed, not sure how long he'd been awake. Or, rather, unsure whether he really was. He lay as motionless as possible, breathing shallowly; even the slightest movement brought a strange mix of present pain and remembered ecstasy. How long has she been gone? Gritting his teeth against the pain in his body and the strange sensation of smooth flesh gliding against his whenever he moved, he sent his hand jerkily to the sheets beside him. They were still warm. Just left. That's why I came back, why I can think again. Can I reach the phone?
The bedroom door swung open, letting in dim red-gold light. Nicole stood in the doorway wearing his shirt, which ended above mid-thigh. The light from the open doorway backlighted the garment, and showed clearly that she wore nothing underneath. In one hand she held a glass. "I brought you some water," she said. "I bet you're a little dry."
Morning, he thought. Somehow, I made it through the night. Relief and exhaustion flooded through him. He swallowed to wet his throat, with little success. "Thanks," he managed to get out. "But… you'd better start getting ready. Don't… want to be late for work."
She chuckled, a sound like dove's wings. "It's just sundown, darling. We still have all night." She glided into the room and shut the door, and darkness closed around him once more.
...
"I borrowed some clothes," she said. "They fit me like a tent, but they'll get me home to change."
Frank struggled to think. "Your dress. What…" He trailed off as his hands remembered the feel of ripping fabric.
She scoffed. "My beautiful and hideously expensive Ralph Lauren? As if I could ever wear it again. Maybe you can make dustcloths with what's left of it. I threw the underwear away already." Her lips curved in a gentle smile. "I had the best time last night. You're a wonderful lover, Frank. I'm so glad I finally gave in to temptation with you." She bent over him. "Get some rest. And drink plenty of fluids." She stroked his abdomen with her fingertips.
His penis rose, ejaculated, and collapsed, all in about two seconds. He grunted in pain, feeling as if he'd been struck in the crotch with a hammer. His vision dissolved in a blizzard of black snow. When it cleared, he saw her staring down at him.
"Sorry," she said. "Didn't see that coming. You're really sensitized." Her voice lowered. "I guess a good-bye kiss is out of the question."
"Gun under my chair," he mumbled. "Just shoot me instead."
She stilled. "You're not happy with me right now, I guess. But last night will look very different to you after you're feeling better. You'll see."
...
A man's voice brought him back to awareness. "Christ." Hands on his shoulders. "Frank. Talk to me."
"'Mokay, Gord," he muttered. "She gone?"
"Gone. Yeah. Can you move?"
"Don' want to. Thirsty."
"Is he okay?" Cheryl's voice, from the bedroom door. "God. The place reeks of her."
"Wait." Gordon pulled the damp sheet up to Colby's armpits. "Can you bring in a glass of water? A big one." To Colby he said in a low voice. "I'm sorry, man. My crew was off shift last night. She was gone before we came. Assholes never even told us she'd been here."
"No matter," Colby mumbled, feeling very tired and removed from his surroundings. If only they would let him sleep…
"Here." Cher's voice again, gentle fingers at the back of his head, lifting. A glass at his lips. He gulped, water spilling from the corners of his mouth to run down his neck.
Gordon said, "Maybe you'd better leave, Cher."
"I've already seen him. I found him, remember? Just help me get him in the tub. I don't think he can stand up long enough for a shower."
"Don't," Colby said. "Just need rest."
"You'll rest better clean," she insisted.
"Damn," said a man from the doorway. "He looks like -"
"Gerick, shut up." She slid an arm under his shoulder and lifted. The sheet fell to his waist, and she whisked it away. He couldn't summon the energy for modesty, nor for a gasp when his back muscles seized. "Phil, help. Gerick, get his chair from the living room."
The wheelchair appeared. The three of them hoisted him into it, and she began pushing him towards the master bathroom. On the way, he slumped to the side, and she paused to right him.
They deposited him gently in the big tub, and Cheryl knelt beside it. Gerick said, "What next?"
"Go find some clean sheets for the bed," she said, turning on the taps and checking the mix. "Just bring them in, I'll take care of them." After the guard left, she said, "Phil, I'm pretty sure we don't need a chaperone."
"You'll need help to get him out."
"I'll call." When the man hesitated, she said, "This is my job. Go on."
The water rose, covering Colby's legs. The warmth was soothing, and he imagined he could hear his skin sucking up the moisture. The humid air felt heavy as a blanket on his chest and arms. He slid down a little; Cheryl watched him carefully, but didn't try to pull him up. When the water reached his ribs, she shut it off. She dipped a cloth, wrung it, and applied liquid soap from a bottle on the sill. She drew the rag across his shoulders.
The cloth was soft and slippery, and the touch of her hand through it was gentle as a caress. Nicole's scent lifted off Colby's skin. The head of his penis rose out of the water, bobbing in time with his pulse, and dry-fired. A tearing sensation passed through his entire body, and he couldn't see. He moaned, "Sorry." A tear ran down his cheek.
"Shh, it's okay, it's all right," she said softly, as if comforting a child.