The Midnight Tour

  It was a little after nine o’clock when she turned onto Beach Drive. Nobody was stirring. Copies of the morning newspaper still lay on several lawns and driveways. She supposed that some of the residents had already gone to work for the day, while others weren’t yet up and around.

  What if Terry isn’t up?

  No big deal, she told herself. If he isn’t, he should be.

  Just so he’s home.

  His car was in his driveway. His newspaper lay on the grass in front of his porch.

  Sandy stopped and shut off her engine.

  What if he just got to bed? she wondered. What’s the graveyard shift, midnight to eight?

  Ah, but this is Friday. He has Wednesdays and Thursdays off, so he wouldn’t have worked last night.

  She put the keys in her purse and climbed out. Then she eased the door shut so that it hardly made any noise. She walked slowly around the front of her truck—and realized she was sneaking.

  If I’m this afraid of waking him up, she thought, maybe I’d better just leave.

  She could drive to the cafe, have a nice breakfast and come back in an hour or so.

  Bending over, she picked up Terry’s newspaper. She carried it up his porch stairs and stopped in front of his door and stood there. She stared at the doorbell button, but didn’t reach for it.

  What if I wake him up?

  What if he’s not alone?

  What if he’s actually married? She might’ve been at work yesterday when I was here.

  Don’t be ridiculous, Sandy told herself. He’s not married.

  For one thing, no wife is going to let a guy keep a painting like The Sleeper in his living room. And he wouldn’t want a steady girlfriend to see something like that, either.

  He’s single and unattached, just like he said.

  Trembling, heart thudding, Sandy raised her hand toward the doorbell button.

  And stopped with her finger an inch away from it.

  I can’t do this. He’s not expecting me. He’ll think I’m a nutcake. I’ll just go away and come back a little later.

  She took a step backward, crouched, and gently placed his newspaper on the welcome mat. Then she turned around and started down the stairs.

  This is the guy who ambushed me, she suddenly thought. Blew five thousand bucks on a painting of me. Tracked me to Blaze. Set me up. Climbed around on those rocks to meet me “by accident.”

  And he’s gonna mind a surprise visit?

  She turned around and climbed the porch stairs. Not pausing for an instant, she jabbed the doorbell button. Then she swooped down and snatched up his newspaper.

  Though her confidence had returned, her calm hadn’t.

  As she waited, she felt weak and trembly. Her heart pounded fast and hard. Underneath her loose shirt, drops of sweat dribbled down her sides. They ran all the way down from her armpits to her waist, cool and tickling.

  From behind the door came a quiet sound of footsteps.

  Oh, my God. He’s coming.

  She took a deep, deep breath.

  Calm down, calm down,

  He opened the door.

  “Your paper, sir,” Sandy said.

  He looked stunned. He gaped at her.

  “Ashley?” he whispered.

  “At your service, sir.”

  Grinning and shaking his head, he stepped backward. “Come on in.”

  “Thanks.” She entered, and he shut the door.

  “I can’t believe you’re here,” he said.

  “I just happened to be dropping by.”

  He laughed.

  “I know it’s early,” she said. “I was afraid I might wake you up. Guess I did, huh?”

  Grinning, he said, “I must look a fright.”

  Sandy laughed. “You look perfect.”

  His hair was mussed and he wore an old, faded blue bathrobe. He looked as if he’d outgrown it. The sleeves were too short and the front wouldn’t shut all the way across his chest. The edges didn’t meet until just above his waist, where the robe was held shut by his cloth belt.

  “I did wake you up, didn’t I?” Sandy asked.

  “Ask me if I mind.”

  “Do you mind?”

  “Oh, man, you’ve got to be kidding.” He grinned and shook his head. “So, would you like a cup of coffee, or something?”

  “I’d like a kiss.”

  “I thought you were going to make me wait two weeks.”

  “I couldn’t wait.”

  “What about your son?”

  “He’s all right. He’s with my mother. All day.”

  “All day?”

  “Overnight, even.” She slipped the strap off her shoulder and lowered her purse to the floor.

  “You can stay with me all day?” Terry asked.

  “If you want me to.”

  “Oh. Man.” Stepping forward, he put his arms around her. “Yes,” he said, and drew her in gently.

  She tilted her head so their noses wouldn’t bump.

  His mouth pressed against her parted lips.

  His chest pushed against her breasts.

  Still holding the newspaper, Sandy let it drop behind him. It hit the floor with a soft whop. She squeezed herself against him.

  And suddenly she felt as if she were being drawn into a strange and wonderful place where she’d never been before.

  Getting lost in it.

  Oh my God, she thought.

  Too soon, his mouth went away. He whispered, “Wow.”

  “Wow yourself,” she told him.

  “Now do you want some coffee?” he asked.

  “No. But you go ahead and have some. If you’d rather have coffee than me.”

  He seemed to groan and laugh at the same time. His body still jerking with the laughter, he planted his mouth on hers. Then he stopped laughing. His hands glided down her back, rubbing her through the slippery fabric of her silk blouse and skirt. He moaned as he caressed her buttocks. Then he eased his hands up beneath the tail of her blouse. They drifted slowly up her back, lightly touching her skin. As they roamed, she felt a hardness push against her through the front of her skirt.

  His hands tried to come around.

  She was pressed too tightly against him for that.

  Though she didn’t want to move, wanted only to stay this way, Terry’s body warm and strong and hard, his mouth open and wet, she wanted too to feel his hands on her breasts and on her belly and everywhere else they wanted to go. So she released him and took a small step backward.

  His hands, still under her blouse, came around beneath her arms and curled over her breasts. He sighed. He had a delirious look in his eyes. His mouth hung open. His lips and chin were shiny with spit.

  His robe seemed to be wider open than before, but Sandy couldn’t see down very far. Her view was blocked by the bulging top of her blouse.

  She watched the shapes of his hands under the silk as they explored her breasts.

  Reaching up, she unbuttoned her blouse. She spread it open, slipped it off her shoulders, and shook it down her arms until it fell to the floor behind her.

  Terry let go and stepped back and stared at her.

  And she stared at him.

  His cloth belt had come loose. The front of his robe hung open a few inches all the way down. He seemed unaware of it, though. He appeared to be transfixed by the view of Sandy. But then he must’ve noticed where her gaze was aimed. He glanced down at himself, made a quiet “Uh” sound, and started to shut the robe.

  “Don’t,” Sandy said. “Don’t do that. Take it off.”

  He closed his mouth. He wiped his lips with the back of one hand. Then, gazing into her eyes, he took off the robe and dropped it to the floor.

  Just below his waist, his tan stopped. It started again partway down his thighs.

  “Tum around,” Sandy said.

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “I want to look at you.”

  “I’m just a regular guy,” he said, his voice shaking slightly. r />
  “I haven’t seen that many.”

  “Oh? Okay.” He turned around slowly. Though the curtains were shut across the glass wall behind him, plenty of light filtered in. Sandy stared at his profile, then at his back, and then at his other side as he continued to turn.

  When he was facing her again, he said, “Want to take your skirt off?”

  Smiling, she unfastened the button and zipper at the side of her skirt. The skirt fell, clinging to her legs until it came to rest around her ankles. She stepped out of it. Then she bent over. Standing on one leg at a time, she pulled off her sneakers and tossed them out of the way.

  “Now you turn around,” Terry said. “I want to look at you.”

  “I’m just a regular gal.”

  “Not even close.”

  She began to turn around very slowly.

  Terry murmured, “God.”

  Facing him again, Sandy whispered, “Come here.”

  He stepped close to her. When he was a stride away, she motioned for him to halt. He stood there, arms at his sides.

  Without looking down, she reached out and curled her fingers around him. He gasped and arched his back.

  “You want to put this exactly where?” she whispered.

  He sort of smiled.

  “Here?” Sandy asked.

  She took a step closer to him, pushing down gently at the stiffness with her hand. As her breasts touched his chest, she felt the rub between her legs. She let go and moved in more, feeling him press up against her. Kissing him, she squeezed her thighs together. He felt hot and thick between them.

  His hands rushed feverishly up and down her back.

  He writhed against her.

  Huffing for air, he pulled his mouth away and gasped, “Bedroom?”

  “Here.”

  “Couch?”

  “Here.”

  His hands slid all the way down Sandy’s back and under her buttocks. Clutching her there, he pulled upward, spreading her cheeks so she felt cool air between them as he lifted. She went to her tiptoes. A moment later, her feet came off the floor and she opened her legs wide.

  As he raised her, she felt her sweaty breasts slide against his sweaty chest, felt her slick belly slide upward against his slick belly, felt the thickness between her thighs follow her upward, pressing at her.

  Then she could see over the top of Terry’s head.

  She gazed at the bright curtains but didn’t really see them, didn’t really see anything because her world had become the feel of Terry’s penis down there touching her, nudging her open, delving.

  She clutched the sweaty hair on the sides of his head.

  Gasping and whimpering, she threw her own head back and stared at the ceiling.

  Then he eased her downward.

  He was all wet and slippery outside Sandy, stout and thick inside. Lowering her slowly, not thrusting himself but only lowering her very slowly as if to torment her by holding back, he pushed in, spreading her, climbing snugly higher and deeper. On her way down, she whimpered and kissed his eyes and his nose. And then he stopped lowering her.

  “What?” she gasped.

  “You...okay?”

  “Huh?”

  “Am I...hurting you?”

  “No.”

  “Should I stop?”

  “No!” She cried the word out in such a loud, urgent voice that she shocked even herself.

  Terry winched He grunted, “Ah.” Then his hands seemed to drop out from under her buttocks.

  She plunged, letting out a yell of shocked delight as she rammed down and felt the full solid length of him shove its way up her. Then her groin bumped his. He was all the way in, all the way home.

  “Yes!” Sandy whispered.

  She locked her mouth against his.

  Arms and legs wrapped around Terry as if she were climbing a tree, she pushed her tongue into his mouth, squirmed and moaned .

  Terry, though no bigger than Sandy, held her and stayed in her and sank to a crouch. Then a hand moved to the center of her spine. Holding her, staying in her, he tipped her backward and lowered her onto the rug.

  Sandy planted her feet on both sides of him.

  He pulled nearly out of her and thrust back in.

  Sandy arched her back, crying out.

  Terry took his mouth away from hers. He raised his face It was dripping with sweat. “Did I...hurt you that time?” he gasped.

  “No! God, no!”

  “Are you sure?”

  She saw a gleam of mischief in his eyes.

  “Bastard,” she said.

  He smiled. “Want me to stop?”

  “No!” She laughed and sobbed. Then, as she blurted, “Stop fooling around... ”

  Terry started to thrust.

  “and fuck...”

  The noise of exploding plate glass roared through the room.

  “...me!”

  Jammed in to the hilt, suddenly throbbing and squirting, Terry jerked his head toward the noise.

  Sandy, head turning at the same instant, saw the curtain rush forward, bulging away from whatever was left of the glass wall behind it. Through the curtain, she could see a dark shape lurching in from the deck.

  Almost the shape of a man.

  But not a man.

  “No!” she shrieked through the clamor of raining shards.

  Terry shoved himself up and popped out of her, shooting semen onto her thigh. As he struggled to stand, Eric found his way out from under the curtain and flung it down.

  He seemed to be bleeding all over. Pieces of glass jutted out of, his skin.

  Spreading his arms, he roared at Terry.

  And charged him.

  “No!” Sandy shouted. “Don’t!”

  Terry hurled himself at Eric.

  “No!” Sandy shouted. “Stop it!” She lunged toward them, hoping to throw herself between them.

  But it was happening so fast.

  Everything was so fast except Sandy.

  She felt as if she were running underwater or through a nightmare where she was only allowed to move in slow motion as she raced the distance of no more than six feet toward the gap between the man she loved and the son she loved. She reached out with both arms. She cried “No!” as she raced, but could hardly hear it through Eric’s roar of fury.

  An image flashed through her mind of three kids racing toward each other hoping to catch the same high-hit baseball, all of them yelling, “It’s mine! It’s mine!”

  Terry glanced at her and yelled, “Get back!” His arm darted out to hold her off.

  Eric took a swipe, ripping off half his face.

  Screaming, Sandy launched herself at Eric.

  He clubbed her aside with a forearm. She staggered backward, flapping her arms.

  Still on her feet, she saw Terry trying to run away.

  Going to get his gun?

  Eric bounded after him.

  Then the front of the coffee table knocked Sandy’s feet out from under her. She flew backward. Her rump smacked the top of the table. Teetering, she slid on what felt like magazines. Then she tumbled off the other side and dropped into the gap between the table and couch, her head shoving at the couch, her legs kicking toward the ceiling, the edge of the table scraping a hot path down her back.

  She stopped when the floor caught her behind the shoulders. Her head was jammed forward, her back curled, her rump off the floor, the side of the table propping up her legs, her feet in the air.

  As she wheezed for breath, she heard Eric snarling and grunting.

  “Eric!” she yelled. “Leave him alone.!”

  She bucked and thrashed. The coffee table scooted. The couch scooted. In a frenzy, she twisted and kicked and squirmed, turning herself until at last she fell lengthwise into the gap, landing on her side with a floor-level view under the table to the middle of the room where Eric was hunkered down, his bloody snout buried in Terry’s groin.

  A roar seemed to fill Sandy’s head.

  She didn’t know whe
re it came from, but obviously not from Eric: his mouth was full.

  The roar went on as she stumbled to her feet and rushed out from behind the table and ran at him.

  Sandy knew what she was doing.

  But it seemed very much like someone else running toward the beast and the dead man.

  Can’t be me. This can’t be happening.

  Someone else throwing herself onto Eric, wrestling him away from Terry’s carcass.

  Someone else under him, pinned to the floor, staring up at his bloody snout and fierce blue eyes.

  Then someone else getting squeezed and sucked and gnawed on.

  Then someone else sprawled under his powerful body, whimpering and trying to fight him off, her skin being cut by the glass shards embedded in his flesh as he squirmed and gunted and plunged.

  Not me.

  This can’t be happening.

  Please.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  SECRETS

  Laughter exploded out of Dana when Warren said to plant the lipstick with her lips. But her laughing stopped as he came up close to her and put his arms around her and kissed her on the mouth.

  He kissed her as if he’d been wanting to do it for a long time.

  But he didn’t explore her with his hands, didn’t squeeze her tightly against his body. Dana leaned forward until her breasts touched his chest.

  Then Warren stopped kissing her. He stared into her eyes.

  She watched the way his eyes flicked back and forth.

  “Where were we?” he whispered.

  “Kissing.”

  A smile spread over his face. “Yeah,” he said.

  “You wanted to try on my lipstick.”

  “I don’t think you’re wearing any.”

  “I’m not.”

  “I just wanted to kiss you.”

  “That’s nice,” Dana said.

  “It was nice.”

  So let’s do it again, she thought.

  Let’s not push him.

  “It was very nice,” she said.

  “We’ll have to try it again sometime.”

  No time like the present.

  “Anyway,” he said, “your secret is now safe with me.”

  “What secret?”

  “That you blurted out ‘Tuck.’”

  “Oh. That’s right.”

  “Never happened.”

  “And if it happens again,” she said, “we’ll know how to handle it.”

  “That’s right.”