The Midnight Tour

People he had to see every working day. People who knew him.

“You can’t just bring me here and not dance with me. How would that look?”

You’re not my date! he wanted to shout. I gave you a ride!

Say “Thanks for the lift,” and leave me alone!

He thought it, but didn’t say it. Her feelings wouldn’t just be hurt, they’d be trampled.

He finally said, “I guess I can give it a try.”

She led him downstairs to the recreation room. It was decorated with red and green streamers, and dark except for the glow of Christmas tree lights strung across the ceiling. Owen noticed that there were no clear bulbs, no white bulbs. They were all deep, rich colors: blue and red and green and orange.

They looked gawdy and wonderful, but didn’t illuminate much.

Just as well, Owen thought.

The floor was crowded with dancing couples. Half of nearly every pair was somebody Owen knew from school. Many nodded, smiled, or spoke brief greetings as they made their way to the middle of the floor.

Stopping, Moncia turned to him and gazed into his eyes.

She is pretty, Owen thought.

But he suspected that anyone would look good in the glow of all those Christmas tree lights. He could see the shine of them in Monica’s hair, their sparkle in her eyes. They softened her face, blurring its harshness, hiding the arrogance and suspicion that could usually be seen in her eyes and lips.

She really did resemble Elizabeth Taylor. For the first time, the similarities seemed to surpass the differences.

And she looked great in her angora sweater. It hugged her body in such a way that each breast swelled out separately—they were twin, fuzzy white mounds with a glen between them.

She might’ve looked great in her pleated plaid skirt, too. It was very short and drifted softly against her thighs. But she’d ruined the skirt’s appeal by wearing tights. The black tights encased her legs, showing off their slender curves but hiding every inch of skin.

“Just do what I do, darling,” she said.

With that, she stepped forward until their bodies met.

She took hold of Owen’s left hand, placed her own left hand on his shoulder, and said, “Put your other hand in the middle of my back.”

He followed her instructions.

“That’s right,” she whispered.

A new tune began to flow from the speakers. “White Christmas,” sung by Bing Crosby.

They started to dance.

It was a slow dance, and they held each other close. Owen followed Monica’s lead. It was easy; she hardly moved at all, just swayed back and forth and took small steps this way and that.

She smelled awfully good—some sort of perfume that filled Owen’s mind with images of balmy nights and soft breezes in the tropics. He’d been smelling it all evening. But now it seemed to radiate off her skin in warm, rich waves.

A wonderful, exotic aroma.

But not nearly as wonderful or exotic as the feel of Monica as they danced: her face resting on his shoulder; her hair tickling the side of his face; her left hand caressing his back while her right clasped his hand; her breasts pushing firmly but softly against his chest; her belly pressed to his belly; her crotch rubbing him in a subtle way that seemed almost accidental; her thighs brushing against his with every step she took.

Before Bing was halfway through the song, Owen started getting hard.

Oh, terrific.

Just what I need.

Hoping Monica hadn’t noticed it yet, he bent forward slightly to break contact down there.

“Don’t be a silly,” she said.

Her left hand went down and pulled at his rump until he was tight against her again.

“Ooooh, Owen,” she said. Then she tilted back her head, looked him in the eyes, and let forth with her wanton growl.

Immediately, he hated it. Though it seemed to express approval and lust, its blatant phoniness made it seem like mockery.

She probably thinks it’s a cute thing to do, he told himself. Maybe she even thinks it’s sexy.

“A penny for your thoughts,” Monica said.

“Huh?”

“What’re you daydreaming about?”

“I’m not daydreaming.”

“You’re always off in your own little world.”

“I’m here,” he told her, and tried to smile.

“Now you are.”

“Sorry.”

“You’re such a silly.” She gave his thigh a squeeze. “What am I going to do with you?”

“Whatever you please,” he said. Then he leaned forward and looked past Monica to see out her window. Just a few feet beyond the edge of the road, there seemed to be a drop-off. He could see nothing down there except the ocean. “Yikes,” he said.

“A thrill, isn’t it?” She didn’t sound thrilled, but she was smiling as if she were the only person in on a joke. “If we die, guess whose fault it will be?”

“The bus driver’s?”

“Think again.”

“Mine.”

“Ding! You win. You insisted on coming.”

“I didn’t exactly insist. It was more like a suggestion.”

“We could be riding on a cable car right now.”

“We can ride on cable cars tomorrow.”

“If we’re still alive.”

Chapter Three

TUCK AND DANA

Lynn Tucker, sitting at the kitchen table, set down her cup of coffee and smiled when Dana came in. “Hey, hey, look at you.”

Dana grinned and raised her arms. “Just call me Ranger Rick.”

“You look great.”

“Thanks, Tuck. You, too.” Frowning, she said, “I wish my uniform looked like that.” While Dana’s tan shirt and shorts were stiff and creased and dark, Tuck’s looked soft and faded. “Want to trade?”

“Think mine’d fit you?” Tuck asked.

“Probably not.”

“Probably.” She laughed. “What are you, now, about six-nine, seven feet?”

“Just six. But I’m dainty.”

Tuck pushed back her chair and said, “Sit down, Miss Dainty. I’ll get you a cup of coffee.”

“I can get it.”

“You’re my guest.” Tuck stood up and headed for a cupboard. “Besides, it’s your first day. Tomorrow, I’ll let you get your own coffee.”