Lipsanos watches. The bartender serves the sleek stranger the drink. Questioned, he stabs a thumb at George.
The woman raises an eyebrow, lifts her glass, and nods at George.
Lipsanos is headed her way before her first sip.
As he approaches, she shifts her legs-long legs, already crossed. Her right foot now slips behind her left leg’s calf.
This woman was striking at thirty yards in dim light through a haze of cigarette smoke. At five feet, she’s a leggy wet dream: mocking green eyes, dark hair… chiseled chin… natural rack, and good thighs on full display in her tight-black, fuck-me-now-and-hard! dress.
George thinks…
Or she soon will be.
She smiles at him-a sultry, mocking mouth. She sips her freaky cocktail, says: “’Tis himself. Ah, but he didn’t know my drink. Maybe doesn’t bode well.” Another sip, then, “You’re not Irish.”
George scowls, shakes his head: “No… I’m Greek.” He shrugs. “Came to ride the Celtic Tiger. Get some of that Y-2K paranoia action.” He omits the latest nuance: a lucrative leap to cyber-porn. Instead, George hefts his glass, butchering the pronunciation:
A husky chuckle. The woman smiles-deep dimples- and winks. “My father’s from Glencoe. You know… the Highlands? He’d a toast, ‘Here’s to you, as good as you are. Here’s to me, as bad as I am. And as bad as I am, and as good as you are, I’m as good as you are, as bad as I am.’”
George has trouble tracking that one. She drains her Russian Quaalude. She signals the bartender, raises her glass, and points at George.
She leans across the table, fingers tented, drawing elbows closer and deepening the dark, enticing valley between her high-riding breasts. “Guess I won’t hold it against you, then… not knowing my drink.”
“Yeah,” George says, “that’s good.” He puts out his hand. “I’m George.”
She squeezes his hand and sits back, breasts shifting under her dress. She tips her head to the side, dark hair slanting. “My name is the last thing on your mind. Let’s be honest, huh, George? Names truly important?”
He feels some sense of firm footing returning. Cocky, he says, “Called out at the right moment? Yeah… means more than
Those dimples again. She sips her drink, points. “Gutsy, George. Joking about sex this early. Okay: You can call me Mell. Mell Mulloy.”
He puts out his hand again, squeezes hers and doesn’t let go-his thumb stroking the inside of her palm.
She says, “
“Say what?”
“The monkey… my favorite book as a kid, ya know?
“Gotcha.” George bites his lip… sips his drink.
But the woman pushes: “Are ya, you know, curious… George?”
George’s kidneys are burning. Should have hit the head before he sent the drink to her. He bounces his left leg. Tries to come up with some response to her question. He fingers the engraved Zippo in the pocket of his sports jacket, says, “You smoke?”
“Not anymore.”
“Mind if I do?”
“Do it, George-secondhand smoke keeps me half-ass in the game.”
George lies: “Gotta get it in before the ban, yeah? I’m out… gotta get myself a new pack.”
He beelines for the men’s room. He shoulders up between pissed, pissing punters and lets go, his left kidney burning… even aching.
The pain subsiding, he washes up and hits the cigarette machine. He buys a pack of Regals that he’ll maybe get through in three or four weeks. He drops it in his pocket with the baggie of half-a-dozen tablets of Rohypnol- the “R2” that he figures to slip in Mell’s drink when she has to hit the head.
But before that, he’ll slip her the Ecstasy in his left pocket.
The E and the “Rope”-a profoundly powerful one-two… no woman could sustain against it.
Mell has a fresh drink waiting for George when he returns to their table.
George slides into his chair-freshly stricken: that face, those tits, those long legs… thinking about those legs wrapped around his ass… about Mell’s mouth, her sultry lips, groaning-and her not
“Drink up, George,” Mell says. “They’re gonna be playing our song in a minute.”
Compliantly, George downs his double Jameson and accepts her hand.
They find an empty space on the dance floor and begin moving together, his crotch tight to hers-a slow dance to Mark Knopfler: “On Raglan Road.”
George is dizzy.
And increasingly hard.
Mell clearly knows it too-stroking him through his sans-a-belt pants.
Punchy, his pants now a tent, George follows Mell back to their table. He doesn’t really sit so much as he falls into his chair.
George is sweating-even a little nauseous.
Strike that:
But Mell has slipped off her right fuck-me stiletto, distracting George from his sour stomach. She’s massaging his crotch with her stockinged foot. She says: “Don’tcha think it’s time we go to your place? You do have a place, George?”
She stands… reaches under the table with her left hand and pulls up a big black bag-something between a large purse and a briefcase.
George takes her extended right hand, trailing her through the packed pub to the door. His head is swimming…
The wet cold air is a fleeting respite, soothing him… sharpening his focus.
But the cab is too cozy. George mumbles his home address and slides into a void.
He’s cold.
George blinks his eyes, looks around.
His hands are cuffed to the bed posts… ankles, ditto.
Mell’s standing there at the foot of his bed, sneering in her slinky black dress.
“He has risen,” Mell nods at George’s still-hard cock.
“What the fuck is this?” George’s tongue is thick and he hardly understands himself. He thinks he might vomit.
“Fecking caffler,” Mell says, “you really have no idea what’s going on?”
Groggy, George mutters, “Uh,
The woman crosses her arms, feet spread wide. “Brill. Let me help: You’re coming through a smallish dose of Rope-or Rohypnol… the original date-rape drug. If Valium was Superman, well, Rope is Superman’s bigger, meaner older brother. But you know that, don’tcha, George?” She raises her hand-sheathed in a white latex glove-and his baggie of Rope flops down. Mell scowls, looking hurt. “Meant this evil shit for me, eh, Georgie?”
With her other rubber-gloved hand, the woman suddenly grasps George’s erection and squeezes. George
