“Uh-huh.”
“Rita? Why don’t you draw the drapes and take your clothes off and get comfy on the couch. And I’ll call you back in, like, ten minutes? And you can put me on speaker phone so you’ll have both hands free.”
“Oh God.”
“And Rita? Wear the butt plug.”
“Here’s something crazy,” she said. “After all the things we just did, and all I got out of it, I’m hotter than ever. And what’s got me dripping is the prospect of telephone sex with a woman three thousand miles away.”
She sighed. “And why am I telling you all this, Peter? You’re still dead, aren’t you?”
No question, she thought. You didn’t have to look at him twice to know it, either. The noose that strangled him had had an effect similar to that of the cock ring, and his head was engorged with blood, his swollen face a deep purple.
And the cock ring hadn’t stopped working. He was still massively erect, and she could swear he’d grown larger since she’d left him.
Jesus, it was huge. She took hold of him.
Still warm.
Hmmm.
Aloud she said, “I dunno, Peter. What do you think? It’d be a first, wouldn’t it? And something for you to tell your friends about. ‘Yeah, I’m dead, but I’m still getting a little pussy now and then.’ ”
Except, of course, he wouldn’t be telling anybody anything.
“Of course there’d be a kind of poetic justice to it. I mean, Maureen McConnelly was probably dead when you fucked her. Not when you started, maybe, but by the time you got finished. God, that must have been a shock, huh? But I guess you’re shockproof now.”
She sighed.
“Maybe it’s too kinky. Anyway, I’ve got things to do. There’s a lady on the other side of the country waiting for the phone to ring.”
But she couldn’t keep herself from reaching out and taking hold of him again. She had her cell phone in one hand and his dick in the other. It was the same color as his face. Maybe a little darker.
She said, “Waste not, want not, isn’t that what they say? And when am I gonna get a chance like this again?”
She hoisted herself into position. A little lube? No, hardly necessary, she was sopping wet. Slipped right in, and it wasn’t her imagination, he was really gigantic.
She closed her eyes, rocked to and fro.
Picked up the cell phone. Multitasking? Sure, why not?
Hit Redial.
“So are you wearing the butt plug?”
“Uh-huh. Are you?”
“No, but I’ve got something in front.”
“Oh?”
“Very natural. You’d almost think it was real.”
“Like with veins and all?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And it’s in your cunt?”
“You really like that word, don’t you, Rita?”
“I love it. Tell me how it feels in your cunt.”
“No, you first. Tell me about this guy you picked up.”
“What do you want to hear?”
“Everything,” she said. “Tell me everything.”
NINETEEN
Hedgemont, North Carolina.
There was no bus station as such. The bus stopped at a convenience store with a pair of gas pumps out front. She got off, and the bus driver climbed down after her and retrieved her suitcase from the luggage compartment.
“Bet you’re glad to be gettin’ home,” he said.
He was a pleasant fellow, heartier than his passengers, and she saw no reason to disabuse him of the notion that Hedgemont was home to her, and that she was glad to be here. It wasn’t hard to guess how he’d jumped to that conclusion. If it wasn’t your home, what on earth would bring you here?
Alvin Kirkaby was here.
That was reason enough. Alvin Kirkaby, a corporal in the infantry, had shared a bed with her before his unit was transferred to Iraq. She remembered his name and rank, and not a great deal more about him. He’d been wearing his uniform when she spotted him in a bar just down the street from her apartment. She’d been living in Chelsea at the time, and the bar drew a mixed crowd, half straight and half gay, and she’d have assumed he was gay — like, a uniform in a Chelsea bar? — but when their eyes locked she knew otherwise. God knows what he’d seen in her eyes, but it had been enough to make him dump his companions and head straight over to her.
Cocksure, that was the word for him. He approached her with complete confidence, knowing she found him attractive, knowing she’d take him home with her. And he was right, of course, and his assurance was attractive in and of itself.
In more ways than one. It would make the sex better, and it would make the aftermath positively delicious. All that confidence, all that certainty, and the next thing he knew he’d be dead meat. It would mean leaving her apartment and moving on, but that was all right. She was getting tired of Chelsea.
In his uniform, he’d been generically attractive. Military haircut, face clean-shaven, broad shoulders, athletic physique. Out of it, his body turned out to be everything she could have wanted, and in bed he gave a good account of himself. He wasn’t the most imaginative lover she’d been with, or the most experienced, but ardor and stamina made up for anything that might have been lacking.
Earlier, she’d had a look at his wallet when he paid for a round of drinks. Nice thick wad of bills in there. Hardly enough for a retirement fund, but it was always nice to turn a profit. Pleasure was all the better when you made it pay.
Then, while he lay beside her smoking a cigarette, he told her how he’d be shipping out the next day. To Iraq, where he’d be in combat. He’d been there once already, this would be his second tour of duty over there, and he became a little less cocksure when he talked about it.
So much for that. Once he was over there he was on his own, but she could make sure he lived long enough to go serve his country. She let him go to sleep, and woke him in time for morning sex, and after a shave and a shower she sent him off to be a soldier.
She knew all about that. “You’re my little soldier,” her father had told her.
So when she drew up a list, he’d been on it. Alvin Kirkaby. Surprising, really, that she’d remembered the name, but somehow it had stayed lodged in her memory and she’d been able to dredge it up. Alvin Kirkaby. Corporal Alvin Kirkaby.
That was then.
Now he was Sgt. Alvin Kirkaby, United States Army (Ret.) He’d been promoted, and he’d been discharged, and he wasn’t a soldier anymore.
And he was on her list.
She could have asked directions at the convenience store. But this was a small town, just a dot on the map, and the less contact she had with people, the better off she’d be. Earlier, at an Internet cafe just two blocks from Washington’s Union Station, she’d asked Google Maps for directions to 24A Maple Street, and she had the printout in her purse. She didn’t even need it anymore, she’d studied it enough on the train and two buses she’d been on
