Hotter Blood: More Tales of Erotic Horror

hadn't gotten off before the clock ran down. The worrisome became routine.

'Must be her coffee break. It's the law. Go figure.'

'Coffee break?'

'They switch, ya know?'

'I need to see her.'

'Sure, no sweat. They only get ten minutes, 'less she's gone to lunch. That's half an hour.'

'No. I need to see her privately.'

The young man's manner changed. 'That's what the booths are for.'

'I need to see her privately… outside.'

'No dice. The ladies ain't allowed to mix with any of the customers.'

He felt a sudden pang of desperation. 'Surely you could let me have her name?'

'I'm not supposed to give 'em out, you unnerstan'? I mean, you look okay to me, but hey — ' He spread his hands and smiled.

Milo palmed a fifty-dollar bill and placed it on the counter, near the register. 'I understand the need to be discreet.'

A moment passed in silence. Hector frowned and made the fifty disappear. 'Okay, I figure you're a stand-up guy. She's tall, dark hair, you said? Nice tits, but maybe just a little on the small side?'

'Yes.' The urgency had nearly robbed him of his voice.

'That's Laney Thatcher, but she don't come cheap.'

'How much?'

A lazy shrug. 'Search me. Free enterprise, you know? Don't sound too hungry when you call, she might negotiate.'

'The number?'

Hector had retrieved his magazine by now, directing his attention to the centerfold. 'She's in the book.'

In fact, he found that there were sixty-seven Thatchers in the phone book, none of them named Laney. Loran Thatcher was the closest he could find, but two were listed simply by the first initial 'L,' without a hint of gender to assist him.

Hector might have lied, but Milo didn't want to think so, and he pondered other explanations as he lay in bed that night. The woman — Laney — could have purchased an unlisted number, or she might not have a telephone at all. The two 'L. Thatchers' were his only hope, and it was too damned late to try them now.

The next day, his hand was shaking as he dialed.

The first 'L. Thatcher' was a gruff old man whose voice reminded Grymdyke of a rasp drawn over rotting wood. His given name was Lawrence, and he lived alone, if it was any of the goddamned nosy caller's goddamned business.

Milo cradled the receiver, swallowed his embarrassment, and tried the second number. It was answered on the first ring by a woman's voice — expressionless.

'Hello?'

'I'm calling… that is, may I speak to Laney Thatcher?'

'Speaking.'

Milo felt the room begin to spin around him. For a moment he could think of nothing else to say.

'Hello?'

'My name is Milo Grymdyke.'

'Yes, I've been expecting you.'

'I beg your pardon?'

Laughter. Tinkling like broken glass.

'I said, 'What can I do for you?''

A trick. His own imagination taunting him again.

'You don't know me,' he said. 'I've seen you —»

— naked —

'Yes?' She sounded curious, amused.

A sudden pang of doubt constricted Milo's throat. 'I wonder if… I mean, are you —»

'A dancer? Yes.'

The telephone was welded to his palm with perspiration. Was it possible that she had read his thoughts?

'One night last week —»

Her voice became a husky tenor. 'I remember you,' she told him. 'I've been hoping you might call.'

'Did Hector speak to you?' The words were out before he knew what he was saying.

'Hector?'

'Nothing. I'm amazed that you remember me.'

'You're much too modest.'

Milo's heart was hammering inside his rib cage, after-shocks were reverberating in his groin. He spoke before he had a chance to change his mind.

'I'd like to see you.'

'You've already seen me, Milo. I've seen you.'

— the eye —

His cheeks were flaming. 'I just thought, if we could meet…'

'Of course.'

His heart stopped, shuddered, found its beat again.

'I don't suppose tonight —»

'Why not? I get off work at nine.'

His mind refused to function. 'Nine o'clock?'

'Let's make it ten. I need some travel time, a chance to freshen up. You have my address?'

She offered him directions to her house.

'Tonight, then. I'll be waiting.'

She hung up before he had a chance to thank her, plead insanity, or use any of the other options that immediately came to mind. They had a date, of sorts, and Grymdyke knew that he would never have the nerve — the will — to cancel out.

He knew that he might never have this chance again.

The housing tract was new, so recently completed that a number of the homes stood vacant, windows dark, their yards small deserts waiting for new tenants and the landscape artists to arrive. As Milo parked in front of Laney Thatcher's house, he was aware of empty, darkened homes on either side.

There was no car in Laney's drive; the door to her garage was closed and padlocked. Milo wondered if she drove herself to work and then realized that he was stalling, wasting time. He locked the car, remembering to take the gift that he had purchased on the slow drive over.

Milo had considered flowers, changed his mind when he could not decide which sort might be appropriate for the occasion. Blind date-cum-seduction was a tricky category. He had settled for a candy store that offered gift wrap for a dollar extra.

He rang the doorbell, listened to the tiny chimes inside. When there was no immediate response, his brain began to toy with him, suggesting Laney might have changed her mind, gone off somewhere instead of facing Milo now that safety glass no longer stood between them. He would not have blamed her, but he thought the disappointment and embarrassment might kill him.

Muffled footsteps, drawing closer. Milo gave a last tug at his tie and tucked the box of candy underneath his arm. If possible, he would have run — or melted where he stood — before she had a chance to look at him and laugh.

The dead-bolt latch snicked open. Milo grimaced in approximation of a smile as Laney Thatcher stood before