date into the scariest conversation she’d ever had.
I remained in the Seville awhile longer, coming up with no easy script, wondering if Cheryl would actually show and, if not, would that be enough for me to drop the whole thing and leave town with Robin… be normal.
I got out of the car, descended toward the construction site on foot, using a tentative quarter moon as my compass. Reached bottom, dodged nails and planks and shingles and boards.
Chilly night, purplish black sky freckled by starlight, the water below inky, identically blemished. Off to the south the remains of the Paradise Cove pier listed like a drunk, pilings angled dangerously toward the ocean. Someone had peeled back the chain link that blocked access, and for a moment I wondered if I was alone. But when I stopped I saw no movement other than the breeze-nudged boughs of sycamores, heard nothing but the tide.
I walked around aimlessly, no more insightful than when I’d arrived. A husky engine hum filtered down from the road. Then a car door slamming. Footsteps. Rapid footsteps.
Cheryl Duke’s hourglass shape appeared seconds later, descending the slope smoothly. Making herself easy to spot in a tight, pale cardigan, white T-shirt, and white jeans. Swinging her arms, purposeful but relaxed. Lithe.
I said, “Over here,” and headed toward her.
She looked at me, waved.
When I reached her she was smiling. The cardigan was pink cashmere, cropped above her firm waistline, straining at the chest. “I dressed so you could see me.”
“Oh, I saw you all right.”
She laughed, threw her arms around my neck, kissed me full on the lips. Her tongue pressed its way through my teeth, licked my palate, filled my throat, retreated. She threw back her head, laughing. Wiggling the tongue – huge and pointed – curling the tip upward and tickling the bottom of her nose.
“See,” she said, “size matters all kinds of ways.” One hand cupped the back of my head as sharp little teeth nibbled at my chin, and I thought of her son biting down on my ear. A family of carnivores. My arms were at my sides, and she grabbed my hands and planted them on her rear. Her breasts asserted themselves against my chest, obstructive, unyielding. Her pelvis rotated against mine; then the palms of her hands replaced the breasts as she shoved me away.
“That’s all you get, for now.” Her hair was loose, full, bleached white by the moon, and she turned tossing it into a production.
“Shucks,” I said, still feeling her tongue in my gullet.
“Aw,” she said. “Poor baby.” Another soft shove. “Why should I let you fuck me? We barely know each other.”
“A guy can hope.”
Laughing, she took my hand as she led me back toward the construction mess.
“Where’re we off to?” I said.
She pointed to the remnants of the pier. “I love it up there – the way it just goes off into nowhere.”
“Eternity.”
“Yeah.”
As we neared the peeled-back fence, I said, “Is it safe?”
More laughter. “Who knows?” She pulled me onto the broken promenade, let go of my hand, and began skipping along the warped boards. I felt the wood beneath my feet hum in response. My toe caught on a splintered shank, and I almost lost my balance. Cheryl was well ahead of me, dancing across planks separated enough for black water to shine through. I watched her pick up speed, break into a run toward the pier’s shattered end, as if building momentum for a high dive.
She stopped short, inches from the edge, shoulders thrown back, hair wild, hands set on the arc of flesh that curved above the waistline of her jeans. I caught up just as she crossed her arms and pulled off her sweater and her T-shirt, flung both garments aside. The manufactured breasts bobbled like saddlebags as laughter shook her upper body, nipples big and erect and aimed skyward like the heat-seeking weapons they were.
She edged backward, so that the heels of her running shoes tipped over the pier’s terminus. Vertigo clamped around my gut as she began bouncing lightly, and I backed away.
“Aw,” she said, “c’mon. It’s a great feeling.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“Flying’s not your thing?”
“Not tonight.”
She bounced some more, spread her arms. “Probably not any night. What if not doing it means I don’t fuck you?”
“Like I said before. Aw shucks.”
Louder giggles, but shaky, tinged with hurt.
She began sidestepping along the edge. Breathing fast, she spoke again, her voice constricted. “Pretty cool, huh? I could always balance.”
“Impressive.”
“I can swallow swords, too.”
“Spent some time with the circus?”
“Something like that.” She reached the far end, sidestepped her way back, stood on one foot, arched the other behind her, into space. I watched and didn’t say a word and wondered how I’d ever get across the concept of danger. She began humming tunelessly. Closed her eyes. Walked several steps, blind.
Humming but not without fear. Starlit streams of sweat ran from her armpits and coursed the swell of her chest. She began gasping for breath but kept going.
Finally – without warning – she stepped away from the void and shouted “Yes!” at the sky. Massaged her breasts and shouted again. Then she sat down on the misshapen planks, drew her knees to her chin, lowered her head.
“You okay?” I said.
“I’m great – C’mere.”
I stepped closer, and she pulled me down beside her. “You’re a wimp, but you’re cute.” Nuzzling my neck, she leaned her head on my shoulder. “We could do it right here. If I was into doing it.” She grabbed my hair, tugged gently, then harder. “The picture in my mind is we’re back there.” Hooking a thumb at the edge. “You on bottom, me on top, with your head hanging over the side, and you’re looking up at me, deep
“I’m open to new experiences, but-”
“You’re saying no?”
“I’m saying I’d rather live a few more years.”
“Wimp,” she said, airily. “You’d turn down something like that ’cause of a little danger?” Patting me on the head with smiling contempt, she stood, bent low, swung her breasts toward my mouth, then curved away.
“Too bad, little man. I need dedication,” she said in a hard voice. “Had enough of wimps and losers-”
I got up on my feet. “Tony Duke’s a wimp?”
Smiling, she came toward me. Reached out a hand and stroked my hair again. Polished nails spit back starlight. Touching the tip of my chin, she reared back and slapped me hard across the mouth. My head rocked, and my teeth buzzed as if I’d sucked current from a live wire.
“You don’t know me, don’t make like you do.”
My lip throbbed. When I touched it, my fingers came away wet.
“You ruined the mood,” she said.
“By not hanging over the edge.”
“Aw,” she said. “You really are a wimp – your loss.” She patted her crotch. “What I’ve got here could snap you like a turtle and drain you like a pump.”
Practiced patter. Hooker talk.
Had she freelanced, just like Lauren? Between skating and dancing, or had it been her main gig before meeting Ben Dugger and Tony Duke?
