than half an inch—stood between the blade’s edge and my skin. “Don’t move,” he muttered. “I don’t want to cut you.”
The way he was hunkered over with his head down, his hair fell across his brow and hid his eyes. He looked like a big kid with a messy mop of hair.
As he gently sawed the rope, his hair hardly moved at all, but the motions of his arm were enough to shake his rigid penis from side to side.
Finally, he cut me.
“Ow!”
“Sorry,” he said, quickly stepping back. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah. Probably. What’s one more cut?”
“I think that’ll do it, though. Try giving a hard pull.”
I jerked my arm downward. The rope held it for a moment, then made a quiet
“I’ll get your feet,” Murphy said and stepped toward the other end of the bed.
I brought my right hand down. It was surrounded by a deep red indentation from the rope. The knife had made a shallow, half-inch slice. Bright red blood was sliding out, streaking my wrist and forearm. I quickly licked the streaks away, then covered the wound with my mouth.
Murphy was watching. “Maybe I’d better get you a bandage,” he said.
“It’s no big deal. Why don’t you go ahead and cut me loose? We can worry about a bandage later. Anyway, we may need several by the time you’re done.”
“I’ll be a lot more careful,” he said. “And this time, I’ll go for the knots.”
“Good idea.”
Bending over my left foot, he started to work the knife back and forth. Its edge made soft, rubbing sounds against the rope.
“I haven’t really had much practice at this sort of thing,” he said.“Not since I was a kid.” He lifted his head and smiled.“In my neighborhood, we were
“Sounds like you lived in an interesting neighborhood,” I told him.
“I never tied up anyone like you, that’s for sure. But I
“Any time,” I told him.
He grinned, then lowered his head and resumed cutting.
He managed to slice the ropes off both my ankles without drawing any more blood.
When he was done, he asked, “How’s that?”
“Great. Thanks. But I don’t think I can move.”
He picked up my legs and eased them together. Then he sat on the end of the bed, turned sideways, and raised my feet onto his lap. He massaged them with both hands. “Let me know when they’re better,” he said. “I’ll help you into the bathroom and we’ll take care of your cut.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
“And I don’t think we should make that drive to Culver City.”
“You don’t?”
“Screw them,” he said. “I’ll FedEx the books. It won’t kill them to wait a day longer.”
“I don’t want to be responsible…”
“Oh, don’t worry about it.”
“What if I hadn’t been here?”
He shrugged. “Who knows? But that’s not how it went down.”
“So, if we’re not going to Culver City, what’ll we do?”
“Whatever we want.”
“I want my five grand,” I told him.
He grinned. “I want to hear your story.”
I said, “Okay.” Though I smiled, I suddenly had a bad feeling inside—which must’ve showed.
“Something wrong?” Murphy asked.
Something was wrong, all right.
So far, he and I…we’d been getting along awfully well. I liked him better than any guy I’d ever known. A lot better.
Maybe I was even falling in love with him.
And maybe he had similar feelings about me.
But if I told him my story—the truth—it would probably ruin everything.
I mean, the truth might make me look pretty bad in his eyes. Might even disgust him. Especially when he hears about the way I chopped Tony into pieces, and about some of the things I did to Judy.
We kept looking at each other.
Frowning, Murphy asked, “Are you feeling okay?”
“It’s just…I’ve got a little headache. Do you have any aspirin, or…?”
“Sure. I’ll get it for you.” He slid a hand up the bottom of my leg, gave my calf a friendly pat, then lifted my feet off his lap, stood up and lowered them to the mattress. “Would you rather have Excedrin, Tylenol or Bufferin?” he asked.
“You must get a lot of headaches.”
“I get my share. What’ll it be?”
“How about Excedrin?”
Nodding, he took a few steps away from the bed, crouched and picked up his trunks.
“You’re getting dressed?”
“You’ve got a headache.”
“What does one have to do with the other?”
“You mean it wasn’t a hint?” he asked, looking flustered.
“I’m not much for hinting. But if you want to go ahead and get dressed…”
“Well…” He shrugged and smiled. “Maybe we should give you some time to get over your headache before we, uh, do anything too strenuous.”
“Maybe so.”
He stepped into his trunks, pulled them up, then left the room without putting on a shirt.
I reached under my back and grabbed the cassette. Shoving it into my mouth, I climbed off the bed. Then I swooped down and snatched my skirt off the floor. On my way to the door, I swept the skirt around my waist and fastened its buttons. Then I took the cassette out of my mouth. Clutching it in my right hand, I stepped through the doorway.
No sign of Murphy.
From the television came the voice of a man praising the courage of Paula Jones.
From the bathroom came a sound of rushing water.
Walking fast, I crossed the living room. Went straight to my purse near the end of the couch. Bent over it and spread it open.
All I meant to do was drop the cassette inside.
But I gaped at what was in there.
The usual stuff: lipstick, my compact, some tissues, a couple of tampons, my sunglasses, and so on.
Plus two sets of keys—mine and Judy’s.
And the note pad with Tony’s new telephone number.
And my wallet.
With my own driver’s license inside.
With my photo on it.
And my true name.
And real address.
