“Oh, my Christ,” I murmured.
My hand trembling, I shoved the cassette down deep into the purse.
I felt sick.
He could’ve. He’d been out here alone before going to the bank, and then again after returning.
Maybe he’d turned on the television so the voices would cover any sounds he might make while searching my purse.
But he’d been busy taking off his clothes.
And probably excited by his plans for me.
His blue jeans were draped over the cushion at the other end of the couch. His socks and shoes were on the floor over there.
“Oh, you’re out,” he said.
I turned around to face him. “Dressed, too.”
“Well, sort of.” He glanced at my chest, then quickly raised his eyes to my face.
“I thought maybe I had some chewing gum in my purse, but I guess not.”
“I’m afraid I don’t have any,” he said, “or I’d get you some.” He came toward me holding a glass of water in one hand, a plastic container of Excedrin in the other. “You don’t seem like the chewing gum type,” he said.
“What type is that?”
“Airhead.”
“Keeps my breath minty fresh,” I chirped, and stepped around to the front of the coffee table.
“Nothing wrong with your breath.”
A couple of strides away from me, he stopped.
I reached out for the glass of water, but he pulled it back slightly. “Now, be careful,” he said. “Let’s not spill, this time.”
“If I do, I won’t be getting my blouse wet.”
“Guess not.” Blushing deep crimson, he gave the glass to me.
While I held it, he opened the Excedrin. I put out my left hand. He shook a couple of tablets into my palm. I tossed them into my mouth and washed them down with the water.
He waited until I’d lowered the glass, then asked, “How’s the cut?”
I glanced at it. “Not so bad. See? The bleeding’s stopped.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Nah. It’s just a nick. I’m fine.”
“We’d better put something on it, anyway.”
“How about your lips?”
He laughed and blushed. A real blusher, that Murphy.
“I was thinking of an antiseptic,” he said. He took the glass from me and set it on the table. He put down the Excedrin bottle, too. Then, holding my hand, he led me across the room. “We’ll touch up the rest of you, too, while we’re at it.”
“I can use a little touching up.”
In the bathroom, he poured some hydrogen peroxide onto a cotton ball and patted the cut on my wrist. It felt cold. It fuzzed a little on the slit.
After bandaging my little cut, he took out a fresh ball of cotton. He soaked it with hydrogen peroxide and started dabbing at my other injuries—the scratches and nicks and gouges from last night’s accidents. The liquid touched me with coldness. Here and there, it dribbled down my skin.
When it stung the wound on my belly, I gasped and stiffened.
“Sorry,” he said.
“That’s okay. A little pain is good for the soul.”
“I’m not so sure about that.”
“It feels so good when it stops.”
“Can’t argue with that one,” he said.
“I like how this stuff feels, though. It’s so nice and cool.”
He said, “Hmm.” With a fresh, dripping ball, he gently swabbed my right nipple.
Unaware of any injury there, I looked down. My nipple appeared to be fine. The chilly fluid made it pucker and jut out. “Now you’re treating places that aren’t hurt,” I pointed out.
“Yep,” he said, and moved the cotton ball to my other nipple.
I shivered a little with the good feel of it.
Then I undid my buttons, and my skirt fell to the bathroom floor. “Anywhere else need a touch-up?” I asked.
He squatted down in front of me. “I should say so,” he said. “You’ve gotten yourself banged up pretty good.”
“Do what you can. I’m in your hands.”
Each time he touched me with a wet ball of cotton, I flinched a bit. Not because it hurt, but because it felt so cold on my hot skin.
Down low in front of me, he found a scratch here, a scrape there. He dabbed them. And he dabbed places where I had no injuries at all.
I turned around. He touched chilly balls of cotton to the backs of my thighs and to my buttocks. Then I felt his lips, his tongue. He kissed and licked his way up my back until he was standing.
When he pressed himself against my body, I found out that his trunks were gone. He was smooth and bare all the way down. And I could feel the hard length of him pressing against my lower back.
Nibbling the side of my neck, he reached around me with both hands and took gentle hold of my breasts.
The cotton balls and the bottle of hydrogen peroxide must’ve been down on the bathroom floor with his trunks.
He writhed against my back, sucked my neck and squeezed my breasts. Then one of his hands roamed down my front and slipped between my legs. Moaning, I squirmed against him.
After a while, I managed to turn around so we were facing each other. By then, I was in such a frantic delirium that I hardly knew what was happening.
He slammed me against the door frame.
As he pulled at my buttocks, I climbed his body and wrapped my legs around him.
He thrust into me.
I hugged him with my arms and legs.
He pounded me against the frame as he tried to ram up higher and deeper.
Then suddenly he was throbbing and pumping.
I clung to him, shuddering with my own release.
As our frenzy subsided, we remained clutching each other, my back against the door frame, my feet off the floor, my legs and arms around him. He stayed in me. We both panted for air.
I gasped, “My God, Murphy.”
He gasped, “My God, Alice.”
38
THE SLIP
Every time I remember it, I get the same awful, sick feeling in the pit of my guts.
Murphy saying my name.
My real name.
(Not Alice, by the way. But my real name was on my driver’s license and on a dozen other items in my wallet,
