“Now I’m going to make babies with your face, Anna,” he says, crawling toward me on his knees. Can that thing fit in my mouth? I wonder, staring at him. I have a horrible flashback to earlier in the day, when I choked on his toothbrush—twice. This is no toothbrush.
Earl straddles my body and points his man of steel at my mouth. Up this close, Grey’s anatomy looks like a nineteen-inch nail.
“Don’t be afraid,” he says. “You can do it. It’s just like sword swallowing.”
Gulp. “I’ve never swallowed a sword before,” I say, staring down the barrel of his love gun.
“Oh,” he says. “That’s weird. Well, I’ll give you a lesson then.”
“In sword swallowing?”
“Yes,” he says. “In sword swallowing. Get dressed.”
Back in the living room, Earl teaches me the ancient art of sword swallowing. The trick, he says, is to suppress the muscles and processes involved in swallowing; one does not literally “swallow” the sword. Much to my chagrin, he teaches me using a samurai sword, and not his gravy-maker. I’m not very good at first, but after a couple of hours I can take the sharpened blade down my throat to the hilt. It’s late, and Earl has an important business meeting in the morning, so we go to sleep without having sex again. Pacing ourselves isn’t such a bad idea, especially since we still have more than half the book left.
Chapter Fourteen
I WAKE TO THE SOUND of my cell phone buzzing on the nightstand. I fumble around for it with my eyes half closed, and by the time I have it in my hand it stops. Twelve missed calls and several text messages, all from Kathleen. I scan through them quickly.
*where r u*
*dammit anna answer ur phone*
*jin ruptured one of his testicles and i had to take him to the dr.
i hope ur happy*
*tell ur new boyfriend hi*
Sigh. I want to text her back and let her know I’m okay, that Earl Grey isn’t my boyfriend (because he “doesn’t do the girlfriend thing”), and that I’m saying a prayer for Jin’s testicles. I can’t text her though, not now—all she’ll do is bring me down, and the last thing I need is reality intruding upon my graphic sexual fantasy.
It’s ten in the morning, and Earl Grey is long gone from the bed. He hasn’t completely abandoned me, because I’m still wearing Earl’s shirt from last night; it’s like I’ve skinned him and am wearing his flesh. Only it’s less creepy by like a million times. I swing my legs out of the bed and stand up. Sunlight is streaming into the apartment. I make my way to the kitchen, and find a note folded on top of an iPad. I open the note.
Anna—
Top of the morning to you!
When you’re ready for breakfast, just tell my butler and he’ll cook something for you. His name is Data. He is well trained in the culinary arts, so please take advantage of him.
The iPad is yours. We need a way to keep in touch while I’m at work, and I hate texting. It makes me feel like a thirteen-year-old girl. So, since you told me you’ve never had a computer or even an e-mail address, I thought you would enjoy the tablet (although I must confess I don’t understand how you made it through four years of college without the Internet). Just turn it on (press the button!) and touch the “Mail” app. I’ve set you up with your own Hotmail account.
I’ll be home from work later this evening; you’re welcome to stay at the apartment all day and watch movies, play board games, etc. I can fly you back to Portland this evening.
E. G.
P.S.: You are amazing in bed. I quite enjoyed sticking my thingie inside your thingie. ;)
Oh my. My very own iPad. And if that wasn’t enough, he’s given me my very own Hotmail account! Not only did I lose my virginity within the past twenty-four hours, I also now have e-mail. I want to turn the iPad on and give it a test drive, but my hunger is more immediate.
“Looking for me, Miss Steal?” a man behind me says in a monotone voice. I whip around and am face-to-face with a pale man wearing a green-and-black spandex jumpsuit. I try to back away from this strange person, but am trapped between him and the kitchen counter. If I can reach the iPad in time, I can e-mail Earl Grey and have him call the police . . .
“Do not be alarmed,” the man says robotically. “My name is Data. I am Mr. Grey’s butler.”
Oh. My heart stops beating frantically. Well, it keeps beating, just not as frantically as before. I’m calming down.
“Why are you wearing that outfit?” I say.
“This is my Starfleet uniform, Miss Steal,” he says.
“Starfleet? Is that like NASA?”
“Your comparison is not one of equivalency,” he says.
He must register my look of bewilderment, because he adds, “Surely you are familiar with Star Trek?”
I shake my head. “I’m not big into science fiction.”
He sighs, and relaxes his entire body. “Thank God,” he says, his voice now sounding closer to a normal person’s. “You can just call me Brent.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I still don’t understand . . .”
“I’m an actor, Miss Steal. Or I was,” he says wistfully. “I played an android named ‛Data’ on Star Trek: The Next Generation for many years. Afterward, directors weren’t exactly lining up around the block to cast someone whose best-known work is playing basically a robot. Mr. Grey found me working at a Saturn dealership in Beverly Hills, and asked me to come work for him—as his ‛android butler.’ He apparently wanted a real android, but I was as close as he could get.”
I shake my head. “That’s tragic. I can’t imagine working as a car salesman. Especially one who sells Saturns.”
“Oh, the money wasn’t bad, Miss Steal,”
