Don reached around behind Maura’s back and unfastened her bra with a deft snap of the fingers. He’d always had this talent, not that he’d had much opportunity to practice it in the last few years. His former girlfriend, a rough-and-tumble assistant district attorney, had small, squishy little breasts and never wore a bra. But somehow his fingers remembered.
As soon as Maura’s tits became unmoored, she pulled her shirt off over her head and pushed Don onto his back. Don couldn’t believe how hot she was. Her skin against his skin. Her body and his body creating humidity. She unbuckled his pants and tugged them off. He reached for her crotch but she caught his hand and pushed it up to her breasts. Don was happy to stroke her nipples and watch her back arch in pleasure.
For the briefest possible nanosecond Don thought he should put a condom on. He thought he should say something about the importance of safe sex. This thought crossed his mind. But Maura had taken a firm grip on his cock and was now guiding it inside her.
As Maura began to ride him in urgent animal spasms, Don felt that his entire soul, his inner being, was slowly being pulled into her by the rhythm. He saw her face contorting in pleasure, her breasts swinging to the motion yet reaching for him. His body responded. Automatic and enthusiastic. Thoughts only got in the way.
What happened next was new for both of them. It was like being in a hot, sweaty sauna when someone suddenly pours a bucket of water on the white-hot lava rocks. There was an explosion of heat, sensation, fluids. Maura spoke in half-syllables, the contractions in her body and the endorphin surge in her brain short-circuiting her speech. Don felt a sharp quiver deep in his spine. And then it snowballed, building until his entire body was ringing like a tuning fork, the energy becoming unbearably intense until it rocketed out of him in a series of eye-popping seizures. For a brief moment they were transported to a world that was unbearably delicious, sensual and tranquil, comforting and releasing.
It was moist.
Amado drove the car with one hand. Bob sat next to him. He was impressed with Amado. Amazed at how quickly he’d adapted to living life with one less arm. Could Bob have done that? Or would Bob be in some outpatient physical-therapy clinic whining about how he couldn’t wipe his ass anymore? Amado didn’t do that. He just got on with it.
Bob smiled to himself. He was beginning to learn the difference between boys and men. He was a boy. Amado was a man.
It didn’t take long before the thought, a dark and withering fear, entered his consciousness. Bob suddenly feared that Felicia wouldn’t want a boy, that she’d want a man like Amado, a man she’d been with before. Bob was suddenly filled with crippling performance anxiety.
“What’s she like?”
“Felicia?”
“Yeah.”
Bob watched a smile sprout across Amado’s face.
“You’ll see.”
“What if she doesn’t like me?”
Amado turned and looked at him.
“Don’t be nervous.”
“I can’t help it.”
“These things are natural, cabrón. Don’t worry.”
The more Bob tried not to worry, the more worried he became. He began to have doubts. Maybe joining up with hardened criminals, kidnapping and dismembering innocent bystanders, maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. Maybe these people weren’t his friends after all. He tried to push those thoughts from his mind. He was here. He was in a car. He was on his way to make love to a beautiful, sensual woman. He just needed to relax. Relax and get a hard-on. One big erection and everything would be okay.
Bob exhaled.
“Amado, what’s the secret to being a great lover?”
Amado looked at Bob.
“Roberto? You don’t know?”
“I don’t think I’m a great lover.”
Amado steered the car with his knees while he lit a cigarette.
“There is no secret, Roberto. There is only one thing that makes a great lover.”
“What?”
Amado turned to Bob, a twinkle in his eye.
“Enthusiasm.”
“Enthusiasm?”
“Sí, Roberto, enthusiasm.”
Larga’s bloody one-armed corpse lay rolled up in a tarp in the middle of the backyard. Martin and Norberto watched as a tow truck dragged the Mercedes down the driveway and off into the night. Martin clutched the thermos in one hand, then turned to Norberto.
“Where do you want to dump him?”
Norberto lifted a can of beer to his lips and drained it before expelling a thunderous belch.
“I like the Joshua Tree Park.”
“Joshua Tree’s too far. Let’s just go up Angeles Crest.”
“Maybe, but it’s easier to dig a hole in the desert than in the mountains, man. And besides, everybody dumps their bodies in the park. The fuckin’ place is getting crowded, man.”
Martin groaned.
“Are you telling me you’d rather drive an extra hour because the park is too trendy?”
“Exacto.”
Esteban watched from the kitchen window as Norberto and Martin loaded the body into the back of a Ford Explorer. They climbed in the car and drove off. Esteban was tired. He took some ice from the freezer and began to mix himself a drink. He put the ice, five cubes, in a tumbler and then poured Don Julio Silver in about halfway. Cointreau, which was much better than Grand Marnier or triple sec because it wasn’t too sweet and tasted more like oranges, filled the glass up to the three-quarter mark. One whole lime, quartered and squeezed, filled up the rest.
Esteban stuck his finger in the drink and stirred. As he stirred, his mind sifted through a sequence of possible scenarios. Martin had asked permission to kill Bob. Esteban didn’t know why. The fact that Martin had suddenly become homicidal, something very out of character, made Esteban suspicious. If he could flip so quickly one way, he could flop back the other. A couple of flip-flops and Martin would be testifying against him in court.
Esteban tasted his margarita. It was good, but not as good as the ones Martin made. Qué lástima. Esteban would miss those drinks.
Felicia sat on the bed in the TraveLodge Motel watching TV. She was dressed trashy-sexy in a diaphanous red fuck gown she’d picked up at Victoria’s Secret in the Galleria. She’d gotten some lipstick to match at Nordstrom’s and had carefully painted her lips a labial red. She thought about getting some stiletto-heeled slippers, but decided that was just going too far. Besides, she looked hot in the gown, her breasts clearly visible through the fabric, the cut making her ass look larger than it really was. These were both good things.
A lukewarm bottle of Modelo Especial sat on the nightstand. She didn’t want to drink too much, but she’d gotten bored waiting and cracked open a beer. Her mind drifted from the sitcom on TV to her situation in the motel. She didn’t like where she was. Didn’t like being put in this position. She wasn’t a whore. But she owed Esteban a favor and he’d called on her to repay it. It wasn’t something she’d normally do, but she knew she had to do it.
It was complicated.
When Amado told her about the gringo and how he’d fallen in love with a tattoo, well, she was intrigued. Besides, she hardly ever went out with gringos and, after being reassured that he wasn’t a dwarf or a freak, just a guy who liked computers, she’d agreed. She was curious. It was hard to meet people in LA.
Besides, Felicia enjoyed sex. She enjoyed it a lot. It was her favorite pastime. Better than going to the movies, more relaxing than going to the beach, more fun than dancing. In fact, she’d rather be fucking than doing almost anything.
It’s not like she was some kind of sex addict like the kind she’d seen on the TV talk shows. She didn’t need to have sex constantly. She just liked to. She was promiscuous. Deal with it.