The hand on my shoulder made me jump.
I slipped my hand into my right windbreaker pocket, gripped the little gun and spun, ready to use it...
...and there stood Brandi Wyne in her curvy little blue-bikini glory, looking up at me with her big brown eyes and their big black pupils.
“I know what you’re up to,” she said.
“Do you.” Hand in pocket, gun in hand.
Christ, just what I needed. Cornered into killing some dumb chick because I’d been dumb enough to go blundering around like I owned the place, making Boyd look smart in comparison.
“You were scoping things out,” she said.
“Was I?”
She nodded and the Goldie Hawn helmet bounced. “Havin’ a look around. Seein’ if you could find some quiet place for us to have a little fun.”
Relief flooded through me, and so did something else.
She took her top off and smiled up at me. She had perfect little perky handfuls that looked up at me, too.
“Would you think me terrible,” she asked, “if I asked you to help me out with my... what’s it called, paying for class?”
“Tuition,” I said. What’s it called, paying for ass?
“What I could really use,” she said, “is twenty-five dollars for books. Could you help?”
I got three tens out of my wallet. “Buy an extra one,” I said, and tucked the folded bills in her bikini bottoms. Along the side, not wanting to be crude.
“Come over here,” she said, and took me by the hand, leading me to a brown faux-leather couch under some framed Climax covers, a little social area resting on a big tan throw shag carpet, which thankfully did not smell like cat pee.
She stood before me and undid my jeans and tugged them and my shorts down, their contents springing free. Then she gave me a friendly push till I was seated and she knelt before me. She took hold of me in a firm but gentle grasp, then looked up all Orphan Annie and said, “Just so you know — I don’t swallow.”
I shrugged. “Neither do I.”
Dear Letters to Climax,
Then the little dancer began to slide her wet warm mouth up and down my throbbing shaft, slow at first, gradually building, building, enveloping it in her velvety oral embrace until my pubic hairs were tickling her little pink nose, then backing off with a small self-satisfied grin to work my saliva-soaked member with her tiny tight hand until she sent streams of white coating her pink breasts, one drop glistening off a nipple like dew from a morning leaf.
Sincerely,
P.S. Fortunately I hadn’t had to use my .25 Colt, which I kept my hand around in my windbreaker pocket throughout, in case the bouncer on lookout downstairs was her accomplice. If so, she would barely have started her work when I’d likely have been staring down the barrel of a bigger gun than my Colt, handing over everything else in my wallet and probably my car keys, too.
I sat there breathless for maybe a full minute while she got up, scurried over to an end table where Climax magazines were stacked and yanked some Kleenex from a dispenser and cleaned my spunk off her tits, morning dew and all. I bet this was her first time blowing a guy up here. Tonight.
“You’re nice,” she said, handing me a spare tissue. She tossed hers in a nearby wastebasket.
I stood and pulled up my pants, buckled, zipped, then sat again. “Always happy to support higher education.”
That seemed to confuse her momentarily, until she remembered her cover story and giggled. She sat down and I did, too.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Jack.”
“Jack like money?”
“Jack like money.”
“You think you might come see me again, Jack?”
“Could be. What’s your name?”
“Brandi Wyne.”
“No. Your name.”
“Oh. Wanda Roux. I don’t think I look like a Wanda, though, do you?”
“Brandi’s better,” I agreed. “Thanks, honey.”
“Thank you, honey.”
She patted my knee, then got up and scampered over to the sea of desks, where she’d dropped her bikini top. At the sight of her curvy little fanny and the dimples above, my cock tried to lift its exhausted head, but gave up quick. She put on the top, businesslike now, gave me a sad little smile, then an even sadder little wave, and was gone.
So, now I had an excuse to be up here, at least.
What I didn’t know was whether Brandi or Wanda or whoever regularly did this. Was she a hooker who sometimes stripped? Or a stripper who occasionally hooked? Did the other girls bring Johns up here for jack, too, and did the house get a cut?
Or did the bouncer standing watch below have an arrangement with the girls to let them come upstairs and (for a cut) pick up some tuition money? And, if so, was this behind the management’s back?
Still sitting there, a little dazed by the unexpected attention, I started shaking my head, telling myself no. No, this wasn’t a regular thing for girls at the club. As Boyd had said, based on his surveillance, the dancers would negotiate with guys they approached or did table dances for, and then meet them later for off-the-premises fun and games.
Anyway, I was indeed sitting in the Climax Magazine offices, where it was unlikely that Climer and his staff would want people intruding, let alone using their couch and shag throw rug as a mini-bordello.
The bouncer possibility was trickier. If indeed little Brandi had a regular deal with one or more of the musclebound watchdogs to give her time to do a little business upstairs, then the one on duty right now would start getting suspicious if I didn’t show up downstairs within a reasonable amount of time. Like, say, within five minutes of Brandi’s exit.
A wall of bulletin boards festooned with page proofs and naked-girl pics hemmed in one side of the stairwell. I positioned myself alongside it, with the .25 out of the windbreaker pocket and in hand, ready should that bouncer emerge on the lookout for the blow-ee now that the blow-er had gone back to her dancing duties.
I waited that way for an hour.
Not really. But the ten minutes felt like an hour. And if after that long, the bouncer hadn’t come looking for me, I was home free. My mind played it out — Brandi had spotted me head for the can, maybe thought about joining me there, then saw me come out and cut to my right, which meant I was heading upstairs. She’d gone back to the ladies room, slipping past the none-the-wiser bouncer, and trotted up looking for me.
And found me.
So.
Once again I was alone in the sprawling offices of Climax. Kind of an anticlimax, though that was fine with me, considering the possibilities. The .25 in hand now, my next stop would be the doorway to Max Climer’s penthouse, which was opposite (and halfway across the room from) where the stairs to this floor came out.
Surely that door would be locked.
My little set of lock picks were in my wallet and waiting for just such a contingency. But the door was not locked, and when you opened it, a light came on to show you the way up a green-carpeted, yellow-walled flight. The only thing missing was elevator music. And an elevator.
I was starting to envy the active-and-passive pair hired to take out this guy, whoever they might be. When had Boyd and I ever had it this easy?