Everything’s wonderful, she thought.
In the interims of their coupling, she masturbated for him, she let him watch. All she could think, for the entire time, was: More, more, more. I want more. She had to be careful, though, she mustn’t masturbate beyond control, not yet. Zyra was a complex woman, and a prudent one, but even she on occasion would lose the reins on herself. She mustn’t spoil the moment, she mustn’t spoil the surprise. Nevertheless, the fervid teasing of herself, and its wet, shiny imagery, revitalized him each and every time, lending him the ability to give her exactly what she wanted. More. More. She felt crazy in her passion, more so tonight than ever perhaps. Was it her growing maturity? Her evolution as a complete woman? Each caress, each thrust into her sex, and each release of his semen into whatever orifice he tended, made her feel more and more real, and more purposeful. But still, there was always the irrepressible desire, the unrelenting urge:
More.
“What’s this?” he coyly inquired. “This right here?” His finger touched her navel, which glittered sharp, faceted purple: the amethyst she wore there.
“It’s my lucky charm,” she replied, still stroking herself.
“It’s pretty. It’s like you.”
Zyra moaned. “You like it?” She slid up, over his wet chest, leaning into his face. “There. Kiss it. Lick it.”
Phil Brooks obliged, squeezing her rump as he did so. She was getting too close, and in a moment she was turning him over, sculpting his slickened physique with her frantic hands. I can’t kill him yet, she thought. No, not yet.
She gazed down at his tapered, shining back, the muscled buttocks, the sturdy, corded legs. Lord, my lord, the weeping sigh of her thoughts swept through her head. Her breasts were thrumming orbs. Her finger kneaded her clitoris, chasing her ultimate release. But what would she kill him with afterward? Her bare hands? She might be strong enough to do it. Lemi had the gun, and she’d left the ice pick in the console in the van. Strangulation bored her; she’d done it too many times, and bludgeoning seemed too primitive. Blood, she thought. More. Perhaps she’d just bite out the side of his throat and suck him to death. She’d swallowed enough of his semen tonight. Why not his blood too? Yeah, she mused. Oh, yeah. Just gulp down his blood like a famished, raging animal. Swallow it till her belly was fit to burst…
Zyra’s eyes narrowed to the thinnest of slits. Her fervid passion, merged with the panting, hot breaths, seemed to turn her words to steam.
“I have a surprise for you,” she said.
««—»»
“Can’t have you catching cold, now can we, Ellen?” Lemi thoughtfully remarked as he wrapped the limp, naked girl up in the blankets. She hadn’t been much of a tumble—she’d passed out. At least she was slender; she’d be easier to get out to the van. Carrying that tub of lard Mrs. Buluski had been like throwing three or four bags of cement over his shoulder. Lemi was a strong man, but he wasn’t a forklift, for God’s sake.
He set the little timer for thirty minutes and placed it on the cheap fiberboard bookcase, like the kind you buy at Dart Drug for twenty bucks and put together yourself.
Lemi figured that any five pieces of furniture at The Inn probably cost more than this whole place.
He heard the shower turn off. Zyra always took a shower after a job; she had a way of making a mess of herself. I like to watch the blood go down the drain, she’d told him once. It’s sort of symbolic, isn’t it? Zyra went off on these bends every once in a while—weirding out, but the way Lemi saw it, all women were weird. He couldn’t figure them. You do what they tell you, and then they’re pissed off that you didn’t assert yourself. You assert yourself, and then they’re pissed off that you’re overbearing and selfish. Lemi was grateful he didn’t have to worry about romance. I’d go fucking nuts, he concluded.
Zyra traipsed in naked, slipping into her panties. “You turn on the gas?” Lemi asked.
She only nodded. She seemed dreamy, or contemplative. Lemi squinted at her.
“What did—” He squinted harder. “How come your belly’s stickin’ out like that?”
And it was. Zyra was a hardbody—trim, toned, and zero body fat. But right now that lean stomach of hers protruded almost like she was four months pregnant, and wouldn’t that be a kick? Zyra the murderer mother. The Factotum would shit right there on the chancel floor if one of his girls got knocked up.
“I drank his blood,” Zyra said very softly, rubbing the tight belly. It was sticking out so tight her amethyst might pop out. “It makes me all warm inside, and full. I kind of like that idea. Even though he’s dead, there’s some of him still alive in me, like I’ve taken him into me, like he’s become part of me. You know?”
Lemi rolled his eyes. “Quit blabbering all that philosiphal shit and get dressed. We gotta slip.”
“That’s split, Lemi. Not slip. Jesus.” She pulled on her jeans, top, and coat, having to leave the jeans unbuttoned against the grossly distended stomach. “What’s wrong with her?” she asked, peering quizzically at Ellen.
“She passed out.” Lemi chuckled. “I guess my TCL was a little too much for the gal.”
“T-L-C, you stupe,” Zyra complained yet again, regarding Lemi’s continued ignorance of colloquialism. “Tender loving care. There’s no such thing as TCL.”
Lemi didn’t care. He hoisted the reedy black-rooted blonde over his shoulder. “Let’s split, okay?”
“Go warm up the van,” Zyra suggested. “I’ll get the guy.’’
“No need to. Just leave him. Let him burn up with the place.”
“But why?” Zyra objected. “It’d be a waste.”
“We don’t need it.” Lemi began to walk toward the door. “The Factotum says we’re all full up on meat.”
««—»»
One step at a time, Vera thought, running her finger down the rezz list at the hostess desk. Sixteen reservations. And that didn’t include the walk-ins. It was only seven thirty and the dining room was half-full. Things weren’t great, but they were sure getting better.
Donna whizzed by with a tray of covered main courses for a four-top in the corner. When she came back, Vera asked, “What’s the kitchen done so far?”
“Twenty-two, and about half of them are walk-ins,” Donna responded as she automatically tabulated a check. “The grilled Louisiana andouille is going like mad, and so is the banana-cream pie and the Michelanglo Peppers. This isn’t bad at all. I’m actually pulling some serious tips.”
“Good. If this keeps up we might have to hire a part-time waitress.”
“Over my dead body,” Donna said. She crammed a wad of bills into the tip jar. “Did you read the book?”
“Yes,” Vera close to groaned. “Ghosts from an insane asylum. The whole story was just so silly.”
“Silly, huh?” Donna shot her a wicked grin, then headed back to the kitchen. Was she chuckling?
She’s a trip all right. Vera just smiled. As far as she was concerned, Donna could believe in ghosts all she wanted, so long as she remained a proficient waitress.