“So, you enjoy smoking?” Harding said.
“No, I just like coughing.”
“Good one. What’s the little guy’s name?” he asked, looking at the little drowned rat trying to pass for a pooch.
“It’s a her. Rikki Nelson.”
“Oh. You mean like…”
“Right. In the Ozzie and Harriet reruns. Only this little bitch on wheels likes her name spelled with two k’s. Like Rikki Martinez. Don’t you, precious? Yes, you do!”
“Who?”
“The singer?”
“Oh, sure. Who?”
“Never mind, honey. Ain’t no thing.”
“Right. So, shopping. What else do you like, Crystal?”
“Golf. I’m a scratch golfer. Oh, and jewelry. I really like jewelry.”
“Golfer, huh? You heard the joke about Arnold Palmer’s ex-wife?”
“No, but I’m going to, I guess.”
“So this guy marries Arnold Palmer’s ex. After they make love for the third time on their wedding night, the new groom picks up the hotel phone. ‘Who are you calling?’ Arnie’s ex asks. ‘Room service,’ he says, ‘I’m starved.’ ‘That’s not what Arnold would’ve done,’ she says. So the guy says, ‘Okay, what would Arnold have done?’ ‘Arnold would have done it again, that’s what.’ So they did it again. Then the guy picks up the phone again and she says, ‘You calling room service again?’ And he says, ‘No, baby, I’m calling Arnold. Find out what par is on this damn hole.’ ”
He waited.
“I don’t get it.”
“Well, see, he’s calling Arnold because he—”
“Sshh,” she said, putting her index finger to her lips.
She covered his large hand with her small one and stroked the inside of his palm with her index finger.
She put her face close to his and whispered.
“Frankly? Let’s just cut the shit. I like sex, Harding.”
“That’s funny, I do, too,” he said.
“I bet you do, baby. I warn you, though. I’m a big girl, Harding. I am a big girl with big appetites. I wonder. Did you read Fifty Shades of Grey?”
“Must have missed that one, sorry. You ever read Mark Twain?”
“No. Who wrote it?”
“Doesn’t matter, tell me about Fifty Shades of Grey.”
“Doesn’t matter. I found it terribly vanilla,” she said.
“Hmm.”
“Yeah, right. That’s what men always say when they don’t know what the hell a girl is talking about.”
“Vanilla. Not kinky enough.”
“Not bad, Harding. Know what they used to say about me at my sorority house at UCLA? The Kappa Delts?”
“I do not.”
“That Crystal. She’s got big hair and big knockers and she likes big sex.”
He turned to face her and took both her perfect hands in his.
“I’m sorry. Would you ever in your wildest dreams consider leaving your rich husband and marrying a poor, homeless boy like me?”
“No.”
“Had to ask.”
“I would, however, consider inviting you upstairs to view my etchings. I like to screw. You do get that part, right?”
“Duly noted.”
“Long as we’re square on this, Harding.”
“We’re square.”
“I’m gonna tie you to the bed and make you squeal like Porky Pig, son. Or, vice versa. You with me on this?”
He looked at her and smiled.
Jackpot.
CHAPTER 6
The elevator to the Penthouse Suite opened inside the apartment foyer. It was exquisite, just as Harding would have imagined the best rooms in the best hotel in Paris might be, full of soft evening light, with huge arrangements of fresh flowers everywhere, and through the open doors, a large terrace overlooking the lights of Paris and the misty gardens below.
Crystal smiled demurely and led him into the darkened living room. She showed him the bar and told him to help himself. She’d be right back. Slipping into something a little more comfortable, he imagined, smiling to himself as he poured two fingers of Johnnie Walker Blue and strolled over to a large and very inviting sofa by the fireplace.
He kicked his shoes off, stretched out and took a sip of whiskey. He was just getting relaxed when he heard an odd hissing sound. Looking down at the floor he saw that the little fuckhead Rikki Nelson had just peed all over his Guccis.
“Shit!” he said under his breath.
“Hey!” he heard her call out.
“What?”
“Turn on some music, Harding, I want to dance!” she called out from somewhere down a long dark hall.
He got to his feet and staggered a few feet in the gloom, cracking his shin on an invisible marble coffee table.
“What? Music? Where is it?”
“Right below the bar glasses. Just push ‘on,’ It’s all loaded up and ready to rip.”
He limped over to the bar and hit the button.
Dean Martin’s “That’s Amore!” filled the room.
“Is that it?” he shouted over Dino.
“Hell, yeah, son. Crank it!”
He somehow found the volume control, cranked it, and went out to the terrace, away from the bar’s booming overhead speakers. The rain was pattering on the drooping awning overhead and the night smelled like… like what… jasmine? No, that wasn’t it. Something, anyway. It definitely smelled like something out here.
“Hey, you!” she shouted from the living room’s open doorway. “There he is! There’s my big stud. Come on in here, son. Let’s dance! Waltz your ass on in here, baby boy, right now!”
He downed his drink and went inside. Crystal stood in the center of the room wearing a skintight black leather bodysuit that would have put the Catwoman to shame. She had little Rikki Nelson cuddled in her arms, nuzzling her with kisses.
“Where’s the whip?” he said.
“Oh, I’ll dig one up somewhere, don’t you worry.”
Harding collapsed into the nearest armchair and stared.
“Why are you staring like that at me and Rikki?” she pouted.
“Just trying to figure out whether or not that leash is on the wrong bitch.”
Give her credit, she laughed.
“I sure hope to hell you know how to dance, mister,” she said. “Now get up and get with it, I mean it.”
He hauled himself manfully up out of the leather chair.
You do what you have to do, he reminded himself.
And he danced.
And danced some more.
CHAPTER 7
He was drenched in sweat and panting like an old bird dog. Even the sheets were wet. Somehow he’d managed to give her three Big O’s, two traditional and, lastly, one utterly exhausting one. He’d never worked so hard in his life. “Outside the box,” she called it, that last one.
He managed a weak smile. “Wow, you are something else, aren’t you, girl? I need a cigarette.”
“No time. Back in the saddle, cowboy. You got me hot now. I’m itching to ride!”
“Crystal, seriously. I need a little breather here.”
“Don’t be a pussy, Harding. Mama’s waiting. Turn over.”
“Oh, Christ.”
He rolled over onto his back and stared at the ceiling. She took his wrists and tied them to the bedposts with two Hermès scarves she’d plucked from the bedside table.
He didn’t even bother trying to fight her.
“Are you trying to kill me, or what?”
“Don’t you worry yourself, baby. The Cialis will kick in any minute now.”
“I don’t take Cialis, Crystal.”
“You do now, stud. I put two in your drink down at the lobby bar. When you bent down to pat Rikki Nelson.”
“What? Are you kidding me? F’crissakes, Crystal—”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you, hon. Big sex, remember? Okay, I’ll get on top this time. Oh, yes… somebody’s ready for Mama down there. That Cialis is a bitch, isn’t it? Just think, two pills, you might have an erection lasting eight hours…”