Blue Belle - Andrew Vachss [35]
"Belle," I whispered. "Come here."
She didn't move. I cracked her hard against the same cheek I'd hit before. She made a humming noise but stayed where she was. I hit her twice more, feeling the sting in my palm, wondering what she felt.
Her mouth came off my cock. She crawled forward on the bed, throwing a leg over me. She pushed her butt between my legs until I was smoothly inside her, moved to her knees, straddling my body, her back to me.
"Come on!" she said, her voice hard, bucking until we both got there.
37
SHE SLEPT then. On her stomach, one arm flung across my chest. I slipped under it, found the bathroom. It was small–scale, like the kitchen. Cheap black–and–white tile covered the floor and ran halfway up the wall from the tub. The hot water came up right away; the pressure was good that time of night. I took a quick shower, used some of her Brand–X shampoo, toweled myself off. The little medicine cabinet was empty except for a toothbrush and a bottle of aspirin. A plastic hairbrush and a bottle of green mouthwash stood on the sink. I wondered where she kept all her makeup… maybe on the dressing table near her bed.
The bathroom was full of steam, the mirror cloudy. I wiped it off, looked at my face. Whatever she wanted, she hadn't seen it there.
My foot hit something under the sink. A black metal box with a latch on the front, carry–handle on top. I popped it open. Sterile bandages, individually wrapped. A roll of gauze. Elastic tape. Three scalpels with different–sized blades. A pair of surgical scissors. A bottle of iodine. Two more of sulfa powder. A pair of matching plastic vials, both full, unlabeled. I opened them. Penicillin. Percodan. There was no tag on the metal box, but I knew what it was. Bullet–wound kit.
The refrigerator had a half–empty carton of milk, a lump of cream cheese, and a head of lettuce under a plastic wrap. I found some ice cubes, filled a glass, let it get cold while I got dressed.
I sipped the water in the easy chair near her bed, smoking, trying to think it through. A Ghost Van in my mind.
Belle rolled over on her side as her eyes came open.
"This time you guarded me," she said.
"I've got to go," I told her.
"Let me take a shower first." She didn't wait for an answer, shoving past me to the bathroom. It was still dark outside—my watch said it was almost four–thirty.
She came out of the bathroom brushing her hair, her body gleaming wet.
"Why do you have to go?" she wanted to know, stepping close to where I was sitting.
"There's something I have to take care of."
"What's her name?" she asked, a mock–growl in her voice.
"Pansy."
She pulled back. "You better be kidding."
"Pansy's a dog. My dog."
She giggled. "You have a dog named Pansy? You tie ribbons in her hair and all that?"
"She's about your size."
"I'd like to see that."
"You will."
"Can I come with you?"
"Not this time," I said, getting to my feet.
She put her arms around my neck, pushing her nose so close to mine that my eyes went out of focus. "You'll be back here tonight?"
"I thought you had to work."
"I'll call in sick. Most of the girls do that after their night off—it's no big deal."
"Okay," I said, running my hands down her smooth back to the swelling of her rear.
"What are you thinking?"
"I was thinking if I pressed a quarter against your back and let it go it would fly off your ass like it was a ski slope."
She slipped her hand between us, patting my crotch. "You got a quarter in there someplace?"
"No," I said, pushing gently against her. "I have to go—no joke."
She put her hand