Flood - Andrew H. Vachss [121]
Flood looked up at me, rolled over on her stomach with her head in my lap, hugging my legs hard. I patted her back, stroked her hair—waited for her decision. I’d said my piece with my mouth—but it was my mind screaming at her to stand up one more time. She muttered something, her mouth buried in my lap.
“What?”
“You’re not so tough,” said Flood.
On a new roll now, and not knowing how to handle that last, I weighed in with, “The winner is the guy who walks out of the ring, not the guy who won the most rounds.”
“Still on that endurance thing of yours?”
“It’s the best card I have to play.”
Flood turned her head slightly so she could see me out of the corner of one eye. I couldn’t see her face, but I felt her smile in my lap.
“Endurance means you can last a long time,” she said.
“So? I lasted this long . . .”
Flood turned her head back down, opened her mouth so I could feel her hot breath between my legs. She put her teeth around me and bit down—not hard enough to threaten amputation, but close enough. She kept her mouth on me until she was satisfied with her work, then she flowed up into that lotus position facing me. “Let me take a shower. Then I want to see just how good this famous endurance of yours is.”
She walked toward the bathroom, pulling the black robe from her shoulders as she did. I sat there and smoked another cigarette and felt the pain flow back into me and pulse around my mouth—and I knew she was going to stand up.
The shower stopped before I got through the next smoke, and a dripping wet Flood padded into the room, holding a towel partially around her waist. She smiled—it was a good smile this time—and crooked her finger at me in a come-over-here gesture and I stubbed out the cigarette and followed her back into her small space.
She dropped the towel and came to me, still damp and even more of a handful than usual. Her kiss was sweet and tender, sucking the pain from my mouth. She pushed the jacket off my shoulders and pulled the T-shirt over my head, unbuckled my pants, and knelt to take them off after my boots. I kissed her and rubbed her and her body began to glow in the early morning light.
She turned and walked over to the little table, bent over and thrust her backside into the air, looking at me over her shoulder—telling me she was finished with Goldor’s demons and she had herself back.
I climbed into her as she waited, carefully at first. But the woman warrior took my hands and put them on her breasts and rolled her hips until I was fitted to her. I took her soft neck gently in my teeth and tested my endurance.
43
IT WAS JUST past ten o’clock by the time I was ready to move out. Flood and I had been through what had to be done a few dozen times, and I could see she was finally ready to sleep. I told her I’d call when I had something and went out the door. I rang for the elevator, sent it back down to the ground floor, hit the switch to call it back to me. I stood there waiting, smoking another cigarette. When I finished I ground out the butt on the floor and slipped it into my pocket. Still dead quiet.
I took the stairs down and walked to the car—it looked different in daylight, streaked and dull like it needed a bath. By now the Volvo we had used to visit Goldor would be nothing but scrap metal. Still a lot of traffic on the street, but I couldn’t wait for the night—too much to do.
The Plymouth found its way back to the office on auto-pilot. I locked it up, climbed the stairs, checking everything as I walked. Still okay. Pansy wasn’t even impatient but she stalked out the back door and onto the roof readily enough. I picked up the desk phone, cleared it for hippies, and dialed Mama’s—no messages.
Pansy rolled in the back door, I found her something to eat and I sat with her while she snarfed up the mess I’d made for her in her steel bowl—trying to think, and drawing a blank.
I went into the side room to the chest of drawers, made a hook out of a coat hanger, looped it around one of the handles on the bottom drawer, and gently pulled it out. The twin razor-tipped