Fun and Games - Duane Swierczynski [77]
“Uh-uh-uhhhh,” a soft voice said. “Look at her. You’ve wanted her from the minute you saw her. Haven’t you, Charlie? Your little celebrity.”
Hardie recognized the voice. Topless. Why was it that whenever he heard her voice, he happened to be staring at naked breasts? And why was it that, at the same time, her voice chilled his blood and made him think of death?
The gloved hands guided him over to the bed, holding his midsection, working his legs. The sensation was horrible. He was completely helpless, a pile of rubber meat hanging on plastic bones, ready to be posed and moved and positioned any way they wanted. As Hardie was moved closer to the bed, he saw that Lane’s eyes were open—glassy, but open. They’d given her something, too.
“Isn’t she beautiful, Charlie? We found all her movies and photos and torn-out magazine pages in that duffel bag you carry around with you all the time. Admit it. You love to look at her, and, wow, you finally have her here now, in the flesh, right in front of you. To do with as you please.”
The bag. Oh God, they still had his bag, not the one with the stupid T-shirt and jeans, but the real one, the important one, the one he swore to keep with him at all times. The one he’d lost anyway.
“Go ahead, Charlie. Get closer. You know she wants it. She’s practically begging for it. Look at her.”
They arranged his body so that he straddled hers. His body was at once tingly and partially numb, but he could still feel her naked form beneath him. Her skinny, tired, bandaged, cut body.
“Only maybe she doesn’t want you. Maybe you’ve read the signs wrong. You totally want to fuck her, but she’s repulsed by you. Wouldn’t want you even if you paid her. Even if you threatened to kill her.”
They forced his arms up, then placed his thick, scarred hands around her throat. Carefully, they arranged his fingers around her pretty throat. He could see a vein throbbing there, and her throat working hard to swallow. There was a fleeting terror in her eyes, like she’d realized what they were going to do before Hardie did.
“Anyway, it doesn’t matter. You’re the kind of guy who can’t get it up, no matter how badly you want it. You try to get yourself all worked up, but in the end it’s an exercise in futility, you’re just too out of shape to make it happen.”
The men in the gloves paused for a moment to change positions; Hardie could feel them adjusting around him, like puppeteers struggling behind a black felt curtain. Pay no attention. Keep your eye on the maniac on top of the beautiful naked actress.
“She got you so mad, you thought to yourself—well, then, yeah. Fuck it. I will kill her. Squeeze the life out of her stuck-up obnoxious face.”
Gloved fingers pressed down on Hardie’s numb, useless fingers. Gloved thumbs guided his naked thumbs to the middle of her soft throat and then pressed down hard, joined by the rest of his fingers, tightening around her neck like a vise. Hardie tried to push back, but there was nothing for his mind to seize control of; his hands weren’t talking to him right now. They were busy acting. Choking Lane Madden to death in this crazy psychotic fucked-up fantasy version of real life.
“Feels good, doesn’t it, Charlie? Choke that bitch out. Go on. Break her little scrawny neck.”
As they pushed Hardie’s hands down, something shot out from under the pillow and ping-ponged across the carpet.
“Ooh, what was that, Charlie? A secret weapon, maybe?”
Hardie felt one of his puppet masters leave to retrieve the mystery object. He must have handed it to his boss, because she said:
“Now, this is interesting….Vicodin, prescribed to… oh, to you, Charlie. I suppose it’s painful being a hero. But what was this doing under the pillow? Did you put it there, or did the actress? I think it was her, wasn’t it, Charlie?”
Hardie looked down at Lane. Her eyes were filled with