Needful Things - Stephen King [54]
For a moment she's too stunned to do anything, too stunned to move, and then hands from behind push her forward, and HIs hand has closed over her wrist, HIs hand is pulling her up on stage. She can SMELL him, a mixture of sweat, English Leather, and hot, clean flesh.
A bare moment later, Myra Evans is in Elvis Presley's arms.
The satin of his jumpsuit is slick under her hands. The arms around her are muscular. That face, HIS face, the face of The King, is inches from hers. He is dancing with her-they are a couple, Myra Josephine Evans from Castle Rock, Malone, and Elvis Aron Presley, from Memphis, Tennessee! They dirty-dance their way across a wide stage in front of four thousand screaming fans as the jordanaires chant that funky old fifties refrain: "Let's rock everybody let's rock
" His hips move in against hers; she can feel the coiled tension at the center of him nudging against her belly. Then he twirls her, her skirt flares out flat, showing her legs all the way to the lace of her Victoria's Secret panties, her hand spins inside his like an axle inside a huh, and then he is drawing her to him again, and his hand slides down the small of her hack to the swell of her buttocks, cupping her tightly to him.
For a moment she looks down and there, beyond and below the glare of the footlights, she sees Cora Rusk staring up. Cora's face is baleful with hate and witchy with envy.
Then Elvis turns her head toward him and speaks in that syrupy mid-South drawl.- "Ain't we supposed to be lookin at each othah, honeh?"
Before she can reply, his full lips are on hers; the smell of him and thefeel ofhimfill the world. Then, suddenly, his tongue is in her mouththe King of Rock and Roll is french-kissing her in front of Cora and the whole damned world! He draws her tight against him again and as the horns kick in with a syncopated shriek, she feels ecstatic heat begin to uncoil in her loins. Oh, it has never been like this, not even down at Castle Lake with Ace Merrill all those years ago. She wants to scream, but his tongue is hurled in her mouth and she can only claw "into his smooth satin back, pumping her hips as the horns thunder into "My Way."
Mr. Gaunt sat in one of the plush chairs, watching Myra Evans with clinical detachment as her orgasm ripped through her. She was shaking like a woman experiencing a total neural breakdown, the picture of Elvis clutched tightly in her hands, eyes closed, bosom heaving, legs tightening, loosening, tightening, loosening. Her hair had lost its beauty-shop curl and lay against her head in a not-toocharming helmet. Her double chins ran with sweat much as Elvis's own had done as he gyrated ponderously across the stage during his last few concerts.
"Ooohh!" Myra cried, shaking like a bowl of jelly on a plate.
"Ooooh! Oooooooh my God! Ooooooooooooh my Gahhhhhhhhd!
OOOOHHHHH-" Mr. Gaunt idly tweezed the crease of his dark slacks between his thumb and forefinger, shook it out to its former razor sharpness, then leaned forward and snatched the picture from Myra's hands.
Her eyes, full of dismay, flew open at once. She grabbed for the picture, but it was already out of her reach. She started to get up.
"Sit down," Mr. Gaunt said.
Myra remained where she was, as if she had been turned to stone during the act of rising.
"If you ever want to see this picture again, Myra, sit down."
She sat, staring at him in dumb agony. Large patches of sweat were creeping out from under her arms and along the sides of her breasts.
"Please," she said. The word came out in a croak so dusty that it was like a puff of wind in the desert. She held her hands out.
"Name me a price," Gaunt invited.
She thought. Her eyes rolled in her sweaty face. Her Adam's apple went up and down.
"Forty dollars!" she cried.
He laughed and shook his head.
"Fifty! " "Ridiculous. You must not want this picture very badly, Myra."
"I do!" Tears began to seep from the corners of her eyes. They ran down her cheeks, mixing with the sweat there. "I doooooo!"
"All