Strega - Andrew H. Vachss [64]
I put my hands behind my head so they wouldn't move. And she came back to me with her mouth, sucking hard now, moving her mouth up and down until I was slick with her juices. My eyes opened again— I couldn't help it. She didn't say anything this time. I opened them wider. The redhead's face was buried in my lap, her hands clasped tightly behind her back. My eyes closed again.
I felt it coming. I pushed my hips back in the chair, giving her a chance to pull her mouth away, but she was glued to me. "Just this!" she mumbled, her mouth full, a little girl talking, a stubborn little girl who made up her mind and wasn't giving in. My mind flashed to a girl I met once when I was on the run from reform school. This was all she'd do too—she didn't want to get pregnant again. Somehow I knew this wasn't the same.
It was her choice. She shook her head from side to side, keeping me with her. I felt the explosion all the way to the base of my spine, but she never took her face away—never reached for a handkerchief—I could feel the muscles in her cheeks work as she took it all.
I slumped back in the chair and she let me slide out of her mouth but kept her head in my lap. Her little–girl's whisper was clear in the quiet room. "I'm a good girl," she said, calm and smug. "Pat me. Pat my head."
My eyes opened again as I brought my hand forward, stroking her red hair, watching her hands twist behind her in the handcuffs she'd made for herself.
Her head came up. She was licking her lips and her eyes were wet and gleaming. Her hands came forward, taking one of my cigarettes and lighting it while I pulled myself in and zipped up. She handed me the lit cigarette. "For you," she said.
I took a deep drag. It tasted of blood.
"I have you in me now," she said, in her own voice. "Get me that picture."
I had to get out of there. She knew it too. I put on my coat, patting the pockets, putting the pictures and the other stuff she gave me inside.
"Come," she said, taking my hand, leading me back to the garage.
The Mercedes had a regular license, but the one on the BMW said JINA. "Is that the way you spell your name?" I asked her. "I thought it was Gina—G–I–N–A."
"They named me Gina. I didn't like it. When I have something I don't like, I change it."
"Who's Zia Peppina?" I wanted to know.
"Me. Auntie Pepper, you capisce? When I was a little girl, I was a chubby, happy child—always running, getting into mischief. With my red hair, they used to call me Peppina. Little Pepper. But when I got older, when I got to be myself, they stopped calling me that baby name. I only let Scotty call me that because he's special to me."
"People call you Jina now?"
"No," the redhead said, "now they call me Strega."
The side door slammed behind me and I was alone.
I drove too fast getting out of her neighborhood, cold speed inside me, rushing around like cocaine. Even the twenty–five grand in my coat couldn't keep out the chill. Strega. I knew what the word meant—a witch–bitch you could lust after or run from. You could be in the middle of a desert and her shadow would make you cold. And I had taken her money.
44
I SLOWED the Plymouth into a quiet, mechanical cruise when I hit the Inter–Boro. A dark, twisting piece of highway, paved with potholes. Abandoned cars lined the roadside, stripped to the bone. I lit a smoke, watched the tiny red dot in the windshield, feeling the tremor in my hands on the wheel. Not knowing if I was sad or scared.
The blues make a rough blanket, like the ones they give you in the orphanage. But they keep out the cold. I shoved a cassette into the tape player without looking, waiting for the dark streets to take hold of me and pull me in, waiting to get back to myself. When I heard the guitar intro I recognized the next song, but I sat and listened to the first call–and–answer of "Married