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Don't Be Shy 17
🕑 Added 2024-05-29 23:00:01 +0000 UTCLena restarted the movie when Kara came back. Not that Kara really watched it. She laid down and rested her head in Lena’s lap, which Lena seemed to just love, judging by the way she stroked Kara’s hair.
Kara caught snippets of dialogue and drank in the imagery—the movie had that old kind of Technicolor that somehow seemed more vivid than reality—but she felt… sunken into Lena’s reaction, the all-encompassing satisfaction Lena took in her presence.
It reminded her of being a little kid and having a cat purring in her lap. She’d never imagined how it would feel to be the cat.
“Kara, are you awake?”
“Mmm-hmm,” Kara mumbled.
“How are you liking the movie?”
“S’great,” Kara said, meaning she liked having her face against Lena’s thighs.
Lena paused—not a return to silence, but a word held, deep in her throat, until it came out as stringent enough to stiffen Kara’s spine. “I don’t want you to look,” she said firmly.
“Look at what?” Kara asked.
And then she saw that Lena had set down her mask on the other side of the couch from her.
“I promise I won’t look,” Kara said, keeping her eyes on the screen.
It was an easy promise to keep. With the way she was lying down, facing away from Lena, she would have to turn all the way around to get a look at Lena’s face.
And when she thought that if she didn’t, Lena would keep stroking her hair, petting her back and shoulder and arm… it was as hard to move as it would be if she were in a warm bed on a cold morning.
Comfortable.
She couldn’t believe how comfortable she was, getting paid for sex by some masked woman who now had her mask off, and whatever scar or birth defect she hid so fervently was out in the open now…
But her body had slipped away from her again. It’d taken pleasure from what Lena did to it, against all reason, and now it was being soothed by being so close to this…
Kara didn’t even know what she was. Employer? Yeah, that seemed to cover it.
Shit.
Kara turned her head a little and kissed Lena’s thigh. When Lena petted her scalp next, Kara took her hand and clasped it in both of hers.
The muscles in Lena’s arm tensed and then went slack. “I like you a lot, Kara,” Lena said, and for once, she sounded uncertain.
So Kara tried to make up with her own sureness. “I like you a lot too.”
***
Walsh had a hell of a nice sound system. I played Dies Irae on it and when I closed my eyes, I could picture myself in some gothic cathedral, the music echoing off towering walls, the choir filling the chamber with Latin—making it so easy to feel the presence of God that He might not even be there at all.
Walsh was coming to by then. I pressed eject on the CD player and replaced Mozart with The Mamas & The Papas. For The Love of Ivy started up. I crouched down across from Walsh. He wasn’t getting up—not when I’d tied his hands to the fireplace grate.
It was a gas fireplace. The grate was just for show. It didn’t come out.
“I’m finishing off the pizza you had in the fridge,” I told him, holding up the half-eaten slice in my hand. “Hate to see it go to waste and I don’t think you’re going to be eating it anytime soon.”
He screamed. Of course. I stood and kicked him a few times in the belly. He coughed and sputtered. I kicked him again in the face, careful not to break his jaw, not so careful with his nose.
He could still talk with a broken nose and maybe his face wouldn’t piss me off so much with a little blood streaming down it.
“I think I can keep doing that longer than you can live through me doing it, but go ahead, keep screaming. It’s a free country.” I took another bite of pizza.
Walsh spat up some blood, directing it to the side. It splattered on his shirtsleeve. Seeing his cute little royal blue number with some red on it seemed to get through to him.
I chewed while it sank in. I hated when people talked with their mouths full. I don’t do it and I expect people not to do it when they’re around me. It’s common courtesy, really.
“Who are you?” Walsh asked, cotton-balling his words since he had to push them past a nose that wasn’t pointed the right direction anymore. “What do you want from me? If you want money, I can get you money—”
“Well, since you asked, your friend Gina is in the bedroom, sleeping it off. I tied her to the headboard, so in a few hours, she’s going to wake up, start screaming, one of your neighbors will call the police, and they’ll find your body.”
You wouldn’t think Walsh’s face could get any paler than it was, but a moment later, it looked like the blood from his nose was glowing. “What do you mean, ‘find my body’?”
I took another bite of pizza. Chewed. Swallowed. “This is good pizza. Delivery, right? Or one of those fancy brick-oven places?”
“It’s Salcone’s,” Walsh said. “On 44th Street. What do you want from me, please, you must want something?”
“I want you to tell me a story.”
“What?”
“Read me a story, actually. You took an acting class in college, right James? It is James—not Jim, Jimmy, Jimbo?”
“It’s James. And I did, I did take an acting class.”
“Wonderful. I know you must be out of practice, so I’m not going to make you memorize any lines. Here’s the script.”
I picked up the court transcript from the floor. I’d laid out as soon as I chained Walsh up. Just couldn’t wait to have it there—must be what fathers feel when they take the tooth out from under their kid’s pillow and leave a silver dollar.
“Short end of the stick, you have to be you. I won’t be.” I held the paper in front of his face. “Read.”
“Listen—” Walsh began.
“I am listening.”
“Clearly, you’ve upset.”
I turned the page around to glance at it. “Are you sure that’s your line?”
“Very upset,” Walsh amended. “But you have to understand, whatever it is that drove you to this… I didn’t do it. I couldn’t have done it. I’m a nice person, okay, a good person, I don’t screw people over, so this is all some kind of terrible mistake…”
“James,” I said, trying my best to enunciate.
It might be hard for Walsh to hear with the adrenaline rush, blood pounding in his ears, all that. Probably the first time in a while he’d had a bigger disagreement than his suits getting shrunk at the wash.
“If you want, I can turn the gas on in the fireplace. The flame will start at your hands and progress down your arms. I’ll put tape over your mouth so you can’t scream. I’ll have another slice of pizza and listen to another CD on your very nice stereo and put out the fire when there is nothing past your elbows but ash. Then I’ll hold the paper in front of your face and tell you to read again. Do you think you’ll refuse to read then?”
“No,” James moaned. I think it was more a statement of panic than an honest self-assessment.
“So why are you refusing to read now? Don’t you like having arms?”
“I’ll read,” James said quickly. “I’ll read-I’ll read-I’ll read.”
“Thank you, James, I appreciate that.”
