Then she goes limp, rolling over on the bed, hands flopping overhead, nipples pointing up to the ceiling.
“Holy shiiiiiiit,” she groans.
“I told you not to tease me.”
I scoop her up in my arms, rearranging her on the pillows so her head is at the top of the bed, her feet down.
Her limbs are warm and heavy, her pupils dilated until I can hardly see the thin ring of silver around the black.
“You feeling that yet?” I ask her.
“Yeah, I’m feeling it,” she says, her voice soft and dreamy. “Eat my pussy, Daddy … send me into outer space …”
She’s never called me that before. I don’t know if it’s because she’s high, or if it’s something she’s wanted to say for a while.
I go down between her thighs, gently licking her pussy with my tongue. Slow and languorous, with soft, melting pleasure.
Looking up at her, I say, “Why am I your daddy?”
She sighs, her head turning slowly from side to side like the bed is a boat rocking her across the water.
“Because …” she says softly. “Because you take care of me. You protect me. You do everything for me …”
“Yes, I do.”
“You always know what to do … you always know what’s best.”
I suck gently on her clit, smiling to myself.
“Keep that in mind,” I say.
Mara doesn’t respond. She’s already drifting away.
In the dark hotel room, I make my preparations for the night ahead.
The Ambien was for me, not for her. I need to know she’s safely locked away in this room so I can focus on the task at hand.
I close the drapes and hang the Do Not Disturb sign over the doorknob, taking the only key with me when I leave.
Exiting through the lobby, I hail a cab to the airport.
The cabbie drops me off at the sky bridge. Instead of walking over to the checkin desks, I turn the other way, heading toward long-term parking. This is the best place to steal a car. Unless I’m very unlucky, no one will notice that their 2018 Camry is taking a little adventure tonight.
It only takes me a minute to break into the car, and three more to bring the engine to life.
I pay the attendant with cash on the way out of the lot. He doesn’t even look up, mumbling, “Have a good night,” as I drive through.
I could have taken my Tesla, but California has too many toll roads with cameras.
I drive to La Crescenta, to the edge of town bordering the mountains.
The Black Dog pub is situated in the shabbiest neighborhood I’ve driven through on my journey, with tiny salt-box houses situated on bald patches of grass between chain-link fences. I’m sure these little shacks still sell in the high six-figures, because this is California, where a one-bed one-bath can easily run a million dollars. This winter notwithstanding, it’s still the most temperate climate on the globe. People will endure any level of traffic or taxation to live here.
I wait in the parking lot for Randall to arrive. I’m an hour early, wanting to be there first so I can see which car he drives, and so I can ensure that he’s alone.
Randall must have had the same idea. He pulls in a half-hour early himself, driving a beat-up Ford truck with paint so worn it looks like mange.
Mara told me that her mother and Randall eventually divorced, partly because their fights had turned so violent the neighbors called the cops every weekend, with Randall spending the night in jail at least twice. He was running out of money, which meant Tori Eldritch was no longer interested.
Looks like he’s yet to make his fortune again. I found him through tax returns for the construction company for which he currently works. The address on record was the empty office space. I still don’t know where Randall lives.
Now that he’s here, I make my way inside and pick up a beer at the bar. Selecting a booth in the darkest and most distant corner of the pub, I text Randall:
I’m here whenever you are.
Then I wait, hoping he’s not going to back out.
Ten minutes later, Randall shuffles into the pub. He’s well past sixty, but you can tell he was once a man with shoulders to rival Shaw. Now those shoulders droop and a hard, round belly causes his jeans to sag. His scarred hands testify to years of labor. The broken blood vessels on his bulbous nose and the yellow tinge to his eyes tell another story.
Randall walks to the bar to get his own beer. I watch his interaction with the bartender, checking to see if they know each other, if they’re friends. The interaction is brief and impersonal. The bartender keeps his focus on the football game playing on the TV hung over the opposite corner of the bar. I doubt he’ll look our way.