“In the bedroom,” I gasped. Lifting her in my arms, I carried her down the hall as she continued to kiss me and stroke me. The bedroom lights were on, but the high windows afforded privacy.

I set her down on top of the covers. She opened like a book to a favorite page. I got on top.

She rounded her back and drew her legs up in the air. Put me in her and rocked her hips, holding me at arm’s length so she could stare at the piston merger of our flesh.

Once, she’d been married to modesty; there’d been a quickie divorce…

“You’re in me, oh, God.” She pinched her nipples, touched herself, made sure I watched.

She rode me, withdrew me, took me in hand, rubbed me over her face, slid me between her breasts, wrapped me in the soft tangle of her hair. Then got under me, pulled me down hard, and tongued my anus.

A moment later we were locked together standing, her back to the wall. Then she positioned me near the foot of the bed and sat on me, staring over my shoulder into the mirror above the dresser. Not satisfied with that, she pushed me off her and pulled me into the bathroom. I realized why right away- tall, mirrored medicine chests on two walls, mirrors that could be pulled out and angled, for side views, back views. After arranging her stage, she sat on the cold tile counter, shivering and goose-bumped, put me in her again, darted her eyes.

We ended up on the bathroom floor, she squatting over me, touching herself, tracing a vaginal trail up and down my chest, then impaling herself again.

When I closed my eyes she cried out, “No!” and pried them open. Finally she lost herself in the pleasure, opened her mouth wide, and panted and grunted. Sobbed and covered her face.

And came.

I exploded a second later. She extricated herself, licked me hard, and kept moving, slamming herself down on the tile, using me selfishly, climaxing a second time.

We staggered back to the bedroom and fell asleep in each other’s arms, with the lights still on. I slept, woke up feeling drugged.

She wasn’t in bed. I found her in the living room, hair pinned up, dressed in tight jeans and a tank top- another new look. Sitting in a sling chair drinking another strawberry daiquiri and reading a psych journal, unaware of my presence.

I watched her stick a finger in the drink, pull it out coated with pink foam, and lick it off.

“Hi,” I said, smiling and stretching.

She looked up at me. Her expression was odd. Flat. Bored. Then it heated and turned ugly.

Contemptuous.

“Sharon?”

She placed the drink on the carpet and stood up. “Okay,” she said. “You got what you wanted, you scummy prick. Now get the fuck out of here. Get the fuck out of my life- get out!”

I dressed hurriedly, carelessly, feeling as worthwhile as a scab. Rushed past her, out of the house and into the Rambler. Hands shaking, I started the car and hurtled down Jalmia.

Only when I was back on Hollywood Boulevard did I take the time to breathe.

But breathing hurt, as if I’d been poisoned. I wanted suddenly to destroy her. To leach her toxin from my blood.

I screamed.

Entertaining murderous thoughts, I sped along dark streets, as dangerous as a drunk driver.

I got onto Sunset, passed nightclubs and disco joints, smiling faces that seemed to mock my own misery. But by the time I reached Doheny, my rage had faded to gnawing sadness. Disgust.

This was it- no more mindfucks.

This was it.

Remembering had plunged me into a cold sweat.

Follow-up visits.

She’d followed herself up too. With pills and a gun.

15

On Thursday morning I called Paul Kruse’s university office, not really knowing what I was going to say to him. He was out; the department secretary had no idea when he’d be back. I looked up his private office in the phone book. He had two: the one on Sunset and the one he’d leased for Sharon. No answer at either. Same old song- I’d become a virtuoso at playing it. I thought of calling the airlines again, didn’t relish handling more phone abuse. My thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door- a messenger with a check from Trenton, Worthy and La Rosa and two large, gift-wrapped packages, also from the law firm.

I tipped him and after he left I opened the packages. One held a case of Chivas Regal, the other a case of Moët & Chandon.

A tip for me. As I wondered why, the phone rang.

“Did it get there?” asked Mal.

“A minute ago.”

“He-ey! Perfect timing or what? Don’t drink it all in one place.”

“Why the gratuity, Mal?”

“Seven-figure settlement is why. All that legal talent got together and decided to divvy up.”

“Moretti too?”

“Moretti especially. Insurance company’s putting in the biggest chunk. He called a couple of hours after your depo, didn’t even bother to play hard to get. After he tumbled, the rest crashed like dominoes. Denise and little Darren have just won the lottery, Doctor.”

“I’m happy for them. Try to see that both of them get some help.”

“Being rich should help, but sure, I’ll push her. By the way, after we settled on a figure, Moretti asked for your number. He was very impressed.”

“Flattered.”

“I gave it to him.”

“He’s wasting his time.”

“That’s what I figured. But it wasn’t my place to tell him to shove it. Do it yourself. I imagine the new you will enjoy it.”

At one o’clock I went out and made another try at grocery shopping. In the produce section my cart collided with one pushed by a tall auburn-haired woman.

“Oops, sorry.” I disengaged, moved aside, and edged over to the tomatoes.

“Sorry myself,” she said cheerfully. “Gets like the freeway in here sometimes, doesn’t it?”

The market was nearly empty but I said, “Sure does.”

She smiled at me with even white teeth and I took a closer look. Late thirties or well-preserved early forties, a thick shag of dark hair surrounding a roundish, pretty face. Snub nose and freckles, eyes the color of a choppy sea. She wore denim short shorts that advertised long, tan, runner’s legs, and a lavender T-shirt that did the same for high, sharp breasts. Around one ankle was a thin gold chain. Her nails were long and silver; the ones on the index fingers had been inlaid with diamond chips.

“What do you think of this?” she asked, handing me a cantaloupe. “Too firm to be ripe?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Just right, huh?” Big grin, one leg bent and resting against the other. She stretched and the T-shirt rose up, exposing a flat, bronze tummy.

I turned the melon in my palms and knocked on it a couple of times. “Just right.” When I handed it back, our fingers touched.

“I’m Julie.”

“Alex.”

“I’ve seen you here before, Alex. You buy lots of Chinese vegetables, don’t you?”

A shot in the dark- and a miss- but why make her feel bad? “Sure do.”

“Love that bok choy,” she said as she hefted the cantaloupe. Placing it in her basket, she turned her attention to half a pineapple wrapped in plastic. “Mmm, everything looks so good and ripe today. Yum.”

I bagged some tomatoes, selected a head of lettuce and a bunch of scallions, and began to wheel away.

“Lawyer, right?”

I smiled and shook my head.

“Um, let’s see… architect.”

“No, I’m a psychologist.”

“Are you really? I love psychologists. Mine helped me so much.”

“That’s great, Julie.” I began pushing my cart away. “Nice meeting you.”

“Listen,” she said. “I’m on this one-meal-a-day cleansing diet, just lunch- lots of complex carbohydrates- and I haven’t had it yet. I’m famished. There’s a pasta bar up the block. Would you care to join me?”