Part 28 (2/2)

But alas, reality beckoned with the first hint of sunrise. Reluctantly, he bid her adieu, then rinsed himself clean in the ocean green. He was back in his hotel room by a quarter to six, her phone number tucked in his pocket, his head still humming from the glory of his new l.u.s.t for life.

When Vic awoke, sometime after noon, he was unsurprised to find Nora rapidly losing her appeal. There was something about women who no longer gave a s.h.i.+t. When she finally dragged herself out of bed at four, Vic hustled her out for a late margarita brunch.

She was out like a light by ten.

And Vic was on his way.

As fate would have it, Tristana had the night off. She met him on the boardwalk, led him to a seedy little motel on Baltic Avenue, the kind that featured kitchenettes and weekly rentals and catered to a transient clientele. And indeed, Tristana's s.p.a.ce gave no indication of rootedness; everything was geared to up and run at the drop of a hat.

The apartment itself was Spartan and spare, the sole nod to individuality evident in the photos she'd plastered across the bedroom walls: a variety of Tristana-in-bondage poses, playing both dominant and submissive roles with equal skill and fervor. As she showed him her collection of whips and d.i.l.d.os and nipple-clamps, she went on to explain that you couldn't really top until you'd bottomed, felt the experience from the pay-end of the whip.

Vic was fascinated; so much so that when she brought out a pair of handcuffs he actually let her slip one on him, click it shut. Something stirred in the silt of his soul; he took the other side of the cuffs and fastened it on her wrist. When she led him to the bed, he let her.

As she laid him down she asked about his many tattoos, who the mysterious woman was who ruled over so much of his body.

No one important, he replied. Not anymore.

She regarded him skeptically, searching for clues. He gave her none. She's in the past, he said. Now there's only you.

Only you.

They spent the rest of the night driving each other completely insane. The s.e.x was phenomenal, worlds away from his standard prey. In the s.p.a.ce of a single night Tristana taught him not so much the art of give-and-take but how to take and be taken. It was a first for him, a revelation. She taught him to trust, as she did things with ropes and whips and hands and mouth, showed him a whole new dimension to pleasure in pain.

And when they were done and spent and sated, she had actually kicked him out, saying she had to be somewhere in the morning. Vic was frankly amazed: it was the first time a female of his choosing had shared his bed and not become a brainless slave to his d.i.c.k. The look on her face as she shut the door in his was a thing of beauty. What was the old saying? A man chases a woman until she catches him.

He was hooked. As the door closed Vic realized it was very possibly the best time he'd ever had.

But, of course, it was too good to last. . . .

Vic looked up. ”Bout f.u.c.king time,” he snarled.

”Sorry about that,” the waitress said, placed a fresh drink before him, beat a hasty retreat.

Vic sipped thoughtfully and stared at the ocean. What secrets it contained. And now it had another. He found himself replaying a bit of dialogue he and Tristana had shared on their last good night together. Out of context, it was horribly ironic and tragic . . . all the more so because of the hopeful spirit in which it had originally been played out.

On the night before it all blew up, he was already contemplating the realities of turning Tristana. It would have been another first-generally he ate his conquests. Nora was handful enough, and the last thing he needed was a bunch of p.i.s.sed-off werewolf one-night-stands chasing him around. But Tristana was different.

The more he thought of her, the less important Nora seemed. The very thought of roaming the night with Tristana at his side left him nervous, antic.i.p.atory, excited. He doubted that it would even be that hard to awaken her. She was halfway there, in spirit anyway, and she didn't even drink. And it was a fact that she had his juices flowing; already it was all he could do to keep from Changing every time she touched his c.o.c.k.

No, her animal would emerge, and beautifully; of that, he had no doubt. Tristana was a natural. In fact, she was more than just a likely protegee; everything about her told him she could actually become his equal, someone to rival and complement his appet.i.te. Once awakened, she would be magnificent. And together, they would be unstoppable.

They just needed a little more time.

And a couple of key issues cleared up.

So after spending hours drenched in each other's pa.s.sion, he pulled her close and looked her in the eye. She met his gaze fiercely, awaiting the words she seemed to sense hanging between them. Lord only knew what she was expecting to hear-I love you, I need you, I want you forever-but he was impressed by how she took it in stride when he asked: ”So. . . what do you think about eating human flesh?”

Tristana did a double take, then laughed: a low, evil chuckle that never failed to make him smile. ”I guess that depends on who's doing the eating,” she said. ”And who's being eaten.”

”Seriously,” he persisted, and let her know he meant it. She was about to say something else glibly transgressive; he watched the impulse flare up and fizzle, becoming suddenly thoughtful.

”Well, if it came down to a choice, I'd rather be the one who eats,” she said, and with a sudden faraway look in her eye. ”But if I was to be eaten, I'd want to be eaten by someone I loved. Like 'Stranger in a Strange Land,' if you know what I mean.” He had no idea, but nodded anyway. ”To be part of them forever,” she continued. ”That would be cool. . . .”

He had kissed her then, as if sealing a pact.

If he had only known . . .

Vic took another hit of whiskey, felt the sorrow bloom inside his chest and well up in his eyes. Hindsight could be so incredibly cruel. He looked at the clock. Twelve oh-seven. Briefly, he wondered what was taking Nora so long.

But even the thought of her name was too much to bear. Suddenly, he couldn't stand to think of her at all. It flashed him back to last night, flashed him back on his guilt, his own culpability in what had gone wrong. It made him wish he had killed her first.

Before it was too late. . . .

In retrospect, he realized she'd probably been sensing it coming. The clues were certainly there: his increased impatience, his mounting detachment, his sudden indifference to her aloofness. Vic cursed himself for not having worked harder to cover his tracks.

Tuesday night had gone pretty much like every other: Nora reducing herself to catatonia with the television on, snoring through some Cinemax softcore p.o.r.n with a warm bottle still in her hand. Vic had felt nothing but contempt for her as he slipped out the door, heading for the tenth-floor elevator banks and the big wide world beyond.

It was just a couple blocks to 17th Street, with its garish neon and carnal, neo-carnival atmosphere. The streets were teeming, the tacky sidewalk souvenir shops bright-lit and bustling with life.

When he got to Fishnet's, Fernango the bouncer nodded. Vic had been acknowledged; a regular now, practically part of the family. There was, as always, a good-sized crowd, but he had no problem finding a place at the bar. The bartender saw him coming as well, set him up from the second he landed.

When Tristana came out, she was easily five times as hot as when he'd first seen her take the stage: writhing with shamanic abandon, firing unadulterated l.u.s.t over the heads of the overheated throngs. Where before she'd been going through the motions, now there was a genuine burning pa.s.sion.

But she only had eyes for Vic, and vice versa. The rest of the patrons didn't seem to notice their hidden dialogue; they were too busy responding to Tristana. As s.e.xual totem, as f.u.c.k m.u.f.fin-slash-fantasy figure par excellence. They were mesmerized.

Vic scoped the crowd as he watched her work, decided to play a little impromptu fiscal d.i.c.k-measuring game called up the ante. He would target some sweaty, fervid herbivore with a fistful of dollars and a bellyful of beer, then sidle up adjacent to him and proceed to hand Tristana fives to his ones, tens to his fives, twenties to his tens and so on, making the clown pony up to match him for the illusion of her affections.

Tristana sensed the scam instinctively, played up to the sucker like crazy, giving him the extra smile and flash that told him beyond the shadow of a doubt that he was the one she really wanted, he was the one who made her all hot and sticky, ooh baby, ooh baby gimme another twenty to show me that you love me. . . .

In between sets, she would come down and sit with each mark in turn, keeping their libidos greased, before toddling off to the shadowy corner table where Vic lay waiting. Physical affection was strictly verboten on the premises-especially where boyfriends were concerned-but the look in Tristana's eyes told him that she was pleased. They made a beautiful team, and they both knew it.

So when he told her to give him her money, there was but a split second of doubt that flitted across her features before she dipped into her bag and forked it over. Vic slipped the wad of bills into his pocket and smiled. Trust.

The second set was even better; Vic and Tristana tag-teaming the crowd as he fed her back the cash in ever-increasing quant.i.ties and she pushed her own considerable s.e.xual repertoire to the limit, all with astonis.h.i.+ng results. The bar grew even more packed: men began streaming through the door in droves, driven by an unseen impulse. Like cattle to the slaughter, like lemmings toward the cliffs of their collective desire, it was as if they could smell the charge from blocks away, knew instinctively that this was the place they needed to be. While up on the runway, Tristana whirled and gyrated, pus.h.i.+ng psychic b.u.t.tons they never even dreamed existed.

Vic hung back, sending her the subtlest of cues, picking each successive mark with a nod and a glance. Thoroughly enjoying himself, and the show. Completely in awe of her power.

All the while seeing a new world unfurl in his mind.

By the middle of the third set, Tristana had raked in close to six hundred dollars, and she was riding high: strutting up and down the runway in complete control, crossing into other dancers' kill zones at will, exerting her utter dominion over all. The crowd hooted and roared and drank with abandon; the other girls grumbled and gave way, trading knife-edged glances even as they yielded her ground. The management counted the profits and happily turned a deaf ear to their complaints.

The hours unfolded, wending inexorably toward closing time and the fulfillment of their hearts' desires. Vic had never felt quite so happy. He decided he would ask her to come away with him tonight, felt certain of her reply. Tristana was tough, and as such, she was unused to exposing herself emotionally. But love is willing vulnerability, under any other name; and she didn't have to say a word for him to know she loved him, too. The look in her eyes said it all.

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