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Serial Fiction from Anne Tourney |
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Episode Two Joel knows the answers to that question; they are spread in front of him like steaming platters at an all-you-can-eat buffet. You arrive right after the doors open, and all you see are the succulent lips, the flawlessly clear eyes, the smooth thighs and the untouched paradise between them. You don't think about whether this food is going to nourish or destroy you, because it's so fresh and hot that you're going to leap on it no matter what the consequences. Joel would have devoured her, too. Wouldn't he? Holding the photo at arm's length, Joel tries to place himself in that room. The girl leans back against the headboard of a bed, her legs splayed open like the limbs of a deer skidding on ice. Pitch-dark eyes burn straight through him. Her pussy gapes, its ragged petals glistening. Joel is hard, though he doesn't want to be. Joel reaches for the phone. He tries to dial a number, but the buttons are slippery, like buttons in a nightmare, and it takes him three tries to get through to Carly. "Hello? Who's this?" Carly's voice sounds blurred-by fatigue, wine, tears, or all three. Joel can't tell. For once he doesn't ask. "It's me. Can you come over?" "God, yes. I'll jump in the teleporter." "It's not that urgent. But could you get here soon?" "I'm halfway into my sweater. See you soon." Carly hangs up. Joel must have caught her and Phillip in the middle of one of their hopeless discussions. He's sat in on a few of these before. After half an hour of sitting in on that floundering relationship, Joel could feel sweat beading on his forehead. Forty-five minutes, and the sweat turned to blood. But tonight Carly will be coming to him alone. The thought of her makes his pulse slow down. If the appleskin scent of her body and the slow lilt of her voice could be condensed and bottled, there'd be no more market for pharmaceutical sedatives. Carly will put this whole thing in perspective. She'll take one look at the letter and declare its author insane. When you see how I am now, you'll see how your father changed me. I'll put you up in the room where Rick made love to me. You'll get to spend the night with our ghosts. But if that's too much for you, I can put you in any room you want. The motel is mine now. The woman must be nuts, to think that Joel would go to see her in some godforsaken country motel. She looks half loca in that photograph. Though he's read her letter three times, he can't figure out what she wants. Hidden between those lines (when was the last time a woman sent him a letter written longhand?) lie a multitude of possible desires. Either she wants to fuck him or kill him-that's the best he can figure out. She says that her name is Donna Maria Santos. She read his profile in the Chronicle, recognized his name and face. She knew his father, or so she claims. That could be a lie, of course. Joel's agent has already warned him that his book could draw a few freaks out of the corners. Journalists always have enemies: political, professional, personal. More likely, the woman-- if the writer was a woman -- was a random lunatic. The girl in the photo was probably a stranger, or the writer herself at a more alluring age. The print was curling at the edges, and the girl's hair was cut in a long heavy metal shag, a style Joel hasn't seen since the eighties. Joel's gut tightens. In the eighties, Rick Conti went into a mid-life landslide. He decided to reconnect with his native culture, to travel across the West taking photos of old motels. Rick always had a thing about old motels; he preferred any kind of transient shelter to the middle-class bungalow he shared with his family in San Mateo. So he had driven off in the old station wagon to spend six weeks shooting dumpy motor inns. Joel remembers the month-September-because he had just started high school. Maybe that milestone was what had spurred his father to leave, not the rich cast of the early autumn light. The article was never written. Joel never even saw the photos, although his father sent corny postcards of reptile museums and sky-high cowboys. The postcards continued until October. Then, without warning, Joel's father announced that he was leaving the States again. I need to go to South America, said Rick, mumbling something about a crisis, a coup, a story. Joel's mother didn't mind the sudden change of plans; over the years she'd grown used to his departures. But Joel caught a note in his father's voice that sounded newly familiar. His need rose straight from his cock. I need to go to South America because there's a woman I want to fuck, and I want to fuck her there. Rick never would have said that to his teenage son, but his urgency hissed through the phone line like a whispered confession in a church. At gut level, Joel could understand the impulse to take a woman to a faraway place and make love to her in new surroundings. But why this particular girl? And why South America? And why didn't anything ever come of that trip? No story, no photos, only a deep, deliberate silence. "Joel? What's up?" Carly is walking through the kitchen, her flip-flops slapping on the linoleum. She has her own key to Joel's apartment. Two years ago he went to Los Angeles to attend his father's memorial service. He gave Carly his spare key so she could stay in his apartment if she needed a break from Pacific Heights. She never returned the key; he never asked for it back. Joel hugs his friend, inhaling her apple scent like the fragrance from a mug of tea. He feels her firm, warm body under the layered sweaters, and his cock stirs. Carly's clothing is schizophrenic-beneath all that wool, she's clad in a flimsy cotton skirt and a pair of beach sandals. Joel has secretly analyzed this tendency of hers. From the waist up, she's bundled up as tight as a mummy. From the waist down, she's wide open . . . but not to him. "This came in the mail today." In Carly's neat fingers, the letter looks less threatening. Just a couple of sheets of stationery, smelling of stale cigarette smoke. After reading half a page, Carly turns toward the window, to catch the light of the setting sun. Her blonde hair falls in a straight, fine curtain across her face. Joel can't see her expression, but he can tell by the soft motions of her jaw that she's chewing her lower lip. "Well? What do you think?" "I'm not finished." "But you've read the first page. Do you think she's mental?" Carly's frown deepens. Joel hates the wrinkle that bisects her forehead when she frowns; he always wants to reach out with his finger (sometimes, in strange moods, with his tongue) to smooth the groove away. Joel relies so much on Carly's composure that it scares him. His addiction to her strength is the only thing that's kept him from trying to be her lover, but it's never kept him from wanting to fuck her. Especially when she's standing in his kitchen, with the light slanting off the Bay and straight through her skirt, illuminating the shadow between her thighs, and he's longing to know what it would feel like and smell like to be sitting there in that musky cotton tent. He hid the photograph in its envelope before Carly came over, not wanting to distract her from the letter's message. But perhaps the photograph is the letter's message, and the handwriting is just a veil. "Wait," he says, retrieving the picture from the envelope. "There's this, too." Carly takes the photograph. She stares at it for a long moment. Her eyes wander back to the letter, but are soon drawn to the image again, as if she recognized the subject. Watching her, Joel finds himself getting aroused-the contrast of Carly's calm pale face with the wild dark gaze of the girl in the picture sets his groin on fire. The two of them together. In his mind the shades and textures of their skin play against each other; their moans blend in a muted duet. Strands of coarse black hair intermingle with fine blonde. Carly's finely etched mouth meets the puffy lips of the woman in the photograph. Joel squeezes his temples with his thumb and forefinger. The lewd image fades. He looks up to find Carly watching him. A frown still shadows her face. "So? What do you think?" "You need to go," Carly says. "Are you joking?" Carly shakes her head. "What am I supposed to do for her?" "Find out what she wants." "She either wants blood or money. Or someone to play along with a delusion. I don't want to help her out in any of those areas." "I don't think she wants to hurt you. If she read that article, she can't possibly believe that she'll get any money out of you. And I don't think she's crazy." "Then what's her problem?" Joel grabs the letter from Carly's hands and shakes the pages, as if to force their true content to spill out. "I'm going to take care of this the easy way. I'm going to call this woman and find out over the telephone." Joel dials the number on the business card. He avoids Carly's eyes as he waits for the woman on the other end of the line to pick up. Three rings. Four. Five. The ringing goes on and on. The office can't be all that busy. They probably don't have any guests. Hitchcock taught the public to steer clear of rural motels run by lunatics. Finally Joel hangs up. "Okay, I tried. There's nothing I can do for this woman, anyway. She read the article; she knows my father's dead. That should make her happy." "Obviously it doesn't." "Look, I don't need to see this Donna Maria, if that's her real name. I don't owe her anything. Why are you pushing it?" With the tip of her slim finger, Carly traces interlocking circles on the countertop. Her doodles are always abstract, but sensual. Feminine. Joel has never asked her about her private fantasies, but he has always wondered what she thinks about when she's alone at night, or in the bathtub, or lying in the hammock in her garden. "I'm pushing it because I don't think you'll be able to forget her now. I won't, either." Carly's eyes meet Joel's. Her gaze is oblique, but her lips are slightly parted. Through the soft opening, Joel hears the rush of her breath. "I want to go with you," she says.
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| continued/ previous chapters | |
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12.07.06: Scarlet Letters -- in case it isn't glaringly obvious -- is currently
on an extended hiatus. The web has changed, we've changed, and
we're trying to figure out how we both fit together now, which isn't a process we want to rush. If you're looking for more current SL-related content, you can
have check out upcoming books from editor Heather Corinna and previous co-editor Hanne Blank, check out Heather's current sexuality sites, or explore sites through the femmerotic network. We hope to be back with you soon, as fresh, challenging and
unexpected as ever.
In the meantime, by all means, enjoy our years of past content,
all of which still remain in the public and subscription areas.
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