Sex (16 page)

Just move a little closer… A little closer, you disgusting rapist misogynist asshole.

“Now, I can't decide,” Casper said, leaning closer to her. “What should we start with? I mean, should we start with a kiss? Or should I just shove this gun in your mouth?”

She should have been supremely repulsed by his suggestion, but she was too busy reveling in the familiar fizz of prebattle concentration. If there was any fear or paranoia still running through her system, it had taken a much needed hiatus at this moment.

A kiss. What a perfect suggestion. That would bring him close enough for sure. “Kiss,” Gaia uttered, drawing a mental x on the center of his forehead.

“Yeah, I thought you might say that.” He smiled. He jabbed the gun in her stomach again and leaned forward.

As Casper leaned closer, Gaia leaned her head back.

“What are you doing?” he complained. “Don't you get scared on me, now.”

Perfect. Don't move. Stay right there.
“Actually, I'm not scared,” she said, leaning her head back just a tad farther. “I just like precision.”

Gaia launched her head forward like a slingshot, connecting dead center with the front of Casper's head. His head snapped back like a crash test dummy's as his whole body flew back about three feet, landing with an ear-shattering collision in the pile of old wooden oars. A split second after the vicious head butt, she immediately ducked low to the ground as the two meatheads fired off their guns in a panic, shooting bullets into each other's shoulders at practically point-blank range, sending them both flailing back and to the ground. Maybe now they'd learn never to sandwich a target.

With all three completely out of commission, Gaia leaped forward, snagging Casper's gun from the floor and rolling toward him, popping up right over his sprawled-out body. She reached down and grabbed his collar, making sure to snag as much chest hair as possible as she lodged the barrel of the gun deep into his mouth.

“Auugh!” he whimpered, flailing his arms with a look of absolute terror in his eyes. “Auugh.” That was what the word
no
sounded like with a gun in your mouth.

Gaia could feel every ounce of predatory aggression coursing through her veins. She had never in her life killed a man in anything other than pure self-defense. Certainly not in cold blood. It went against every lesson in the
Go Rin No Sho.
It went against every ounce of her inherent morality. But this absolute waste of human tissue, this platinum-streaked, leather-clad troglodyte… he wasn't really a
man
per se. He
was more of a
species.
A species of Skizzes and CJs.

Human impediments. That was their sole purpose in life. To make it impossible for people to move forward in their lives—to recover lives they might have lost along the way or lives they didn't even know they were entitled to living. It was really no different than what Loki had done to her. As long as Loki was alive, Gaia would be forced to continue her life sentence without the possibility for contentment or normalcy. And that was precisely the case with all the Skizzes and Caspers of the world. As long as they existed, the Marys and Gens of the world never really stood a chance. It was a most convincing argument for the complete extinction of this particular species.

With these thoughts coursing so strongly and definitely in her head, she found her thumb pulling back on the hammer of the gun and driving the barrel that much deeper down his throat.

“Auugh,” he cried again much more urgently, pushing his hands uselessly against her shoulders as she held him to the ground. “Auugh” She wondered how many women had pushed against his shoulders crying “no” with utter futility. Certainly enough to justify ending his pathetic life. He shouldn't be living. There was no reason for him to live. Her index finger caressed the trigger and began to squeeze….

But she wasn't going to kill him. Because unfortunately, she wasn't a murderer. She just wanted to be sure he was listening.

“Listen to me now,” she ordered, “because we are going to make an agreement.”

“Ehggh,” he replied with a desperate nod. That was “yes” with a gun in your mouth.

“You will
never,
I repeat,
never
go near Gen again, do you understand? You will leave this park, and you will leave this city, and you will
never
again put your freaking hands on a woman. And you will never again sell drugs to another human being. Do you understand my conditions?”

“Ehggh,” he uttered, nodding emphatically.

“If you break any of these conditions,” she said, “I will not hesitate to kill you. I made that mistake once before, and believe me, I will
not
make it again. And keep in mind…” She turned behind her and fired off two quick shots, severing each braided rope from about fifteen feet away, sending the sailboat that had been hanging from the ceiling falling to the ground. It landed directly on top of his two wounded buddies as she turned back to him. “I have very good aim.”

She popped the barrel of the gun and let the bullets spill out, stepping over Casper's body as she crammed the gun in the back of her jeans. One quick step on the life jackets and she was through the window, back in the deceptively idyllic fields of Central
Park. She called out for Gen a few times, but she was obviously long gone. Which was a real shame. Gaia was very anxious to tell her the news: that she'd just been given the very thing that Mary Moss would never have. A second chance.

Gaia didn't want to know what kind of crap her freaky fake mom was up to every night-strip clubs? Late night bingo?

adrenaline button

HEATHER HAD BEEN INSECURE ABOUT almost every aspect of her life at one point or another. With the exception of her appearance. Her beauty was the one thing that had seemed almost universally irrefutable. Whether at school, at camp, on a bike trip through Europe, even a day of community service, it was always clear within the first three minutes that she would be ranked, if not number one, then at least in the top three of any female population. Even the people who hated her most had never suggested that she wasn't attractive.

Fishnet Stockings

This rare bit of unshakable security also carried over to her taste—her ability to pick the outfit that simply
worked,
that couldn't be faulted even by insecure competitive women or fashion-concious gay men.

But tonight… God help her, she just wasn't sure. That was the awe-inspiring power of Josh Brown.

She'd e-mailed him that she had already picked out her dress, when of course that wasn't true. How could it be true? Only in preparing for this date had she realized how many variations on a black dress she had amassed in just the last two seasons. And with the exception of the two totally unrevealing ones (for funerals and one-on-one dinners with her father) she had tried on every single one.

Ultimately, after much very serious consideration, she had decided that this very important evening called for something just a little more than sexy. Tonight Heather had decided to go just a wee bit… trashy. A risky choice, yes. It wouldn't be right for just any occasion, but her instincts had never failed her before.

A full-force minidress. That was the decision. Low-cut top, formfitting middle, hanging just below the butt. And for sex kitten flavor… fishnet stockings. Classic, yet bold. But was she sure? This was what she'd been debating for the last five minutes after ducking into the ladies' room at Guernica before she'd even sat down to dinner. Was she absolutely sure it was the right choice? Would it turn him on without losing her an ounce of his respect?

Only his reaction could answer that question. That was how bad it had gotten. That was her degree of security when it came to Josh.

She applied one last lipstick touch-up, flipped around for one quick visible panty-line check, and that was that. She'd made her choices. She'd done all she could do. The rest was in the hands of fate… and Josh Brown. She finally tore herself away from the mirror and headed out to receive her score.

Guernica was small, but it was chock-full of undeniably cool people creating a din of hyperanimated urban cultural conversation. All the waiters' trays were overloaded with cosmopolitans and various martinis,
and there was a general rumble of funk and soul music coming from the bar/dance floor downstairs. Heather's heart had begun racing halfway down Third Street, but by now she could almost hear it pounding as she searched between the thick crowd of shoulders and hairstyles for signs of Josh—as in spiky black hair, a pair of neon blue eyes, or a smile that seemed to have a life of its own.

And three tables in, sitting at a table for two against the wall that led to the kitchen, he finally appeared to her, his perfectly sculpted face lit up by warm golden candlelight as he sipped a glass of amber beer.

She wondered for a moment if
he
had maybe felt it necessary to take a little extra time in the mirror tonight. Maybe a little extra gel on the sides or perhaps the testing out of several shirts. But just observing the way he sipped his beer and the way he leaned his elbow on the table, she had a feeling that just the opposite was true. She had a feeling that the gorgeously tailored shirt he was wearing was simply the first shirt he'd seen in his closet. And that the touch of gel in his hair that seemed to make him shine that much more had simply been thrown on as an afterthought when he got out of the shower. There seemed to be not the slightest bit of effort involved. He was, without an ounce of awareness, perfect.

She walked a few steps closer, heart now pulsing somewhere in her throat, and waited patiently for him to notice her. And when his face drifted up from his glass of beer… he noticed. He noticed in such a way as to leave her with no other choice but to fall in love with him permanently.

His eyes froze over with that certain Spielbergian childlike wonder, as if some heavenly white alien light had just shone in his eyes for the first time. “Oh my God,” he uttered. “Oh, my sweet, sweet Lord.”

Yes. Thank you. Thank you all. I knew this was the right choice. I knew it.
She matched his childlike wonderment with a shy smile of her own and took her seat.

“You look…” Josh gave up on words and just slowly shook his head.

“My party dress,” she offered humbly, turning out her hands ever so slightly to officially present herself.

“Yes,” he declared with a nod. “Yes. That is your party dress. That is just…” He returned to the shaking of his head. “I'm just… I'm so glad we didn't go to Starbucks.”

Heather laughed a too loud laugh, quickly realizing just how overwhelmingly nervous she was. Every time his eyes swept over her, it was like he was pressing some kind of adrenaline button on the back of her neck that made her whole body just want to spin and spin until
she'd worked out all the excess energy.

It was another minute or so before she even realized there was a pink drink sitting right in front of her. “What's this?” she asked excitedly.

“I ordered you a drink,” he said, still staring at her with hypnotic awe. “I hope you don't mind.”

“What is it?” She smiled.

“It's the specialty of the house,” he said. “The Pink Poodle.”

“Well that was very
sweet,”
she cooed. “But I should warn you. After about two sips of alcohol… I can't be held accountable for my actions. You'll have to take care of me, okay?”

Josh locked his overpowering blue gaze on her, sending a flush of heat through her face. “I would be
honored
to take care of you,” he said, bringing Heather's pounding heart flying up to somewhere around her chin. “But if you don't want this drink, that's totally—”

“No, I trust you.” She giggled, grabbing the cocktail off the table quickly. She hadn't meant to appear quite so desperate, but she was absolutely dying for something to calm the volcanic jitters in her stomach. She took a careful sip of the drink and found it to be quite possibly the most delicious thing she had ever tasted—she couldn't even taste the slightest hint of alcohol. “Mmm,” she said with a smile. “Excellent choice.”

“Why,
thank you,”
he replied with the inflection of the world's most debonair gentleman.

The humor of his response trickled off, suddenly leaving the two of them in a long, silent eye lock that doubled the jitters in Heather's stomach. She quickly took two more large gulps of the sugary drink, realizing she'd practically finished it already.

“Uh-oh,” Josh said, flashing her his breathtaking grin. “I think you just passed your two-sip limit.”

“I know,” she squeaked with embarrassment, looking down at the nearly empty glass.

“Well …?” he inquired with a chuckle. “Are you drunk yet?”

Heather paused to check her body for an honest answer.
“Plastered,”
she said with a laugh, dropping her face in her hands as Josh began to giggle. “I
told
you, it's ridiculous!” She looked up and darted her eyes quickly to her left and right, leaning her face in much closer to his with a naughty smile. “Can I have another?”

THE PHONE'S SHRILL RING WOKE Gaia from another deeply unsatisfying semisleep—the only kind she'd been capable of outside of Ed's bed. She rolled her fully clothed body over the bit of sheet still on the bed and squinted at the time.

Perfect Sleep

1
A.M.
Who the hell is calling me at 1
A.M.?
Oh God, Ed, please don't do this. Don't start calling me at all hours of the morning, or I swear to God, I'll crack.

The ring was never ending and more irritating by the second. Whoever it was, they had no intention of giving up. Tatiana raised her perfectly coifed head off her pillow and complained from across the room. “Who is this?” she croaked angrily, obviously awoken from a perfect sleep that matched her perfect hair and her perfect little silk jammies.