The Best Bad Dream (6 page)

Oh, Jesus, she was heading right for him.

“Hi,” she said to him in a voice barely above a whisper. Like a sexy actress in a commercial.

“Hi,” he croaked back at her. Then he cleared his throat. Man, he had to do better than that, for God's sake. He sounded like a bullfrog with a throat infection.

“You're Kevin Harper, right?” she said.

“Guilty,” he said. He'd heard somebody cool like a spy on TV say that once, and it had sounded so, what, suave? But when Kevin said it, well, it just sounded . . . literal, like, “Yeah, you caught me. I'm guilty even talking to you.” He tried for a cool smile then but felt like only one corner of his mouth had turned up, which probably made him look like a retard.

“I'm Vicki Hastings, the new librarian. I saw you playing lacrosse the other day.”

Kevin knew he was supposed to come back with something sort of modest, yet hip, but all that came out of his mouth was, “Oh.”

Now Vicki Hastings leaned down on the table on her elbows, which accentuated her wonderful cleavage. He told himself not to look but it was impossible, and he found himself staring down at the two most beautiful adult woman breasts he had ever seen. Okay, they were the only
live
female adult breasts he had ever seen, but so what? Christ, her skin was so creamy, so smooth, and he could even see the top of one nipple. Man, he was harder than ever.

“You scored the winning goal,” she said, smiling at him with the whitest teeth he could imagine.

“Just got lucky,” he said. (That sounded better.)

She smiled even wider and her eyes danced as she stared into his.

“Uh-huh,” she said. “I saw the whole play. You lost the ball but instead of giving up, you went back after that guy, a much bigger guy than you, too, and you took the ball back from him, and then
dodged, what was it, three guys? And then you scored. That was amazing.”

He could feel her hot breath in his face, and he could see her breasts, and hear her voice, and it was all like being drunk, like the first time he had ever gotten loaded driving around with his buddies, hanging out at In-N-Out, drinking beer and whiskey shooters, and then all of a sudden he was goofy and happy. Yeah, it was sort of like that but it was better than that, because of the breasts and the breath, and the way she was now reaching over and touching his hand.

“
You
were amazing,” she said.

“Thanks,” he replied, letting her hand rub against his own.

“Thank you for making the game so great,” she said.

“You a lacrosse fan?” he asked, suddenly finding his stride. If he could talk about sports he'd be okay.

“Oh, yes,” she said. “I played in college. Of course, girls lacrosse isn't like the real thing. You can't check sticks like the boys do. You can't throw body blocks at people's legs, either.”

Kevin smiled.

She looked at him and her tongue flicked at the edge of her lips.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Nothing. Just thinking how sexy girls look in their lacrosse uniforms. The short little plaid miniskirts.”

Now she smiled in a way that made Kevin suck in his breath.

“Really?” she said. “You like that, do you? How about the leather gloves and the sticks themselves? When they cradle the ball, don't you find that kind of phallic?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Kevin said.

Oh, Jesus, if he'd had any doubts before about where this was going that phallic bit pretty much ended them.

“Where'd you go to college?” Kevin asked, his voice breaking again.

“I went to Amherst,” she said. “It's in New England.”

She slipped into a chair and was now sitting across from him.

“That must be a great school,” Kevin said.

“Oh, it was a good school,” Vicki Hastings said. “But kind of boring, too. They said it was a serious place but I found it to be a lot of suburbanites. People who had money, and whose parents played it safe. Most of them will end up being middle managers.”

She said “middle managers” as though she was saying something obscene. And Kevin found himself agreeing with her, though he wasn't quite sure what a middle manager was or what one did. He got the idea though . . . scared little people who lived harried little lives. Nothing like his dad, who put himself on the line for his country, and nothing like him either, he hoped.

“I hate people who don't go for it. Don't you, Kevin?”

“I guess so, yeah,” Kevin said.

“That's what appealed to me so much about the way you play lacrosse. When you lost the ball you didn't just sulk, you reacted like . . . like . . .”

Kevin found himself leaning toward her now, intoxicated once again by her smell and the hazy, sexual look in her eyes.

“Like what?” he asked.

“Like an animal,” Vicki said. “You went after him with the ferocity of a cat, a leopard maybe, defending his turf.”

Kevin laughed.

“You're very dramatic, aren't you?” he said.

She blushed and looked a little shocked that he'd called her on it.

“I guess I am. But I can't help it. I feel like it's the only way to be. I mean, if you're not, you just turn into some, some . . . old person.”

“That will never happen to you,” Kevin said.

She smiled and pursed her lips.

“That's sweet of you to say,” she answered, “but I'm getting older every day. I look around this library and see all the gorgeous young girls and I feel ancient!”

“No way,” Kevin said. “That's silly.”

She reached over and lightly touched his cheek.

“That's so sweet, coming from you, a man of action.”

Kevin felt heat in his cheeks. A man of action. He'd never thought of himself as a man at all. In fact he had started to worry during the last few years if he would ever become a real man. Like his old man or Grandpop Wade. They were real men. He remembered the story about how his grandpop had been in a freighter that sank; he was out in the water with sharks, and everyone else panicked, but Wade kept everyone cool by singing songs and making jokes until the Coast Guard came and fished everyone out. And, of course, Dad . . . the things he'd gone through were amazing. And he never ever bragged about it. Like those actors and phony athletes on TV, talking about hitting a homer, or catching a pass . . . God, Dad did things that made those guys look like the egotistical jerks they were.

Both Wade and Dad had had so many women come after them. And unlike Kevin, they knew just how to handle things, the right things to say, and how to hold your body so you'd look cool. Like exactly the opposite of the way he was holding his body now, all stiff and goofy looking.

A man of action. That was a laugh.

And yet she was staring at him now and there was something in her eyes, something overwhelming, like . . . like what he'd heard about in movies and on TV. Desire. He could see it. Feel it.

Unless . . . unless this whole thing was a joke. Maybe that's what it was. The guys on the team had set this all up with her and a minute
from now they were all going to run out and yell, “You're punked, Kevin. We gotcha!” That was it, had to be.

“Hey, it's been good talking to you, Ms. Hastings,” Kevin said, “but I gotta go now.”

“I know,” she said. “But I'll be done here in a few minutes. Why don't I give you a ride home?”

“Hey,” he said, “I wouldn't want you to go out of your way or anything.”

“It's not out of my way. I live just a couple of blocks from you.”

He stopped then, turning away from her so he could hide his erection by pulling his shirttail out.

“You know where I live?” he asked.

She smiled.

“Don't worry,” she said. “I'm not stalking you. I happen to drive by your house every day on my way here. I've seen you outside, too, when I'm coming home from Ralphs with my groceries. You might as well come with me. We can talk some more.”

“Yeah,” Kevin said. “Okay, if you don't mind.”

She smiled at him in a way that told him that she wouldn't like anything better. Then she went back to the librarian's desk.

Her car was out in the parking lot, in the corner near a big ficus tree. The branches hovered over the hood of the car, a ten-year-old Thunderbird, bright blue, with porthole windows and a sleek low look that reminded Kevin of an era he'd only read about, the world of the fifties and early sixties when America was the greatest power in the world and no one would have dared send planes into our buildings.

“This is such a cool car,” Kevin said as he opened the door and slipped inside, onto the cool leather seat.

“I know. I love it,” she said. “And I got it cheap just two months ago.”

“From where?” Kevin asked. Here in the two-seater car he felt overwhelmed by their intimacy. It was like the car was a magical carriage and they were going on some kind of fantastic journey together. He told himself not to think that way, that she was a librarian, for God's sake, and that she was an adult and probably married to the guy in the leather jacket he'd seen at the Brentwood game. But just the same, here in the car, with her perfume and her body so close to him . . . He was only inches away from touching her . . . his left hand had to maybe move three inches to touch her breast . . .

“I got the car from a friend, a fellow librarian, believe it or not. An older man who is sort of an admirer of mine . . . nothing sexy, just a friend, if you know what I mean.”

“What about your husband?” Kevin asked, feeling a sudden panic cutting through his chest.

“What about him?” she countered.

“Doesn't he get jealous if some guy is giving you a car?”

“Oh, no,” she said. “You misunderstand, Kevin. I paid for the car. It's just that my friend gave me a very good price on it. My husband liked that very much.”

She smiled and turned the key and the engine roared to life. She hit reverse and backed out fast, then slid a little as she turned to head to the street.

Kevin laughed.

“You drive like a teenager,” he said.

“I know,” she said. “Watch this.”

She stepped on the pedal and the T-Bird shot forward down Culver Boulevard. When she got to the light she made a sharp turn and hit the pedal harder; by the time they'd hit Venice Boulevard they were
doing seventy-five. Then, without warning, she hit the brakes and the car skidded to a perfect stop at the red light.

“Wow,” Kevin said, “you really know how to handle it.”

She took a right and suddenly turned into a darkened parking lot at an abandoned hamburger place called Ruby's.

Then she downshifted, and drove the car slowly behind the restaurant, under some electric wires.

“Where are we going?” Kevin asked.

She stopped the car, and in a husky voice said, “Come here, Kevin. And be very quiet. No talking in the library.”

She turned to him and kissed him with those pink lips and Kevin put his arms around her and seconds later his tongue was in her mouth.

She ran her hands through his hair and moved her mouth to his neck, biting and kissing him, driving him crazy.

Then she put his right hand on her breast and told him to pinch her nipple, hard. He did it, in a daze, stunned out of his mind.

She groaned and put her hand on his cock, squeezing it and making some kind of animal sound he'd never heard before. And then her head was down in his lap and she was unzipping his Levi's and Kevin felt as though he would burst. Not only his cock but his brain, his heart ... all of it would burst, be blown apart . . . and he heard himself making noises similar to hers, groans of pleasure that sounded as though they came from outside of him.

And then her head was rocking back and forth on his cock and Kevin held her head in his hands and felt totally mad for her and knew that he could never, ever let this stop.

Never.

No matter what.

Chapter Nine

Was it the next day? The same night?

In her cell, Jennifer didn't have a clue.

She had finally fallen asleep, then wakened, then slept again . . . for who knew how long?

The truth was, she was in shock. It was just too hard to believe. She couldn't be here, she just couldn't . . . but the sounds of a rat running across the floor at the end of the hall convinced her it was all too real.

She was caught, trapped, and could think of no reason why. Maybe a lunatic had done it. Yeah, what was she thinking? Of course, it had to be a lunatic, and she knew the one. That Lucky Avila. Of course. He was pissed at Michelle and her because they wouldn't let him have his way with them. That had to be it.

Jesus, the guy was off his rocker on methedrine. That was the deal, had to be. He was going to keep her here, scare the shit out of her . . . and maybe . . . God, maybe rape her.

And if he raped her, then he could never let her go. He'd have to ... God, she didn't want to think about it. Shit.

Do not panic! Do not freak out!

She took three deep breaths and let the air out slowly as she had been taught when studying yoga.

Chill. There had to be a way out.

And though part of her just wanted to lie there and cry, she wouldn't give in. Oh, no, she was going to battle. If it
was
Lucky Avila, he was going to be in for the fight of his life.

The first thing she had to do was find out if there was a way out of the cell. How did they do it in movies she had seen? Try to remember . . . Oh, right, the hero always looked up in the ceiling and found a loose tile. Then he climbed up there and got into an air duct and cruised right along until he found a way outside.

Jennifer got up and looked at the ceiling. It didn't take long before her hopes in that direction were dashed. There were no loose tiles because there were no tiles, period. The ceiling was concrete. She'd have one hell of a time getting through there. Maybe . . . maybe she could take the leg off of her bed and whack at the cement. Yeah, and maybe the guard would hear her and come down and dash her head against the wall.

What else? The toilet . . . wait, didn't she see a movie about a guy who dug out under his toilet and created a trench, which led to sewer lines?

No, that was wrong. She was conflating two movies. One was the
The Great Escape,
where they dug under the fence at the prison camp, and the other was
Trainspotting,
where a junkie dove into a toilet and swam into a cesspool.