17 comments/ 12042 views/ 11 favorites F5: A Mile By: AMoveableBeast Upon the table lay three items: a handkerchief, a book, and a knife. The money came next. He laid it right on the motel bible--which sat in the middle of the other two items, a paper shield between cloth and steel--one twenty dollar bill after another until it added up to three hundred: two hundred for the night, fifty for the handkerchief, and another fifty for the knife. A condom completed the ensemble. Still in its shiny wrapper, it looked a little like a silver dollar sitting next to the cash. She should have been charging more for the knife. Fucking edgeplay. One nick and she'd add on another fifty. It was likely she'd have to. This guy seemed excitable. She hated excitable. She reached out to take the money off the book and the man slapped his hand down on top of hers, pinning her palm against the bible, like he was swearing her to the deal. "After," he said. There was no tremble in his voice, no wavering bit of hesitation. She was not his first hooker. God, how she preferred the amateurs, the tourists. This man was neither. But she already knew that. Had known it by the boots. He took them off now, slowly and without nervousness. He didn't kick out of his footwear and scamper to her as so many did; he savored the process. The laces seemed thick and sticky in his fingers, little cords of rope that he pulled and untwisted. A circle of dirt had formed around the carpet under his shoes, kicked off from the motion of removing them. The boots were fucking filthy. Unapologetically so. As soon as he released her hand, she began backing away from him without realizing it, and was only made aware by the cool, unexpected firmness of the footboard pressing into the exposed skin on the back of her thighs. She flinched at the contact and let out a little gasp. It was hard to tell with his face bent down to look at what he was doing, but she swore she could see him smirk a little at her fear. Fucking boots. She knew this man, even though she had never met this particular incarnation. A girl like her, in her line of work, was familiar with his walk, his sole, the feel of his tread against her throat. She'd recognized him, what he was, even from all the way across the street. She'd been leaning against the street lamp idly, one hand holding a dimly burning cigarette, the other smoothing out the ruffles in her too-tight dress. The outfit was black and patterned with a cherry design. Men liked that image, liked the contradiction. It barely came down past the top of her thighs. No need to leave much to the imagination. They didn't want a mystery. They wanted something they could understand, something they could rip open and play with like a poorly-wrapped birthday present, the kind you didn't even have to rattle it to know what it was. The man across the street was eyeing her with just that sort of gaze. He looked at her in that encompassing way, the way that said he already knew her, the way someone looked at a familiar restaurant menu, not so much actually evaluating the product so much as judging his own mood. Did he feel like having a "her" today? It was ok. She knew him, too. She knew all of them. He had bad shoes. She always noticed the shoes first, before the face, before the fake smile, or the steadiness of the stride, always the shoes. She could tell how the whole deal would go down by the shoes the guy wore. Sneakers were the best, usually a kid, some guy fresh out of high school, or a drunken frat boy who'd struck out at a party and had just the right amount of liquor in him and enough of Daddy's cash in his pocket to pay for his pleasure. It was easy money, if there was such a thing in this business, and more enjoyable than most. Sometimes she had to stifle the giggles and hide her smirk with the Sneakers, watching them straddle her like broken chairs, teetering with nerves and alcohol. They had the cute eyes, part cock-sure and part apologetic, the eyes of a man who still felt the need to impress, who still sought the approval a woman like herself could provide, and provide she did, with enough urging and enough screaming the whole deed would usually be over in under a couple minutes. Apart from the kink she got in her neck from being fucked in a car, it really couldn't go any better. Loafers were okay as well, the more worn the better. Loafers were gentle. They tended to be older men, often balding, with the kind of walk that made them look shorter than they really were. Usually the white collar type, with fingers that tasted like ink, and smelling strongly of the kind of cologne a guy bought when he wanted to smell like what a commercial told him a cowboy smelled like. They were often married. Some took the ring off, some didn't. She liked it better when they took it off. The shame made them nicer, more respectful. Sometimes they even went down on her, as if they could somehow make amends to the woman they were promised to by giving some whore an orgasm. It was fucked-up logic, but people were fucked up. She always faked it when they did this. They sometimes gave tips when she faked it, and talked about how lucky they were to be with such a young, beautiful woman, something everyone involved knew wasn't true. Luck had nothing to do with it. You weren't lucky when you bought a particularly good slice of pizza from a street vendor. You were well-serviced. She was an excellent piece of pie. The ones who kept the ring on were angry. Not "smack you up a little" angry, but a kind of seething resentment. They had another air about them along with the faux cowboy scent, an air of entitlement, a belief that something, or more precisely someone, had driven them to this. They always wanted to do something different, something the little wife wouldn't allow. It could get bad. She could always feel the shift when it was going to go sour. They got this glazed look, this mask of concentrated perversion, like a pig routing through a pile of mud for an especially delicious truffle. They got desperate when this happened. Never dangerous desperate, but hard thrusts and lots of pawing. Sometimes they would call her the other woman's name. Afterward they would deflate and get this sick look on their face, as if they'd just hit a dog with their car. If she moved quickly she could clean up and get her money before the crying started. If not, she could find herself in the awkward, often time consuming, position of trying to comfort a sobbing married man about jabbing her in the most sensitive part of her body while screaming his wife's name. All the while, the clock was ticking. Johns were calling it a night, and she was playing pro bono psychiatrist with a guy she didn't know. If it went well, she could stanch the tears and get him hard enough for a quick handjob and another easy twenty. If it went poorly, he'd start pulling out pictures of kids and telling her about songs he found inspirational, and she'd lose an hour subbing in for Dr. Phil. All in all though, Loafers were a fair enough deal. This guy, however, this guy across the street, had boots. Boots were the pits. If anyone were going to hit you, it would be a man in boots. It didn't matter what kind, steel-toed, motorcycle, even hiking boots, they all meant power, and men who wanted to feel powerful were always the worst. Boots would take her to a motel almost every time, the dirtiest, cheapest one they could find, and buy out the rest of the night. They'd tell her to make herself comfortable after turning on the lights and watching the roaches scurry. They would sit on the edge of the bed, pat their laps and smile, call her nicknames like "baby girl" and "sugar pie", grab her wrist and twist just to see her shift. Guys who wore boots felt like the world owed them, that if not for some cruel twist of fate, that they would be president or a rock star or some shit. Most guys were in a hurry to turn off the lights after they undressed, but not Boots. Boots wanted her to see, wanted her to know what was going to be inside, wanted her to see every ripple of muscle and every curl of coarse hair. They wanted it rough. They knew she was a whore, and they wanted her to know it too. They would make her say it, make her say it over and over, make her scream how worthless she was, and how wonderful it was of them to even fuck a piece of trash like her. Then, when her voice was hoarse and her ego thoroughly shattered, they would start on her skin. Boots liked to choke, sometimes playfully at first like it was some big game, but then harder as they got into it. They would spit too, big long gobs of saliva mixing with sweat on her chest. Still, it was the pinching she liked the least, the way they grabbed the flesh around her shoulders, the way they called her fat for it, no matter how thin she might be, how they used her body like a handle, like they were some merciless drill press that had to hold her so tight or they might slip out. When they got close to the brink, they would start hitting, long smooth slaps, hard enough to rattle her teeth. They talked then too, but usually she was so dizzy from the slapping that she couldn't make much of anything out, and just when she thought she was going to lose it and start to cry, or just fade off, they would wrap both hands around her throat, tight, so tight, and squeeze. She knew they were finishing when this happened, she could sometimes see the look of rage on their faces between the black spots, and she just prayed that it was short. If she were lucky, it was, and he got off of her, smoked a cigarette, made small talk like they had just gone to prom together or something, and she got to stumble out of the room after getting her money, with him laying smoking on that bed, his eyes laughing the entire time. If not, he might not even be there when she came to, just an open door and maybe some muddy footprints. Standing there, back to the street light, leg raised ever so slightly, calf sliding across her shin, she could see everything about this one. The legs reaching out of the boots were longer than average, covered with denim and leading to a moderate waist that was cinched with a black belt. The shirt was tight, an off-white pseudo skin, straining just slightly over the beginnings of a burgeoning belly, the kind of bump that emerged on men who often spent too much time at the end of a bottle on the wrong side of forty. The shoulders were broad, but not exceptionally so. Not enough to make him feel special. He would want to feel bigger. She moved up ever so slightly to the face, nothing remarkable there, normal set and a tad harsh, with shag hair, a five o'clock shadow, and a forced grin. The smile always made her cringe, it was like they felt that if they showed enough teeth or planted their feet firmly enough, they could convince the world that they were something else, something other than a shell. They knew, though. They all knew. Yeah, Boots were the worst. She would have to charge this one extra. With the way they beat you sometimes you couldn't work for a couple of days, and bills didn't stop. Still, there was always the chance that he was different. Those boots were so loud when he walked up and asked, "How you doin' tonight, sugar pie?" He wasn't different, though. The hooker knew that then, and she knew it even more surely now in the too-bright fluorescent light of the Star Six Motel. The boots were off now, kicked into the corner, a trail of filth leading back to his muck-encrusted socks, and he was sitting on the chair next to the table with the bible and the knife and the handkerchief. And of course the money. Always the money. Almost handsome, though he had just started to slide down the other side of his prime, with big, dark eyes and strong features, he sort of resembled the guy on the Brawny towel package. He certainly looked at her like she was a mess he had to clean up, a colorful spill to be scrubbed away. "Lose the dress, Cherry." He named her, like a possession, an off-handed definition based on the pattern of her clothing to save himself from overusing "you". He believed he owned her now, because he had bought the time. "But keep the heels." The hooker did as she was told, pulling the dress over her head in what she hoped was a smooth motion. Boots could smell fear, like a shark scenting blood, it turned their eyes wide and white, brought out the back row of teeth. She had to keep her apprehension out of the current between them. Her purchaser gave no indication that he noticed, and only sat with his hands interlaced in front of him. In response to her nudity, he merely lifted one of his fingers for a brief instant and moved it in a circle. Knowing what he wanted, she spun around, slowly, in the unflattering glare of the overhead bulb and the supporting glow from the two side lamps, all of them a severe, artificial radiance. The room was crawling with light. It refracted off of the walls--originally white but yolk-yellow now from years of smoke--and clawed up her curves, poured over her hips and even pooled under her breasts. There was no escape from it. It was the worst kind of room to be naked in. She wondered if he'd picked it for just that reason. If he wanted her to feel ugly. Usually she didn't. Prostitutes learned nothing if not honesty from their trade. A hooker saw, in the course of a week, more truth than a priest saw in a month of Sundays. Forgiveness, while free, was taxing on the soul; acceptance, while expensive, was easy on the conscience. No one overlooked a man's flaws so easily as a woman whose survival depended on his generosity. People couldn't wait to whip open their closets and pay her to look at their skeletons. You learned a bit about what people kept in such spots, and about the contents of your own hidden places. Cherry--as she was now, a woman named for a dress, born under the fluorescent lights of the Star Six Motel, to live and die in the course of one by-the-hour night, swaddled and shrouded in the same scratchy bed sheets--was exceptionally forthright with herself, even for a whore. She wasn't gorgeous, few women really were, maybe none under the hot stares of hotel lamps and angry men with deep pockets, but neither was she hideous. People would have called her cute once, before time and too many hands had stolen such innocent descriptors from her. Now, with nice proportions and good genes, hampered by cruel nights and bad decisions, "fuckable" was probably the best adjective. In truth, she landed squarely in the middle between how unrealistically pretty hookers on television often were and how downright repulsive they usually were in actuality. A nice compromise of reality, available to rent, starting at twenty dollars. The man doing the renting didn't care about her appearance, however. He was after something more than flesh, deeper than skin. Men like him wanted to reach inside her and rip their own validation from her pain, like a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat. It was a trick, an illusion, but she always prayed that they'd pull it off. Some days she envied the rabbits. No one beat the shit out of the rabbit when the con failed. When her spinning was finished, he reached over and picked up the handkerchief. It was thin and plain white apart from an embroidered set of initials, "A.C.", set in red thread and crouched in one corner. She noticed it when he was putting down the money. His own name, maybe? Alex Chambers. Alan Crane. Anti-Christ. An ex-girlfriend, or even a current one? Alana Cunningham. Alice Cramble. Annie Cunt. It was impossible to ever know, but she couldn't help wondering. Hell, with the guys she got, it could have been his father's. People brought all the bones out for her. Boots held the cloth lightly in his fingers and pulled it back and forth from one hand to another. When he stretched it taut, he'd flip it a little each time, rolling it up like a rope. It took several minutes before it was tightly wound enough to serve its purpose. Cherry waited, trying to calm the growing squirm in her belly, trying to keep the crawling sensation from transforming into full-blown butterflies. Nervousness would only fuel the flames in his eyes, intensify the heat. When the handkerchief was ready, he nodded his head indicating that she should get on the bed. Showing a professionalism she didn't feel, the whore turned slowly, so that her ass and neatly trimmed pussy were facing him, and crawled up the bed, still in her high heels, until she reached the headboard. Cocking her head, she gave him what she hoped was a confident and seductive look. If she could make him want her enough, this would all go easier. If the look had any effect, the man hid it well. Without fuss, he rose from his chair and moved toward her. When he reached her head, he grabbed her by the hair and turned her so that she was on her back facing up. He wasn't rough, that would come later, just efficient. Her hair had simply been the most effective fulcrum from which to apply leverage. Cruel men were often effective; pragmatism and practicality were close cousins to callousness and insensitivity. Then, with no more apprehension than if he were tying his shoelaces, he looped the twisted cloth around both her wrists and tied them together. So much for easier. Walking back to the table, he picked up the condom between two fingers and the knife with both hands so that the point rested on the tip of his index finger and the handle was suspended between the thumb and fingers of his other hand. He began to spin this as well, leisurely, so that the metal glinted in the aggressive light of the hotel room. He shifted it to one hand momentarily and, with his other, unbuckled his belt and unfastened the snaps on his jeans. Easing out of them, and his boxers, with an languidness that belied the tension that had come into the room, his cock sprang up, ready and serviceable. Instead of ripping open the wrapper, he cut the edge of the Trojan package, slowly, like he was slitting a little silvered throat, extracted the contents and let the metallic husk fall to the floor. Looking at her the whole time, he rolled the rubber on, keeping the blade parallel with his dick. It was a fierce tool, a Buck knife, meant for skinning, not overly large as far as weapons were concerned, just a shade over six inches of steel with a solid handle and no frills. It wasn't fancy looking, being designed for function, for peeling layers and ripping flesh, getting to the things a man wanted and cutting away the things he didn't. An implement of pain. Just like his cock. Both of the them pointed straight at her. Naked from the waist down and now fully armed and armored, he started once more to twirl the knife as he began to walk toward her, the room reflected back at her, spinning and warped in the mirrored edge. He slid on top of her, covered her with himself. The soft cotton of his t-shirt rubbed against her nipples and his hair tickled the backs of her thighs as he settled in between her legs. The lights, harsh as ever, stayed on, of course, creating a halo behind his head, so bright that it shaded his rugged features. He was an avenging angel, full of judgement and absent of mercy. She could see every pore on his skin, the waving of the wispy black hairs on his neck and arms in the breeze of the overhead fan, little cilia testing the air, trying to soak her up. He smiled then, a slow curling thing without warmth. Even angels could be cruel. Had those sacred visitors to Sodom and Gomorrah given such a grin? It was hard to know. The bible stayed on the table, buried beneath the money. It always did. He pressed the knife against her throat, cool metal against warm skin. This part always frightened her. She knew, by this point, that she was in bed with a monster. But what kind? Some monsters fed on fear, others on blood. A whore's prayer was that she met mostly the first. F5: A Mile Far from a novice with the blade, he applied the pressure just right, kept the force on the flat, turned it only enough that she could barely feel the edge against her jaw. Adding force incrementally, he pushed slightly, until the knife was as firm as it could be without slicing. The metal was just on the outside of her, precariously placed so that she could feel the pulse from her carotid artery tapping against the chill of the steel. Knock, knock. Open up, it implored. And she did, for his other weapon. He impaled her with it in one quick, rough movement. Fear had dried her pussy as well as her mouth and the entry was far from smooth. Her walls attempted to repel the assault, clinging to him as he advanced, but he pierced her nonetheless. A grimace of pain brought a deep "mmmm" to his cold, smiling lips. He kissed her while her mouth was still parted in discomfort, a snowflake landing half on her exposed teeth. "That a girl. I know it's a lot." It wasn't, really, but she knew better than to say that. She'd had bigger and longer, smaller and shorter, dicks that were fat like coke cans, ones thin like reeds. Truth was, size didn't mean half of what men thought it did. You didn't need a baseball bat to swat a fly, and you didn't need a foot of dick to wreck a cunt. This man was enough. A switchblade could be as deadly as a battleaxe in the right hands. The man on top of her had murder in his heart. She could feel it, beating through the thin barrier of skin and cotton between them. If she were lucky, it would stay on the other side of the shirt. He pinched her nipple, threaded it between his fingers, softly at first, then cranked it, pulled up so that the rest of her tit jiggled as he did it. The pain distracted from the tightness in her pussy. She was grateful for that, at least. When she didn't cry out, he increased his pinching. She fought it for as long as she could, but eventually let out a little whine. The man chuckled. He was a real sonofabitch, this one. Least she was a little wet now. Nothing worse than dry-fucking a sadist. The hand not holding the knife moved up and down the side of her body, from the bottom of her thigh up to her shoulder. If she hadn't known better, she would have thought he was trying to caress her. It was the kneading that gave it away. He grabbed as he went, like someone in the grocery store feeling-up the produce, measuring the worth of his purchase. "You're not bad, sugar. A little on the heavy side, but still." She wasn't. If anything, she was a little underweight. Didn't matter. He wasn't really talking to her, just at her. Still, talking was a good sign. Talking meant there was a need. Sometimes that need was easy. Others....Maybe she could expedite this. Wrapping her legs around him, she moved her hands to the small of his back, up under his shirt, where a little patch of curly hair grew. It was a sensitive spot in a lot of guys. She called it the fingerboard. She could put her hands there sometimes, on certain men, and play them like a fiddle. Moaning, she arched her back and pushed her hips up to meet his cock, which was now slamming into her lubricated sex hard enough that his balls slapped against her ass. "Oh, baby. That's it. You're making me feel so good." "Yeah?" He looked down at her, seeing her solidly for a second. "God, yes. It feels, uhhh, amazing. Your cock...fuck! It's so thick and, oh, incredible." The hooker was running her fingernails lightly through the patchy fur, a light scratching, encouraging him, begging him, directing him. "Really?" "Yes, really." The smile grew a bit, but stayed just as icy. "Am I special?" "Yes! Fuck, yes!" "But you've had so many." "Not like you. None like you." Cherry looked up into his halo, her eyes shining with practiced truth. "Do you love me?" She almost lost her mask of earnestness at the question. Love had no place in prostitution. Maybe not even in life. Sex, yes. Love...love was a deal where two people made promises on goods they couldn't guarantee, sight unseen, with a contract bound in blood. Wholesale shit. Whores sold their own dignity piecemeal, individually wrapped and not packaged for resale, and had generally no business thinking on love, let alone talking about it. "Do you love me, Cherry?" He asked again. The question was a viper, coiled in an "S" shape inside of his mouth. She had to answer. If she said no and he wanted a yes, he might walk out, take that holy money and disappear into the night. Part of her wanted him to, knew it was the wiser course. If she said yes and he wanted no, it would bring on the little bit of wrath held back by cotton and compliance. But if she said yes and it was the right answer, he'd finish; she'd get away from the cruel light and the cold steel and move on to a nice pair of sneakers or a pair of gleaming black business shoes. She needed that money. "Yes," she whispered and kissed him softly on the mouth with as much false affection as she could muster. When his lips parted, it was everything she could do not to breathe a sigh of relief into his mouth. The kiss was full and deep, needy. Needy was good. She dug her nails in and brought him closer, closer to her, closer to orgasm. She arched up toward him, bringing them together, broke the kiss and looked over his shoulder, squinting into the light. The boots were still sitting in the corner. They looked small and dingy from this vantage point. A smirk twitched across her face. Fuck you boots, she thought. Fuck you. Another couple minutes and-- A burning sensation in her neck cut through her victory celebration. The knife. The pressure had increased. It was cutting into her now, forcing her away from its edge and back down onto the bed. Her face met his on the way down. The smile had blossomed, full-grown and many toothed, it gleamed at her, broader but even colder. Wrong answer. "You're a good liar. You women are so often good liars, I've found." She felt a trickle of hot blood running down her neck. Somewhere in the back of her mind, the part of her that had been torn out and replaced with a cash register, she rang up fifty more dollars. Whoring was a twenty-four hour business, no holidays, no rain delays. "You don't love me." Cherry rolled her head to one side, flattened her face in an attempt to avoid the blade as much as possible, but did not pull away. Pulling away would be a mistake. She tried to roll with the con, but, even to her, the ploy seemed rusted and unusable. "I do, baby. You're making me feel things. I ju--" "You don't, but you will." Boots leaned in close, right by the knife, took a long slow lick up her neck. He moved slowly to her lips, dragging his tongue across her cheek. The kiss he planted on her mouth was sticky with blood and he gazed fully into her. "I'm going to fuck you until you love me. Until you make me believe you." She had fucked up. He wasn't just a Boots, he was a particular variety. Some of them were especially worn, scuffed and battered from the rigors of a particular path, a trail that had marked them, forever changed their stride. Most times, they were still traveling that path, treading over their own former footsteps again and again, different faces, different scenery, but the same trip--and it was almost never a route you wanted to take with them. It could turn out to be a dead end. The blade moved, slithered down her neck and between her breasts, cut a thin line, a parting of skin and just the faintest welling of red. His hand reached up, encircling her throat. When it reached the end of its journey, the knife rested against her hip, the point a touch of fire against her flesh. He began to fuck her like he wanted, like he'd wanted to since the minute he saw her standing across that street. Using his hand around her neck like a kickstand, he placed his weight on her throat, raised his ass in the air, got on the balls of his feet, and rammed his full length into her. He felt big. Not as big as he wanted to, not as big as he needed to, but, still, big. Big to himself, big to her. The pains were separate at first: the crushing, the burning, the pounding, but they bled together, like the cut on her neck and the one down her chest. One stained his white shirt, the other oozed between his choking fingers. Both pumped out of her as quickly and as messily as he pumped into her. It was all going to the same place. The knife at her hip tore a little hole. "Tell me you love me." She tried, but it was crushed by the pressure, drowned in pain and blood. "I can't hear you. What's wrong? Is something the matter?" Fucking bastard. She coughed out a reply, but he continued right over her. "Oh, you'll have to do much better, much, much better." Another slash across her hip. He'd kill her. She knew that. If he didn't get what he needed, if she couldn't muster up a sentence that made him cum. It was a race, of sorts: his satisfaction against her survival, and she needed him to finish first. "I love...you." She managed to gasp out the words. "Liar! Make me believe it," he said. The grin was gone from his face, replaced by a contemptuous sneer. "You're just a whore. You're all just whores." Then he started with the slaps. Forceful and hard with the added weight of the knife hilt, they were like being hit with a sap, and after only the first two her vision swam and her head ached. The third blow knocked a memory loose in her head. Nothing much, just the smell of jasmine and the sound of a bullfrog groaning out into an August night. Another slap and she could feel the clay from the lakeside squishing up between her toes. The fifth hit never landed. It couldn't. She wasn't there anymore. She was in Georgia. There were tricks, and then there were tricks of tricks. This was her finest illusion. She could, in times of great need, be every bit the magician that the Johns were. She could make a lifetime disappear in an instant, could produce love like a performer pulling a bouquet of roses from his sleeve. This flower was named Jacob. He was a rare bloom, hard to see in the failing summer light, just a cheshire grin and a flannel shirt standing amid a collection of cattails on a lake bank tucked just under a hill that led to the road, hidden from the world. He was beside her, showing her how to bait a hook as a sinking sun dipped into an inviting-looking body of water that crossed the borders of two states. Stars, just winking into existence for the evening, speckled a sky the color of tomato soup. The worm, produced from a repurposed Folgers can that now held only dirt and squirming, wiggled in his outstretched hand, bits of dark soil still clinging to its slimy skin. "Do I have to touch it?" asked the woman--almost a girl, barely nineteen--who would one day, in stuffy back-seats and rented rooms, touch far more grotesque things with far less caution. "Well," said the man ruefully. "You can try to talk him into jumpin' on the hook. Me? I've never had much success with that method. Then again, I'm not so pretty as you. Might just work, in your case." Grudgingly, she reached out and took the nightcrawler from him, touching his fingers as she did. She shivered slightly, and wasn't sure if it was from the wriggling of the worm or that brief contact with his skin. Holding it at arms distance, she gave him a doubtful look. "Is it going to bleed?" Jacob smiled. She swore it lit up the whole damn lake. "Naw. I got the bloodless ones. Cost me a pretty penny. Figured I was gonna get lucky tonight, though. Charming lady like you, worth every penny." "You're such a pig!" She punched him without thinking, smashing the worm a little as she did, causing a blob of ichor to squeeze out onto her finger. "Oh my God! It puked on me!" "You hope it puked on you, darling." "What? Oh, oh, no, no, no, no. I'm done with this fishing nonsense." "Really? You are?" He cocked his head as if thinking hard. "I could have sworn that I watched the Phantom of the Opera down at the Playhouse in the Park last week. That did happen, right?" "Jacob..." "No, no, I'm just trying to get this straight. You know I get confused. Let's see, here. Tall fella? Half a Michael Myers mask? Burn victim? Sort of a rapist, but in a romantic sort a way? That's the one, right?" "Yeah..." Her mouth was set in a hard, disapproving line. It was difficult not to smile when he got like this. "And I remember a certain beautiful lady, about your height, who promised she'd go fishin' with me if I watched tall, dark, and crispy get his stalk on. Come to think of it, she looked a bit like you in the face, too. Couldn't of been you, though, right? 'Cause you're not the type to promise a guy something then back out. Everybody knows that. You got too much class for that...If I'm being honest, though, I think the other chick's boobs were a little bigger." "I'll kill you." Letting out an overly dramatic sigh, she picked up her rod and reel, moved it so the hook was dangling in front of her. "Fine. I'll...do the worm thing." "That's mighty fine of you, Miss." He tipped an imaginary hat in her direction, gave her the worm, then slid behind her, one arm wrapping around her to steady the hook, the other lightly guiding her wrist. "Now, the thing about hookin' a worm is, worms ain't overly fond of being hooked, and they ain't all that thrilled about drowning neither, or being ate by no rock bass." His arms felt good around her, and she could feel the stubble of his cheek against her neck as he peered around at the pole. He smelled like Old Spice and home. His breath in her ear was a forgotten breeze, one that only blew in the sweetest corners of her memories. God, she loved him. The grin she had held in check when she was feigning anger finally erupted on her face and shone out on the waters, reached out to meet the stars over Lake Yonah, her favorite spot in the entire world. A decade and a half in the future, a woman bathed in the harsh light of motel lamps smiled, too. A little blood trickled out of the corner of her mouth as she did. A blade dug at her side. "No, not that way. Through the head, then thread it. Get as much of the metal in as you can. Makes it harder to wiggle free." She corrected her point of entry. It was gross, like performing surgery on a hotdog filled with mud, but there with him, it wasn't so bad. "There ya go. You're a natural, darlin' Remind me never to piss you off. Now...do it again, the other side this time. Got to get him a few times, at least. Otherwise he'll sidestep right off once he hits the water." When she was done, the little dirty creature was neatly tied on her hook. It still twitched a little. Worms were just fucking disgusting. "Is it gonna do that the whole time? Spasm and stuff?" "God, I hope so. That little death wiggle is like the dance of love to a fish. Just imagine the little guy in a bikini with Shania Twain playing in the background." Jacob danced behind her in an exaggeratedly silly way. Still, she could feel his hips against her ass and, she had to admit, it excited her. "Is that what the dance of love is like to you? A half-dead bit of slime squirming on a hook?" He turned his head to look into her eyes, all seriousness. "Of course not, girl. That'd be perverse. I'm just like every other red-blooded American boy. I prefer two half-dead bits of slime at the same time. And it'd be nice if they kissed a little." "Ass." He grinned again. "Glad you noticed. Took long enough. Thought I needed to buy these Wranglers a size smaller or something." "No, definitely not." She hoped he could see her eyes rolling in the dimness. "Those already seem to be cutting off circulation to your brain." "Long as the blood's still reaching the important parts. That's all I care about." "So...direct what little blood flow you can spare up north and show me how to get this in the water." "Down to business, huh? Yes, ma'am." He placed the fishing rod into her hands, clasped his hands around hers. "Take your pointer finger--" "Index. Index finger." "Excuse me, I forgot you were a John Hopkins girl now. Take your index finger, you know, the one you use to drink your tea and eat your crumpets? Take that one, and grab a hold of this lil' bit a line. Then take your other hand and, using whichever one of those delicate little digits you prefer, flip this little piece of metal." "The ring thing-y?" He cleared his throat and spoke briefly in an English accent. "Yes, madame, it's called 'opening the bail'. You must have skipped the lecture on advanced maritime pursuits at university." "'Madame' is French, not English." She stuck her tongue out. Returning to the drawl of his normal voice, "Keep that tongue hangin' out and I'll show you somethin' French." His face was close enough to hers that he could clearly see the wrinkles around her eyes when she blushed. "Ahem...fishing first, then fun. You're the one that made such a big deal about this. At least let me cast it a few times." Throwing his hands up in mock exasperation, Jacob shook his head disappointedly. "I knew I shoulda brought the girl with the big hoots. Still, guess I gotta fish with the one I came with." "It's going to end up bein' just you and your rod tonight, you keep it up." "In that case, let's get that squirmer in the drink before I get myself in any more hot water, shall we?" She could feel his muscles under his shirt when he placed his hand under her arm and urged her shoulder to rotate. He was so strong, but in an understated way. "Just take it back, and...." moving her wrist forward, "bring it home!" The line zipped out about ten feet and plopped into the lake with an unremarkable plop. "Oh, that's it lil' fishes, you done screwed now. There's a new sheriff in town, and she's a hard-castin', reel-poppin', mean-fishin' bitch." "You're so retarded, Jacob." "You sure about that? Do I need to point out the jeans again? I mean, look at that seam, 'bout ready to bust, I'd say." Thunder roared across the sky, but there was no lighting, no clouds. This wasn't right. There was no rain that night. It was clear and balmy, and she and Jacob had fished for the better part of an hour before she'd bird nested her reel one too many times and finally given up and pulled him down on top of her. Years and miles from Lake Yonah, a storm of backhands echoed off the walls of a dingy motel room. She had to hurry. Dropping her pole, she grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him close, an urgent look on her face. "Make love to me, Jacob. Please, do it now. The way that you did back then, the way that you always do." "Well, well, well, looks like splurgin' on the bloodless worms was a good bet after all." She put her fingers to his lips. "No more jokes. Not tonight." Her mouth sought his, lips first, hungry and desperate, tongue following a few seconds later. Hesitant and surprised, he responded after only an instant, his lips firm on hers, his face pushed against her own hard enough that his rough cheeks scratched at her chin. Held in his arms and cradled by the soft wind coming off the water, it was her perfect moment, her secret place, and she nestled into it, into him. Jacob bent into her, laid her on the cool grass, the cattails dancing around them, the sound of a duck splashing some distance off. Crickets sang and water lapped against the shore. The night was abuzz with life, thick and hot and humid with it. It was all around them, hanging off the ends of the grass as it tickled against her neck, entwined with the smell of algae that drifted into her nostrils. Yet, there was a space, a thin barrier of privacy, which started just above the skin and continued to the core, that was all their own. Just hers and his. She wanted to remain in that shelter forever. F5: A Mile Her shirt came off first, leaving her bare back exposed to the scratch of the ground. So great was her excitement that she barely felt the itch. Jacob tugged her jeans down, hastily, with need, but with that strange courtesy that he always managed, even when he was being an ass. It was one of the things she loved most about him. One of many. Unbuttoning his shirt, he unveiled one of the others. His chest, strong and broad and covered with sparse hair that lead down to a flat stomach with just the outline of abs, peered out from the curtain of his still partially closed shirt. Taking it all the way off, he revealed arms, corded from long, hard-working days, and skin well-accustomed to attention from the sun. She rose up to meet his affection, kissing his collarbone, working down his torso as her hands worked hastily at his belt. Looking down at her, his eyes met hers in the last gasps of the summer sun. There was a question there. This was unlike her. She was rarely so aggressive. Jacob had been her first, earlier that summer, a fumbling but strangely wonderful experience in the back of his truck bed after a night of dancing. It had taken her a bit to shake off the dust of her adolescence, to really sink into her womanhood, to own her body, let alone his. He had never seen this well-travelled version of her. At least, not that he remembered. As soon as she freed his sex from the confines of his jeans, her mouth was on the head, both hands around the column, one at the base, the other furiously working the shaft. Jacob wasn't very experienced himself, and was totally caught off-guard, though not unpleased. "Oh my God. What has gotten in to you, girl? Lord, you have to slow down...I'm...I'm just not gonna last if you keep..." He put his hand on the back of her head and gently ruffled her hair, showing his appreciation. Such a big man could have hurt her, could have forced her, broken her into tiny little pieces. But he didn't. He didn't turn that strength against her; he channeled it into her. Jacob never tore her down, only built her up. His cock was fully hard inside of a minute, and her jaw strained to contain its girth. It filled her mouth to capacity. She wanted it to fill all of her. With a hint of reluctance but greater need, she pulled her mouth from him. "I need you inside me, Jacob. I need you inside now." In the real memory of this night, they had kissed and touched, and only that, for almost forty minutes before he had entered her in that sweet, almost apologetic way of his. Sorry to burden her with the pricelessness of his breathtaking love. Another boom of thunder that was not thunder rolled over them, however, and some of the stars above were winking out, replaced by the black circles of oxygen deprivation. She didn't have all night. Jacob would understand. He always understood. With the slightest pressure and a rush of brief pain, his love slid into her. As wet as she was, all slick velvet and desperation, he was still a lot to accommodate and it took them a minute for her to adjust her hips so that the angle was more pleasure than pain. "I'm not hurtin' ya am I? We can slow down, if you like? Stop for a little bit, even." He was so polite, so caring, she wanted to slap him for his naivieté and cry for the joy of it all at once. She had known hundreds of men, none of them like Jacob. "Don't you dare slow down. Don't stop. Give it to me. All of it." She was closing her eyes now, spine curved, face tilted up, the back of her head touching the cool grass. Complying to her demand, his back muscles tensed and bulged with a new effort. She could feel them, firm and substantial against her hands as she clung to him. Somewhere in the world, there was something bad happening, children crying, women being abused, people fucking dying, but there, in that little space amid the cattails on the Georgia side of Lake Yonah, everything was okay, everything was right. He was there, inside her, closer than skin, and she was so very in love. The pressure in him was building. It dripped off of him in the summer heat and vibrated down his muscled frame. "Darlin', I'm so close. We need to slow down or--" "No," she said, opening her eyes to look him full in the face, their passion inches apart, barely visible in the dying light. "Don't. Give it to me. Please. I need it. I want it in me, always. I want to keep this part of you forever. I love you." And he was cumming. Feeling him spasm inside her, watching his beautiful face, those wonderful lips, from which came those wonderful words, open in ecstasy, she soon was, as well. "Thank you. God, thank you," he continued. "You're perfect. I love you so much, Br--" He almost said her name. She had to reach one of her hands up, put a finger to his lips to stop him. Even here, even in this place, she couldn't bear that, to hear who she had been. "I love you, too, Jacob. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you." In a corner of the future, in a place as far away and as different than the banks of Lake Yonah as seemed possible, a woman named Cherry said those same words, minus the "Jacob", eyes closed, mouth parted in sweet freedom, at, but not to, a man half as powerful as Jacob and not a tenth as strong. He had the same reaction, however, and he came long and hard and ugly into his prophylactic. His hands, which were neither as large nor as accomplished as he wanted them to be, relaxed around her throat in the aftershock of his orgasm. The knife, which had gouged her bloody in several places slipped from his hands, rolled off the bed and fell to the carpeted floor with a thud. Placing both hands on the bed to steady himself, Boots sputtered the last of his seed into the little niche in the world he had carved out with his fierce anger and his little knife. It was the only home in which he was welcome: a room he had paid for, and even then, he had to kick the door down just to feel like he it was really his. Kick it down with those fucking boots. When he was finished, when he had given what little worth he had and then unceremoniously rolled off of her, the prostitute lay on the bed while he collected himself. He took the condom, stretched and half full of jizz and, instead of putting it in the bathroom trashcan, laid it on the table by the bible. A little bit of the pale fluid leaked out and oozed toward the book. He picked up the knife, which he cleaned in the bathroom sink while he was still naked from the waist down, walking around dangling his middle-of-the-pack trophy, like he'd just won some event. He placed it on the table when it was free of her blood. Afterwards, he put his pants back on with purposeful slowness, as if to show her he was still very much in control, even if he had lost his hard-on. She wished he'd just hurry the fuck up and go. Her skin burned from the cuts, and her head pounded from the choking and the slapping. It was all she could do to keep from rolling over and vomiting on the floor. She wouldn't, though. He wasn't going to get that satisfaction from her. He'd gotten his money's worth already. When he finished putting everything back on--except for the boots, they were still in the corner--he walked over to her and put his hand on the handkerchief. Sonofabitch had the gall to look down at her and smile. It was a smirk, really. Then, with one quick tug, he undid the knot and freed her wrists. The cloth, speckled red now with her blood, was tucked into the back pocket of his jeans. Some bleach would clean it right up. She felt pity for the next girl that saw it. Between curling and uncurling her fists to get the blood back into them, she gave him a baleful stare. Probably wasn't smart, but they rarely had the drive to do any real damage after their stiffies were gone. He smirked even bigger. Fucking jerk. Ponderously, he walked over and grabbed his muddy boots. Sitting in the chair by the table, he slid first one on then the other, and tied them, carefully, his eyes never leaving her naked body. She knew this part. He was taking one last look at his handiwork. Take a fucking picture, she thought. Take it home and jerk-off to it and think about what a big fucking man you are. She said nothing, however. Her head was pounding, her throat thick and acidic with bile. When his boots were properly laced, the tongue straightened, the corners untucked, he stood, grabbed up the knife and tucked it into his belt, and made his way toward the door. When he touched the handle, she finally spoke. "Another fifty." She tried to make her voice as steady as she could despite how weak and nauseated she felt. Turning his head only slightly, he gave her a chilly look over his shoulder and said, dismissively, "We agreed on three-hundred. There's your three-hundred." He motioned to the stack of cash on the bible. "The cuts. Need to buy some Neosporin. Might get infected otherwise. Then I'd have to go to the doctor, tell them how I got them. No one wants that." It was a dangerous game, but if he was going to kill her, he'd have done it already. He closed his mouth and ran his tongue against his cheek and nodded his head. Anger kicked against the inside of his lips. "Yeah. Okay. Sure. Wouldn't want you to catch a disease or anything." Taking out his wallet, he snatched out two twenties and a ten and flung them at the table. The bills fluttered in the air and fell well short of the stack of money, landing on the carpet next to the used condom wrapper. He opened the door and walked out, his shirt stained with her blood. He paused right before he slammed the door behind him. "Bye, Cherry." She waited until she heard his footfalls walking away before she answered, "Bye, Boots." She then promptly rolled over, hung her head off the side of the bed, and threw up on the floor. It piled on the ground until the shag carpet barely peeked through. When she was done, and her stomach was empty, her head hurt even worse and vision was slightly blurry. Fucking concussion. Lying on the bed, dressed only in high heels and the harsh light, she cast her spell again, a glamour that bridged time and distance, reality and regret. Alone, pinned by vertigo, she reached for the twilight of the lake. Somewhere between dreams and memories, she found her way back to Jacob. With the glow of sex still fresh on their skin, they lay together amid the cattails, his arm around her, her head nestled into the crook by his chest, both looking up at the shining pinpricks of light in the now black sky. They didn't say anything for a bit, just felt and smelled and listened and were. It was a beautiful place, a beautiful time. She wished she could stay, but as it had back then, her mind pushed her away from that easy peace, and would not content itself with being loved in such a simple way. "Where do you think we go when we die?" she asked. She couldn't see his face, but she could feel the vibrations from his chuckle through his chest as he spoke. "Hell, girl, I don't even know where we go when we live." She draped her arm over him and interlaced her fingers with his. "I know that one. It's easy. Away." "Away?" "We go away." Jacob sighed, just a little huff of a thing. Even his frustration was considerate. "Is that where you're going, away?" "Yeah, I'm afraid so." "Back to college?" "I'll think that. At first, I'll really believe it." She nuzzled closer into his chest. "But, really, I'll be running away from here, from this town. From you." He paused. She could feel a little bubble of apprehension inside him. When he talked again, it was jokey, but there was a slight strain. "From me? Are you sure? Here, get up. Let me put those jeans back on. I think the enchantment is wearing off." "No," she said, biting her lip in the dark. "They are still in full effect." She gave his ass an appreciative squeeze with her free hand for emphasis. "Trouble is, young, stupid girls only believe in the kind of magic they make themselves." "Stupid? Darlin', you're the smartest girl I know. You gonna be like an astronaut or a lawyer. Hell, maybe both, like a space attorney, or somethin'. You can settle divorces for the aliens." "Wait. You believe that aliens exist? Not only that, but you believe that they need divorce lawyers?" "Well, trust me, if there are aliens, they gonna need divorce lawyers. All that travellin' 'round and probin' folks. My cousin was a truck driver. He did a lot of that kind of thing. His wife sure needed one. Can't see as where aliens would be much different." The girl laughed, so long and so hard that she scared a nearby turtle, which shot into the water with a small splash. "Jacob...you...your mind, it's like a bag of wet cats crawling over each other. It's kind of weird but you just have to look inside to see what the hell is going on...I can't believe I ever thought you were too dumb for me." "Ouch." A little more strain, but, still, he tried to make her smile. "I know I drew the short straw, but, damn, girl. You gotta take it easy. You gonna make me cry out here you keep bein' mean. You ever seen a naked man cry? Saddest thing in the world. Everything all wrinkly and red. Like watchin' Clint Eastwood have a seizure in a hot tub." "Your straw is just fine." She patted him there. "Too fine. Any more fine and I'd need a wheelchair. And you're not, dumb, I mean. You never were. I was the dumb one." This time he chose not to speak for a bit. When he did, the humor was gone, he was all rawness and truth. "I love you." Turning to look into his face, she nodded her head. "I know, Jacob. I know you do." She kissed him and gave a sad smile. "Are we gonna be okay, darlin'?" Wetness gathered at the corner of her eyes, and she shook her head and gave him a fragile, tainted smile. "You are. You get married, have some kids. Work at the plant and make foreman by twenty-six. Last I heard, at least." "What do y--" She continued right over him. "I go back to school in two-weeks. I break up with you three months later. I think you're going nowhere. I think you're sweet, but just another good ol' boy sleepwalking your way through life in a podunk town." Laying her head on the middle of his chest, she listened to Jacob's heart as she spoke. It was so fucking steady. So safe. Like a drum, calling her home. "I meet a guy at school, Ethan, a real smart fuck, who knows all the best parties and all the biggest words. Where to buy the best poison. He likes watching me take it, swallow it, snort it. Says he can see me touching enlightenment. I certainly touch a lot of him. "Ethan is dangerous and mysterious and complicated and everything you aren't. And I worship him for it. I think I love him and I think he loves me. We both just love the drugs. It turns into a three-way relationship. Me, him, and the crank. "I'm no longer Little Miss Nobody-Gives-A-Fuck from Toccoa; I'm in Baltimore, on my own. I think my mind has been opened. Really, I'm just punching a hole in my skull. "We both drop-out a year later. It's the system's fault. It's just not ready for freethinkers like us. Sure as hell isn't because of the drugs. Which we can't afford. Ethan trades our shit for more drugs. Eventually, he trades me. Even after he's gone, I trade myself. It's the only currency I have. "I try to go straight, but, I'm a career girl by then. People can fucking smell it on me. Every new employer sees me going out to my car for "smoke breaks" that leave my eyes glassy and unfocused for the rest of my shift. I get fired. I think about coming back home, back to you. I don't. "I do drive home for your wedding after hearing about it through the grapevine. I stand outside the church and smoke cigarettes and listen to the bells ring. "I'm gone before a grain of rice hits the ground. When you're driving out to Myrtle Beach that night for your honeymoon, Mr. Patterson, our old Trigonometry teacher, is paying me for anal behind the Dairy Queen on Albany Street. "I go here before I leave, to this spot by the lake. I take out the little knife I sometimes keep in my shoe for protection and I hold it against my wrist and think about pressing down. In the end, I don't. Not because I don't have the balls, but because I don't want to pollute the water. "I go back to Baltimore. I do the same thing I always have. As far as one can be considered, I'm good at it. It's a living, after you get past the part where you feel like you're dying every day. "I'm still there, Jacob. Stuck in that twilight between being wanting to live and hoping to die. I'm a not a space lawyer, honey. I'm a whore. And this, this little space between the bank and the hill, is the only good place I have left. You are the only thing I've kept, longer even than my own name." The crickets chirped an answer, the bullfrog ribbited a response, but Jacob said nothing. He just lay there, his heart beating against her face, never skipping or straying. When what had to be ten minutes had passed and he still hadn't uttered a word, she said, "Jacob?" His voice was hoarse when he responded. "Are you on drugs now? I don't understand. You're not making any sense." She laughed, a hollow little sound against his breastbone. "No. That's the funny part. I quit years ago. At the time, I told myself if I quit...I could be something else. Maybe I could call you. But I can't. The drugs were the key that opened the door, but I've been in this place too long. It's seeped into me. I smell like it, sound like it. I can never leave. It would just follow me. I would never bring that to you." "You could. I'll always be here for you. I'd never turn you away." The ache she heard in those words made her long for the breeziness of his earlier jokes. "I know. That's why I can't." With a sudden flash of movement, he sat up, grabbed her by the shoulders, put his face right next to hers, and shook her ever so slightly. It was the roughest he had ever been with her, and even then, it had no malice. It was a sweet rousing, like he was trying to wake someone who had fallen asleep. "I love you, goddamn it. Why you talking like this? Why you saying these things?" "Oh, Jacob, I always tell you these things. Here, in this place. You just never remember. Maybe I don't want you to. I tell you because I can't stand lying to you, and you forget because I can't bear you knowing." "Goddammit! God, Goddammit!" He looked up into the night sky. When he looked back, a tear was rolling down his right cheek. More quietly, he whispered, "...goddammit, darlin'." Looking at that pure tear as it fell, she tried to force a grin, and succeeded only in twitching her mouth a little. "You know, I don't think you look THAT much like Clint Eastwood in a hot tub." He tried to smile, too, and failed just as badly. In an attempt to escape the awkwardness, they both looked out onto the water. It was placid and peaceful and calm and nothing that life was. It was a place out-of-time and out-of-reach, untouched by miscues and bad decisions. And they both wanted desperately to dive in, but worried that breaking the tranquility of the surface would ruin everything. He spoke first, his voice was a little stronger now. "Maybe you go home." "What?" "When you die. Maybe you go home. Wherever home is to you." She smiled now, full and bright, only barely touched by pain. "I would really like that." Her hand crept up, laced into his once more and squeezed. "Me too." He squeezed her back. "Regardless," she said with finality. "I don't think we get to know how it ends. Life's not that neat, not that easy, at least not for whores and lovers." Not knowing how to reply, he said what he always said at this point, "Can I help?" "You always do." She kissed him lightly on the lips, a touch of tenderness in the flattering starlight. "Would you walk with me? Around the lake? Just until morning." F5: A Mile "Of course. Anything." When they stood up, Jacob went to dress and she waved him off. "Don't bother. There's no one here but us. There never is." Holding up his jeans, he managed another mischievous grin. "Now I know you're on drugs. Leave these babies? You have to be kidding." "Your butt is doing just fine on its own, cowboy," she said, giving it a little spank. He caught her hand and pulled her close, pressing her up against him, kissing her again, full and deep. When they broke it off sometime later, he asked, "You feel safe now? Can I say it?" "Say what?" she asked, holding his hand with one arm and tracing her fingers through his chest hair with another. "Your name. I miss the sound of it. It's such a pretty name." Resting her head on his shoulder, she thought for a second. "It no longer means anything to me. I think I'd like a new one, just for us, just for this place." "Any ideas? I've always been found of Sugartits, personally. It's got an elegance, you know, like a fine velvet paintin'." "God, no." Rolling her eyes, she bit him lightly on his shoulder for being ridiculous. "Tell you what, let's talk about it while we walk. We'll figure something out together." And with that they walked, around the lake and into something new, in the dark, holding hands, toward the morning, naked and free of burdens, in their barefeet.