woman I ever set eyes on.”
Bethany had come over half an hour earlier after checking her messages. Larry had called and told her that he was alone, which was her signal to drive to his home – a trip she’d only made twice before; usually their trysts were held in an apartment he kept in Long Beach.
“Want a freshener?” she asked with a coy smile.
“Why not?” Larry said. She sashayed over and did a small dance for him before taking his glass and moving to the great room.
Larry stretched like a contented cat, the heavy gold chain around his tanned neck gleaming in the warm light. He hadn’t shared with Bethany the information about her being charged tomorrow, or that he had Black investigating on her behalf. He’d get to that when the time came – when she’d have to digest that her life was about to change dramatically. Larry saw no reason to trouble her with that harsh reality right now, especially when she was in frisky form.
She reappeared with their drinks and set his down on the end table before taking a long pull from her own. He could smell the distinctive aroma of tequila on her breath as she bent over him and gave him a lingering kiss. Then she straightened and pouted.
“You don’t like what I made for you?”
“It’s not that.”
Bethany had been agitated when she arrived, and it was obvious to Larry that she’d been numbing herself all day with her two favorite drugs: alcohol and marijuana. Her eyes had the half-asleep cast that he found so beguiling and a certain charming vacancy that was a powerful aphrodisiac, hinting at a primal, uncomplicated appetite he knew from experience was her nature. Bethany was a girl who was good at sex, more so than anyone he’d met, and she was willing to try anything and do anything, no matter how shaming or degrading. She seemed to revel in shocking him, which was a far cry from the lackluster lovemaking he had with his wife once a week, with the careful rules and scheduling of a negotiated truce between two warring nations.
“I know. I’m totally freaked by it, too,” she said.
Larry was more than willing to overlook her surfer vocabulary and stereotypical SoCal blonde demeanor. Physically, she was a stunning specimen, with no more than eight percent body fat, artfully sculpted fake breasts, a few provocative tattoos, and flawless, sun-kissed skin. If she was hard-pressed to tie her own shoes, he viewed that as unimportant. He wasn’t with her to discuss world affairs or verbally spar.
“We should talk about it, Bethany.”
She pounded the rest of her drink and then dropped the towel to the floor with a seductive moue.
“Later.”
Chapter 21
Roxie watched the band onstage with slim interest – another manufactured group backing one of an endless stream of ex-Disney starlets that dominated the charts. This one was enjoying her fifteen minutes of fame due to dating a basketball icon with a bad-boy reputation, in a highly publicized attempt to break from her goody-two-shoes legacy on family television. She could sing well and had all the right moves, but her performance struck Roxie as about as soulful as white guys trying to bump and grind to the blues – which was to say difficult to watch with a straight face.
Carl was off somewhere pressing the flesh and being a famous producer, which seemed to largely consist of sucking up to cynical label executives whose gym-toned bodies were topped with Wall Street haircuts and dead eyes.
A wave of bitterness washed over her that the industry had plumbed new depths for her, and that anything even approaching real rock and roll was viewed as a quaint anachronism with limited commercial appeal. Which she knew from her performances, sparsely attended by mostly wannabe musicians and counterculture lowlifes whose existences revolved around drugs and a punk rock ethos that had peaked before most of them had been born. She found the whole thing depressing as time went by, but she was too stubborn to
Bethany had come over half an hour earlier after checking her messages. Larry had called and told her that he was alone, which was her signal to drive to his home – a trip she’d only made twice before; usually their trysts were held in an apartment he kept in Long Beach.
“Want a freshener?” she asked with a coy smile.
“Why not?” Larry said. She sashayed over and did a small dance for him before taking his glass and moving to the great room.
Larry stretched like a contented cat, the heavy gold chain around his tanned neck gleaming in the warm light. He hadn’t shared with Bethany the information about her being charged tomorrow, or that he had Black investigating on her behalf. He’d get to that when the time came – when she’d have to digest that her life was about to change dramatically. Larry saw no reason to trouble her with that harsh reality right now, especially when she was in frisky form.
She reappeared with their drinks and set his down on the end table before taking a long pull from her own. He could smell the distinctive aroma of tequila on her breath as she bent over him and gave him a lingering kiss. Then she straightened and pouted.
“You don’t like what I made for you?”
“It’s not that.”
Bethany had been agitated when she arrived, and it was obvious to Larry that she’d been numbing herself all day with her two favorite drugs: alcohol and marijuana. Her eyes had the half-asleep cast that he found so beguiling and a certain charming vacancy that was a powerful aphrodisiac, hinting at a primal, uncomplicated appetite he knew from experience was her nature. Bethany was a girl who was good at sex, more so than anyone he’d met, and she was willing to try anything and do anything, no matter how shaming or degrading. She seemed to revel in shocking him, which was a far cry from the lackluster lovemaking he had with his wife once a week, with the careful rules and scheduling of a negotiated truce between two warring nations.
“I know. I’m totally freaked by it, too,” she said.
Larry was more than willing to overlook her surfer vocabulary and stereotypical SoCal blonde demeanor. Physically, she was a stunning specimen, with no more than eight percent body fat, artfully sculpted fake breasts, a few provocative tattoos, and flawless, sun-kissed skin. If she was hard-pressed to tie her own shoes, he viewed that as unimportant. He wasn’t with her to discuss world affairs or verbally spar.
“We should talk about it, Bethany.”
She pounded the rest of her drink and then dropped the towel to the floor with a seductive moue.
“Later.”
Chapter 21
Roxie watched the band onstage with slim interest – another manufactured group backing one of an endless stream of ex-Disney starlets that dominated the charts. This one was enjoying her fifteen minutes of fame due to dating a basketball icon with a bad-boy reputation, in a highly publicized attempt to break from her goody-two-shoes legacy on family television. She could sing well and had all the right moves, but her performance struck Roxie as about as soulful as white guys trying to bump and grind to the blues – which was to say difficult to watch with a straight face.
Carl was off somewhere pressing the flesh and being a famous producer, which seemed to largely consist of sucking up to cynical label executives whose gym-toned bodies were topped with Wall Street haircuts and dead eyes.
A wave of bitterness washed over her that the industry had plumbed new depths for her, and that anything even approaching real rock and roll was viewed as a quaint anachronism with limited commercial appeal. Which she knew from her performances, sparsely attended by mostly wannabe musicians and counterculture lowlifes whose existences revolved around drugs and a punk rock ethos that had peaked before most of them had been born. She found the whole thing depressing as time went by, but she was too stubborn to
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