The Cain File by Max Tomlinson Page B

you being such a tease?”
    “Because you don’t rehearse, Seb. And I paid for that damn guitar.”
    “You mean you lent me the money for that damn guitar.”
    Two years ago , she almost said. Wave bye-bye to five grand. She wouldn’t really give a damn if he’d just knuckle down.
    She was beat. Her ears were buzzing. If she closed her eyes, she was still rolling over in a BMW outside the embassy. Running across Quito like a deer in those crap sneakers. And she couldn’t stop thinking about Kacha’s cousin, Tica, in some prison cell, some dank little hellhole outside Quito. And nothing getting done about it.
    “I’m going to get a couple hours shut-eye,” she said, heading into the living room, collecting the empty bottles. “See you after rehearsal.”
    His long arms stopped her, wrapping around her leg.
    “Yeah, I’ll see you after rehearsal,” he said, firm bicep pressing up against her thigh, his hand cupping a butt cheek. “And I’ll see you before practice too. You need it. I can tell.”
    Laughing, she pushed Seb away, but not quite hard enough. “Not any more. I banged a homeless guy on the way home from work.”
    “On the street ?”
    “What do you think I am—some kind of tramp? No, a doorway of course.”
    “Oh, OK. And his buddies, too? I hope.”
    “Just the one who let me drink from his forty-ouncer.”
    “Oh, so you’re all warmed up, huh? Cool. Saves me some time.” Seb’s strong fingers climbed her leg. Slid up underneath her dress and found that spot on her hip. The divot. He stroked it with his thumb and she could feel the edge of his guitar player’s callus moving gently up and down. Slowly, his hand glided down onto her montículo de venus.
    She responded. Things were getting warm.
    Seb pulled her down onto his lap. Bottles tumbled from her arms onto the Persian rug, clattering off onto the hardwood floor. Seb was already hard. She responded to that too. Moistness. He pushed his lips to her ear and started whispering in Spanish. Not the way he spoke to her in English. Calling her Chichi , nibbling her earlobe.
    She ate it up.
    Found herself spooned on him in the leather recliner. His hands all over her. And his mouth. Then her dress was quickly pulled up around her midriff and her panties down to her knees. Seb kneeled on the floor, lips on her thighs, making a lazy path for her concha .
    “I need a shower,” she said in Spanish. It was their language when they were making love.
    “No, you don’t,” he said. “Not at all.”
    “Promise me you’ll go to rehearsal afterwards,” she said, tousling his hair.
    “Yeah, sure,” he said, as he pulled her panties down her calves and off. “God, you’re beautiful. I’m crazy about you.”
    “I mean it,” she said, settling in, gripping the armrests of the chair, getting ready.
    “So do I.”

~~~
    Maggie woke in a tangle of sheets, the curtains to her bedroom drawn tight against the Valencia Street racket several stories down. The antique clock on the nightstand told her it was late afternoon.
    “Hey, Sebi?” she shouted. “You there, amor ? Make some coffee, will you?”
    No response. Cool. Maybe he’d actually gone to rehearsal after all.
    She was alone, in that delicious dreamtime, which she seemed to remember from her childhood, but knew was time more imagined than anything else. It had only been a few hours, but the coma-like sleep felt luxurious and illicit, stolen from work, and on the tail of wicked lovemaking. She got up, wrapped her black-and-white kimono around her naked body, slouched into the front of the apartment to make café cubano .
    And felt a little angry fire glow inside her when she saw Sebastian’s Les Paul still lying on the sofa, untouched, exactly where it had been when she came home that morning.
    While coffee brewed, she set about picking up the living room. Cleaning out the full sink, flinging Seb’s dirty dishes into the dishwasher.
    There were a couple of wine glasses already in the top