I think funny things happen to men as they age. Maybe it's a decrease in testosterone. Maybe it's a true love or a true health scare. But they sometimes start caring about other people and then they start to think that kidnapping, mentally rewiring and whoring out women might be a bad idea, ethically, even if it brings in a ton of cash and a good amount of power. When that happens, I'm sent in, like a little nuke to kill the cancer in Ray's organization. When that happens, I'm not supposed to make it look like a suicide, I'm supposed to make it look like a bright, bloody message to the rest of the organization's cells to not get any ideas. But it doesn't seem to work like that. They keep growing a conscience, anyway. Eventually I was kind of surprised that Ray, himself, never grew one. As for me, I had mine beat out of me at a very young age.
But, between the two types of gigs, I've got enough work to have a good-sized nest egg and a good-sized nest and a good amount of one-on-one time with my favorite honey pot and her hair and her eyes and her tongue and her pussy and her breasts and nipples and fingertips and the little bits of skin between her fingers and her earlobes and neck and spine and ass.
There's this intersection of universality and uniqueness where, on the one hand, it's true that her body is like any other woman's, but it's also true that no other woman's body is like hers. Things scale either way. But, in and next to and around her body, I am a tamed monster. I hide my teeth or I use them for friendly bites. My claws urge but they don't maul. All my knives stay in their drawers. All my guns have their safeties on. Those things don't scale, they're not universal to every woman's body.
I think too much. I plan out all my actions as far as I can, then act them out as perfectly as I can, so I can manipulate everyone else into following my script. I know when to exit state right, when I shouldn't be in a scene. I aim my weapon and narrow my eyes for the closeup before the cut to the body falling down. But, when I kiss Lucy, I feel safe enough to turn off the cameras and think less about the angles and more about the feel of her lips against mine, all those muscles in her face working to transmit to me how much she wants me.
I'm her favorite john. She's told me this. After she told me, I asked Jacob, as a favor, to find out if that was something she's programmed to say to everyone she fucks. No, he said, it wasn't. I celebrated the news with a bottle I took from some sad, dead schmuck's wine collection. He and his disappeared wife didn't need it anymore.
The second bottle of wine I nicked from that job is on its side in my own wine rack. I notice it as I lead Lucy past it and down a little hall to the bedroom. I decide she and I will drink it tonight.
"Leave your things in the bag for now," I tell her, pointing to a corner. She puts the trash bag full of her clothes in the corner.
"Take whatever clothes off you want, get comfortable. Let me know if it's too cold," I say. I watch as she takes off her heels and "fuck me" stockings. Saliva floods my mouth and I swallow. I'm hungry but I'm also horny. I want to celebrate having her, Ray's final gift to me, and I want to sit her down and talk about how it's going to be now. I wish I had Rowan's phone so I could put her in The Loop and tell her all the truths about who she is now, who she belongs to, how much she pleases me.
"Kneel," I say, after staring at her in silence for a while. She's been patiently waiting, head bowed, and she instantly kneels, as if it's a relief to be told what to do. Of course it's a relief. That's how Ray's thing works, that's just what honey pots want, all the time.
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