I gave her the whole order, right down to a pineapple juice with plenty of ice. She called it in, speaking slowly and carefully like it was real important to her that they got it exactly right in the kitchen.
"It'll be about forty minutes," she said when she hung up the phone. "Is that okay?"
"Yeah, it's normal. Eight minutes to microwave it, half an hour to bring it here."
"It's pretty late to be eating dinner, huh?"
"It just feels later—we're an hour behind New York down here, remember?"
"Oh. Yeah, I forgot. What do you…think of it? I mean, so far?"
"No way to tell," I said. "Anyway, it's only a piece of the puzzle, right?"
"Right. I mean…I guess so. But…this was your idea, wasn't it?"
"You mean, not Kite's?"
"Yes. He never even heard of this place," she said.
"You sound surprised."
"Well, I was a little. It's so…complete here. I mean, they have everything. I thought it would be…famous, like."
"It might be, some day. But it's brand–new now. And I don't think they're much about publicity—I'm sure the last thing they need is more customers."
"It's mostly kids, huh? I mean, when I was waiting. With Jennifer. It seemed like the place was full of kids."
"Sure. That's why we're here with her, isn't it? Something that happened when she was a kid?"
"I know. It's just that…you know what I was thinking? That maybe there should be a special place. Just for grown–ups who had it…happen when they were kids. Not a kids' place. You understand what I mean?"
"They have places like that, Heather. Places full of grown–ups who got all fucked up when they were kids."
"What…places?"
"Prisons. Whorehouses. Psycho wards."
Her face fell. "I don't mean that. There are plenty of…kids who didn't turn out like that. No matter what happened to them."
"That's true. I'm not arguing with you. Being abused…it's no guarantee."
"It's no excuse either," she said, looking at me with those orange eyes.
A gentle knock at the door. Room service. Guy in a maroon uniform with black piping on the sleeves, OSCAR on an aluminum strip over his heart. He wheeled in a table of food, spent a few minutes showily setting it up: uncapping the dishes, laying out the silverware, working hard for the ten bucks I eventually put on top of the bill after I signed it.
"Thank you, sir. Just call Room Service when you want the table cleared away."
The food was okay. Nothing spectacular. But the steak was medium–well, the way I'd ordered it, the salad was crisp, with no brown on the lettuce, and they didn't stint on the ice. Heather tore into it with gusto, cleaning her plate and uncapping the goblet of vanilla ice cream like a gold miner unearthing a plump nugget.
"I shouldn't eat so much," she said, smiling.
"Why not?"
"Because I'm fat," she said.
"No you're not," I told her matter–of–factly.
Her face flushed. She dropped her eyes, saying nothing.
It was past eleven by the time Oscar had collected the food table. I sat back in the only easy chair the hotel put in the suite, lit a cigarette and closed my eyes.
"You have a headache?" Heather asked softly. If the cigarette puzzled her, her voice didn't show it.
"No big deal," I told her, wondering how she could have known. "They never last."
"You want an aspirin or something?" she said, making a circuit of the room turning off the lights. The curtains were open and the room was flooded with moonlight, strong enough to see by.
"No, I'm fine."
She went into the bathroom, closed the door behind her. I smoked slowly, letting the dark quiet comfort my headache. Just as I finished the cigarette, the bathroom door opened and Heather stepped into the moonlight. The only white left on her was her body. The black bra topped a matching garter belt, the hooks dangling loose against her round thighs. She was barefoot.
"Still think I'm not fat?" she whispered across the room.
The moonlight penetrated the bedroom too. Heather's pale body gleamed in the reflection. On her knees, hands clasped at the intersection of her thighs, she looked down at me lying on my back, hands behind my head, listening, eyes slitted so she was a soft blur.
"I don't know a lot about…this part," she said, biting her lower lip. She reached behind her and unclasped the black bra. Her breasts spilled out in a lush tumble. She cupped them, pulling them toward her mouth, licked the top of each one. "I used to do this all the time," she said. "By myself. When I was alone. I wanted to know what it felt like."
I didn't say anything, just made a sound to let her know I was paying attention, waiting for the rest of it, whatever it was.
She dropped her breasts—they bounced hard against her rib cage. Her eyes narrowed and she unhooked the garter belt, tossing it aside. Then she put her hands on the inside of her thighs, pulling them apart. She was as hairless as a baby, not even a trace of a razor's shadow in the moonlight. A white–tipped fingernail disappeared inside her, orange eyes steady on mine. "I used to taste this too. So I'd know…"
"Know what, Heather?"
"Why he did it," she whispered. "It seemed so strange to me." She pulled her hand away, put the tip of her finger into her mouth.
"Did you ever figure it out?" I asked her.
"No. It even…hurt a little bit. It doesn't hurt now, though."
"Did he want you to…shave everything too?" I asked gently. Getting close to it, but leaving her room to run if she wanted to.
"It's not shaved," she said, spreading her thighs even further. "It's gone forever. Electrolysis. I had it everywhere."
"Damn! That must have been painful. Why did—?"
"I told you before," she said. "I don't mind pain. I know how to take it."
"Do you—?"
"I don't want you to talk about it. I want you to look, okay? Just look. How old do you think I am? To look at me, I mean."
"Twenty–eight?"
"I'm not, you know. I'm…older than that."
"It doesn't matter."
"Yes it does. You know it does. To a man, I mean."
"Different men are—"
"Men are the same," she said in a harsh whisper. "All the same. Everyone I ever met. Except…one."
"Look, girl, you don't have to—"
"I don't have to do anything, do I? I know. That's true, now. I don't have to do anything. You don't have to either. But it looks like you want to. Do you?"
"Yes."
"Would you…do it like I want? I only…"
"What?"
"Could you…stand up? And not say anything?"
I got to my feet, watching her face.
"Come around. Behind me. Please."
I walked around to the foot of the bed. Heather bent forward and pulled a pillowcase off the pillow. She carefully fitted it over her head, all the way down to her neck. Then she dropped her shoulders to the bed, her buttocks high and elevated. The way she'd been on the floor of Kite's apartment after I'd climbed off her and released my hold on her neck.
I felt the baby oil girding my cock as I entered her. She was tight, but I couldn't feel even a trace of stubble—her sacrifice had gone deep. I felt the talcum powder on her wide hips, followed her deep–set spine with my eyes from the cleft of her rump until it disappeared under the pillowcase, heard her stifled breathing, felt the spasms inside her as she let go.
I was right behind her, locked in hard. She slowly slid forward on her belly, disengaging from me. Then she turned on her side and slowly pulled the pillowcase off her head. I lay down next to her. She burrowed her head in my right shoulder, whispered, "That was good, wasn't it?" a halo of anxiety around the soft words.