She left the Pretty Please Salon to follow him into the other section of the garage. The guts of a Sylvania television along with the computer circuit board, a keyboard, and a cassette tape recorder sat on a workbench. He flipped on the overhead work light and began to fuss with the equipment. In front of her, the picture tube started to glow. He put a tape in the cassette recorder, and before long a message appeared in block letters on the screen.
WHAT IS YOUR NAME?
"Go on," Sam said. "Talk to it." She walked forward and hesitantly typed, "Susannah." "Now push this key." She did as Sam directed, and another message appeared.
HI, SUSANNAH. I'M HAPPY TO MEET YOU. I DON'T HAVE A NAME OF MY OWN YET. DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEAS?
She was struck by the oddity of having a machine address her by name. "No," she typed.
THAT'S TOO BAD. LET ME TELL YOU ABOUT MYSELF. I AM BEING RUN OFF A 73 19 MICROPROCESSOR FROM CORTRON. I HAVE 8K BYTES OF MEMORY. WOULD YOU LIKE TO KNOW MORE?
"Yes," she typed.
The machine responded with more technical information and then, to her surprise, flashed the question, ARE YOU MALE OR FEMALE, SUSANNAH?
"Female," she typed.
are you pretty? it asked.
Sam reached around her and typed, "Yes."
ARE YOU STACKED?
She smiled for the first time that day. "This machine has a naughty mind." "Don't blame me. I didn't program it." She entered the word no on the keyboard.
THAT'S TOO BAD. WOULD YOU GO TO BED WITH ME ANYWAY?
She chuckled and entered the word no.
DARN. I NEVER HAVE ANY LUCK WITH WOMEN. I THINK MY MICROPROCESSOR IS TOO SMALL.
She laughed. "What would the machine have done if I'd said yes?"
Sam's hand slid up along her spine. "It would have told you to stand in front of the screen and take off your clothes."
She shivered. His fingers rose above the mandarin collar of her wedding dress and touched the skin at the back of her neck. She didn't move as he held his hand there. He rubbed the skin lightly with his thumb while he pointed out other features on the small computer. She was barely listening.
She wanted to lean back into his chest and press so tightly against him that her body dissolved into his. She envisioned her spine slipping through his skin, her ribs locking with his. And once he had absorbed every part of her flesh and sinew and bone, she would be able to feed from the very source of his spirit. His energy would become her own. She would feast on his brashness and arrogance, on his daring and certainty, on all of those qualities that were missing in her but that he possessed in abundance. By absorbing Sam's spirit, she would make herself complete. And reborn, she lis would finally be able to march boldly into the world, fully armed against all of the boogeymen, protected against evil, so that nothing bad could ever happen to her again.
He took her hand and led her from the garage. They walked back across the small yard to the house. The scent of someone's backyard barbecue was heavy in the evening air, and a group of kids were playing flashlight tag in the next yard.
When they got inside, Sam gestured toward the kitchen table. "Have a seat. I'll take care of dinner tonight. You can do it tomorrow."
Her stomach was no more ready to handle food now than it had been earlier. "We just ate a couple of hours ago."
"Yeah, I know, but I'm hungry again." He went over to the refrigerator and looked inside. "I'm funny about food. I'll go for a couple of days without eating much of anything, and then I'll eat everything in sight." He pulled another Coke from the refrigerator, shut the door and leaned back against it, apparently not having found anything else that suited him.
He took a swig. The expression in his eyes was so piercing that she had to look away. "You seem to drink a lot of Coke," she said nervously.
"I'm addicted. I got hooked on Coke when I stopped smoking pot." He wandered over to a sliding pantry door, opened it with his foot, and after contemplating the shelves for a few moments, pulled out half a loaf of white bread, a jar of Jif peanut butter, and a plastic squeeze bottle of honey. He grabbed some utensils and sat down next to her.
"Gourmet fare," she said lightly, trying to relieve the awful tension that had taken hold of her.
He didn't smile. "I've got other things on my mind besides food."
"Such as what?" Oh, God. What a stupid question. What an incredibly stupid question. He had sex on his mind. Sex with her.
He squeezed a drop of honey through the bright yellow nozzle onto his index finger. His eyes never left hers as he sucked it off. "Can't you guess?"
A wave of desire curled through her, starting in the center of her chest and moving down through her body into her legs. She tried to tell herself to get up and move away, but she felt as if she were paralyzed. What if sex was all that he wanted from her? She knew that he was a daredevil. What if he was only interested in the challenge that she presented? She realized that she could not let anything else happen between them until they had talked. They needed to understand each other better before they did something that could never be taken back.
He tilted his head, and the ends of his hair formed a dark pool on top of his left shoulder. She snatched up the jar of peanut butter as if she were suddenly ravenous and began clumsily unscrewing the top while she framed the words that needed to be spoken.
He gave her a slow smile and took the jar from her. "I said I'd do the cooking."
She watched as he spread peanut butter on a piece of bread, set it down on the table, and picked up the honey bottle. He gazed at her for a moment. She realized she was holding her breath. His arm seemed to move in slow motion as he reached for the silk-covered buttons on the front of her wedding dress. She needed to tell him to stop, but she couldn't speak.
He paused only when he reached a point well below her breasts. The dress was fully lined, so she wore no slip. He brushed the bodice aside to reveal her bra. It was filmy, part of a bra and panty set she had bought to light a fire in the stodgy soul of Cal Theroux.
He hooked his finger over the front clasp and tugged on it but made no real effort to open it. "Scared?"
She was terrified. Staring at the honey bottle he still held in his hand, she felt her mouth go dry with fear. If only she could reach through his skin and draw out his brashness. "Of-of course not," she stammered. "Don't be ridiculous."
He moved his thumb roughly over the top curve of her breast. "Maybe you should be scared. Because, baby, you can't imagine what I'm thinking about doing to you."
Rockets went off inside her. The edges of her fear evaporated in the strength of her desire. Do it! she wanted to scream. Do it! Please! She gripped her hands tightly in her lap to keep herself under control. Despite the fact that she had run away from her wedding on the back of a motorcycle, despite the fact that she wore sandals with a plastic daisy stuck between her toes and had gone to the toilet in front of a portrait of Elvis Presley, she was still Susannah Faulconer. And a well-bred young woman didn't scream Do it, not even to a man who set her on fire.
He let go of her bra clasp and squeezed a honey spiral over the surface of the peanut butter he had spread for her. Then he lifted the bread to her mouth. She looked at it. Her jaw wouldn't move.
"Open up," he whispered.
She was accustomed to obeying a man's orders, and she did what he said. After she had taken a small bite, he bit into the other side. "Is it good?" he said.
She nodded. He pushed the bread toward her for another bite. They ate without speaking, chewing slowly, looking into each other's eyes.
He picked up the honey bottle and lifted the yellow plastic nozzle to her mouth. For a moment, she thought he was going to feed it to her like a baby's bottle. Instead, he squeezed a curl of honey on her narrow bottom lip. She felt it hanging there, lush and heavy. Before it could drop, he leaned forward and sucked it off himself.