John Locke - A Girl Like You

We had some lunch, shared some bourbon, and Rachel looked me dead in the eye, unbuttoned the top button of her shirt and said, “All day long you’ve been looking at my ass like it’s your job.”

“It is my job,” I said.

She smiled. “Do you have any idea what I’m going to let you do to me right now?”

I smiled back. “Tell me.”

“Nothing,” she said.

“Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

“Why?”

“I want our first time to be special.”

I looked around, bewildered, unable to imagine a more romantic setting for our first time.

“What did you have in mind?” I said, utterly confused.

“When it’s right, we’ll both know it,” she said.

I gave her a look.

“Don’t pout,” she said.

I gave her another look.

She kissed me. “Seriously, Kevin, I’m worth waiting for.”

“I believe you.”

She gestured with her arm at the setting around us. “This…is bullshit.”

“Bullshit?”

“No offense.”

“How could I possibly take offense?” I said, sarcastically.

She laughed. “You are so totally used to getting your way with women, aren’t you?”

I shrugged.

“You’ve had prettier than me, I’m sure.”

I said nothing.

“And smarter.”

I still said nothing.

“And sweeter, and nicer, and cuter, and more romantic, and you know what?”

“What?”

“None of those things were enough for you.”

I cocked my head and squinted a moment, and realized she was right. But before I had a chance to comment about it, she grabbed my crotch and cooed, “Wait till you see what I’ve got planned for Bullshit!”

“Bullshit?”

“That’s what I’m going to call your manhood. I just decided.”

“Surely you can think of something more romantic.”

“Nope. For the rest of our lives, I’m calling it Bullshit.”

“You can’t be serious,” I said. “What guy would want that? I know you can come up with something better. Something more impressive. Something grander, something—”

“Noble?”

Sitting here on the airplane, remembering how outraged I was that afternoon when she not only pissed on my picnic, but named my dick Bullshit—I find myself unable to stop smiling. I fast-forward my time-saved memory an hour, and find us tying the horses to the rail outside the barn, after our very unsatisfying picnic.

“Got everything?” I said, ready to head for the car.

Rachel looked around a moment, then said, “Follow me.”

She led me from the far end of the barn, to the tack room, next to the wash bays. She opened the door and entered the tiny tack room, and pulled me in behind her. It was dark, and musty, and the air was redolent of moldy old leather. The floor was littered with sawdust and caked mud. Rachel closed the door, locking us inside.

“We’ve got three minutes, Kevin,” she said, “So make them count.”

“Why three?” I’d said.

“I just saw a car turning onto the farm road.”

“Just so we’re clear—”

“Fuck me,” she said. “Right here and now. Or never get another chance.”

I spun her around, pulled her jeans and panties to her knees, bent her over an elevated saddle, and accomplished all I could in the allotted time. About half-way into it, Rachel said, “Gosh, if only mommy could see me now!”

Her comment gave me the briefest pause, but I quickly put it out of my mind when she shouted “ Harder! ” I obliged her, and abruptly she said, “Time’s up.”

“What?”

“That’s it. Time’s up.”

“But—”

She reached behind her and pushed me out. Then she turned to face me, got on her knees, and said, “Close your eyes, Kevin, because this is something you’re never going to forget.”

I did as she said, closed my eyes, and within seconds I was on fire.

“What the hell? ”

She’d put horse liniment on Bullshit! My crotch smoldered for hours afterward, which proved her right about our first time being something I’d never forget. On the ride home I said, “Why would you do that to me?”

“To make you like me.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“If you still want to see me after today, it proves you like me.”

“Can you explain the concept a little clearer?”

“You’ve been with hundreds of women, right?”

“I don’t keep count,” I said.

“Whatever, stud guy. But you’ve had plenty.”

“So?”

“So you probably did some of them because they were easy, and some you probably cared about enough to create a romantic scene, like you did for me today.”

“So?”

“So I bet each woman played along, said and did all the things she was supposed to, and when it was over, you were proud of your conquest. But then you stopped to wonder if she was really as special as you’d thought. And maybe you dumped her, or maybe you stayed with her until the next pretty face came along, and then that one became your challenge.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“I took you off your game, hot shot, and out of your routine. I didn’t do it to prove I’m special, I did it because I am special. And now, instead of wondering if you want to see me again, you’re going to realize you have to see me again.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because you’re a sick puppy, and what you crave isn’t the sex, but the unexpected.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The minute you can predict a woman’s behavior, you get bored. You hit the jackpot with me, because even I don’t know what I’m going to do or say next.”

I chewed on that for awhile, and then asked what she meant back in the tack room when she’d said, “If only mommy could see me now!”

She said, “Mommy died right after daddy, when I was a kid. She didn’t have to die, but that’s what junkies do, even when they’ve got a kid to raise. So there I was today, cheating on my husband, bent over a filthy saddle, getting pounded from behind in a barn, like a mare in heat. Don’t you suppose mommy would be proud of me?”

Back on the plane now, in real time, I suddenly realize what I’d been missing. There’s something I have to do.

I pick up the handset and tell the pilot to land in Atlanta. Then I call Jarvis, and tell him I need his car. When we land, Jarvis is already there. I ask him to wait on the plane with Callie until I return.

33.

Forty-five minutes later I’m in a nice area of Atlanta. It could be any major city, but it happens to be Atlanta. It’s well past any normal person’s bedtime, so I don’t expect Sherry Cherry to be awake. And if she is awake, I don’t expect her to be sober.

For this reason, instead of calling her on the phone, I break into her house.

Sherry’s married name was Birdsong. Personally, I think Birdsong is a great name. But Sherry never liked it. Said it had no pizzazz. So when her husband died shortly after their wedding, she went back to using her maiden name.

Now I’m in the living room and, as I suspected, Sherry Cherry is lying on the couch, strung out on drugs. The only reason she has a house at all is that I bought one and allow her to live here, rent free.

I park myself in the love seat that faces the couch. The coffee table between us is littered with empty beer bottles, a weed pipe, syringes, zip lock bags of coke, and assorted drug paraphernalia. Sherry is wearing boxers, white with red hearts, and an oversized men’s dress shirt that also happens to be white, except for the stains. The odor of old booze and weed hit me the moment I entered, but now all I can smell is Sherry’s urine. At some point in the day or evening she must have pissed herself enthusiastically. Judging from the stain in her boxers and on the couch, it didn’t appear to be a recent accident.

I tried to get Sherry into rehab once, but she was too far gone. She checked herself out within an hour after I left. Thinking about Rachel on the jet awhile ago, remembering what she’d said that day in Kentucky after our first time, about how her mother had died because “that’s what junkies do,” my thoughts turned to Sherry Cherry. I can’t save Rachel tonight, and the fact that Lou can’t turn up a single piece of information regarding Rachel’s whereabouts forces me to consider the possibility I might never see her again.

So I may or may not be able to save the woman I love.

But I can certainly try to save this junkie.

Sherry Cherry is only forty-six. Though she’s lived a hard life, she’s well put together. Even so, I’m not the least bit aroused when I carry her to her bed, strip her, and give her a sponge bath. She’s a nasty mess, and there’s nothing sensual about the experience. When I finally get her scrubbed, I dress her in a clean pair of panties, sweat pants, a cotton tee, and light jacket. Then I pack a small bag of clothes and toiletries she won’t be able to access anytime soon. I put her over my shoulder, carry her to the car, pour her into the passenger seat, and drive to the runway where I’d been dropped off less than two hours ago.

“Who’s this?” Callie says.

“Friend of the family.”

“You forgot to brush her teeth.”

“You’re right.”

“If we keep this up,” she says, “they’re going to run out of beds at Sensory.”

“Actually, this one gets a padded room.”

Callie yawns. “Can we go now?”

“Yes. After I make a quick call from Jarvis’s car.”

34.

My old friend Doc Howard is a wealthy man, but not so wealthy he can afford to turn down the opportunity to make a quick hundred million dollars.

“Are we on a secure line?” Doc Howard says.

“Yes. On my side, for certain,” I say.

“Mine as well. I have an independent group run a check each week.”

“How did you find them?”

“They’re ex-CIA. They hate this new bunch I work for at Sensory.”

“How do you know these old guys aren’t monitoring your line?”

“They could care less what’s on my plate. They need quiet doctoring, and I need quiet phone privileges.”

I don’t need to wonder why Doc Howard needs privacy apart from the things he does for Sensory Resources. After all, he just told me he had some information that was worth a hundred million dollars. I’m sitting in Jarvis’s car on the tarmac at the government’s restricted airstrip near Atlanta. Callie and the others are on board the jet, waiting for me. I had called Doc Howard to ask about the sudden, intense pain I experienced at the park on Friday night while carrying Frankie the snake, and again a few hours ago in Jane’s bedroom. I also wanted to make arrangements at Sensory for our new guests.

But I hadn’t gotten either comment out of my mouth before Doc Howard said, “I’m glad you resurfaced. And with all this money !”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say.

“I had an interesting visit with Sam Case today,” he says. “By the way, Sam hates you.”

“He was probably just angry about the snake bite.”

“That too, but he also mentioned you recently put him out of business, stole his wife, and netted about three billion dollars.”

“Sam’s been known to exaggerate,” I say.

“Nevertheless, I’m sure you can spare a hundred million.”

“First, let me tell you what I need tonight,” I say. “Wait. Are you trying to blackmail me?”

“I’m not insane, Donovan.”

“Then what do you mean?”

“If I tried to blackmail you, I’d be dead within minutes. This is completely different. I have information to sell. It’s up to you if you don’t want to utilize it.”