My little rolly-polly makeup person applied a fresh layer of foundation the next day.
Although I was exhausted, I had to do the noon news and Sylvia worked double time to get me back in shape. I needed to tell someone what happened and I knew Sylvia could keep her mouth shut.
“I was sloshed over the side of the levee into the freezing water. I dog paddled for a while, but the cold was getting to me.”
Sylvia let my foundation set as she pulled some knots out of my hair with a soft brush.
I looked in the mirror at her. “I was so cold I lost my ability to swim.”
“Yous didn’t drown so somethings must of happens?”
“My thoughts got sluggish and my limbs froze. I was sure I was going to drown in that cursed river.”
Sylvia stopped brushing and looked in the mirror at me. “Whats happens then?”
I swished my arms in front of me. “Something loomed up in the dark. At first, I thought it was a floating tree. It was better than drowning, so I took a few strokes, reached out in my last conscious moment and grabbed onto, of all things, a boat.”
She pulled at a particularly stubborn knot. “Where does a boats comes from?”
“I don’t know, but there it was and that’s all that counted.”
She took a scissors and cut the knot. “Whats dids you do?”
“I didn’t have enough strength left to reach out and grab the side of the boat, but somehow I did. It was the last thing I remember until he shined that flashlight in my eyes.”
“Some guy pulls yous out of the water?”
“I guess so. There was no one else around.”
“Whats does he looks like?” She was getting worked up.
I turn to her and look her in the eyes with reproach. “Let me tell my story.”
She shrugged. “I was only askings.”
I turn back and look at her through the mirror. “I was wet and freezing, but I was out of the water. At that moment it was all that counted. The boat twirled through the currents. Except for that damn flashlight shining in my eyes, everything was black. He spoke my name and I snapped at him. As soon as I did, I wanted to take it back.
“What’s did you says?”
“Something about getting the light out of my face.”
“I expected him to point the light the other way, but he didn’t.”
She stopped again and looked at me.
“I put my hands up to shade my eyes. At that moment the boat tangled in a tree. The flashlight went overboard, but I did get a glimpse of him.”
“Whats did hes look like?”
“Heavy muscles, like I like ‘em. He had a thin goatee and a blond ponytail. The guy was a Greek god.
“Hes was cute?”
I nodded and gave her a secret smile. “At that moment I wasn’t sure, but he’d saved me and that was enough.”
“I’s bets he was cute.”
“Let me tell my story, damnit.”
Sylvia shut up.
“My teeth were chattering, my body was numb and the rain, that never ending damn rain, continued to soak me. I sat there while he battled the elements and finally got us out of the tree. We swirled around for what seemed an hour, hitting houses and trees, until, out of no where he beached us on dry land.”
“It’s no dry land for miles.”
“I know, but when I looked around, I couldn’t believe it, we were at Marylou Stalworth’s house.”
“Thes old farm in the middles of Tenican Heights?”
“The very one.”
Sylvia combed out most of the knots and was putting in finishing touches with hair spray. “So’s, what happens next?”
“He got out and tied up the canoe without even looking at me, then he walked to the house like I didn’t exist. Me, Yamelda Keating didn’t exist.”
People know who I am. Hell, most guys fall all over themselves. I couldn’t believe it, he didn’t say boo.”
Sylvia raised one eyebrow.
“Didn’t even help me out of the boat. I mean, not since I got my implants has any man turned his back.”
Sylvia looked through the mirror at my chest. “They’s are beautiful. What happens next?”
“It was too dark and I was too cold to stay in the boat, so I got out and followed. My knees rattled every step and once inside the warm house I wanted to jump in a hot tub.”
“It was pitch black in that house. I just stood there shivering. He rummaged through drawers in the kitchen and found some candles. When he lit the first one, I saw him.”
“Hes was cute?”
“Whew, was he cute! He looked like a centaur in his mid-thirties. He was strong and silent. He had long flowing blond hair. But he paid no attention to me, what-so-ever.”
I said, “You might guess though, it didn’t end there?”
“He handed me one of the candles and I went into the bathroom to look in a mirror. I mean, something was wrong.”
When I looked at myself I almost screamed. I was a mess.”
“What did yous do?”
“He and I were stuck for the night. I had plenty of time to put my little plan into action.”
“I turned on the hot water spigot in that old claw-foot tub. Blessed be the gods, hot water steamed out and filled the tub. In ten minutes, I was immersed in life-saving hot water. My chattering teeth calmed, my toes and fingertips turned from blue to pink. All was right in my world again.”
“What happened to the guy?”
“As I said, he was a mystery. That vision of Michelangelo’s David, that all-male male, still hadn’t said a word. He still hadn’t even given me so much as the time of day. It was a mystery, and what a luscious mystery he was.”
Henry knocked at the door. “One minute, Yamelda.”
I looked at Sylvia. Can you get me ready in a minute?”
“The rest of the story will have to wait.”
I was so nervous and cold I couldn’t speak. I didn’t dare do a thing for fear of doing the wrong thing. I handed her a candle and went to the kitchen to come up with some kinda’ plan.
I turned on the oven and pulled up a chair, but ideas were not coming. Maybe I was too cold. Maybe thoughts of the Keating babe in the next room was too much.
After waiting a minute, I peeked through the door. Right there, not thirty feet away, through the partially opened bathroom door, the famous babe of the century was bent over with the candle as a back light, She was un-pealing herself from her wet clothes. When she pulled her top off, I was beside myself. When her bra dropped away, I was left with my jaw dropped to my chest. I slipped through the kitchen door and across the living room. I had to get a closer look. They were better than any of us thought.
I stood behind my protective plate glass window on the top floor of the highest building in Marysville looking through my Harry S. Trunk lettering when a strike of lightning hit a telephone pole a few hundred yards beyond the levee. Although I heard the immediate report of thunder, the building shook too hard for simple lightning. I was surprised my window didn’t shatter.
I watched as the news-van, with its obnoxious telescoping antenna, its garish declaration that it was a news vehicle, list, flounder and slip over the backside of the levee. I smiled when that Yamelda, pain-in-the-ass, Keating also washed into the drink. She’d never bother me again.
But wait, the gap was on the wrong side of the levee. With every passing second, like a sand castle at the shoreline, another ten feet of levee melted away.
By the time I picked up the phone and punched in a number I knew by heart, I measured a hundred feet of water pouring through the wrong wall.
“What is going on?” I screamed into the line. “What the hell are you fuck-ups doing down there now? Didn’t we all agree you were suppose to blow the south side of the levee.”
I listened to lame excuses for a moment then slammed the phone. I screamed to the glass wall. “How could they let this happen?”
It was a no-brainer. Whenever the water rose to a critical level, we’d dynamite the levee. If there was going to be a flood, it was better to control the break, rather than leave it up to nature and not know what part of the county would flood. How many years could I take to the bank the fact that the levee would always be blown on the ghetto side of the river? Samual Tenter and myself owned substantial holdings on the south side. We both voted levee explosions somewhere around our holdings to collect flood insurance. We all profited so what was the problem?
The fourth position in our little levee committee rotated active members like Sally’s lunch counter rotated the blue plate special. That person, whomever he or she might be at the time, didn’t have a chance in hell in deciding where the bulging levee might be relieved. The only decision they could help make, and it was one that meant diddley to Samual or I, was when the levee was to be blown.
The levee had collapsed and the gap, as I slammed the phone, had grown to three hundred yards. It was flooding the wrong side of the river, leaving me up the old financial, shit-creek-without-a-paddle. Since the water was pouring out of the wrong side of the levee, I was going to be left high and dry in more ways than I cared to consider.
Man-about-town, me, Harry S. Trunk had not shown black since the pork belly fiasco a few years ago. Without the life saving levee, I was, figuratively speaking, washed-up and dead-in-the-water. Oh, I had land holdings all right. I had holdings up the old ying-yang, but in a soft real estate market, if I sold any property at all, I’d have to take it in the shorts. In my entire life, except for that Tenican debacle, I had not once taken anything in the shorts. I prided myself on making a profit.
Okay, my pride had been chiseled away more than once those last few years and it all started with that old Stilwalsky broad.
I knew that house. I knew Stalworth. If she had money, she never showed it. That house had no secrets, no treasures, carried no family jewels to slip into a pillow case. Marylou didn’t care about stuff. Her couch was ragged. The TV was an old twenty-four inch tube type. Even the big throw rug in the middle of the living room wasn’t worth picking up much less carrying away. I could tell from first glance that she cared little for the possessions she did have. Everything was laying in a wherever-it-lands-is-where-it-lives, manner.
Once I’d gotten an eyeful of Tits Keating getting into the tub, I gave the house a quick once over without touching a thing. If I was going to be stuck there, I had to leave the place alone. All the two and three story houses surrounding that little farm cottage would be my focus. Riches would be brought back. I could find a way later to retrieve them, but for the moment, the robbing-the-rich-to-feed-the-poor concept –namely Sundog and me– was the only job on my mind.
I thought about Ya-melt-a and her hot body. I thought about those great tits that gave no disappointment. Although my mind was on her chest, I had work to do and I only had one long, dark night to do it.
The next morning, in the light of day, things would be different.
The next day the people in those dark houses would be over the shock of having their homes swamped. They would be on guard and more prepared for my special kind of skill.
I had twelve, maybe fourteen hours until dawn. The Dog Man and me planned that little caper to the tee. I knew what was needed.
Since Sundog was no longer in my part of the picture, and I hoped he’d found his way into a mansion or two, I was going to have to go it alone.
I went back to the front door and looked out at the canoe. It was still tied to the oak tree thrashing around in the boil.
I stood at the door looking out at the never-ending rain trying to think of what The Dog would do. How could I go out there alone and do what Sundog and me had planned for the last four months? How could I complete my mission, my one chance at a fortune, my only opportunity at riches and the easy life, and still get back to the little island to see if I could have an hour or so with the Keating babe.
One night’s work and I could afford to keep her in style for a long time. With the jewelry alone, I could live high for years without having to think about working any lick-the-boots-of-your-fucking-boss construction jobs. I liked being my own boss just fine thank you, but I had to get back to the little island. I had to put into action, my other dream. That dream had blonde hair, blue eyes, and though a much more filthy mouth than I’d expected, wow those tits.
It was painful to have to decide on a chance with the woman of my dreams or the money.
It came to me like the waters of the Yuba. I went to the bathroom swung the door open and looked down on her. She was ready to scream. I wanted to say that I’d be back in five or six hours, but the words wouldn’t come. After standing there for what seemed like an hour, without a word said –and what kind of dick doesn’t say a word– I turned and left the house.
After the noon news, I raced back to my dressing room. Sylvia was putting on lipstick. She looked at me in the mirror. I ignored the fact that she was applying my lipstick and continued the story. “He simply busted in the bathroom and scared the hell out of me, but he wasn’t even looking at my naked body. He wasn’t looking at me like all other men, drooling, trying to undress me with their eyes. He looked me straight in the eyes and didn’t say a word.” I sat in the chair next to Sylvia and spoke to her through the mirror.
“Can you imagine, me? I mean I’ve never met a man who had nothing to say.”
Sylvia raised one eyebrow as she put the lipstick back on the shelf.
“Not one of those wimpy little weasels I’d been dating has even rated a second glance. Every goddamn one of them couldn’t wait to get their grubby little hands on me. They all made me sick, but that guy didn’t even look once, like he wasn’t interested.”
Sylvia stood, stepped behind me and gave my hair a fluff. “Was hes nuts?”
“It was like, for the first time, something else was more pressing than getting into my pants. I mean, what a relief. Now, there was a man.”
Sylvia turned to me and smiled. “You gots that right.”
I gave her a grin. “When he turned and walked out, I was a goner. He could do what he liked and I would love every minute of it. If he ignored me, I’d have to pull out all the stops.”
“Hes better watch out.”
I glared at her. “Let me finish the story.”
She went back to my hair.
“I had one long night to wrap myself around him. We weren’t going to be rescued that evening, nor, hopefully, anytime the next day. I had time.”
After I’d refilled the tub for the third time, and it had certainly been way over an hour. I lifted my newly realigned mammary glands slowly out of the sudsy water. Although I was half-frozen when I got into the tub, I still felt sexy. Maybe it was the guy saving my life. Maybe it was that I was out of the loop, away from the ever-increasing pressures of work. Maybe it was simply my time of the month, I didn’t know, nor did I care. For whatever reason, I felt an overwhelming desire for sex. Not just regular sex either. I wanted wild, uninhibited sex. I wanted to pull out all of the stops and I wanted that Greek God to do it to me with all of the passion I knew he had.
When I, the famous Yamelda Keating had an urge, I always found some willing participant to accommodate me.
When I got into the tub, I purposefully left the door ajar, hoping my savior would chance a glance in. Prior to actually getting into the tub, though I was almost blue with cold, naked as a jay, I bent over deeply with my backside facing the door and did my little tush dance to lure him in. I made sure he would be waiting. In a world of predatory humans, I, Yamelda Keating, predatory female extraordinaire, future news anchor for the nation, had graduated with honors. Wasn’t it the real reason I’d gotten the boob job, with jab of silicone here and there to help round out my already amazing bottom?
I wanted the man. Like most men I desired, I wanted to consume him. I wanted to suck every bit of spirit out of him, then spit him out and leave him for the dogs to fight over. I wanted his power. I wanted him on his knees kissing my toes, begging for whatever scraps I’d throw. I would have him before the evening was out, of that I was certain. I’d turn him every way but loose. I would have my way with him over and over, then I, like I’d done so many times, would turn my back on him and watch him squirm. I wanted him to whine for more. I wanted to feel the ultimate tingle of having dominion over, yet another, in a long string of broken men. That one, though he’d saved my life, was no different than the rest. He was a man after all and didn’t all men blindly and completely follow their dicks right into the mouth of the lioness. Weren’t they glad to go in, but not so happy about the repercussions when my pussy trap slammed shut, metaphorically cutting dick, balls and the very soul.
Those were not thoughts I considered consciously, because most of the time I ran on pure feline instinct. They were thoughts under the surface, just out of sight. Periodically, they bubbled up to haunt me, but were usually overridden by the next in a long line of assignments, or the next in my long history of shattered men. It was a good life and while I still had it, I was going to use it.
After an hour, I, the famous Yamelda Piranha Keating slowly and with much emphasis on each movement, pulled myself out of the tub. I did so with a certainty that he had been watching that whole hour. He was hard as a rock and waiting.
When I toweled off I bent and twisted, giving the partially open door views of me men only dreamed of. I gave the door so much more than an eye full. It was winding my clock. With each time I bent over to dry off my foot, with each long sweep of the towel up a milky thigh, I felt tingles and a greater need for that sexy god of a man. Later he would be a whimpering fool, but for now I wanted him. With each swipe of the towel, my nipples rose.
When I was finished I bent low over the tub, my backside facing the door and searched long for the plug.
I, Yamelda, the-black-widow, Keating, had reeled in my prey. There was no doubt I’d fattened him up for the kill. He was standing outside the door ready. I was certainly, after displaying every intimate little hair on my body, ready for him.
I turned, wrapped the towel around me, pulled it up high enough to reveal the beginnings of my blonde tuft and walked out of the steamy, for more reasons than simply hot water, bathroom. I expected two responses and I was ready for either. The first and most exciting was to find my victim standing, maybe even naked, ready to pounce. The second and not as exciting, but more so in the long run, was to find him sitting on the couch in embarrassed, jittery silence. The second, more appealing, response meant that my little dance could continue, but more blatantly, more in an attempt to draw him out, then draw him in. This second kind of man was more satisfying, because they were the ones who fell the hardest. They were the ones who sent bouquets of flowers, love notes, candy-grams. They sat at restaurant tables across the room a month later, puppy-eyed, waiting for me to throw them a scrap.
As long as I had a man like that on the string, I never had the urge for sex. I never felt like restarting the cycle.
My last fling was three months ago. He was the young, very sweet, Stewart Plumb, office manager of Prudential. He tailed me for two delicious months.
I slowly, with much anticipation, pushed open the bathroom door and prepared myself for the pounce. I was slightly disappointed when he wasn’t standing naked at the door, his male exclamation point at attention. I’d expected him to be the pounce and ask questions later type. Although I was seldom wrong, that time I was surprised.
I pranced down the short hall toward the living room. I made a grand entrance, but to my utter surprise, no one was there.
That was a first. Maybe he was in bed waiting for me. I sashayed to the master bedroom, made a grand, lightly-clad entrance, but no one was there either.
I got more agitated with the inspection of each room. By the time I’d inspected the entire drab little house I was in a boil. Had I been home, or at a man’s house, I would have broken things, but this was Stikes’ granddaughter and nothing looked expensive anyhow. I restrained myself.
There was no Greek sex god waiting. There was no masculinity for me to consume. There was no one in the house at all. My swollen libido, which had been tingling for an hour, immediately shrank back into an old familiar anxiety.
Since I’d left home ten years earlier, I had never spent even one evening alone. I always had people around. I’d never been forced to face any of my demons. It was the first time in my adult life I didn’t have TV, didn’t have a telephone, and worst of all, didn’t have any way to get out.
The house, though with the electricity off for a few hours, was definitely cooling off. It felt bone chilling cold. The quiet little cottage was a prison filled with big, scary sounds, especially the scratching sounds in the walls.
Once I was certain I was truly alone, once I tried the telephone, the radio, I found myself unreasonably frightened. As quickly as I’d expected the Greek god to attack me, my scared little seven-year-old jumped to the forefront. I sprinted for the queen-sized bed in the master bedroom and scooted under the covers, then pulled them up tightly over my head.
Next Chapter: TY-STICK SCRABBLE