Michael Prescott - Mortal Faults

“You’ve thought about this a lot.”

“When your livelihood’s at stake, you got to think about it. And find ways to bring in extra money.” He turned pensive.

“You mean, doing some repair work on side?”

“Repair work. Yeah. That’s a good way to put it. Fixing things.”

“Cars,” she prompted.

“Problems,” he said. “People got problems, I fix ’em. Until today I always got it done. Today everything went to shit.”

“People understand when you make a mistake.”

“I dunno. With some people, it’s all about results. You get the results, or you don’t. And if you don’t…”

“If you don’t?”

He showed her a crooked smile. “You’re screwed, blued, and tattooed.”

“You’ve already got the tattoo.”

“Yeah, you’re right about that, Sandi from Mission Viejo.” He looked her over. “How old are you?”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m twenty-six. You gotta be, what, thirty?”

At least he’d underestimated. “Something like that. Why do you ask?”

“I don’t usually go for older women.”

She reminded herself of all the reasons why she couldn’t splash her drink in his face. “You don’t?”

“Nah. Guys who’re into that-they got, like, a mother complex, you know?”

“I’m not old enough to be your mother.”

“Yeah, I know. You got a nice body, too. Work out, I bet.”

“Every day.”

“I can tell. You get all buff, and you come to dumps like this to meet guys like me.”

“Pretty much.”

“Scary hobby.”

“I guess I need a certain amount of stimulation to stay interested in things. You know what I mean?”

“Not really.”

“I need the rush. I need to put it on the line sometimes. You ever feel like that?”

Dylan got it. He nodded, his grinning mouth flecked with suds. “Baby, all the time.”

“What gives you a rush?”

“You tell me first. Tell me what turns you on.”

“Places like this.”

“This?” He snorted. “This is a shit hole.”

“That’s why I like it. It’s not safe.”

“No, it ain’t.” He showed her a wolfish leer. “Getting less safe all the time.”

She managed to hold eye contact without barfing. “That’s why I’m liking it better all the time. So what’s your poison?”

“What I did today,” he said slowly.

He got off on killing. Great. “What did you do today?” she asked with bland innocence.

He shook his head, remembering that the topic was off-limits. “Nothing.”

“So you won’t share?”

He cast around for something safe to say. “I like to ride. Got a Harley Low Rider.”

“That’s a good bike.”

“Better’n good.” He stared into the depths of the mirror. “Way I got her customized, she’s a thing of fucking beauty. Sweeter’n a woman, for sure.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“I do. Woman’s good for a couple hours, tops. My bike can go all night long.”

“You ride all night?”

“Sometimes. When I can’t sleep, I take her out on the freeway or down to the coast highway and fly, fly, fly.”

“Sounds like fun.”

He turned to her. “You ever ride a Harley?”

“Can’t say I have.”

He got off the barstool and drained his beer. “Come on, then. You want adventure, I got the ticket.”

He gave her his helmet and rode without one, and she clung to his back as he cut through the streets to the freeway and howled up the on-ramp, whipping from lane to lane, everything blurred and spinning in a rush of speed and noise. The engine roared, throbbing like a racing heart, and the wind blew into her face while his sleeveless jacket beat against her throat, and the tattoo on his neck strobed in the passing headlights. She held on tightly to him, knowing that if she let go, she would be blown out of her seat and smashed on the road. He was drunk and angry and reckless, driving like a madman, and Abby was aware of the danger but accepted it without fear. She wasn’t going to die in a drunk driving accident; it would be too mundane.

He flew south on the freeway, exiting with a scream of tires. On South Standard Avenue, he pulled into the parking lot of a dingy apartment building and killed the engine.

“Come on in,” he said. They were the first words he’d spoken in nearly an hour. He led her up a flight of bowed wooden steps and unlocked his door.

Everything was proceeding as planned. Once inside his apartment, she would ask for a drink. He would pour glasses for both of them. While he was distracted, she would lace his beverage with one of the little white pills in her purse. The pills were Rohypnol, sometimes known as the date rape drug-a medication illegal in the US, but obtainable by those with connections. The newer version of the drug turned blue when it dissolved, making it harder to conceal in liquids, but Abby’s stash was the original variety, which dissolved clear.

The sedative would take effect within twenty minutes, knocking him out. The trick would be to keep him talking until the narcotic had spread through his bloodstream, but that was no big problem. If there was one thing Abby was good at, it was talk.

She would have to be careful, of course. During the ride she’d shifted her hold on his waist once or twice. She’d felt the handgun in the side pocket of his jacket.

She followed him in. He flipped a wall switch that turned on a pair of lamps flanking a futon. The apartment was sparsely furnished, dirty, and old. There were the usual accoutrements. A TV with what looked like a bootleg cable hookup. A stereo system that no doubt bothered the neighbors when it was cranked up to top volume, but the neighbors, of course, would be too intimidated to complain. A card table and folding chairs that served as a dinette set.

A doorway led into a kitchen that looked small and carried the stale odor of grease even at a distance. There must be a bathroom somewhere, and there might be a bedroom too, unless the futon served as his bed.

“Nice place,” she said.

“Yeah, it’s a regular Taj Mahal.” He showed her a crooked grin. “I’m going to fuck your lights out, you know that?”

“I kind of figured that was the idea,” she said mildly, and then he grabbed her.

It happened so fast she had no time to react. His big arms were around her waist, and he was crushing her against his chest, his mouth on hers, his tongue probing, while his hands slid to her buttocks and squeezed hard.

She broke away from the kiss, gasping. “Hey, let’s cool it, Dylan. Let’s-”

“Shut up.”

He pivoted sideways, carrying her with him, and she noticed for the first time how strong he was, strong enough to lift her off her feet and throw her down on the futon, and then he was on top of her, a huge, hungry smile on his face. But what she focused on was the scorpion, purple and swollen, clinging to the side of his neck. It repulsed her.

“You like adventure, bitch?” His hands were already working the button fly on his jeans. “You got a special one coming tonight.”

Her purse was on the floor, dropped when he tossed her on the futon, and out of reach.

“This isn’t the way I want it,” she said.

“Tough shit.”

“A girl likes a little foreplay-”

“I know what you like, and I got it right here, ten inches of it. I could be a fucking porn star. Give it a feel. Go on, feel me.”

Reluctantly she extended her arm beneath his belly and felt what he had down there, a grotesque, monstrous thing, like a length of rope uncoiling from the bristles of his crotch.

“It ain’t even waked up yet,” he said proudly. “You wait till it’s full grown.”

She was not anticipating that development with relish. Already she could feel it expanding with a stiff pressure that made her want to gag.