David Baldacci - Hour Game

With no scruples impeding him Kyle had agreed to look into it, had done some homework to see the best way to access this potential gold mine and had concluded that it was doable. Terms were agreed to, the deliveries commenced and Kyle had significantly increased his income.

The long dress did not totally obscure the comely figure of the woman facing him. The private surroundings, the bed in one corner of the room and the fact that they were in a strip club always made Kyle's blood race. In a recurring fantasy he'd stride into the room, far bigger and more masculine than he actually was. He'd hold out the pills like he was doing now, but when she went to take them, he'd grab her, lift her up, laughing at her puny resistance, and throw her roughly on the bed. Then he'd fall on top of her and have his way far into the night. His sexual savagery would rise with the anguished pitch of her screams, until she finally shrieked in his ear that she wanted it; she wanted him, she wanted Big Kyle, so badly.

Even now he felt a rise in his pants as this wistful scenario played itself out once more in his head. He wondered if he would ever actually have the nerve to execute upon it. He doubted it. He was far too much of a chickenshit. She laid the cash down on the table and took the Baggies, then motioned with her hand for him to leave.

He immediately did so, folding the money over twice and sliding it into his pocket with a big smile.

Kyle wouldn't realize until later that something he'd seen was of great significance, chiefly because it made no sense. And it would eventually cause him to wonder. And at some point that wonder would lead to action. For now all he wondered was what to do with the money he'd just earned. Kyle Montgomery wasn't much of a saver; he was far more of a spendthrift. Instant gratification was very much a way of life for him. A new guitar, perhaps? Or a new TV and CD-DVD combo for his small apartment? By the time he'd made it back to his Jeep and driven off, the new guitar had won out. He'd order it tomorrow.

Back in the room the woman locked the door, unwound her scarf and took off her glasses. She slipped off her shoes and then removed her dress, revealing a silk camisole underneath. She examined the labels on the Baggies, took out one of the pills, crushed it and downed the powder with a glass of water followed by a chaser of straight Bombay Sapphire.

She put on some music, lay back on the bed, crossed her arms over her chest and allowed the power of the medication to send her to another place, one where she might, at least for a few brief moments, be happy. Until tomorrow, that is, when the reality of her life would come shrieking back.

She trembled, jerked, moaned and then lay still; the sweat was shooting through every pore in her body as she hit the highest high and then plunged to the lowest low. In one of the heat-charged spasms she tore off her sweat-drenched camisole and dropped to the floor in only her panties, her breath coming in huge bursts, her breasts slapping together as she rolled back and forth in a convulsion of manufactured ecstasy. Her nerves fired and misfired under the delicious stress of her potent concoction.

But she was happy. At least until tomorrow.

KING FINISHED HIS DINNER WITH friends around nine-thirty and decided to call Michelle to see if she was interested in a nightcap at the Sage Gentleman to discuss the case some more. She was there in about ten minutes. When his partner arrived, King watched in amusement as many male heads in the bar turned at the sight of the tall striking brunette striding confidently through the bar wearing jeans, a turtleneck sweater, boots and a Secret Service windbreaker. The fantasies they must have been playing with, he thought. If they only knew she was armed and dangerous and independent as hell.

"How was the dinner?" she asked.

"Predictably boring. How about the kickboxing?"

"I need a new instructor."

"What happened to the one you have?"

"He's just not challenging enough."

As they looked around for a table in the bar area, Michelle spotted a familiar face in the far corner. "Isn't that Eddie Battle?"

At that instant, Eddie looked up, saw them and waved them over.

They sat down at his table, the remnants of a meal still there.

"Dorothea not cooking tonight?" asked King with a smile.

"That would be correct. In fact, that would be right for most of our marriage. I actually do most of the cooking," he added with a boyish grin.

"A man of many talents," said Michelle.

He was dressed in corduroy pants and a black sweater with brown elbow patches. Michelle looked down at his feet and saw loafers.

"I see you finally got the cavalry boots off."

"Not without effort. Your feet really swell up in those things."

"When's your next reenactment?" asked King.

"This weekend. At least the weather's been cooperative. Those wool uniforms are really scratchy, and if it's really hot, it's a killer. Although I'm thinking about retiring from it. My back's about gone from all the horseback riding."

"Sold any paintings lately?" asked Michelle.

"Two, both to a collector in Pennsylvania who happens to be a reenactor. Only he fights for the Union, but I won't hold that against him. Cash is cash, after all."

"I'd like to see your work sometime," said King. Michelle said the same thing.

"Well, I have it all in the studio behind the house. Give me a call whenever. I'll be glad to give you a tour." He waved to the waiter. "You two look thirsty, and as my mother would say, it's bad manners and a damn shame to drink alone."

As they waited for their cocktails, Eddie said, "So have you solved the case and gotten Junior Deaver off the hook?" He paused and added, "Although I guess you can't tell me. We're sort of on opposite sides."

"It's not an easy nut to crack," said King. "We'll see."

Their drinks came. King tasted his whiskey sour and then said, "So how's your mother doing?"

Eddie looked at his watch. "She's at the hospital, although it's around ten, so they'll be kicking her out of Dad's room soon. She'll probably sleep there though. She usually does."

"What's your dad's prognosis?"

"Actually, that's taken a turn for the better. They think he's past the worst of it."

"That's great news," said Michelle.

Eddie swallowed some of his drink. "He's got to make it. He's just got to." He looked at each of them. "I don't know if Mom could survive his dying. And while death awaits us all, I just don't see him riding off into the sunset right now." He looked down, embarrassed. "Sorry, too many gins and I start sounding pretty cliché-ish. Probably a reason why drinking alone with your problems is never a good idea."

"Speaking of drinking alone, where's Dorothea?" asked Michelle.

"At some function," said Eddie wearily. He hastily added, "A Realtor has to do all that crap. But you can't argue with her success."

"True, Dorothea has been very successful," said King quietly.

Eddie raised his glass. "To Dorothea, the world's greatest real estate agent."

Michelle and King looked at each other uncomfortably.

Eddie lowered his drink. "Look, she has her thing and I have mine. There's a certain balance to that."

"Do you have any children?" asked Michelle.

"Dorothea never wanted kids, so that pretty much settled that." Eddie shrugged. "Who knows, maybe I didn't want them either. I probably would've been a lousy dad."

Michelle said, "You could have taught your kids to paint, ride horses, maybe they would've gotten into reenactments too."

"And you still could have kids," added King.

"To do that, I'd have to get another wife," said Eddie with a resigned smile, "and I'm not sure I have the energy. Besides, Battles aren't supposed to divorce. It's unseemly. Hell, if Dorothea didn't kill me, my mother probably would."