Питер Джеймс - Short Shockers - Collection Two

He knocked.

The door opened almost instantly, and he gasped.

‘You lied!’ he said.

She had.

She wasn’t naked at all. Not totally, anyhow. She was wearing black suspenders. And a silver necklace, which he had given her. But nothing else.

Kicking the door shut behind him, he fell to his knees, wrapped his arms around her bare midriff and buried his face into her stomach, then instantly began to explore her with his tongue.

She gasped. He breathed in her scents, the one she had sprayed on, and the natural scents of her body. ‘Oh my God, Marcie!’

‘Larry!’

She dug her hands so hard into his shoulders he was scared, for an instant, that her nails were going to score his skin. He didn’t want to have to try to explain scratch marks to Elaine, and that was one of Marcie’s dangers — she could be a bit too wild at times.

Then, as he stood, she tore at his clothes like a wild animal, her lips pressed to his, their tongues flailing, her deliciously cold hands slipping inside his boxers.

She pulled her head back a fraction, grinning, her hands moving around inside his pants. ‘Someone’s pleased to see me!’

‘Someone sure is! Someone’s been missing you like crazy all weekend.’

They stumbled across the small room, his trousers around his ankles, and fell, entwined, onto the bed.

‘God, I had such a shit weekend. I’ve missed you so much. I’ve been dreaming of this, wanting you so badly,’ she said.

‘I’ve been wanting you so badly too, babe.’

‘Take me from behind.’

He took her from behind. Turned her over and took her again from the front. Then he slid down the bed, down between her slender legs, and pressed his tongue deep inside her. Then she sat on top of him.

Finally, sated, they lay in the soft bed in each other’s arms. ‘You’re amazing,’ she said.

‘You are too.’

Van Morrison was singing ‘Days Like This’, and Larry was thinking, Yes, this is life. Days like this are truly living life!

‘You’re the best lover ever,’ she said.

‘Funny, I was thinking the same about you!’

‘You’ve done this before, haven’t you?’ Marcie teased.

‘Nah — just read about it in a magazine.’

She grinned. ‘So how was your weekend?’

‘Great,’ he said. ‘Max vomited over me. Twice.’

‘Sweet.’ She traced a finger across his forehead. ‘But you love him?’

‘I do. It’s an amazing feeling to be a father.’

‘I’m sure you’re a great father.’

‘I want to be,’ he murmured. He glanced at his watch. Time flew when they were together. It had been 8 a.m. only a few moments ago, it seemed. He had a board meeting scheduled for 11.30 a.m. Just a few more minutes, then he’d have to jump in the shower, dress, take the subway back downtown to the reality of his job as a hedge fund manager. And not see Marcie again until Friday.

‘I don’t know what’s going on,’ she said. ‘Lot of sirens outside.’

But he barely registered what she was saying — he was thinking for a moment about a tricky client meeting he was due to have this afternoon. A major client who was threatening to move a large amount of money to a rival firm.

His meetings with Marcie were affecting his work, he knew. Ordinarily he’d be at his desk by 7.30 a.m., and would begin his day by updating himself on all the overnight changes to the market positions of his clients, then scan the morning’s reports from the analysts. Recently, two days a week, he had been neglecting his work — and that was why he now had one very pissed-off client.

He listened some more to Van Morrison, savouring these last moments with Marcie and feeling too relaxed to care. He heard another siren outside. Then another.

Suddenly, his cell rang.

He rolled over and looked at the display. ‘Shit’, he said. It was Elaine. He pressed the decline call button.

Moments later, it rang again.

He declined the call again.

It rang a third time.

He put a finger to his lips. ‘It’s her ,’ he said. ‘Third time. I’d better answer in case there’s a problem.’

She rolled over and silenced the music. And now, outside, they could hear a whole cacophony of sirens.

‘Hi darling,’ he said into the phone. ‘Everything OK?’

Elaine sounded panic-stricken. ‘Larry! Oh my God, Larry, are you OK?’

‘Sure! Fine! Never better — why?’

‘Where are you?’

‘I’m in the office — just about to go into a board meeting.’

‘In the office?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘You’re in the office?’

‘Yeah, I’m in the office, hon.’

There was a long silence. Then she said, her voice almost a shriek, ‘You’re in your office?’

‘Yeah, I am. What’s the problem? What’s going on? Is everything OK? Is Max OK?’

‘You haven’t been hit on the head?’

‘Hit on the head?’

‘You’re in your office?’

‘Yes, shit, I’m in my office!’

‘What can you see?’

‘What can I see?’

‘Tell me what you can see out of your fucking window?’ she demanded.

‘I see beautiful blue sky. The East River. I—’

‘You goddamn liar!’ The phone went dead.

Marcie, rolling over, said, ‘What’s with all the sirens?’ She picked the television remote up from her bedside table, and pressed a button on it. The television came alive. She clicked through to a news channel. A panicky looking female news reporter, holding a microphone in her hand, was standing with her back to the building Larry recognized instantly. It was where he worked. Up on the eighty-seventh floor of the South Tower of the World Trade Center.

The newscaster had not seen, yet, the horror unfolding behind her as the skyscraper collapsed in on itself. Terrified people were running past her, some with blood on their faces, many covered in grey dust.

‘Shit… what… what the—?’ he said, shooting a glance at his Tag Heuer watch, on which the time and the date were clearly displayed.

It was 9.59 a.m., 11 September 2001.