Susan Johnson - Hot Streak

“Never, sweetie. That comes first.” Her expression one of complacent well-being, her eyes half-lidded with luxurious memory, Georgia looked across the linen-covered table and, in a low, throaty voice, demanded, “Haven't you ever been hot … I mean really hot for a man?”

Even now it hurt to think about him, Molly reflected, even after all those years. Yes, she'd been flame-hot for Carey Fersten. Devouringly. Ceaselessly. So hot, she'd tremble for half a day before she'd see him. So hot that when he smiled, she shivered. But not since then. Never since then. Including her married life with Bart. “I'm not the hot type, Georgia,” she dissembled. “You're hot over anything that flexes good pectorals. I should learn the technique.”

“It makes for some really great recreation,” Georgia assured her, lifting one arched brow and tossing a silky fall of long black hair over her shoulder.

“Maybe if I get this last bank note paid off and I'm finally operating the business in the black, I'll get into your style of recreation. Right now my mind's on surviving financially the next few months.”

“If you need some money, hon, just ask.”

Georgia was doing well in her law practice, in addition to taking in a princely sum in child support from her ex-husband. But the kind of money Molly had needed to begin anew when Bart had taken her ( his , he'd said during the divorce proceedings, and the papers were all in his name) small design studio was not something Georgia could write a check for. Now after two hard years, her mini-merchandise mart developed from an abandoned eight-story factory was open, completely renovated and beginning to get critical reviews as the smartest, trendiest, most complete, centralized array of wholesale manufacturers in the midwest. “Thanks, Georgia, I appreciate the offer, but I'm keeping my head above water.”

“Well, don't forget to take a break from your all-consuming obsession with work and save the weekend of the class reunion for fun.”

“You can count on it. Would I miss seeing Liz and Adele claw at each other?”

Carey spent the next five days with a cranky, agitated ex-brother-in-law who drank coffee nonstop and yawned a lot. He brought a sweater when Egon shivered, and took it off when he began sweating. They sat on the terrace outside the bedroom, watched the yachts and launches cruising on the Mediterranean, made an attempt to eat at mealtimes, and talked about anything but the reason Egon had bolted Rome and come running to Nice. Finally, though, on the evening before he had to leave, Carey felt Egon was stable enough to come to terms with the fear. The stars seemed alive in the sky, brilliant against a blue-black canopy of night. The air was like velvet on one's skin. It was warm even late in the evening, and the scent of bougainvillaea invaded the senses with sweet reminders of spring. Carey was nursing his second Campari and ice; Egon had three empty espresso cups on the table beside his chaise. “If Rifat still wants those prototypes from you, remember they need you alive. He won't get them if you're dead.” Carey's voice was temperate, his eyes watching for Egon's reaction.

“They could kidnap me,” Egon nervously retorted, his long fingers clasping and unclasping restlessly. “I can't stand pain, Carey, you know that. I don't want my ear or my finger cut off. And with the current mood of the board of directors, even with a message like that, I'm not sure they'd exchange any prototypes for me.”

“You own the company, you and Sylvie. You own their jobs, don't forget. And even though they may not approve of your lifestyle, they'd be sensible about their obligations. Also,” Carey said with a flash of a smile, reluctantly admitting to himself that one had to admire her nerve, “don't think Sylvie wouldn't raise holy hell.”

Egon sat up straighter, rubbed his sweaty palms on the knees of his linen trousers, and smiled back. “You're right.” When Sylvie put her mind to something, she usually got it. “That makes me feel slightly more courageous. Keep in mind though,” he said, dropping back against the cushioned lounge chair, dolor replacing the brief elation, “everyone doesn't have what it takes to get two silver stars and a purple heart in Vietnam. That sort of bravery is genetically lacking in my DNA.”

Emptying his glass, Carey chewed on the last bit of crushed ice before answering. How could he explain to Egon that no one consciously prepares to be brave? “Everyone who went over there was afraid,” he said, his voice soft, “wondering how they were going to respond, whether they could actually shoot another human, if they'd let down their buddies someday, or die in a Saigon cafй innocently drinking a beer when a damn bomb went off. You're not lacking some shining virtue, Egon. There was more luck involved than anything when it came to survival in 'Nam. No one was doing much thinking over there-including the brass. Damn terrifying thought, so you just kept moving fast to cut down the risks or dug in and kept your head down. When someone's shooting at you there's no time to think, anyway; and when there was time, why waste it? Everyone got high. So it wasn't courage that kept me alive, but luck, and…” Carey softly added, putting the heavy tumbler on the flagstone beneath his chair, “a helluva lot of anger. It was a pretty stupid thing to do, enlisting like that, but at that age you don't readily admit to major blunders. So I figured I'd better learn how to use those weapons they gave me better than the guy who was trying to kill me. In a way,” he mused, his eyes on the stars, “I was fascinated by the ways man has devised to kill his neighbors on this planet. Do you know you can kill a man by jamming his nose into his brain? Really simple,” Carey said so quietly Egon had to sit forward to hear. His mouth twitched into a chill facsimile of a smile Egon had never seen before. “Hell, I wasn't brave, Egon.” Carey shook away the damning memories. “Just madder than blazes I'd ended up in a dripping jungle in delta mud up to my ass in the middle of nowhere for no good reason. We weren't stopping the VC, we weren't making progress that I could see in winning the hearts and minds as the general liked to say. There must be a better way, I thought, seeing the hundredth village burned to the ground to make the world safe for democracy. So I was damned determined not to die on that sweltering piece of real estate.” Shaking his head in an abrupt gesture of dismissal, Carey glanced up at Egon. “Don't let Shakin Rifat scare you into living on heroin. Don't,” he emphasized with a rough severity, “let anyone scare you into giving up your life. You just have to say fuck you!”

“I'll try, but I don't know… For me to say fuck you to Rifat would probably take the world's current supply of crank,” Egon replied with a simple honesty.

“Look,” Carey said, reaching over to splash another few inches of the red liquor into his glass, “why don't you get away for a while! You're a first-class rider. Come back, stay with me, do part of the circuit this year.”

Egon grimaced. “It's too much work.”

“It'd be good for you,” Carey encouraged. “Breathe fresh air at dawn, eat well… tone up.”

“I can do all that on the party circuit,” Egon teased, “although the exercise is different.”

“You can't do the party scene and stay off drugs. It's killing you faster than Rifat ever could. I can't help after tomorrow with the race and filming and Sylvie can't do it alone. Would you consider a treatment center?” He knew he was on shaky ground after Egon's last experience where they'd put him in solitary confinement for a day and he'd freaked.

“Don't ask.” Egon's voice was soft but decisive. “I'm over the worst now anyway; Sylvie and I'll manage. Speaking of whom,” he continued, determined to change the subject, “you've been side-stepping my sister these past few days.”