Andrew Vachss - Down in the Zero

I lifted the hem of her nightie, slapped the side of one sleek cheek. "Shut up. I thought you were going to do as you were told."

"I am."

"Then sit still, bitch."

She snuggled into me obediently, a clean, moist smell rising off her tawny skin. The cigarette burned itself out in the ashtray as I closed my eyes.

I woke up, feeling the change of light in the room. Almost daybreak. Fancy was asleep in my lap, breathing through her mouth. I bounced her lightly on my knee to bring her around.

"Wha…?"

"Wake up, Fancy. It's morning."

"Morning?"

"Yes, girl. You had a good sleep, but if I leave you here much longer my leg's gonna be paralyzed."

"I'm sor— "

"Shut up , bitch. I'm tired of hearing that. Come on, get up. I'm going to get you into bed before I go."

"Go?"

"Ah, come on," I said, shifting my weight, boosting her up. She got to her feet, rubbed her eyes with her fists, as unselfconscious as a child. When I got to my feet, my right leg was asleep. I stomped it a few times on the carpet, feeling the pins and needles, getting the life back. Fancy stood in one spot, eyes heavy–lidded, still dopey from sleep.

I took her hand, led her back toward the bedroom. I half pushed her onto the bed. She lay on her side, looking up at me standing there. I bent over, kissed her next to her mouth.

"I'll see you tomorrow," I told her.

"You could sleep here," she said. "Stay with me."

"I've gotta…."

"Please. Just for a little bit. Till I fall back asleep."

I sat down on the bed, slipped off my boots and socks. I took everything else off except my shorts, dropped onto the bed on my back. Fancy rolled into my chest, licking gently, making little noises. She curled her legs at the knee, feet up, like a teenage girl talking on the phone. I stroked her back through the nightie, drifting.

Fancy put her hands flat on my chest, pushed herself up so she was facing me on her knees. Her hands dropped to the hem of the nightie, then she pulled it up and over her head, tossed it over the side of the bed. Her breasts stood out sharply from her body, unnaturally cantilevered, so heavy they almost met in the center, dark nipples standing out from the bronzed skin. She arched her back, emphasizing. Proud.

I reached for her, held the back of her neck as I pulled her down, rubbed my face against one of her nipples, feeling it grow hard as my light beard stubble scratched her. I moved my face, took the nipple in my mouth, bit down lightly.

"Yessss," she moaned.

I let go of the back of her neck. Still kneeling, she bent so deeply I could sight down her back to the separation of her buttocks, the twin peaks flaring out from her tiny waist into a perfect heart shape as she arched her back into a deep curve. Her glossy dark hair shone in the early light as she reached for the waistband of my shorts, tugging. I lay flat on the bed, not helping her, but she kept tugging until she got them down.

"Hah!" she grunted, her face up, grinning at me. She kept pulling, working her way backward toward the foot of the bed, finally pulling the shorts off, flinging them hard in the direction of the bureau. She lowered her head and came forward fast, head down, charging like a bull. I could feel her tongue licking my balls, then rooting deeper, a muffled grunting noise coming from somewhere past her throat.

I reached out, took hold of her hair and pulled. She didn't move, resisting. I pulled harder. She wiggled her hips, shifting the pitch of the noise she was making, staying where she was.

"Fancy!"

She looked up, a wicked grin on her face, gray eyes wide open now. Then she lowered her head again.

I felt swollen, like a blood vessel was going to go, every vein full. I sat up, put my hands under her armpits and hauled her up until her face was right against mine. She fitted herself over me, taking it deep, trying to sit up. I kept my hands on her, holding her against me, forcing her to straddle. Her hips bucked, thrusting almost to full lock with each stroke. I ran my hand down her smooth back, tracing her spine with my fingers until I found the little spur at the end, right between the dimples on her bottom. I pushed the spur like it was a trigger. She muttered something in my ear, something I couldn't make out.

Her hard breasts bounced against my chest, slick with sweat. I kept my finger at the base of her spine, forcing her hips into little spasms. She was still saying something, harsh short breaths separating the words.

"Tell …me…what…to…do!"

I put my hands on her hips, driving her toward me as I shoved upward. "Come, bitch," I told her. "Do it now."

She popped off so hard I could feel the temperature change inside her. Her teeth were closed at the side of my neck as I caught her rhythm, followed her home.

When I came around again, the sunlight was slanted across Fancy's back. She was still on top of me, propped up on her elbows, looking down into my eyes.

"You're awake?" she asked.

"I guess I am."

"I didn't want to move— didn't want to wake you up."

"Thanks."

"You want a shower?"

"In a minute."

"A cigarette?"

"Sure."

She slid off me, a faint crackle between her legs as we pulled apart. She stood up, stretched. Then she padded off to the living room. Came back with an ashtray and my cigarettes, sat on the bed, lit one for me. I took it from her, dragged deep.

"I never did that before," she said.

"That?"

"Sex. Like that. Before last night. I mean, before last , last night, in your car.

"Like what?"

"With a man. Inside me."

"I seemed to fit easy enough."

She took the cigarette from my hand, pulled on it, exhaled. I watched the smoke fire from only one nostril, feeling her eyes, not connecting with them.

"I…put things inside myself. To get off. After I was done playing dom. Or sometimes, just thinking about it. And a couple of times, she did it to me…with a vibrator."

"Who?"

"It doesn't matter," she said. "I'm going to take a shower. There's another one, down the hall, if you want."

"We can go. Sunday night," she said, standing at the door, her hand on my sleeve.

"Where?"

"Rector's. Sunday night, Monday's the next day. It doesn't open until late. Like you wanted. Okay?"

"Great."

"Do you have any tattoos?" she asked.

"What?"

"Tattoos. On your body. I…couldn't see in the dark."

"No."

"Nowhere?"

"Nowhere," I told her, remembering. I'd wanted one, all right. Not during the kiddie camp bits I served when I was a juvenile, but my first felony fall. There was a great tattoo artist in there, TKO Tony, a burly Irish prizefighter doing time for assault. He'd drunk himself out of the ring, but he was working himself up to number one contender status as a bar brawler when the Law took him down. He did beautiful work— panthers, dragons, snakes, anything you wanted. Going rate was four crates of cigarettes or a lid of grass. I wanted a hand of playing cards— Aces and Eights. I was a kid. The Prof pulled me up quick, crooning the truth.

"Skin art is for gangbangers and gunfighters, schoolboy. Not for professionals. You gonna work the stealing scene, you gotta stay clean."

He was right and I knew it. Tattoos were for those guys doing life on the installment plan.

"They're not for me," I told her.

"Could I get one?"

"A tattoo?"

"Yes."

"I…guess so. Why do you want one?"

"I want a brand. Your brand."

"Hold up, girl. It wouldn't look so sporty on the tennis court."

"Please!"

"Let me think about it, okay?"

"Okay. Where are you— ?" She caught my look, stopped in her tracks. "I'm sorry. I…"

"I'll call you," I said. "Stay here."

Sonny was working in the driveway as I pulled in. He had the Plymouth opened to the bright sun, airing it out, doors and windows all wide open, front end assembly and trunk standing up, a hose in one hand, big bucket of suds nearby.