Mind Games (38 page)

A plane flies overhead like a big lazy star. I’m tempted
to believe Otto, but then again, everything he said is all just words. And anybody can say words.

I jump—a hand on my shoulder. I didn’t even hear him come up.

He removes it. “I’m sorry, Justine. I didn’t mean to startle you. Are you all right?”

“It’s overwhelming, that’s all.” I stare at the flowers, the city lights beyond, longing for the hand back.
Glory hour
. I have to get out of here. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not. I wasn’t thinking about how frightening this might be to you as a citizen.” His breath is warm on the top of my head.

“That’s okay,” I say, ragged with his sudden nearness. He caresses my hair, trails his fingers down my neck to my shoulders. The night colors swim in my vision. “I don’t know what to think, that’s all,” I say, vaguely aware that I should do some sort of mathematical exercise so as not to plunge deeper into a state of sensual insanity.

Otto wraps his big arms around me from behind and says, “You don’t have to think at all. Let me do the thinking.” He tightens his hold, a warm, strong circle; I hook my fingers to his forearms. “Nothing’s going to happen,” he says. “The criminals can’t escape tonight. I don’t have a vein star, and I’m going to figure something out about my prisoners. A superior solution.” He moves around to face me, stands between me and the flowers and the night sky. Dimly, I marvel at his power over fear—I shot so much of it into him. “I trusted you. Now you need to trust me,” he says. “Nothing bad is going to happen to you, I promise.”

I stare at his chest, wanting to believe that. The truth is that bad things will happen to me no matter who is lying.

He touches my cheek. “I’ll take care of everything.”

I look up, and that thing happens again where his
smiling makes me smile. I have as much resolve as a kitten now.

With a sudden movement, he scoops me up, holds me aloft. I laugh, startled at the sensation of lightness, of the world having fallen out from under me, of Otto’s warmth and goodness.

“Let me take care of everything,” he says.

I wrap my arms around his neck as he carries me across the patio.

His kisses me as he pushes backward through the door. Maybe he’s lying; maybe he’s not. None of it matters. I’m glorying in the Engineer’s arms.

Deep inside his penthouse he lowers me onto the bed and pulls my towel knot free, and I just let him, and I let him look at me, craving his touch. There’s no going back now. He sits next to me and draws an excruciatingly slow finger along the outer curve of my breast. The sensation of his finger becomes more important than bloodbaths and gouged eyes and everything else in the universe.

“Please.” I take hold of his hair, pulling him to me for a kiss, careful not to disturb his hat. I have never wanted somebody so desperately in my life.

He draws away to kiss a line of kisses down over my ribs to my belly. “I am going to slowly and carefully and deliberately consume every bit of you.” The way he kisses my belly button feels indecent, and I gasp. “I am going to make love to every last inch of you.” A kiss on the tickly skin below my belly button. “I am going to enjoy you slowly and thoroughly.”

“Okay,” I whisper—a stupid answer to a statement that doesn’t require an answer, but I’m distracted by his hand over my thigh, and then the sensation of fingers between my legs. I can practically feel the ridges of his fingerprints as he explores across wet and excruciatingly
sensitive skin. Then, slowly, one finger then two slide inside me.

He moves down, watches me watch him, fingers slow and lazy, and then I feel his warm tongue on me. It’s like I can feel every tiny taste bud. I gasp as he pushes my legs farther apart. My mind shrinks to the slow drag of his tongue … nothing matters but the feeling. I’m a quivery jellyfish, helpless under him. On and on he goes; it’s like he’s devolving me into a single-celled organism that lives on air and feeling. The world outside gets even smaller; I lose touch with everything as sensation builds and bursts over me in a wonderful wave, leaving me floating, breathless.

When I get myself back, I say, “Gosh,” thinking I may have made some sounds. Hopefully in the range of normal sounds, and not, like, critter sounds.

He looms over me; luscious hair shadowing his face, and there’s a primitive look to his eyes that frightens and excites me. Otto isn’t thinking about sounds; he’s thinking about fucking.

“I am going to take you,” he says, “slow and hard.”

“Do.” I love that he says that; it’s old-fashioned and a little bit dirty. I so want to be taken by Otto right now.

He opens the bedside drawer.

“What are you doing?”

“Trying to be bit more responsible this time around.” He lifts out a condom and unwraps it with leisurely, elegant movements. I run my hand up his solid thigh, feeling like I might die without him touching me everywhere. He rolls it onto himself slowly. Then he stands, like a magnificent bull.

“Are you enjoying making me wait?”

He gives me a sly look. “Yes.” Then he lowers himself slowly, still with that look, kisses my neck, and I gasp as he pushes into me, slow and thick. I close my eyes, starry-headed from the sensation.

“Oh, God,” he says. I arch up to meet him and he grabs my thighs, stilling them. “Slow,” he says. “And hard.”

Jesus
, I think. The way he moves, I feel everything. I push my palms over his chest, exploring, grasping. We fall into a deep, delicious rhythm.

Later, the slow thing goes out the window, and even the hard thing goes. Our fucking follows its own wonderfully raunchy storyline, full of twists and turns, and sweat rolling down arms and chests, and a little bit of teeth.

Sex during glory hour—Simon was right. The bug on the windshield is everything. We spend the next hour speeding off the cliff.

          Thirty-two

I
WAKE UP EARLY
and just lie beside Otto, watching him sleep and feeling so very close to him. I want to touch him, but I don’t want to wake him. I’m far too confused. I keep remembering Diesel’s skeleton. He died helpless and alone. I also picture Diesel’s metallic-blue bracelet jangling around Packard’s wrist as Packard strangles Otto to death. And Packard instigating a bloodbath. And Otto gouging out a man’s eyes. The mind-boggling enormity of Packard’s betrayal if Otto turns out to be right.

I think back to what it was like spelunking Otto’s energy dimension, the order and goodness. Can I trust that? Was it the actual truth of him, or a small, buried part of a sociopathic whole?

I need answers.

Quietly I creep out of bed and make my way to the terrace. My clothes are on the divan where I left them. I pull on my bra and my fuzzy sweater and suedelike pants. The sun rises over the lake, beaming brightness through the sky. It would be so lovely to sit out here and have our morning coffee. Or lunch. Or a lovely dinner. I get the exciting thought that the patio is the perfect place to wear the silver bikini and cover-up the Silver Widow gave me. And then I wonder what planet I’m thinking of. Otto and I can never be together.

Back inside I find a piece of paper, write XOXO on it, and stick it in the corner of the mirror. Then I get out of there.

People and cars zip up and down the street in front of Otto’s building; this is an early-rising, high-achieving part of town. I look around for a cab. And then I see her. Sophia. She’s crossing the street with two coffees and a bakery bag. I wander slowly away from the building’s entrance, willing myself to blend into the surroundings, but it’s too late.

“Nurse
Justine!” She says this with a flourish. Is she mocking me? “Speak of the devil.”

“You were talking about me?”

A humorous light plays across Sophia’s features. “Why not? It’s such an honor to have met such a remarkable nurse.”

I nod, stomach in throat. “How are you?”

“Oh, I’m very good, thank you.” She raises her eyebrows. “Very good.” And she turns and enters Otto’s building, leaving me with a very paranoid feeling.

   I arrange to meet Shelby downtown; she’s temping as a secretary for her latest target, Lady Brazil. I wait for her in the bagel shop on the ground floor of Lady Brazil’s office building, and I barely recognize her in a prim gray suit, her hair in a bun.

She eyes me as she buys a bagel at the counter, warning look on her face; I’d better not laugh at her.

I’m not in the mood for laughing, and neither is she once I tell her what happened. Feverishly, we dissect everything Otto said, and everything Packard ever said, trying to divine the truth. The notion that we might be dupes in a scheme to unravel the fabric of society upsets her.

“Packard would not allow it,” she says again and again. “He could not.” Shelby has experience with unraveled situations.

My phone rings. “Packard.” I turn it off.

Shelby frowns. “I believe he would do anything to be free, but he is not wicked. He would never allow bloodbath. You will see Sanchez is bigger danger than Packard.”

“I can’t believe he’d gouge out people’s eyes and crack heads and all that.”

Shelby sniffs. “You saw photos, did you not? Helmut believes, too. Do not forget, Justine, Helmut spent much more time with Otto Sanchez than you did.”

“But he didn’t figure out Otto is the nemesis, did he? All he knew was that Otto led a double life, and that he was with people who later disappeared. That supports either story—Otto as good guy or Otto as evil.” And always I go back to the spelunk. I wish I knew if I could trust it. And us together—the way we felt. “Otto didn’t feel evil inside. I’m going to find answers, and if he’s truly struggling to keep the city safe, no way am I destabilizing him. I won’t let him be disillusioned.”

“What do you mean? You will warn him?”

“I don’t know, but I can’t let an innocent man be disillusioned. And can you imagine a horde of Rickies being set free?”

“Justine! You always want to have choice, but there is no choice. To warn Otto is to hurt Packard, and that is to hurt all of us. This is what Simon wanted to have, this power. And we were frightened he would use it, do you remember? And now you would use it? Justine, if you warned Otto, he would punish Packard and we would perish.” She clutches my arm, waits for me to look at her. When I do she says, “We would die.”

“He wouldn’t let us die.”

“You cannot say that. You do not know. Think, Justine. You have zinged Otto twice, and you zinged him as you made love!” She widens her eyes. “If he knew this, he would hate you as he hates Packard. He
would punish you, too. And Helmut. His dear friend Helmut, performing psychological attacks for months as they wept for elephants.”

I feel cold as I consider the enormity of our crimes against Otto. She’s right. I slide down in my seat, thinking back to last night on his rooftop.
I knew the minute I met you
, he’d said. I’d thought it was a threat, but it was a declaration of feeling. And it wasn’t about binding to me from the zing. He felt that way about me before the zing. He opened himself to me and I attacked him. What have I done?

“We had this connection, Shelby. We could’ve—”

“Been happy together?” she sneers. “Do not torture yourself with such illusion.” She looks at Foley’s watch. “I am late. I must meet Lady Brazil.” She looks back up. “There is nothing for you with Otto. You have lost nothing. You have no choices.”

          Thirty-three

I
ARRIVE
at Mongolian Delites just as the lunch shift is leaving. Ling calls to me to hold the door; her hands are full of papers, the bank deposit pouch and other manager items. “Something’s up with Packard. He’s in such a fantastic mood. Can you lock up behind me?”

“Sure.”

She leaves, and I flip the bolt. A hush falls over the place, but there’s nothing hushed about my mood as I stalk toward the booth.

Packard looks up from his book and smiles. Of course he’s feeling fine. He thinks he’s closer than ever to getting out. The final phase of his master plan is rolling right along.

Was rolling right along.

I slide in across from him, wondering, for the first time, where home is for him. It occurs to me that I haven’t thought this through. Why have I come?