The James Sisters

Third Chapter: Telephone

The cordless phone I got has an annoyingly shrill ring. I wish
I'd known before I bought it. I keep meaning to take it back.

"Hello," I barked, out of breath.

"Hi," she purred.

"Who is this?" I asked, innocently.

"It's me, you ass."

"You."

"Your jail-bait girlfriend. Your dirty secret. Your Lolita."

"No fair," I said, "alluding to Nabokov without having read him."

"How do you know?"

"Not unless the schools are a hell of a lot more interesting
these days."

"'Lolita. Lo-lee-tah. My sin, my soul. Light of my life. Fire,'"
and she chuckled, and it sent a shiver through me, "'of my loins.
Lo. Li. Tahh... The tip of the tongue, aha, takes a trip down the
palate to tap lightly at - '"

"You act, don't you. In school plays."

"Yesss," she said.

"Because that's a standard voice exercise. A warm-up thing."

"So?"

"So I still don't think you've read it, you trollop."

"Please," she said. "I think of myself as more of a doxie." Her
breath caught a little on the last word.

"You would. Is there a reason you called?"

"Just," she said, "ah, just because I could."

"I see. Are you alone?"

"Maybe. Oh." She took a deep, shuddering breath.

"Why don't you call back," I said, "when you're less busy." I
hung up. Actually, I just pushed the off button, but it sounds
better to say one hung up.



The binoculars cost sixty bucks to repair. Cracked lens. Cheaper
than buying a new pair.



My aunt moved back to Savannah when my uncle died. She never
really forgave him, I think, for taking her away. Which doesn't
stop her from bitching about the heat.

"Lord knows," she said, "I was a fool to move back here."

"So come on back," I said, because I knew she wouldn't. "There's
plenty of room."

"No, no, I couldn't. I'd be underfoot, and you wouldn't want me
around with all your partying. I'd cramp your style." We
chuckled, politely. "Tony always wanted you to have the place to
yourself. He's felt badly ever since that business with your
father." She coughed. I made a noncommittal sound. "How are you
settling in? Everything working out? I know the ice machine in
the fridge never got fixed."

"It's fine, Jean." Actually, it wasn't; I still hadn't gotten
around to calling someone about it. "I did want to ask you,
though. About the neighbors?"

"Yes?"

"The folks behind you. The ones with the old grey brick house..."

"Oh, that ugly old thing. Lenny James and his girls."

"Lenny?"

"Except I think he died, actually. Six months or so before your
uncle. His heart. Unsurprising, really."

"Oh?"

"Well, I'm not one to go telling tales..." Yes, Jean, you are, I
thought. Why else would I call you? "But he was found in
flagrante delicto. And not with his wife, which is why I think
they call it flagrante."

"Some doxie, no doubt," I said. "Or a trollop."

"Myself, I'm not afraid to call a hooker a whore," she said. "At
least he had a smile on his face. Which reminds me. Did you call
Carol Gragg yet? She's just your age, and a lovely girl. She does
technical writing, so you have something in common."

"Not yet, Auntie." Let's not go there, please. "Actually, I've
met his widow, I guess. Mister James's. Virginia?"

"Oh, Ginny James. His third wife. A piece of work, let me tell
you - why are you laughing?"

"Sorry," I sputtered. I'd just made the connection. "The TV's on.
That wacky Seinfeld. So. What does Ginny do, exactly?"

"Well," said Aunt Jean. "I'm not one to tell tales..."



I finally had a reason to start hooking up the computer. When the
phone rang, or rather bleated, I started, banging my head on the
edge of the desk. I swear I'm going to get a refund for that
fucking thing.

"Hello," I said, irritably, rubbing the back of my head.

"I've decided," she said.

"What?"

"I'm going to tell my sister about you."

"That's nice." I returned to the task at hand, sorting out the
rat's nest of cords between monitor, Zip drive, printer, and
modem.

"She'll be jealous, you know. She's a dyke."

"Oh?"

"A real man-hater. Ever since she was twelve. Did I tell you she
wants to be a poet?"

"Yes." Right. I have to run the scanner's SCSI through the Zip,
not vice-versa. Nice, logical things, computers.

"So I'm going to tell her. About you. And me. Us. About how you
practically raped me that morning in your kitchen."

"You were dressed provocatively." She laughed. "Are you going to
tell her about Virginia, too?"

"Hush. I'm going to tell her about your cock."

"Really."

"I'm going to tell her about how good you are at fucking. Better
than she is, with that stupid dildo thing she straps to her
thigh. I'm going to tell her how good you are at eating pussy."

No sparks when I turn it on. Good sign. "Tch. So vulgar. Besides,
sweetling, I've yet to gamahuche you."

"Gama what?" she said.

"Look it up, dear. It's French."

"Okay, but what does it mean?"

"The youth of today. So impatient." The screen was showing a sad
Mac, not a happy I'm-booting-up-and-all-is-right-with-the- world
Mac. Shit.

"Fuck you, old man."

"Such language. What are they teaching you in school today?
Besides Lolita. It means I haven't eaten you out yet."

"Well," she chuckled, "why don't you come over and do something
about that?"

"All that trouble for such a measly punchline?" I asked.

"Pfeh," she said, which is as close as I can get with the
alphabet. "It's also an invitation."

"Your mother's home, right?" I fumbled about for the Norton's CD.

"Step-mother. So?"

"And your sisters? Tina, and Kat?"

"Half-sisters. At camp."

"What about Leah? I presume, if we're to drive her mad with
jealousy, make her dildo wilt with envy, then she must be around,
right?"

"I said I was going to tell her about you. Not share you."

"Right. Besides, she's gay. You said she was gay."

"Your point?"

God bless Norton's. There was the happy Mac. "Look, I'm kind of
busy at the moment. Your mother - excuse me, step-mother, she's
home; Leah's home; if you're horny, there's more convenient
outlets available."

"Fuck you," she said, with some heat.

"Later, Lolita." I started Disk Doctor on his merry little way,
and watched the cute little animation as he began his diagnosis
of my hard drive. "Tell me. Is your name really Jessie James?"

She was silent for a long moment. "Yes," she said, and the heat
had turned to warmth, with a little quizzical curiosity. "Why?"

"I just think it's funny, that's all. Listen, you know of any
good ISPs around here?"

"Whats?"

"Internet service providers. I need to start a new dial-up
account."

"Try the yellow pages. Why don't I call you back later? When
you're less busy."

"Looking forward to it."

My palms were sweaty, and I was actually trembling a little when
I hung up the phone. But hey. It's about hand, as that absurd
George Costanza would say. One has to have hand, in a
relationship. So score one for me, with (I hoped) no flags on the
play.

I tried not to think about the curve of her thighs; the
smoothness of her skin; I tried not to imagine the scent of her,
and how she would taste; I tried not to remember what coming did
to her mouth, and her eyes.

Fuck.



"Carter," he said.

I groaned. "Not now, Nicky." I'd thought it was Jessie, calling
again, making another move in our little game of telephone, and
so I got even more of a guilty twinge than I might otherwise
have.

"I must see you."

"No," I said, "you mustn't. That's the whole point, Nicky."

"You know I dislike being called that, Carter."

"Yes, Nicky, I do. Get the hint?"

"Fuck you, Carter," he was saying as I took the phone from my ear
and switched it off. Hung up. Whatever.

"Not any more," I muttered to myself.



The idea, when it came to me, came all at once - I saw the
photographer's name in the photo credits, double-checked the
links, and burst out laughing as it hit me.

I was still chuckling when I reached for the phone - it was four
thirtyish, still plenty of time to catch someone in the office -
and I stopped, my hand hovering over the diabolical little green
handset.

Up till now, my snooping had been just that. Snooping. Poking
about on the web, in old files, calling friends. This would take
it to the next step, could conceivably expose me, if things went
awry. Besides. What the hell was I up to? Not just with the
snooping. With Jessie. This dangerous game with a for-Christ's-
sake fifteen-year-old. I'm not like this, trust me. I don't hang
out around Catholic schools hoping for a chance gust of wind and
a gaggle of short plaid skirts. God, most teenagers bore me to
tears.

But Jessie...

The girl knew my name. I'm not exactly completely unfamous, but I
make a point of never having publicity photos in my books. Smacks
of vanity. Though I have done some public readings. Been on TV a
couple of times. Still. She sussed my unlisted home number
somehow. Yes, but so did Nicky. Must speak to the phone company
about that. She broke into my house, somehow. And is going out of
her way - beyond the call of an adolescent crush, to an alarming
degree - to suck me in.

I shrugged, and picked up the phone. It was working. I punched in
the number and waited through one ring, two rings. My palms
moistened.

"Andi James's office," twittered the voice on the other end.

"Yes, hello," I said. "My name is Carter MacLeod. I'd like to
make an appointment to meet with Ms. James, to discuss a
potential project?"



Jessie and Virginia were back by the pool the next morning.

I was washing up my breakfast dishes as I watched them unfold
deck chairs and slip out of their clothing. Virginia had worn a
short black kimono; Jessie a tight cropped T-shirt with that
cartoon penguin on it and a black thong. As Jessie pulled the T-
shirt over her head, Virginia, nude, stepped behind her and put
her arms about her. Jessie tilted her head up and back and they
kissed. I found myself wondering how they decided to spend the
morning this way: "Gee, Mom, I'm really horny." "Me too! Let's
get naked and make out by Carter's pool!" Virginia's hands had
dipped into the crotch of Jessie's thong, and as the kiss hung
for a moment between the two of them, then redoubled its frenzy,
she hooked the waistband under her thumbs and tugged, over the
girl's hips and down. Jessie stepped out of them, kissed her
step-mother one more time, then dove into the pool, swimming
towards the back door. Virginia lay back on one of the deck
chairs and began to oil herself.

I met Jessie at the back door, drying my hands on my apron. She
melted into my arms, and her skin was welcomely cool and damp in
the heated morning air. Her kiss was open and wet and sloppy and
as close to sex as I've ever gotten that quickly, and redolent of
musk. Her lips, her tongue, her breath were rich with the taste
of someone else's sex.

"I see we've gotten a head start," I murmured, when she let me.
"Mumsy? Or sis?"

"Wouldn't you like to know," she purred, and kissed me again.
"Make me come," she said, and she kissed me again. "We wanted to
borrow," and she nipped at my lips, "some gin," and she licked
them, and I opened my mouth, and we kissed some more, and her
hand was under my apron, had found my swelling cock, was
frustrated by my boxer shorts, "but I suddenly had to have you,"
and I caught her hand just as it tried to yank my shorts down,
"please," she said, "fuck me, please." And another kiss. The
meeting. I kept that in mind, and though my knees were trembling,
and my head spinning, I was able to step back from her and smile,
a little.

"I have," I said, and took a breath, to keep from sounding too
discombobulated, "a meeting. Lunch. Can't be late."

"Yes you can," she said. "Come on. Outside. You, me, and
Virginia."

"One big happy family."

"Stop that. She likes you, you know." She grabbed my hand and
started to press it between her legs. I felt for her lips with my
middle finger, and they were warm and wet, and parted easily as I
slipped inside her. She shook. She was shockingly hot, compared
with her cool damp skin, and I spent a moment reveling in her
heat, as she held my hand there, and shuddered, her eyes closed.
"We could fuck," she said, in a little, lost voice. "We could
fuck you. You could fuck me as I fuck her. We could all fuck each
other with our mouths, a daisy chain." Every time she said
"fuck," her hips jerked a little. I began to move with the motion
as it became a rhythm. "We could suck you, both at once. Honey
kisses. You could fuck us both with your fingers. Virginia and
me, ohh, oh God, could fuck, oh, and you could watch." She opened
her eyes, and I think she came, lightly, gently, grinning at me
as she stopped jerking her hips. I caressed her, and lifted my
finger to her lips. She licked it clean. "You like to watch."

"Sometimes," I admitted. "But this morning, really, it's, well.
It's really bad timing."

She pouted.

"I can get you the gin," I said.



My shower was perhaps a bit longer than I expected, but I had
left myself plenty of time. As I left, I peeked out into the
backyard. Jessie lay back in her step-mother's arms, her knees to
her chest, her toes pointed, her legs, her whole body quivering,
as all four of their hands stroked and slipped and slithered and
fucked her cunt. Her face straining, grimacing, as if coming were
the hardest thing in the world, Virginia rocking with her,
kissing her throat, raising one wet hand to toy with a nipple,
but Jessie didn't seem to notice, just strained and strained as I
watched, a minute, two, as she quivered, about to break in half,
into a million pieces, until her eyes shot open, her mouth
rounded in surprise, in terror almost, and her back arched, and
she jerked and jerked in Virginia's arms until she finally fell
back, still quivering, from whatever heights she'd reached. She
twisted in her step-mother's arms, and they kissed, and curled up
together, and Virginia held Jessie tightly, and kissed her some
more, and Jessie almost seemed afraid of what had been conjured
there, for one bright endless crystal moment.

I went out to my car, thinking of cold showers, and nuns with
sharp rulers, and zombies. Showers of cold zombie nuns. Yeah.



The photo over the receptionist's desk was a huge blow-up of the
photo I'd seen on the website. I guessed it was some kind of
trademark image for Ms. James's photography studio.

Well, it was an appropriate trademark. There was a sample book of
photographs on the coffee table, and as I'd shown up maybe five
minutes early I entertained myself by flipping through it. Women.
Women in various stages of dress and undress. Women in various
stages of undressing each other. Close-ups of women's faces in
the throes of orgasm, and of giving each other orgasms. All a
little too carefully posed, though,. a little too flawlessly lit.
None of the annoying phoniness of, say, the air kisses of
mainstream "lesbian" porn, but artificial, somehow.

Yet stirring, nonetheless. I put the book down when I suddenly
realized I was looking at a photo of the receptionist herself,
her glasses askew, her hair down, naked except for a black velvet
choker, arms and legs spread wide against a dead black background
as a closely-cropped blonde in a man's suit and tie knelt between
her legs. I looked at the receptionist, intent on some
bookkeeping task or other on her computer, and thought about the
lovely tattoo of a bee I now knew she had, on her chest, at about
the level of her collarbone, hidden at the moment by her black
turtleneck sweater. I managed not to chuckle.

So I looked at the big photo some more, wishing vaguely that I'd
brought a book. Ms. James seemed to be running a little late. It
was a close-up of two women kissing, a chaste kiss - lips,
slightly parted, pressed lightly together. Both women were
expressionless, their faces unruffled at all by what their mouths
were doing. One, whose short black hair was combed sharply back
from her face, had her eyes open, looking with some dispassionate
curiosity at the other, whose eyes were closed, lightly - and
whose explosion of curly red hair made her a dead ringer for the
mystery woman I'd seen at the Jameses' house a couple of days
before.

"Erotic, isn't it?" said a deep and throaty female voice behind
me.

I turned, a smile on my lips, a glib expression like "Ms. James,
I presume?" at the ready, only to have both die at the sight of
Andi James's explosion of curly red hair.

She was, luckily, looking at the photograph, and missed whatever
surprise flickered across my face. "If it were a man and a woman,
we wouldn't think that. Two friends, perhaps. It could even be a
brother and sister, a father and daughter; a chaste, affectionate
kiss. But two women..." She looked down at me, and smiled. "It
becomes instantly sexualized. We can't help it. Women are
sexualized in this society."

"I don't know," I said. "Any kiss on the lips is pretty sexual."

Her smile broadened, a little, and twisted down at one corner.
"Tell that to the Europeans. Mr. MacLeod, I presume?"

"Ms. James."

"Call me Andi."

"Carter."

We shook hands. Hers was cool and dry.

"Sorry I was late. Phone calls. I loved 'The Key to the Kingdom.'
Thai fine?"

"Uh," I said, "sure. Thanks. Fine."



"Two men, granted," she said, picking at the cellophane noodles.
"Because that sort of physical expression of affection just isn't
done unless there's at least an undercurrent of sexuality. With a
heterosexual couple, that can be sublimated, but with a couple of
the same sex, it's impossible to ignore."

"Granted," I said.

"With two men, though - there's an element of surprise. It still
isn't expected. But women..." Again the smile, with the little
twist. An impish twist. "If you want to sell something, to a man,
what image do you use?"

I shrugged. "Sex."

She nodded. "A pretty woman. Ever flipped through a woman's
magazine, Carter?"

"I tried taking one of those Cosmo quizzes once."

"How'd you do?"

"Men apparently find my flighty nature a hindrance to commitment.
That, and I need to buy some new shoes."

She laughed. It was a nice laugh. "But I imagine you noticed the
ads."

"Your point?"

"Women, Carter. Pretty women. Some naked, some barely clothed...
alluring, inviting. Erotic. Sexual. The same as in men's ads -
sex is used to sell." She plucked up a slice of cucumber and
nibbled delicately at it. "Of course, the intent is different.
Men are supposed to want the woman, and thus, by transference,
the product. Women, though, are supposed to want to be the woman
- and thus want the product, which will help them get that way."
She sighed. "But it's only natural that the intents would get...
confused."

"Explaining not only lesbians, but male transvestites."

Again with the laugh. "You think I'm joking. And I am, a little.
Indulging myself in some judicious hyperbole."

"Excuse me," said our server. "Have you decided?"

I ordered the pad thai with bean curd. Andi got something with
chicken and lemon grass. Andi's eyes followed the girl's hips as
they swayed back across the restaurant in her low, tightly-
wrapped skirt. She was short, and her black hair was swept up on
top of her head, showing a long, fine neck; she wore a tight pink
and saffron halter, and the dark bare skin of her back swooped
gracefully between halter and skirt. She had nice eyes and a
lovely little mouth.

"Cute, huh?" I said.

"I could just eat her up," she said, dragging her eyes back to
me. "Maybe I will. But seriously. I'm not saying that all women
feel this way, of course. Or that this is present in all ads.
Certainly not. But year after year of seeing women as sexual
objects, as sexual beings - this has to have some effect? And it
certainly doesn't hurt that most of the commercials and ads are
designed and shot by men - who are going to inject, or even
impose, their own gynophilic desires, whether consciously or
unconsciously."

"I thought most of the stylists were gay men."

The mouth crooked down in a little self-deprecating pout. "Every
paradigm's got to fall down somewhere."

We chuckled, and picked some more at the appetizer. "Gynophilic?"
I said.

"You're a writer," she said. "And a good one."

"Thank you."

"So figure it out."

"I did, mostly. Gyno-philic. 'Woman-loving.' I'm just not
familiar with the context."

"Sorry. I'm being unforgivably pretentious again. I prefer the
terms gynophilic and androphilic as a means of classifying
people, rather than straight or gay - ultimately, because they
share an object of desire, straight women and gay men, say, have
more in common than straight women and straight men."

"Or straight men and lesbians."

"You sound skeptical." She folded her hands together, resting her
elbows on the table and her chin in her hands, piercing me with
those deep blue eyes, ready for argument. All of it undermined,
of course, by the insistent images in my head of her on her knees
before Virginia, Virginia's skirt hiked up over her hips.

"I consider myself bi," I said. "How does that fit?"

"Freud notwithstanding," she said, "there is no such thing as the
true bisexual."

I blinked. "I see. You won't mind terribly if I disagree?"

"What sort man are you attracted to, Carter?"

I decided, after a long moment, not to answer that one. "Let's
leave that to one side. Any individual, no matter how normal they
seem, is going to have quirks in their sexuality that queer any
attempt, if you'll pardon the turn of phrase, to lump them into
an overarching category. It isn't as simple as deciding I'm
attracted to effeminate men or butch women and deducing from that
what I'm really attracted to."

She shrugged. "I think you're a classic gynophile, Carter."

"And I know you are." We traded grins. "But enough about that.
Let's talk about your work, your response to this, this
sexualization. I can't even tell if you're in favor, or
opposed..."

"Neither, really," she said. "I'm not for or against. Are you for
or against the tide, or the moon? It's a fact of life, and it's
possible to go through life asleep to it, ignoring it, or one can
become aware of it, come to grips with it, and move on."

"So by taking pictures of beautiful women fucking each other,
you're helping people come to grips..?"

She shook her head. "By stripping the inherent message out of its
normal, sebtextual role, and privileging it, I force people to
acknowledge its presence. Also, in some of the choices of models
that I make, I allow normal women an ingress into this
unacknowledged realm of fantasy - " and she stopped, and her grin
sharpened. "But that's grant committee bullshit."

"I thought I smelled something."

"Basically, I throw it in people's faces. I'm seen as performing
a valuable service in this post-modern society, because of the
spin I put on it. And while they're dealing with their issues and
moving on, I get to wallow in it. Which is precisely where I want
to be."

And then I lost her again, as our server showed up with lunch.

"What's your name, love?" she asked.

The girl ducked and blushed a little. "Suchin," she said, with a
shy smile.

"Well, I'm a photographer, Suchin," said Andi, pulling a business
card out of her vest pocket and pressing it into the girl's hand.
It, too, had a copy of the photo of the kissing women on it;
Suchin's eyes widened only a little at it. Andi was watching her
face intently. "And I'm always on the lookout for new models."

"Oh," said Suchin, blushing some more, "I - "

"Actually," Andi was saying, "it's not too busy, is it? If you
could just - " and she was climbing out of the booth, and walking
around Suchin, and her eyes were playing all over the girl's body
as she stood there, uncertain. Suchin's face did have a brittle,
delicate, exotic beauty - yet she was naggingly familiar, for
some reason.

"Hold your head up," Andi was saying, and her hand reached out,
brushed Suchin's head, lifted it, and the girl didn't object, and
Andi's other hand pressed her bare back forward a little, lifting
her small breasts, and as she gently posed the girl her hands
brushed and caressed and teased, lightly, but unmistakably. And
even I could see the small dark shadows appear on her saffron and
pink halter, as her nipples swelled at the attention, and I
certainly didn't miss Andi's small smile of triumph. "Think about
it," she was saying, "think about it. I'd like to get you into
the studio as soon as I can, see how you do in front of the
camera." She'd taken the girl's chin in her hand and held her
gaze with a look of almost motherly concern, the predator's smile
hidden away for now. "Give me a call." She patted the hand that
held the card, as Suchin tucked it into a fold of her skirt, and
we both watched as her hips swayed away, Andi's miniature face on
the card, eyes closed, mouth open for a kiss, clinging there,
tucked into a fold of pink and gold fabric above one slender
brown thigh.

She sighed extravagantly and shrugged out of her suit coat. A
black bra strap, wide and satiny, peeked from under the grey and
chalk pinstripes of her vest, over one bare, pale shoulder.

"Do you always throw yourself so exuberantly into your work?" I
asked.

"Well," she said, "with rewards like that..." She grinned. "But
enough about me." She took a nibble of chicken. "Let's talk about
this proposal of yours."

Ah, yes. My cobbled together proposal, the carrot I was dangling
to get myself in the door. The plan had been to then pump Andi
James, gently, about her relationship with Virginia, and any
other information about the Jameses in general. Anything on the
mysterious redhead would have been a nice bonus. But discovering
that the mysterious redhead was Andi James - that had put a crimp
in things. I'd like to think I stumbled my way through my
"proposal" with a minimum of stammering.

"A pillow book," she said, judiciously, when I'd wound to an end.

"Or a book of hours. I haven't even decided on the form, I'm
afraid. What I've got at the moment is just the high-concept
description: Griffin & Sabine meet Madonna's Sex." She was
nodding thoughtfully at that when sudden inspiration struck. My
muse may be fickle, but when she comes through, she does so in
spades. "Part of the reason it's so unformed," I said, "is that I
want to explore the collaborative process as a part of the work."
Careful. Watch the grant committee bullshit; she'll trip to that
in an instant. "I mean, why should I do all the intellectual
heavy lifting?"

"I must say," she said, "I've never really given much thought to
the idea of collaboration. Much less with a novelist - but you do
make it sound... very enticing."

"Good."

"How did you come to decide on me, and my work?"

I took a deep breath. "Well," I said, "you were recommended -
indirectly - by Virginia James."

Her eyes widened. "Really! What do you mean?"

"I'd rather not get into it. But I checked out your work on the
web, and liked what I saw. And I was very glad you could make an
appointment for the very next day." Another deep breath.
"Virginia does legal work for you?"

"She's my counsel, yes."

"You have much of a call for that?"

"Are you kidding? Given the work that I do? Not only does
Congress every six months or so completely change the paperwork I
have to file to assure everyone that I'm not a white slaver
pederast drug pusher, but I practically have to blackmail my
server to keep my web catalog up. Virginia's just the shark I
need, let me tell you."

"She's awfully young, isn't she?"

"But ruthless. That's what matters. So how do you know her?"

"We're neighbors," I said. "I just moved into the house behind
her, about a week or so ago. It was my uncle's."

"Good old Tony Poundstone. I was sorry to hear about his death."

"We weren't that close. Close enough for me to get the house,
but..." I sighed. "My aunt and I talk a lot, on the phone. So you
and Virginia are related?"

"You could say that. We like to call ourselves 'ex-sisters.'"

I looked quizzically at her.

"We were both married to Leonard. At different times, of course."

"Of course. But you're close?"

"Yes." Was it my imagination, or was she savoring that word a
bit? "Very. I am curious about what she told you..."

I'm sure you are, I thought. "Anyway. I met Virginia briefly,
shortly after I moved in. And I let her step-daughters use my
pool."

"Oho," she said, with a decidedly salacious cast.

"There's nothing ulterior about it," I said, with mock
defensiveness. "I don't use it myself. And they do brighten up
the place."

"I'll bet. Speaking of brightening..."

Suchin walked past, carrying a tray of food to another table.

"I was thinking," I said, dragging her eyes, reluctant though
they were, back to me, "about the possibility of using one of the
James girls in the project."

She smirked. "You wouldn't be the first to fall for Leah."

"Actually," I said, "it was Jessie I was considering."

And the smirk turned predatory again. "I see."

I was judiciously silent, and let her make of that what she
would.

"Well, Leah's posed for me before," she said, finally. "Something
similar, I imagine - delicately exploring the sexuality of the
adolescent girl..."

"Nothing too Jock Sturgis, I hope."

"Ha. Anyway, Virginia didn't have a problem with that. Encouraged
it, actually."

I'll bet, I thought, but didn't say. "They're close, aren't
they?" I said, as cool and neutral as I could be. "Leah, and
Jessie."

"How do you mean?"

"One just doesn't expect teenaged sisters to be so friendly."

She frowned, slightly. "I hadn't noticed they were especially
friendly. In fact, there was some rather heated friction, a
couple of years ago. It's a difficult family situation, as I'm
sure you understand - going through three different mothers, so
quickly, and the twins... Have you met them?"

"They're away at camp, I understand."

She nodded. "And then Leonard dying, so unexpectedly. I'm happy
to hear that they seem to be patching up their differences,
actually."

"Well," I said. "In my own uninformed opinion."

"Why don't you write something up," she said. It took me a moment
to register the change in topic. "A verbal sketch. Then we can
talk about setting up a shoot. To try out the process. I'd waive
my fee for that, of course."

"A trial run."

"Precisely. I assume your publisher will help cover some of the
initial costs?"

Christ. If this got any farther, I'd have to call Dolores and
start setting something up. This chimerical pillow book might
actually become something of a reality - depending, of course, on
how things went with Andi James... "Of course," I said.

"A toast, then?" She raised her glass of iced coffee, and so did
I. "To our future endeavors."

"Indeed," I said. We clinked glasses.

"Speaking of which," she said. "Suchin?"

She was passing the table. "Is something wrong?" she asked.

"Far from it," said Andi. "Do you have a moment? Could I ask you
to - would you just sit down, for a moment? I wanted to talk to
you, about posing..." And she was shifting over on the booth, her
hand on Suchin's arm, guiding her, so that Suchin was sitting
next to Andi almost without realizing it.

"Ma'am," Suchin was saying, "this is - "

"Shh," said Andi. "Just a moment." Suchin was sitting to her
left, so she used her left hand to brush a stray strand of black
hair from the girl's face. "You're very beautiful, Suchin. Do you
know that?"

"Thank you, ma'am," she said, "but - "

"Shh," said Andi. "Relax. Normally, I leave Thursday afternoons
free, for my own projects. I'd like to bring you in, today. This
very hour. I'll pay you three hundred dollars for an afternoon's
work."

She shifted her weight, and I suddenly realized her left hand had
dropped into Suchin's lap after brushing the hair away. Now she
brought her left hand up, leaning back on her elbow against the
booth, as she brought her right hand across. Suchin blinked.

"Relax," said Andi, hypnotically. "It's okay. Three hundred
dollars. Surely you can get off work early? The lunch rush isn't
too bad today, is it? What do you say?"

Suchin closed her eyes, and her lips parted. "Ma'am," she said.

"Shhhh," said Andi. "What do you say?"

And Suchin's head jerked a little, and she breathed in, sharply,
and her eyes opened, as Andi's shoulder shifted, a little, the
bra strap rolling under the pinstriped vest. "Yes," said Suchin.
"Yes."

"What do you think, Carter?" asked Andi, not taking her eyes from
Suchin's face. "Would you like to come back to the studio? See
something of my methods?"

I've seen plenty, I thought, but didn't say. Suchin shuddered as
Andi's bare shoulder kept rocking, her right hand working, under
the table. I was about to make an excuse, offer to cover the
check, when her foot, bare, stole across mine, flicked up under
the cuff of my jeans, played across my calf. Which was somehow
the oddest thing of the whole damned odd situation.

"Well?" said Andi, waiting for an answer.

"Must run," I said. "I am sorry. Some other time, perhaps?" I
stood.

"I'm sorry," said Andi, still not looking away from Suchin.
"Don't worry about the check."

"Oh," said Suchin. "Oh."

"I'll be in touch," I said.

I looked back, from the door. Andi was kissing Suchin, her tongue
licking at the girl's lips, her hand between those brown thighs,
under the pink and gold. I could also see their legs, under the
table. Andi had hooked Suchin's right ankle with her left,
drawing the girl's legs open.

Andi still wore her wingtips. On both feet.

But Suchin had kicked off her sandals. She had a lovely gold
anklet that shimmered over one bare brown foot.

I remembered where I'd seen Suchin's face. She'd been wearing a
pair of men's Y-front underwear and a sleeveless men's T-shirt,
smoking a cigarette, a black and white photograph from Andi's
catalog.



I was still chuckling, at myself, at Andi, at Suchin (if that
really was her name) - at the whole damned James family - when
the phone rang.

"Do you wait for my calls or something?" said Jessie. "You
always, mmm, you always pick up on the first ring."

"It's a cordless," I said. "I don't like to be out of touch."

"Do you take it with you into the bathroom, when you go for a
piss?"

"Please," I said. "There are limits."

"Ooh," she said. "Good."

"You're not alone, are you."

"Quick, he is."

"Sis? Or Ginny?"

"Never call her that. She, oh, she hates being called Ginny." She
groaned, and I heard a rustle of fabric, as she stretched one
hand out above her head. "It's Leah. Aren't you. Mmm." Her voice
was suddenly muffled, as she put her hand over the mouthpiece.
"It's Carter," she said.

"So put her on. I want to meet this sister of yours."

"I can't," she said, unmuffled, back in my ear again. "I won't.
She's busy."

"Too busy to talk?"

"Her - oh God - her mouth's busy. Fuck. Gamahuching me. Oh, fuck.
Tell me, tell me something. Something sexy."

"Like what?"

"Hell," she gasped, "I don't know! Tell me. Tell me what you're -
ah! - thinking of doing to me. Please. Right now."

"I," I said, and I took a deep breath, "am contemplating the
development of a serious obsession with you."

"Oooh," she said. "How serious?"

"How about stalking. Is that serious?"

"Boring," she said.

"I'll watch your every move."

"Great. Ah. What good does that do, oh my, what good does that do
me?"

"I'll follow you to school," I said, "and waylay you in the
girls' bathroom. I'll yank your panties down to your knees and
flip your little school-girl skirt over your ass and fuck you
right there in the stall, while the delinquents roll joints and
paint each others' lips black."

"Ooh," she said. "It's, it's almost like you've been there. What
else?"

"Ah ah," I said. "Quid pro quo. What's your sister doing to you,
right now?"

"One of, oh, fuck. One of my favorite things in the world. She's
kneeling beside me - "

"What's she wearing?"

She chuckled. "A tight baby tee with a cigarette girl on it. Oh.
She's kneeling beside me - "

"Anything else?"

"I ripped those off her. With - ah - with my teeth. Oh, fuck, oh
fuck oh fuck!"

"Well?" I said, after a minute of heavy breathing.

"False - ooh - false alarm. Which is a good. Wouldn't want to go
off too soon. She's kneeling beside me, so I can play with her
ass, take that! and she's licking me - stop it, that tickles! Ah!
She's licking me, Christ, licking my clit, and she's tickling my
belly with her hair and she'd better fucking stop! And, oh, fuck,
her middle, ooh, her middle finger is stroking me as deeply as
she can. Fuck, Leah, oh, please, keep, oh. Fuck. You taking
notes?"

"Diligently. What are you wearing?"

"Ah," she said, "no. Quid pro quo. What are you going to do for
me? To me?"

"How about a date?"

"A date?"

"Yeah, you know, we get dressed up, dinner, maybe a movie. A
date. Kids do them all the time these days, I understand."

"Actually," she said, "we, ah, we spend our weekends at keggers,
fucking like drunk weasels in the master bedroom of whoever's
parents are out of town."

"Whomever," I said, correcting her.

"Whatever," she said.

"Tomorrow night. My front door. Seven o'clock."

"What - what should I wear?"

"Something presentable. In polite company, of course."

"Damn," she said.

"See you."

"Wait!" she called.

"What?"

"Aren't you going to do anything?"

"With..." I said.

"Here you've got, oh, two gorgeous girls at your disposal, aren't
you going to take advantage? At all?" She did a nice audible
pout, then spoiled it by gasping again.

"Just be nice to your sister and return the favor. Are you sure
she can't talk now?"

"No," said Jessie, "she - fuck - she certainly can't."

"Tomorrow, then." I hung up. Through the binoculars, I watched
her turn hers off and throw it to the foot of her bed, there in
her room (I supposed) on the second floor. She wore a tight baby
tee with what looked to me to be a Mucha print on it (the one he
did for Job cigarette papers, I believe), and the front of her
white bikini underwear was bunched out by the hand she'd had
buried inside throughout most of our conversation. As she lay
back, her knees up, her toes curled and her calves clenched, and
she began to pinch at a nipple through the T-shirt as her hips
bucked until, in a sudden frenzy, she rolled over on her stomach,
frigging herself like mad.

Downstairs, I could just make out another girl, in the kitchen. A
blonde, like Jessie, though older, maybe eighteen or so.
Shoulder-length hair. I couldn't tell at this distance what color
her eyes were, but I was satisfied that this was, indeed, Leah,
the man-hating incestuous lesbian poet. She wore a nice white
nightshirt, with big blousy sleeves and a floppy Edwardian
collar, short enough to prove most cooperative in showing the
full, golden length of her lovely legs, and she stood by a
kitchen counter, eating nothing more scandalous than the last of
a pint of Newman's Own ice cream.

Tomorrow, I swore to myself.

Tomorrow I was going to get some goddamn answers.

--n.

http://www.asstr.org/~nickurfe/
http://www.ruthiesclub.com/
nickurfe@yahoo.com

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