The Sexopaths by Bruce Beckham Page B

maybe?’
    ‘Thank you.’
    He fishes out a chilled bottle from
the refrigerated unit situated beneath the tv.
    ‘Something to go with it?’
    He refrains from saying ‘You look
old enough.’  How old is she?  Eighteen? 
Twenty-eight?  He has no idea.
    ‘Sure.  JD.  Just a
little coke.’
    She knows what she wants. 
And what’s available – but of course she would.  Adam mixes the
drink and takes it across to her.
    ‘Will you join me?’
    ‘I should go back in a moment.’
    But it would be impolite to
decline her request.  She settles herself approvingly and waits while he
fixes his own drink.  He opts without much deliberation for a vodka;
watches the clear cold liquid into a tall glass and bombards it with a skim of
remnant floe ice from their bucket.  He wonders if she can tell his hands
are shaking.  Recumbent against the oversized but fashionably decorative
bed-cushions, she observes him with what he detects is a mixture of faint
amusement and contentment.  She’s at once still and yet in motion; there’s
a continuous, sinuous, slowly caressing serpentine wave that travels almost
imperceptibly through her limbs until it finds its way out at her fingertips
and toes, by which time another undulation has begun to follow the same
mesmeric path.  Adam weighs up the easy-chair angled towards the tv, but
finds he is drawn instead to sink side-saddle, half-way down the bed, facing
her.
    ‘Well – I’m hopeless at
Greek, but I do know yasou .’  He leans forward and offers his
glass.
    ‘Yasou.’
    The girl reciprocates his
movement, reaching with her right hand, bending at her narrow waist.  As
she does so her left knee rises up and her legs part slightly, the mini-skirt
now more or less redundant.  Adam keeps his focus upon making sure the two
glasses collide safely, but bang in his line of sight lie her exposed inner
thighs.  Where a minute or two earlier, amidst the forbidden shadows of
her groin, her white briefs flashed an invitation to treat, no longer is there
a subtly veiled advertisement.  Just a neatly trimmed ‘V’ of honey-blonde
pubic hair.  For a moment he’s transfixed.  The girl calmly drains
her glass, then, keeping her eyes on him, places it with a deliberate tap on
the bedside table.  From inside the temporary sanctuary of the rim of his
own glass, he obediently meets her pale green, now quizzically inquiring gaze.
    ‘Nice?’
     
    ***
     
    The front door amplifies the
sudden sharp almost-rude double-rap and Adam finds himself answering it with
the empty glass in his hand.  He takes longer than is necessary with the
catch and there comes another knock followed by Monique’s voice.
    ‘Adam?  Ad…’
    ‘Sorry, it’s a bit stiff.’ 
He senses the slur in his speech.  He steps back to admit her.
    ‘Is Camille okay?  You were
taking a while… I was worried.’  She looks pointedly at the glass.
    ‘She’s fine.  She’s fast
asleep.  I was just getting a drink for…’  By now she has backed him
into the main part of the room and he gestures towards the girl.  She’s
sitting demurely in the easy-chair, knees pressed together, hands clasped on
her lap.  There’s no trace of her drink and the top-cover of the bed is
stretched taut.  She hops to her feet and stands obediently to attention
for Monique.
    ‘Come.  See.’  She
leads the trio into Camille’s room, Adam dutifully bringing up the rear, where
they all crowd round the cot.  Now she whispers: ‘Very good girl. 
She tell me when she is tired.  She go to sleep herself.  She is very
clever.  And so beautiful.’
    They retreat in silence. 
Adam can tell Monique is won over by the praise.  She says:
    ‘Thank you Elena.’  (Elena
– of course.)  ‘Make yourself comfortable and help yourself to
anything you need.  Are you hungry?  There are crisps and chocolate
in the mini-bar.  Cola, lemonade.’
    ‘I am okay, thank you.’
    ‘We have to go back – they
are about to serve.  If