True Fiction (Ian Ludlow Thrillers #1)(31)
“Thanks for reminding me,” Ian said to himself and closed his eyes.
While he was sleeping, she took the car and came back with a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken, four buttermilk biscuits, and a couple of Cokes. The smell of the chicken woke him up and eating it out of the bucket was almost as good as sex. He didn’t realize how hungry he was or how satisfying fried chicken could be. After their meal, they sat side by side in bed together, greasy-fingered and sated, and watched one of the Star Trek movies that starred the geriatric, overweight cast from the original TV series. Ian was shirtless and in boxers and she was wearing a T-shirt and panties. It would have been a dream date, if only they weren’t running for their lives from the CIA and she wasn’t a lesbian.
“Do you have anyone in your life?” Margo asked.
“You mean like a wife or a girlfriend?”
“Yeah.”
“Why do you ask?” It certainly wasn’t because seeing him in his boxers made her horny. She’d made that very clear.
“Because you’re ready to go into hiding for God knows how long but you don’t seem concerned about the life, or the people, that you’re leaving behind.”
She was looking at their situation in ways that hadn’t occurred to him. First, she’d considered what running off together might mean relationship-wise for the two of them and now she was wondering what the emotional cost might be. He was more focused on basic survival. But she deserved to have her questions answered.
“I’ve never been married. I’ve had a few serious relationships, nothing that’s lasted longer than a couple of years,” he said. “I’ve always been too focused on my career, or too lost in my stories, or so my exes have told me. But it was the same for them, too. They were always chasing the next role.”
“So you only date actresses?”
“Every woman in LA is an actress or model,” Ian said. “Or waiting to be discovered as one.”
“That’s such a cliché,” she said.
“You’ve obviously never spent much time in LA.”
“Do you have a family?”
“I’m an only child. My father was a newspaper reporter in LA. My mom went to parties for a living, covering the society beat. They divorced when I was a kid. He died ten years ago. He was an editor for a small-town newspaper in the Midwest. She’s down in Palm Springs, still going to parties, and hoping to marry a rich plastic surgeon so she can save some money on all the work she’s having done. You?”
“I’m single. My parents have been married for thirty-five years and have lived in the same house in Walla Walla, Washington, for all of them. My dad sells insurance through his own agency and my older brother works for him. I was supposed to work there, too, until I found a good husband and raised kids.”
“You don’t strike me as an insurance salesman,” Ian said, stealing a glance at her pierced belly button. It hurt just to look at the silver stud. “Or a housewife.”
“You see that clearly but my family didn’t,” she said. “Not until I brought a girl from Milton-Freewater as my date to the prom. They still haven’t gotten over the shock of it or accepted who I am.”
“Who are you?” Ian asked.
She cocked her head, studying his face. “I thought we discussed that.”
“You’re more than who you like to fuck. I’m talking about what you want to do, what you’re passionate about. I assume your dream isn’t dog sitting and driving asshole writers around.”
“I’m a struggling singer-songwriter,” she said. “I play in a few bars and coffeehouses in Seattle but I haven’t had much success. None, actually.”
“What kind of singer are you?”
She thought about that for a moment. “Imagine Nina Simone crossed with Joni Mitchell singing about doomed lesbian love and Walla Walla sweet onions.”
“Isn’t there enough of that out there already?”
She laughed. “Careful, Ian, I might start to like you.”
He smiled. It felt good to make her laugh. “Enough to switch teams?”
“Not that much,” she said.
They watched another Star Trek movie, marveled at William Shatner’s toupee and girdle, then fell asleep in bed together, their bodies never touching.
An Excerpt from Death Is the Beginning by Ian Ludlow
Straker’s mastery of the ancient erotic art of 性的超越, or Seiteki chōetsu, kept KGB agent Ivanka Anasenko on the verge of a full-body, deep-tissue, nerve-shattering orgasm for three straight hours. Her pale skin was dappled with sweat and almost every muscle in her body, from her eyelids to her curled toes, was as taut as piano wire, ready to be released in glorious spasms of ecstasy with just the right touch. He played her body like an instrument, her moans and quivers the musical notes. It was his favorite tune.
Some disciples of Seiteki chōetsu stroked the skin and genitals of their lovers with razors or knives instead of their fingers or tongues but Straker considered that showing off. Besides, Anasenko would have never let him near her naked body with such obvious weapons.
Now he was playing her with another part of his anatomy, each thrust a balletic exploration of her inner woman that made her entire face tremble with ecstasy. He thought about those Cialis ads on TV, warning men to call a doctor for an erection lasting longer than four hours. The ads always amused him. If he couldn’t stay hard for eight hours, it wasn’t worth getting up. But tonight was different. He didn’t have the time to spare to adequately satisfy himself.