Chapter VI: All in the Family
But when it came down to it, Lisa wasn't able to make herself go to work. She called in sick, went back to bed. She couldn't sleep. She'd fucked her father. It might not have been his physical body, but it was him nonetheless. In her imagination, it hadn't been the nameless john, but Paul Cole who'd dumped come into her hungry cunt. It'd been his tongue she'd sucked and nibbled, his mouth she'd ground her lipstick into.
She'd whored herself for him all over again. This time, for real. Maybe she'd have to that time and again. He'd emptied his wallet to buy her. Two hundred an fifty bucks he'd left on the bedside table.
She shook herself, tried to banish the nightmare that was again warming her sluttish heart. If it'd been such a turn-on, why had she cried all night? Why did she feel so . . .
She couldn't name it. Maybe the emotion had no name. She felt around inside, like she was probing a toothache with her tongue. There was exhaustion. There was an unwillingness to believe it'd really happened. There was sorrow.
That was it. Grief. It was like the mother-fucker, or, in this case, daughter-fucker, was dead. Like she'd gotten a phone call at three a.m. A weepy voice and a bad connection. Sobs and static. Honey . . . rattle-pop . . . bad news. Your father . . . crackle-hiss . . . no pain . . . whine-screech . . . passed away . . .spit . . . in bed.
She was crying again, but laughing, too. It was so intense that she had to curl up into a tight little ball. Was she howling because of the laughter or the tears? Who the fuck knew. Whothe fuck cared. The bastard was stone cold at last. He'd never be able to hurt her again. That he still breathed was mere technicality .
She'd passed her exam. With an A.
Sleep came back, snuck up on her while her knees were near her chin, and her thumb close to her slack red lips. A tangle of black hair covered one cheek and eye. The other was streaked, washed nearly clean, except for the black threads of her waterproof mascara. She snored, so softly it could have been a cat's purr.
Trotter's phone call woke her at eleven.
"You got the bottom of the bottle flu, or are you really sick?"
Sick? Oh, yeah. "I had a rough night, Sarge. Sort of puked my guts out." In a way.
There was a pause. The harsh voice softened a half notch.
"You okay?"
"I'll live. I fell back asleep. I feel better now. Kind of weak and woozy, but okay."
"Yeah. Kind of weird how when it starts to go away it's so good that you're damn near grateful you barfed your face off all night."
Lisa laughed, a soft, tinkling sound that startled her slightly. It sounded so innocent. "Exactly."
"Well. Have a ball. Figuratively speaking, anyway. And remember us grunts down here in the trenches."
"Will do. Thanks for calling. Be back tomorrow. Promise."
Her cigarette tasted like candy. The bed felt like a cloud. Her belly hurt from the laughter or whatever. She never remembered feeling so relaxed, so at peace.
When her brain started working, she tried to shut it off. It spoiled everything. It wanted to remember and examine, to weigh and judge, to come to conclusions. The rest of her just wanted to lay in that warm internal glow and bask.
Most of the rest of her, anyway. Her stomach gave a rolling growl. The animal spoke. She'd burned a lot of fuel, and it wanted raw material. It wouldn't let her sleep. It wouldn't let her judge.
She gave in and fed it cereal and milk. It let her know that was fine, but it'd want more soon. She passed the time washing and decorating herself.
She didn't want to look fifteen anymore. She wanted to look her age. Her chronological age, anyway. She was a young adult who made her own decisions and was responsible for them. She'd be fucked if she'd let Them rule her anymore. Hell, she grinned around her lipstick brush, she'd be fucked anyway.
And, it was strange, but she didn't want to be a whore, either. That realization made her pause. There'd never been any real middle ground before. She either made damned sure everybody who saw her knew she was available, or she was in the blue uniform, wishing everybody could see the unpantied cunt and garters beneath.
Now . . . Now, what?
Now she was off duty, that's what. Not on the prowl. Not on either job.
She wiped away her heavy eye shadow, used about half as much of more muted shades. The same for her blusher and foundation. But not her lips. They were just fine the way she always did them. They were as much her as was her name.
She rooted through the closet, came up with an almost forgotten pastel print dress. She wished she had a bra that wasn't a piece of either erotica or armor. She made do with the erotica. When in doubt, that was the way to swing.
After a pleasant lunch in a nice restaurant she'd never have been able to afford without her added income, she went shopping again. She wanted clothes to match this wondrous mood, dresses and accessories that'd remind her, every time she put them on. She wanted to trap herself in amber, preserve this state for eternity.
And knew she couldn't. Even knew that, if she got her wish, she'd regret it. She'd be bored shitless in a day. Fuck. She'd be bored shitless by nightfall.
That's when she knew the mood had run its course. When she started thinking, planning for the night shift, making rules for herself. No more fucking till four a.m. Home, or at least alone, by two at the very latest. More sober than not, too.
She laughed aloud, drew puzzled looks and reactive grins from her fellow strollers down the street. It was that bell-like sound again. The shopping bags felt good in her hands. She was setting a curfew for herself. Laying down the law for weeknights.
"Now don't you fuck too many strangers," she sub-vocalized. "And never, ever, get into a car unless they pay you first."
She took time to let the looks she'd been getting all afternoon register. They were different. Lighter. Less purposeful and intense. The eyes that touched her swept like soft caresses, not plunging dicks. There's a beautiful woman, they said. There's someone I'd like to get to know.
She stopped for a smoke on a curbside bench. Did she really want that kind of attention? Did she want to pursue the kind of connection that would ensue? It demanded a degree of openness of her, of honesty. It was contact between two humans, stripped of artifice, ceasing to be strangers. What would she tell them about herself?
Hi. I'm Lisa Cole. I'm a Vice cop and hooker. I was raped when I was twelve.
Those were the only things of significance about her. That was all she had to say that meant anything. Oh, there were further details. I fucked my father dead. When I deep throat, I have an orgasm in my soul.
No. It was better not to. Not until she had something else to talk about. If they wanted something from her, let it be her pussy, her lips, even her virgin ass. Let it be something she could give.
But the thought left her restless, less than comfortable. She found herself hurrying home, knew that her excuse was feeble. She'd already tried on her new clothes. The dress she wanted to wear tonight would go perfectly with her red heels. She knew she was running from dangerous ground, seeking safety and familiarity.
So she was ready for the night earlier than usual, looked different from ever before. A classy call girl, not a sleazy streetwalker or common bar girl, walked from her apartment, drove to the ritzy hotel bar she'd targeted. The red dress clung and displayed, but wasn't obscenely stretched over her body. Her makeup was erotic, but tasteful. It was as close to a compromise as she could handle, for the time being. As close as she cared to come to expressing what others thought of as normalcy.
She discovered just how shallow civility was. She was as subtle as her victims. As polite. As insinuating and tactful. But, when the room doors closed, it was the same as anywhere else. Cock was cock, and cunt was cunt. Money was just as green and sweat still ruined her makeup. It didn't matter whether they wore three-piece suits from London or blue jeans from Korea.
But the night was different in one way. Her second and last john wanted to fuck her ass. She'd known it would happen. She'd wanted it to happen. But she was still afraid.
She was as prepared as she could be. As she spread lubricant over his cock, using both hands to slowly stroke hislong, slim shaft, smeared her lipstick into the grease until the beloved red color vanished, she shook with anticipation. This was a turning point. Another one.
A painful one, despite the man's relative gentleness. She tried to relax, as he quietly urged her to, but it felt like he was sticking a log up her ass, ripping her guts, violating her as even Tommy hadn't. She tried to watch, couldn't see anything. He described it for her, acted like he was the prostitute as he guided her into this new realm. He'd done this many times. She let herself be taught.
She liked it. Loved it. The tearing, burning pain eased, stoked a new sort of pleasure within her. Her ass, like her throat, had no bottom. It wasn't like her cunt. It could take a foot, two feet of joy. It could grip a cock like a passionate vise while she let the hot organ rearrange her guts. She could take whatever was put in her. Come belonged in there. This, her third hole, needed fucking too. She was no longer a virgin, anywhere at all.
She thrust wildly back at him, felt his balls slap her cheeks, gripped tightly in his hands.
