Driver Pt 07

Driver Pt. 07 Things That go Crash in the Night

This is a work of fiction. All characters depicted are over the age of 18.

Wendy heaved a heartfelt sigh. "well." She said, "There goes the neighbourhood."

Engrossed in writing up the log, Mack raised his eyes to see a golf cart whirring down the brick-paved path, leading to the pad from the sprawling white summerhouse. Slumped in the rear, distinctly worse for wear, a pair of minders, reeling with vicious hangovers, nursing their weapons.

The vehicle whined to a stop under the Agusta's big blades and the passengers all but fell out, shouldering their rifles as a second buggy drew up with Sarah and Alison on board. Alison looked stunning in a sheer floral-print dress, a strappy little number, open at the front to the bottom of her cleavage with no back to speak of. Sarah was wearing a gorgeous qipao- a nod to her half-Chinese heritage- bottle-green silk embroidered with dragons in solid gold thread. As they climbed out Mack hurried over to help with the luggage- a pair of wheelie cases and a couple of backpacks, trying to catch Alison's eye. Wondering, what did she know?

"You look lovely this morning." he said, searching Alison's face for a response. Grim-faced, evading his eyes, she replied with a perfunctory nod, duly launching the good ship paranoia. Had he known, the girl was simply embarrassed, humiliated in fact, after being fucked half the night by a drunk, foul-mouthed, heavy-handed minder, while his buddy banged Sarah, long, hard and vocally in the room next door. Having told the guy, 'Never in a million years', Echo's PA had been bored into submission by endless, tedious bragging and now, to her shame, now carried his demon seed in her belly.

A third cart appeared while Mack was installing the baggage. Moving off to the side, one minder unzipped to relieve himself on a rock, while the other, standing beside Wendy, scoured his throat and spat on the pad. "Mum used to say people who spit are of low breeding." Wendy observed, while Alison and Sarah stood simmering with a mixture of abhorrence and regret. As both well knew, their names would soon go up on the minders' scoreboard, prompting others to try their luck. They were fallen.

The third and last golf cart turned up with just a driver. Zipping his pants, piss-boy wandered back. "Where," he glared, "are those god... damn... twins?"

"They wanted to walk." Alison shot back.

"What part of 'PA' do you not understand?" Mr. Spitter demanded.

"What part of 'asshole' do YOU not understand?"

"Except I'm actually doing my job. You're not meant to let those little bit... young ladies out of your sight."

"If you were doing your job," Sarah said sourly, "you would have brought us down yourself."

One of the minders patted his H and K. "You wanna be careful. We're part of the household you know. We're almost family, unlike you."

"Oh, get your hand off it, Kyle." Alison sneered. "You're gonna grow hair on your palm."

Looking in the direction of Carter's palatial weekender, Wendy caught sight of two slim, diminutive figures, strolling hand in hand through a palisade of palm trees. Pushing off the chopper's nose, she smoothed her uniform, adjusted her cap, then set off to meet them on the way. "Morning, girls." she waved, drawing near. Safe behind the lenses of her mirrored wrap-around shades, her eyes took their fill, from the twins' light blue and orange pedicured toenails on their sandalled feet, all the way up to the pretty pink bows in their hair. "My, don't you two look gorgeous?"

"Morning, Wendy." the twins chorused. Separating, each took an elbow and the three strolled together down the red brick road.

"How did you go last night?" Wendy asked with a sly smile. "Did anyone notice when you climbed back through the window?"

The twins looked at her, shocked. "How did you know?"

"Know what?"

"We climbed in the window?" Echo replied.

"Not that we needed to." Viviani sniffed. "Those idiots wouldn't have noticed if we'd dropped an atom bomb on them."

"Really?"

"Totes." Echo concurred. "They were too busy fucking our PAs."

"Echo!" Viviani scowled, "Don't swear."

"Well YOU swear!"

"I do not!"

"You do too! Remember what said? How you'd rather fuck a do-"

"That was between you and me." Viviani said hotly. "For heck's sake."

"Anyway, Wendy, you should have heard them fu-"

"-having intercourse."

"Downstairs in the guest rooms." Echo said, turning up her nose. "They couldn't even be bothered shutting their doors. This morning, when Alli showed up, I was gonna chew her ass. But she was so upset she was crying so I gave her a hug. And when I asked what's the matter, she said last night they had a few drinks and then she passed out. And when she woke up again that moron, Kyle, was lying on top of her. With his thingy inside her."

Wendy looked at the helicopter, 100 yards away, and the minders, loitering like muggers outside a liquor store. "She told you this?"

"Uh huh." Echo nodded. "And he was filming it. With his phone. And when she said she was gonna tell Veronica, he showed her a clip, where she was really, really drunk, and playing with his di... penis. And SHE asked HIM if they could fuck."

Viviani pinched the bridge of her nose. "Oh Echohhh."

"Well she did!" Echo said earnestly, "So if anyone's in trouble it's her."

Viviani shuddered. "God DAMN I hate those guys."

"They should get rid of them." Echo scowled. "Only they're Veronica's goddam pets. And they're always sucking-up to the unholy trinity."

"Unholy trinity?" Wendy frowned.

"The boys. Kingsley, Chester and Delamere."

"They've actually got names?"

The girls nodded. "Uh huh." they chorused, "Didn't you know?"

"Well, to tell the truth we've never been introduced. Chester... Kings... Kings... Kingswood?"

"LEY." the twins said, "Kings-LEY. And Delamere. That old witch worships the ground they walk on."

"Veronica?"

"Veronica." they chorused. "She doesn't realise," Echo continued, "but they hardly know she's alive. One day she's gonna turn up to find all her shit packed in big black trash bags, sitting on the side of the road."

Back at the helicopter, Mack felt a presence at his shoulder. "What," a minder demanded, breathing fumes in Mack's face, "does your bitch think she's doing?"

"My WHAT?"

"You fucking heard me."

Mack shot him a glare. Ex-special forces, if all the bragging could be believed. A few years younger and almost as tall, obviously fit, not to mention conspicuously armed. But none too bright. And barely able to stand after last night's revelries. A quick, friendly leg-sweep, a gentle little push, and he'd be on the ground in a choke hold, imitating a coffee percolator, while his walnut-brain quickly starved of oxygen. By the time his buddy weighed in he'd be almost unconscious and wouldn't mind the least being used as a shield. As for Laughing Boy-2.0. Mack had always found that grabbing another guy by the testicles was a great way to break the ice, before trying to relocate them to the top of the owner's head. "My copilot's just giving them a safety brief." he explained. "It's the rules."

"That bitch is taking liberties. That's what she's doing. With the VVIPs. When we get back I'm gonna report her."

Mack proffered his phone. "Why wait?"

The minder peered, squinting at Mack's name tag. "What's your name, cockbag?"

"Pool Man." Mack replied. "Captain Pool Man."

"Says 'Mack' here."

Mack looked down, frowning, then snapped his fingers. "Damn it all! Grabbed the wrong shirt again. Poor old Thaddeus Mack must be wandering around in mine. Here, lemme spell it for you. P O O L E... hyphen... M A N N."

"Can we just go?" Alison pleaded. "The girls are having lunch with the president."

"President?" Mack asked, sliding the rear door open.

"Not ours. Just some European asshole. He's a pig. Met the twins at a party last year and he's been breathing down their necks ever since."

"Does Mister Carter know?"

Alison looked at Mack deadpan. "Know? He's been milking it. He now owns half the country."

The trio strolled up while the other 4 boarded, Wendy, arm in arm with the twins. Mack gave the girls a cursory glance, then did a quick double-take, almost doing his eyes a mischief. Their gorgeous black dresses were actually semi-transparent, revealing tiny black bras underneath, not so much A-cup's as egg-cups. His furtive gaze took in their low-slung black panties, revealing three-finger thigh-gaps should one care to stare. Their hair had been brushed out into dark, gleaming mantles, hanks teased out into narrow ponytails secured by bows. A dash of eyeliner, a hint of mascara, a little lick of lipstick, the girls looked like 2 anime princesses straight out of a top-shelf Hentai. "Good morning, Pool Man." they said in unison.

Mack's voice broke when he tried to reply. "G... ahem... good morning, Miss Vivi, Miss Echo. I trust you slept well?"

Head tilted, Echo offered a disarming smile. "Absolutely. We were both so tired. As if we'd both been soundly and thoroughly fu-"

"-exercising all day." Viviani cut in. "You know, doing entertaining and stuff. It's such... HARD... work."

Alison leant out of the cab. "Miss Vivi? Please."

Viviani heaved a dramatic sigh. "Oh, you're such a slavedriver, Alli."

"We don't want Miss Rusk on our case now, do we?"

"Ugh!" the girls said under their breath with a shudder. "Veronica."

Ten minutes after takeoff, with fifty miles to run to the Lightwave, one of the girls came up on intercom as Mack's nostrils tingled with the telltale hint of stomach acid. "Pool Man? Wendy? Rhys just upchucked all over Sarah."

Face all but invisible under the shadow of her ballcap, eyes hidden by wraparound shades, Wendy turned to Mack. "Travis? What should we do?"

"Umm..." Mack said and sat breathing through his mouth, "... we've still got twenty minutes to go."

There was a moment's silence, underscored by muffled shouting in the cab, then a twin announced, "He wants to go back."

Mack ran some quick mental arithmetic. There and back- another 20 minutes- god knows how long on the ground. Lunch at one on the Lightwave with Carter, a prince, a president, 2 Hollywood film stars, a foreign minister, a young diva of dubious repute, and an even sketchier young female from Scandinavia, an environmental activist, ostensibly trying to save the planet but actually making bank. "I just can't." he pleaded. "We'll be late. And anyway, if we do go back we'll be skinny on fuel."

Another brief interlude, then, "Kyle just said he'll shoot you if you don't."

"Tough luck. Tell him Carter's gonna shoot me if I do."

"Rhys just said it's your fault, your flying's making him airsick."

"Naww..." Wendy piped up, "that derricate rittle frower. Ask him why didn't he use an emesis bag? They're under the seats."

"HELP!" the twins cried, "He just did it again! He just upchucked all over Alli."

"Oh for fuck's..." Wendy fumed. "Trav? Can I go back there?"

Teeth clenched, eyes watering at the gut-wrenching stench, Mack wound the vents up to max. "You sure you wanna?"

"For the girls."

"It's against the rules."

"Since when did you give a shit about rules?"

"Just sayin', if you do, there's a medal in it for you."

"Girls." Wendy said, releasing her straps. "Watch out for the privacy screen, I'm coming back."

While Mack guarded the controls, Wendy extricated via a masterful exhibition of yoga. Climbing in the back, she steadied herself between the twins' plush armchairs, surveying the devastation. Reminiscent of a football locker-room after a long and rowdy celebration, the cab was spattered with vomit, one big Perspex window resembling a pane of stained-glass.

The culprit, Rhys, sat with his head hanging down, a long ribbon of chunky yellow saliva swinging from his mouth. In the corner beside him, as far away as she could physically get, Sarah huddled, sobbing her heart out, covered in vomit from the neckline of her priceless qipao to her knees, a cupful of puke in her lap. Grim faced, the second minder sat with his teeth clenched, barely holding onto his own stomach contents, while beside him on the four-seat cream-leather bench, Alison, likewise covered in vomit, peered sightlessly out the window.

Wendy looked at the twins each in turn, huddled in their cream leather armchairs, legs drawn up out of harm's way. They, alone, were wearing their seatbelts and had both slipped on gold-plate headsets. Plugging in, Wendy keyed the intercom. "Did you get any on you girls?"

The twins shook their heads.

"Well that's something." Kneeing Kyle out of the way, Wendy tore open a storage locker in the rear of the cab. Rifling the contents, she withdrew a C-sized cylinder of oxygen, then deftly connected the plumbing and mounted a mask. "Here!" she said and Rhys looked up. "Put this on."

Rhys raised his hands and Wendy quickly batted them away. Rather than a purpose-built emesis bag, he'd puked into his cupped hands instead, hoping they might contain a night's-worth of boozy carousing. "Here," Wendy huffed, slipping an O2 mask over his head, "let me."

Another forage in the locker rendered up fluffy white towel and a pack of antiseptic wet wipes. Ripping it open, Wendy tore half a dozen sheets from the stack and folded them into a wad. While the twins watched, enthralled, Wendy grabbed the minder's hand, wiping it clean, while he held his other hand meekly aloft like a child waiting for a parent to tend to its needs.

Stuffing the soiled wipes into a handy emesis bag, Wendy turned to Sarah. Working grimly away, she salvaged what she could of the young woman's beautiful dress and her dignity. Then Alli, methodically swabbing her chest and cleaning her hands. As for the dudes, they could suck it.

Task complete, she knelt, stuffing the last of 4 emesis bags full to the brim, before stowing them under the seat for later. "Here!" she said over the residual din of the chopper's racket. "Take these." Embarrassed, chastened and green around the gills, the minders took the proffered empty emesis bags as Wendy wagged a finger. "Chunder anywhere other than these and I'll rub your fuckin' noses in it."

By the time Wendy insinuated herself back into her seat, the Lightwave was looming in the windshield. "All good?" Mack asked, watching her strap in.

"Give me a burning rig any old day." Wendy muttered. "That was disgusting."

"Are the girls okay?"

"We're okay." a little voice said over the intercom. "Wendy. Pool Man. Please! Promise you'll never leave."

No sooner had they hit the deck than the passengers bailed out, Alison walking Sarah to the promenade, arm around her shoulders, minders taking the nearest route to blissful anonymity. Then the girls in their flimsy black dresses, holding the hems down against the turbulence.

A pit crew charged in from the side before Mack had even shut down. The seats came out and the soiled carpet was quickly removed. The deck was scrubbed and the cabin deodorised, a new pre-cut silk carpet Velcroed down, replacement seats installed. The soiled carpet was binned, the original seats labelled 'Unserviceable', pending a trip back to the beach for a refurb. By the time the big black blades had spun to a stop, the rear of the aircraft was once more pristine, awaiting the next load of punters.

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A few days later, with all the fixed-wings busy, Mack and Wendy found themselves on an aerial treasure hunt. To Florida. For a million-dollar bottle of Suntory Yamazaki 55, Carter's favourite tipple. On return, a few miles short of the gated, double-walled, security-patrolled ranch, a gong announced an incoming message. "Hmm..." Wendy said, reading the text, "...it's from Sally. She's sending a car to meet us at the pad. Apparently Mister Carter craves an audience."

The blood drained from Mack's face. He'd done little else in his free time other than think about that night with the twins. In the pool, pounding out laps, on the perimeter track, running, or at night in bed, madly cranking an iron-bar erection, he often wondered if it had ever really happened. Because the silence had been deafening, with not a peep from the girls since dropping them on the Lightwave.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking, Skip?"

Wendy frowned in thought for a moment then put a hand to her mouth. "The twins?"

Mack nodded. "The twins."

"Do you think he found out?"

"Well," Mack replied then heaved a deep sigh, "I guess we're about to find out."

A black SUV sat idling just off the pad, rocking on its suspension in the battering downwash as Mack set the aircraft down and wound back the engines. Shutting down, he handed the aircraft back to its rightful owners- the maintainers- then piled into the back of the waiting armoured transport to be whisked away to the far side of the mansion.

This was the first time they'd been inside Carter's castle and they sat with their noses pressed to the windows as the SUV rolled down a long concrete ramp into an underground parking lot. From there a quick ride in a gold-plated elevator to the top floor of the Big House- office space mainly- still a sprawling expanse of ostentatious luxury.

Security ushered them into a magnificent anteroom and Sally looked up from her desk, a broad expanse of teak and ebony inlaid with jade and lapis lazuli. Like the woman herself, her work environment was busy yet orderly, decked with islands of paperwork, supporting a trio of large conjoined monitors. Setting eyes on her favourite crew she shook her head. "Jesus Christ, guys. Please. Say it ain't so."

"What?" Mack pleaded. "Sal, we didn't... we couldn't... it was an accident."

Sally shook her head, her patent disappointment the worst punishment of all. "After all I've done for you."

A voice boomed through an open door. "Is that them?"

Sally heaved a deep, heartfelt sigh. "Yes, Mister Carter."

"Send 'em in!"

Marched by security through the door, Mack and Wendy stepped into Carter's office. It was huge, naturally- Carter did nothing by halves- two walls lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, stacked not with books but two-inch ring-binders, like the ones they'd seen on the ship. Going all the way back to his teens, Carter had filed every scrap of paper he'd ever received, from bills to post-it notes, letters, memos and cards, the odd page of blackmail, a box full of death threats, demands, requests, even order-tickets from fast-food joints. These, along with countless ledgers and diaries, chronicled his rise from gifted engineering student and hard fighting driller, to multi, multi, multi-billionaire. A third wall was shingled with trophy photos, Carter glad-handing grinning politicians and hobnobbing with royalty in garish regalia. Actors, pop stars, international celebrities. Surgeons, astronauts, the odd mysterious non-entity.

The escort left them standing like 2 disgraced students in front of the principal's desk. The thing was huge, Mack had landed on smaller flat-tops and, for that matter, it had probably cost more to build. Priceless woods, an ostrich-leather border, and the table's centrepiece, a replica Tibetan sand mandala, painstakingly reproduced in precious metal-filings and powdered gems, lying radiant under a dozen coats of lacquer. Dressed in his signature attire- a red-checked Western shirt and tailor-made Levis, Carter sat glaring, breathing heavily through his nose. He saw Mack glance at a pair of plush swivel chairs. "Don't bother sitting. You won't be here long."

"Mister Carter." Mack began, about to fall on his pork-sword in a pathetic attempt to save his copilot.

Carter raised a hand. "Not interested."

Mack fell silent, deeply ashamed and stricken with remorse. For a long time Carter sat, saying nothing, eyes boring holes into the hapless prey. At the same time a little voice in Mack's head said, 'Know what? It was worth it.' An image of Echo leapt onto the screen, down on all fours while he was doing her doggy, her petite little body glittering with sweat. Ass up, belly down, she was flexing and twisting her back, meeting him thrust for thrust, ribcage heaving, shoulder blades leaping under smooth, flawless skin.