CHAPTER THREE
The Charleston Video Gaming Center never failed to disappoint casual visitors. It was located in a small store in the Charleston Mall, with a storefront barely large enough to display its somewhat grandiose name. Shoppers who found their way down that particular corridor might peer in for a second and then leave, convinced that the place would be out of business by the time they reached their cars. Gamers who had made the pilgrimage at the recommendation of friends usually spent the first two minutes looking for the hidden camera, afraid they had been punk'd.
The store's owner, Andy Stowe, couldn't have cared less. He was an aging hippie whose drug of choice had always been games. He kept the shelves stocked with a selection of games that could have been found in any store in the country. It wasn't until the newcomer approached, unwilling to admit that he had been tricked into driving all the way to Charleston, that Andy would reveal the store's secrets. Once he learned that his customer was a serious gamer he would look around as if videogames were the stuff of espionage, and then crook his finger and beckon the newcomer into the back room where he kept his "stash."
Those of us who were regulars had received nicknames, delivered by Andy like the ring announcer at a professional wrestling match.
"The Hammer of Death!" he intoned as I entered the store on Saturday morning.
"The Wizard of War!" I tried to match him as best I could.
"What's happenin,' bud?" he asked me as he leaned across the counter to exchange a high five.
"Not much, Andy," I said. "Anything new?"
"Just got a new VR in, but . . ."
"I haven't got the legs for it, huh?"
"Sorry, dude."
"No problem, Andy. Say, have you ever read
The Princess Bride
?"
"Awesome book, man."
"Yeah. I thought I had a copy, but I couldn't find it last night."
And as a result, my dream last night had once again ended with my quick death. This time I had managed to scream out, "What makes you think I killed your father?"
In lieu of answering, Inigo had simply run me through.
"Do you remember the guy who killed Inigo Montoya's father?" I asked.
"The six-fingered man? Count Rugen?"
"Six fingers?" That didn't make sense; I only had five.
"Yeah. Domingo Montoya was a swordsmith. He made a sword for this Count Rugen and ended up dead. 'My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.'"
I flinched.
"You okay, Rick?" Andy asked.
"I'm fine," I answered quickly. "You got any games about sword fighting?"
"Oh, yeah. You never played Duellum?"
"I don't think I've even heard of it," I answered.
"Nobody heard of it," Andy said with a laugh. "Came out the same day as Grand Theft Auto II. Sank like a stone."
"It's not exactly a catchy title," I said.
"No," Andy agreed. "Although I think it's great. From the Latin. Duo for two, bellum for war. Literally a war for two people. Awesome, isn't it?"
"Fascinating," I agreed.
"Come on back."
Andy swept aside the beads that led to the back room and gestured for me to precede him.
I spent the rest of the morning and the first part of the afternoon in the back room on one of Rick's consoles. After that, it was time to go home and get ready for my "date." In a rush of enthusiasm that I still had trouble accounting for, I had offered to cook dinner for Alison, Eric, and Alison's friend, Parker. That meant stopping off at the grocery store for the ingredients for my special Pasta Handley and then cleaning my apartment. By six-thirty, however, when my guests were expected, the sauce was simmering gently on the cooktop that acted as a substitute for a stove. Another pot of water awaited the pasta. The vegetables were in the steamer, and the wine was breathing on the counter.
By six-fifty, I had turned the sauce off. By seven I had poured myself a glass of the wine. By seven-thirty, when I heard the knock on my door, I was in an ugly mood.
It was not a side of me that I would have willingly showed Alison, although her boyfriend was another matter altogether. The mood dissolved, however, as soon as I caught sight of Alison's friend. She was a tall brunette who had probably never read a diet book. Long, slender legs that emerged from a leopard-print mini-dress perched atop three --inch heels. Beautiful long eyelashes framed equally beautiful brown eyes. But it was the way that they lit up when she saw me that I found particularly attractive. I couldn't remember a girl looking at me like that before.
"I am so sorry," Alison said. "We stopped off at McMurphy's for a drink."
"Or two," her friend added with a giggle.
"Or two," Alison agreed with a roll of her eyes. "You remember Eric, of course."
"Hey, Hando." Eric had discovered my nickname a few months back, and thought it extremely clever.
"Eric."
"And this is Parker Kline. Parker, I'd like you to meet Rick Handley."
"Hi," she said with a hiccup.
"Nice to meet you. Can I get anyone a glass of wine before dinner?"
"Sure," Eric said.
"Maybe just one," Alison said with a look intended to suggest to Eric that he might be better off limiting himself to one as well.
"I'd love some," Parker said.
She loved even more wine during dinner, and Eric matched her glass for glass. We discussed the newspaper business, her career as a mortgage broker, and Eric's intention to attend business school next year. I did my best to be charming, although it was completely unnecessary. She would have been no less attracted to me if I had been my usual tongue-tied self.
"Do you know what my nickname was in college?" During a lull in the conversation she leaned toward me, nearly tottering off her seat.
"Parker," Alison said in dismay.
"No, silly," Parker said. "That was my real name. Now you guess."
Her eyes flashed as she returned her gaze to me.
"Park?" I asked.
"No." She drew out the vowel to suggest that I guess again.
"Parky?" Eric suggested.
"You're getting closer."
"Well, I give up," I said.
"Me, too," Eric agreed.
"Parkay," Parker said with another, even drunker laugh.
"Because you were always toasted?" Eric was a little ripped himself.
"Because your father wanted to name you Margarine?" I asked. That was enough to send Alison into convulsions of laughter, but it went right over Parker's head.
"No and no," she said, leaning forward even more until her nose was within an inch of mine. "Because I was so easy to spread."
I stared back at her. Wasn't this the woman who was supposed to be getting married in a month?
"Do you have any coffee?" Alison's tone said that I had better find some. It put Eric back on the road to sobriety, but was not nearly enough to sober up Parker. Particularly since she insisted on drinking it with the whiskey she spotted in the cabinet in my dining room.
Shortly after ten o'clock, Allie suggested that perhaps it was time to leave. Eric put up a half-hearted protest that quickly turned to eagerness when Parker announced that she wouldn't be coming with them.
"Yes, you will," Allie said firmly.
"No, I won't." Parker met Alison's stare with one of her own.
"Parker, Rick is my best friend at the paper," Allie said. "He's not your wild oats."
"Let's let him decide." Parker turned to me with a smile. "Do you want me to leave, Rick?"
She passed her tongue across her upper lip, and slid her hand down across a firm, round breast that needed no bra. In their wake, her fingers left an erect nipple evident through the thin fabric of her dress.
I swallowed and turned back to Alison.
"Go on," I said. I found myself not minding at all that I was nothing more than wild oats.
"Rick," Alison started to protest.
"Allie," I answered her. She could read the tone of my voice as well as I could read hers. I was telling her that it was my life. The paralysis of my legs had not affected my mind or my emotions. I was capable of making my own decisions, and I resented her efforts to protect me from her friend.
"Fine," Allie said with a sigh. "You're right. As usual."
She put a hand on my arm and left with her boyfriend in tow. I returned to the living room to find Parker pouring herself yet another glass of wine.
"You sure you can handle all that?" I asked with a nervous laugh.
"You sure you can handle me?" she retorted.
"No," I admitted.
She took a last gulp of wine and put the glass down on the table, hard enough to spill some of the wine. She walked toward me, her hips swaying from side to side, her eyes holding mine.
"I like an honest man."
Her voice was soft and sultry as she seated herself on my lap and pressed her lips against mine. My legs may have been useless, but not everything below my waist was devoid of feeling. She felt my erection beneath her and playfully ground her ass into me as we kissed.
"Wheel me into the bedroom, charioteer," she ordered.
Her eyes lit up even more when she saw the rope. Jumping off my lap, she grabbed it and swung herself onto the bed. Once again fixing my eyes, she slowly lowered herself into a split on my bed. She slid her hands down over her body once again and grabbed hold of the hem of her dress. I could only stare as she pulled it upward, revealing a black thong, a creamy white abdomen, and two gloriously beautiful breasts.
"Are you coming?" she whispered.
