Darkest Love (7 page)

“Well, maybe, Clint,” Rain told Pearson, trying to keep any amusement out of his voice. “Apparently a shitstorm started while I was in Sivu.”

“Ah. Did it involve the Advancement of Women in Science Board?”

“It certainly did. They had a conference, released some kind of damning paper with my name all over it. They neglected to mention that I am the only male researcher who has never published a collaborative paper without a 50/50 female/male split. They also didn't mention that I've nurtured ten female PhD students to associate lecturer level. In the last ten years. That is an unprecedented number.”

“You sure get those clits quivering too. Nurture them a bit with your thumb?”

Rain scoffed. “Between you and me…yes. But what's really starting to worry me is they're looking for evidence of this attitude in my research. Evidence of my
bias
. It's total bullshit. That criticism of the paper I published about New Guinean marriage rituals; did you read that one?”

“Refresh my memory.”

“I argued that past researchers have overstated the extent to which a New Guinean bride must send submissive signals to male members of her new family. It was a pretty measured conclusion. Small and specific and backed up by a lot of observation.”

“All right.”

“They're calling that sexist. They're saying ‘insensitive pig Rain Mistern strikes again.' It's bollocks.” Rain was getting angry. “If this goes any further it will start to seriously undermine the fucking peer-review process. Anthropology will collapse into a science-less bundle of PC platitudes.”

Clint sighed. “It will become like the Humanities, you think?”

“You know I love the Humanities.” Rain was the only researcher in his department who put lyrical descriptions in his writing, and who wrote passages from the point of view of the tribesmen he studied. People criticized him for that, too, but he didn't care. “Listen Clint, just fuck this blog off, OK? Take the blog down. I would really appreciate it.”

“Okay, Mistern.”

“It's not you. It's the storm that's gathering.”

“Hasn't reached the mainstream press yet, buddy. The Mail and Times Online both have stories up this morning and they've cut Lynne Morgan's ass out of their shots and kept your face there looking most dashing. It's a very respectful, measured piece, in both cases.”

“Follow their lead then, bad boy.”

“You are the bad boy, Mistern. I already proclaimed it. And Google will have my blog on cache.”

Unfortunately Mandy chose that moment to moan in Rain's lap, where she was licking at the sleepy erection that was rising in his pants. Clint must have overheard because he roared a laugh, nearly choking on whatever mug of tea or coffee he was sipping on the other line. Rain smiled.

“You never rest, Mistern,” Clint said. “Have a great weekend, ok?”

“You too.” Rain pressed the red button and peered down at Mandy's sleepy face in his lap, finally able to concentrate on the wonderful things it was doing.

* * * *

As the blow job heated up, Rain found himself in a surprisingly reflective mood. Guilty thoughts swirled in Rain's head while Rain's dick swirled–a meter or so below–in Mandy's head.

Was it true? Was he a bad guy?

“Mmm.” Mandy worked her tongue so well his eyes closed automatically. A warm ripple of lust moved up his chest and through the arms he had built up over years, turning them into weapons. The lifts and pushups heated his whole body, literally ripping him to bits from the inside. He collapsed in an exhausted heap every evening after his workout and fell into a deep, blissful sleep.

It was the way he liked to live—fast and hard.

“Ohh, Mandy.” His legs still creaked with morning stiffness and he really needed to stretch them but right now his attention was only on his glorying cock; it monopolized proceedings. As Mandy licked he thought back to his college days, the days when he first learned how easily women would give it up for him, and how cold he felt towards them after they did. It wasn't that he disliked them, it was just that … well, they made it too easy.

And then they chased him. Grabbing at him with spray-tanned hands and pulling their dress hems nervously and wearing musky perfume he really didn't like and calling way too often. It was just not hot, and when he ran his eyes over them in all that overly shiny stuff—a style that almost all women adopted in the 21st century, even women scientists–he couldn't help thinking they were compromised. All these forces—big companies, trashy television, shopping centers, careless fathers, Made in China trinkets—had seeped into their lives, to their detriment, taking away what was soft and feminine and timeless. They were victims of the 21st century. The more he studied South Pacific tribes, the more he felt this way.

And if they were willing to compromise themselves for him? Well, he wasn't going to say no. He just didn't
care
. Sometimes he actually wrinkled his nose and squinted during sex to soften that impression of lacquer and stickiness and the smell of spray tan and cheap fragrance.

“Oh, Rain,” Mandy mumbled on his penis. Rain rested a hand on her head and started to thrust, feeling her soft, tensing, hard–working lips sliding up and down his cock.
Good girl;
the thought entered his head around his own gasps.

He stared down at her figure. Mandy's back, butt and legs were emerging in that order from the back of her head. The length of her body was stretched down his couch. All three sections of her body were smooth and shapely; they looked like flesh-toned spaceships queuing up for a suicidal plunge into a hairy sun.

Head down and ass up, it would have been nice to take her doggy–style from the other end of the couch, but this was nice too. As he felt his orgasm approaching, Rain tightened his hands around her hair. It was great to grab that head and rock her even harder, eliminating the need to thrust and satisfying the need his biceps had to always
tense
. He took his satisfaction as greedily as if he was stealing from a purse or grabbing a neck or striking somebody in the face.

Rain exploded. He realized with small regret that he had not warned her–it had been too good to feel the end of his shaft brushing her throat. He had lost himself, letting his own feelings and thoughts glide in counterpoint to her licks.

The licks had taken different tones.
Music.
Rain collapsed back, gasping, staring at the cluster of light that was exploding behind his own eyelids. He opened his eyes again to the sight of Mandy retching. Her pretty eyes were filling with tears and her slender fingers were locking around her own throat.

“Sorry, babe. You're too good.” She managed a flustered wink and went back to retching, fingers snaking up at her corded chin as if she could claw the cum back out.

* * * *

“He has to be stopped. Rain Mistern is turning anthropology into a
frat house sex party!”

Oh, boy.
By this point in the press conference Rain was watching his language so carefully he actually self-censored that thought as it popped into his head.
Is that sexist?

Would
oh girl
be more appropriate? He would have to check the manual.
Or is womanual the more PC term?

Anger rose inside him as he noticed his own cringing posture. His finger was tapping anxiously on the podium and he had caught his own breath issuing tensely from his throat more than once, producing a weird ocean-waves sound in the microphone. That sort of thing
never
happened to him. Rain's eyes narrowed in exasperation. He didn't like the way these women made him second-guess himself.

“Does anyone have any real questions? You know, about the science? Any criticisms that are grounded in
fact
? There are a few oversights in my study—I reread it myself last night and I can see that—but none of you have been smart enough to spot them. You know, to start a
real
debate.” It was deliberately provocative. His voice boomed off the walls of the Milstein Hall at the American Museum of Natural History and into the ears of the angry audience.

Oh, you make it too easy.
Right on cue, the audience started to snark and whisper to each other furiously. Someone in the back row yelled something about how she had studied “under Karl Popper, thank you very much.”

Rain suppressed the smile that was trying to spread across his face. “Did any of you actually read the study?” he asked, putting a righteous, sniffy tone in his voice.
That'll get ‘em.
The Society for the Advancement of Women in Science had noble enough intentions, but their practice had degenerated into a sort of witch hunt. A
warlock
hunt–against men.

“Mr. Mistern.” A woman in spectacles rose to her feet. Rain spotted a copy of his book—
Growing Up and Taking Charge–The Making of Men and Women in the Iconography of the Kaamo—
tucked under her arm
.
“Your books are read all around the world and your reputation is such that people trust you to report on human nature itself. People believe…”

She adjusted her spectacles and shuffled her feet, rearranging the fabric of the tight skirt hugging her sizeable. “People believe you are reporting from the origins of time. One profiler actually
said
that about you! You study these tribes and glimpse things about human nature that we cannot see anymore because they are overlaid by layers of—excuse me—BS and popular culture and corporate manipulation. You are seeing the human
soul,
Mr. Mistern.” She raised her voice over Rain's as he started to object. “Mr. Mistern, it won't do to brush this off. That is what people believe. You have a responsibility. You have a responsibility to…voice your findings in terms that are not so
inflammatory
. It is your public
duty
.”

The crowd murmured. They liked those words: responsibility, duty. He looked at the faces of the ladies before him. Some held placards (
Rain that bullshit down on me? You'd better believe I'm raising my umbrella
and
A Man's character matters if we are trusting him to TELL US WHO WE ARE),
some looked very angry, some shook their heads with wry grins.

“Why does everything you write try to deny the plight of women?” someone screamed from the back. “London, New Guinea, New Zealand, South Africa, Central Australia…Everywhere Rain Mistern goes he casts his eye on the struggles of the women and scoffs. He downplays their pain. He thinks women's pain does not exist!”

“Do I need to remind you…” Rain's voice boomed over the whispers that broke out. “…this is not the job of the anthropologist to write cultural criticism? My job is to report. To observe and to report the facts. If I allowed the mindset of Western feminists to filter into my writing, I would be introducing bias. Can you not see that? I do not go in looking for ways that prove women are victimized. Never. And that's probably why I don't end up reporting it. And anyway…” He sneered. “…how would it help your cause to show that women in these tribes are oppressed? Wouldn't it reinforce an idea that women are marginalized because of their biology? That the oppression of women is universal and sort of…natural?”

That got them screaming. Rain recoiled from the mic and slammed his hands over his ears. The sound system screeched as if it too was outraged by his sexism.

I've had enough.
Rain ducked away as people started to rise to their feet. His PR girl greeted him with a sheepish face and gripped his arm, guiding him backstage quickly—

smart in case the crowd charged or started to throw things.

Rain stepped off the helicopter. His foot hit the ground with a thud he could feel, not hear; the roaring engine was screaming louder with every passing second. He was barely five steps from the body of the aircraft—and from the great chugging blades that beat the air, spinning like fearsome nun-chucks—when the helicopter started to rise to the sky again.

His hair blew from one side to the other in the currents the helicopter created with its ascent. Rain remembered that urban myth:
If all the people in China got on their bikes at the same time and rode down the street they could change the direction of the wind.
He was happy to have that draught cooling him, changing the direction of his mood a little. The hot Sivu air hit him for the first time in months.

What he
wasn't
happy about was the helicopter pilot's cheekiness.
Bastard.
The lad had nattered to Rain about his work all through the flight to Sivu from New Caledonia and grabbed every opportunity to throw in a crack about chicks.

Rain caught a glimpse of the guy in the cockpit with his goggles on. He gave Rain a brazen-faced salute, and Rain whipped a middle-finger right back.
You are supposed to wait about twice that long before you begin your ascent
. Rain shook his fist in faux outrage as his hair flew about in the wind. He saw the pilot laugh and resolved to shoot the helicopter company an email.

He lowered his head in the hot air and sprinted to the Arrivals Office, which was actually manned at this time of year, when a few teams of day researchers were scheduled to arrive and leave. Rain's hair streamed straight back from his head like a comet's tail as he ran.

He thought about the guy in the helicopter. Rain knew he had such a rakish reputation that it affected the way people treated him. Bartenders always pulled Rain in for friendly chats at events, asking about his dates and pointing out cleavages. One guy at Guastavino's always added an extra shot to his gin–and
two
extra to his female companion's—

with a wink.

Being the faculty rake had its pluses. Rain didn't mind the bartenders at all, but the helicopter fellow had definitely unsettled him. In the three months since Annie Childs had disappeared from New York—only sending him a quick email saying she had mystery field work to do—her colleagues at Columbia had been giving him distinctly cold shoulders. It wasn't just down to Annie's loss at the awards, Rain was sure of that.