To The Lions - 02 (15 page)

He’d
already forgotten about the thumb-crushing incident with Camilo, his narcotics
lieutenant.
 
And he’d managed to set
aside the grave proclamations from Theo Garcia.
 
His mind now was solely focused on his own pleasure as he merrily prophesied
the dreamy tales of the virile Spanish millionaire these young Amsterdammers would
recount when they reentered their pathetic lives in a week.

Earlier,
upon their arrival, Xavier had invited all of the young women into the large
hot tub.
 
Then still sober, most of the
girls politely declined, probably needing to fall prey to alcohol’s loosening
characteristics before acquiescing to something that would otherwise make them
feel slutty—at least in front of a crowd of friends.
 
But one girl, cute but the least attractive
of the bunch—the one who, on the beach, had asked if they should bring dates—lingered
as her friends went inside in search of alcohol and drugs.
 
Once the friends had moved away from the
window, the girl, her name was Erica, bawdily slid her dress and underwear off,
dropping down into the water as her hand immediately took a position on
Xavier’s most private parts.

She
was only a few kilos overweight.
 
With
brown hair and coffee eyes, she had a cheerfulness about her that she’d
probably cultivated to counteract the greater beauty of her friends.
 
Xavier knew enough about women to pronounce
her as intelligent: she knew she would be quite plump at some point in the next
decade, and she was wise enough to go ahead and have her fun now.
 
And this evening, to Erica, was almost
certainly a microcosm of her life.
 
She
probably, even if it was subconsciously, realized that this might be her only
chance to have sex with him.
 

He
appreciated her efforts.

After
a few minutes of stroking him to rigidity, Erica had tried to straddle
him.
 
Though it wasn’t easy, Xavier had politely
resisted, promising the girl much more intensity, but only later in the
evening.
 
He didn’t want to blow himself
out too early, especially with the least attractive one of the bunch.

“Don’t
forget about me later,” she’d said, kissing him.
 
His affirming promise added a radiant glow to
her face.

Since
then, he’d donned a fashionable outfit of linen pants and an open Versace shirt,
getting to know each girl one on one, estimating that, when drunk, they would
all be willing to partake in the Roman-style orgy he had in mind.
 
And now, just before he’d come to the sofa, Xavier
had popped an erectile tablet in the privacy of the bathroom.
 
Then, adding to his drug cocktail, he’d
spiked the ephedrine syringe into his right buttock.

While
holding his thumb over the erupted pinhead of stark red blood, Xavier had
devoured his own image in the large mirror in a narcissistic bout of
self-adulation.
 

The
ephedrine effect, especially when mingled with two lines of cocaine and erectile
dysfunction medicine, was intense to say the least.
 
Though no one had touched the stereo, the
volume had increased twofold.
 
One of the
Dutch women, Julia, with white blonde hair, straight teeth and freshly
suntanned skin, was wearing a short blue dress.
 
Earlier, Xavier remembered it being a plain blue, the type of dress purchased
off the rack in any cut-rate department store.
 
Now, however, the dress shone in electric cobalt, giving off its own
light as Julia turned her attentions to him.
 
The finger paintings of earlier had grown to neon-intensity, dragging
brilliance with her every movement.
 
Feeling the hotness of his face and upper chest, probably the erectile
pill, Xavier soon felt the benefit of his sudden, and painful, erection.
 
He stood, moving Julia’s hand to his firmness,
sliding her dress over her head.

Franca,
the one who, on the beach, had been so concerned that he might have cocaine,
danced to where Xavier swayed with half-naked Julia.
 
Leaving her heels on, Franca dropped her
shorts, working them over her elevated shoes and showing everyone that she preferred
no panties.
 
In two deft motions her
shirt and bra were gone and, cutting in front of her friend, she pushed herself
onto Xavier, the two of them falling back on the sofa as she went about
disrobing him with her hands and mouth.

Even
though he’d had at least a hundred other nights like this one, as several of
the girls took turns pleasuring him, Xavier laid there and pondered what a
superlative feeling female worship was for a man.
 
It felt as if he were making a cosmic
connection back through time with other rulers that had enjoyed power comparable
to his.
 
And it was times like this that
provided complete understanding of why men in power fought so damned hard to
hold onto that power.
 
Through the ages,
Xavier knew that other men like him had lain back, accepting the pleasure as
payment for all their hard work, thinking similar self-congratulatory thoughts
while horny young women battled for their affections.

He
lifted his head, surveying the lurid scene and finding that all but one had
disrobed.
 
She was holding his mirror,
snorting more cocaine.
 
The four naked
ones, two on the sofa and two kneeling next to him, stared at him as if he were
the only man on earth.
 
He allowed his
hands to wander, telling the girls to pleasure one another as he guided Julia,
the prettiest one, to his own body.
 
Her
lips were locked on Franca’s as she began to move with him and, as he’d hoped,
the other two girls, Erica from the hot tub and Ami, the shy one, went to work
on each other on the floor next to the sofa.

The
fifth girl, however, lined the mirror again.
 
She was probably the second most attractive but had been rather distant
all night.
 
And despite the intense
sensations he was enjoying, Xavier couldn’t help but watch the girl as she
snorted two more lines.
 
Still standing,
she then staggered across the room, allowing the mirror to fall, its shattering
made silent by the thudding music.

Staring
back at him, she ran her hand under her skirt, feigning ecstasy as her body
undulated.
 
Xavier had been seconds from disentangling
himself so he could go and take her where she stood.

But
it was not to be.

The
woman stopped undulating.
 
Her face
suddenly contorted into an expression of great pain, followed immediately by
two stark red trails of blood from her nose.
 
Then, as if she were controlled by a switch, she collapsed forward, her
head striking the tile floor full force.

A
chorus of screams went up, briefly defeating the music.

Ten
minutes later, the house was deathly quiet.
 
Despite his and Fausto’s frantic efforts, the Dutch woman had perished
in his rented villa.
 
Xavier massaged his
temples, thinking how best to deal with this situation.
 
And he was equally troubled that it had
occurred prior to his plan for multiple orgasms.

As
the four remaining Dutch women huddled in the bedroom, Xavier, once again in
his terry robe, sat on the ottoman next to the fallen girl and dialed a mobile
number he rarely called.
 
He slid back
onto the overstuffed chair, crossing his legs and taking relaxing breaths as
the phone began to ring.
 
Expecting the
object of his call to be asleep, Xavier was surprised when the man answered it in
a clear voice.

The
voice belonged to Cortez Redon, the Catalonian acusador who’d just finished
with Ernesto Navarro.
 
And Gage Hartline.

“Where
are you?” Xavier asked numbly, his glorious high having faded like dirty
dishwater down an open drain.

“In
my car, why?”

“I
need you.
 
Right now.”

“Have
you been following me?”

Xavier
narrowed his eyes at the out of place query.
 
“No.
 
Why?”

“Never
mind.”
 
Road noise could be heard during
a pause before Redon asked, “What do you need?”

“You’d
like me to say this over the phone?
 
Perhaps I should spell out both our names, too?”

“Where
do you want me?”

Xavier
gave him instructions on where to meet Fausto, then he hung up.
 
He tilted his head to the ceiling and spoke
Fausto’s name.
 
When Fausto appeared,
Xavier told him who he was meeting and where.

“Shall
I go now, señor?”

Xavier
tapped the barely used mobile phone on his head, thinking.
 
Suddenly, a good idea came to him.
 
“Yes, go ahead, Fausto.
 
He said he’d be there in a half-hour.
 
And when you arrive here with him, remain in
the garage and call me.”

“Sí,
señor.”

Footsteps.
 
Door.
 
Engine.
 
Garage door.
 
Tires squeaking on the shiny floor.
 
Garage door.
 
Then, only the murmurs of the Dutch women.

Continuing
to tap the phone on his head, Xavier felt the tingling.
 
The pill he’d taken was good for hours and,
despite all the tragedy, something had to be done about it.

Licking
his lips, he walked to the stereo, turning the volume down.
 
Then he dimmed the lights quite low before
softly knocking on the bedroom door, opening it and standing in the slight
wedge.

“Everyone
okay?”

The
women, dressed again, their hair and general appearance unkempt, each of them
holding a trembling cigarette, collectively wiped their eyes, their faces beset
by running mascara and the sudden puffiness of tearful lamentation.
 
When they murmured their unnatural
affirmations, Xavier curled his finger at Erica, the slightly chubby one from
the hot tub, saying, “Erica…just Erica…I need your help.”

“Me?”

“Yes,
just for a few moments.”
 
He nodded,
smiling reassuringly.

When
she passed the threshold, he took her by the hand and pulled the door to.
 
Then he led her back into the living room,
watching as she pressed her eyes shut at the sight of her deceased friend.
 
Leading her behind the sofa, turning her so
her back would be to the corpse, Xavier kissed her, pushing his tongue into her
mouth.

She
allowed it for a moment before pulling back and shaking her head.
 
“No…I can’t.”

“We
must and, don’t forget, you made me promise.”
 
His hands roamed her body, one moving under her dress and sliding her
underwear to the side.
 
Her instant
protestations suddenly caught in her throat as Xavier, satisfied, felt a tremor
pass through her body.
 
Erica’s mouth
hung open as he manipulated her, pleased with the mouse-squeaks escaping her throat.

“You
see,” he cajoled, “you can.”

They
copulated over the back of the couch, the girl occasionally muttering the word
“nee” but showing no inclination to truly want to stop things.
 
Somehow, the sight of the dead girl
invigorated Xavier, adding a fragrance of animalism to the night that had
seemed to come to such a screeching halt.

Finished,
their bodies covered in sheens of sweat, Xavier turned Erica to him, noting
that her eyes were again clenched shut.
 
He brushed her lips with a kiss, telling her to keep their actions to
herself.
 
He also whispered that he’d
chosen her, and
only
her, because of
her great beauty.

Even
an untruthful compliment can melt ice.
 

Erica
managed a smile, reseating her dress as she made a quick trip to the restroom
before going back into the bedroom, deceiving her friends by saying she’d
helped him with their dead friend’s name and names of relatives.

Now
Xavier could relax, again reclining in the chair, drinking a cold beer as the
warm afterglow of fresh sex swirled around him.

As
he waited, he glanced down at the beautiful dead girl next to him, regretting
that he’d not been able to enjoy her before she died.

Pity.

* * *

An
hour later, after a heated exchange over his exorbitant fee, Cortez Redon
ingested a double shot of scotch, following it with a strong peppermint.
 
He crunched the mint, taking a sip of water, repeating
the script he’d created in his mind in a whisper.
 
When he’d run through it twice, he frowned
importantly and nodded at Fausto.
 
“Bring
them out.”