The Sex Life of the Gods
Her hair was as gold as the noon sun and her eyes, lifting slightly at
the outer corners, were as blue as the sea. Her lips petaled back over
the white strength of her teeth and her fingers did strange things to
make the flimsy robe drop from the rounded softness of her shoulders. He
watched her walk, upon curvaceous legs, to the edge of the bed. For just
a second, she smiled down at him.
"Father is sleeping like a baby," she whispered.
He felt himself talk: "Good." Then his fingers curled about the curve of
her thigh. His fingers tightened and the crimson smile broadened; he
pulled and felt her resist him with maidenly demureness, but in the end
she came to him.
He felt the yielding firmness of her body pressing down into his on the
bed and his arms furled about the softness that she offered. The warm
cones of her breasts worked on the hardness of his chest and his mouth
fused against hers in a passionate kiss.
"Lors, Lors, darling. You've been gone so long." Her voice was a kitten
purr in his ear, warm and gentle.
"I'm back, Jela," he smiled, his hands caressing the lithe length of her
body, folding her against him tightly.
She moved away from him, rolling, tugging at him to respond, but he
needed no encouragement. His body rolled with her, his arms pinning her
to him tightly so that she could move nothing ... nothing but her legs,
but then there was little need to move anything else...
* * * * *
The dream faded and he cursed, and tried to get back to sleep and the
beautiful woman who awaited him. Sleep came, but the dream was gone.
Andy, shaking his shoulder, woke him about sundown and Nick swung his
legs off the cot and stood up. Still sleepy, he fingered the heavy
stubble on his face and looked at the old man.
"Y'kin use my razor t'chop off that beard, son," he said. "C'mon, get
around now. Got soup and sandwiches ready an' some famous Hocum coffee."
Nick straightened his wrinkled clothing, shaking the last remnants of
weary fog from his brain. Andy went on talking to him and said something
that woke Nick Danson up completely.
"Yer buddies was here, couple o' hours ago, son."
"What?" It was almost impossible to keep the surprise out of his face
and voice. Andy didn't seem to notice anything wrong.
"Th' fellers y'got drunk with. Wanted t'know if I'd seen any strangers
on th' road. I said I hadn't, 'cause I figgered they might want t'slap
y'around again."
"Thanks, Andy."
Who could possibly know about the plane crash? If the wreck _had_ been
found, it would be the police asking questions, not two strangers.
Somebody, somewhere, was searching for him. Who? And what did they want?
Fingers of fear and worry flittered along his spine.
When they had finished eating, Nick shaved, cleaned himself up and
followed Andy out to where his car was parked. He found that he liked
the old man, but under the circumstances conversation was difficult. The
plane crash, for one thing, was a bit on the odd side. The burning
wreckage, he recalled, had shown no signs of ever having had wings or a
tail assembly. But that was probably minor; the wings could have been
ripped off by the trees when the plane came down. The important thing
was that someone knew he was here. As they drove toward the town of
Everett, the old man began talking about the strangers that had inquired
after Nick earlier in the day.
"... Nope, I says to the big feller, ain't seen a soul on foot all day,
'ceptin' o'course, Jimmy Dilson, goin' down t'Willer Creek, t'fish. That
seemed t'satisfy them so they lit out."
"Notice what kind of car they drove, Andy?" Nick asked.
"Yep. Gave 'em gas. They was drivin' a Chevrolet. Looked to be a '56 or
a '57; black, it was. Blacker'n th' inside of a coal bin, with th'
shiniest chrome y'ever saw."
"Sounds like them," Nick told him, enlarging the lie. "One of them short
and the other medium?"
"Not exactly. The one did all the talkin' had a funny accent. Anyways,
he was about six feet, three or four, and heavy. Goodlookin', with
blond hair. The other guy was about your build, with sandy hair. Never
talked, that guy."
"They're the ones," Nick lied and shook a cigarette from a half empty
pack. "Thanks for not giving me away."
Andy nodded, lapsing into silence, while Nick concentrated on coming
home to a strange woman, and the two men who had been asking after him.
For some reason, he got the feeling that Beth Danson was his wife and he
accepted it that way. She couldn't be his sister ... besides, a man his
age would be married, in all likelihood. He wondered vaguely how she
would welcome him, but cast the thought aside. He'd know soon enough.
As they approached Everett, in the gathering twilight, Andy turned to
him.
"Where d'ye want off, son?"
"Weisman Drive. Know it?"
"Yep. We're almost there. Suburban area, just north of town. Y'got
friends there?"
"Yes." Nick grinned inwardly. That is, he thought, I hope she's a
friend. Hell, I don't know whether she hates my guts, or loves me ...
but she's the only one that can help. A frightening gloom fell over him
suddenly.
Andy lapsed again into silence and the sound of the motor became loud.
Nick continued to ponder the strange men and the woman he was coming
home to, but it was like bashing his head against a wall. He could
remember nothing. And, through his thoughts, the memory of the dream
returned to him. It was the most vivid dream he had ever had, almost as
though it was real.
Abruptly Andy brought the car to a stop before a sign that read,
"Weisman Drive." Nick thanked him and climbed out onto the road. The old
man waved and the car spat cinders as it roared back onto the highway,
heading toward the town. For a moment, he stood there watching Andy's
car fade into the night, then he began walking along the road, looking
for 2312 Weisman Drive and trying to ignore the feeling of fear that
welled up within him.
When he finally found it, he saw that it was a two story place that
looked to be white frame, trimmed with a darker color that was probably
blue. In the off light from the street lamp, it was difficult to tell.
There was a garage built alongside and a good sized lawn in the front,
but there was no evidence of children. A light in the front room told
him that someone was home - likely Beth - and caution told him he'd
better make sure no friends were with her.
He slipped quietly up on the porch and looked briefly into the window.
Beth was there, sitting on the sofa reading a book. Her hair, he
noticed, was brown with a reddish cast to it and she was every bit as
beautiful as the picture he carried in his hip pocket.
He knocked on the door.
It occurred to him, after he had rapped, that this was his own house.
Why should he rap? But what was done, was done. He waited until she had
opened the door and stood looking at him. He tried a smile, but Beth
Danson's eyes widened in shock and her lips parted in astonishment.
"Nick," she whispered, as though she had seen a ghost, and fell to the
floor in a dead faint.
Stunned, he stepped over the crumpled body of the woman and walked into
the room. When he had closed the front door, he lifted her limp body and
laid her on the sofa. He began patting her face and hands to revive her,
wondering what the hell he had done to cause her to faint.
Why the devil was she so shocked to see him, he wondered. Is she in love
with another man and did they rig that plane so it would crash to be rid
of me? If they had tried to kill him, he could damned well see why she
had fainted at the sight of him. The rings on her left hand bragged that
she was married, probably to him. But why faint?
He was trying to decide whether to stay or run, when her long lashes
fluttered and she came to. Again her greenish eyes dilated in
astonishment, but this time she did not pass out. Her soft arms slid
about his neck and she pulled him down to where she could kiss him. Her
warm lips caressed his face, kissing his mouth, his cheeks and his eyes,
while she murmured his name over and over in absolute joy.
Had news of the crash reached her? Did the authorities find the wreck
and presume him dead? Was that why she had fainted and was now so
overjoyed at having him back? His mind whirled with a hundred questions
that his stunted memory refused to answer, and he decided to take it
easy, waiting for her to make the first move.
"Oh, Nick," she murmured against his ear. "Where have you been?"
"I don't know. I've been in a crack up, Beth. I can't remember
anything..."
She pushed him away, suddenly, looking at his face. "Darling! Your face!
You're hurt!"
"Just scratches," he told her swiftly. "Nothing serious. Beth, you've
got to help me. Please!" He felt strange. It was like asking a total
stranger for help, and he was ashamed and confused.
"Of course I'll help you, darling. I'm your wife. Now come out to the
kitchen where I can patch you up." Suddenly she burst into tears and
held him close. "Oh, darling, darling! It's so good to have you back!"
He held her until she had stopped crying, then he allowed himself to be
led into the kitchen where she began applying iodine and bandaids to his
scratched face. Weariness was again dragging at him like some clutching
demon that threatened to drag him down into a bog of darkness. He
studied her, trying to take his mind off his lethargy.
Beth Danson was about twenty-five and, besides her deep auburn-brown
hair and lovely face, she boasted an equally attractive body. He found
himself captivated by the warm thrust of her breasts beneath the silk
blouse. The clear milk of her flesh, at the "V" of her throat excited
him in a strange way. When he thought of her as his wife, it was
frightening. It was as though someone had tossed him a woman and
expected him to just fall into the routine of marriage. It wouldn't be
hard to come to love this woman, but it would take awhile. Hell, he
didn't know her. She was a complete stranger who had suddenly told him
they were married. There was nothing familiar about her; even the
fingers that were softly working over his face were alien.
Alien! That's it! The whole damned world is alien, and I don't know who
I am, who I've been...
"Beth?" He asked suddenly, "how long have I been gone? You act as though
it's been a long while..."
"A long while, darling."
"How long?"
She looked steadily at him for a moment, her eyes deep with seriousness.
"Thirteen months," she whispered, her voice shaking.
Thirteen months! He relaxed heavily in the straight backed chair and
stared at her dumbfoundedly. Over a year! Where had he been? What had he
done? Why hadn't he been located before now?
"Thirteen months," he croaked, unable to say anything else.
She nodded. "Oh, Nick, every police agency in the country has been
looking for you. I've had detectives out hunting. Nolan Brice has been
doing everything he can to locate you. But they couldn't. No one could.
It was as though you had disappeared from the face of the earth."
"Nolan Brice?" Nick asked.
"Your best friend..." When she realized that he knew nothing of the man,
Nick could see her starting to cry. Her eyes began filling and he could
almost see the hopelessness within her.
"Please, honey. Don't start crying again."
"I'm trying not to."
He rose to his feet slowly, his head starting to thump and thunder
again, and took her into his arms. It was kind of difficult, trying to
comfort her the way a husband should, but he tried.
"Listen, Beth," he whispered against her cheek. "It'll all come back to
me. It'll all come back eventually and I'll remember. But for now ...
for now, you'll have to bear with me. I don't know where I've been, or
what I've done, so don't tell anyone I'm here. Please! Don't tell a