The Sex Life of the Gods
"You have to work," he pointed out.
She nodded. "That's true, still _you_ could go up there and try to
puzzle this all out. I can come up in the evenings, and on weekends."
"Might be a good idea," he admitted, thinking that at least, he'd be
safe from prying eyes.
"Then it's settled. You go sit somewhere and I'll get things packed."
She whisked away, almost running up the stairs to pack some things for
him. He walked to the kitchen, without turning on a light, and poured
himself a glass of water. Outside, through the window, he could see the
twilight fading into evening, the heavy purple clouds of night sweeping
steadily across the sky. A star winked later and he knew it. Venus. He
stood there in the darkness and picked out many of them as they
flickered into being. Mars. Sirius, Vega and others. There were...
* * * * *
... She came into his arms and talk was insignificant and quite
unnecessary. The soft, white arms wound about his neck, tugging fingers
pulled playfully at his hair and she smiled at him. His lips moved down
against hers and they were lost in themselves. He could feel the taut
pressure of her breasts playing against his chest and the firm roundness
of her thighs working against his.
Her strong fingers worked against the muscles of his shoulders, pulling
him down onto the cottony moss beneath the strange tree. The small
litheness of her body molded into his and his hands stroked her breasts
beneath the filmy cloth that covered them. Her hands moved upward to the
straps that swept over her shoulders and pulled them down. His eager
fingers helped her, working the straps down until the firm mounds of her
breasts lifted their rubbery, coral tipped nipples toward the sky. His
fingers worked them, kneaded the warm muscles, while his mouth worked on
hers. When he had released her lips, she pulled his face down into the
twin cushions of her breasts. His hand moved against the flesh of her
thighs, caressingly...
* * * * *
"Ready, dear?"
It was gone. Like that. A sudden flickering memory of some long vanished
event that might have given him some hope. It had been fantastic again,
the strange colors and the weird landscape, but he wanted it despite
that. She had stolen it, ripped it viciously from his mind; but she was
not to blame. He turned and smiled at her as she came into the kitchen.
She had turned on a soft light in the front room, but had allowed the
kitchen to remain dark. In the half-light of the room, he thought that
she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. It would not be hard
to love her, he thought again.
He reached out and took her by the shoulders, pulling her gently against
him to kiss her. Her mouth moved against his, satiny with desire, until
they parted.
"I'm ready, if you are," he said.
"For what, darling? The bedroom, or the car?"
He chuckled. "The car. The bedroom will keep until we're up in the
woods."
CHAPTER SEVEN
In the glow of the headlights, the car swallowed the road voraciously
and they moved toward the north country - not, he noticed, on route 87.
They had not been seen leaving the city, nor had they been seen packing
the car. The garage had a door that led into the kitchen, and Nick had
laid on the back seat floorboards until they were in the country. Now,
sitting in the front seat, he wondered vaguely if Beth, in her joy at
having him home, had given herself away to her friends. He hoped not. He
glanced sidewise at her and noticed that she drove with a smile on her
face.
"Is it far to the cabin?" He asked.
"Not now. We're almost to the turn off."
He lapsed again into silence, the old questions still whirling about in
his mind. Who were the men who were after him? What did they want? How
much had the FAA learned of the plane? Had they found something to pin
it on him? What were these tiny, fleeting thoughts that cropped up in
his mind? Was his mind trying to tell him something via the nightmares?
And what of his best friend, Nolan Brice. Where has he been? What is he
up to? It struck Nick as odd that he had not encountered the detective
yet: surely he and Beth had been close the past year. How close? Suppose
Brice stumbled upon Andy Hocum. Would the old man talk?
Feeling more helpless than he had ever felt in his life, at least the
life he remembered, Nick stared at the road until Beth turned off on
another road that was little more than a wagon track beside a small
creek. A few minutes of bouncing over ruts and stones, and she turned
off again, parking beside a grey, frame cabin.
"Here we are, darling."
They got out, each taking a box from the back seat, and Nick followed
her up the stairs to the porch. Beth set her box down and found the key.
A moment later the lock clicked and she shoved the door open.
"Wait'll I find the light, Nick," she whispered.
A moment later, the light snapped on and a soft glow filled the front
room of the cabin. They took the boxes to the kitchen and set them on
the table, then went back into the front room. Nick studied the place.
He liked the room a lot; there was a rugged manliness in the stone
fireplace and the knotty pine walls, mingled with just a touch of Beth's
femininity to make it neat. All in all, it was a well laid out place. He
was attracted to the oil paintings that hung about the walls.
"Like it?" Beth asked.
He nodded.
"But it doesn't bring back any memories?"
"No. Hell, honey, I can't even remember what I did for a living."
She smiled sadly. "Want to see?"
When he nodded, she motioned him to the other side of the front room and
opened the door. She flicked on the light and he stepped into a small
study filled with the trappings of an artist. Tubes of paint lay on
small tables, beside cans of turpentine, lacquer and old paint rags. A
half finished nude adorned one of the heavy easels. There were a few
water color sketches laying around as well as several oils.
"Want to see some of your favorite models?"
He nodded numbly, and she drew open a drawer in the table and pulled out
four fairly large oil paintings done on commercial painting boards.
The first two were of Beth, one a nude and the other a semi-nude, with
only her lovely breasts exposed. The second two paintings were of a girl
who was not familiar at all. In the first picture, a portrait, she was
seated before a table, contemplating a vase of flowers. A rather good
looking girl with jet black hair and a soft, warm looking face. The next
painting was of the same girl, but this time she had been painted as a
Hawaiian dancer and her skin was a trifle darker. She was a pretty girl,
but her face and nicely formed body didn't ring a bell.
"Who is she?" He asked.
"Her name is Janet Holman. She lives about four or five miles from here,
on her father's farm." Beth nodded toward the green filing cabinet in
the corner. "You have her file over there with your records. Doesn't any
of this ring a bell, darling?"
"No."
She looked at him sadly, her face mirroring the way she felt. "I hope
it'll come back, darling."
He reached out and pulled her to him, holding her tight. "It'll come
back," he whispered. "C'mon. I want to build a fire in that fireplace.
It's cool in here, even if it is summer."
They went back out into the front room and, while Beth found some
kindling, Nick wadded up some newspapers and stuffed them in the
fireplace. When she brought it in, he lighted the stuff and after it was
going good, he added a couple of logs. He snapped off the light and
grinned at her.
"I like firelight," he told her. "It's restful."
She smiled back at him. "Restful? I think it's sexy." She had kicked off
her pumps and was lying before the glow of the hearth on the thick rug.
He arranged the mesh screen before the fire and laid down beside her.
"Sexy, huh?"
"Uh huh. I don't know, darling ... the warmth of the fire warms me up, I
guess."
He grinned and dropped his head to the cushions of her breasts. Her
fingers played in his hair.
"I'm glad," he told her.
"You used to be. That used to be our favorite way of spending an
evening."
"Laying in front of a fire?" Nick asked.
"Not just _any_ fire, darling. This particular fire, sans clothes."
"Sounds like fun," he mused and rolled over to kiss the ripe redness of
her lips. Her tongue stabbed a blade of passion at him and her arms
pulled him close; then, after a moment, she shoved him away and stood
up.
He propped himself on one elbow and looked at her. Her smile was impish
as she unfastened the buttons of the white blouse and pulled it from the
waistband of the navy blue skirt. Her fingers unhooked the snaps of the
bra and dropped it to the floor beside the blouse. The firelight was
golden against the swelling lift of her breasts and the flat expanse of
her stomach. Nick felt the thundering beginning again to slam through
his veins with the holocaust of a napalm bomb exploding against the
ground as she unzipped the skirt and dropped it into a puddle on the
thick rug. He watched in pounding fascination as she stepped daintily
from the whorl of the skirt, clad only in the pinkish transparency of
her panties. Then they too were a thing of the past, and Beth was
smiling down at him, passion spearing from her eyes.
"Will I still do?" She asked.
"Do what?" He croaked.
"You know?" She laughed at him, kneeling on the rug. "Will I still do as
a model?"
He laid down flat and chuckled. "A model, sweetheart, is a small
imitation of the real thing. You don't look imitation to me." He reached
up and grabbed her arm to pull her down with him onto the rug, but she
jerked away.
"Oh, no, you don't. You have to undress too."
He grinned at her and peeled off his clothes quickly. She came into his
arms then and they made love, letting the glowing warmth of the fire
caress them hotly. His hands smoothed her breasts while his mouth worked
at the fire that was coming to life throughout her body.
"Just like old times?" He asked, softly.
"Better, darling ... much better."
CHAPTER EIGHT
Sometime near midnight, Beth took the car and went home. Nick poured a
cup of the coffee she had made for him and went back into the study to
look at the paintings a second time. It was good, professional work, and
he wondered if he could do the same stuff again. Hell, he decided, it'll
be a long time until I get back at an easel. He finished the coffee and
went up to bed.
It took awhile to get to sleep. Thoughts of the wrecked plane, Beth, the
strange men and Nolan Brice kept running around in his head without
finding answers to the enigmas they presented to him. Finally he slept.
* * * * *
He was looking at himself, in the dream, but it was not in a mirror. He
was standing inside a polished room and the other Nick Danson lay on a
bed wrapped in sleep. Nick blinked at the still duplicate of himself on
the bed and turned away to look at the room he was in. It wasn't large.
It appeared to be some kind of bedroom, and it was well lighted although
there were no lights to be seen; the walls seemed to glow, and
everything was of a bright metal. The mirror caught his eye and he saw
himself in the same blue and yellow uniform that he'd worn before. The
Danson who lay asleep on the bed was dressed in blue dress pants and a
white shirt. The tie had been loosened at his throat and his clothing
was wrinkled badly.
Suddenly the other Danson opened his eyes and looked at Nick. For a
moment he appeared to be startled at seeing him, then he smiled. The
smile erupted in a chuckle that became a laugh. The other Danson's face
grew large and full, roaring out laughter at Nick until the whole scene