After Midnight

37
IDENTITY CRISIS

“Very funny,” I muttered.
“I’ll take anything. I’m not picky.”
“Every piece of me is precious?”
“You got it.”
“Go!”
He laughed and hurried away.
With my free left hand, I reached under the pillow and grabbed the miniature cassette. I thought about hiding it on my person, so to speak. But what if Murphy decided to have another go at me while it was in there?
So I just slid it between my back and the mattress, where it would be easy to reach.
I no sooner had it out of sight than Murphy came hurrying in with a knife. He carried it in his right hand, down low by his side. Its blade, at least eight inches long, was straight out and pointing at me.
The blade wasn’t all that was pointing at me.
They were level with each other, both tilting at the same slightly upward angle, and one about as long as the other. While the knife swung back and forth at the end of Murphy’s arm, the thick shaft bounced and swayed with each step he took.
“You come well armed,” I said.
He smirked and shook his head, but didn’t say anything.
Stopping beside my right hand, he bent over and eased the blade down onto the rope. He wouldn’t be going for the knot, but for the clothesline itself where it was tight around my wrist. Only the thickness of the rope—less than half an inch—stood between the blade’s edge and my skin. “Don’t move,” he muttered. “I don’t want to cut you.”
The way he was hunkered over with his head down, his hair fell across his brow and hid his eyes. He looked like a big kid with a messy mop of hair.
As he gently sawed the rope, his hair hardly moved at all, but the motions of his arm were enough to shake his rigid penis from side to side.
Finally, he cut me.
“Ow!”
“Sorry,” he said, quickly stepping back. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah. Probably. What’s one more cut?”
“I think that’ll do it, though. Try giving a hard pull.”
I jerked my arm downward. The rope held it for a moment, then made a quiet puh! and let me go.
“I’ll get your feet,” Murphy said and stepped toward the other end of the bed.
I brought my right hand down. It was surrounded by a deep red indentation from the rope. The knife had made a shallow, half-inch slice. Bright red blood was sliding out, streaking my wrist and forearm. I quickly licked the streaks away, then covered the wound with my mouth.
Murphy was watching. “Maybe I’d better get you a bandage,” he said.
“It’s no big deal. Why don’t you go ahead and cut me loose? We can worry about a bandage later. Anyway, we may need several by the time you’re done.”
“I’ll be a lot more careful,” he said. “And this time, I’ll go for the knots.”
“Good idea.”
Bending over my left foot, he started to work the knife back and forth. Its edge made soft, rubbing sounds against the rope.
“I haven’t really had much practice at this sort of thing,” he said.“Not since I was a kid.” He lifted his head and smiled.“In my neighborhood, we were always tying people up.”
“Sounds like you lived in an interesting neighborhood,” I told him.
“I never tied up anyone like you, that’s for sure. But I wished I could. I’ve always wanted to. This was like…” He shook his head and sighed. “Unbelievable,” he said.
“Any time,” I told him.
He grinned, then lowered his head and resumed cutting.
He managed to slice the ropes off both my ankles without drawing any more blood.
When he was done, he asked, “How’s that?”
“Great. Thanks. But I don’t think I can move.”
He picked up my legs and eased them together. Then he sat on the end of the bed, turned sideways, and raised my feet onto his lap. He massaged them with both hands. “Let me know when they’re better,” he said. “I’ll help you into the bathroom and we’ll take care of your cut.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
“And I don’t think we should make that drive to Culver City.”
“You don’t?”
“Screw them,” he said. “I’ll FedEx the books. It won’t kill them to wait a day longer.”
“I don’t want to be responsible…”
“Oh, don’t worry about it.”
“What if I hadn’t been here?”
He shrugged. “Who knows? But that’s not how it went down.”
“So, if we’re not going to Culver City, what’ll we do?”
“Whatever we want.”
“I want my five grand,” I told him.
He grinned. “I want to hear your story.”
I said, “Okay.” Though I smiled, I suddenly had a bad feeling inside—which must’ve showed.
“Something wrong?” Murphy asked.
Something was wrong, all right.
So far, he and I…we’d been getting along awfully well. I liked him better than any guy I’d ever known. A lot better.
Maybe I was even falling in love with him.
And maybe he had similar feelings about me.
But if I told him my story—the truth—it would probably ruin everything.
I mean, the truth might make me look pretty bad in his eyes. Might even disgust him. Especially when he hears about the way I chopped Tony into pieces, and about some of the things I did to Judy.
I can’t tell him!
We kept looking at each other.
Frowning, Murphy asked, “Are you feeling okay?”
“It’s just…I’ve got a little headache. Do you have any aspirin, or…?”
“Sure. I’ll get it for you.” He slid a hand up the bottom of my leg, gave my calf a friendly pat, then lifted my feet off his lap, stood up and lowered them to the mattress. “Would you rather have Excedrin, Tylenol or Bufferin?” he asked.
“You must get a lot of headaches.”
“I get my share. What’ll it be?”
“How about Excedrin?”
Nodding, he took a few steps away from the bed, crouched and picked up his trunks.
“You’re getting dressed?”
“You’ve got a headache.”
“What does one have to do with the other?”
“You mean it wasn’t a hint?” he asked, looking flustered.
“I’m not much for hinting. But if you want to go ahead and get dressed…”
“Well…” He shrugged and smiled. “Maybe we should give you some time to get over your headache before we, uh, do anything too strenuous.”
“Maybe so.”
He stepped into his trunks, pulled them up, then left the room without putting on a shirt.
I reached under my back and grabbed the cassette. Shoving it into my mouth, I climbed off the bed. Then I swooped down and snatched my skirt off the floor. On my way to the door, I swept the skirt around my waist and fastened its buttons. Then I took the cassette out of my mouth. Clutching it in my right hand, I stepped through the doorway.
No sign of Murphy.
From the television came the voice of a man praising the courage of Paula Jones.
From the bathroom came a sound of rushing water.
Walking fast, I crossed the living room. Went straight to my purse near the end of the couch. Bent over it and spread it open.
All I meant to do was drop the cassette inside.
But I gaped at what was in there.
The usual stuff: lipstick, my compact, some tissues, a couple of tampons, my sunglasses, and so on.
Plus two sets of keys—mine and Judy’s.
And the note pad with Tony’s new telephone number.
And my wallet.
My wallet!
With my own driver’s license inside.
With my photo on it.
And my true name.
And real address.
“Oh, my Christ,” I murmured.
My hand trembling, I shoved the cassette down deep into the purse.
I felt sick.
Had Murphy looked?
He could’ve. He’d been out here alone before going to the bank, and then again after returning.
But did he?
Maybe he’d turned on the television so the voices would cover any sounds he might make while searching my purse.
But he’d been busy taking off his clothes.
And probably excited by his plans for me.
His blue jeans were draped over the cushion at the other end of the couch. His socks and shoes were on the floor over there.
“Oh, you’re out,” he said.
I turned around to face him. “Dressed, too.”
“Well, sort of.” He glanced at my chest, then quickly raised his eyes to my face.
“I thought maybe I had some chewing gum in my purse, but I guess not.”
“I’m afraid I don’t have any,” he said, “or I’d get you some.” He came toward me holding a glass of water in one hand, a plastic container of Excedrin in the other. “You don’t seem like the chewing gum type,” he said.
“What type is that?”
“Airhead.”
“Keeps my breath minty fresh,” I chirped, and stepped around to the front of the coffee table.
“Nothing wrong with your breath.”
A couple of strides away from me, he stopped.
I reached out for the glass of water, but he pulled it back slightly. “Now, be careful,” he said. “Let’s not spill, this time.”
“If I do, I won’t be getting my blouse wet.”
“Guess not.” Blushing deep crimson, he gave the glass to me.
While I held it, he opened the Excedrin. I put out my left hand. He shook a couple of tablets into my palm. I tossed them into my mouth and washed them down with the water.
He waited until I’d lowered the glass, then asked, “How’s the cut?”
I glanced at it. “Not so bad. See? The bleeding’s stopped.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Nah. It’s just a nick. I’m fine.”
“We’d better put something on it, anyway.”
“How about your lips?”
He laughed and blushed. A real blusher, that Murphy.
“I was thinking of an antiseptic,” he said. He took the glass from me and set it on the table. He put down the Excedrin bottle, too. Then, holding my hand, he led me across the room. “We’ll touch up the rest of you, too, while we’re at it.”
“I can use a little touching up.”
In the bathroom, he poured some hydrogen peroxide onto a cotton ball and patted the cut on my wrist. It felt cold. It fuzzed a little on the slit.
After bandaging my little cut, he took out a fresh ball of cotton. He soaked it with hydrogen peroxide and started dabbing at my other injuries—the scratches and nicks and gouges from last night’s accidents. The liquid touched me with coldness. Here and there, it dribbled down my skin.
When it stung the wound on my belly, I gasped and stiffened.
“Sorry,” he said.
“That’s okay. A little pain is good for the soul.”
“I’m not so sure about that.”
“It feels so good when it stops.”
“Can’t argue with that one,” he said.
“I like how this stuff feels, though. It’s so nice and cool.”
He said, “Hmm.” With a fresh, dripping ball, he gently swabbed my right nipple.
Unaware of any injury there, I looked down. My nipple appeared to be fine. The chilly fluid made it pucker and jut out. “Now you’re treating places that aren’t hurt,” I pointed out.
“Yep,” he said, and moved the cotton ball to my other nipple.
I shivered a little with the good feel of it.
Then I undid my buttons, and my skirt fell to the bathroom floor. “Anywhere else need a touch-up?” I asked.
He squatted down in front of me. “I should say so,” he said. “You’ve gotten yourself banged up pretty good.”
“Do what you can. I’m in your hands.”
Each time he touched me with a wet ball of cotton, I flinched a bit. Not because it hurt, but because it felt so cold on my hot skin.
Down low in front of me, he found a scratch here, a scrape there. He dabbed them. And he dabbed places where I had no injuries at all.
I turned around. He touched chilly balls of cotton to the backs of my thighs and to my buttocks. Then I felt his lips, his tongue. He kissed and licked his way up my back until he was standing.
When he pressed himself against my body, I found out that his trunks were gone. He was smooth and bare all the way down. And I could feel the hard length of him pressing against my lower back.
Nibbling the side of my neck, he reached around me with both hands and took gentle hold of my breasts.
The cotton balls and the bottle of hydrogen peroxide must’ve been down on the bathroom floor with his trunks.
He writhed against my back, sucked my neck and squeezed my breasts. Then one of his hands roamed down my front and slipped between my legs. Moaning, I squirmed against him.
After a while, I managed to turn around so we were facing each other. By then, I was in such a frantic delirium that I hardly knew what was happening.
He slammed me against the door frame.
As he pulled at my buttocks, I climbed his body and wrapped my legs around him.
He thrust into me.
I hugged him with my arms and legs.
He pounded me against the frame as he tried to ram up higher and deeper.
Then suddenly he was throbbing and pumping.
I clung to him, shuddering with my own release.
As our frenzy subsided, we remained clutching each other, my back against the door frame, my feet off the floor, my legs and arms around him. He stayed in me. We both panted for air.
I gasped, “My God, Murphy.”
He gasped, “My God, Alice.”