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I rested my hands on my knees, palms up, thumb to fingertips. I closed my eyes. I didn’t chant the traditional Om Mani Padme Om or even any of the other traditional phrases. I’d found something that worked better for me.

“Sausage and gravy on a biscuit, yum. Sausage and gravy on a biscuit, yummmmm.”

I let the words flow out of me on each exhalation. With each inhalation, I tried to stop myself from testing the air for the scent of oranges. It took me a lot longer than it usually did to put myself into a state of calm. At last my muscles relaxed. My heartbeat slowed to its normal rate.

I let myself fall back onto the pillows. All brand-new. The comforter was, too, as was the mattress and the bed. My new bed, one I’d never shared. I uncrossed my legs, stretching without opening my eyes. Cradled in the softness of the bed, loose and relaxed, it seemed natural for my hands to drift over my belly and thighs. My breasts.

I thought of Johnny. I’d memorized every detail of his face from seeing him at the Mocha, and every detail of the rest of him from the movies Jen and I had watched and the photos online. He had dimples at the base of his back and one dimple on his left cheek, just at the corner of his mouth. I’d like to lick those dimples.

My breath soughed out of me as my fingers slid across the skin of my belly, bare from where my shirt had pulled up. I didn’t usually need visual aids to bring myself pleasure. Porn was all right, I had no problem with it, but it all seemed sort of random and senseless to me. Even supposedly woman-oriented porn didn’t make much sense to me. I got more turned on reading sensually explicit novels or even listening to music than I ever did watching dirty movies or looking at pictures.

Now, though, I fixed on the image of Johnny’s face. His golden brows, arched over those yummy green-brown eyes. That mouth, a little thin but easily quirked into a smile. At least, in his movies, that was. I hadn’t yet seen him as much as quirk the corner of his lips in real life.

“Johnny,” I whispered, thinking I should be ashamed or embarrassed to be saying his name aloud to myself this way but not feeling anything but warmth.

Even his name was sexy. A boy’s name, a nickname, not a name for a grown man who was, I realized, probably my dad’s age. I groaned and clapped a hand over my eyes.

It didn’t stop me from thinking about him. He might be the same age as my parents, but I had no trouble imagining him as a lover. I’d never had a fetish for older dudes—if anything, I freely admitted to a certain amount of ogling of younger men on a daily basis. My office overlooked the campus of a local college, and my coworkers and I often enjoyed our lunches while watching the boys on their way to class. But Johnny’s age didn’t matter. Intellectually, I knew he was “too old” for me. My head knew it.

My body was another matter.

My hand stroked down my belly to cup between my legs, the heel of my palm pressing my clit. I sighed. I used a finger to idly stroke myself through the soft material of my pajamas, then slid my hand inside the elastic waistband. This was my pleasure, solo.

It was Johnny I thought of, obviously. Scenes from his movies knitted with still shots and the sound of his voice. I wondered how it would sound if he said my name. Would he groan it the way he did on film, fucking the actress with whom he’d had a child? Would he whisper it against my skin, his tongue working its way down my body to center on my clit the way my fingertip circled just now?

I wanted to undress him. Strip away the long black coat, the scarf. Use it to cover his eyes while he laughed and, patiently, allowed me to unfix the buttons of his shirt from their holes and slide his arms from the sleeves. To unzip and unbutton his pants and slide them down those long, muscled thighs. I wanted to kneel in front of him and nuzzle at the softness of his pubic hair, golden and darker than the hair on his head. I wanted to take that nice, thick cock in my mouth and suck until he got so hard I couldn’t fit him all the way in.

My hand was moving faster. My cunt wet. I slipped a finger down to get it slick, then up again, while my other hand cupped a breast and pinched at my nipple. I thought of Johnny while I made love to myself. His eyes, nose, ears, mouth. His delicious nipples. I wanted to lick and bite them. I wanted to hear him say my name, and beg me to fuck him.

“Yes,” I murmured.

My back arched, hips pushing upward against the sweet pressure of my hand. I wasn’t easing toward climax, more like hurtling toward it. I hadn’t done this in a long time. Since before the last time I’d had sex, as a matter of fact, and that had been about three months ago. I didn’t want to think about that now. I wanted to think about Johnny.

“Emm,” he said in my ear, and I didn’t startle. My eyes didn’t open. I breathed in the scent of oranges and gave myself over to his touch.

My hands found the spindles of my headboard and I grabbed them. The wood creaked at the strength of my grip. It was slick under my palms, my fingers slid, but I held tight. The bed dipped beneath his weight.

He kissed me.

Openmouthed, slow and sweet and hot, just the way I’d imagined it. Johnny tasted like nothing and everything I’d ever loved or wanted. I breathed him in, sucking gently on his tongue. Our teeth bumped, sending sparks of sensation through me, and a giggle. My eyes fluttered, but he gave a warning noise.

“Don’t,” Johnny said, and I kept my eyes shut tight.

When wet heat centered over my clit, I let out a noise of my own. Low and urgent. I said his name. He laughed against me, and it was just the way I’d imagined it. His lips pressed me through the thin material of my pajama bottoms. He worked my clit with his lips, and the barrier of cotton only enhanced the pleasure.

I wanted to feel him on me. Skin on skin. I wanted him inside me, balls deep. I wanted him fucking me while I drew gouges in his back with my nails and urged him on.

None of that happened. Johnny used his mouth and fingers to stroke me toward orgasm, and that turned out to be pretty fucking good enough. Pleasure filled me. Overflowing. Electric. I jerked with it and let go of the headboard so my fingers could find that thick, beautiful hair and burrow into it.

I came from Johnny’s mouth and hands, and with his voice murmuring encouragement, but when my hand reached down I found nothing but my own body. Orgasm arced through me. My eyes opened. I cried out, wordless and yearning, and my voice slid into a moan.

I swallowed the taste of him.

I was alone.

Chapter 04

I
looked like shit. Hair lank, shadows under my eyes, skin blotchy. I’d managed to leave the house with mismatched socks, too, a fact I was hoping nobody would notice unless I pulled up the legs of my trousers to show off the mistake. I’d slept terribly, my night filled with dreams that were nothing like fugues.

I sat at my desk, gripping a mug of cooling coffee and staring at my computer screen without doing much. I had an appointment with my acupuncturist after work and didn’t see much point in pretending to accomplish anything for the next hour. Fortunately, I had nothing too pressing waiting for me. I’d been expecting a lot more work when I took this job at the credit union, but compared to my days as a teller, then assistant bank manager, my new job was as easy as a two-dollar hooker who takes coupons.

I did rustle up enough energy to check my personal email. Among the forwards of stupid jokes and pictures of strange street signs my mom sent, there was a message from Jen. The subject read simply, “Read This.”

So, like Alice being offered a piece of the caterpillar’s mushroom, I did.

It was a link to a blog specializing in reviews of obscure horror movies. It had an entire section devoted to Johnny’s films, even the ones that weren’t horror. I was surprised to see he’d made only fifteen movies, total, as the wealth of information on the internet had made it seem like way more than that. Reading through the descriptions, I realized it was because so many of them had been recut or released under alternate names, or in foreign versions. There was a clickable list for each one, each link leading to a separate page with still pictures, video clips and information about the movie. Also, Buy links. Some of the movies were readily available, if you knew where to look, and at dollar-bin prices. Others…

“Whoa.” I said this with respect and awe.

One hundred and seventy-five dollars for a dubbed DVD of some obscure film I hadn’t ever heard of. Plus shipping. I slid my tongue over my teeth as I contemplated this, and then the triple-digit number (not including the decimals) currently in my checking account.

$175 for a J.D. movie. I texted to Jen.

Can u believe it? She answered almost instantly.

I believe it, bb. Which one?

Night of A Hundred Moons.

Holy shit! Grab that shit up, girl. Nobody ever has a Hundred Moons!

Then, a second later:

(I)

It took me a minute to figure out what that was, but when I did, it made me laugh. It was a moon of the bare butt variety, not the celestial. Nice.

Have u seen it?

I typed.

Never. Not even in bootleg clips.

Do u want to?

R u kidding? YES!!!

One hundred and seventy-five dollars could be a lot or a little bit of money, depending. It wasn’t much for a car repair, for example, though it wasn’t a little, either. It was just about right for a really tiny television set, a bit too much for a pair of shoes and a ridiculously reasonable amount for a week’s vacation at the beach.

It was way too fucking much for a DVD.

I was already clicking on Add to Basket. My heart hung up when the website froze, the small scroll bar at the bottom stuck just an eyelash width from the end. I clicked, clicked again. Nothing happened.

It took me two or three frantic, sweaty moments before I realized I had to click the My Cart link to see that I had, indeed, managed to add the movie. I added the shipping, which was frankly outrageous, as well as some other random handling fee. I couldn’t even look at the total as I typed my credit card number into a definitely unsecured website, risking my entire identity just to get my hands on what would assuredly turn out to be a crappy copy of a bad movie.

I printed out the receipt and made sure a copy of the order had also appeared in my email before I dared to navigate away from the site. Then I sat back in my desk chair, heart still pounding, palms still sweating. I felt like I’d run a mile pursued by dogs. Or zombies. Or worse, zombie dogs. I felt wrung out and anxious and something else, too. Unreasonably excited. I texted Jen.

Bought it.

Get the fuck out!

Yes. Girls’ night when it comes?

It won’t be the only thing coming. Call me when you get it.

I said I would and slipped my phone into my purse so I could head out for my appointment. It took me only ten minutes to get from my office to the alternative medicine center, a trip that had taken me forty-five when I lived with my parents. In another five I was in the quiet room on my back, a soft pillow beneath my head.

I have eclectic musical tastes, but “spa” music usually didn’t do it for me. Yet I couldn’t deny it was relaxing, the soft chimes and woodwind instruments. That was the point, after all. To relax the patients. And I tried, I really did, but the harder I tried to put everything out of my mind, the more I thought.

I knew the treatment would help even if I couldn’t stop the hamster wheel of my brain from spinning. I just didn’t want to be there, stiff and aching, anxious. I wanted to melt into the table and let the needles do their work the way they’d done for the past couple of years…and then I was thinking again, worrying again, that this time the treatment would fail. That I’d be back to suffering through the insult of a brain that made me see, hear, smell and touch things that weren’t there. Or worse, that gave me blank spots in my memory, moments in which anything could’ve happened. I wasn’t sure which was worse, experiencing things that hadn’t happened, or not remembering things that had.

The music changed from the soft tinkle of water and a flute to something low, almost moaning. I’d never noticed vocals in any of the music the office played. Now I couldn’t ignore them.

A cello. A woman’s breathy voice. The plucking of strings.

And then, though I’d always specifically requested no aromatherapy treatments during my acupuncture…the inevitable scent of oranges.

“No,” I muttered, and clung to consciousness with every single brain cell I had.

When the fugues had first started, I hadn’t known how to determine one was on the verge. As the years had passed, I could predict the onset with enough time—sometimes only barely, but usually enough—to prepare for it. I had never yet mastered fending one off. In fact, I’d learned it was better not to try, because they seemed to last longer and be more intense, with a longer recovery time, if I fought them. I couldn’t help it now, though. It was the worst betrayal to go dark here, with the needles in my shin and collarbone, supposedly aligning my qi and keeping me centered in this world. My muscles strained, defeating the purpose of everything I’d come here to do.

There was nothing I could do. The scent of oranges swirled around me. I closed my eyes, tense, and waited for my world to shift and change or simply go black around me. I gripped the table and felt the needles in my side shift and pinch.