Shouts of agreement. Harnsberger simpered.
Beckwith said, "That's also why none of us want to be around when you get the bill!"
Momentary panic in Harnsberger's eyes. Beckwith slapped him again. "Scared you there, huh, boy? Nah, don't get your co-jone-jones in an uproar, it's all taken care of—lifted it out of patient funds." Beckwith rubbed an index finger against a thumb and winked. "Sorry. No kidney transplants for Medi-Cal patients this month!"
Peals of merriment.
Beckwith took hold of Harnsberger's arm. "And now, for the piece de resistance, Phil. Pieces. So to speak— Sure you've eaten enough?"
"I'm sure, Jim."
"Well . . ." Beckwith grinned. "Maybe not." He flourished an arm. Nothing happened for a moment; then the lights dimmed and music surged from behind the giant TV. Warp-speed disco beat, louder than the porn score.
The crowd parted, and two women in long black trench coats pranced into the clearing. As Beckwith slipped from view they positioned themselves on either side of Harnsberger.
Young women—tall, shapely, coltish, stepping high on spiked heels. Wide-smiling—tossing the smiles as if dispensing candy—they rotated their hips, thrust their pelvises, made the exaggerated moves of trained dancers. Long mass of coal black hair on one girl. Her partner's coif was white-blond, boy-short, gel-spiked.
Synchronized butt shakes as they flanked Harnsberger, rubbed his neck, kissed his cheek, bumped his hips. A pair of tongues flicked the radiotherapist's ears, now crimson. His face was polluted with arousal and fear.
The girls stomped and shouted, stroked their crotches, pretended to go for Harnsberger's fly, threw back their heads and pantomimed open-mouthed laughter, began shoving him gently between them—back and forth, the way baby jackals play with a rabbit.
The music took on even more speed. Off came the trench coats; the girls wore identical black leather bustiers, black thongs, garter belts, and fishnet stockings.
Several beats of bump and grind. I stared along with everyone else, caught a side view of busty profiles, heard the girls whoop and laugh as they continued to tease Harnsberger. The black-haired girl tickled his chin, veneered herself against him, ran her hands over his head, messed his hair. The blonde took hold of his face, kissed him long and hard on the mouth as he tried to wriggle away, hands flying wildly. Suddenly he succumbed to the kiss, getting into it. He was reaching for the blonde's rear when she shoved him away, did an athletic squat, danced back up to him, shook her head from side to side, peeled back a bustier cup and flashed a nipple, let the leather flip back up.
The black-haired girl joined her for more crotch rubbing and prancing. Both bras teased down on cue, now shed and tossed to the crowd.
Full, young breasts bobbled and rotated. The girls pinched their nipples hard, bent low, dropped to perfect splits, bounced up, danced wildly, played with their G-strings.
Pointing at Harnsberger and moving in on him, but this time they guided him offstage and returned, just the two of them, holding hands. The G-strings popped, snapped back on firm, flat pubises.
A bit more genital hide-and-seek, then the black-haired girl got down on all fours, rotated her buttocks, pulled at the blonde's ankle. The blonde stood there, shaking her head no, pouting, feigning resistance. Hoarse screams of encouragement from the choir. Everyone paying attention. In a flash both girls were naked but for garter belts and fishnets. The music slowed to languid sludge in a too-sweet key, and they began caressing each other, vamping, stroking, kissing, tongues lizarding.
The black-haired girl sank to the carpet, lay on her back, arched her pelvis. The blonde shimmied between her partner's legs, lowered to her knees, bowed her head prayerfully, grazed the dark girl's abdomen with platinum spikes.
Tonguing the dark girl's navel. The dark girl writhed.
The blond girl looked up, placed a finger on her lip, as if contemplating what to do next. A big-eyed travesty of innocence, holding out her hands as if seeking counsel from the crowd.
The crowd cheered her on.
She tilted her head back to the dark girl's crotch, began to dip again, raised her face. Kneeling in place but not moving as the dark-haired girl, still bucking, took hold of her arm and urged her down.
The blond girl studied the audience. Took in the entire room.
Turning my way, giving me a full view of her face.
Long, oval face beneath the silvery spikes. Pale eyes under plucked brows, dominant but perfectly proportioned cleft chin.
Recognition was a splinter in my chest.
Hers too. The slyness dropped off her face, replaced by ... a queasy smile.
She stared at me, and her head froze above the black-haired girl's writhing hips. I thought I saw her give the faintest headshake—denying something?
The music oozed on. The black-haired girl kept gyrating, started to realize something was off. Made a grab for Lauren's head.
Lauren didn't budge.
Then she did.
As she allowed herself to be dragged down, I escaped.
3
I DROVE HOME nearly blind with shame, cutting through dark, cold streets as if nothing mattered.
The closest I've come to having children are the people who've depended on me. Encountering Lauren had given me a glimpse of what the parents of whores and felons go through.
The look in her eyes when she'd recognized me—stripper's flaunt degrading to ... imbalance. The uncertainty she'd never shown as a teenager.
Now she was twenty-one. Legal. That made me laugh out loud.
Why the hell had I gone to Harnsberger's party in the first place? Why hadn't I left when the tone of the evening became clear?
Because, as in most men, something in me craved fresh erotic imagery.
Robin was waiting up for me, but that night I was very poor company.
I slept terribly, woke the next morning wondering what, if anything, I should do about the encounter. At eight o'clock I called my service, and the operator informed me Lauren had phoned at midnight and asked for an appointment.
"She sounded urgent," said the operator. "I knew about that cancellation at two, so I gave it to her. Hope that was okay, Dr. Delaware."
"Sure," I said, sick with dread. "Thanks."
"We're here to serve, Doctor."
At two P.M. precisely the bell on the side door rang and my heart jumped.
Patients who've never been to my house usually remain down at the gate. The bell ring meant Lauren had unlatched the gate, mastered the route across the front drive and through the garden. No warning dog bark; Robin had gone up to Carpinteria on a wood-buying trip, left at daybreak, taking Spike with her.
I put down the coffee I hadn't touched, hurried through the house, opened the door.
New face on the other side.
Fresh, scrubbed, expressionless, clipped snowy hair stripped of product, brushed forward, falling in a soft Caesar cut.
No makeup at all. The same blue eyes—tougher, tempered. An untested face, except for the eyes.
At twenty-one Lauren looked younger than she had at fifteen.
A bleached-denim shirt and easy-fit jeans covered her from neck to ankle. The shirt was buttoned to the top and cinched with a turquoise clasp. The jeans managed to hug her frame, advertise the tight waist, soft hips. On her feet were white canvas flats with straw soles. A big calfskin bag hung over one shoulder—rich, burnished roan, gold-clasped, conspicuously expensive.
"Hello, Lauren."
Gazing past me she offered her hand. Her palm was cold and dry. I didn't feel like smiling, but when her eyes finally met mine, I managed.
She didn't. "You work at home now. Cute place."
"Thanks. Come on in."
I stayed just ahead of her during the walk to my office. She moved fast—as eager to enter as she'd once been to leave.
"Very nice," she said when we got there. "Still seeing kids and teens?"
"I don't do much therapy anymore."
She froze in the doorway. "Your answering service didn't say that."
"I'm still in practice, but most of my work is consultation," I said. "Court cases, some police work. I'm always available to former patients."
"Police work," she said. "Yes. I saw your name in the paper. That school-yard shooting. So now you're a public hero."
Still looking past me. Through me. "Come on in," I said.
"That's the same," she said, eyeing my old leather couch.
"Kind of an antique," I said.
"You're not — you really haven't changed that much."
I moved behind the desk.
"'I've changed," she said.
"You've grown up," I said.
"Have I?" She sat stiffly, made a move for the calfskin bag, stopped herself, started to smile, quashed that too. "Still no smoking?"
"Sorry, no."
"Filthy habit," she said. "Inherited it from Mom. She had a scare a few years back — spot on her X ray, but it turned out to be a shadow — stupid doctor. So she finally stopped. You'd think it would teach me. People are weak. You know that. You make a living off that."
"People are fallible," I said.
One of her legs began to bounce. "Back when I came to you, I gave you a real hard time, didn't I?"
I smiled. "Nothing I hadn't seen before."
"It probably didn't seem like it, but I was actually getting into the idea of therapy. I'd psyched myself up for it. Then they killed it."
"Your parents?"
The surprise in my voice made her flush. "They didn't tell you." Her smile was cold. "They claimed they did, but I always wondered."
"All I got was a cancellation call," I said. "No explanation. I phoned your house several times, but no one answered."
"Bastard," she said with sudden savagery. "Asshole."
"Your father?"
"Lying asshole. He promised he'd explain everything to you. It was his decision — He never stopped complaining about the money. The day I was supposed to see you, he picked me up from school. I thought he was, making sure I showed up on time — I thought you'd lied to me and finked to him about my coming late. I was furious at you. But instead of heading to your office, he drove the other way — into the Valley. Over to this miniature golf course — this Family Fun Center. Arcades, batting cages, all that junk. He parks, turns off the engine, says to me: 'You need quality time with your dad, not hundred-buck-an-hour baby-sitting with some quack.'"
She bit her lip. "Doesn't that sound a little . . . like he was jealous of you?"
As I mulled my answer she said, "Seductive, don't you think?"
I continued to deliberate. Took the leap. "Lauren, was there ever any—"
"No," she said. "Never, nothing like that, he never laid a finger on me. Not for anything creepy or for normal affection. The fact is, I can't remember him ever touching me. He's a cold fish. And guess what: He and Mom finally got divorced. He got himself a bimbo, some slut he met on the job— So they never told you they canceled, that it wasn't my idea. Figures. They brought me up with lies."
"What kind of lies?"
The blue eyes met mine. Got hard. "Doesn't matter."
"That day at the golf course," I said. "What happened?"
"What happened? Nothing happened. We played a few holes, finally I said I was bored, started nagging and whining to be taken home. He tried to convince me. I sat down on the green and wouldn't budge. He got mad—got all red-faced like he does, finally drove me home, steaming. Mom was in her room— It was obvious she'd been crying. I thought it had to do with me. I thought everything had to do with me—thought it all the time, and it just sat there in my head like a tumor. Now I know better; they were totally messed up all along."
She crossed her legs. "A few weeks later he walked out. Filed for divorce without telling her. She tried to get child support out of him, he claimed business was lousy, never gave us a penny. I told her to sue his ass, but she didn't. Not a fighter—she never has been."
"So you lived with her."
"For a little while. If you call it living. We lost the house, moved into an apartment in Panorama City, real dive—gunshots at night, the whole bit. Things sucked, we were broke, she was always crying. But I was having a great time 'cause she wasn't even trying to discipline me and finally I could do what I wanted. She wouldn't fight with me either."
She took a tissue from the box I position strategically, crumpled it into a ball, picked it open.
"Men suck," she said, staring at me. "Now let's talk about last night."
"Last night was unfortunate."
Her eyes sparked. "Unfortunate? That's the best you can do? You know the problem with this goddamn world? No one ever says they're sorry."
"Lauren—"
"Forget it." She waved the tissue dismissively. "I don't know why I even bothered." She began rummaging through the leather bag. "End of session. How much do you charge now? Probably more, now that your name gets in the papers."
"Please, Lauren—"
"No," she said, shooting to her feet. "The time's mine, so don't tell me how to spend it. No one tells me what to do anymore. That's what I like about my job."
"Being in control."
Her hands slapped onto her hips, and she glared down at me. "I know you're giving me shrink talk, but in this case you happen to be right. Last night you were probably too turned on to notice, but I was in charge— Michelle and me. All you guys with your mouths hanging open and your dicks stiff, and we were calling the shots. So don't judge me as if I'm some brainless slut."
"No judgments."
Her hands fisted and she stepped closer. "Why'd you have to leave like that? Why were you ashamed of me?"
As I considered my answer, she gave a knowing smile. "I turned you on and that freaked you out."
I said, "If you were a stranger, I probably would've stuck around. I left because I was ashamed of myself."
She smirked. "ProteWy would've stuck around?"
I didn't answer.
"But we are strangers," she said. "How can you say we're not?"
"The fact that you're here—"
"So what?"
"Lauren, once you came to me for help, I had a duty to be there for you. Like a surrogate parent. I felt my presence caused you shame too, but it was my own embarrassment that got me out of there."