Miles blew by the windshield like horizontal rain; shards of silvery halogen light sliced deeply into the fleshy darkness of an empty desert road. It was very late, or very early, depending on how long you'd been up and what you happened to be using to get you there. In his case, a mixture of Xanex and amphetamines had long since rendered the difference between night and day a moot point. He was driving, without stopping or looking back, to nowhere--and he figured he must have reached about the middle of it by now.
He gulped down a few more pills, wincing as they scraped the bone dry tissue of his throat on their way to his queasy belly. He needed a drink, but he couldn't stop. Eyes burning, fingers clenching and unclenching unconsciously around the steering wheel, he would have gladly traded everything he had for an hour's sleep, but he couldn't stop. He jammed the pedal to the floor and the car screamed into the blackness. He was running for his life.
How had it come to this? How had he gotten himself into this hellish race toward oblivion? Were they still following or had he lost them? No, he couldn't chance it. He had to keep going. He'd seen what they could do. Had it really only been two days since then? Could that be? Only two days? It seemed like ages since he'd careened headlong into this limbo of driving and dope and mind numbing terror.
He forced himself to focus on the road, but his head was churning with images which, in spite of the chemicals and the hallucinatory fatigue, would not be stilled. The party. Like so many others, peopled with some he'd known and some who were new to him. 'Nothing unusual in that; people were always bringing new "friends" to these gatherings. In his world, the world of the rich, jaded and terminally bored, no one felt fettered by minor obstacles like formal invitations. 'No need for the superficial pleasantries. 'You met someone who seemed right, someone who was into it, and you simply brought them along. No one minded. They craved fresh meat.
The party was in full swing when he'd rolled in. People everywhere--most in various stages of undress--drinking, smoking, and grinding their tanned and toned bodies together in obscene, but very familiar, dances. Out in the pool, naked men and women tangled and untangled themselves in a haphazard water ballet where most of the really deft moves were happening just beneath the bottom-lit surface of the bubbling water. Over by the bar a svelte, striking, middle-aged woman--her dress hiked up around her waist and the remains of her ripped panties dangling from one kicking ankle--writhed to the rapid fire rhythm of hard, open-palmed spanks applied vigorously by a young, buff, model-type boy half her age. Upstairs the sounds of wet, muffled moans and the unmistakable kiss of leather on naked flesh seeped from beneath ornate doors, drifting along the mansion’s dimly lit hallways.
He'd wandered around a bit, taking in the now familiar sights, sipping on a drink and sizing up the action without committing himself to anything or anyone in particular. And then, he'd seen her. She was standing alone in the library, candlelight flickering over drop dead curves which strained to escape from her skin tight, lace up, black suede dress. Her pale flesh, exposed by the plunging V back of the dress, seemed to ripple in the half-light, and his eyes followed that V shape down to her perfectly heart-shaped ass, beckoning thighs, sublimely turned calves and bare feet. As if aware of his gaze, she'd turned slowly and he'd seen that face…
The image of her face exploded now in a lurching screech of tires as he fought to control the skidding car which, he swore, had been assaulted by cleverly camouflaged tree at the side of the road. He brought the car to rest in a hail of spraying gravel and flopped back against the seat, his heart pounding from speed and adrenalin, the smell of burnt rubber stinging his nostrils.
That face.