Chapter 4: Chapter 4

Your brain is just not in the game after finding out that you're now going to be Cruella de Vil's gopher, and then to top it off, your salary increase barely covers inflation. By 4 o'clock, your bruise is throbbing, you can't focus, and you're thinking that you should just leave early. You didn't bother to grab any toiletries or clothes from home this morning, so you have to do some shopping before you check in to the hotel anyway. You might as well take advantage of being able to quit early now, because by next week it's probably not going to be possible anymore. You leave your briefcase behind, but make sure to take your jacket with its "little secret" hidden in the inside pocket. You lock your door and head to the elevators, then down to the parking garage.

You drive to a department store just a couple blocks away, pick up some socks and underwear, a couple dress shirts, a pocket t-shirt, jeans, and what-the-hell: some New Balance cross trainers and gym shorts. Hotels have gyms, don't they? You figure you can wear the same dress slacks and jacket 3 days in a row, so no need to waste any additional money. The toiletries you can probably buy at the hotel.

You drive back a block and park in the Hilton's underground parking. You check in, buy a hairbrush, toothpaste, razor, and some pain relievers from the sundries shop, and head up to your room on the fourth floor with your bags, jacket and revolver.

Nice room, with a pretty well-stocked mini-bar. You look at the king size bed and realize you'll have it all to yourself tonight. You put all your stuff away and change into the jeans and t-shirt, making sure to hang your dress pants and jacket neatly on the wooden hanger. You check your phone: 5:20 pm. It won't be dark for another hour or more. You're not ready to eat yet, but you grab your wallet and room key, planning to walk around downtown for a while before you look for dinner.

Just before the door closes you realize you don't have the gun with you. You go get it where you hid it under the mattress and try to figure out how to carry it inconspicuously. The jacket is perfect concealment, but you're not going to walk around wearing a suit jacket over a t-shirt. Even though it's a snub nose, it's still too hard and bulky to fit in your jeans pocket. Private detectives sometimes shove their gun in their waistband, but you can't find any comfortable position using that method. You finally decide you'll just have to leave it in the room.

The door closes behind you and you head downstairs. The air is cooler now, but you're still very comfortable in just a t-shirt. Walking the streets for 40 minutes or so, you see a few bars close to the hotel, including one that has some pool tables: Jimmy B's. You haven't played pool for a few years, but used to be pretty good. Not a super upscale bar compared to most in the area, but looks okay. You make a mental note to check it out again after dinner. After a little more strolling, you see a small Italian place with colorful murals inside and a nice quiet atmosphere. You check out the menu displayed in the window and decide to give it a try.

The waiter is friendly, but, because of your prominent facial bruise, seems to think at first that you might be a homeless guy. He quickly realizes he's mistaken, and shows you to a table. It appears to be a slow night, but you're wanting a little solitude anyway. He brings you a Heineken and a basket of bread and olive oil. Thirty minutes later you have finished your salad and ravioli, and he is leaving your check on the table. You pay, and head back out onto the street.

It's well past sunset, but the weather is still quite nice. You walk and think about Nina and what's been happening between you two. If she's right there is no plan you can come up with to keep you completely safe with her, or with any woman. There isn't much information yet about the rate of changes, or whether they are still occurring or have leveled off. But if women are this aggressive and sexually charged, the safest place for a man is with a woman who loves him. That way, at least she might protect him from other predatory women.

It's hard to wrap your head around the idea of being an adult man... vulnerable to women, and needing another woman to protect you from them. Barricading yourself in a log cabin with a shotgun sure doesn't sound like a good alternative though. You think about getting in shape: exercise with weights or something, so you have a better chance to defend yourself if you get attacked again. Maybe learn to fight. But while that certainly makes sense, the reality is: even that small, unassuming girl at the book store, at less than three quarters of your weight, had more physical strength than you imagined you could achieve after years of weight lifting. On top of that, she had faster-than-normal reflexes and speed, and other advantages you probably aren't even aware of.

Nina said something vague about "perceptual abilities". You need to have a talk with her and find out exactly what she meant by that. And then of course: intelligence. They say up to 15 IQ points, but when you think about Nina and the things she's capable of now, it sure seems like she's had a much bigger boost! Try to come up with a way to counter that! It's not like you can give yourself a "brain boost" injection.

You look up, and realize you have been so lost in thought, you walked much too far.

Checking out the buildings around you, you see you're in a bad part of town. You turn around and start back the way you came, picking up the pace. You're getting a little nervous, thinking about the fact that you don't have the revolver with you. There are broken-down cars in the streets, and trash on the sidewalks. People are leaning up against graffiti covered brick walls, smoking god-knows-what, drinking out of bags, a pair of crazy guys in the middle of the street, yelling gibberish at each other. When you pass by alleyways, you notice there seems to be a lot of activity in them. Maybe people shooting up, fucking, getting rolled or whatever. You really don't want to know.

After four or five blocks, the scenery changes a little, and begins looking less threatening. You are now only about 10 blocks from the hotel. Another four blocks and you can see the "Jimmy B's" red neon sign. You check your phone. It's only 8:30 pm. Still plenty of time to get a game or two in and have a beer.

You walk through the door and look around. It's a lot busier now, with couples sitting in booths, some guys playing pool, and most of the bar stools occupied. You step in, and up to the bar. You catch the bartender's attention and say "Dos Equis please." He pulls it from the tap. Leaving 7 bucks on the counter, you take the beer.

Turning back around, you see that many of the patrons are white collar types from nearby office buildings like yours. But there are also grittier looking people. Locals from nearby apartments and older housing in downtown residential pockets. A layer of white smoke hovers just under the overhead lights. You notice a young guy in a dress shirt and slacks racking up balls on one of the tables, who doesn't seem to have a partner. He's turned his necktie around so it hangs down his back, and doesn't interfere with his stick work. You walk over, catch his eye and ask, "Looking for a game?"

His name is Ben. You buy him a round of what he is drinking, and he agrees to play. To make it interesting, you both decide to play 3 games at ten dollars a game. He looks to be early twenties, and works across the street at Price-Waterhouse as an accountant. He asks you about your black eye, and you tell him you got elbowed during a touch football game. That sounds more convincing than the tub spout story. You tell him your name and where you work. He wins the first game, but by the end of it, your hand-eye coordination is coming back.

You're finishing up the second game well ahead, when you notice that a woman at the bar, maybe mid or late thirties, has swiveled her stool around, and is watching you play. She has short reddish hair, some facial piercings and a lot of tattoos, especially on her left arm, which is fully sleeved. She is drinking what looks like a rum and coke, and smoking filtered Marlboros. She sits at the stool leaning back against the bar with her elbows on the counter, and crossed legs. She is wearing tan sandals with straps going up the ankle, a short olive print skirt, and a white ribbed tank top. She wears no bra and her nipples poke out through the thin cloth. Her limbs are bare and suntanned. She has a slender but shapely figure with, like most women these days, noticeable muscularity.

As you round the table lining up your final shot, she locks eyes with you, while blowing smoke to the ceiling. Her eyes are dark, with heavy mascara. She says "I wanna play the winner of game 3."

Ben turns around and gives her a look, seeing that you guys have an audience. He winks at her, saying "Then I better win!"

When he turns back to you, his back now to her, he mugs and bites his knuckle for your benefit, basically saying "Damn, she's hot!"

You can see her silently laugh, and roll her eyes, as if she knows exactly what he just did, even though all she saw was his back.

Your last shot cinches it: you win and begin the final game. This woman is making you nervous, and while you feel you won't have any trouble winning it, you're considering throwing the game so Ben can play her, and you can exit quietly. But then you ask yourself "What am I thinking?" If this new world makes you such a nervous nellie that you have to walk on eggshells around every woman or girl you meet, and run away from them whenever they get near, your identity as a man isn't worth much.

She turns back to the bar for a couple minutes to order another drink. While she waits for it, she opens a clamshell mirror from her purse and freshens up her deep purple lipstick. She pulls another white cigarette from the pack and lights it with a polished gold Zippo, then swivels back around to face the tables.

Ben plays badly on the last game. He's young, and so wants to impress this hot cougar and get some time with her, that his hands are not as steady as they were on the first two games. Some men must not fully realize how dangerous women can be these days. Or maybe just the young dumb ones don't. She continues to watch, smoking and drinking with a confident, disinterested smile. She crosses and uncrosses her smooth, tanned legs, which is distracting. It's probably moist down there. Now, as the game draws near the end, with you up by 23 points, you're thinking you made the wrong decision by not throwing it. Nice to be a man who doesn't flinch in the face of danger... but better to remain a living one. Maybe you can still fuck it up.

She watches you now with a constant, half-lidded gaze, blowing smoke in your direction as she locks her eyes on you.

Ben is looking dejected. You're actually starting to pull for him. You deliberately screw up a shot, though you're too far ahead to lose plausibly, so there was no logical reason to do it. Ben sinks a good shot but misses the next one, leaving you with a set up on the 8 ball that a 10 year old child could make. It's the last shot. You sigh, bend down, and test your cue travel. Glancing up, you see the woman biting her lower lip as she stares at the table. The fingers of one hand are pressed between her crossed thighs. You call it and sink the 8 ball in a corner pocket.

Ben says "Damn, bro! Nice game." He fishes in his wallet for a twenty, hands it to you, and shakes your hand.

"Thanks, good game." You say, as you pocket the bill.

The woman slides off her stool, accepts the cue stick from Ben, and steps up to greet you, tattooed hand extended, with square-tipped, French manicured nails, and several jangly gold hoop bracelets around her wrist. You take her hand. Her eyes fix onto yours as she says "Kerren. With two R's and two E's. Pleasure to meet you Brian."

Her handshake is very feminine and graceful. Her fingers are warm and dry. You can see a few pierced studs below one eyebrow, a small nose-ring, and she appears to have a tongue-stud. Her stick is point-down on the floor between you. She leans toward you, resting her chin on the rounded handle, staring into your eyes. Her nostrils flare as she draws in breath. You feel suddenly naked.

"One game. One hundred dollars."

Ben, next to you, whistles, impressed at the stakes, and her confidence. "She's calling you out bro!"

You bite your lip, look down at the floor, then back up. You don't feel like you have much of a choice. "I accept."

Ben says he has to get home before his girlfriend sends out a search party. He wishes you luck. As he walks out, he turns his head to check out Kerren's ass in that tight skirt. You check your watch. It's past 11. Later than you thought. Since it's mid-week, the bar is only about a quarter full, with some folks looking like they might be leaving soon.

You rack up the balls for her and set the rack aside. She bends down to the felt, giving you an eyeful of candy right down her shirt. She breaks with great speed and power, actually sinking two balls on the break. She makes another couple shots but then misses an easy one. You survey the table and choose your shot, walking around to her side. She backs away to give you clearance. You pull your stick back, and feel it hit something soft. You turn your head and see that she has positioned herself so your stick handle slid right between her legs, just below her skirt, which she had apparently hiked up to just below her crotch.

She smiles coyly. "Oh... sorry." Backing away, she walks to her purse at the bar to get a cigarette.

Oh god. she's flirting... outrageously. This is not going to end well. You resume your shot and sink one ball.

"Nice." She says, as she lights up and takes a big drag, blowing it out sideways.

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You make another successful shot, and another. The next one you blow, but you're now ahead a bit on score.

Kerren dangles the cigarette between her lips, and bends to her shot, which she sinks beautifully, hitting it so hard she nearly takes a chip off the ball. She says, "That shiner. Touch football, huh?"

How did she know that? She must have overheard your whole conversation with Ben from the start. "Yeah. You don't believe me?"

She blows smoke out hard, laughing quietly, while inspecting her nails. She walks around to your side of the table, presses her long-nailed hand against your chest, and looks up into your eyes. "I think it's more likely that you're just not a good... listener." She over-enunciates the last word.

That tease felt vaguely threatening. You catch your breath and move out of her way. You realize you are in way over your head. She continues looking at you, and smiles slyly, placing the cigarette back between her lips. She bends back down to sink two balls with a clever, skillful stroke.

She then runs the table for the rest of the game, calling every shot exactly where she places it, moving from shot to shot with almost no time needed to evaluate the table between each one. Her cigarette never leaves her lips. Her virtuosity is obvious. You realize she screwed up that one shot intentionally. The final score has her ahead by over 80 points: a complete route. You've been played.

You run your fingers through your hair, sigh, and look around. Only four people left in the bar besides you two. You are the only pool players.

You pull out your wallet and sit on the edge of the table. "Well... that was quick." You sigh and start counting tens and twenties.

She walks up very close and puts her hand over your wallet. "Not so fast cutie. Let me buy you a round. It's the least I can do after... utterly humiliating you." She laughs. "What'll you have?"

You shift on the edge of the table, nervously. Okay... thanks. Just a beer."

She walks to the bar and orders. She looks over her shoulder at you. Pulls out another cigarette while she waits and lights it.

She returns with your beer, and four tequila shots on a little tray.

"Oh... thanks, I'll just have the beer."

"Nonsense." She blows out some smoke. "We'll drink to the beautiful evening."

She hands you a shot, clinks your glass with hers and throws it back. You do the same. She sits next to you on the table, putting a hand on your thigh. "So, why's a guy like you out on the town tonight? Looking for something?"

"No, just bored I guess. I was going to head back..."

"To your hotel room?" She cuts you off. "Cause you're clearly staying at a hotel tonight. Brand new casual clothes, and shoes you just bought today... the obvious tourist mannerisms of someone who's... not from around here."

"Look Kerren... I'm married."

She reaches up and combs her fingers through your hair, tugging a little at it. "I don't think so."

Her other hand moves up your thigh a little. "You want to see a trick?" She puts her cigarette between her lips, then places one hand on your chest, and moves the other from your thigh to your crotch. You notice her nipples thicken under her white shirt

"Umm..." You start to protest. Your cock lurches under her touch.

She stares into your eyes and says "Radisson?" She pauses. "Hilton?" She pauses again, longer. "Marriott? Pause. "Hilton it is. You want to know how I did that?" She pulls her hand from your chest, but still holds onto your crotch, giving it a little squeeze. Your dick is now rock hard.

"But I'm not staying at the Hilton."

"Please..." She reaches into your breast pocket, pulls out your Hilton key card, shows it to you, then tosses it onto the table. "Maybe you don't like girls. But your cock certainly does. In fact... I think it likes me in particular... very much."

You cough nervously.

She blows a cloud of smoke out. "It's your heart rate. I knew your heart would beat faster when I guessed right. Never fails."

"Then why is your other hand... on my junk?"

She leans in and sneers. "Because I want it there."

She squeezes your balls... hard. You wince. As she continues to squeeze, you begin to sweat, and wipe your upper lip.

"You understand now... that I'm in control."

You nod your head, teeth gritted, looking down uncomfortably.

She eases off on the pressure. "Good. I thought you might. From the moment I saw your... football injury... I knew you were a man who would understand me. Now, look at me boy." She grabs your chin and turns your face, forcing you to meet her dark eyes.

"You're going to sit here while I get my purse. Understand?" She raises her eyebrows. You nod.

She releases your balls, slides off the table, and walks to the bar to collect her things. She doesn't bother looking back at you this time. You wipe some sweat off your face with the sleeves of your shirt. You could try to run, but your will is weak, and you don't think you'd have much chance of success. You're thinking that you could maybe even... like this. She's a very beautiful, sexy woman. But the control she holds over you is scary. You feel like a mouse trapped in a corner, being batted around by a cat.

She returns, having paid her tab and grabbed her stuff. She catches your attention, then snaps her fingers and points at the floor. You slide off the table. She hands you your second tequila shot and picks up hers. She clinks your glass and leans into you, brushing your arm with a hard nipple. She pulls your neck down and bites your earlobe gently. "To your cock." She says softly in your ear, then throws back the shot, slamming the glass down hard on the pool table. You throw yours back, with less vigor. She picks up your Hilton key card, still laying on the felt table, dropping it into her purse. She says, "Offer your arm."

You hesitate for a moment, but then understand. Your elbow goes up. She slips her hand through, and you both walk through the door, turning down the street toward the Hilton. As you walk, she talks.

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