Rev Me Twice (2 page)

She sent Tomas air kisses with lots of eye contact the
audience would think was meant for them and feigned a struggle to open her bra
clasp. When she tugged the front of her bra, it slipped down a little further,
exposing more flesh.

Tomas had gone off to sea after graduation from the academy
while she’d finished school and interviewed for this stripping weathergirl job.
When he returned, he was stationed in Washington, DC, where she worked. It was
kismet they’d been relocated to the same area. When they reunited it was like
they’d never been apart. Since then, their sexual and emotional connections had
grown stronger than ever. The two were like pizza and pepperoni. Salt and
pepper. Tortillas and salsa.

So why didn’t she mind sharing him?

Crystal wasn’t like women who were protective of their mates
and jealous of another’s admiration. Perhaps because non-exclusivity was her
idea—one Tomas practiced only while in her company. And maybe she was more
secure in her sexuality and her wide appeal than others. Indulgent of her
oversexed, relentless urges. Orgasm came to her quickly and easily and she
sought releases on a regular basis.

She worried she’d wear Tomas out with her strong needs and
frequent demands. During their first night together she’d nearly fucked him
into a coma. The scratches she’d made on his scalp, neck and back had made him
look like an accident victim. Wouldn’t you know that happened the night before
his graduation ceremony and celebratory dinner with his
mother
?

Still, he’d come back to her without complaint, even after
she’d surprised him with the news she had regular sex with both male and female
strippers at the
Tongue and Cheek.

Maybe he’d secretly been relieved to take an occasional
break while she partied with her other friends.

Tomas had participated in her ménages and sex parties since
then, but she understood from the beginning his heart wasn’t in it. He did it
for her. Though he sometimes joined in, mostly he watched. Tomas was much too
conventional to initiate that type of lifestyle. He was more comfortable
watching strippers from a distance, drinking a little and gambling with the
guys. Without her, Tomas was a straight arrow.

The kinky sex was her thing.

Slowly,
oh so slowly
, Crystal released the bra clasp
and let the cups drift open to expose the breasts consumers paid exorbitant
subscription fees to see. When she tossed away the bra, wearing nothing but her
tiny thong, there was a collective murmur of approval in the studio that
continued for several seconds.

Her boyishly handsome makeup artist, Gunther, a notorious
womanizer who occasionally visited her bed, had expertly sprayed the length of
her body with nude foundation and had colored her nipples a bright dusky coral
for tonight’s performance. Crystal noted the special care Gunther took to pinch
and pull her tender nipples until they were swollen and taut before applying
tint in the makeup room.

Gunther did love his job.

The variety of colors used to paint Crystal’s nipples was
the hallmark of her weathergirl stint. On occasion Gunther went all out and
painted her breasts and torso like an abstract painting or realistic landscape.
Sometimes he added clip-on nipple rings, hardware and studded leather. These
were the gimmicks used to ensure continued customer interest in watching the
show. Every night her body was wrapped like a surprise package.

Tomas’ eyes never wavered from Crystal’s form as she
continued her segment. She sent him a wink, and then ran her hands over her
flesh and half closed her eyes while she stared into the camera. “Thanks for
joining me tonight,” she murmured to her viewers. Sal kept the camera focused
on the length of her body and then moved in for a closer shot of her face and
torso. She blew a kiss to her audience. “I wish you sunny skies.”

After the show ended, Crystal slipped on the robe Sandra, a
production assistant, provided and tied the sash while she made her way to her
dressing room.

Inside her private quarters, painted a soothing peach, her
daily stack of fan mail, a chilled bottle of water and a small bowl of fresh
fruit waited on an antique bureau. Her mirrored vanity table and bench sat in
the center of the room. In the corner nearest the door stood a mahogany
wardrobe stocked with her specially made breakaway costumes and street clothes.
A plump visitor’s chair and a compact daybed filled the far side. A tiny
bathroom with shower stall completed the modest, windowless space.

Crystal appreciated WCNT’s generosity in providing a room of
her own. In many studios and theatres, actors were forced to share. Private
space was a symbol of her importance to the show—and a privilege she never took
for granted. Still, Crystal dreamed of the day she’d be assigned bigger and
better quarters inside a major television station. When that time came, she’d
never have to strip again to earn a living.

She took her snack and the mail to her vanity table, sipped
her bottled water and ate a sliced apple like she did every night to unwind
after a show, and then flipped through the pile of envelopes. The letters
looked like standard fare—viewers requesting autographed pictures, journalists
seeking interviews, men asking for dates and women telling her how they thought
she should do her job. Crystal sorted the correspondence into two piles.
Trash.
Reply.

It was the letter at the bottom of the heap that got her heart
pumping double time as she pulled it free from the others. She nibbled the
corner of her mouth and noted her trembling hand as it clutched the white
paper. The crude printing on the front of the envelope in block letters looked
the same as those on four other letters she’d received since she started at
WCNT six months ago.

Someone wanted her hurt, or dead, and she didn’t know why.

She shoved the message, unread, into her vanity table drawer
with the others, trying to think what to do. Although she’d originally
dismissed the notes as the work of a crank, the deepening hostility had changed
her thinking. Whoever this person was seemed determined to scare her. She’d
have to stop procrastinating and take action.

Soon.

Crystal had avoided showing the letters to Tomas or her
producer for the simple reason that she didn’t want to rock the boat. She’d
found a good job that had gained her celebrity and she’d maintained the first
stable, albeit unconventional, relationship of her life. Things were going
great and she didn’t want some nutcase messing things up.

There were a hundred women standing in line to take her job.
A thousand. She didn’t want to create prickly problems for her employer. Beside
that, she had always ignored what she didn’t want to see. Why should this
situation be different?

Yet ignoring the threats hadn’t made them go away. They’d
merely escalated.

Gazing down at the closed drawer where the malignant letters
lay, Crystal knew deep inside her soul that she couldn’t avoid these threats
any longer. A cold sweat broke over her skin. What if her refusal to act turned
out to be lethal?

She couldn’t delude herself anymore that the letters were a
hoax.

Her fingers traced the drawer holding the unopened envelope,
curiosity drawing her to it like a hypnotic drug. If she gave the letter to
Tomas, he’d know what to do. He was with the Military Police, who worked
cooperatively with local police districts in matters affecting military
personnel and their families. His brother, Antonio, worked for the FBI. They
would guide and protect her.

Shouldn’t she trust her lover’s experience and judgment? She
trusted Tomas with her body and her fantasies. Why not go to him for help with
this?

With a decisive pull on the drawer handle, she retrieved the
letter and sliced it open with her fruit knife. Her fingers shook as she opened
the page, written in black ink on plain white copy paper like the others. The
simple words jumped out at her.

You like it rough? You don’t know what that means yet,
bitch. I’ll make you suffer.

A cold patina of sweat broke out over her skin until she
became weak and lightheaded. An iron fist of fear squeezed her lungs until she
could hardly breathe. She doubled over in her chair and held her sides,
fighting for control. The letter and envelope dropped to the floor and
skittered under the table near her feet.

While she struggled to regulate her breathing, she’d missed
the sounds of Tomas entering her dressing room. Always considerate of her
needs, he’d waited fifteen minutes for her to finish her break before joining
her after the show. On a typical night he’d hang out while she showered off her
makeup, they’d make love on the daybed and then go out to dinner. Sometimes he
brought takeout and showered with her.

She turned and looked up at Tomas, who held bags of Chinese
food in his hands in the open doorway, and watched the smile slide from his
face. “What’s wrong?” He rushed into the room and dropped the parcels on the
bureau. “Are you sick? You look pale as a ghost.” He went to her side and
pressed his hand to her forehead as if checking for a fever, concern etched on
his features.

Crystal shook her head and took a series of shallow breaths.
“Not sick. Just give me a minute.” The trembling that had overtaken her
subsided after Tomas pulled her into his arms and held her. He smelled like
cool evening air, fresh citrus and body musk all rolled into one. Tomas was all
male, but no one could calm and soothe her like he did.

He kissed the crown of her hair, bought his mouth to her
perspired temple and ran his hand down the length of her back, caressing her
spine. He whispered in her ear. “I’ve never seen you like this. What’s
happened,
mi amor
?”

The solid feel of his chest and arms blanketing her eased
some of her fear. Tomas had been there for her since the first day they’d met.
He was her rock and her hero, though she’d never let on that she cared so much.

Vulnerability was a dangerous state in which she dared not
fall. She’d watched her mother love and lose dozens of men who’d treated her
like a doormat while they came and went.

They came and came, all right, making frightening guttural
noises through the thin walls of her tiny house, while Crystal pressed her
hands to her ears beside her sister Dottie in their double bed. The next day,
the next week or the following month the men invariably went their own way.
Then her mother would fall into a deep state of depression, swear off men for a
little while and start the cycle over again.

Crystal cringed. She would never risk her heart to a man.
She’d clearly inherited her mother’s sex drive, but staying in charge of her
relationships was Crystal’s only weapon against repeating her mother’s
mistakes.

But this situation was different and out of her control. She
had to trust someone. Who better to help her than Tomas? He would know what to
do.

“Talk to me, sweetheart. Tell me what’s wrong.” Tomas said.

Her jitters subsided enough to disentangle from his embrace
and reach down to retrieve the letter from its hiding spot near her feet. She
handed the note over without a word and watched Tomas while his eyes scanned
the print.

He looked up slowly and made deep eye contact, his dark
brown eyes glittering with outrage. A steady throb pulsed in his jaw and his
nostrils flared. He said through his teeth, “I’d like to kill the bastard that
wrote this.”

They both knew Mr. Law Enforcement wouldn’t go rogue, though
Tomas wasn’t adverse to a blood and knuckles arrest when it suited him. Before
Crystal could say so, Tomas laid the letter on the vanity table by the top
corner using only two fingers. “Do you have a clean plastic bag?”

Crystal nodded and went to the bureau where she kept odd
junk, an old sewing kit and random storage containers for makeup and hair
supplies. There she retrieved a box of gallon-size food storage bags and
brought them to Tomas.

He pulled a bag from the box and dropped the letter inside.
“Where’s the envelope? Don’t touch it, just point.”

Crystal extended her index finger, indicating the floor
beneath the vanity. Tomas picked up a pair of tweezers from her tabletop and
used them to retrieve the legal-size envelope. He dropped it inside the bag
with the letter.

“What will you do with those?” Crystal asked. “I don’t want
the police! The paparazzi will find out and make my life miserable.”

Tomas frowned and shook his head. “People who write letters
are usually cowards. This threat might be nothing, but we can’t take that
chance. The authorities should be notified.” She recognized the look of
determination on his face that meant he wouldn’t budge. Tomas could be as
immovable as a concrete slab once he’d made a decision.

When he met her gaze with a flat, stony expression, Crystal
sighed and decided it was best to tell him everything. “There’s more than one.”

“What?” His head jerked with the question.

Crystal opened the center drawer on her vanity table to
reveal the small stack of malicious letters she had saved.

Tomas blanched at the sight of the mail. His horrified look
turned accusatory. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

The truth was, she had ignored them in the beginning. The
first letter had been a rant of derogatory name-calling. Crystal was unfazed by
terms like
slut
,
whore
and
cunt
. She’d been called that,
and worse, by jealous lovers, overly aggressive
Tongue and Cheek
bar
patrons or ex-boyfriends.

“Who else has seen these?”

Crystal shook her head. “No one, I don’t think. Unless a
member of the production staff snooped. Though the room belongs to me, it’s not
uncommon for crewmembers to come in here to borrow something. The door only
locks from the inside.”