The Skunge (18 page)

Sugar looked on from above, watching like a camera in the sky, seeing a grown woman running out of a hospital room. Sprinting down the hall, screaming past the big front desk, out the cold glass doors. She hadn't stopped to say goodbye. She ran and ran but returned here, like a rat in a maze full of traps.

"No," she said. "I can't fight you." Her body shook. She wanted to puke.

Maas approached, hectic red patches in his cheeks, eyes glittering. "That's good, Sugar. You don't want to…batter your head with mine. Not in my house." His hand slid around the back of her neck, squeezing, but gently. "If you let me, I will take care of you. Isn't that what you want?"

She kept her head down. Her hair hung in her face, brushing against the heat of her cheeks. "I don't know what I want."

His hand stayed where it was. "There's a party tonight. I want you to be there. With me."

"I don't think I'm up for a party, I—"

His hand tightened a moment, foreshadowing the pressure he could bring to bear. It reached the point of pain, then stopped. She made a tiny noise, and she saw his smile out of the corner of her eye.

"Be here at the main house at eight. Wear something nice."

He left, closing the door gently behind him. Her mother's smell was gone, subsumed in his wake.

CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

The party was boring until the guy with a hook for a hand started dancing.

Except for the steel hook, he looked like a urban cowboy gone to seed; good-looking in a heavy, cruel way, dark-haired and broad through the chest and shoulders. He had shown up with a cadre of college girls. They seemed to be there more for a laugh than anything else, but the suitcase-pimps, the small-timers, the crooks, and the come-on guys circled them like a school of polyester-blend sharks.

"Keep an eye on them, will you?" Maas said to Arneson, nodding toward the brightly-colored knot of girls. "Make sure none of them get separated from the herd. The last thing I need is someone's Daddy showing up tomorrow with a shotgun and a case of the twitchy-finger."

Arneson grunted into his drink, eyes scanning the room.

"So you really are a bouncer," Sugar said. She had dressed for the party, and Arneson kept his gaze averted. "I knew it."

Maas raised his eyebrows. "I didn't know you two knew each other."

Sugar quickly threaded her arm through Maas', and gave him a bump with her hip. "We met the first night I got here, but I don't think we've run into each other since then, have we, Mr. Bouncer?"

"Can't say we have." Arneson saw Sonch enter the room, face flushed with liquor, eyes sparkling with coke.

"Ah." Maas' face was inscrutable. Sugar waved to a girl across the room. Another girl from the skin-trade, based on her gravity-defying hemline, plumped lips, and pneumatic breasts. Maas nudged Arneson. "Look at that one. If you want, I'll get her for you."

The DJ—a local college kid who mashed up top-40 hits against classic rock songs of all things (Arneson wondered idly if that was why Maas had hired him)—had been subtly upping the volume all night. Too gradually to notice the difference, but suddenly it was too loud to talk.

The hook-handed guy tipped back the last of his drink, tried to replace it on a table and missed. It crashed to the floor, but he had already grabbed one of the college girls and begun swinging her enthusiastically around the dancing area. His cowboy boots scored swooping black marks on the tiles. The song thumped along as he swept one of the girls into a messy two-step that galloped around the room, slamming into other dancing couples. Some laughed, others cursed them. A couple of guys growled and mad-dogged him, but most were too happy and wasted to care. The college girl giggled as her friends clapped and cheered.

It happened when the guy's old-school scissoring two-prong hook got caught in the girl's top. During a particularly enthusiastic spin move, the girl's shirt was ripped away, exposing an impressive pair of college-age tits that shivered and bounced in the delirious glow of the DJ booth lights. The crowd shouted its approval, and wolf-whistles popped like corn around the room. The girl screeched and turned bright, shocking red. Hook-hand hooted with glee, and tried to grab at one rosy pink nipple with the gleaming steel of his amputated hand. The DJ, oblivious, segued into a slow-dance, something made for lovers.

The whole floor was pointing and laughing, and the girl's eyes glinted with tears. Arneson was getting ready to step forward to intervene, when Sugar strolled out onto the floor.

Hook-hand made another grab for the girl's tit. She cried out miserably and tried to bat him away.

"Aw, don't be that way, baby," he said, grinning his wolf-like grin. He plucked at the waist of her jeans with his other hand, while clicking the two halves of his hook together near her nipple.

Sugar strolled up behind him, shook her head, and casually hoicked one booted foot up into his balls. The impact lifted him onto his toes—some onlookers later swore they actually saw him leave the floor by an inch. The crowd voiced a wincing but appreciative
ooh
, and Hook-Hand thudded to his knees. He teetered there, then tipped on his side, landing with a grunt. His hat fell off his head and tumbled away, as if embarrassed.

After a few moments, he groaned and raised his head. The crowd laughed. From the expression on his face, he didn't much care for that. He groaned to his knees to face the author of his misery.

"That's what you get, asshole," Sugar said. She stood relaxed, arms crossed, like she was waiting for a bus. "Show some respect."

"I'll show you the bottom of my boot, you little whore," he said. He grimaced, struggling to his feet. Arneson stepped forward, but Maas laid a hand across Arneson's chest. Arneson looked at him wonderingly. What was Maas playing at? Christ knew the guy got off on voyeurism, but this was—

Hook-hand launched himself at Sugar, the steel hook flashing out in a cruel swipe. He was faster than Arneson expected. Sugar reared back, off balance, and the hook whistled through the air inches from her face. But he was ready; he anticipated which way she would move, and pivoted at the last second to lunge after her. Arneson's gut tightened at what was coming. Hook-hand had her; he was fast, he was mean, and he was
angry
. Arneson's palms itched to enter the fight.

Just before he rammed into her, Sugar dropped low to the ground, one leg stretched out to the side and the other bent parallel to the ground. She rammed the flat of her palm out and up, right into his balls. This time the
ooh
from the crowd was loud enough to make the DJ look up and stop the music. Blessed quiet fell like a sheet over the room, broken only by Hook-hand's agonized whine.

"Trick-ass bitch," he coughed, both hands clutching at his balls. "I'm going to fucking kill—"

He stopped speaking abruptly as Sugar's fist crunched into his face. Blood splattered like she had crushed a tomato in her fist.

"Damn!" A dark-skinned college girl said. She was dressed in so little she was nearly falling out of her clothes and so drunk she weaved on her feet like a fighter about to hit the canvas. "You got slapped
down
, Marko baby!" More people laughed as Marko glowered at her. But when Sugar stepped toward him, hands raised in a boxing stance, he scuttled away on his hands, ass dragging on the floor.

"I ain't looking for trouble, know what I'm sayin'?" he said. He got to his feet, hunched over like a sick dog, and turned to the college girls. "C'mon, let's bounce. This party was bullshit, anyway." When they didn't budge, he actually stomped his foot, grimacing at the pain. "Really?
Really
? I give you hoors all the coke you can snort up your nose-jobbed beaks,
and
enough Fiero Rose to drown an elephant, and now you're going to
ditch
me? That's bullshit, man!"

The college girls grinned shamefacedly at each other, but made no move to follow Marko. A black-haired girl leaned over to whisper in her friend's ear, and they burst out laughing. Marko's face flushed brick-red, and he opened his mouth. Then Sugar cleared her throat, and he closed it with a snap. No one moved, and the moment held.

"OK. You. Out you go." Maas waved his hand dismissively at Marko. Marko, walking backwards, glared at Sugar, ostentatiously straightening his hat and shirt. Maas frowned and turned to Sugar. "And you," he said. "You can leave too. This kind of trouble I don't need. Go to bed."

She smiled at him. "Oh I'm sorry, was that not very ladylike? Would you prefer I just bow and curtsy?" Some of the people in the crowd chuckled, and Maas flushed.

Maas almost growled. "Fine. Stay, then. But try not to beat up anymore party guests,
ja
?" He grabbed a drink from a tray and stalked off, scratching at the back of his neck.

Arneson moved to follow Marko, and passed Sugar on his way. He caught her eye and sketched her a little salute. She returned it, along with a crooked smile.

In the corner, Maas took Sonch by the arm and spoke rapidly into his ear. As Sonch listened, a slow and poisonous smile spread across his face.

CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

Sugar flopped onto the bed, kicking off her boots. She stretched luxuriously; the bed was monstrous, almost the size of her entire place back in LA. Her head spun. She'd only had one drink, but it felt like she'd been partying for hours.

Maas had given her use of a large
casita
with a big-screen TV, an enormous shower, and an outdoor hot-tub. The whole place smelled like Chai soap; she wondered how he kept it like that. Her head flopped to one side, meeting the glass eye of a camera in the top corner over the door. She scowled at the lens, then rolled off the bed and headed for the bathroom. The carpet was almost deep enough to swim in, and she swished her feet through it.

The bathroom floor was heated limestone. Maas had bragged to her about the expense of adding the feature—at the time she rolled her eyes at his macho bullshit, but now she was in heaven.

She pressed a glowing button on the jacuzzi-tub and it burbled to life. She lit a joss stick and stripped naked, humming under her breath. Something whirred behind her, and she spun, heart pounding. It was just the hum of the corner camera as it adjusted. She had no doubt Maas recorded everything; voyeurism was one of his least esoteric fetishes. She sat on the toilet, ignoring the camera as she pinned up her hair.

Just before she stepped into the tub, she heard the
casita
door open. She was sure she had locked it—years spent in LA had burnt that habit into her brain. The smell of cheap aftershave wafted into the bathroom, jarring against the scent of the bath salts. The tub bubbled contentedly as she peered around the corner.

A blond guy with a wiry frame and a droopy mustache sat on the bed. His mud-caked boots hung an inch off the floor, dropping curds of dried black soil into the deep pile of the carpet. He smoked a joint hungrily, ashes speckling the comforter.

"Excuse me," she said, striding into the room. The man's head came around, but with no surprise. He had known she was there. An interesting fact Sugar filed away for later. "Would you mind getting the fuck out of here?" Sugar said.

The man grinned at her, exposing teeth better left hidden. He took a hit off the spliff, and offered it to her with raised eyebrows. He spoke in a pinched voice, holding in the smoke. "'Scuse you is right. My name's Sonch." When she didn't take the joint, he shrugged and took another hit.

"So?" She stepped between the beds, edging toward her purse where it lay open on a dresser. She could see her bright pink canister pepper spray peeking out. Five steps would get her there. Sonch made no move to stop her. The smell of liquor hung around him in a cloud, warring with the pot smoke.

"So, I seen you around, and I thought to myself mm-
mmm
ain't that a fine little piece of peach. Sure would like me a bite of
that
."

"If you're that hungry, call for a pizza."

"Funny. But I'm only hungry for pussy." He smiled lazily, like a satisfied cat.

"Well, asshole, I'm not on the menu." Two more steps to her purse.

He raised his hands in a conciliatory manner and rose off the bed. His shirt, an ultra-loud Hawaiian number, hung open, exposing his graffitoed, hairless chest. She could smell his sweat, low and mean under the cologne. "Okay, Okay, easy now, girl. I can see you're not in the mood for guests." Sonch snorted through his nose and shook his head. "You want to deny yourself of all this," he cupped his crotch, "that's fine by me." He moved to sidle past her, arms raised, exposing the idiot intaglios of crudely-drawn jail tattoos and misspelled vulgarities. "Here, you can finish my jay." He dropped his joint to the carpet, where it began to brown a spot in the shag. She sighed and bent to pick it up.

Sonch dropped on her like a blanket. His simian arms wrapped around her, squeezing the breath from her lungs. His grip was as strong as steel cable. His hands were everywhere at once, and the harder she struggled, the tighter his grip became.