Andrew Roller Presents
NAUGHTY NAKED DREAMGIRLS
in 
LABORS OF LOVE

Chapter Ten

         When Chip awoke, she was gone.  At first he thought she was just in the bathroom, as he surveyed their bed.  But even as his eyes glanced across the rumpled sheets, and he looked at the dent in the pillow where she put her head next to his, a chill ran up his spine.  
         ÒSheÕs gone,Ó a small little voice said somewhere from deep within his mind, the unconscious part, the part that broods and knows things that the more logical, evolved parts of the brain dismiss.
         ÒNo, impossible!Ó the higher part of ChipÕs brain replied.  ÒSheÕs in the toilet!Ó
         But when Chip went to the toilet, hurrying, not because he had to go but because he worried that she might not be going, but be gone instead, he found the room was empty.  
         And then he ran, his blood hot, his temples flaring inside his skull and his pulse racing.  And yes, he was gone too.  Rick.  The ex-convict, or whatever he was.  The Interloper.

         Chip was sullen at breakfast.  It was mid-afternoon, but he was just getting up after a long night of fucking women he didnÕt know and didnÕt care about, for pay, as the Italian Stallion.
         ÒWhereÕs Ginger?Ó Chip asked gruffly.  Kimber wafted into the room, settled into a chair across the table from him.  Often she sat next to him but today, eyeing his demeanor, she sat across from him, out of his reach.  There was a vase of fresh roses between them.  A dozen, still dripping moisture from the cool interior of the floristÕs truck.  He made daily deliveries, for the brothel was in the business of sex and, yes, in a primitive way, romance too.  It had to look sharp, and special, and lovely.
         Out back men were hammering on a new addition to the brothel.  It was highly successful now, thanks to Chip, a rare animal that women could come and worship, and Rick, another rarity, a fine young man, dark and ominous with a goatee, that they nonetheless could strip and play with, like a pet, a fine big dog or a bull.  And little Ginger had recently joined the fray, selling herself to a few select men, men Kimber chose for her, and she had brought Kimber wealth as well.
         Yet now they were gone.  
         ÒChip,Ó Kimber said gently.  ÒIÕm as sorry to see them go as you are.Ó
         Chip stabbed the slice of ham on his plate.  A maid hovered nearby, a girl from a trailer park in her 20Õs, not pretty enough to sell herself but compliant enough to work as a maid.
         ÒDamn!Ó Chip roared.  He tried to cut the ham, the knife was unaccountably dull.  He hit a spot of fat and the meat would not cut and he picked the whole plate up and threw it against the wall.  He did not throw it in the direction of Kimber.  Even in anger he was not like that.  But he did throw it against the wall, splattering fat and eggs and juice from the ham upon the wall.  It was a wall newly covered with pretty wallpaper.
         The maid ran, began to pick up the mess from the floor.
         ÒDonÕt think IÕm going to stay here if sheÕs not here,Ó Chip warned.
         ÒYou may go or come as you please.  As they may,Ó Kimber answered.
         ÒDid you see them go?Ó Chip asked.  He eyed her accusingly.
         ÒI would not say,Ó Kimber replied.  Even a mistress of a bordello had her values.  It was, in the end, no business of ChipÕs if Ginger wished to leave him.  ÒShe liked him better, Chip.  Or she simply preferred someone new.  She wasnÕt your property, you know, sweet as she might have been to you.Ó
         ÒWell... I... !!Ó  Chip stammered.  Yes, he mused, he did think of her as his property, his sweet little pet.  HeÕd killed a man for her, after all, and there were very good descriptions of him out on the police wires, for stealing Ginger if not for killing Al.  ÒThereÕs a price on my head because of that girl,Ó Chip said in a low, menacing growl to Kimber.
         ÒChip, you loved her and she loved you.  I canÕt control what the society thinks of that.  And I canÕt control who Ginger prefers, either, from one year to the next in her life.  She loved you.  Very deeply.  She was yours and you were hers.  But she was only 12, and now she loves another.Ó
         ÒGod DAMN you!Ó Chip roared.  He rose up, a huge terrible figure of wrath, like Zeus mounting the thunderclouds, and he lifted the table and toppled it over onto Kimber who, dealing with men on a daily basis, saw what was coming and barely escaped.
         
         An hour later Chip was packed and ready to leave.  Kimber stood by the front door.  He hustled past her, carrying a small bag.  It was all he owned.  He had his clothes in the bag, some money, a box of condoms.  Nothing more.  There was nothing else.  HeÕd lived rent free and been fed and massaged and catered to, but heÕd paid for it by working every night, and so, except for a stack of dollar bills in the bag, he owned nothing else.  His one true prize, Ginger, was now gone.  And the worst of it was that she hadnÕt died, or been killed, or kidnapped.  SheÕd left him because she wanted to, because she fancied another man.
         ÒWell, then, IÕm leaving, since sheÕs gone,Ó Chip said to Kimber.
         Kimber nodded.  She wanted him to go if she couldnÕt trust him to behave.  He was like a shark now, barely controlling his anger, the small breakfast room a mess that the maids were still trying to clean up.
         ÒBye, bye, Chip,Ó Kimber said.  She didnÕt reach out and kiss him even though she might have, for he was still too angry for that.  He awkwardly considered shaking her hand but she was a woman, not a man, and so he turned and walked away.

         Sometimes dead bodies turn up alongside the road in Nevada.  Often they are lovers.  It is whispered, among a few at KimberÕs, that the highway stalker is Chip.  But only they suspect this, and it may be entirely untrue.  Whoever the killer is, he is adept at covering his tracks, and the police have no clues.
         So when the wind whistles out across the desert, and the air chills, they think of Chip at KimberÕs, the few who know, who remember the man, not just the masked stranger, the Italian Stallion.  When they drive along the desert, and the road ahead of them shimmers and becomes a mirage, and the road behind them, and the sand seems to turn to water, far out in the distance, they keep alert.  They carry a gun.  For somewhere, out there, roaming the roads, in a nondescript vehicle, is a man.  Sometimes he drives one sort of car and sometimes another.  Sometimes it is a Camaro and sometimes not.  And he kills people, this man.  And they know too, whether he is the killer or whether he is not, that Chip is out there, somewhere, searching for his Ginger, and they know he is angry.

THE END

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