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From: Andrew Roller <roller39@IDT.NET>
Subject: Labors of Love part 10 of 10 (NND)
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_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/
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.
“She’s gone,” 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.
“No, impossible!” the higher part of Chip’s brain replied.
“She’s in the toilet!”
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 didn’t know and
didn’t care about, for pay, as the Italian Stallion.
“Where’s Ginger?” 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 florist’s 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.
“Chip,” Kimber said gently. “I’m as sorry to see them go as
you are.”
Chip stabbed the slice of ham on his plate. A maid hovered
nearby, a girl from a trailer park in her 20’s, not pretty enough to
sell herself but compliant enough to work as a maid.
“Damn!” 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.
“Don’t think I’m going to stay here if she’s not here,” Chip
warned.
“You may go or come as you please. As they may,” Kimber
answered.
“Did you see them go?” Chip asked. He eyed her accusingly.
“I would not say,” Kimber replied. Even a mistress of a
bordello had her values. It was, in the end, no business of Chip’s if
Ginger wished to leave him. “She liked him better, Chip. Or she simply
preferred someone new. She wasn’t your property, you know, sweet as she
might have been to you.”
“Well... I... !!” Chip stammered. Yes, he mused, he did think
of her as his property, his sweet little pet. He’d 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. “There’s a
price on my head because of that girl,” Chip said in a low, menacing
growl to Kimber.
“Chip, you loved her and she loved you. I can’t control what
the society thinks of that. And I can’t 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.”
“God DAMN you!” 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. He’d lived rent free
and been fed and massaged and catered to, but he’d 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 hadn’t died, or been killed, or
kidnapped. She’d left him because she wanted to, because she fancied
another man.
“Well, then, I’m leaving, since she’s gone,” Chip said to
Kimber.
Kimber nodded. She wanted him to go if she couldn’t 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.
“Bye, bye, Chip,” Kimber said. She didn’t 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 Kimber’s, 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 Kimber’s, 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
----------------------- Dreamgirls! -----------------------
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