, or at a bookstore near you.from Chapter 2
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In a seedy part of town, a door creaked open and a half-drunken spacer staggered through the threshold.“Caw! Look whut the cat dragged in.”
Cyrus McGee shot his brother a sullen, menacing look with the eye that was not swollen shut. Every bruise on his body pulsed in aching unison. His face was puffed, and dried blood caked his scruffy beard. He slammed the hotel room door and hobbled to his bed.
The room was circular and dark, lighted only by the lamp on Mason McGee’s night stand. The ceiling was tiled with grimy mirrors, many of them cracked, some of them missing. Dust covered the floor, and the musty odor of stale sweat filled the air.
Mason was determined not to laugh, no matter how pathetic his brother looked. Cyrus had warned him, in his most patronizing big brother tones, not to leave the hotel alone. Big brother deserved to come back with his face as raw as hamburger. But he knew from painful experience that, once aroused, Cyrus’ mean streak lingered for hours. Mason was not about to snicker his way into a fight. He reached into the provisions bag for some ointment to give his brother.
Cyrus snatched the ointment tubes without a word. He sat quietly on his bed and began tending his wounds. Hatred still raged in his heart. He would talk when he was damn ready, and not one second before.
Mason was about to return to his entertainment tapes when a knock came to the door.
“Room service” called a husky, female voice.
Mason grinned ravenously. “Door’s unlocked,” he howled. Cyrus grunted disagreeably.
A tall, dark woman entered the room and locked the door behind her. She wore form-fitting coveralls and a brightly colored scarf. A generous layer of powder and rouge covered most of the wrinkles on her face. Thirty years old, she looked as tired as Earth, and her eyes were weary and sad. But her deep red lips parted in a lusty smile, and the thick scent of jasmine soon captured the room.
“Sorry bein late, gents,” she shrugged, “but we’re two girls down t’night an runnin way behind.” With a flurry of short, bold strokes she shed her coveralls. Underneath she wore a pink halter top lined with brilliant blue feathers and tight fitting black slacks. Her raven black hair fell in gentle flows across her bare shoulders.
Mason, sitting on his bed and leaning against the cold, concrete wall, drooled like a lovesick schoolboy. No matter how cold and dreary they were, he thought, the hotels on Ishtar knew how to make a man feel welcome.
“What’s with him?” asked the woman, pointing at the miserable heap of flesh on the next bed. Cyrus was shaking his head and mumbling—something about Cozzies and turtle shells—but the other two couldn’t quite make it out.
Mason dismissed it with a wave of his hand. “Don’t never mind him,” he told her. “He’ll be all right by the time you leave. Just a hard night is all.” The two of them laughed.
“I’m sure he’ll come around when it’s his turn,” she leered.
Slowly, teasingly, she walked toward Mason, her eyes fixed on his dimpled cheeks and smooth, whiskerless face, her long fingers dancing along the feathered fringe of her top. The younger McGee swung his legs onto the bed and eased his head onto the pillow.
In his corner of the room, Cyrus grudgingly admitted defeat. Nothing would stop his face from aching, he told himself. Nothing but time. The lizards’ turn would come, soon enough; there was no sense wasting the present fretting about the past. He picked up a stool and moved to the center of the room, where the view was better.
My day will come again, he thought to himself. And revenge was sweetest when savored through the bitterness of anticipation. Soon, he was dismissing such thoughts from his head. He could use some cheering up, and their hostess was starting to undress.
© 2009 by Jeffrey Caminsky
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