The Promised Land, Book TwoPart TenSpock took a long time saying his goodbyes. He spent private time with Will, holding him very close, nuzzling his hair, the side of his face. Will felt very warm and relaxed, almost sleepy. He barely noticed when Spock's hand came up and stroked his cheek in a manner that was slightly odd. Next Spock sought out Worf. Formally and respectfully he thanked Worf for his hospitality. Worf accepted this with a regal bow. They understood each other. Spock smiled at Q. He smiled at Jean-Luc. He walked over to the pool house. Christine and Upenda were obviously expecting him. They waited at the door with their arms around each other's waists as Spock approached. When he was about five feet away from them, he stopped still. He gazed at them. They gazed back, solemn and peaceful for several long moments; then Spock spread the fingers of his right hand in a peculiar formation and held it out in front of him. The two women lowered their heads, accepting the gesture as if it were a benediction. That was all that happened; then Spock turned and went back to the house. Christine and Upenda stared after him until he was no longer in sight. Kirk did not say much of anything, but he was oddly restless. "What are you doing?" Jean-Luc trailed behind Kirk as Kirk stalked around the perimeter of the property. "Looking," was all Kirk would say. Jean-Luc had to will himself to trust Kirk and not demand further explanation, but once that decision was made, he felt perfectly at ease. This was Kirk. He would never do anything to hurt them. Q whispered, "Spock says Kirk does that with people he likes. Jim cases their homes, making sure they're safe." He forced a smile. "Data said Chris and Penda had to chase him away because he checked the poolhouse eleven times." Jean-Luc understood what it was to feel responsible for others' well-being. He watched Kirk and said nothing more. In the privacy of their bedroom, Spock gathered Data and Geordi into his arms. "I will never truly leave you. A part of me will be with you always." Spock sounded as if he were he was reassuring himself more than Data and Geordi. "Do you understand?" He held them tightly to his chest, as he'd done with Will. "Never leave you," he whispered. "I will never see you again, will I?" Data sounded as broken as Spock did. Spock pressed a kiss against Data's neck. "I am inside you." The last thing he did was to move all the components of their multidimensional transport enhancer outside. "You all deserve this," he said enigmatically. He and Kirk stood very near the model. Spock pulled out his retrofitted portable computer and played with some of the dials. Their model began to whine. There was a strange sensation, as if the air itself were collapsing. Then there was a flash from the model. It seemed to catch itself on fire and quickly burn out, and, when all their eyes were readjusted to the twilight darkness, Spock and Kirk were gone. No one said anything. They could not believe they had seen it. Jean-Luc thought of the earthquake. All this should have been impossible, yet clearly such things happened. He made the decision for all of them. "We don't discuss this. It never happened," he announced. "Let's go back to making music." Part Five: Bringing it All Back Home It was raining. The gray sky had opened and Q was looking out at the deluge; the Japanese magnolias were an impossibly sexual purple in the gray rain. He smiled; he inhaled. The rain was so sweet-smelling. Then he saw the car coming up the long driveway. Casey's car. Well . . . that was nice. And Casey, bareheaded, indifferent to the rain, got out. Q went to meet him; by the time Casey walked to the front door, he was soaked. "Casey! What is it? Is everything okay? Let me get you a towel." "Really. Check out this fucking rain water." Q loved the beat of Casey's voice; he spoke like nobody else in America. Murmured flat vowels alternating with superemotional ones until you didn't know what you were hearing. Q rubbed him with one of their big towels. "You could take this old wet shirt off," he said in a small voice. "I could get you one of Geordi's. I bet it would fit you pretty well." "Stop this, Q." Q stood very still. Then he said, "I'm sorry." "Oh, for fuck's sweet sake, Q. When will you ever stop?" "What is it? What have I done? I know you're mad at me, that's why we only had the one . . . date, but I'm okay with that. I just want to make you happy. Don't . . ." Casey grabbed Q and pressed him against the foyer wall. "Make me happy? Don't make me laugh. If that miserable fuckwad Jean-Luc didn't exist, there might be a baby chance at happiness for me. But . . . you . . . I love you." He hissed the last ords. "You big stupid bitch with your big stupid ass that the whole world can fuck and that closed heart that no one can have." Q lowered his chin and looked at Casey. Casey was a little drunk -- that must be what was causing all this. "You mean my loving Jean-Luc . . ." "My loving Jean-Luc," Casey mocked. Then he closed his eyes and leaned back. "Q, I would have given you everything. Oh, fuck, I wanted to do it all with you. There are sensual pleasures I haven't begun to explore and you'd be just the right agent. My fist in your ass was just the alpha; Christ knows what the omega would have been. I have a little dungeon. I have clamps. I have . . . rubber hammers. As a matter of fact, I have the largest rubber gadget collection in Hollywood. Which is saying something. There's this wonderful hospital bed I have where I turn my dates upside down. Imagine if I hogtied your thighs to your chest and put you on the motorized bed and got your asshole at the optimum insertion level." A little bubble of saliva appeared at the corner of his mouth. "There would be nothing I couldn't stick in you. Your ass would be full all the fucking time. I've got two fists, motherfucker. But," he shook his head. "Love got in the way. Love." He looked at Q. "Say something." Q kissed him quickly. "I don't know what to say. I didn't think you liked me." "Q, I love you. You're all I think about." No one had ever loved Q that Q didn't love. It was the saddest feeling. "You can fuck me, Casey." "We both know that's not enough." Casey was sagging now. He turned to go. "I am Casey Spevin," he said suddenly, menacingly. "I won the Oscar. I make twenty million dollars a picture. I deserve the best. I deserve your ass." Q wasn't sure what to say. "Stay in touch. I loved your fist." "I'm so sure," Casey said. And he went back out into the rain. "Jimmy Jay, the boss wants to see you." Jimmy Jay Zimmerman didn't give a fuck. He looked at the crumbs on his desk. Hmmm. He picked up one of the more mysterious ones with a wet finger. Oh, yeah, it was from the . . . muffin he had had last week. Well. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" Uh-oh, the boss wanted to see him so much he had come out to stand over Jimmy Jay's desk. "My friend . . . he's in the hospital . . . sudden inexplicable blindness. . . I'm working through to acceptance . . . I seem to be bogged down in grief, however." The boss rolled his eyes. "Boss, you know Eddie Ducatti wasn't just a friend. He was a valued source." The boss looked down. "Well, Eddie had done us a lot of favors in the past. That part is true. But all that's past now. We gotta a newspaper to put out. I WANT STORIES. I WANT THEM NOW. Move to acceptance and then get your ass on the streets. Isn't there something about Melinda Madigan or those Boys to find out about? They're always good for a cover story." (It was too complicated to explain to the boss Jimmy Jay's intricate relationship with Snake Ducatti. Jimmy Jay Zimmerman thought about things, but Snake Ducatti did them. Jimmy Jay Zimmerman reported trouble; Snake made it. Jimmy Jay was always grateful to look at the photographs and books Snake gave him, but Snake lived them. Because of that, Jimmy Jay always pulled favors for Snake; f'rinstance, if one of Snake's U.S. Senator friends wanted to repeal certain boring parts of the Bill of Rights, Jimmy Jay made sure an approving article appeared in his supermarket rag. And Snake would made sure Jimmy Jay knew about the beautiful seventeen-year-old girl the liberal opposition kept in an apartment back in his home state.) Jimmy Jay lit a cigarette. He shrugged. "Oh, never mind, Zimmerman," the boss said. "I'll get that new guy Whatisname on the story." He looked at Jimmy Jay and Jimmy Jay looked back at him. "Don't start that again, boss." "Get me a good story and I won't." Jimmy Jay stood up. "I'm flying to Kentucky today. " "Try to stay somewhat sober." The brothers Crusher were very disappointed with life. Q had gone away with the gold, and Beverly had gone away with the sugar. Jesus, these people were backward. Jimmy Jay Zimmerman was no fashion plate with his five o'clock shadow, his orlon polo shirts, his 1963 stingy brim hat which he wore to hide his baldness, but next to these guys he looked as snugly elegant as the Duke of Windsor. "Them Boys are all perverts," said one of them. (Were they triplets? How on earth did these people tell each other apart?) "All queers ought to be shot like deer," said another. "And gutted too," said the third. "I see," said Jimmy Jay, "but is there a specific reason for this free-floating hostility?" "He was a dope addict around our family." "Okay." But, alas, GAY ‘BOY'S' DOPE ADDICT PAST! was old news; one of Jimmy Jay's new friends was named Benny Sisko, and he had told Jimmy Jay all about the dope. "That's why old Q went to the pen." "Indeed." WILL THE ‘BOYS' DOPE-SEX SCANDAL NEVER END! "He knocked up our little sister," reproved one of them. "That perhaps is not so bad. They were married after all." All three of the terrifying brothers smirked. "Not that first time." "I see," nodded Jimmy Jay. PANSEXUAL GAY ‘BOY' IMPREGNATES WOMAN!!! "That's the one they don't talk about." "Hmmm?" "The first one. Little Beverly was just fifteen. She had to give it up for adoption. Some people took it away the same day it was born. It was a little boy." "Oh, really." This sounded very promising. PANSEXUAL GAY ‘BOY' IMPREGNATES YOUNG GIRL!!! WE GOT IN TOUCH WITH POOR CHILD HE ABANDONED! HIS OWN SON LIVES IN LONELY POVERTY WHILE ‘BOY'HAS HIGH OLD TIME IN HOLLYWOOD! "Where do you think I can get in touch with this child?" The Crushers looked at him. "I'll pay handsomely for all information. Very handsomely." The Crushers smiled. Jimmy Jay sat in his motel room thinking. Then he lit a Lucky, cleared his throat, and dialed the number of the courthouse. "Hello, J.J. Zimmerman here. I want to talk to the Public Records office. The vast corporation I represent needs to look up a certain birth certificate -- all I have is the rough date -- from the first three months of 1965. It's part of a sensitive legal matter. What would be the procedure to access this information?" Oh, yeah. The astounded hicks always said ‘be our guest.' Worked every time. Melinda's big deal computer for Sebastiana reminded Jean-Luc of Spock's contraption for some reason. And, for some reason, now that they had it, Jean-Luc felt compelled to write songs. When Sebastiana was busy cleaning house, he would sit in the tiny computer room with the Smokies looming over him and let his life bubble out of him and onto the screen. He always stashed the poems in a drawer by the bed. Melinda never asked him what he was doing even though she was almost always sprawled across their bed, nude, reading scripts that came in for her. Jean-Luc appreciated that. In fact, he enjoyed almost everything about his new life. He could see and hear Sebastiana and Joe coming and going, but most everyone left him alone when he didn't want to be bothered. He had the perfect combination of solitude and companionship. Once in a while, when Sebastiana called them to lunch, the delectable Melinda would roll over with her legs open, just to tease him into an erection before they had to go downstairs. The first time Melinda teased him this way, he lost his temper. And Sebastiana had cried. Melinda had no reaction except to find Sebastiana and soothe her out of her apprehension. Later, Melinda walked into the bedroom; "Quit scaring my maid," she said smiling. Of course, some things transcended self-control. Joe and Sebastiana had been driving his car around for an hour. Jean-Luc put up with it until he could stand no more of it; then he went outside and took over. So he and Sebastiana drove around in circles for another hour while Joe sat in the back seat offering driving hints. Then the two men got out of the car and, with much fear and trepidation, let her drive down the driveway and back. They stood there looking, pretending not to be relieved when she turned back in the drive. It was almost like gentling a wild pony, waiting for the car to pull to a jerky stop. "Driving is the only thing I could teach her that I wouldn't get arrested for," Jean-Luc remarked, and Joe nodded. Patsy was having a wonderful time chasing Ginger who had crawled beneath the tree to experiment in marking her territory. Patsy knew it was bad when cats crawled under the Christmas tree, but then Ginger climbed up the branches and overbalanced the tree. Then Mister Christmas Tree fell on Patsy. At her unholy screaming, Daddy and Daddy and Diddy came running in. They righted the tree and checked Patsy, and then permitted themselves to smile. Patsy was stunned with pine needles laced all in her hair and Ginger was sulking at his loss of dignity. Then Q's boys dashed in. The parochial schools of West Viginia had done them some good; they were handsome sturdy smart boys. Patsy was still sobbing. "Patsy!" cried Roger! "Don't cry! Let's us put candy canes on the tree." The grown-ups smiled at his tact as Patsy squirmed down. And later, when it was observed that all the canes were at the Patsy, Roger, Vernon and Jerry level, the Boys scattered the canes a little more regularly around the tree. So Mister Christmas Tree was perfect by the time Jean-Luc got there. Nowhere else to go. He went to Chicago with Melinda and spent two miserable days in her parents' house in the suburbs. He had never felt more alone than in their wall-papered guest bedroom. And Tennessee was empty. Joe was visiting with his grandson, and Sebastiana had gone back to Haiti to see her maman. A damn lonely world. And here this was, another lovely domestic Christmas scene, not nearly as scary as Chicago, but horrible in its own way. All those children were dressed in their Christmas-theme clothes and they were all 'helping' Daddy and Diddy get ready for the holidays and the house smelled like cinnamon and cookies and the tree was twinkling and the presents were all wrapped and the life-size creche was somber and stiff out front; the whole house was full of a quiet Christmas happiness. Jean-Luc felt sick with misery; it was getting harder to convince himself with his usual refrain: "I have Melinda so that makes up for everything." And yet nothing would change Q's delight. He had Jean-Luc's present already beautifully wrapped and under the tree. Naturally Jean-Luc hadn't gotten him anything at all, but that didn't matter to Q; he was just pleased to see Jean-Luc. However, it was clear to everyone but Q that Jean-Luc did not fit in with this happy little scene. And he grew stiller and stiller. "Look, Q, I just dropped by to see how everything was, but I really have to be going now." Q bit his lower lip. "Okay, Johnny, but..." (he was trying to come up with a reason to have Jean-Luc stick around a little longer) "Let me wrap you up something to take with you. Knowing you, you probably don't have anything in your fridge at . . . at home." Jean-Luc stalked back to the kitchen with Q, while Q wrapped up some of his lovely food (sometimes he and Will killed time by playing with gourmet recipes -- who would have thought Will could be such a terrific cook. Worf would have to watch his weight.) Jean-Luc took the package (he knew he would never eat it; Q probably suspected he would never eat it) and Q walked him to the door. And leaned against it as Jean-Luc opened it. "Go to the garage," Jean-Luc said so softly Q wasn't sure he heard him. "Go now." In the garage, Jean-Luc looked at Q; then he kissed him, and suddenly they were both hard. "Whip it out, Q," Jean-Luc commanded. Q looked nervously towards the kitchen entrance. "But the boys..." His hesitation made Jean-Luc harder than ever. "Just something quick. Nobody will notice. We'll be very quiet." And he started playing with Q's dick, jerking him off and rubbing up against him and Q moaned and Jean-Luc hissed, "Sssssh," and they were both hotter than ever, and Jean-Luc unzipped his pants and said, "Touch it, Q," and Q reached in and pulled out Johnny's big stick, and he moved so that their dicks were touching and they played with each other's dicks and shushed each other and laughed quietly; then they both came, collapsing against some shelves against the wall of the garage and wiping their hands on Q's t-shirt. Of all things, Jean-Luc was starving by the time he got home. Q was right; there was nothing in his refrigerator, but he still had Q's foolish little Tupperware dish. The food was delicious. Q had chattered and smiled and dimpled at him as they walked to the car and now Jean-Luc's memory was supplying him with the names of all the dishes Q had so considerately packed: Prime rib in a thyme marinade, broccoli quiche with tomato compote, chopped green beans with pignolia nuts and parsley in vinaigrette, whipped candied sweet potatoes and a big piece of pecan pie. Jean-Luc knew Q would not cook this way for his sow-belly-eating sons, and he also knew Q knew he could take of himself one way or another. Jean-Luc was generally not a big eater, but he ate a great deal of the food Q had made just for him and felt much comforted. Jimmy Jay Zimmerman had come back to the office for Christmas; somebody had to coax all the roaming psychics in the office into making predictions which, while completely implausible, were at least amusing. ("1992! MICHAEL JACKSON ELECTED PRESIDENT! LONI AND BURT REUNITED! MELINDA BEARS JEAN-LUC'S TRIPLETS!") Then he skulked back to Kentucky and hooked up again with his old friend, the country secretary. She had that report he wanted ready: Beverly Lanelle Crusher, age 15, delivered of a live, healthy male on February 21, 1965. Nice. "Tell me," he said in his amusingly clipped speech, "I know this child was adopted. How can I retrieve that information?" She gave him a look. He gave her a hundred-dollar bill. The state adoption files did not have the names of the baby's parents, just the dates. Jimmy Jay worked his way through the 1965 files, ignoring the ones with female names. He went patiently through the rest of them, tracking down the 70 adoptions that took place on or about that day. It would take some time. The Boys were slow in getting out their album. Many imitators flooded the market with blue grass played by pretty-boy mandolin players. One was a new CD called "American Tribute". Expensively produced, expensively packaged, it featured the talents of Tranh! Tranh! Tranh played the mandolin accompanied by musicians with Asian stringed instruments. The album was popular on all the jazz stations. "Where'd this come from!" Jean-Luc demanded. Q read the album very carefully. "The executive producer is named Kivas Fajo," he whispered. Jean-Luc looked at him. Quark filled in the details. Rumor had it that Fajo was Tranh's latest -- Quark cut his eyes to Jean-Luc -- Tranh's latest sugar daddy. Q was such a sap: "I hope Fajo is happy in his relationship with Tranh." Quark shook his head. "The word on the increasingly global street is that Fajo and Tranh are EXTREMELY happy together." "Yeah," said Will, "looks like Fajo's getting him some of that Pacific rim action." "Actually, that might be something that they share," Data said, "as they are both of Asian descent. Finns are, after all, more Asian than European." Quark sighed. "In jolly ole Europe they're being compared to Onassis and Callas. I've been given to believe that both of them are pretty . . . high strung." Jean-Luc kept turning the album over and over in his hands and looking at it. He was furious. "Can we sue!" Quark shot him a straight look, "Hey, good buddy, nobody can copyright America." Melinda was scheduled to return to Tennessee at the end of January. Jean-Luc had not seen her since Christmas. And now they were in their big bed together. Tennessee. A wintry midnight rain and the sounds of the slick road outside. Jean-Luc woke up, aching, aroused. But he hated to wake up the warm and fragrant Melinda lying by his side. She had just got into town and she was tired and a little . . . depressed. Show business was hard on her -- her simple needs and its complex network of marketing and prostituting and sacrifice were hard to mesh. But he was so . . . he touched her. Her eyes slowly opened. "I love you, Boy." "I . . . love you," he said and pressed himself to her. "Oh, Boy." She was tired. "I'm sorry." "No, don't be sorry. Is there something else I can do? Maybe tell you a little sweet sex fable?" Jean-Luc thought for a moment. "Okay. Tell me one." "What kind?" she smiled sleepily. She was touching him now, slowly stroking him. She wet her fingertip with her tongue. "Listen, I know. Did I ever tell you about the time I was taking a shower on the set of Hard Time? I was in my trailer, and Lily walked in." Lily Sloan!! Jean-Luc drew in a ragged breath. "And I got out of the shower and I was all wet." "Had you gotten dresed?" "On, no, I was wet. I was naked. She could see it all." "What was she wearing?" "Um. At first, normal clothes, but she took off all of them." "Not all, surely." "Oh, Boy, she left on a pair of white thigh-high stockings and her black patent high heels." He thought of Lily's black satiny skin, that heart-shaped face of hers, her round sulky mouth. My God. "I had some body slicker stuff I'd gotten in a big basket, and I began to rub my nipples with it. My ruby nipples. And Lily watched, her nipples got hard too. She has huge nipples, like thimbles. And she has a lot of dark public hair, a feast of hair down there. I wanted her to suck my nipples and she did, and then we were sitting together on my daybed and stroking and sucking each other's breasts, and I was using the slicker everywhere, between her legs, everywhere, and she was sitting with her legs open and I got so hot that I went down on her; I used my mouth all over on her -- she was so clean and sweet and then I took this mirror I had, a pink plastic one with a long handle, and I fucked her with that, and fucked her again and again." She was varying how she stroked him, sometimes hard, sometimes cupping his testicles with her soft hand, sometimes just rubbing the leaking semen around his edge; he grabbed her soft breast and took it into her mouth and that, together with her insistent hand and the idea of a lenient resistless Lily brought him to the edge, and he knew it had never happened, Lily had a straightness to her character that forestalled any such things going on, but he thought about her and Melinda -- "Oh, fuck, did you pretend you were in prison, like in the movie? Fucking in the cell?" "You know it, Boy," she said and he came, harder than he thought it would, and she kissed him and he kissed her and she asked to go back to sleep and he said he would hold her til she did. Whenever Patsy swam, or when Will washed her hair, it turned into a big, bushy afro. Will and Worf were both delighted by that. The first time Worf saw her with her fluffy little halo he laughed and called her Bootsie Collins. He pretended to eat it, hoisting her in the air with one hand and then slowly pulling her towards his mouth, making num-num-num sounds. Patsy screamed with laughter, so he did it again. After that Patsy always wanted Daddy Worf to play eat-Patsy's-hair with her. Daddy Will was for serious stuff, like nurturing and food and big-eyed comforting, but Daddy Worf was strictly for fun. Worf was glad that Patsy was so fond of him. He learned to smile a great deal from spending time with her. When she wasn't around, he got restless. Then Upenda had to sit Will down for a conference. Princess Patsy's hair, she informed him, was losing its baby texture, becoming kinkier and tighter, and they had some decisions to make. Will listened solemnly. He'd often watched Upenda with a wide-toothed comb and a spray bottle of water, combing out Patsy's hair and braiding it close to her head in two neat little rows, fastening the braids with little barrettes. The process enchanted him. He would have braided Patsy's hair himself, but the few times he tried the braids came out lumpy and uneven. Then too, Patsy always pulled her little head away from his thick fingers and said 'ow.' So Will always watched a little yearningly as Upenda created braids that were smooth and lovely. "Do not wash her hair more than twice a week," Upenda ordered, "or it will become brittle." It was the law, so Will obeyed, but he wished he didn't have to. He liked playing with Patsy's hair, fascinated by the fact that it would stay in the braid patterns Upenda so carefully created until he combed it out again. He broached the subject of dreadlocks. Upenda flat-out refused. Will was a little hurt at her vehemence. He thought they might look nice. After all, he loved the texture of Worf's long locks, running his fingers through stray bits of Worf's hair until Worf growled at him to lay off. He went to the only other black person he knew. "Geordi, what's wrong with dreadlocks?" "I don't know. Does Worf want to cut his hair?" Geordi sounded alarmed. He liked Worf's hair though he opted for cutting his own hair close to the scalp. "Upenda doesn't like them." Geordi thought about it. Upenda was about his mother's age. "Maybe it's part of the next generation of black hair styles." Will was confused. Still, he bowed to Upenda's expertise and listened carefully as she outlined his options. She could have it pressed with a hot comb. "No!" Will said immediately. She reassured him that in the hands of a professional they had nothing to worry about. Will still said no. Hot things were not allowed around his Patsy. They could have a texturizer put on it. "What's that?" said Will in a panicky voice. "It's a chemical process." A chemical process? On Patsy's head! "No!" he cried. Well, then, they could go to one of these new-fangled 'natural' salons and have Patsy's hair done without chemical or heat processing. Upenda wasn't sanguine about this last option; she had not learned to do hair that way. In spite of Upenda's reservations, Will was all for that last option. Texturizers were chemicals, and hot irons were . . . . hot! But he was perfectly comfortable with the idea of an hour drive into downtown LA for a solution that would not pose a hazard to his daughter, and, if he looked stupid -- a big round white guy in a black hair salon, anxiously hovering over his little girl as she was propped up on phone books and shampooed -- well, so be it. People always giggled and elbowed one another when he came in, but the hairdressers were tickled pink to see him. Will was so besotted with his child, and he was so appreciative, tip-wise, that they jostled with one another for the opportunity to do Patsy's Riker-Rodshenko's hair. You could sell Will anything for Patsy, and he would be grateful for the opportunity to fork over his money. After a while Upenda grudgingly gave her approval. She admitted that Patsy's hair looked very nice. It grew much longer. Will was tickled pink. And the best part about taking Patsy to the salon was that they could do her hair up in very fancy styles. After all, she needed to be stylish. Now that they were sending Patsy to nursery school, they were getting invitations to kids birthday parties. All the other children wanted the pretty, confident, generous Patsy at their parties, so she went to at least one a month, if not more. Will was thrilled. Each party was another opportunity for him to dress Patsy up and show her off. Hair, shoes, dress, jewelry: he made her look like an angel. Will and Q started planning Patsy's fourth birthday party months in advance. Worf was exasperated by this, but he tried to get into the spirit, however reluctantly. Fortunately, Q loved stuff like that. He called on all his friends to help, and they put their heads together and came up with a perfect plan. Worf could not believe they actually had the damned thing catered, with a kids menu Very-very designed, and a big expensive cake from the same bakery that had baked Jean-Luc and Melinda's wedding cake. It had Patsy's name written on it in pink rosettes, and it was so fancy that the baker put it in his brag book. There were real seed pearls sewn onto the bodice of her birthday dress. And she wore a little necklace and bracelet set with pink diamonds. And Will wanted to buy her a pony. "Not as long as I'm alive," Worf said. (In other words, maybe next year.) Instead of the pony, Will bought her a huge doll house and had it wheeled out onto the floor of Party Tyme Play House. All the other kids put their gifts around it like offerings. A Floyd lunch box! Another Floyd lunch box! A Floyd board game! Fun for the whole family! Will and Worf sat there. ( Away from Patsy, Will and Worf had turned one of Patsy's stuffed Floyds into a sort of voodoo doll. Worf choked it. Will kicked it under the bed. They cracked each other up by hanging it in one of Will's handcuffs and suspending it from the bedpost. They took Polaroids of Floyd sitting on top of Will's largest vibrator. They dangled Floyd in front of Ginger so she would claw it. They made dead Floyd jokes, but not in front of Patsy. In front of Patsy, they were always drippy sweet Floyd lovers.) Even Very-Very was there at Patsy's party, beaming at the proceedings in his dark way. And he gave Patsy a tiara! Timmy was there too. Timmy. Q was a little worried about Timmy. Lately, things had not been going well with Timmy. And that made Q a little sad. After all, he had learned so much from Timmy. Hand in hand they walked through museums on idle days, listening to the docents, marveling over the thousands of wonderfully obscure facts to be learned, appreciating each other's company. It was no great love affair, but . . . this was different. Timmy seemed genuinely miserable. Suddenly he was struck by a horrible thought. What if Timmy wanted to break up with him? He didn't love Timmy at all, but Timmy's utterly compliant personality was very comforting. "Timmy, are you all right?" Timmy turned that tiny sweet face to Q. "This is for Patsy." A big box. "I know she'll love it!" "I doubt it," Timmy said glumly. "It's a picture book of Nijinksy. It's probably not her thing. But, Q," he turned on him, "Q, I want you all to get that child serious about her dancing. I want her to really devote herself to her art." Timmy was just so somber it made Q wonder. Jean-Luc walked out on to his balcony. Where he saw Sebastiana frolicking by herself in the pool, a juicy little brownskinned mermaid. He stood there watching her splash. Jimmy Jay Zimmerman adjusted his porkpie hat and pulled his Orlon shirt down. He needed to look his spiffiest. He cleared his throat and knocked on the formidable-looking door. A slender, well-groomed middle-aged woman opened the door. "Are you Mr. Zimmerman?" "Ah, Mrs. Sudler, I presume you received my phone message." "My husband told me to call the police if you showed up here." "Mrs. Sudler! I don't understand!" "We have severed all ties with that . . . person." "Your adopted son!" "He is no son of mine!" And she slammed the door. Jimmy Jay smirked. "Well, mamacita, better people than you have slammed the door on me," he murmured. Those Boys! They were an endless source of fascinating stories; just when you thought the well was dry, something new happened and the heat clocked up a few more degrees. Man-oh-man. He drove over to the school board to examine any records they might have. Anybody at any local school board would do anything for money. He would actually have liked to have visited the high school itself, but that . . . At one point, Jimmy Jay had thought about being a doctor; he was smart enough and meticulous enough, but there was something about humans, about human flesh, that made him strikingly uneasy. His carnal pleasures were not pleasures of the flesh. But he didn't mind photographs. That, actually, had been a kind of glue binding him to poor old Ducatti. (Snake had been last seen in some sort of Family-owned mental institution, raving. Oh well.) Of course, the photos that Snake provided were all on the same subject, and Jimmy Jay liked a lot of variety. Still, photos were great. You were never embarrassed about tipping them too little or suggesting something too weird for them or returning too frequently. Photographs were easy; it was people who were tough. At the school board, there was a spectacularly disgruntled employee at the school board. My goodness, the things she knew! And she was cheap! "For another fifty, I'll tell you something that will knock your socks off," she growled. "Sure!" he said, handing over the fifty. And then she leaned over and whispered in his ear the tabloid story of the decade. It was Sebastiana's 19th birthday, so Melinda took her on a shopping spree and then they met Jean-Luc for supper in a nice restaurant. (He had been back at the house setting up the new television and VCR they had given her.) When they went back home and Sebastiana saw her other presents, she was ecstatic. She threw her arms around Melinda, ""Miss Melinda! I thank you so very much!" And then she turned to Jean-Luc. "Mister Johnny, where's my birthday kiss?" When she put her wiry arms around him, Jean-Luc was startled but pleased. He leaned in and kissed her warm cheek. He didn't know much about innocent kisses. "Merci, Monsieur Jean!" she squealed. A storm of sweet nostalgia. More often than not, when they spoke French to each other, their dialects were so different they could barely understand each other. But sometimes what she was saying was clear as a bell. Now what. Timmy was sobbing. "Q, I've been living a lie." "Who hasn't?" More and more Q was allowing himself a certain irony; irony didn't sit well on most middle-aged queens, but with Q it merely italicized his charm and beauty. "Will you still like me no matter what?" "I'm sure I will." "I made Very-Very pledge secrecy." Timmy was sniffling. "You can use my hanky, Timmy." "I'm going to have to go to Europe." Hmmm... "That's not so bad." "But . . . but . .. "Timmy began to wail. "Shhhh. Shhhh," Q held Timmy as tenderly as if he were one of his sons. "Tell me what it is I need to know." "Q, you never picked up the clues! You never guessed! It's driving me crazy" "What is it, Timmy?" "Q, I'm... Floyd." "Floyd?" "The blue gila monster! On televison!" What... "Floyd!" This was a real shocker. "When did you find time to go to Peking?" "Oh, Q, good grief! It was bluescreened in, but I will have to go to Oslo. I was so afraid you'd read it in the trades. I had to tell you." "Timmy, this is a bit difficult to deal with." "Q, You fucked Floyd! Isn't that horrible! It's horrible in so many ways." Q held Timmy tightly. "It's all right." Timmy, however, was venting, getting it all off his chest. He sobbed out the whole story against Q's broad shoulder. His ex-boyfriend was the marketing director for one of the big three networks. It had been Brad's idea for Timmy to be Floyd. "If only I'd known what I was getting myself into," Timmy quavered. His crying jag was winding down and he able to speak more or less coherently. "He wanted to take care of me. He told me that this would be the best way to get myself set for life. He pulled strings and got me the job. And it's not that I'm not grateful. Every toy, every sock, every pinafore with Floyd's face on it pays me money. But it's a trap! He set it up so that I'm the only one allowed to be Floyd, so I have to do all those awful publicity appearances. And that stupid show! I'm so tired of that damned costume! No one understands! I'm not Floyd!" Q was aghast. Poor Timmy. "Well," it was the only thing he could think of, "Floyd can't be popular forever. Can he?" "Quark, what you have is not big enough for me." Melinda was examining her manicure while Quark watched. He was beside himself. Finally, she was here, in his office, and he had disappointed her. "Melinda, I've been tossed around by every she-rat in this town." "Have you, babe?" she said sympathetically. "But, as God is my witness, I will get you a better script." She really did know best, the script about the girl who became an aerospace engineer and the one about the stripper, and the one about the young mother who died of liver disease, none were right for her. He saw that now. But he would bitterly miss all the elaborate shower scenes he'd had the writers insert. "It's fun to think that you believe in God, Quarky! Which one!" Jean-Luc stood on his stone balcony and looked out over the Smokies. A black storm was blowing in. His land. His 200 acres. His soil. With the siren mountains beyond. He felt the wet air on his face. Melinda was doing some Hollywood shit, so he was alone here. Well, not utterly alone. Joe was somewhere on the edges of the property, and Sebastiana was June-bugging around inside. Alone was not all that interesting to Jean-Luc, but he did love this. Storm and land, his. Sebastiana brought out some of her specialities at supper. "Your cooking will make me fat, Sebastiana." "Never, Mister Johnny." She smiled, and then shivered. "What's wrong, girl?" "I'm scared of thunder storms, Mister Johnny," she looked apprehensively out the big dining room window. "I'm scared of that lightening. What if it hits me? I can feel that electricity in the air, can't you?" Jean-Luc was aware of her trembling; she was standing very close. She shook with a child's fear of loud noises. "I like it. I'll protect you from the storm, I promise." She turned those huge brown eyes on him and at that very second, the heavens opened. A pitchfork of lightning hit the ground, and a peal of thunder broke the air. She flung herself at him. "Mister Johnny, no!" The suddenness had startled even Jean-Luc. "It's okay," he whispered. She was warm and bony and fragrant and wiggly like a pup. Her little hands crept around his neck. She seemed to be trying to bury herself in Jean-Luc's body. This was . . . "Sebastiana, calm down." She moved in more closely. Now she was on his lap. "I don't like the lightning," she said. Her mouth was right beside his ear. Her breath was damp upon him. He put one big hand on her right hip and pulled her in closer. This was really extremely pleasant. He let his hand drift between her warm brown thighs. She didn't move away. For a long time, Q and Melinda had been the only two sets of ass that interested him. But this was something new. She was very deliberately staying on his lap. Her immaculate little socks and white sneakers. That little skirt. He found the zipper and undid it. "What do you want, Sebastiana?" He was caressing her body where the zipper opened. "I want what you want, Mister Johnny." Another bolt of lightning hit, crashing the earth. She drew in closer to him. His hand was very close to the center of her body now; he could feel the heat, the moistness. She opened her legs ever so slightly and moved herself towards his big hand. He took his hand away from her thighs. She looked at him. He moved it under her shirt. To her breasts. Those little pointy girl titties. Soft little cones of sweet flesh. Then his hand moved back down to her thighs and opened them more. Then back to her breasts. He looked at her dear little face. Her eyes were closed and her mouth was open and panting a bit. He moved his stiff dick against her. My. Then he moved his hand back between her legs. He touched her very gently through her damp panties. "We could go upstairs to the bedroom. We wouldn't be by this scary old window," he said in the most seductive voice in history. More thunder and lightning. "Please, Mister Johnny." "If you're sure?" "I'm sure." In the bedroom, he sat on the edge of the bed. "I'd like to see you take your skirt off, Sebastiana. Let me see you in your panties." She pulled the unfastened skirt over her head. Then she pulled her little shirt off. Only then did she remove her shoes and socks. Jean-Luc went dizzy with want. Those pointy titties, the immaculate white panties barely covering her privates. "Come here, girl." He took her and rolled her on the bed beside him, and then he took his shirt off. He unfastened the top of his jeans. He felt her panties tight against her little ass. He peeled them down a little. He could see where the little brown globes of her ass started. He stroked her there. He loved ass, and he could look at that particular ass for a hundred years. He moved her panties down further, half-way down her ass. He leaned over and kissed each side of it. Then he rolled her panties down below the full curve of her ass. She was completely rounded there, despite her slenderness. "Let's take off everything," he whispered and unrolled those spotless white panties. Naked, she was lovely, skinny, skinny legs, a living triangle of dark hair between the skinny legs. Oh, how he wanted to open those skinny legs. Her kisses were incredibly sweet, avid, wet. "Oh, Mister Johnny," she said. His dick was hard, leaking; what it would be like to be in that little black puss. That little black puss. He reared back on his heels and took her knees in his hands; he split her legs and then leaned in for a loving kiss between her legs. "No, Mister Johnny!" she cried. He stopped. "What's wrong? She looked up at him abashed. "It doesn't seem very nice, sir." "What's not nice?" "Down there." He looked at her. "Down there is extremely nice. Let me make you want me." "I already want you, Mister Johnny. I've wanted you since I got here!" He swooped down. Oh, she was sweet there, slick and delicious. He kissed her everywhere between her legs until she was moaning. Then he took her little swollen clitoris in his mouth and licked it until she began to tremble. "Are you ready, Sebastiana?" "Oh, please, please," she begged. He got a rubber out of the bedside stand and put it on, showing off a little for her, showing her how hard she made him, how big, how long it was standing from his body. Stroking the rubber on. He thrust a little into the air, and then knelt between her legs. She was wet enough, but her little cunt was tight; she even grimaced a little at first, and then she began to push against him as he pushed against her. Oh, this was good, this was good, this was good. Her slick pussy grabbed at him, wanted him in her, wanted him all the way. She was moaning "Mister Johnny Mister Johnny" and he kept on thrusting at her, a machine couldn't be more steady, and he felt her tense up underneath him and she grabbed his shoulders hard and starting saying incoherent things and he could feel her come and then he came with her, and kept jerking inside her but it was just to help his orgasm last. When he recovered himself, he patted her. "Good girl." "Oh, thank you, Mister Johnny." He withdrew, holding the open end of the rubber carefully; then he snapped on the beside lamp so he could see what he was doing. What the . . . the rubber was bloody. He looked at his bloody hands. Sebastiana must be having her time of . . . Those immaculate panties. And he had kissed her there. What was. . . "Sebastiana," he said. She was lying there with her eyes shut, smiling, her little breasts pointing up. "Sebastiana, where'd this blood come from?" "Blood?" Her eyes flew open. "Blood," he said. He wasn't scared exactly, but he wanted to know. He showed her the blood smeared on his hands. "I'm so sorry, Mister Johnny," she cried out, shutting her eyes in humiliation. He had to say it. "Sebastiana, was I the first? Were you a . . . virgin?" She was crying now, her arms covering her face. He couldn't help noticing her pretty little stick arms, those smooth little brown hands. "Please tell me, ma cherie," he whispered. "I'm so sorry." "Sorry for what, dearest? If I had know I was the first, I would have tried to make it better for you." Her eyes opened. "Oh, Mister Johnny, it could not have been better." It was almost too much for Jean-Luc to take in. In his mind's eye, he saw that little grimace over and over again. That was when it had happened. He looked over at the clock on his nightstand, estimating the time it had actually happened. Outside the thunder growled and rumbled. Sebastiana's eyes flashed fear again and he shifted a little closer. She was trembling. He stroked her hair to comfort her and himself a little. "You know I am fifty years old," he told her, "and in all that time I've never been with a virgin. That makes you very special to me." She put her small hand against his thigh, "I'm so glad it was you." He looked at her sharply. "Are you?" She nodded. After a moment, he smiled. "You know what this means, don't you?" Sebastiana shook her head. "What?" "It means I have to teach you." He thought of the way she squealed in protest when he kissed her pussy. Well, he would change all that. "You already taught me." He breathed in. "Just you wait, little girl." The storm left quietly and the resulting silence woke Jean-Luc out of sleep. Sebastiana lay curled up against his warmth. She did not stir as he slipped out from beneath the covers, and Jean-Luc took a moment to watch her. Patsy slept like that, intensely vulnerable, utterly undisturbed by dreams and memories. Not so Jean-Luc. His thoughts woke him, and he prowled through the silent house, listening to night noises, thinking about everything and nothing in particular. Normally a mood like this would find him in his car, driving until he sorted things out. But there was really nothing to sort, was there? He'd made love to Sebastiana, astounded her, worn her out, done himself proud. This had been her introduction to sex, and because of him she liked it and wanted more. Jean-Luc caught sight of his reflection in the big-paned windows. He saw a very self-satisfied expression. Fifty years old, he thought, and stared at his nude torso. And he'd been fucking for how long? Sebastiana hadn't even been born. His first time? That had been an experience. A girl whose name he'd forgotten, if he ever knew it, another rainy night, like this one as a matter of fact, on the floor of the cloakroom in the school. They'd broken in and she stood there shivering a little as he laid their coats down on the floor. Then she lay on top of their makeshift bed and opened her legs. He remembered how shocked he'd been at the scent of her body--he hadn't even been sure he liked it, and hadn't really known what he was doing. He poked between her legs with his stiff penis, feeling her rough pubic hair against his dick, and then she reached down, and suddenly, almost by accident, he was sinking in. The surprise of it, the relief of it, was like coming into a warm place after being out in the cold forever. It hadn't lasted long, and he'd gotten up and almost run from the cloakroom when they were finished. The second time, well, that was something else. He had been working in the fields when a man offered him money to run moonshine. Well, why not. One stop had been a jook joint on the outskirts of Raleigh, rough, with tattered Christmas lights lit all year around in the middle of a muddy field. The woman who ran the joint had been dark like Sebastiana, a little bit older and wizened, but kind, and amused by the sober redneck youth who delivered white lightning to her jook joint. She took him in on a whim, and dismissed him on a whim, but she'd been gentle with his ignorance, and let him come to see her all summer long. Fucking her in her ratty backroom as the gray Virginia rain fell had been one of the happiest times in his life. Now he was somehow returning the favor; he felt as if he'd come full circle. In those days, his innocence had calved like an iceberg, broken from him in big chunks. He'd been in county lock-up again, feeling fatalistic, feeling as if nothing mattered. His cell-mate wanted money for heroin and he'd offered to suck Jean-Luc's cock for ten dollars, and Jean-Luc thought, 'What the fuck.' It hadn't been very good. Jean-Luc kept his eyes shut, pissed off when the grimy little man pulled out his own dick and brought himself off as well. He hadn't touched a man again until he was looking at hard time in the state pen. His cell-mate offered himself, and Jean-Luc, understanding that it was fuck-or-be-fucked, bent the man over and hurt him as best he could. It was something to do, certainly, during the long boring days and nights in prison, and Jean-Luc began to amuse himself by learning everything there was to know about fucking. He went for endurance, keeping track of his times by a cheap commissary watch; learning to hold off coming until thirty minutes passed; until forty-five minutes passed; an hour. His cell-mates all bragged about how well he fucked. Jean-Luc was pleased in his dark fashion. He was a good fuck and he had always known it. Now it helped cement his identity as a hard man, a real man. He beat his cellmates sometimes too, which they also enjoyed. It wasn't until Q came along that he actually kissed another man. He hadn't intended to allow it, really, but Q touched him so gently; Q smiled at him so tenderly. No one had ever looked at Jean-Luc that way. It pissed him off, and it made an ache behind the scar where his heart was. He'd beaten Q for that kiss, and for many others since then. But he hadn't beaten Sebastiana when she kissed him. And then she, too, ran her small hands wonderingly over his lightning-shaped scar, and she, too, leaned over to kiss it, just like Q had done. This time, however, all Jean-Luc had done was smile. The thought of her little fingers against his chest made him wonder if she was still sleeping. He wondered if she might wake up alone and be confused or afraid, so he padded back to bed and slipped in beside her. Her wiry body and warm skin were very inviting. Jean-Luc nestled against her and was soon asleep again. Over the next few days, he was as good as his word. He felt very tender towards her. A virgin. His virgin. Jean-Luc couldn't explain how priceless this was, how precious. The shyness, the hesitance that might have irritated him in anyone else was suddenly charming. She was so demure. She wouldn't even touch his erect penis. He didn't mind. He wanted it to be different for Sebastiana. She was a fine girl, and she deserved to be brought from innocence to knowledge by someone who valued what she had to offer. So he taught her. Day and night, he taught her. He was gentle and very, very thorough. He mostly taught her positions at first, to get her over her natural shyness. She hadn't known it was possible to be that naked with another person. He learned to listen for her nervous giggle so that he could desensitize her to whatever it was that made her skittish. Joe knew at once. There was no hiding the way she changed. She moved differently, more aware of her body, more aware of how exciting it was to move in desire-tinged air. Sebastiana had just pulled off down the driveway when Jean-Luc caught Joe watching the way his eyes followed her. Joe pointed after her and gave Jean-Luc a somber look: "Her daddy and I saved each other's lives. More than one time." Telling him something. "Is that a fact?" "Sure is. It was a long time ago, and now here's his little girl, all grown up." Joe walked up close to Jean-Luc. "I once had me a young girl friend. A lot younger. You know what?" Jean-Luc lifted his chin. "It wasn't as much fun as it sounds." Jean-Luc said nothing. He thought of Patsy, imagined her all grown up, and imagined himself or Will or, God forbid, Worf, chasing off interlopers. "You know I will do right by her," he finally said. "Oh, I'm sure you will." Joe looked at Jean-Luc. They said nothing more. He found himself pleasantly amused by his obligations to her. He bought a cute little car she could use He bought her little gifts. Nothing too obvious, just CD's and videos, mostly. Perfume. Rings. He deliberately kept his temper; loud noises upset her. And every night he stretched out on the big bed in the master bedroom and caressed her warm soft flesh until they were both delirious. Sebastiana came out of the shower, her dark cloud of hair beaded with water. She was wearing little golden hoop earrings Jean-Luc had just given her and nothing else. She gave him that radiant wide smile. He was very aroused watching her. She rolled her eyes at his arousal and smiled more widely. Then she sat on the bed. "I feel so good, Johnny." "You look good," he said in a low voice. "Let me make you feel good," she said and straddled him, the cool damp flesh of her pussy right against his navel. "Umm," he said. Then she rocked a little on his stomach, teasing him, teasing herself. He closed his eyes. She placed her small self on the tip of him. He wanted to say, wait a minute, let me get a rubber, but the way she was poised on the end of his dick was exquisite; it didn't matter. She was clean – he was clean – he'd been tested and she was his little virgin. She began to move up and down. He opened his eyes – she was so beautiful, her big eyes closed, himself disappearing and reappearing, glistening inside the dark hair at the base of her brown body slippery, satiny against him. Then she was very still, using the muscles of her little pussy to stimulate him. Oh, he was stimulated. He grabbed her hips. "Let me do it for a bit, baby," he whispered, and he plunged again and again inside her until they both came. Once he drove her five hundred miles to New Orleans so she could buy things they didn't have in Tennessee. He rented a suite in an ancient expensive hotel in the French quarter for them. It had an iron balcony and several ceiling-high mirrors. Once, he left the doors to the balcony open and sat naked in a gilt chair while she sat on top of him. He could see them at different angles in the different mirrors. Her white panties were rolled down around her knees, and he was able to put his big fingers up against her cocoa-colored pussy and they could hardly get enough of each other. When they went back to Tennessee, the Caddy's trunk was loaded with bags of foodstuffs and with brightly-colored pictures of the Virgin and holy cards of Santa Barbara and candles depicting sacred hearts. Jean-Luc had warned her that he might have to stop and sign autographs, but no one bothered them. A middle-aged white man with a young black girl in his car? Nothing anybody hadn't seen before. They assumed the obvious and looked right past the fact that it was Jean-Luc Picard behind the wheel. He took her to get goat's meat so she could make him a kind of stew with potatoes and the spices she'd found. She taught him how to suck the meat off the bones, and he did so, delirious with the innocence of her little ways. Time and time again he took her to bed with him. When Melinda called, he did not tell her what they were doing. He had no idea how to feel about that. He tried to tell himself that this was no different from fucking old Gary at the Oscars, and it wasn't as if they'd promised each other fidelity. He wasn't doing this because he was lonely or anything. She was just here, and he liked her. Besides there was a lot to like about Sebastiana. Her tiny, skinny body held an incredible amount of energy and passion. Her bony shoulders and narrow hips made him feel protective and courtly. Her labia were dark on the outside and dark pink on the inside. At the demarcation the skin was the color of a purple plum. Jean-Luc wished there was a way to get Aloe to come take a picture of Sebastiana like that, but somehow it wouldn't be right. She was a young girl. Let her be a girl for a while longer. |
