The Promised Land, Book TwoPart Eleven"Honey, I'm home!" It was Melinda, finally, with a rush of spicy perfume and her height and her wide smile. At supper, Sebastiana dropped a plate of sandwiches on the kitchen floor. Jean-Luc knelt beside her to help. "Don't be nervous.". "I can't help but think she knows just by looking," Sebastiana whispered. She appeared very ill-at-ease. "She probably will figure it out, but she won't say anything to you about it. It's my show now." Sebastiana was no dummy. After a lot of teasing helloes, Melinda had been uncharacteristically quiet. Sebastiana sat the sandwiches down and curtsied. "I will go now." "The only thing that could depress me more right now is your curtsy. Don't curtsy, island girl, we're all in this together." Sebastiana swallowed and shot a look at at Jean-Luc. "You may go, Sebastiana," he said smoothly. She fled the dining room. "Melinda, is there something you want to talk about?" "Boy, will you always love me?" "I'm sure I will," he said cautiously. "I saw a rough print of that stupid pharoah-of-the-sex-moon movie of mine. It sucks. I mean it really does. It might turn a profit eventually if they market it amongst native peoples who've never seen a movie. But it's awful. They spent all their rat dollars on special effects, and none on the script, and, brother, does it ever show. My career is over. I lost the fucking Oscar -- yeah, yeah, I know I oughta be over that because I'm Melinda Madigan, Girl Survivor, but shit. I guess I could be the wacky neighbor on a TV show, but that's about it. Hey, don't you need a caged go-go dancer on your next tour? Maybe I can apply for that job. At least Quark likes me." "Lover, eat something." "Lover, eat something.' Jean-Luc, I think we can do a little better than that. I guess you think it's just that bitch's career. But my career matters to me. I want to succeed. I want to be just like that old Jean-Luc Picard. I want to change the world." They did not make love that night. Melinda was too depressed. So she cried in his arms, but they did not make love. Jean-Luc and Melinda spent the next day by their pool. Sebastiana diffidently brought the mail. He did not ignore how gracefully she leaned in when she handed it to him. He slit one big envelope open and some photos fell out - it was all from Quark, who had included a short little note which said "Busted at last! Here's those elusive telephoto photos we've been hearing about for years our lawyers are on the case." Jean-Luc looked at them; they were from that same surreptitious spying sequence taken a couple of years ago -- the one where Q's ass appeared in the Wide World News. But these had not appeared in the Wide World News. No, these could not quite appear in a family newspaper. Although Jean-Luc and Q were doing nothing more than standing there and talking and Jean-Luc was wearing a perfectly normal if tight little black swimsuit, Q was quite naked and the photos, taken from the front, showed all of him. All of him. Jean-Luc remembered the occasion clearly. He'd been pissed off with Quark about some touring shit and was threatening to dismember him; Q had been in the tenderest mood, cooing little ironically agreeable phrases, "I'm all about strangling Quark!" "My hero!" "Squeeze him til he pops!" "Oooh, Jean-Luc!" "Right on sister!" And his adoring eyes had removed the sting of irony, and he had moved so beautifully, pulling his long hair back, hugging himself as he moved his shoulders, tenting his fingers, moving his eyebrows up and down, biting his lower lip. Giggling. Blushing. Q looked like a God in those photos. Jean-Luc sat up in his lounge chair. Beside him, beside their crisply rippling turquoise pool, Melinda sprawled, his wife, the most famous movie star in the world, her beautiful bikinied body glistening with tanning oil (even the American flag tatooed below her navel was shining in the sun); inside he could hear Sebastiana vacuuming. Melinda opened her eyes. "What are those photographs?" she asked languidly. "Old photos of Q and myself." He handed them to her. She stared at them for a bit. Then she said, "His dick is bigger than yours." "To an extent," Jean-Luc said carefully. "Quark sent these." Melinda sat up a little straighter. "Good old Quark." She looked at her husband. "Well, maybe I'll snap out it after I stare at that do-nothing bathing suit of yours for long enough. Honestly, Jean-Luc, do you have to share it with the world?" But she was smiling and he took her inside and made love to her the rest of the afternoon. After all that strenuous love they fell asleep, and in the early evening they woke to the scent of Sebastiana's cooking. Hmmm. In the days and weeks after her seduction, Sebastiana had showed her gratitude by cooking for him at least once a day. She said it was because she finally had the spices she needed, but she also presented the dishes to him with a hopeful expression on her face that told him how much his opinion meant to her. She need not have worried about his appreciation. Sebastiana had fixed him peas and rice, fried plantains, okra soup, thick slices of corn mush drowned in creamy beans. She called the corn mush by a different word entirely and tried to teach him how to say it, but he simply called it corn mush and let it go at that. She fixed fish in lime sauce, and yam and lamb, a spicy stew with tomatoes which he loved, even though it gave him heartburn. She made ginger beer. She made coconut pudding. She poured the leftover okra soup over the corn mush and put it in front of him, apologizing. "If you apologize anymore, I'm going to put you out of this house." She giggled. They were sitting at the kitchen table, where she usually ate. He tried to get her to come sit with him in the dining room, but she demurred. She said she didn't want to carry dishes all that way. "I'm glad you liked it, Johnny." He shook his head. "I did more than like it. Look at my plate." It was so empty it almost looked clean. She ran a fingernail across the back of his hand. "Since you eat all your food maybe you only want to sleep now. Maybe I go to sleep in my old room." She took two steps away and paused, looking at him over her shoulder. He pulled her down on his lap, her smallness always surprising him. "You'd better not. I'll just come find you." She giggled again and he had leaned in and kissed her, tasting okra and olive oil on her lips. Now that Melinda was back, however, Sebastiana had returned to the maid's quarters. Jean-Luc assumed she would no longer cook for him, fully expecting to go back to their old routine of eating out every night. The smell of food surprised him. The dining table was set when they went downstairs. Another first. Melinda seemed delighted by the ambience and by the food. "This is so good. Jean-Luc, you ought to try it." "Oh, I already had some." Melinda sighed. Sebastiana went back to the kitchen. "I need to go back to Hollywood in a few weeks," he said. "Music business stuff." "You're scared, Boy, you're running away." Jean-Luc stared at her, beyond reacting. Melinda pushed her meal away and settled her chin in her hands. "Sebastiana's got an ass like a little chocolate cupcake." Her eyes were amused and measuring. "And you bit into it because it's not your way to resist. Now I'm back, and you don't know what to do with both of us in the house. I understand, Boy, but don't fuck with us. Got it?" "No." Melinda narrowed her eyes at him. "I'm not your groupie, Jean-Luc, I'm your wife. Don't make me have to shake you up." "Melinda," Jean-Luc said carefully. "I've never been one for being told what to do." Now her expression was tight, wary. "This whole thing is not typical of you." He stood up and put his hands flat on the table. "Yes. It. Is. " He breathed out. "You didn't know that before, but now you do." Jean-Luc slept in his bedroom. Sebastiana slept in hers. Melinda slept in the guest bedroom. Not that any of them got much sleep. On the third silent morning that Melinda was back, Jean-Luc heard something. Sebastiana was retching in the bathroom. He ran to the bathroom. "What is it, girl?" "Don't you know, Johnny?" she moaned. Her skin was clammy, her eyes dilated. "No," he said, unsure what he was saying no to. She put something in his hand and leaned back over the commode. Vitamins. Materna brand. He read the label. For pregnant women and nursing mothers. "Sebastiana." He became aware that Melinda was standing at the door to the bathroom. He glanced at her. She looked concerned; she walked in and started wetting towels to put on the back of Sebastiana's thin little neck. "Sebastiana," he said, "who gave you these?" "The doctor." she groaned. Then she lay down curled up on the cool tile floor. Melinda lay a sympathetic hand on her shoulder. "Drink some water," she said, "Then rest. We'll get our own breakfast this morning." "Thank you," Sebastiana said in a weak voice. "What kind of doctor?" Jean-Luc said. Although he knew. He just wanted to hear her say. "The doctor for women." A great silence engulfed all three of them. Finally, Melinda said, "are you pregnant?" Sebastiana gave a weak smile. "Yes." Melinda looked at the girl. "Give me your doctor's name. I need to see if we're doing all we can," she said in a soft voice. "Those pills he gave me make me burp." Sebastiana closed her eyes. "We like to hear you burp," Melinda smiled at her. "Dr. Gaines is his name. He's at the clinic here." "I'll go call him. Jean-Luc, help this child back to bed. Make sure she's got plenty of covers." "Who got her pregnant?" Melinda was sitting at the kitchen table. She had a pad full of notes from the doctor. Jean-Luc looked at her as if she were joking. "Obviously I am a suspect." "Oh." Melinda didn't know quite what to say. "You didn't take precautions?" "I did. Almost always. Almost." He remembered that time weeks ago. "She wouldn't. She's Catholic, I guess." "When did this start?" "When did what start? The pregnancy is news to me." "When did you start with her?" "Around Mardi Gras." It was now May. "She told me she's about two and a half months pregnant." They looked at each other. Melinda was almost amused by this husband of hers and his let-come-what-may attitude. She stood up and leaned against the kitchen table and, as if in a dream, Jean-Luc moved towards her, his eyes large and bright, and she grabbed him and hugged him to her, and he let his hands slide down and then bring the skirt up over her satin thighs, her muscular flat stomach. Then he knelt and kissed the salty slickness between her legs as she closed her eyes and moved intently against him. He rose up between her legs as she made frantic sounds and she found him pressing himself, his cock, the cock she loved, in her and she pivoted her firm hips so that she could get every bit of it and she was lying on the kitchen table making hard little sounds over and over while he moved in and out. But by the time they finished fucking, she was crying. "What are those for?" Jean-Luc asked. "I can't stay with you, Boy, and it makes me sad because I love you so much." "Because of Sebastiana?" Jean-Luc wasn't sure he was hearing her correctly. "Melinda, this doesn't have to be that big a deal. We have lots of . . . money." "You've let Q spoil you," she said. "He's the only one in the world who would put up with this." "Put up with what? I thought we could both fuck anyone we liked." She looked at him steadily. "She was a young girl from some third-world island hellhole. The last thing she needs is to be pregnant. Do you know what she told me when I interviewed her? She said she wanted to save her money and go to college. She has college catalogues in her room and we talked about how she could borrow our car to get back and forth to class. Now look at her. Anybody can make a baby, but papers on *The Scarlet Letter* that make A's are scarcer than hen's teeth. Do you know how much work a baby is? Do you know how long it's going to take her to get her career back on track?" Jean-Luc knew exactly how much work a baby was. He was there watching Will and Patsy from the beginning. He had no answer to Melinda's words. "Maybe you could talk her into getting an abortion." She gazed at him; her eyes were so hard they seemed transparent. "Look, Melinda, I'm sorry I hurt you. I wasn't thinking. I just wanted some sex." "My lawyers will call your lawyers." Her voice was rough. He walked around his property while Melinda packed. When he heard her car leave, he went back inside. He had lost the beautiful, wise, generous-spirited, infinitely valuable Melinda chasing after a little girl with pretty nipples. He couldn't quite comprehend it yet. Her housekey was on the kitchen table. She wasn't Q. And he wasn't in control. He went to their bedroom. Her closet was still mostly full. He stared at her empty clothes; they hung there like gently fragrant ghosts. Then he opened the drawer to her bedside stand. It was empty. He gave a tight smile. She had taken their photos with her, the wedding photos Aloe had shot, the secret ones, the ones she had always loved, where Jean-Luc was relentlessly driving into her. He heard a sound down the hall. Sebastiana was weeping. It was Melinda's first conference after the separation. The newsmen were there in droves. "Hey, Quark, what are you doing here!" one of them shouted; they spotted him easy. Quark shrugged: "I'm a friend of the family'." He made little quote marks around the word family. She was coming out of Quark's office building where she had agreed to meet the press. She had on a nice print dress, sleeveless she wasn't wearing stockings, only those high heels. Melinda really was a looker. "What about those rumors that Jean-Luc was physically violent and abusive?" One reporter shouted. Melinda was genuinely shocked. "Is this how a press conference begins? He has his wild side, that's definitely true, but he's not the type to hit people. He has a temper. He yells. Then it's over." She shrugged a pretty little shrug. "He's a very sensitive man." "Why are you divorcing?" "Was he unfaithful?" "Would you say your marriage was happy?" Melinda looked at the reporters. "He's the love of my life, no shit, but that doesn't mean as much as it used to." They shouted more impudent questions and Melinda just watched them. Then she stood up and took the skirt of her dress in her hands. "Do you like my new dress? I needed something I could wear to Sunday school." They applauded her; she was ending the scary press conference with grace. "My marriage is over. I sure wish somebody would buy me a martini and make it this arid," and she stretched out her arms. There were gay and straight reporters, black and white, male and female, but only those who were awake knew what they were seeing: they were seeing Melinda evolve. "This is where she's earning her Oscar," one reporter whispered to another. "Women." "Hmm?" "I never thought I was attracted to other women," Beverly said. The friendliness, the kindness, the cuddliness she looked at De-Anne. "Girl, it's never been like that for me ever. I didn't even know you could do half that stuff." "I sensed that about you." De-Anne rubbed Beverly's back. "You know everything, don't you, De-Anne?" "I know things, yes." "I bet you know about," Beverly took a deep breath, "Sonny and Bubba and Junior, don't you?" And she buried her face in her hands. "I sensed that as well," De-Anne said in her comforting voice. "Don't cry. It wasn't your fault. Just thank God the kids are okay." "What kind of a woman would do what I did?" Beverly cried. "The kind of woman I love." Women. Did they really have brains or was it just a bee in a bottle in there? Quark shook his head. Quark loved the eternal mystery of the female enigma. But, geez, look at these two. Betty and Ursula, the Duras sisters. "Well, Betty, this script I gotta say is very interesting to myself and my client." "I'm Ursula," the woman said. "Oh, sorry." Actually, Quark had small reason to make that mistake. The Duras sisters were very alike on some level, both plump and busty, nearly popping out of their tight blouses, both with long curly hair, but the older one, the dreamy ineffectual one, Betty, was very fair with pale hazel eyes while the younger one, Ursula, Ursula, the smart one who dealt with people, was darker with dark flashing eyes and glossy raven hair. And the hell of it was that their script was good. With a role tailor-made for Melinda. And if she and Quark produced the movie together . . . Quark shook his head. He needed that script for Melinda. She had to have something to take her mind off Jean-Luc. He could see it with Melinda's tall broad-shouldered beauty, maybe a little bulked up, maybe in ragged cutoffs and a t-shirt. Maybe sweating down the front of her shirt, her muscles bulging, maybe there could be a big shower scene towards the start . . . Betty and Ursula's script had been shuffling around Hollywood for a couple of years and Quark had come across it quite by chance (he'd asked this feminist agent one of his many random girlfriends recommended.) The agent indicated that Betty and Ursula were, together and separately, quite a handful, but that the script had something to it. It was called "The Cause" and it had the perfect role for Melinda. She would play a member of a do-gooding missionary group over in war-torn East Mesopotamia. Melinda in the desert, sweaty, very few clothes! There was also a bossy adminstrator-boss man which they could get some B-list actor to play and a rescued orphanage full of mixed-race kiddies (cheap to cast). And Melinda's character got stuck out in the middle of nowhere with the kiddies and her character kept wearing less and less clothing. That was certainly a nice touch, Quark nodded to himself. In the end, she walks off alone into the desert with her AK-47 slung across her beautiful shoulders. Maybe with the puppy she befriended right behind her. "How much money do you want?" Betty and Ursula smiled at each other. They did not have very good teeth. "Five thousand dollars?" said the unworldly Betty. Ursula slapped her wrist. "Fifty thousand dollars and a few points of the gross," she said. "Sold." Women. Jean-Luc slammed the door of the Caddy closed and stalked into the desert. He had to piss - a convenient saguaro caught his eye. Them. He felt he had narrowly escaped from the entangling arms and beseeching looks of Melinda and Sebastiana, and now he was headed towards Q. Would he never be free? All he wanted was to lead his little band of lovers (all right, his harem) with him into the future, himself at the head, with Melinda and Sebastiana and Q in all their human elegance arrayed beside him and Worf and Will and Geordi and Data right behind them. A wedge-like grouping of lovers advancing against tomorrow and time and society. But no. All they ever brought was sorrow. A man wanted a little pussy, just a little, and all of sudden it was ground-zero for the boo-hoo bomb. Look at Melinda and Sebastiana (pussy in his own house that was unavailable to him? What the hell was that noise?) Look at Will and Data and, for God's sake, Q. How much trouble he had spent with Q! Christ. He finished pissing and zipped back up. He was furious. Dealing with women was like kicking that cactus you thought you'd hurt the cactus and walk away, but all that happened was that they got you much deeper than you ever got them. What was he going to do with all those women? Sebastiana was the worst; her little trick of getting knocked up outraged and terrified Jean-Luc. Well, no baby was on earth yet; he'd think about that later. And the real killer was, he'd always had too easy a time getting women, even though he knew his looks counted against him. He had eyeballs. He could see in the mirror. He was ugly. He figured he'd just go to prostitutes when he wanted to get his rocks off, but to his endless surprise some women wanted to go with him even without being paid. He was suspicious, and a little resentful; it kept happening. "Why'd you want me?" he asked them. They always shrugged. "I don't know. Just something about you. The way you looked at me. I thought you'd be good at it." "And was I?" But he had always been good at fucking, and he knew it. He'd work all night to get a woman off. Or a man, for that matter. The highways were littered with those he'd satisfied in the flesh, if not in the heart. Q. Jesus Christ, Q would be a relief after all of that. Back in Fear Alley, the first time in the showers, Q had been terrified, shaking, his skin fish-cold. It meant nothing, really; merely a display of Jean-Luc's power over his nice fresh bride -- a little show for Sisko and the rest. But the second time, months later, had been with Q's willing consent, Q's desire, Q's need to serve Jean-Luc, to make Jean-Luc feel so good that he would never abandon Q, so good that Jean-Luc and Q would stay together forever. And it was good. Q had put that wide flexible giving mouth around Jean-Luc's cock and used his tongue all around the sensitive head. Then he had leaned back on his heels and looked up at Jean-Luc with those limpid melting amused eyes. "Well?" Jean-Luc had asked carefully. "Isn't there more to it than that?" "Did you like that?" Q asked, the eternal flirt. "Would you like some more?" He leaned over and took Jean-Luc into his mouth, almost all the way in. He moved his head back and forth, and Jean-Luc stood there, silvered in the moonlight, feeling as if a God had come down to woo him with his fiery sighing mouth, and he had gently moved with Q -- everything was nothing but damp and slick between them. He touched Q's soft dark hair and felt the pulse of Q's beautiful head between his big fingertips and he began to caress Q's beautiful face and head as Q took him deeper and deeper in, and then the crisis approached, and Jean-Luc's breath became ragged, but Q only moved in closer and then Jean-Luc felt Q's graceful hand go behind him and one finger went inside and Jean-Luc found himself frenzied, panting and sighing. "Q," he managed to gasp, "Q." Q stayed on his knees, supporting Jean-Luc, keeping Jean-Luc from falling. He had not moved away but kept his mouth on him all the way through as if nothing could rip Jean-Luc and Q apart. "Johnny, I love you!" Q whispered, as if it were a secret. "And what's this one?" "I got it in Toronto. It's white!" "I didn't know it came in white. I've seen it black and I've seen it green, but white's a new flavor for me." Guinan sipped the oddly-scented cup of tea Q gave her. Her head moved up. "Not bad." There were also little slices of organic carrot cake on pretty ceramic plates. "The man I bought it from said it was rarer than jade. But I bet he was lying." "Men do lie." Q said nothing. Guinan looked around the little airy gazebo where they were sitting. Mums decorated the bed by their pool, and there was some kind of flowering vine over the french doors that led to Geordi's room. In fact, it looked like Q had gone flower crazy, because they were all over the back yard -- penstemon and abutilon which attracted hummingbirds, and stately birds of paradise by the pool house, and a small stand of lilly pilly trees with their lovely flat leaves and pesky fruits. "Those will attract birds," Guinan warned. "Patsy likes birds," Q shrugged. Guinan looked around more carefully. "You've planned it so that something will always be in flower," she concluded. "You noticed!" Q's appreciative smile warmed her more than the tea. On impulse she reached out and took his hands. "I'm glad we're friends." Her expression twisted. "In a way I'm almost relieved that we're friends. I don't know why that should be." "I don't either," Q put his hand on top of hers, "but I'm glad we're friends too." They sat for a while in silence, appreciating the beauty around them. "Did you ever imagine it could be this peaceful?" Q stood up; he didn't face her. "Jean-Luc is due today. We have all that stuff to tend to." Guinan followed the sudden tension in his movements. "And your life won't be peaceful for a while." "Guinan, it's very complicated." "Oh." Jean-Luc was suddenly there, standing fierce and glowering by the pool. "Not much of a welcome, Q." He nodded at Guinan. She gave him a look: "Oh, hello, Jean-Luc. Sorry about your Tennessee sorrows. Are things better?" "Still complicated. You look good, Q. Come with me." Q jumped. What. . . ? "Guinan!" She had stabbed him with her fork. "You're not his slave, Q," she said. "Yes, he is." Jean-Luc was standing very near Guinan. Q stood up and shrugged and cowered all at the same time. In the bedroom, Jean-Luc sat on the edge of the bed and scowled. "Tennessee turned out to be a fucking bust. Look at this." As he had driven up the house, a process server had waylaid his car with the divorce papers. Although Melinda didn't want any money, just her freedom, he still wanted to kill someone. "I'm sorry, Johnny. I really wanted it to work out for you." Jean-Luc sprang from the bed. "You lying son of a bitch." Then, with what was almost a sense of relief, he turned on Q, physically pushing him towards the wall. Q didn't move. Jean-Luc pushed a little harder. Q fell against one of the plaster columns, and a vase crashed to the floor. Jean-Luc backed Q up more. And then the air changed and Q stood up straight and backhanded Jean-Luc, and Jean-Luc went flying. He leapt to his feet outraged and charged at Q a second time. "Are you crazy, cocksucker?" Q backhanded him again. This time it took a good deal longer for Jean-Luc to get to his feet. He stared at Q as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing. Q stared back with a gentle, sober expression. "I don't want you to hit me anymore," he whispered. Jean-Luc scowled. "I'll do whatever I damn well please." Q shook his head. He wasn't disobeying. He just didn't want to be hit anymore. "I'm really sorry about Melinda." Jean-Luc blinked. He'd almost forgotten what this was about. Then he turned and stalked away. He hadn't hit Q. He just walked out. Q suddenly realized what he had done. He had destroyed them, he had destroyed everything. He was shivering. It wasn't a catharsis, it wasn't a turning point, it was the end. He was terrified. Will stuck his head in the door. Q was standing there all alone, twisting his hands as he always did when something was wrong. "I hit Johnny. I just couldn't stand to be beat up one more time. I just couldn't. But now I've broken up the band. Jean-Luc's gone." Will said, "I'm sure he'll be back," but he wasn't sure at all. He had seen the look on Jean-Luc's face when Jean-Luc had pushed back him and jumped in his Caddy and gunned down the road. Well, Worf would know what to do. Worf had a one-word response. "Good." Will rushed back to tell Q what Worf said. So it wasn't completely bad. That night, as a reward for standing up for himself, Worf took Q to bed with him and Will. They both fucked him good. Q felt a little better. "I am very proud of you, Q. You fought well." "I love Jean-Luc." "That's fine," Worf shrugged, "but have you forgotten that in his absence you are my slaves? " Patsy was being baby-sat by the girls. Will got very hard. "Jesus. Shit, Worf, say it again." "What's that?" Will got on his knees in front of Worf. "What he's doing in the front I can do in the back," Q whispered to Worf. Worf closed his eyes. Since he couldn't go back to Melinda's, Jean-Luc slept in his car. He was exhausted when he drove back to the big house. Gowron let him in; Gowron was ecstatic in his roadie way to see Jean-Luc. He growled with pleasure. That relieved Jean-Luc a little. "Q's fucking pissed with me. Just like Melinda. I may have to move in with you boys." "Awwww, boss, you shouldn't let your queen treat you that way. Still, you're always welcome with us." Gowron was gleaming with pride. At noon, Jean-Luc went out and sat by the pool. Maybe this was his share of the house. Data must have taken pity because he brought him some lunch on a tray and sat silently with him. Then Patsy rushed outside and said, "Data, Johnny, look!" "What is that?" "Daddy Will said it was Mister Bug!" "Oh, Mister Bug! Well!" He looked at Mister Bug. It was a caterpillar, a little crushed. Data leaned over and looked at it too; his expression was very grave. "I love Mister Bug!" she said heartily. "Oh. Well!" "Mister Bug moves! Lookit him!" Mister Bug did not move. He was profoundly still. "Why isn't Mister Bug moving, Johnny!" "I'm not sure, Patsy. Let me see." Jean-Luc was sure he knew why Mister Bug wasn't moving; it was just too complicated to get into. He poked at the unresponsive caterpillar. "Make Mister Bug move!" Patsy commanded. "No can do, Patsy. I'm pretty sure Mister Bug is dead." "What's dead?" For God's sake. For fuck's sweet sake. "Well, Patsy, it's hard to describe. Dead means you've left your body. There's no more. You are dead." She looked at Jean-Luc with her big liquid eyes. "Make him not dead." "Patsy. Nobody can make things not-dead. He's dead." Two big tears ran down her cheek. "I love him!" "Data, for Christ's sake, help me." Data looked searchingly at Jean-Luc. "Is there not a bug heaven?" he asked. Jean-Luc closed his eyes. "Patsy, being dead happens to everybody. Mister Bug lived every one of his days being a bug. Nothing but a bug. Happy to be a bug. Then he died, but, when he died, he was with you, somebody who loved him. That's all anybody can hope for. I know that's what I hope for. And now the best thing you can do for Mister Bug is to be happy. Okay?" "Patsy," said Data, "let's find a matchbox and bury Mister Bug." "Not too morbid, Data." Data cocked his head at him. Then he and Patsy wandered off with Mister Bug's body. Jean-Luc rubbed his lower lip as he watched them leave. After all he'd been through, now he had to babysit the next generation into the truth. Q came out on the patio. "And now here's the man who doesn't love me anymore." Jean-Luc said. He wouldn't look at Q. "Oh, God, Jean-Luc, I'll never stop loving you." "You have an odd way of proving it." Q's voice was low, impassioned, "I'd do anything you said." "You could prove it now." They looked at each other. "You want to punch me out, Jean-Luc?" Jean-Luc said nothing. "Go on. Take a sock." They both smiled; then Q looked genuinely sad. "The wall-paper people are here. They're very . . . they're not like us. Here, let's move to the shady part of the yard and I'll get you some good lemon tea." Jean-Luc followed him. "I bought this new patio furniture. It's nicer than the old stuff we had, don't you think, Jean-Luc? Sit in it. Isn't it softer than that other stuff we had? Do you like it?" Jean-Luc was slightly mollified. "Yeah, I like it just fine." Q sat next to him and began to talk and hold his hand and stare at him, and Jean-Luc just sat there feeling Q next to him and letting the words flow over him. "Let me show you something else, Jean-Luc." It was the weight room Q had had built for Worf. Q locked the door and got on his knees. "Do you mind?" "Do I mind, motherfucker?" "Tell me if you're in a hurry, because I want to take my time." Jean-Luc breathed out, "You're trying to kill me for sure." "I just don't want you to ever forget me." Then he stood up. "I would love for you to kiss me, Johnny." They kissed and kissed, and Jean-Luc found himself licking and sucking Q's shoulders, his chest, his nipples, and Q was holding the back of Jean-Luc's head, deliriously aroused and happy. Jean-Luc was still kissing him, working his way down Q's body. And Q began murmuring about how beautiful Jean-Luc's body was and all the wonderful things in the fridge and bossy little perfect Patsy, and it was as if Jean-Luc were making love to all the things Q named. "And oh, I can buy you shirts made of silk and soft leather shoes and a leather coat for you to wear when it gets cold, and creams to rub on your skin to help it feel good and kisses, Jean-Luc, more kisses, and chocolates with names I never heard of. Remember in the store that, oh, that first time when we could buy anything we could put our hands on? Oh, you did that! Told us we could, gave us permission. It was the most wonderful thing. I bought everything I ever wanted. Everything," Q sighed. Jean-Luc had entered him by now and was riding the wonderful wave of memory and sensation. Sound, color, taste, texture, driven by Q's murmured chain of memory, all of it was building up in a tension right below his navel and then bursting over them in a shower of intensity and light. "All of it," Q murmured drowsily. "All of it," Jean-Luc echoed. He lay panting against Q's chest. He had forgotten what was it that had driven him from this man's arms. Not here. Not now. Jimmy Jay Zimmerman thought he might be having a coronary. He was in a Waffle Shack idly discussing things with the infinitely scary and beguiling Benny Sisko when Sisko said something that even made Jimmy Jay put his hand to his mouth. Jean-Luc had always slept wrapped tightly around his lover. But Melinda had pushed herself out of his arms or frowned in her sleep at his clutching grasp. And Sebastiana did the same thing. Q was the only one he slept with who wanted to be wrapped in Jean-Luc's iron embrace. He would roll over on his side and let Jean-Luc tuck his arm across his chest and lie in absolute bliss until sleep claimed him. When Jean-Luc tossed and turned, Q followed him, turning with Jean-Luc and tucking his lover tightly within the curve of his body. Sometimes Jean-Luc growled at him to let go, but very often he simply settled in and fell more deeply asleep. They had a band meeting. "I think we need a percussionist," Q could only whisper it. Geordi came to his rescue. Geordi had loved his new house, but there was one thing he had insisted on: the biggest, baddest, most expensive synthesizer anyone had ever seen. He got two: one in his bedroom and one in a downstairs music room. And Data was able to program them with a great deal of memory so he could record on both of them simultaneously. He showed the other Boys the wonderful, exotic stuff he had been writing and then he showed them what a percussionist would sound like. Data loved it. Q loved it. Worf hated it. Will followed Worf. Jean-Luc was the tie-breaker. Jean-Luc turned to Q. "Is this what you want?" "Yes," Q said, his skin and eyes more radiant than ever. "I still want the lyrics to reflect us, who we are. No pretending," Jean-Luc said. "Of course," Q breathed. Jimmy Jay finally had the police photo in his hands: He could see that Q and his son looked exactly alike. That same bottom lip, those same gentle eyes, the strong chin, the jet-black hair and lovely cheekbones. It would be on all the newsstands in four days. Quark found out first on the mysterious Quark-hotline; he flew over to the house and got everyone but Q in the dining room to talk about it. He never met Jean-Luc's eyes. It didn't matter. Worf and Jean-Luc never took their eyes off each other. "I bet the reporters will be on our doorstep tonight," Geordi said. Suddenly Q burst in the dining room. "Jean-Luc, where have you . . ." he noticed everyone looking at him. "What?" He smiled at their solemn, hangdog looks. "What is it?" Jean-Luc's heart skipped a beat. Q would never in his life be as happy again as he was that instant. Quark handed him the faxed article, with the side-by-side pictures of both him and Wesley. Looking remarkably alike. Q was beyond horror. He went white and began to sway. Jean-Luc stood up and grabbed Q. "Q!" He was very frightened. "That boy is not worth this." Q buried his face in his hands. "My son is in jail." Worf and Jean-Luc exchanged looks. Worf turned to Will. "Go look after Patsy upstairs." And Jean-Luc turned to the others. "Will you excuse us for a while?" The others three disappeared. Worf put his hand on Q's shoulder. He wanted to say, Jean-Luc's right, the boy was nothing but a worthless whore who shouldn't take up any more of Q's time. But it was not exactly the right thing to say. "What do you plan to do?" Jean-Luc finally asked. "I'm going to find him." "What?" "I only saw him the one time." And Jean-Luc suddenly saw that Q had been in mourning all these years. If he'd had the chance, Q would have treated this son as gently and lovingly as the three he raised. Q pushed himself up from the table. He still looked weak and shaky. The other two men watched him. "I'm going to Kentucky," he told them unnecessarily. And he went to pack. That night in the pen. "A present for you, Jean-Luc. I got my best bitch back from Worf," Sisko had said. Then he said to the beautiful boy: "Strip." Sisko and Jean-Luc looked at each other: Sisko knew and Jean-Luc knew he knew what this was all about. When Jean-Luc had given Q to Sisko, Sisko had lost all control in front of Jean-Luc as he played with Q's pretty body; Sisko had been publically, unbearably weak. But Sisko had figured out that Jean-Luc must like, no, he must LOVE pretty, big-mouthed, black-eyed, slender, liquid-voiced girls; with Wesley, perhaps he could subtly maneuver Jean-Luc into losing control in front of him. Jean-Luc nodded. Wesley was in front of him now, servicing him in a very efficient and professional way. He had no use for Sisko's sullen little piece of Eve, but he might need Sisko himself. So he smiled and said, "Q, go over there and make Sisko at home." Q obediently knelt down in front of Sisko and took his dick out of his trousers and sucked it; then Jean-Luc pulled back form Wesley: "The Vaseline's under the pillow in the top bunk, boy. Bring it here; then give some to the captain." And, while Jean-Luc perfunctorily fucked Wesley, Sisko was again inside Q, the most exciting fuck in Fear Alley, and in a few minutes Q was moaning, soft but abandoned, so, not to be outdone, Wesley let himself get off too. "Oh, it feels so good." Sisko and Picard were sealing a strange pact. By fucking each other's females, they were saying, "We will never be ever be friends, and I'll still hurt you bad if I ever get the chance, but for now we've reached a stand-off in the dickswinging contest." That was how prison worked. Hell, that was how life worked. Jean-Luc looked at Worf. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" They went up stairs to Worf's bedroom, and Worf let Jean-Luc grab him and shove him over the side of the bed and fuck him until they were both sore. "Motherfucker, you know I once wanted to give Wesley to Q," Jean-Luc hissed. "Me too, me too," Worf growled back and arched his back to get more of Jean-Luc. He was holding his long hard cock and his swollen balls in his hands as Jean-Luc moved in and out and in and out. "All I wanted to see was Q's big dick in Wesley's tiny ass. Wesley bent over so good it made me cry." "He sat on it. He sucked it. He got both hands and held that little ass open like a real pro." Neither knew why but they ended up fucking for three hours, just back and forth and fingers and tongues and everything everywhere. "He's such a cupcake," Worf finally muttered. "Which one?" Jean-Luc gasped. "Q..." Worf said, "...and his whore son." "Jesus Christ. Two whores." "One in front and one in back." "Jesus Christ!" "No wonder the kid was so good. He came by it naturally." "Jesus Christ!" Q's plane was leaving for Kentucky the next day. Oh no! He had forgotten that he had Roger, Vernon, and Jerry for the summer. Well, they could fly back to their momma; school was just about to start anyway. "I'll chaperone them," Jean-Luc said darkly. "Jean-Luc, is that a good idea? You know you hate kids." "Well, fuck that," Jean-Luc began to restlessly stir around. "I reckon the damn disco album everybody wants us to put out is on hold. I'm going to go see how it's going in Tennessee. I'll just drop the boys off. Too many goddam nuts out there and you know it." "If any of you clown around on the plane, I'm throwing you out and that's a fact." Worf interposed: "Jean-Luc wants you to be little soldiers." Beverly and De-Ann met them at the airport. The changes in Q's wife were unbelievable. The one time Jean-Luc had eyeballed Beverly had been eight years before and she'd been wearing a dirty tee shirt with an antic reindeer imprinted on it and it was July and she had seemed beyond redemption. Now she was poised and slender, holding the boys as if she might not stop. Then she turned to him. "Umm, we've met before," he said. Beverly's eyes were warm and amused. "Oh, yes, I remember you." De-Ann invited Jean-Luc to supper, and, after supper, Beverly and Jean-Luc took a long walk. When they came back, she looked rustled but relieved. Jean-Luc was gone by the next morning. Oddly he had taken a photograph of Q's sons with him. Loss was rubbing its icy hands all up and down Melinda. Her man had knocked up the maid. Like something out of the 18th century. And the space-pharoah-movie had been finally released to universal disdain and contempt. "Let's shoot this new one in New Zealand. New Zealand sounds like it might have a lot of opportunity for girls like me," she told Quark. He was co-producing "The Cause" with her. "Let me get Q squared away." (Q had asked Quark personally and he was pretty persuasive.) Melinda was so sad she didn't react immediately. Then: "Poor Q. Take care of him, Quark. Jean-Luc needs him more than ever." Thank God for Bill Clinton. Q's scandal was unfolding just as the 92 elections were taking place. Quark stared at the photographs of all the mean-looking blondes the presidential candidate was supposed to have shacked with. "Sing it, girls," he murmured. As long as there was a Bill Clinton, it kept the heat off Q. Only three or four newsmen were camped on the steps of the compound, and Kurn, Klag, and Gowron could take care of that easily. He made plans for New Zealand. How could this happen! Here was the ultimate scandal about old Q and not one reporter was crouched on the Crusher porch wanting information. Bubba and Sonny had urged Junior (the most polished Crusher brother) to call the tabs and promise exclusive stories on the relentless faggot evil of Q. But now something else had driven up their front drive. The three Crushers looked at each other. "Well, hell, a country boy WILL survive," Sonny muttered. Then they went out to meet their fate. A rented Lincoln was parked right in front of their house, and Jean-Luc Picard himself in the flesh was leaning against it with his arms folded. Very carefully the brothers took in Jean-Luc's full thighs and powerful arms. That didn't help the Crushers much. They stared at him; he stared back, very comfortable with dominating the situation. "What do you want?" Sonny finally asked. "I imagine you know," Jean-Luc said. "You homos ought to . . ." Junior started, but Bubba socked his arm. Jean-Luc moved his feet until they were about eighteen inches apart. He seemed suffused with his own manliness. "You motherfuckers are never to mention Q's name to anybody, you understand. Q went to prison because of you; Q gave up his only real son because of you; and he raised your little red-headed leavings." The Crushers growled and moved from foot to foot. "Oh, yeah, I forgot. I'm going to go meet a new friend. Jimmy Jay Zimmerman." Zimmerman! "We all know how he likes good stories - I have a good one for him, complete with snapshots. It's all about the real reason Q went to prison. And you think the whole town doesn't know. They know about it all. You three and Beverly. The moonshine." He stood up straighter. "Don't rock the boat, boys." He seemed very threatening at that moment. Then he gave a vulpine smile. "It could be your turn to go to prison. I have to say, I liked prison. I got along very well there, made many friends, planned my career. But mine was the exception, boys, mine was the exception." The Crushers had lowered their heads. "I bet you assholes know the concept of being a bottom very well. Maybe it's even what you want?" All the Crusher brothers wanted was to flee, to flee Jean-Luc's blistering presence. "You little piss-ant cocksuckers need money? I'll give you money. But you will leave Q alone from now on. Or get fucked." The Crusher brothers said nothing. Nothing to say. "I will assume we have a deal?" The boys nodded. "Good," Jean-Luc said. "I'm out of here." Q flew first-class to Louisville and rented a car to take to Fear Alley. He was racked with nerves, racked with memories. The night Sisko brought Wesley to their cell and he and Wesley had gotten . . . fucked . . . by Jean-Luc and Sisko had been strangely exciting. As Sisko fucked him and fucked him hard, Q opened his eyes. Wesley was watching Sisko fuck him as Jean-Luc moved in and out of his little ass. Q closed his eyes again and just kept taking it. He could hear Wesley moaning, and it made him more excited. But the next day, Wesley had come to him as he stood in the woman's section. "Can we talk?" he said in his liquid teenage voice. Q followed him: this boy, hot as he was, made him slightly uneasy. "Wasn't that fun last night?" Wesley had smiled. "Umm." "I saw your big dick. I sure would like to bend over for you. I really like them big. Jean-Luc's big, but you're bigger. I want more fun." Q had not wanted to fuck this boy, ever. He changed the subject. "What are you in for? I don't think Sisko ever said." "Something new. A crime they don't even have a name for. I think there's a law up before the legislature. They call it *Wesley's Law.*" Wesley snorted. "All I did was use the computer. I broke into some fat-ass old people's accounts and used their credit cards to have a little fun. I got some tickets to concerts, some, you know, some three-X titty pics of movie stars, some CD's and games and . . . collectible cards." He shrugged. "A ticket to Las Vegas. I went to Havana. Just shit really." The boy's affectless litany had chilled Q. "I don't Worf to be angry with me. Aren't you his girl?" "I do what Sisko says." Ah. Sisko. Trying to get at Jean-Luc maybe. But Q had looked closely at the boy. The boy seemed simply to want Q to fuck him good. He was putting his forefinger in his mouth and moving it in and out in a dreamy way. "Let's go do it." "Jean-Luc would beat me up." "You pussy." "What about your parents?" "They hate me," the boy smirked. "I got on a telephone chat line with some dirty old man and I met him at the mall. He was okay, just sorta old, and he took me to a hotel, and my parents found out and just freaked out and the guy shot himself and I sued my parents and I told them they weren't even my real parents as far as I was concerned and I went into business for myself and here I am." "You need to finish school." "Spare me." Q could tell the boy was getting bored with him. "Let's get naked." "I only fuck who Jean-Luc says I can fuck and that's that." "That's disgusting. You ARE pussy." The boy turned to leave. "Then don't be like me go to school. Get a real job if you stay here, you'll be pussy the rest of your life." "Eat me," the boy said and left. Pussy the rest of your life. Q had been relieved to see Wesley leave. Poor innocent Sebastiana looked at her hawk-faced maman. "He buys me everything I want." She showed her mother the earrings, the VCR, the red Mercedes, the closet full of clothes. "And he said he's going to let me live here as long as I like so the baby and me will have somewhere to live." "Joe, he is buying her." "Nothing to be done about it now, Martine." "There certainly is. I can make sure that old man pays a high price." Matt Dougherty had put Wesley in hiding too much controversy. "Even the Loooooooeyville Board of Corrections got in on the act," he said in his languid way and moved his graceful right hand around. "My son's not here?" "He was here working for me. We shared an . . . a nice apartment." Dougherty sighed. "But when Loooooeyville saw that report in the supermarket newspapers, I thought it wise to ship him off." "He isn't property!" Q fumed. Dougherty leaned in. He seemed fully awake for once. "He's the finest young man I know. But you understand how he couldn't be found here. I do have a job to do." "When can I see him?" "Right now, but . . . " Dougherty leaned his head towards the window. Q looked out. Someone had set up a satellite dish. "I believe the people out there want a little show," Dougherty said and breathed in. To kill time until Q could be smuggled out, Dougherty showed his special guest around the facilities. Q had forgotten the graves at the entrance. He bowed his head at Mr. History's grave. "How'd that happen?" "We found him dead. He died a good death; a stroke killed him instantly in the library." At Horatio's grave, Q was quieter. He knelt and put his hand on the wet earth; what had it been? Eight years. "I love you," Q whispered. Then they walked through the facilities. Q smiled. As long as he was in prison, he was safe from the outside world. "I wish Jean-Luc were here," he said to Dougherty. "I see." Q was amazed; as he walked along, there were catcalls, screams, laughter. Everyone wanted to touch his hand. He nodded, hugged, shook hands. Iron claws gripped his throat when he saw the cells where he and Jean-Luc had discovered each other. Then he saw something else. A prisoner, something familiar about him, about his greased insinuating smile. "Is that you?" The prisoner pursed his lips. "I beg your pardon!" Another celebrity! "Reverend Garak! What are you doing in here?" "Why, the Lord's work, naturally," Garak said smoothly; even in Fear Alley, he was smiling at his own interior amusement. "I see that serial number on your pocket, Garak. You don't get put in the pen for doing the Lord's work. What are you in for?" The world's oldest jailbird question. And he got the world's oldest jailbird answer. "It was all just a misunderstanding," Garak said. "Between me and some parishioners from Amsterdam and two of the choir's underage daughters. I swear I turned over every cent I made from the transaction to the Lord." He smiled furiously. "The only thing that pisses me off was that all this took place in East Shithole, Kentucky. If we'd gone forty miles further, I'd a been across statelines and apprehended on the Mann Act. That would have meant federal prison for me, and then I sure would have my tail in a tub of butter. I just wasn't thinking globally." Then Garak looked around. "Well, this is not to say that there haven't been some subtle rewards." A slender dark youth came over and stood by him. Garark looked fondly at the boy. "Meet Baby Ray Martok, Jr. Isn't he something? See, lad, I told you I was a celebrity." "Martok. I knew your dad!" "Oh, wow," said Baby Ray. Down near the traintracks in the filthiest part of LA was a place called the Victory Motel. Jimmy Jay liked meeting people at the Victory. It made them feel dirty and suspicious and guilty. Jean-Luc was already there when Jimmy Jay drove up. Leaning against a sharp-looking restored Plymouth Duster, his powerful thighs crossed and huge, his strong arms folded in front of him. Waiting for Jimmy Jay. Jimmy Jay took a little surreptitious nip from his flask before he got out of his own nondescript car. Then he got out. Jean-Luc just kept watching him. "You're the most famous person I've ever met at the Victory," Jimmy Jay called with what he hoped was a nice show of bogus good cheer. Jean-Luc didn't move. Jimmy Jay got close enough to be friendly, far enough away to avoid being swung at. Although that could be interesting. Too bad Jean-Luc had told him that if he brought a photographer the meeting was off. "Well!" said Jimmy Jay in a sprightly fashion. "Here we are!" "Do you get us a room?" Jean-Luc made it sound dangerous. "Well, um, yes." The room was dirty too. Jean-Luc looked around suspiciously. Then he sat on the bed. "This business with Q McConn's son is no big deal. Tell America that," he said suddenly. "Well, of course, you're right, Mr. Picard." Where was this leading? "Okay," Jean-Luc made as if to leave. "That's it?" "What else do you want from me?" Jean-Luc seemed surprised. "I thought we were going to . . . quarrel. I thought you would be angry." "Q's a whore. His son's a whore, too. Good whores too, and I should know. I had them both." Jean-Luc was genuinely frightening; he had narrow eyes, a narrow cruel mouth. It was impossible to see him losing any battle. Maybe that was why everybody found him so attractive. Because Jean-Luc Picard was attractive. Here in the flesh as he stood up, look at that posture! Those slender hips and bulky thighs! Then Jean-Luc turned, his upper body in a perfect handsome spiral. "Your job now is to calm everybody down. To remind America none of us would be here without fucking." The two men looked at each other. "You're not going to beat me up?" Jimmy Jay said. The mood in the room changed. "Is that what you want?" Jean-Luc said in a kind of low purr. "Well . . . no. You look like you could hurt." Oh he wished he had a picture of Jean-Luc Picard looking as he did now. Jean-Luc was suddenly across the room and standing right beside Zimmerman, their chests perhaps a hair apart. He placed his massive hands on Zimmerman's upper arms. And then he kissed him, a ferocious kiss, wet as a river; Jimmy Jay could feel Jean-Luc's huge fingers rubbing his flesh and then Jean-Luc was pressing into him Jimmy Jay could feel everything about Jean-Luc's body, its insistence, its single-minded desires. "I think you could put those hands to a lot better use than typing asshole jailhouse stories about Q. Why don't we have a little fun?" "Fun?" stammered Jimmy Jay. Jean-Luc said nothing he just began to undress. Jimmy Jay couldn't take his eyes off Jean-Luc. Oh, for a picture, just one little photograph. Jimmy Jay was so hot and hard he couldn't believe it. Then Jean-Luc was standing there naked, aroused; he put his hands behind his head and stretched. Jimmy Jay's pulse was pounding in his ears. "Come on, Zimmerman. Get naked." "I'm not quite . . . as . . . nice-looking as you are." "I like your look. Now get naked." Zimmerman took off his clothes slowly, abashed. He was nowhere near the man Jean-Luc Picard was. "Good." Jean-Luc began to caress Jimmy Jay. Jimmy Jay was slender, olive-skinned, hirsute; he kept undressing until he was wearing only a big fake-gold wristwatch on his hairy wrist. Jean-Luc ran his hands up and down Jimmy Jay's back as they kissed, touching tongues; then Jean-Luc grabbed Jimmy Jay's buttocks and began to press himself up against him. "You're going to find out how good a fuck can be," Jean-Luc whispered. "You're going to lay on that bed and stick this ass up." But Zimmerman had to ask. "Why?" "Why what?" "You have had the most beautiful women on earth. And the most beautiful boys. Why me?" Jean-Luc seemed taken aback by the question. "Well . . . I like fucking. Like everybody else. And," he blew out between his clenched teeth, "it can't be news that I haven't had the best luck with all these good-looking girls and boys. Q. Melinda Madigan. To tell you Christ's truth, I'm fed to the teeth with pretty girls and boys. Besides, I like your body; it's a man's body, a real man's body. And it's been a long time since I fucked another man. Now get your ass up on that bed." Jimmy Jay had a pleasantly round butt smooth above those dark hairy thighs. Jean-Luc stroked it. "You sure got you some damn monkey blood," he told Jimmy Jay. "Look at that," he said and rubbed Jimmy Jay's legs. Jimmy Jay's mouth was open in amazement. "Be careful," he whispered. Jean-Luc didn't say anything but merely opened Zimmerman's thighs up and got between them. Then Jimmy Jay could feel Jean-Luc, lubricated and slick, seeking his center; he bobbed himself against Jean-Luc. Jean-Luc chuckled once and gently placed himself against Zimmerman. "Ready, my man?" "Oh, God, yes." And Jean-Luc slowly penetrated Zimmerman, cold and hot, slick and tight, pleasure and pain, all in that one movement. Zimmerman could feel Jean-Luc's sweaty body, he could smell Jean-Luc's clean mammal smell; and then Jean-Luc was all the way inside him he could feel every inch of Jean-Luc inside of him and outside against him. "Let's make ourselves come. That's what men are good at," Jean-Luc hissed, and began to pound into Zimmerman. Who forgot that this was something he didn't do. Who could feel only Jean-Luc again and again against him, a soft train driving against him. "Don't stop. God, that's good." And he arched himself against Jean-Luc to get more of it. More dick. More and more dick. "Damn damn damn." "You sure have come to the right place. This fucking won't stop til I'm satisfied." And then and there Zimmerman got the longest fullest fuck of his life -- first with his stomach on a pillow, then kneeling on the side of the bed, then kneeling on the bed itself, his hands holding his legs open for Jean-Luc, and, when he finally came, he nearly blacked out from the strength of it, his cock bright red and jerking in the Victory's fetid air. "Shit. Never," he gasped as he rolled over. Jean-Luc was standing up, his eyes hooded, his mouth slightly open. "You're good." He took the rubber off and threw it in an ugly little trash can. Then he went to wash off. Jimmy Jay lay there; he could see the beautiful shadow of Jean-Luc cleaning and drying himself, pissing, washing his hands, looking at himself in the mirror. Then Jean-Luc came out and started getting dressed. "You going to write the truth about Q now, right?" "What's the truth?" "Am I going to have to fuck you again? That was the truth. The truth about everything." He leaned over the naked Jimmy Jay lying there on the bed. Jimmy Jay was sore and wet, but he sure wanted to be fucked again. Then he realized. Oh. Yes. HEROIC Q RESCUES SON FROM PRISON HELLHOLE. I'LL PUT YOU BACK ON THE RIGHT TRACK' VOWS HILLBILLY SAVIOR. Jimmy Jay smiled to himself. So that was what real men felt and what real men did to get it again. "Oh, God, anything for you, Jean-Luc." "There you go," Jean-Luc said and leaned down and kissed Jimmy Jay before he left. Well, that was a switch. The press was welcome to come on into Fear Alley. Q was giving a free prison concert that night. He had even been able to round up some musicians (because of dope and general worthlessness, prisons were always crawling with musicians). "We've got all the men waiting in the cafetorium," Dougherty said diffidently. And then Q saw: Wesley was standing behind Dougherty. His mouth open, his eyes large and dark and damp. And Q was speechless he would do anything so he could get this boy. "I've got a concert to do, boy, but you're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." "One of my men has driven your car back to the rental agency." Dougherty said. "And there are three patrol cars out front; they'll take off right after the concert. We think the press will follow them. Then you two can take my Lincoln back to your hotel. I'll pick it up later tonight." Maureen Shelby looked around nervously. That whole Southern inmate-redneck-sodomy thing was for real. She could barely breathe; the temperature was warm and the collective damp panting of the inmates against the stone walls made her feel as if she were in an underwater cave. The whole pen was in love with him. "Hello, I'm Q," he said and the place exploded. The songs went on for two hours. "Well," Q finally sang, "you wonder why I always dress in black,The audience screamed. "I wear the black for the poor and the beaten down,They began to beat their feet against the stone steps where they sat. Maureen put her hand to her throat; the few other journalists closed in together. I wear the black for those who never read,Then Q sang a capella: I wear it for the sick and lonely old,The audience, already wild, exploded. The lazy chubby boys in engineering at the University of Kentucky looked in amazement at the readings. "It says it was a 6.4 earthquake on the Richter scale up on the Doe River! Near the prison!" "But there's nothing on the news!" They all looked at each other. |
