HOPE FOR CHANGE... But Settle for a Bailout (8 page)

“Amazing bathroom,” said Lori, absently.
“Just so... elegant, so simple... so… classy.”

“Me, I’d recommend the Presidential,” said
December. “The Triple Crown’s nice, but the real value is the
Presidential.”

Larry turned to Lori, who stood, silent and
refreshed. “What’ta ya think?”

“What? For, like, the room?” asked Lori.
“I’d like to lay in a bed, yes.”

December pulled the Presidential photo pack
forward and pointed for Larry. “Driver girl can sleep in this
separate bedroom area and look at all the space we have to do my
show... see? Here, by the fireplace, and here.... Wouldn’t that be
nice, hunny?”

Behind the counter, a middle-aged man with a
badge identifying himself as a manager, took over the booking,
while December showed Larry features, pointing, “equipment there,”
“I come in here,” “you shoot up,” “I’ll need several costume
changes,” and, finally, “we’ll have fun.”

Larry looked to the manager, who was shaking
slightly. “How much is the Presidential?”

“Sir, please believe me,” said the manager,
“if that is what she suggests, that is definitely what you want.”
The man appeared ready to weep, as he rang Larry’s VISA card and
transacted a signature on the room account.

Quickly, four bell staff were leading the
trio, carrying the single suitcase, a SpongeBob bag, December’s
purse, two grocery bags with Larry’s clothes, Lori’s duffel bag and
a large sack filled with snack foods to the suite.

As Larry unlocked the door, December said to
the two bell staff closest to her, “Wait, okay? Don’t leave ‘til I
come out.”

“Uh, okay,” said one of the bell staff.

“Can I just go in,” said Lori.

“Sure, yeh,” said Larry.

The four bell staff stood while Larry
followed Lori in. They stayed outside, shifting. The door opened,
and December stepped into the hallway, in a Harris Ranch robe. The
four stood at attention. “I wanted to ask if this is the right
thing to wear by the pool tomorrow at eleven?” December pulled her
robe open, revealing her thousands-of-monthly-subscribers body,
tightly packed into a candystriped-patterned bikini that somehow
projected purity and innocence, and also made each seemingly
impossible. “Thanks for staying, boys,” she said, handing them the
paper bag of snacks.

December returned to find Larry sitting at
the kitchen table, carefully studying a menu of the Harris Ranch
restaurant. She picked up a second copy and focused on the
breakfast menu. She abandoned breakfast and began flipping through
pages.

“They open in about an hour. Let’s go eat,”
said December. “Your girl is out. She’ll be down for hours. We’ll
pick her up something to go.” December stood and let her robe fall
open, revealing red-and-white candystripes. Larry kept at his
studying. She smoothed her robe, smiled, and walked to the
bathroom. “I’m going to freshen up, hunny.”

From the master bath came sounds of water
running. Twenty minutes later, as Larry poured over the beverages
and sides, December came out, wearing only a towel. “I’m almost
done,” and slipped back into the master bath. Ten minutes later,
wearing very little makeup and a top as clingy as any fabric could
he, her cleavage a deep abyss, December stepped next to Larry, who
didn’t turn his head. December cleared her throat.

“Gazpacho, the half cantaloupe, a croissant,
granola and coffee,” said Larry.

“Wha...?” asked December.

“For Lori,” said Larry. “I think that’ll be
good.”

December laughed. “You t’ink, huh?”

.

At a wide, heavy table, in wood chairs that
didn’t move except with deliberate effort, and with big, white mugs
filled with steaming coffee, December and Larry went back-and-forth
over menu details for almost ten minutes before signaling the
server. Watermelon lemonade and grapefruit juice, two coffees and
an orange juice. Chilled Pacific prawn cocktail. The ranch hand
breakfast with bacon and country potatoes. Huevos rancheros with
corn tortillas. Two Belgian waffles. Extra berries and cream.
Cottage cheese; 4%. Seasonal fruit.

“Oh, and the warm spinach salad,” added
December. “And tomato juice.”

The two folded their menus and handed them
to the server, who spent several minutes repeating back and
clarifying the order.

.

Larry and December swatted back several
hands that attempted preliminary table-clearing, as they talked and
poked through the remnants. “So your filming is mostly on the
milkshakes, and a lot will be on your knees or back or laying down
and the milkshakes will be waving. ‘Hi,’ say the milkshakes. I
think the fireplace is a classy backdrop, real good for the show,
don’t’chu?”

December held her arm aloft, and three
female wait staff passed their table before a young male waiter
crossed three bays to reach her. “How come you don’t got no
desserts on dis list?” asked December. “I want a Berry Boost, but
dat’s not a sweet. What’ta you got dat’s sweet?”

Larry ordered the gazpacho, half cantaloupe,
croissant, granola, coffee and tomato juice for delivery to the
room, billing everything to the Presidential suite. The two sat
back, satiated, as the table was cleared and December’s dessert was
prepared.

.

Lori, in jeans and a B-52s tee-shirt, was
eating heartily, as December and Larry entered.

“See? We took care of you,” said
December.

“We ate great,” said Larry, sitting at
Lori’s room service cart, which she had rolled next to the kitchen
table. Half of the plates held nearly-full portions, with only the
gazpacho emptied. Lori had poured the seeds and brown sugar into
her granola, but no milk. She dipped her croissant into her coffee
quickly and smiled, but did not cease eating until, suddenly,
several minutes later, she stopped. Within two minutes, all of the
covered plates were in the spacious refrigerator.

Lori stood and stretched, her long body
toned, muscular and fit, with nothing surrendered to age,
indulgence or infirmity. Like a dancer ready to perform, like a
paratrooper waiting for the next jump, she stretched.

“Nice out. Hot, though,” said December.
“Good day for a long swim. If you want, I got a swimsuit dat’ll
look good on you. You’ll be raging hot, if you wanna go swim.”

“Taking a day off from swimming, thanks,”
said Lori.

“Dey got a big jacuzzi, too,” added
December. “It’s big. Round, too.”

“Won’t be doing the jacuzzi, thanks,” said
Lori.

Larry sat in a reclining leather chair, near
the fireplace. In a panel on the armrest was a button with a
chimney icon. When Larry pushed it, the light under the button
glowed as, across the room, a flame in the fireplace sparked into
ignition, blues and yellows suddenly dancing with other colors.
Larry pushed the illuminated button again and the fireplace
self-extinguished.

December’s tone sharpened and she picked up
speed in her talk with Lori.

“Maybe you wanna work out and if you don’t
go out, fine, but me and your hunny are gonna pay the bills,” said
December, her arms and hands in full motion. “I can set you up with
a sizzling hot two-piece, or you can have the kitchen table area,”
she said, waving possessively, “but the fireplace and this area is
for show time.”

“Whatever,” said Lori. “I got some thinking
to do.”

.

“
With Adlington sidelined and the Gill Sisters
trading in open-water river swims for their first Olympiad, it was
36-year-old Lori Lewis, of Long Beach, California, who gave England
a run for the gold. Absent on the winners platform in women’s
freestyle swimming were the American teenagers and 20-somethings
who sparkled in Omaha, and instead this former army sergeant
astounded everyone by showing that age really must be just a
number. Originally on the American team only to swim in the
grueling 800 meter freestyle and the 10K open water event, Lewis
picked up slots in four freestyle event and the
four-by-one-hundred, due to the late-season flu, and immediately
won silver in both the 50 and 100, chasing Baljinder Gill, who
scored gold in each for England, with baby sister, Jazz, taking
bronze.”

.

“If I am gonna move around, dere is too much
furniture,” said December, sweeping her hand with an air that
suggested she would not lifting anything. “We can lose all the
chairs, and doze tables.” She pointed to the leather recliners.
“Both of deze, too.”

“No,” said Larry, quickly. “You’ll wanna
keep those.”

“Okay,” said December. “I’ll go with
dat.”

.

The leather recliner was back in its
furthest position. Larry, holding a camera, was on his back, about
a third of the way slid down the chair. December, her feet
straddling him, counted from four, and, at one, said, “and… go.” A
green light on the camera went red.

December moved her hands under her breasts,
lifting them; to the sides of her breasts, pressing them together;
across her breasts and back down under, gripping and shaking them,
before resuming the circular pattern. She slipped her thumbs under
the low-cut neckline of her clingy top and pulled the fabric down
such that each breast slipped out of her top with a silent
‘pop.’

Larry, on his back, aimed the camera up to
Miss Milkshakes, hovering and swaying above him. He filmed.
December writhed and wobbled. She sat squarely onto his stomach
and, able to leverage the couch with her knees, used her elbows and
arms more freely to squeeze her breasts together. She leaned
forward and hoisted each breast to the camera, and then leaned in
so her breasts hung no more than a foot above the camera. She swung
and jiggled, then only swung, and alternated back to jiggling, as
Larry took in more and more shallow breaths, until, at last, he
began to cough, causing the camera to jiggle. “Turn off da volume,”
said December. Larry just coughed. December reached to the side of
the camera and disengaged the sound.

December leaned forward, her crotch now
pressing into Larry’s torso, as he gasped for breath. He slowly
released his grip on the camera, his eyes rolled back and the
camera slid to the floor. Larry passed out.

Lori slid her key card and opened the front
door to the suite, where Larry lay limp and lifeless under a
barely-clad December. Lori rushed to Larry, quickly handing the
camera to December, so she could kneel next to Larry. December set
the camera on the desk next to the computer, its light still
glowing red, as Lori checked Larry’s airway and breathing, placing
two fingers against his neck. She lifted him to lay him higher in
the chair and turned to December.

Viewers of the live webcam then saw – but
couldn’t hear – the two women yelling at one another, arms waving.
December shoved the blonde away and soon Lori had December pinned
in the second reclining chair, which was also laid back as far as
it would go. December swung from under Lori’s body and sprung up,
standing and then leaping onto Lori. As the fight continued,
December’s monitor showed the cam-feed and a chat window where
subscribers cheered on the blonde “AngryGirl” and the raven-haired
Miss Milkshakes. December was still topless and Lori – her own
shirt pulled and ripped – pulled off the B-52s and made a move to
slap December, who caught her wrist.

Larry woke up in the recliner. Lori was
topless, like December. The two were wrestling in the other
recliner. The only sounds the two were making were grunts, each
clearly not ready to stop until victory was theirs. Larry saw the
red light, laid back and closed his eyes again. He smiled.

.

Larry woke up in a darkened room, equipment
stacked on side tables, cables carefully coiled. He was covered by
a thin blanket. A pillow was lodged into the area under his left
hip. He got up. December and Lori were each asleep in the
California king, in the master bedroom, both only partly covered by
a sheet. Larry lingered. Lori appeared to be wearing only panties.
December was in a nightshirt. Larry returned to the recliner,
stretched out, moved the pillow and threw the blanket over
himself.

.

The sounds of Lori and December jostled
Larry awake.

“No, I don’t do hotel pools,” said Lori,
with insistence in her voice. “When I am at a pool, it’s to swim…
alone.”

“You have to do this with me,” said
December. “You
have
to.”

Larry rose from the recliner, walked over to
the kitchen counter, and set about to make coffee.

“You don’t know how many boys dere’s gonna
be,” said December.

“Again, really,” said Lori. “All the more
reason.”

“No, you don’t understand.”

Lori looked at December, and her face seemed
to lose its resistance.

“Dere’s gonna be
so many
boys....
Dere are just gonna be... so many. I can’t go out dere alone.
Please,” begged December. “Please, really... please.”

“I didn’t bring a swimsuit,” said Lori.

“Oh,” said December, jumping, “I got dat
covered.”

.

Though the top and bottom came from
different suits – of the fifteen bikinis December packed – and the
top was designed for a woman whose body was clearly of different
shape and proportion, the promise December made was easily kept, as
Lori – broad shouldered and toned – looked burning hot alongside
the soft glories of Miss Milkshakes, in her candystripes.

Larry stood in long, baggy trunks. “I’ll be
in the jacuzzi.”

“You said eleven,” said Lori. “It’s after
eleven.”

“Dat’s what I told the boys,” said December,
putting on lipstick, and dropping SPF 45 lotion and a bottle of
water into a small tote bag. “Dey’ll wait. Makes for a bigger
entrance.”

December and Lori walked to the main pool,
one carrying a tote and the other a backpack. Perhaps thirty young
men had gathered at the corner of the pool furthest from the
jacuzzi. December, in a steady voice, said, “Okay, Blondie Girl,
here we go.”