Next History: The Girl Who Hacked Tomorrow (19 page)

“You really do catch the breaks.”

She flashes a game smile. “Make your own luck, I always say. What do you do?”

“Teach people how to not kill t
hemselves in gliders. Rebuild vintage airplanes. Getting to know my daughter.”

“A daughter. I hadn’t figured you for the daddy type.”

“We knew each other in high school. She got pregnant, left town without telling me. By chance I bumped into her last year. Had a 19-year old girl just gotta be mine.”

“You’re not sure?”

“Well, our looks, for one. And the timing. And the rapport.”

“So are you all chummy with mommy dearest, or did she marry someone?”
In her voice a cautious tone.

“
Her mom died. Not long after we ran into each other. She swore the dad was some other dude, but it doesn’t figure.”

“I can tell you liked her.”

“Yah, back in the day. This time around, the attraction was there, but it didn’t seem like the deal. She’d changed.”

“That’s romance.”

“Her girl is taking it hard. Angry. Closes me out.”

“Do you see her often?”

“Every day. She lives with me.”

“
Sounds complicated.”

“
Well, it seemed ok. She was on her own, had a girlfriend. That one’s gone now. I offered the room and she wanted to. I hope she gets through this part. I’d like it if we were friends again.”

‘Hope it works.”

“How about you? And by the way, call me Clay.”

She laughs. “
Man of the Earth. Lillian. I’m an insurance adjuster.”

“You traveling through, then?”

“From Virginia. Be out here a week or so.”

“
Lots going on back there.”

“
I don’t watch much news, what do you hear?

“Not so much the news, but
something weird at the Pentagon. I get tweets it’s evacuated, but network news is vague about it.”

“Hmm.
I wouldn’t know.”

“
And there’s something about a whale with writing on it. Epidemics of people having laughing fits, one happened at a Santa Cruz mall. Saw a blog that rapes have gone way down.”

“
Well I would vote for that. Do you know that rape was once considered a property crime?”

“Unbefuckinglievable. Where you hear that?”

“Same as you. Under the patriarchy law, the rape victim was the father.”

“
No way!”

“
Yeah. The father suffered loss of value. Or the husband or brothers.”

“
Women are property? Those darn old white guys,” Clay says in disgust.

“
You’re a white guy, and someday you’ll be an old one.”

Clay s
norts. “My life is too exciting for old age to creep in. Twenty years, it’ll all be over.”

“
Short and sweet, eh? But you would give up your power heritage?”

“
In a second if it makes the world more tolerable. I’m not into domination.”

“
Not at all?”

“
Well, maybe. If it includes some light bondage art.”

She laughs.
“Oh-ho. I know a few rope tricks. So it wouldn’t cut off your nuts for women to be in charge? The patriarchy is emasculated by powerful women.”

“
Yah, cuz they look at women as sex objects first and people third. It’s simple prejudice. I read somewhere that the vote in Colonial times was available only to white males of wealth.”

“
Interesting. Have you ever dated an ethnic woman?”

“
How do you define date?”

“
Social situations, interpersonal situations, sex, quality time, semi-attachment.”

“
I get it. You’re fixing me up with a friend.”

“
Comedian. Just curious.”

When they arrive at the restaurant, she lets valet take the car. Walk
s in with her hand on Clay’s bicep, carrying a small bag. Heads off to the restroom, comes back a while later in a one-piece slinky job that proves she doesn’t need lingerie.

Clay grins, seeing her. “Guess I made some luck myself
tonight. Got us a table.” Smile she throws him, they both know it’s not about a table. They’re shown to a spot near the grand piano.

“
Nice dress,” Clay says close to her ear. “Hugs the curves better than your car.” It’s lame and he knows it, but she buys it.

“
Nutter.” She leans her head on his shoulder for a beat. Drinks arrive, the jazz trio starts a number, light and fast. Clay catches people in the crowded room checking them out, looking at the woman with him. And at him too. He gets it that the women here are older than the men they’re with. Some by a lot.
Aha. Cougar club.

She sits close,
body brushing his, both of them caught up in the music, the action in the room. Appetizers and food. Clay picks out a Napa Merlot which Lillian approves, raises her eyebrows at first sip. Clay tilts his chin at the a small dance floor, Lillian slides off her stool. Soon as they get going, everyone else wants to be dancing. Clay and Lillian find themselves in the press, between a couple doing a rhumba and another assuming they have room for an expressive tango. For a moment they’re unable to dance, but hold close. She slides a bare arm around his neck. “I know where there’s a party,” she whispers.

“Parties are always fun,” he says, grazing her cheek
with his lips.

The party is held in the Presidential Suite
of the Inn at Spanish Bay. As she uses her key to let them in, Clay realizes with scant surprise he’s the only guest.

“Make yourself comfortable, I’m gonna shower.
Bar’s over there. Fix me something.” She goes off toward the bedroom. Clay catches the glow of a fireplace before her door closes. Nice suite, comfortable sofas and an ebony grand piano. He slides the balcony door back, stands in the wind, the sound of surf. A scythe-bladed moon hangs over the horizon, shallow cup of the night’s wisdom. Looking at it, Clay’s meditative trance arises of its own accord.
There I am. I am beautiful.

Hi
s phone plays chimes, Tharcia’s ring.

“
Hey you.”

“Hey Stuka. What shakes?”
She sounds good, connected, smile in her voice.

“Out for dinner with a friend. How’s by you?”

“Caught a few waves with a couple friends. Steamer Lane. When’ll ya be home?”

“
Um. Might be a while.”

“Like, late?”

“Like I’ve been abducted.”

She laughs. “Where are ya?”

“Pebble. Spanish Inn.”

“Hoity-toity. She nice? I assume she’s a she.”

“She seems a very good conversationalist.”

“Well, don’t
converse about anything I wouldn’t.”

“
Nut case.”

“
Guess I won’t see ya.”

“
Tomorrow, looks like.”

“M
m. Well, I’m not going home, then.”

“How come?”

“Well, it’s fine if you’re there. Just that… deep freeze thing, you know. Doesn’t seem to affect the rest of the house, but still…”

“Well, if you want
me to come back...” He lets the suggestion hang.

“
Nah. You have fun. I have friends around. See ya tomorrow, Clay.”

“Tharcie?”

“Yeh?”

“Glad we can talk again.”

“Me too times two. Nite, Stuka.”

When he
pockets the phone he’s smiling, notices Lillian standing beside the grand piano, watching him. She’s in a black floor-length dressing gown, lacy, looks like it’s from the 1930s, fits her well, where it fits her. A couple places leave little to the imagination. Clay goes inside.

“You put me to shame
,” he says, hands gentle on her shoulders. The black of the gown and her raven hair frame perfect skin. Clay sees promise in her eyes, a promise beginning to fade.

“Hope I’m not interruptin
g.” Standing toe to toe with him, she seems distant, eyes wary.

“Nope. Talking to Tharcie
.”

“Tharcie?”

“Tharcia. My daughter.”

Lil
lian lets out a breath, relaxes. “Everything alright at home?”

“She’s fine.
I‘ll see her tomorrow.”

She
smiles, reassured. “Well now that I have your attention…”

“Yes?”

Firm grip on his collar, she pulls him into a kiss. Her open lips slow but insistent on his, blue lights flash behind his closed lids. He draws back to look at her face, warm mouth and slitted eyes, suggesting a highborn woman and the hungriest nympho who ever walked down the street. Her mouth at his ear, formless words of moist tongue-caress, hands working at his belt. He reaches up, her gown whispers away. Kissing harder as they take one another down.

She
reclines on plush carpet, watching him get rid of his clothing, eyes urging him to hurry. Slender ankles in powerful hands he spreads her legs wide, V for victory, she sighs, eyes on his face as he opens her. Male heat strokes her parting flesh, the reason she is here. Her body lifts to his. She’d had other things in mind, control things, those can wait. Now she hears only an unstoppable song to let him do her, just do her, why she melts despite herself as he looks down at her lovely face, desire pushing them, a lashing whip of flame. She moves in his grip, songbird legs in hawk talons, spread-eagled on the wing as they fall together through dark dark night of wheeling stars.

She gives in completely. They
will do this, and more. His cock heavy in her blossoming sex, her hips twist upward, flesh draws him in. Presses her legs back with muscled arms to look down at his angel, speared. Her rising voice, head twisting side to side. Legs pinioned, her only movement is within. She grips, pulls deeper. Joined mouths in hungry kiss sing out shared joy of being found.

Within sixty seconds of walking into the packed club, Tharcia knows who will take her home. They’ve met briefly. She is one of those who look up as Tharcia pushes through the swirling mob at the entrance and into the orbits of talking, dancing, drinking and laughing women on a Saturday night.

There is
a quality possessed by some which draws the attention as to a resonant bell. This quality provides its owner with emotional access to almost any person. It is beyond mere self-confidence, beyond stylish aloofness, vibrantly alive whether its owner is physically pleasing or is not, and is felt or described as a fire in the eyes and a gift of the tongue, an impression of warmth, a sensation, some say, of being in a special presence.

Conceit can nearly ruin it, and the bearer, if quizzed, will
be unable to say what it is, or indeed whether she or he can lay claim to the ineffable quality. To state that this mystic aura would be limited to appealing young women while out buying shoes would disrespect its magic. Being one of the nine billion names of God there is a sacred aspect, so when pressed, even linguists are forced to conclude that this refined quality is simply “it” and is therefore defined solely by itself.

And so, as Tharcia walks alone
onto the crowded noisy
Los Lesbos
dance floor, Felton’s latest hot spot on the social map, it is that unutterable alloy of qualities in a young woman that makes heads swivel, causes conversation to wane and the room to pause for breath. It is not found in Tharcia’s bun-hugging black stretch leggings, or her beaded lace black satin vintage Fabian Molina bolero jacket, the flowing pearl-toned silk shirt she wears under it, or in her polished oxblood boots. It originates in none of these things, but rather from her childlike attitude, from the fact that she loves to be inventive and playful and does not mind if anyone takes her seriously or not.

So
in Tharcia walks, straight to the bar, making eye contact where it is given, smiling for those her Saturday Night smile. Pushes between two ladies at the bar, an easy laugh,
I’m dying of sobriety here
, their smiles as they let her through to order. Picks up two Gin and tonics, turns, looks. Crosses the room toward a lovely redhead.

“Hey, I’m supposed to give one of these to someone
special. Is that you?”

Nice
eyes, surprised and pleased. “Why yes love, I actually believe it is.” She accepts the drink. “I’m Mazz.”

“Hey Mazz. Tharcia.”

“What? Loud in here.”

She
leans in, shouts at the woman’s ear.

“Ah.
Nice.”

They dance,
warm smiles and flirty eyes. A woman cuts in and pulls Mazz away, Tharcia hears the first hissed syllables of catfight. Someone turns her by the elbow, nice eyes, good touch dancer, they start into something between a samba and hip hop.