88 An interrupted drama and a dubious portent
He heads off inland and I turn back to the beach. So, I have an hour to spare. I should keep an eye on Lucan and Angel, in case there's any mischief being hatched there against Shigem. I set my phone's alarm, head down to the old Casino and perch in seclusion on the wide ledge behind it, facing out across the water.
I fire out a quick picture of Angel, lob my attention after it and feel this pulled over towards him ... and to the extent I find myself landing inside you, Angel, I suddenly find myself squatting down naked, licking Lucan's prodigious cock, in something like heaven—which wasn't what I was expecting and for which I haven't quite prepared.
Still, I stick with it, for research's sake, till Lucan at last lets your head away. By gesture you suggest that Lucan reciprocate, which I'm sensing is a rare suggestion—and perhaps I'm right, as straight away a hand wraps itself around your throat and shoves you up hard against the headboard. "I don't suck cock, faggot," he whispers with half-ironic menace. "Why are your breasts still small? Double hormones from now on—four pills a day. That could be a boy's chest, almost. Cover it up, we're going out."
"Out? But we haven't—I was just getting started and I need closure and I'm gonna kill someone—I HATE that—"
"Later. Shut the fuck up now. We're meeting the others for lunch and we're late," says Lucan, zipping his black jeans back up, lounging back onto a divan by the bed and lighting a cigarette. "And cover up your love-bites, or the model gets it," and he pulls out a flick-knife and deftly slices the blade up through the air to rest against the neck of the wax Angel from Damian's path, which sits coquettishly posed on the divan beside him, naked except for mirrored sunglasses and a whip around its neck.
It's not a moment when I'm expecting a make-up tip, but this is in fact what I get, as you smother your anger, sit at the vanity mirror and start applying Angel-coloured concealer, at high speed and with the blitheness of practice, to what I should hope is an unusually violent night's worth of whip-marks, bruises, love-bites and noose-marks, new and old, around your neck and shoulders. The mention of food reminds you you've not eaten for nearly twenty-four hours.
"No time for make-up," says Lucan, "put something over it, cover it up—quick, Flames and Kev and Damian are waiting."
"But it's a hot-ass day."
"Quit moaning or I'll bitch-slap you and the model to hell," says Lucan, lounging back easily with the cigarette hanging out of his mouth, while you put down the make-up, flounce to your feet and start hunting through a wardrobe, wings aquiver.
Lucan's phone rings. "Yeah... Evelyn baby, what do you want. Did Alaia give you my message I gave her on the phone? Good... Oh, you bet I'll give him some special treatment, mm-hm... What?... Oh? And why couldn't it be Shigem?... How do I know he was in Paradise that night? Prove it! I mean, I know he was in there with Jaymi, but prove... Hold on, why are you just giving me a character ass-lick for him?... If you tell me how 'sweet' he is again, I'm going to throw up on the phone... Fuck eye-witness accounts, that's not the best you have ... that is the best—? Wait, wait... No, wait—Evelyn, shut the fuck up and listen to me. So you're giving me a character ass-lick for Shigem and you're saying people could swear he was in Paradise that night—and this is the best proof I can get that he was there?... There's nothing else you could give me, to prove the little cock-sucker was in Paradise? You have no proof, more than that, to persuade me to promise you some protection for him?... OK! OK, Evelyn—very interesting... No, no, nothing. All I'm saying is, you know, he still coulda got someone else to plant the head, or it still coulda been his idea—I can't rule these things out... Well I dunno, maybe Paradise paid him to scare business away from Downstairs, why not. OK, gotta go now Evelyn, kiss kiss," and he cuts her off.
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THE IMAGINATION THIEF (mini-chapters 1-98)Fantasy
"The Imagination Thief" by Rohan Quine is about a web of secrets, triggered by the stealing and copying of people's imaginations and memories. It's about the magic that can be conjured up by images of people, in imagination or on film; the split bet...