[Steven Lyle Jordan]

Episode 3: The Ukrainian Connection, subtitle: DOS Vedanya!

By Steve Jordan

1: Living the good life

The Moon was high and full over the San Diego mountains. Okay, I suppose they’re just hills, technically… but compared to Baltimore, my last port of call, they’re mountains. It provided the largely-cloudless night with the kind of illumination that often convinced people that they could drive all night without their headlights on, or walk the most secluded streets without fearing the shadows. It also made slightly uncomfortable the kind of people who might take advantage of the night to lie around on a mansion patio, nearby the infinity pool that faced the bay, totally naked.

People like myself, for instance.

Despite any amount of personal discomfort I felt for being thus exposed, however, I stayed right where I was, lying on a plush outdoor carpet just beyond the lip of the pool, next to a creature who apparently did not share my reticence for being exposed to the potential voyeurs of the night. And considering her tastes, not to mention her physical assets, I’d be willing to bet there were telescopes all over the neighborhood that regularly swung in this direction. But she showed no inclination to cover up, and frankly I was too tired to bother. I swear, I had probably lost five pounds in the last month, just from hanging out with this woman. And for the record: I don’t diet.

My uncharacteristically-poetic musings were finally broken when Gail, my new main squeeze, and formerly my older brother’s wife and main squeeze, rolled onto her side, pressing her warm and inviting flesh against my side, and said, “you look slightly puckered.”

I grinned. “Two hours of sex in a pool will do that to you.”

“Actually, I meant your forehead,” Gail said, poking me playfully in the ribs. “What are you thinking about?”

“How many of your neighbors have managed by now to catalogue the type and number of my pubic hairs while I lie out here.”

Gail seemed to consider my comment carefully. Instead of one of her typically off-the-cuff sexual remarks, she finally said, “Mike, I wouldn’t want you to feel uncomfortable when you’re with me. Ever. C’mon, let’s go inside.” Whereupon she stood up, striking the most incredible figure in the moonlight, and chivalrously offered me a hand up. (Does that even apply for women?) “We’ll let the bed have some fun for a change.”

“For a change,” I echoed wryly. It was true, Gail had managed to introduce me to almost every horizontal surface, quite a few vertical and inclined spots, and shapes that I didn’t even think two human bodies could fit into at the same time, all over her house. Gail loved to find, and exploit, inventive ways to have sex, and I have to admit, she even seemed to get more turned on by the fact that I was so far not shying away from any of them. At times, I wondered where I would finally draw the line… but so far, she hadn’t managed to invite anything into our sex-wrestling that looked like a line to me, so I kept coming. “I’m thirsty… is there—”

“Plenty of beer—” Gail started to say, then caught herself. “Plenty more besides beer… whatever you want.” She took my arm and walked me past the outdoor spa, past the sauna and into the entertainment room, where the fully-stocked bar awaited, with soft built-in lights that gave it a late-night-on-the-town glow. She steered me to a stool, and once I’d sat down, she gave me a pat on the rear, then stepped behind the bar, and asked, “What’s your poison?”

“Surprise me,” I said, as I watched my naked bartender work. If nothing else, I was sure she wouldn’t get me a beer. That was Pete’s preferred drink… Pete, my brother, that is. Pete, my brother, her ex, that also is. Maybe she hoped I hadn’t noticed her little slip-up back there… on the other hand, she wasn’t stupid, so I was pretty sure she knew I’d noticed, and was thinking hard trying to figure out a way to make me forget it. Therefore, I could depend on my next drink at her hands to be tasty, powerful, and sexually charging.

When she handed me the glass from behind the bar, I took a sip, and I swear, for a moment the walls changed color behind her. I gasped, and smiled. “You would make a great bartender.” I took another look at my glass. “No cherry?”

Gail smiled, and in response, came out from behind the bar. I looked down and saw, nestled among the smooth ab-lines of that incredible body, a cherry in her belly-button. She paused next to me, and waited expectantly for me to get my treat. Not to be one to turn down a cherry (finish that line yourself, you perv), I set down my drink and knelt down before her, ready to partake.

And I couldn’t help thinking to myself: Exactly what did I do to deserve such an incredible turn of luck in my life? At moments like this, it was hard to imagine that getting blackballed from my old job on the East Coast could be anything but the best thing that ever happened to me, bar none. Fate had dealt me a do-over for a going-nowhere existence, and I’d hit the life lottery on the first day. Increasingly, the mysteries behind the firing, the question of the mysterious “Merc,” and the concern over who had chosen me to be sacrificed upon the altar of secrecy, mattered less and less. Life had become heaven, with my own personal centerfold angel. And I didn’t ever want to turn this page. Slowly I reached out, seeking something to hang onto.

That’s when the cellphone on the bar started playing “Life in the Fast Lane.”

I wouldn’t say Gail jumped in surprise or anything. But when she turned in the direction of the ringtone, the cherry popped out of her navel and bounced on the tile floor. I looked down in disappointment at the cherry, and couldn’t help but reflect on the disturbing symbolism inherent in that moment; then up at Gail, who was already moving away and around the bar, reaching for her phone urgently. She picked it up from the bar as I stood up, and before she keyed it on, she flashed me a strange look. Then she hit the receive button and tucked it against her ear.

“Martin. It’s kind of late,” she said, revealing another talent she had: Being a master of understatement.

She listened to the voice at the other end for a time, without speaking. Abruptly, she looked at me. I couldn’t describe the expression on her face… I have recently proven that I’ve gotten really bad at reading people. Suffice it to say, she didn’t look happy. It occurred to me then, that I’d heard many different ringtones on Gail’s phone—she was the kind of person who used personalized ringtones for her contacts, and as a geek myself, I could get behind that—but I had never heard this one before. Finally she said, “Don’t worry. It’ll work out. I’ll see you there, okay? Don’t talk to anyone else.” She paused to listen. “Especially not her.”

She flicked the phone off. This time, when she looked at me, I knew exactly what she was thinking. “Someone you know needs my help?”

She nodded her head.