Chapter 416: Cheli XIII—Appetites
“So how things going with your wife, Cheli,” Brett Hull said, grinning and sitting splayed and content on the bench, his thick arms crossed over his belly, which in recent weeks, Chris noticed, had grown considerably… and not with muscle.
He sniffed and smiled, he thought of Tracee, inviting him back home, the long kiss in the parking lot outside of the restaurant that tumbled into the front seat of the car. He thought about her giggles, feeling rushed and uncertain like the first time together, he thought about the children in the morning, hugging him, no one speaking of certain things, or blaming him for anything. No one even asked for an apology. Still, Tracee hadn’t let him in the bedroom or in the bed; she had another room set up for him, his clothes in the drawer, shoes, and toiletries. Step by step, she made that much clear.
“Pretty good,” Chris said. “I’m back home too Hullie, so don’t even think about swinging that fat dick of yours near my wife, she’d run screaming anyway, or just die under that fat gut, shit lay off the donuts Brett.”
Hull’s pale, Nordic eyes gleamed, watered and clear, he smiled, “Give a man a concerned inquiry and he bites your fucking head off,” he flipped the bird, a sausage thick pale pink tipped finger. “I love you too Candy-ass Greek bastard.”
“You know, it’s interesting, it really is.” Kirk Maltby said in a perky voice and he snapped his garters with flair before unfastening them. “The two of you obviously feel a great deal of affection for each other but you need to express it with insults and obscene gestures.”
Brett stuck his tongue out and waggled it suggestively to Malts and Chelios laughed. Even Brett’s tongue seemed fat, a bloated, crimson worm, poking out and rolling. Why the fuck puck sluts covered Brett at every road stop was beyond him. “And what does that mean, Kirk? Enlighten us.”
“Blatant homophobia, you two fear being labeled as gay or erotic with any sort of affection shown towards each other so you have to mask it as hostile behavior.” Wide eyes, blink for emphasis, and then Kirk proceeded to remove his sweaty hockey socks.
“I’ll show you homophobia,” Brett replied his scratching voice cracking. He grabbed his cup and cradled it, displayed it. “Come here and suck this Kirk, so I can smash your faggot little head in spouting all this psycho babble cock shit did you fuck a shrink or something?”
“Psychology major,” Kirk grinned, “She’s a keeper.”
“Young too, I bet,” Chris said, and his groin warmed at the thought. He hadn’t seen this girl yet, Kirk must have just met her, or been keeping her a secret when Chris stayed with him. Smart move by Malts, Chris imagined he would have had the girl squirming and cornered just for bored kicks on a bad day. “So what else does she have to say about us horny hockey hounds?”
Malts yawned and scratched his scalp. “Not too much, she knows mostly the guys who play hockey at the university, she thinks they’re all closeted gays too with the need to share one slut for two guys, subconscious urge to share sexual experiences and connect on a homosexual level.” He stretched and yawned. “Hell she could be right.”
“Because I’m different than all the others,” Maltby grinned, “I’m sensitive and care about her feelings.”
“Works every time!”
“So is that what you’re doing?” Brett asked after they’d returned to the hotel, making a beeline for the bar. “You’re showing Tracee you care about her feelings.”
Soft and caring, he thought of her eyes when she looked at the children, or caressed his cheek. Butter pale highlights, a hair cut that now framed her angular face, brought out those eyes, and somehow they reminded him of the bruises he’d left on the delicate flesh of her throat. Bruised eyes, whether she knew she had him or not, they were wounded, muted, long suffering, battered and only once had he ever raised his hand in violence against her, and even then, he’d been asleep. “I care about how she feels Brett.”
“Yeah,” Brett said, drawling the word out long and fading, he sighed. “Yeah you do, I know. I’d like to see it work with you; God knows I screwed it up enough in my life, what with me being a shit and all.”
Chris patted Brett’s shoulder briefly. “Hey, I’m sorry about that Hullie.”
“So right now, you’re honeymooning Trace again, you’re getting in touch with the better parts of your nature, you’re becoming charming and everything she’d forgot you could be?” Brett reached into his pocket, pulled out a cigarette and lighter. He balanced it on his lips as he lit it. Not completing a full out check all season, puking at intermission, barely able to sustain any on ice stamina, none of that really surprised Chris about Brett taking into account his off ice degradation to his body. Brett’s third in the league rank amongst goal scorers, now that took Chris aback. For one, he knew every other guy put more effort into self maintenance and work ethic than Brett, and the golden boy still blew them away with pure talent.
A man blessed by the hockey gods, a man boundless in heart and passion. Yeah he could really hate him sometimes.
“Yeah, I guess,” Chris replied. “But it’s not an act, Hullie, when I’m home, I want to show her I deserve to be there, and she deserves to have that consideration. So don’t give me shit about it. Okay?”
Brett plucked the cigarette from his lips and blew a cloud of smoke into his face. Chris’ eyes watered but he didn’t cough. “I’m just wondering if you plan on being a monk on the road as well. That’s all brother.”
Tilting his
head forward he looked at
“You’ll really like this one,” Brett grinned, grabbing his cell phone. “Trust me.”
A modeling
institute, an art school, a pretty good cover, Chelios thought. He knew
instantly where they were the second Brett brought him into the building even
though he’d never been inside it before. One had to love
“So how’s this whore house better than any other I’ve been in?” Chris said getting an annoyed look from the scrawny, over styled receptionist who took their clipboards with short questionnaires they had filled out from them. Nothing on the paper, at least, asked for any real name or contact information. Tiny finger cakes, dainty cookies and coffee with liquor sat on a welcoming table. Chris grabbed a cup of coffee, poured a shot in, and smiled raised his eyebrows when Brett grabbed only a small piece of cake.
“Just wait a minute,” Brett said, “You’ll see.” He popped the cake into his mouth and sighed appreciatively. “Even the appetizers here are the real thing.”
After a minute or so, glancing at his watch, staring at the stupid authentic impressionist painting on the wall, Chris sighed. “Brett, I hate surprises what’s the catch here, especially since I’m a grand lighter in my wallet.”
“Ah haha,” Brett laughed slowly. “Yeah, well you know in whore houses, you got some of the rattiest, oldest, wrinkled, floppy breasted sorry pieces of work known to man kind. I mean the fresh stuff, they don’t have much of that and even then they don’t last long or even speak English, it’s like paying money to rape.”
Chris lifted one corner of his lip, “Well when you put it like that…”
“This ain’t it,” Brett said and he grabbed a cookie this time. He
rolled it in his hand where it left powdered sugar on his fingers. “These honies are worth every single fucking penny, it’s like
“Sure,”
Chris said, a little pissed about the money he’d just paid upon entrance, and
wondering how drunken
After another few minutes, a woman entered the waiting room, suit dress, pinned hair, smooth make up. “These girls are within the price range you offered us,” she held out her hand to the open doorway and a line of eight young women glided into the room. “Have fun making your selection and press the button on the wall next to you, Mr. Hull when you’ve decided, and we will direct you two to your room. You have an hour and a half with your selection, and your money is non refundable so please choose carefully. We hope to insure your utmost pleasure for today.” With a pert smile, the woman left the room.
It took only a moment’s glance for Chris to realize Brett hadn’t been lying or exaggerating about the attributes of the women here. Ranging from tall to short to voluptuous to… waif… and Chris felt his heart actually flutter, his gut actually turned and tightened in a way both revolting and enticing. Every single one of these women indeed looked like models, looked glamorous, gorgeous, clean, and perfect and then, “Brett,” he murmured, “Look at that one.”
Could the women hear them? They stood only feet away from them, hands behind their back, expressions blank, lips red and full, hair glossy, but no indication of the interaction they could provide. They gave no indication they could hear their words nor care about them.
“Which one, the sweetie?” Brett breathed. Chris glanced at him and he could tell Brett saw the same one he did. If a girl could be presented in a velvet jewel box, this one certainly would fit. Porcelain, fragile, gleaming eyes like something precious, Chris wanted this one, no refusals.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“Naw,” Brett said in a drawl, “She ain’t big enough for the both of us, there wouldn’t be anything left.”
Chelios grinned, “I guess not, heh, she looks pretty small,” and pretty youthful, he thought. With all that expert fashion and make up he wondered how infantile and unremarkable she’d look if undressed. “Too small to share?”
“Yeah,” Brett said, but he still hadn’t taken his eyes off her. “Yeah we’d lose her on the bed, prol’ly fuck each other instead.”
Smiling, Chelios tore his eyes off the jewel and he looked at Brett. “What did Malts say about that; didn’t he say something about sharing a girl? Homoerotic tendencies wasn’t it?”
And the girl laughed. Quick, high, and stifled as soon as she let it escape. None of the other women moved, they stood dispassionate, unflinching. The girl’s cheeks were pink her eyes sparkled with life, and that’s the only way Chris could describe it. The other women were beautiful, better endowed than this girl, mature, but their eyes held nothing for him. But this one, “Hey did you just laugh?”
She lifted an ebony eyebrow, a doll of a creature, and Chris realized to his delight that the girl had apple green eyes, colored contacts more than likely but they danced. “Well you were funny.” Southern accent, syrupy, and probably coached into her, he could tell the role they had her groomed for, Southern Belle Scarlett.
“Well Brett?”
“You know what? She’s a real doll too, huh, something to remember maybe. For an extra five hundred bucks they’ll even let us rent a camera to film it, a little personal souvenir just for us.”
What followed for Chris equaled to one of the most powerful experiences of his life. He couldn’t think of something more intense than this, save a memory or two that fast withered under the girl’s deft little fingers and smooth lips. For some reason, Brett would not touch her except to kiss her randomly. He seemed more interested in the camera, filming, making laughs, small words, small talk, jokes and Chris had to wonder if perhaps Brett was a little scared to touch her.
Not that Brett could be blamed. It didn’t take long for Chris to realize that he’d found himself possibly the youngest girl he’d ever touched, probably younger than his stomach would ever want to know. It disgusted him, but her magic far overpowered his senses. “You got something in your brain,” she whispered to him, almost immediately, her accent muted fingers over his face, tracing the outlines of his features.
“What?” he murmured fast feeling a heavy, ponderous, intoxicated fascination in his mind, with those gemlike eyes tearing into him.
“In your brain,” she whispered and as insane as that felt, he could feel a stroking in his skull, as if her fingers were there, manipulating, soothing. “You got something in there hon, it’s tearing yer chest out.” It had to be something in her voice.
“How would you know,” he whispered.
“I can feel it,” she replied before she kissed him the first time and took complete control of his senses. “I can work on that pain a little if you let me honey. I’m real good at that.”
“What are you an angel?” he asked with a smile, smoothing his fingers over her sleek black hair.
“I can be,” she grinned. “You’ll see proof of that in a minute.”
By the time Chris left that building, he felt light headed, smiling, and hanging onto Brett, laughing and ultimately happier than he’d ever been in his life. Fuck the past, fuck Michele, fuck Tracee, that little whore had somehow... healed him. “She’s a drug, Brett, a fucking saint that little Chloe.”