Once again Roxie assisted
Jepson eat. They shared a seat, listened to the band and dozed away.
Roxie woke when a hand
clamped over her mouth and Bobol whispered into her ear: “Stay quiet, we’re
taking a walk.”
Roxie tried to question
him and made puzzled moans. He lifted her, arms under knees and shoulders.
It was later than
midnight and the Village was asleep. Limping but silent, Bobol carried her to
the pond side opening in the picket wall. T’Hortz stood watch under full red
and quarter blue moons. When not defending his community he collected reeds,
wove mats and baskets, there was a particular fiber that made strong slick
ropes popular all over Homestead.
The sentry was twenty
feet away, faced the night, never heard or saw Bobol and Roxie.
She was sleeping again,
still coming off the drugs and other excitements.
When Bobol didn’t kill
her immediately she had concluded that he wanted to sneak away and get sexy
with her. She liked the idea, it helped her sense of calm, so she slept until
he was ready.
He only wanted a private
conversation.
Roxie opened her eyes
again when he lay her on sandy ground near one of the tiny creeks. She started
to undress and he dropped a hand over hers: “Don’t do that—not what I need… ”
He squatted by her shoulders.
She didn’t believe him:
“Your all tense—relax… ” Fingers worked buttons, she offered perky petite
breasts.
Bobol had eyes only for
her face: “Why did you say I pushed Chowder?”
She eased her spine, let
her chest settle down: “I had to, for Cal.”
“Why?”
“Cal told me… I do what
he says, he’s Cal. I have to.”
“Are you in love with
the guy?”
She nodded ‘Yes’:
“Uh-huh… And I love you, but Cal is first—he’s an artist!” She opened the
blouse again: “C’mon… lie down.”
He’d used herbs for the
pain, but the abused toe raged in his shoe, he needed to take the weight off.
Roxie took his arm and
pulled him to her side, he looked at the sky.
She rolled atop,
astraddle his hips, started to open his pants.
He blocked her hands:
“Wait ‘til morning—I’m beat.”
She stretched at his
flank, across his left shoulder and put a tender kiss upon his cheek: “Poor
Bobol—Roxie can help you… ” Hand rested under his shirt.
They slept.
Cal rolled against a
thorny lemon branch and got stabbed. He woke.
Hungry again, raided the
beds and stayed on T’Hortz’s blind side eating another walking salad.
Then thirsty and wanting
drugs, he went to find Chattagong.
Down the ravine trail
and followed the stream upways.
A little patch of beach
and Bobol lay with Roxie, sleeping.
The perfect opportunity,
Cal drew his knife.
Before he reached
Bobol’s throat he stopped, distracted by sounds of moving men. Looked around
and saw skulking forms along the further bank. Low in the brush, somehow
oblivious to his presence.
More interesting than
murder, he sheathed his blade and crept along behind.
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