The Insiders

Brant drove carelessly but competently, as he did everything else. The traffic had thinned down considerably by this time in the morning, but the usual fog had wet the pavements, so that he was forced to drive a trifle slower than he usually did.

He lit a cigarette and offered Eve one, but she shook her head, refusing even to look at him as she huddled up against the door on the opposite side in the ridiculous grea

tcoat she wore. They stopped for a traffic light, and now he studied her profile openly, reaching out suddenly to touch a bruise that showed darkly against her cheekbone.

"You won't be able to work for a while with that. I'll send you a check."

She jerked her head away sharply at his touch, turning to look at him at last, speaking with her voice low and husky and full of the venom and hatred she felt.

"I wouldn't accept anything from you, Brant Newcomb. Not even a million dollars. You can keep your goddam conscience money!"

The light changed, and he put the car in gear as they crawled up a steep hill.

"Baby, I have no conscience. You ought to know that. But you—you're still full of fight, aren't you? Well, maybe your boyfriend will take care of whatever excess energy you have left. I presume he's good at that."

No reaction from her this time. Well, he hadn't really expected any. And he was starting to feel tired, too; to get that flat, stale taste in his mouth that always came after a party, after the drinking and the drugs and the women and, yes, the men, too—at the kind of party it had been last night it didn't seem to matter very much after a certain point who did what to whom. Ah, shit, he thought bleakly, suddenly, what is everything about? The parties, the orgies, the constant search for new faces, new kicks—it was all getting stale and pointless. Maybe what he needed was to go on a cruise again— go island-hopping in the sloop. But alone, this time. Or maybe he'd take Pedro along to keep an eye on the boat, spell him while he slept, and do the cooking. Pedro was a good sailor, and he wasn't the talkative kind.

Yeah, that was it; that was what he needed. To get away someplace. No gang, no liquor, no drugs, and no women. Except maybe for the island women who wouldn't know Brant Newcomb from Popeye the Sailor. Women who'd fuck a man only if they wanted him, the man, and not the aura of money and power and wicked-ness that clung to him. Women who were free and uninhibited and honest and had no hang-ups at all. Damn his money, anyhow! It hung like an albatross around his neck sometimes. Like the memory of Syl. His lost innocence, bis lost love. Syl. He wondered savagely if her name would hang suspended in his thoughts forever.

He had begun to drive far too fast, and the car went suddenly into a skid on a sharp curve. He cursed softly as he wrestled with the wheel, but Eve, who had been thrown against him, could see the shine of excitement in his eyes in the streetlight. She realized that they might be killed, and it came to her that for the first time the thought held no terror for her. It didn't matter— she was past caring—and obviously it didn't matter to him, either—it was the challenge that excited him, as if the car were just another object to be mastered and conquered at his hands.

The car under control again, Brant drove on as though nothing had happened, but Eve could sense him looking sideways at her. Well, she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of a comment, not even a gasp of fear. She had felt no fear while it was happening—she had felt nothing but an intolerable tiredness and sadness. She wished that he would hurry, skid or no skid. She needed the security of her apartment now—and David. Oh, God—David! What would he say? What would he do? She must look a mess, and there would be telltale marks all over her body. She could feel the alien juices seeping out of her, and she shuddered uncontrollably.

"Cold?"

His voice prodded at her again, hateful and mocking. She disliked and feared this man beside her more than she'd ever thought it possible for her to hate anyone. Her anger made it impossible not to answer.

"Don't start worrying about me now, Brant Newcomb. Worry about yourself, why don't you? About your—your immortal soul, if you have one left."

She didn't know why she had said that, why she had said anything at all. What part of her subconscious mind had dredged up the old church precepts that she had long ago pushed away as being archaic and unacceptable?

Surprisingly, she sensed a sudden rigidity in him, a tensing of his hands on the wheel before he laughed, his laughter sounding forced.

"My immortal what? Doll, I lost my soul, such as it was, to the Devil a long time ago. Maybe I never had one. Anyhow, the priests gave up on me years ago. And as long as I give enough money to the church, they leave me alone. We have a real nice arrangement, you might say! And I believe they even pray for me."

"You—you're a Catholic, too?"

She couldn't keep the surprise and the loathing out of her voice, and he chuckled again.

"We have another thing in common now, don't we, luv? Maybe it'll make for a convenient arrangement between us."

"I already told you—I'd rather be dead."

She moved as far away from him as the car would permit, hatred edging her voice.

"You really ought to cut out the melodrama, Eve. You're beginning to sound very, very boring."

His voice turned cold and contemptuous again. His words were meant to goad her, but she was determined to ignore him this time. She could feel his eyes on her until, shrugging, he looked ahead once more, pushing down on the gas pedal almost viciously and causing the car to leap ahead with a jolt that almost snapped her neck. She kept her eyes obstinately closed for the rest of the ride, refusing to acknowledge either fear or his presence beside her.

When he braked to a stop outside her apartment, Eve fumbled for the door handle immediately, but it wouldn't open; he leaned across her with an impatiently muttered "Oh shit!" and unlocked it for her. She cringed away from his arm, and because she did, he could feel the cold anger come up from inside him, and he deliberately held her pinned there, pulling her face around to his while his eyes raked over her body, which shook with fear and disgust.

"No word of thanks? No goodnight kiss? I took you for a well-brought-up girl. Shame on you, Eve Mason!"

"Ohhh—damn you, damn you!" she hissed at him, and he laughed thinly as he brought his mouth down over hers very slowly and deliberately.

Her lips seemed to quiver and vibrate under his long and brutal kiss, and he could feel the rigidity of her body under his arm for just a moment until she suddenly went all soft and lay there passively and limply, refusing to fight back anymore. Why hadn't she done this earlier, in the game room? Kissing her now was suddenly hke kissing a doll made of plastic. Her lips were as cold and lifeless as plastic; only her eyes, defiantly open, glared hatred at him.

With an exclamation of disgust, he pushed her away from him, so that she half-fell through the door and he had to grab at her arm to steady her. He saw her wipe the back of her hand across her mouth childishly before she pulled herself free of his grip and was gone, her heels clattering against the damp and empty sidewalk before she disappeared into the doorway. He looked upward then, and there was a light on in one of the upstairs rooms—hers? As he watched, he saw a man's shadow stand silhouetted, peering down. Brant grinned mirthlessly. He slammed the door that she'd left standing open, and gunned his motor loudly, waving mockingly at the man's outhne as he roared off, his tires screaming into the silence of the deserted streets.