Mirror Image

“I guess I’m gonna move my car.”

A few minutes later, he parked in an alley several blocks away, between a boot repair shop and a tortilla factory. As soon as he cut the engine, he looked across the interior of the car at Avery. She glanced at him sideways. Simultaneously, they burst out laughing. It lasted for several minutes.

“Aw, Jesus,” he said, squeezing the bridge of his nose, “I’m tired. It feels good to laugh. Guess I have Buck Burdine to thank.”

Rain was coming down in torrents and sheeting against the windows of the ca

r. The streets were virtually deserted on this rainy weeknight. The businesses that sandwiched them were closed, but their neon signs projected wavering stripes of pink and blue into the car.

“Has it been horrible, Tate?”

“Yeah. Horrible.” Mindlessly, he traced the stitching around the padded leather steering wheel. “I’m losing ground every day, not gaining it. My campaign’s on the wane here in the final weeks, when it should be picking up momentum by the hour. It looks like Dekker is going to pull it off again.” He thumped the steering wheel with his fist.

Avery shut out everything except him. She gave him her undivided attention, knowing that he needed a sounding board that didn’t talk back. He hadn’t had to tell her that he was tired. Lines of weariness and worry were etched at the sides of his mouth and around his eyes.

“I’ve never once doubted that it was my destiny to serve this state in the U.S. Senate.” He turned his head and looked at her. She nodded in agreement but said nothing, uncertain how she should respond. He wouldn’t tolerate banalities and platitudes.

“I even skipped running for state representative and went after what I ultimately wanted. But now, I’m beginning to wonder if I’ve been listening to people who only told me what I wanted to hear. Have I got delusions of grandeur?”

“Undoubtedly.” She smiled when he registered surprise over her candor. “But name one politician who doesn’t. It takes someone with enormous self-confidence to assume the responsibility for thousands of people’s lives, Tate.”

“We’re all egomaniacs, then?”

“You have a healthy self-esteem. That’s nothing to be ashamed of or apologize for. The ability to lead is a gift, like being musically inclined or having a genius for numbers.”

“But no one accuses a mathematical wizard of exploitation.”

“Your integrity wouldn’t allow you to exploit anyone, Tate. The ideals you espouse aren’t just campaign slogans. You believe in them. You’re not another Rory Dekker. He’s all wind. He’s got no substance. In time, the voters are going to realize that.”

“You still think I’m going to win?”

“Absolutely.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

It became very close and still within the car while the rain continued to beat against the roof and lash at the windows. He reached across the car and laid his hand flat on her chest, his thumb and little finger stretching from collarbone to collarbone.

Avery’s eyes closed. She made a slight swaying motion toward him as though being tugged by an invisible string. When she opened her eyes again, he was much nearer. He had moved to the center of the bench seat and his eyes were busily scanning her face.

His hand slid up her throat and curled around the back of her neck. When his lips touched hers, spontaneous combustion consumed them. They kissed madly while their hands battled to gain ground. His smoothed down her chest, over the tailored suit jacket, then up again to knead her breasts through the quality cloth.

Avery caressed his hair, his cheeks, the back of his neck, and his shoulders, then drew him against her as she fell back into the corner of the seat.

He unbuttoned the two buttons on her left shoulder and wrestled with the row of hooks running down that side of her torso. When he shoved open the jacket, the gold locket now containing his and Mandy’s pictures slipped into the valley between her breasts. The neon lights made a nighttime rainbow of her skin. Streams of rainwater cast fluid shadows across her breasts which were swelling out of her bra.

He bent his head and kissed the full curve, then the dark center. Through the lace, his tongue flicked roughly, hungrily, lustfully.

“Tate,” she moaned, as sensations swirled from her breast throughout the rest of her body. “Tate, I want you.”

Clumsily, he freed himself from his trousers and carried her hand down. Her fingers encircled the rigid length of his penis. As she caressed its velvety tip with the ball of her thumb, he buried his face between her breasts and gasped snatches of erotic phrases and promises.

His hands slipped beneath her narrow skirt. She helped him get her underpants off. Their lips met in a frantic, passion-driven kiss while they sought a workable position within the impossible confines of the front seat.

“Damn!” he cursed, his voice sounding dry and raw.

Suddenly he sat up and pulled her over his lap. Holding her bottom between his hands beneath her skirt, he positioned her above his erection. She impaled herself. They gave glad cries which, within seconds, diminished to pleasurable groans.