Hotter Blood: More Tales of Erotic Horror

CRUISING Lisa W. Cantrell

Danny Norvill opened the door to the sleek gray Jaguar and slid behind the wheel.

Darkness coiled around him. Silence. The allure of the night.

A cool October wind cut sharply through the light clothes he wore and chilled his blood. But that was all right. He'd soon be warm. He'd be with Karen.

He reached over and closed the door.

Smiling, he placed his hands on the steering wheel — lightly, lovingly, rubbing his open palms against the black leather wheelcover.

Sitting in the car always affected him this way: an initial rush of pleasure, a tightening at his crotch. It was almost a sexual joining, and it fed the hunger in Danny the way a storybook woman sparks fire and passion in her man.

The long hood stretched endlessly before him; night-damp and shimmery, slick and sweet, it caressed his eyes like a silver dream:

It was the first time he'd seen the car, sitting in Fat Jack "Have WE Gotta DEAL For YOU" Carson's Used Car Lot over on Fourth and Main. He hadn 't even known it was a Jag then, but he'd known he wanted it. Wanted it like he wanted Karen. Wanted it until the pain of that wanting was a constant ache in his groin.

He still marveled at how Fate had dealt him a winner's hand: the not-unreasonable asking price; the sudden big sale that had netted his old man a sizable commission; the final payment on his Mom's Chevette. He hadn't quite believed it the day Fat Jack placed the keys in his hand and slapped him on the back, making some nowhere remark with a wink to his old man. They'd laughed, but it hadn't mattered. Nothing mattered but the keys in his hand and the car that had been in his blood from first sight. A special car. It made Danny Norvill special, too.

A turn of the ignition key, the car sprang to life, first with the growl Danny knew so well, then smoothing into the purr of the beast at rest that lures the reckless and cautions the wary.

He checked the gas gauge, smiled to see it near "Full." The old man had taken to giving him hell when he asked for extra cash, crappin' about lousy gas mileage and cost of upkeep and repairs, "not to mention insurance; shoulda never bought you that damn Brit car!" The old man's sales were down.

Danny didn't care. The Jag was worth it. Worth the extra work and expense. Worth the old man's flap. Worth it all when he sat behind the wheel and threaded the car like a silver needle through the staring eyes of the other kids.

Danny backed off the gas and let the XJ6 idle on its own, savoring the thrum of power, the headiness of being on the edge. The car consumed him like it always did, making him feel a part of it: the mind in the body, the hand in the fist.

He switched on the stereo.

Music spilled around him, the deep, primordial hammer of heavy metal bass — just the way he liked it. It pounded at his eardrums, drove into his body until he felt its rhythm like the beating of his heart.

The turn of a knob: running lights blinked on, wicked amber eyes gleaming in the darkness. A second revolution brought the headlights to full.

He cupped his right hand over the rounded gear shift lever mounted in the center console. Cool and slick, it fit his hand like a lover.

Slipped the lever into reverse.

Easing his foot off the brake, Danny backed the car out onto the main road and shifted into drive. The XJ6 began to roll forward. He didn't even have to give it any gas. On a flat, hard-surfaced road the car would do thirty by itself.

Another flick: Powerful halogen beams flashed to bright, shoving night back at least another fifty yards.

" 'Let there be light.' " Danny chuckled and gunned the Jag down the empty street.

Another Saturday night.

Time to go cruising.

He played the car gently around a corner and headed up Liberty Drive. It felt good driving the Jag again, real good. It was where he belonged on a Saturday night — him and the Jag, cruising the strip. So what if he wasn't a jock? So what if his family didn't belong to the Country Club set. So the fuck what?

Across the intersection of Liberty and Main.

Lights from the shopping center appeared up ahead on his right. Danny cut his speed. He could visualize the scene: some kids sitting in their cars, others lounging against front fenders or perched on hoods, a few inside the Pizza Den grouped around Cokes and pepperoni pizzas.

Karen would be here.

Karen…

For a moment he imagined she was already sitting here beside him, her hand on his leg, fingers creeping ever closer toward the bulge at his crotch. He could see them driving up to Sparrows Point, visualize her soft and yielding in the back seat… tight jeans rolling past her hips… blouse open, his hand on her breast…

Danny jerked himself back to reality, wiped sweat from his face with his sleeve and slowed even more, switching to running lights as he pulled in the side entrance to the shopping center's parking lot. He wanted to make a pass around behind the line of parked cars first, see if he could spot Karen in one of them.

Turning down the tape player, he crawled the Jaguar silently forward. A string of vehicles formed a close-knit semicircle beneath phosphorescents and neon. Familiar. Closed. Just like always.

But that was okay. He didn't need to be included. The Jag set him apart. In it, Danny was better than them all.

Keeping to the outer edge of the light, he scanned the parked cars — she wasn't inside any of them — then pulled back around behind some big green garbage Dumpsters and switched off his lights. Through a space between two Dumpsters, Danny watched… waited…

She came strolling out of the Pizza Den, flipping her long blond hair back in that way she had. God, she was beautiful. Jeans hugging her ass, jammed into her crack. He wiped away sweat, reached down to massage his swollen cock —

She wasn't alone.

Danny tensed as he saw Brad Simpson's tall, beefy form swing in beside her. One hand stuffed into the pocket of his jeans, the other draped possessively across her shoulders. His Varsity letter jacket billowed in the breeze.

Dammit. God damned son-of-a-bitch. Bastard.

He watched them saunter by a couple of cars, stop to talk at another, then head toward Brad's red Camaro. Opening the driver's door, Brad allowed her to slide in first, then followed. The Camaro's lights came on. It headed out of the lot. Danny watched it turn left onto Independence Boulevard and go speeding away.

He switched his lights back on and eased the Jag out to follow, taking his time. He didn't need to keep their taillights in sight to know where they were headed.

Sparrows Point.

Where else would they go?

Anger churned hot and sour in the pit of Danny's stomach. Desire coiled tight as a snake. It hissed its venom as he cruised the silver Jag down Independence Boulevard, turned left at Sakers Mill Road, climbed Mabry's hill to the Point.

There they were, the red Camaro parked all by itself at the edge of the cliff. He kept the powerful car on its leash, though it strained to break free, go leaping out of the final turn.

Cutting his headlights, he pulled onto the grassy embankment and rolled silently toward the Camaro. A smile stretched his face. Wind sang through his brain.

They were creatures of the wind this night, he and the Jag, and nothing — nothing could take that away.

Turning the tape player up again, he slipped the Jag's nose up close to the rear of the Camaro and stopped, letting the engine idle quietly. Then he popped the headlights on full.

Blond hair dripped over the back of the seat, cascading like ripples on a pond. Brad loomed over her, hands bracing the seat on either side of her head. He looked like he was eating her face.

Bastard! Bastard! Bastard!

They sprang apart, Brad jerking his head up with a startled look on his face, Karen swinging around. Danny watched her bring her hand up to shade her eyes from the glare of his lights.

Exhilaration took hold. He popped the Jaguar into reverse, lurching backward about twenty feet, then started inching forward again in little jumps and spurts. One foot on the gas, one on the brake, he revved the engine between each burst.

Brad whirled around, wrenched open his door and jumped out, striding toward the Jag. Fury radiated from him, hands clenched at his sides. Mr. Macho Man, ready for a confrontation.

Danny smiled and slammed into reverse again, spinning in an arc away from the Camaro. Wheels churned up the ground, throwing clumps of grass and gravel in their wake.

Brad stopped, was standing uncertainly at the rear of the Camaro. He'd recognized the Jag. Karen had her window rolled down, leaning out to see.

For a moment, Danny ignored the pair of them, listening to the feral purr of the Jaguar's engine, hearing it thrum through his veins, flame like a geyser of hard-rock sound. A wave of dizziness took him, lust — for the Jag, for the night — blurring all other emotions.

Then he looked at Karen. She was sitting there, face freeze-framed in the window, hair ruffling in the breeze.

He wanted her — God! How he wanted her.

Gradually, he began easing the car forward again, nosing it toward Brad, keeping him square in his sights.

Brad began backing away. He didn't look so macho now, he looked scared.

Danny liked that look. Liked it a lot.

He pulled to within a yard or so of the Camaro's rear bumper, blocking it in, angling the car to bring his window in line with Brad's gaping stare.

Danny mashed the brake hard, feeling the car tug against the leash, pressed the button to the power window. The glass slid downward with a soft hum.

Brad's eyes widened. His face blanched, ghost-white against the night.

Danny grinned, peeling his lips back off his clenched teeth, exploding the smile outward in a burst of pure hatred and anger and pain. Then Brad was scrambling backward, bolting off into the night.

"Brad? Brad, what's happening?"

Karen's frightened voice floated to him on the wind.

Danny ignored her — for the moment — gunning the Jag forward, releasing the leash. It leapt toward Brad's retreating back, headlights stabbing him, zeroing in.

It struck and kept going, on top of him when the body hit the ground, rolling over it again and again, circling around to pounce, maul, until the ground was as torn and gutted as the kill.

Then it was over. Bloodlust momentarily spent.

Danny let the car idle for a moment, then began easing it forward, taking up the slack between him and his new prey.

She'd started getting out of the car, thought better of it, was slamming doors and locking them, rolling up windows on both sides. He heard the engine grind and flood out.

He pulled in behind the Camaro.

She whirled around, looking back at him through the rear glass:

Like she'd stared at him that day at school, that day he'd finally gotten up the courage to ask her for a date, stared at him sitting at the wheel of this car and he'd known she was his for the taking, always known she could be his for the price of a Coke and a great set of wheels —

Except it hadn't worked out that way, instead she'd turned and begun walking off laughing with her friends, and when he'd called her back, he asked her if she'd like to go for a spin in the Jag, not believing she'd say no, not believing it! She'd laughed in his face — LAUGHED IN HIS FACE! — and made some comment about a great car with a geek at the wheel.

The heat of that memory pumped new energy through him, surging from his gut like bile. He put the car in park, pulled up the emergency brake, got out. The Jag thrummed softly behind him, cheering him on.

He approached from Brad's side, never taking his eyes off her, watching her trace his progress around the side of the car, up to the door. He wrenched it open.

She screamed, "No. No, Danny, you can't be here. You can't be here, Danny."

He grinned again, remembering how he'd felt as he peeled rubber out of the school yard that day, remembering how he'd felt as he raced away from the laughter, the hurt:

Remembering the bridge.

The crash…

Wind sang through the moment, telling him go on, go on, now, she's yours, yours for the asking price, yours for the car and the pain and the night. .

He reached for her — and the skin on his arms was patchy dark and oozing; the flesh was beginning to rot, shrink back from his nails. They looked like claws.

She shrank against the far door, hands scrabbling behind her, searching for the handle, the lock, anything to get away!

Little animal sounds whimpered from her, and he savored them. He'd always known she'd sound like that.

He grabbed her arm, pulled her shrieking, struggling body from the Camaro, dragged her over to the Jag. This time he wasn't going to take no for an answer. This time they were going to go for that ride.

Smiling, Danny opened the door to the back seat.

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