by Thomas S. Roche
(12/05/01)

Blake snipped the alarm at both contact points, just to be sure. He jimmied the window into the den and looked around. Even in the dark he could see the lavish furnishings -- leather couch, oak desk with gold fixtures, ceiling-high shelves of old leather-bound books in perfect condition. The walls of the room were lined with ancient hunting pieces -- muskets, those short little pirate guns, even a crossbow and an old antique Civil War six-gun. Something to remember if he couldn't get his hands on any of the good stuff upstairs -- but firearms were a bitch to unload, and Blake wasn't about to haul the fucking things down the road to his car and then go to Donny the Sleaze and beg him for a lousy couple of grand for some fucking musket from The War of 1812 that you couldn't even get parts for anymore. No, Blake was a jewelry man, and from the looks of the blonde dame he'd seen lounging around the pool wearing nothing but a rich-bitch scowl, Gucci shades, and a string of diamonds on every limb, there would be easier pickings upstairs. Blake hated making house calls, but a man on parole can't be a friggin' chooser.

He left the den, walked through the plush-carpeted living room, the pillared, marble-floored entryway, and up the spiral staircase. Jesus fucking Christ. People like this didn't deserve their jewelry -- silver fixtures on an oak banister? Blake should just haul the whole mansion off for back fashion taxes. Then again, that lady Mrs. Roxbury seemed to have just Blake's favorite kind of fashion sense -- which is to say she preferred nudity even where the help could see her. Vanessa, that was her name, Blake remembered. Nice name for a Beverly Hills slut.

Blake knew this was going to be a cinch. He'd been working at MacKinnon Domestic Assistance and Grounds Management for six months now, building up a portfolio of likely hits, waiting for the right one to come along. He didn't actually go out on jobs -- the manager knew better than to send a convicted jewel thief to rich peoples' houses -- but that didn't mean shit. He worked in the office, "Assistant to the General Manager," which meant he spent his time running the business and covering up for Junior MacKinnon's drinking binges and trips to petty cash for philandering sessions with wealthy clients. It also meant Blake kept the schedules and signed out the uniforms and trucks -- and, most importantly, filed the contracts.

Two grand a month. That's how much these rich fucks spent just on gardening alone. Maid, butler, and house cleaners were that much again each. His job at MacKinnon had allowed Blake to lift a truck on days there was no garden service at the Roxbury home, take a long lunch and swing over there in his borrowed MacKinnon coveralls to walk around the grounds unchallenged, casing the joint and, more importantly, spying on Mrs. Roxbury in her diamond-draped birthday-suited three-martini stupor sprawled out by the pool with her hand on her shaved crotch. Exhibitionist, that's what she was. Not that Blake minded, not one damn bit.

When he'd noticed that the Roxburys had cancelled their service for a week, Blake knew it was time to act. He got the word from Milner, weekend butler, that Mr. and Mrs. Roxbury were taking separate vacations. "They already have separate bedrooms," said Milner in his prim British accent. "And I hear they never sleep together. I mean, you know, never shag, see? And never sleep in the same bed. No wonder the wife likes to show off to the help, not that I'm complaining. I'm betting she gets a little on the side whenever possible, and I'm just figuring if I stick around long enough that'll be me." Blake had slipped Milner a Franklin and told him to keep his mouth shut about everything or Blake'd shut it for him. Milner had laughed and clapped Blake on the back. "I always knew you were Mafia, old chap," pronouncing it to rhyme with "Taffy-uh." That was Blake's problem: He'd never been good at intimidating people. Maybe that's why he kept ending up in the joint.

But he was good at B&Es, and spotting real ice among the fugazis in a rich whore's cabinet. And Blake figured an ice bitch like Vanessa Roxbury had plenty of genuine ice.

When husband and wife drove off in Mercedes and BMW, respectively, Blake was waiting in the bushes outside. He'd disabled the perimeter alarm and was over the fence almost before the iron gates clanged shut.

Blake knew where to start, or maybe he was just looking for an excuse: Vanessa Roxbury's bedroom. Her smell hit him like a pile driver when he walked in. Expensive perfume, sachets, and sex. Blake took a deep whiff and felt his body responding: It had been too damn long. It's not like he was a ladies' man to begin with -- spending half your life in prison makes it a little difficult to learn the dating protocols -- and he didn't make enough at MacKinnon to pay for it. As Blake stood there breathing Vanessa's scent, he promised himself the first thing he'd do once he saw Donny the Sleaze was get himself up the youngest, sweetest callgirl he could put his hands on. Oh fuck, he thought. I cannot start thinking about this now. I have to get this bitch's jewelry and hightail it. But instead of moving his ass, he looked longingly over the unmade bed with its rumpled sheets. Blake couldn't resist -- he walked over to the bed and pulled the covers down further, pressing his face against the silk contour sheet and breathing deeply of Vanessa Roxbury's body. He could smell her sweat, her sex; he looked around for a rumpled nightgown but didn't see one. He knew the bitch slept in the nude. God, just thinking about it made him want to--

Blake shook his head and cursed. He'd started rubbing himself through his pants, and he couldn't do that now. Every fiber of his being wanted to strip naked and lay down in Vanessa Roxbury's bed, feeling the Vanessa-scented silk sheets touch his face, his crotch, his ass. Breathing her in while he jerked off and left his seed on Vanessa's pillow as a calling card of his admiration. That was what had gotten him sent up the first time, Quentin, the second time, Folsom, and the third time, Chino. Well, not the whole thing, but when a guy paws through a beautiful lady's underwear drawer sniffing panties, he's likely to make a mistake, and Blake had sniffed a lot of panties. It wasn't until he'd finally wised up and started buying used ones over the Internet on stolen credit cards that Blake had managed to wean himself of the house-call habit. But now, after 18 months in Loma Vista with nary a G-string to huff, Blake couldn't control himself.

He jumped off the bed and ran to her underwear drawer.

Or maybe it'd be more accurate to say drawers. The top six, believe it or not, in three columns, divided neatly into panties, bras, camisoles, tap pants, slips, and a whole drawer dedicated to those stretchy little lace tank tops, totally see-through and the sexiest fucking thing Blake had ever seen. But panties were his first love, exceeding even his cherished jewelry, and he zeroed in on those with the single-mindedness of a smack addict. Vanessa's panties were black and pink and baby blue, all of them French-cut or even skimpier-G-strings and, Blake couldn't believe it, crotchless panties. He got down on his knees before Vanessa's dresser and ran his leather-gloved hands through the panty drawer, lifting silk and satin to his face, pressing cotton crotches to his nose, huffing wildly and detecting under the flowery cologne of laundry detergent the ripe odor of female sex. God, Vanessa smelled incredible. Fucking incredible. He simply had to have her--

Blake's eyes went wide as he thought of something. A spoiled chick like Vanessa Roxbury might just be careless enough to go away for a week with a hamper full of worn clothes.

Grabbing a handful of panties, Blake leapt to his feet and scampered for the walk-in closet.

It took him just about thirty seconds to hit the jackpot. First there was the gold-trimmed wicker hamper, which, Blake found with minimal effort, was stuffed with dirty clothes. Almost weeping from joy, he picked through the discarded bras and coiled slips, snatching up the three pair of panties he could find and rubbing them over his face. God, Vanessa Roxbury was the sexiest woman alive. Her pussy smelled better than old Mrs. McGillicutty's had when he was 15 back in Cleveland. But then, as he sniffed, his eyes landed on the narrow little dresser, wedged between a curtain of expensive dresses and a wall of pantsuits. Blake popped open the top drawer and almost shot in his pants.

It was stuffed with lingerie that made the stuff outside look like schoolgirl fare. Crotchless panties, garter belts, seamed silk stockings, G-strings, snap-crotch teddies, gartered merrywidows, push-up bras and peekaboos, corsets and corsettes, babydolls. Blake had learned each name in long hours at Quentin and Chino and Loma Vista and Folsom, lingering over smuggled Victoria's Secret and Frederick's of Hollywood catalogs -- half a carton of smokes for one fucking week with the damn things, and he didn't even get to make the pages stick together or he'd get shanked by Big Larry in the shower. Blake knew each intimately, and it wasn't easy for him to forget why he'd come in here in the first place.

Blake lost all composure. He pulled the drawers out of their slots and upended them, feeling the soft silk and satin rain down around him.

He was so lost in pleasure that he almost didn't notice the lights flashing in the rain of lingerie, didn't notice the blow to his head until after the silver pistol had landed among the silk and stockings. Then the pain shot through his brow.

"Fuckin' A," he muttered, staring dumfounded at the silver gun and the scattered starlight of diamonds. I can get money for those, he thought, but it was a dim thought that vanished almost as soon as he had it. He really didn't give a shit how much he could get for the diamonds -- he was more interested in the fact that that bracelet had been on Vanessa's wrist while she masturbated, and she had been so turned on that she hadn't even bothered to take off those three diamond rings while she slipped her fingers into her pussy. But then he was seized with fascination with the pistol and picked it up, looking at it hungrily. It was a pearl-handled Colt .32, and it was loaded. The inscription on the side said, "For Vanessa, my only love, on the occasion of our first Valentine's Day together. May you always be safe. Love, Charles." How fucking quaint, thought Blake, Some St. Valentine's Day firepower. Maybe he'd bought himself a larger caliber, just to be sure. But then Blake's speculations vanished as a surge of hot desire went through him -- a lady who kept a gun in her lingerie drawer was a lady to be reckoned with. He was starting to like Vanessa Roxbury more and more. Then he spotted it: There in the pile of sweet nothings was a dildo, maybe the biggest one he'd ever seen, not that he'd seen a lot. Without even thinking, Blake picked it up and brought it to his face, inhaling deeply. When he smelled the sharp tang and felt the stickiness in the dildo's veins and crannies, he didn't hesitate for an instant; he shoved the plastic dick into his mouth, suckling on the divine taste of Vanessa Roxbury's pussy.

Jesus, thought Blake. This is fucking weird. It's like I'm sucking dick, but just so I can get to Vanessa's pussy. Never thought I'd find myself in this position.

But he didn't give a shit, because the taste of Vanessa's unwashed dildo filled his mouth. He stuffed the three pairs of Vanessa's unwashed panties into his face, grabbing them with his dildo-hand so he could reach down and unbutton his pants.

He was halfway there when he heard the voices.

"Mother fucker," he whispered as he jumped up. The voices were right outside -- a man and a woman. "I want you," she was saying. "I want you like I've never wanted any man."

He couldn't close the door -- it was too late; they were in the room. He lay there in the dark in a sea of Vanessa Roxbury's umentionables, his rapidly softening cock drizzling semen onto his pant leg. He prayed it was dark enough in there to keep him hidden.

"Sit right there," he heard Vanessa's voice. "I want to show you." He recognized the woman's voice from the many times he'd called the mansion from pay phones -- and hung up when he head her sultry, smoky voice say "Hello?" with a bitchy, annoyed bite to it that made his cock surge. He'd told himself it was all part of his casing the joint, but he wasn't sure what he'd been trying to achieve. Twice he'd tried breathing at her, but she hadn't missed a beat, hanging up on him without even the decency to say "Fuck off." Bitch.

Blake could see the bed through the half-open closet door. He could see Vanessa Roxbury standing in front of it, unhitching the tiny white miniskirt she wore, letting it fall to the floor, stepping out of it. Underneath, a pair of white French-cut lace panties, white garter belt and white seamed stockings-like some kind of virgin; that was a laugh. Blake's cock stiffened in his hand.

Next was Vanessa's crop top, a tiny black affair that stopped just below her tits. She lifted it over her head and Blake saw that she didn't wear a bra underneath-that explained the visibility of those hard nipples through the black spandex. Jesus, 35 years old she had to be, and the lady's body looked like it could have belonged to an 18-year-old.

Vanessa had put on the white panties over her garters; he found that out as she pulled them down around her ankles and stepped out of them. When she kicked the panties away, Blake's heart almost exploded. They landed almost inside the closet.

Fresh panties. Jesus, don't do it, Blake told himself. They'll hear you, and it's back to Quentin for sure. Don't make a move.

Moving with painstaking slowness, he reached out with his foot and began to pull the panties back inside the closet. His heart was pounding with the prospect of smelling that fresh, sharp tang of Vanessa's pussy, probably soaked through with the presence of whoever she was about to fuck. He just prayed Vanessa and her lover wouldn't notice the movement inside the closet.

While Blake fought to bring the panties under his control, Vanessa slid her naked body onto the unmade bed, tangling her arms up in the sheets as she rolled back and forth, spreading her legs. Then, in a whirl, her lover was upon her. Definitely not Mr. Roxbury: The back door man was a buffed-out black man in tight leather pants and motorcycle boots, his upper body clutched in a skintight black muscle shirt. He was all over Vanessa, kissing her face, her neck, her tits, grinding his leather-clad crotch against her naked one as she moaned at the top of her lungs. Blake's heart leapt; he dragged the panties over with his foot and reached out, grabbing them with his hand. He brought them to his face and breathed, his head spinning as he felt the warmth of Vanessa's recently-shucked pussy and smelled the juice soaking the crotch. He bit down and pressed his tongue into the soaked panties -- jackpot. He could taste her pussy, rich and lovely, even feel the hint of a drop leaking out onto the tip of his tongue. Blake began to pump his cock, barely noticing the two trysting lovers on the bed as he worked the panties into his mouth.

The lovers, meanwhile, were going at it with fervent abandon as the almost-naked Vanessa worked to get her lover into the same state. She got his leather pants pulled down, his shirt off, and Blake caught his breath at the sight of that muscled body. Jesus fucking Christ, that guy could crack Blake's head like a walnut shell. Blake froze and tried to remain very still, his cock hovering on the brink of orgasmic explosion as he pictured the big black guy pounding him into the ground ten seconds after he made the faintest peep. Blake's heart raced faster and faster-this time from fear.

Then he remembered the .32.

Blake let his cock slip out of his hand and reached out gingerly for the pistol. He got it in his hand and weighed it, assuring himself that it was loaded. He didn't dare rack the slide back to make sure there was a round in the chamber; he just thumbed off the safety and prayed.

But even with all this movement, Blake was in no danger of being discovered. Without even getting his boots off, the guy had rolled the moaning Vanessa over, whipped out his bigass dong and worked it into Vanessa -- apparently without a condom. Didn't that rich whore know it wasn't safe to let people fuck you without a condom? Who gave a shit, though, she looked awesome with her ass pushed up in the air and her legs spread, that massive black cock pumping into her while her cries rose in pitch and volume. The guy really gave it to her, making her thrash and claw as his cock plunged into her over and over again. Then, wouldn't you know it? He pulled that big cock out of Vanessa's snatch and, without even the common decency to hawk a loogie in her ass-crack, he shoved his dick into Vanessa's back door.

"Oh, yeah, fuck yeah, Goddamn it, fuck me in the ass, fuck me in the ass!" Vanessa started screaming, and Blake could see the drool running down her chin. God, she looked good. "Yeah, baby, yeah, you like the way Daddy gives it to you in the ass, baby? Take Daddy's cock!" Goddamn it, these people oughta be in porn flicks.

Then, in the midst of all the screaming, Blake's blood ran cold as he heard footsteps on the other side of the closet's back wall. Oh fuck, he thought, even before he realized what was coming. He heard feminine giggles, and a male voice, two pairs of footsteps on hardwood, one heavy and hard, the other light and clicky, like high heels. It couldn't be. It couldn't be.

Hey, wait a minute, Blake thought he heard the guy say on the other side of the wall, and the footsteps suddenly quickened into a running pace, paused, and returned to running. What is it? came the female voice, and Blake couldn't believe Vanessa and the black guy didn't hear it. But Blake figured they were both too busy screaming "Yeah, give it to me Daddy!" and "Take Daddy's cock!" and "Shove it in my ass, Daddy!" and "Take it in the ass, baby!" He knew if he had half an ounce of balls, he would have chosen that moment to jump up and run, but he was scared shitless of going back to Quentin, so he cowered there praying that the guy was really running away. But it wasn't even a minute later that he heard the heavy footsteps again.

Vanessa was screaming "Give it to me, Daddy!" for the hundredth time when Charles Roxbury screamed "What the fuck is going on here?" at the top of his lungs.

Even so, it took Vanessa another few Give it to your girl, Daddys before she looked over her shoulder and saw her husband. The black guy chose that moment to turn, too, and he choked out an "Oh fuck" as he slid out of Vanessa and jumped off the bed, grabbing his leather pants and pulling them up. Then Charles Roxbury walked into Blake's field of view -- an antique shotgun in his hands.

Oh Jesus fucking Christ, thought Blake. One minute I'm having a nice wank into a rich lady's panties, the next I'm an extra on The Young and the fucking Restless.

The black guy was stammering: "Listen, buddy, I can explain. I had no idea she had a husband--"

Charles Roxbury, normally the kind of restrained personality you would expect from a wealthy old-money Beverly Hills family, clocked the guy in the face with the butt of the shotgun. The guy, fully half a foot taller than Roxbury, went down like a ton of bricks and laid there at Roxbury's feet, groaning.

"Don't you fucking hurt him!" shouted Vanessa.

"Is this how you treat me? Whoring around on me when you're supposed to be on vacation?"

"Oh give me a fucking break, Charles, you fuck more whores than Bill Clinton!"

"That's a lie!"

"Oh, don't insult my intelligence!"

Charles sounded hurt. "That is a lie! That is an absolute lie! I don't know what you think you know, Vanessa, but in 14 years of marriage I have never once cheated on you!"

"Really? Just like that? It doesn't even depend on what the meaning of 'is' is?"

"I can't even believe you would suggest such a thing! That kind of behavior is so far beneath a Roxbury that--"

"Hey, asswipe!" came a female voice from the bedroom door. "I charge by the half-hour! If you want me to wait around, you're gonna have to pay up front! Oh fuckin' A, is that a real gun?"

Vanessa was rolling on the bed, laughing her ass off.

"Shut up! Shut up, bitch!"

"Hey, who's this, your tarot reader?"

"Shut up! Shut up or I swear to God--"

"What? You'll kill me? Go ahead, it's better than living with you!"

"Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!"

"Fuck this! I'm leaving!"

"You stay where you fucking are, whore! No, no, come in here!"

"I don't get paid enough for this!"

Roxbury pointed the shotgun at the hooker and screamed "Get in here!"

Meekly, the hooker walked over as Roxbury motioned her to the edge of the bed. She wore a skintight spandex skirt in lime green and a pink lace top that showed off her belly with its pierced navel and the unnatural curves of her cut-rate tit job. Blake had enough time to think Jesus Christ, he's fucking this skank instead of his wife? Before Vanessa screamed, "Oh, come on, Charles, let the hooker go! If you're going to kill me, go ahead -- I'll go to my grave happy knowing you'll get the electric chair. But let the hooker walk!"

"She's not a hooker!"

"I'm an entertainment consultant," snapped the whore. "I pay taxes and everything!"

"Hah! That's more than you can say for Charles!"

"Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!"

"Charles likes to save on his taxes because he has to pay whores so much to get them to put up with him!"

"Shut up! Shut up!"

"That's okay, though, because by the time the IRS catches up with him he'll have used up every whore in the country, and he'll welcome a little prison time 'cause he likes dressing like a woman, anyway--"

"Shut up! Shut up! Shut up you fucking bitch!" Charles Roxbury advanced on the bed, coming around the side with his shotgun raised high, butt down, to smack his wife on the head.

Blake had had enough of this bullshit. His hard-on was gone forever and he was never going to get a decent wank off of this if this rich fuck started blowing people away. He jumped up and popped out of the closet just as the shotgun reached its highest point. He pressed the barrel of the .32 into the base of Charles Roxbury's skull and said "Drop the fowling piece, tranny boy."

"I'm not a transvestite! She's lying! She's lying! She's a lying whore!" Charles Roxbury shook visibly, the shotgun still raised high over his head.

"I don't really care, shitbird, she ain't holding a gun. Drop the shotgun or I drop you."

Vanessa stared at Blake. "Who the fuck are you?"

"Yeah, what, are you tag-teaming them?"

"Shut up, whore."

"Who's the bitch with a man in her closet?"

"I swear! I'm not a transvestite! I'm not!"

The hooker snorted in disgust. "Yeah, that's probably why you asked me to bring an extra pair of size-13 pumps."

Blake lost it. "Shut the fuck up! Hand me the gun or I paint these two fucking whores with your brains, cocksucker!"

"I don't suck cock!" Charles Roxbury was hysterical.

"Give me the fucking gun!"

Meekly, Roxbury lowered the shotgun and let go when Blake grabbed it. He propped the gun against his forearm and held both the shotgun and the .32 in Charles Roxbury's back.

"So who the fuck are you, anyway?"

"Never mind that. Um... um... " Blake suddenly realized he had no idea what to do. He wasn't a heist man; he'd never had to deal with hostages before. His mind was racing, but it was coming up empty.

"You!" he said, jerking his head at Vanessa Roxbury. "Tie her up! Tie her to the bedframe!" He indicated the whore with the barrel of the .32.

Vanessa started laughing hysterically. "What is this, Penthouse Letters?"

"Shut the fuck up! Do it!"

"With what?"

"Your stockings!"

Vanessa sighed dejectedly and unhitched her garters. The hooker was still muttering "Who the fuck are these people?" as Vanessa got on her knees and tied the hooker's wrists to the antique headboard.

"What now?" said Vanessa when she was finished.

Blake thought for a second. "You," he said, poking Roxbury in the back with the shotgun. "Tie up your wife the same way."

"With what?"

Blake reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of silk stockings. "These," he said, tossing them over Roxbury's shoulder onto the bed.

He could have sworn he saw the fruit looking longingly at the stockings, but then Charles said "With pleasure" and advanced on Vanessa.

"Hey! Not so tight!" snapped Vanessa as Charles cinched the knots tight around her wrists, lashing her to the headboard on the opposite side as the young hooker.

"No tighter than your pussy used to be until you whored it out to every young black stud in seven states," snarled Roxbury.

"Yeah, but plenty tighter than a pair of lace panties looks with your tiny dick popping out of them!"

"Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!"

Blake put the shotgun against Roxbury's skull and screamed "One more word out of you and I'll fucking pop your brain outta your head! Now finish tying her up!"

"Have you ever considered autoerotic asphyxiation as a hobby, Charles? I hear a lot of transvestites are into it."

"I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!"

"Both of you! Shut the fuck up!"

Vanessa shot Blake a sour look as Charles pulled the knots as tight as he possibly could, making her grimace.

"Now what?" said Charles.

"Get on your knees in front of the bed."

"Oh Jesus. Please don't kill me."

"I definitely will kill you if you don't shut the fuck up. Now get on your knees."

Then Blake felt the iron grip going around his legs, felt himself being lifted off his feet. He bellowed as he lost his balance and toppled over the shoulders of the black guy, even as Charles screamed in rage and leapt on Blake, grabbing the shotgun and elbowing Blake in the face. Blake pulled the trigger but nothing happened. The .32 hit the floor and Blake's grip on the shotgun slipped as the black gun punched him in the balls.

"Yeah!" shouted Vanessa. "Show him what you're made of, pansy!"

"Shut up! Shut up!" screamed Charles just as Blake hit the ground realizing he'd lost the shotgun and feeling the pain course through his balls, up his torso and into his throat. Fuck, he hated being whacked in the balls. Charles raised the double-barreled shotgun and thumbed back the hammer -- damn, well no wonder the fucking piece of shit didn't go off when he pulled the trigger!

"Hey, don't hit me!" snapped the hooker.

"Drop it, asshole!" screamed the black guy, coming up onto one knee with the .32 trained on Charles' head. "Don't make me kill you!"

"Kill him," shouted Vanessa.

"Don't make me kill you!"

"Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!"

Blake got to his feet and started backing toward the door.

"I've always loved you, Vanessa," Charles was sobbing. "I never thought it would come to this. But now it's too late -- there's only one way to end our pain..."

"Speak for yourself, shithead! Divorce me, my pain will end!"

"Don't make me kill you! Don't make me kill you!"

"Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!"

"I love you, Vanessa!" sobbed Charles Roxbury, and everything fucking exploded. The antique shotgun went off, both barrels, a bright sheet of flame encompassing Vanessa's face, not even giving the fragments of her erupting head a moment to hit the headboard before Blake heard the pop! pop! pop! of the Colt .32 and saw florettes of red appearing on the back of Charles Roxbury's tan silk jacket. He dropped the shotgun, clutched his chest, and went tumbling onto the bed across his wife's half-naked body. In an instant, husband and wife lay sprawled together as if in one final dying act of lovemaking. Blake stood there breathing gunpowder with his jaw dropped open while the hooker and the black guy did the same.

Then, slowly, both of the others turned to look at Blake.

"Hey, nice shot," said Blake weakly.

The black guy swiveled the .32 and pointed it.

Blake turned and ran. He heard the gun going off behind him, saw the wall sconce outside explode in a sprinkle of expensive Austrian crystal. He made it down the spiral staircase in one-tenth the time it'd taken him to climb it, and by that time the black guy had appeared at the top of the stairs -- but this time he didn't fire, he just stood there staring.

Blake was out and over the wall before he realized that his dick was still hanging out. He stuffed it away and buttoned his pants, not bothering to zip up as he ran like hell the three blocks to the MacKinnon truck. He'd left it unlocked. He threw open the door and leapt in, jamming his hand into his pocket to find the ignition key.

His hand came out holding the key and Vanessa Roxbury's fresh pair of panties.

Blake stared at them for just a moment before he realized what they were. His hands were shaking. He couldn't believe it.

Goddamn shame, woman like that getting killed. Goddamn shame.

Blake stuffed the panties into his face and huffed them. The sharp smell blasted the cordite smoke right out of his nostrils, and his dick stiffened in an instant.

"I will never fucking understand rich people," he said, and jammed the key into the ignition. He laid down rubber for half a block of Beverly, and hit the Santa Monica doing fifty.