O'Connor: Dark Angel

Morning. The warm sun reaches through the curtains to wake me. There's a bitter taste in my mouth. I remind myself to cut down on the use of illicit pharmaceuticals.

I turn my head and look at my bed partner. Holly is a petite blonde, positively angelic in the strong light, with her hands tucked under her chin. I remind myself how lucky I am.

My name is Rachel O'Connor. I'm young, Irish, and very much a woman. I love women, I always have. My friends call me a dyke princess, but I don't think my life is much of a fairy tale.

I sit up and run my hands through my close-cropped blonde hair. I can't decide if I should wake Holly or let her sleep. My hormones win.

I roll over and kiss her. After a second she responds. Still half asleep, she opens her eyes.
"What time is it?" she asks in a dreamy voice.

I ignore her question and slide my hand between her legs, spreading them apart and feeling the soft down between her legs. I am interrupted by the cruel ringing of a phone.

I roll over and answer it. The raspy voice on the other end gives me a time and place, then the line goes dead. I replace the receiver and turn back to Holly.

"A client," I inform her. She tries to sit up but I push her back. "We have time."

I dive in head first. She comes fast. Then it's her turn. She rolls me over on my back and I feel her warm tongue on the inside of my thigh. She makes love to me slowly, savoring every sensation. Every time I'm about to come, she slows down, teasing me. All thoughts rush from my mind, until all I can think of is the slow throbbing of my body. I cry out for release. Holly stops completely and laughs. I think she enjoys doing this to me. Suddenly, she is back at me. I come this time.

We lay together afterwards, savoring the warm, drowsy feeling that comes after our lovemaking. Soon, I sneak a glance at my watch. I decide to break my earlier promise. I roll over and reach under the bed for a small cigar box. Holly sees this.

"You promised, Rachel," she accuses.

I ignore her and open the box, removing a hypodermic and a small vial full of blue liquid which I jokingly call my joy juice. As I draw some juice into the hypo, I feel Holly's hot glare on my back.

"I never promised," I tell her as I wrap a tourniquet around my arm. "I said I'd think about it."

I consider it a trivial exchange as I find a nice vein and slide home the needle. The juice enters my vein and I know that I'll soon be able to face another shitty day in paradise. Holly knows I sometimes need my juice, but she feels guilty about her own occasional drug use. As the juice jolts my brain into some semblance of alertness, I'm reminded of people in glass houses. I think I say it out loud, because Holly gives me a dirty look.

I dress in my usual clothes. Leather boots, fatigue pants, and a red tank top with the words 'Holly's Butch' spelled out in large black letters. A gift from Holly on our third anniversary. I put an upside down cross earring in my right ear. I slip my pistol into its shoulder holster and cover that with a leather jacket. I make sure and slide a knife into my boot.

Looking in the mirror I see a sultry dyke with blue eyes you'd die or kill for, your choice. If I had any interest in men, perish the thought, I would have so many of them between my legs I could charge admission and retire a wealthy woman.

The elevator deposits me in the art-deco lobby of my apartment building in mid-town New Amsterdam. It was called New York until the first decade of the twenty-first century when a European consortium bought the bankrupt city from the Feds and promptly returned it to its original name.

On the street, I breathe deeply and catch the smells of a crowded metropolis. I walk to the subway station, flirting with a few attractive women as I go. One, who is as straight as a yardstick, blushes and falls off the curb. I grin and walk onto the escalator. I am deposited in a dim, crowded terminal. I wade through the crowd to stand near the platform. There are a few cries of protest accompanied by ugly looks. I ignore them.

I feel a sharp pinch on my ass. I look behind me at a fat man in a rumpled suit.

"Sorry, I slipped," he mumbles when he sees my suddenly cold eyes, then he turns and shoves his way through the crowd.

Men.

The train arrives and we shove our way onto the train, hardly allowing the previous occupants time to exit. I hate trains. I make a promise to buy a car some day. Hey, I can dream, can't I?

The train jostles and jars its way down the tracks. I hate riding the subway, and the ride is only made tolerable today because I am sandwiched between two women who look like models. The one in front of me, a tall Latina, keeps looking me in the eye and smiling. I noticed her friend had a small bulge in her pant pocket. A knife, probably. I hope she's not the jealous type.

I exit the train at the Bush Plaza station, named for the president who precipitated the second Great Depression. The giant vidscreen overlooking the plaza is showing the news. Today's top story: the Mayor of Los Angeles was assassinated last night. The South Central Revolutionary Brigade claimed responsibility.

I walk toward the imposing tower of the Bush Plaza Luxury Suites. This is where an informant told me my current assignment would be with his mistress.

I'm a private investigator. It's a sleazy job, but the bill collectors don't mind. My main business is wives who hire me to catch their husbands in the act of screwing their mistresses. I always feel sorry for the women lying beneath the sweating, grunting pigs.

Don't get me wrong, some of my best friends are men, but I can never understand how creatures so in love with their damned pricks could ever be considered the 'superior sex'. Not that I haven't known women who thought their precious cunts were the center of the universe, but that's another story.