Free Spawn of Hell by William Schoell Page A

it matter? No. In any case, Anna simply couldn’t take it any longer.
    There was a lot of shouting and screaming and crying, and the cabbie had an earful. It was nothing they hadn’t said a million times before, and they decided to go for the Big D. Divorce. Anna rushed into the house leaving him to pay the driver. She stormed into her bedroom and slammed the door so hard the whole house shook. She flopped onto the bed and had a good cry. Derek was wise enough to stay out, out of the room, out of her way. Half an hour later, in casual clothes and her hair pulled back, she had stormed out the door and into the night.
    So here she was in Peg O’ Hearts again—where she and Derek had shared a drink only the night before, had laughed, and reminisced and enjoyed each other’s company—trying to think things over by herself, away from the house, his house. She had to face it. She was just another date as far as he was concerned.
    And just when she’d decided that she’d had her fill of handsome models and playboys and jetsetters, she looked up from her martini and saw this sort of disheveled-looking character, a half-inebriated sad sack, attractive in a waning sort of way, sitting farther down the bar, almost the complete opposite of her husband in style and demeanor. She remembered that she had seen him the night before. What was he—a wacko? A sex-starved Jack the Ripper? A groupie? Another “television producer”?
    Or better yet, a perfectly nice guy who found her attractive and wanted some fun. A real lamb. A pussycat. Somebody who could take her mind off Derek. Somebody who was nothing like Derek. Or were “all men the same?” No.
    She ordered another martini. And then another.
    What was there about that fellow? He was kinda cute and lovable, one of those people you could tell was nice just by looking at them.
    So she finally motioned the bartender over and told him to buy the gentleman a drink, on her. She watched as the barman placed the martini in front of the man, saw the astonished look on his face as he was told who’d bought it for him.
    Anna, she thought, you’re drunk.
    And as he started to open his mouth, started to say thank you and hello, Anna was part relieved, part glad—and part afraid that she had just made the worst mistake of her not very long or satisfying life.

Chapter Four
    They woke several hours later in the Belaire Hotel, fourteenth floor, room 1408.
    David was wide awake while Anna was still yawning and stretching her arms. He took a look around the room —it was nearly a suite, actually—and couldn’t believe it. Then he took a look down at Anna and couldn’t believe it even more. He, David Hammond, in one of the city’s ritziest hotels, in bed with one of the world’s ritziest women. He vaguely remembered what had transpired during the night—before they’d come to the hotel, that is —the rest he would never forget.
    She had stunned him by making the first move in the bar, by buying him a drink. He’d said “thank you” and she took off with it, inviting him to sit next to her, engaging him in small talk that seemed stimulating and witty coming from her lovely lips. They had one or two more drinks—he was lucky he hadn’t passed out—and then she asked him if he’d like to spend the night with her. It was that simple.
    She took charge right away, which was lucky, considering that David could not have spared the money for the cab and then the hotel room. He remembered sitting on one of the sofas in the stadium-sized lounge, while Anna went over to the desk clerk and began expressing “dismay” over losing her luggage. Chances are in this day and age that even the finest hotels wouldn’t raise an eyebrow, but perhaps she was thinking of her image. A twenty-dollar bill in the clerk’s palm helped to get them a good room at that hour without luggage or reservation, and they had made their way up to 1408 posthaste. David was quite flattered—imagine her spending so