Free Luck and Death at the Edge of the World, the Official Pirate Edition by Nas Hedron Page A

little-girl-gets-the-candy smile. I’m about to say her name when Porsche shushes me.
    “No names,” she admonishes. “Not now and not ever. I’m only wired for Max, you know, not for you.”
    Her threat is as cold as the smile of a man on Brace, but it isn’t necessary. Why would I ever bother to repeat Sherry’s real name?
    “No names,” I tell her. “I’m trained to keep secrets you know.”
    “I know, soldier boy. I know all about you.”
    Just as she did in the garden she caresses the Tijuana decal briefly, but this time it has little effect on me. I am far, far from Tijuana now. The HardOn is doing its work, and beneath it I can sense that she’s laced it with something subtler too, something she hasn’t mentioned: just a touch of Sunday Best. It’s not enough to make me hallucinate, but it tints the entire scene with a radiant glow and time seems to slow slightly, making every delicious moment last longer.
    “Okaaaaay,” Sherry says, moving toward us and unbuttoning her shirt at the same time. “Party time is 
here
.”
    The drugs are doing their job and I am awash in a tide of hormones, filled with nothing but sex and more sex. Sherry floats toward me as though moving through water, shedding her clothes along the way. Her body is slim and dark and perfect and I want to eat every inch of it. Her voice—that famous, triple platinum, multi-award-winning, siren of the airwaves voice—is saying: 
Porsche, it’s just like you promised!
    The only problem with Sunday Best is that although it gives you its luminescent visions, it has an effect similar to Erase. Not as efficient, mind you—you always remember something, but you never remember everything. Even as events are taking place you are forgetting them, so the sex appears to me as a series of snapshots.
    Moment one: Sherry prostrate on her belly with me on top of her, sliding myself, slippery, into her, while her face is buried between Porsche’s legs. Porsche grinds her hips slowly at first, then lets out a whoop like a cowgirl and starts thrusting them wildly, Sherry’s head bobbing in her lap.
    Moment two: Sherry is on all fours, riding Porsche’s hand. Porsche is stroking her between the legs in such a controlled, masterful way that I can’t help but admire it—this is 
skill
. She brings Sherry close to cumming, then eases her back from the brink, then drags her back to the edge of that cliff, and then finally throws her off, Sherry howling the whole way, making animal sounds, her long hair flying furiously and her entire body shuddering with such force that her teeth chatter involuntarily.
    Moment three: Porsche on her knees again. I am cumming—finally, at long last—and she is milking it out of me with her hand. In that pose, in an ecstasy close to rapture, she seems to be praying, and I baptize her as she begs for more, laughing her head off, covered in it.
    Eventually the HardOn and Sunday Best in my system wind down, as do whatever drugs the girls are on. Sherry is the first to go. She seems a little tense now, as though coming down has made her realize what she’s done—not the sex, but the risk to her reputation, to her future. Today’s star can so easily become fodder for tomorrow’s tabloid simcast. Porsche lingers, watching her go.
    “She’s worried,” I say.
    Porsche just shrugs.
    “She’ll get over it,” she says, doing up her pants. “In a day or two when she sees that you haven’t sold your story to the media she’ll be fine.”
    Although her reasoning makes sense, there’s nothing in her tone to indicate that it matters to her in the smallest way.
    “I’m still on the list of suspects aren’t I?” she asks rhetorically, then pulls her shirt over her head and tugs it into place.
    “Yeah, you’re still on the list.”
    “And if I did it and you catch me, I still get arrested, don’t I?”
    “Yup.”
    “See,” she says with a combination of sweetness and evil that’s hard to read. “I told you.