Deadly Embrace

at school, Tina, and although Tina was pretty and popular, she was not into experimenting. The most he’d ever got out of her was a few French kisses and a quick feel of her breasts–which were no way as large as Polly’s, and always fully covered.
‘Sex is for marriage,’ Tina had often told him, her pretty face deadly serious. ‘We have to wait.’
Like he was ready for marriage. No way. Besides, he was fed up with waiting. He knew what he wanted, and if he didn’t get it soon he’d go crazy.
He was fifteen. He was a man. He needed sex.
One day he’d attempted to raise the subject of sex with his dad who, unfortunately, was confined to a wheelchair. Vinny had stared at him for a few silent minutes before shaking his head in a gloomy way. ‘Stay away from falling in love,’ he’d warned. ‘It only leads to heartbreak.’
Michael knew that his dad was bitter, although it was hard to ignore that Vinny never had a good word to say about anyone or anything. He sat in his wheelchair, either at home or in the store, and rarely spoke. If he wasn’t at the shop, he was stuck in front of the TV–his favourite place.
What kind of a life is that? Michael thought. Certainly not the kind of life he wanted.
He’d never known Anna Maria, his mother, although he certainly knew what she’d looked like. There was a big picture of her in the centre of the mantelpiece, surrounded by candles. Every Sunday at six o’clock his dad lit the candles and said a prayer.
Lani had explained to him that some bad men had shot his mom, and that he’d been born a short time after she died. When he’d first heard the story it hadn’t meant much to him, but as he grew older he started thinking about it more and more. Instead of having loving parents, like Tina, he was stuck with a grandmother who barely had time for anything except work and a dad who was trapped in a wheelchair. It made him think about his mom, and how different things might have been if she’d lived.
It had been occurring to him more and more lately that he wanted to know how the crime had happened, so one day he’d taken himself to the police station and asked if they could look up the case and give him some more information.
The detective in charge was a jovial fellow who knew Lani, so he’d obliged and retrieved the file. ‘Not much to tell, except that they never caught the perpetrators,’ he’d said. ‘Sorry, son.’
‘Did anyone find out who they were?’ Michael had asked.
‘Nope.’ The detective had shaken his head. ‘’Fraid the case is closed.’
It seemed strange to him that in a neighbourhood where everyone knew everyone else’s business, nobody had any clue who’d shot his mother, crippled his father and robbed the store.
Polly clung to his arm as they walked along the street. She smelt sort of flowery. He wondered what she’d smell like when he got her clothes off.
He had a plan; it wasn’t as if he’d pulled the idea of a hotel out of the air. His best friend, Max, had a night job working as an assistant porter at a small fleabag hotel. Max often boasted that if he ever needed a room it could be arranged.
Okay, Michael thought. Let’s see if he’s full of crap.
The hotel was dark and dismal-looking, the pungent aroma of cooked cabbage lingering in the air. Holding tightly on to Polly, Michael marched up to the small scratched reception desk, where a bespectacled old man sat leafing through a well-thumbed girlie magazine.
My luck, Michael thought. This has gotta be the one night Max isn’t working.
Just as he was swallowing his disappointment, Max came walking in, carrying two mugs of steaming hot coffee. Max, who was no slouch in the ‘getting it’ department, took one look and handed the old man one of the mugs. ‘Here you go, Burt,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Take a break. You look like you could use it.’
‘Don’t mind if I do,’ Burt said, getting up and shuffling into a back room.
‘Hey,’ Michael said to his friend.
‘Hey,’ Max responded, fighting to keep the knowing look off his face. Their eyes met, acknowledging the situation.
‘I’d, uh…like a room,’ Michael said, attempting to sound worldly.
‘Sure,’ Max said. He picked up a stained and torn reservation book and stared at the blank pages. ‘Got a nice one on the first floor, number eight.’ He reached back to one of the slots behind him. ‘Here’s the key,’ he said, handing it to Michael while giving Polly a furtive once-over.
She stared at him defiantly, daring him to say something.
Michael took her hand and led her to the stairs.
‘You didn’t tell me you had a friend who worked in a hotel,’ she said accusingly. ‘No wonder you were so anxious.’
‘Not that I come here often,’ he explained, with a sheepish grin.
‘Often enough to know what you’re doing, I hope,’ she said, deciding that if she was going to cheat on Cyril, she might as well make sure it was worthwhile.
‘I can find my way round,’ he boasted.
‘I’m sure you can,’ she replied flirtatiously.
The room–painted a dull green- was small and depressing. In the centre was a narrow bed covered with a patchwork bedspread that had seen better days. A small window overlooked nothing.
‘Hmmm…’ Polly said, glancing round. ‘Not exactly the Plaza, is it?’
‘Didn’t know you were here for the fancy trimmings,’ Michael said, burning up with anticipation.
‘Ha! Let’s see what kind of fancy trimmings you’ve got,’ she said, licking her lips in a very suggestive way.
He was breathing fast. This was quite an experience. He had a girl, his fantasy girl, right in front of him in a hotel room with a bed. And now it occurred to him that he wasn’t exactly sure what he was supposed to do. Yes, he knew he had to touch her tits. Yes, he