"Bradley-WeLoveLydiaLove" - читать интересную книгу автора (Bradley Denton)

Being Christopher means that Lydia and I have been apart for ten months. She has
thought me dead, but here I am. She kisses me hard enough to make my mouth hurt.
Her face is wet from crying, and she breathes in sobs. The videos make her look
seven feet tall, but she's no more than five-four. Otherwise, she is as she
appears on the tube. Her hair is long, thick, and red. Her eyes are green. Her
skin is the color of ivory. Her lips are so full that she always seems to be
pouting. I would think she was beautiful even if I hadn't admired her for so
long.

I meaning me. Willie.

You are Christopher.

To Lydia I'll be Christopher. But to myself I can be Willie.

You are Christopher.

"I didn't believe it when Daniels called," Lydia says. She's still sobbing. "I
thought he was mind fucking me like he usually does."

Say "That son of a bitch." We hate Danny Daniels.

"That son of a bitch." It seems ungrateful, considering that Daniels has just
now returned us to her.

She's trembling. Hold her tighter.

A moment ago she was crushing me, but now she seems so fragile that I'm afraid
I'll hurt her. It's as if she's two different women.

And why not? I'm two different men.

Carry her to the bedroom. When she gets all soft and girly like this, she wants
us to take charge. You'll know when she's tired of it.

She weighs nothing. I carry her into the big limestone house, leaving the June
heat for cool air that makes me shiver. When I kick the door shut I see that the
stained-glass eye is staring at me on this side too. I turn away from it and go
through the tiled foyer into the huge front room with the twenty-toot ceiling,
the picture windows, the fireplace, the expensive AV components, and the plush
couches.

No. Not in here. When she was a child, she went to her bedroom to feel safe. So
take her to the bedroom. It's down the long hall, third door on the right.

I know where it is, and I've already changed direction. But the chip's yammering
makes me stumble, and Lydia's head bumps against the wall. She yelps.

"Jesus, I'm sorry," I say, and think of an excuse. "My leg's still not right."