"Dennis Danvers - Circuit of Heaven" - читать интересную книгу автора (Danvers Dennis)

bathing cap. He pinned her arms and pushed himself into her, hammering away at her. He came in a
matter of minutes and rolled off of her. She opened her hand and there was his address, wadded to a
pulp in her hand. He yanked the cap off her head, and she woke up.

Her heart was racing. Her stomach was in a knot. Her fist was clenched around the sheet. Slowly, she
opened it. There was no slip of paper there. It was just a dream. IтАЩm still me, she thought, still Justine,
twenty years old, in the Bin six weeksтАФand IтАЩve never seen a car in the real world except rusted out
junkers, never walked down a city street without feeling the grit of glass under my shoes.

The girl in her dream was named Angelina, and itтАЩd been 2002. She had no idea how she knew that, but
there it was, like a memory. Justine was born in 2061.

In the present, she was in her hotel room with a manтАЩs naked arm across her chest. He wore a fat gold
ring with an onyx pentagon on his middle finger, a heavy gold chain around his wrist. His fingers were fat
and stubby, his nails buffed and polished to a shine. Downy white hair covered his arm, the back of his
hand, like moss. He was sound asleep, his face half-buried in the pillow. HeтАЩd said he was a senator, she
remembered. He looked the partтАФsilver hair, strong jaw, square shoulders, just enough crowтАЩs feet to
make him seem wise and fatherly. Old enough to be her father. She couldnтАЩt remember how sheтАЩd ended
up in bed with him. I mustтАЩve been tying one on, she thought. Watching him sleep, there was something
she didnтАЩt like about him, though apparently thereтАЩd been something sheтАЩd liked well enough the night
before.

She looked around the room, moving her head carefully to make sure she didnтАЩt wake him. A narrow
shaft of light, where the curtains werenтАЩt quite drawn, cut across the room. It was a nice room, a tasteful
room, with delicate furniture and a vaseful of jonquils on the dresser. Not the sort of room to wake up in
with a stranger. His clothes and hers, tangled and inside out, were scattered around the rose-colored
carpet. She didnтАЩt remember that either.

She remembered fucking him. She remembered that too clearly, tortured herself with the memory for a
while, thinking, Justine, youтАЩre too damn lonely.

She carefully lifted his arm off her and slid out of bed, placing his arm on her pillow as if it were a sleeping
kitten. She gathered up her clothes and went into the bathroom, locking the door behind her. As she took
a shower she tried to remember the man in her bed. His name was W somethingтАФWilliam or Waylon
orтАФWinston, that was it. She was almost sure. Winston.

But when it came to what kind of person this Winston was, all she could remember was lewd, cartoonish
sex like something out of a porno. God, she thought, that wasnтАЩt me. I mustтАЩve been worse than drunk.

She took a long shower, fiddling with the massage, lathering herself up till she looked like a marshmallow.
She wanted to put off for as long as possible talking to the stranger in her bed. But then, she asked
herself, who else are you going to talk to? She didnтАЩt know anyone in D.C., not a fucking soul. She
rinsed herself off, watching the huge gobs of suds pile up around the drain. She stepped out of the
shower, wiped the steamed-up mirror with the side of her arm, and grimaced at herself, thinking, I donтАЩt
even know the guy I just fucked.

But then, she thought as she dried off, if I wasnтАЩt myself, maybe he wasnтАЩt himself either. By the time
sheтАЩd finished blow-drying her hair, sheтАЩd decided to at least give the guy a chance. Maybe have
breakfast with someone for a change. She shut off the dryer and stuck it into its little cubby hole. The
whine of the thing echoing off the tiles still rang in her ears. She picked up the wad of clothes and