BLIND TRIAL by Brian Deer (good books to read for adults .txt) 📕

She leaned forward on her hands and licked his cock.

He widened his legs, put a palm behind her head, and moaned a response, “Suck me… yeah.”

He breathed heavy, thrusting, then clambered from the bed. His heels hit the floor: tricky maneuver. He moved and stood behind her, turned her and pressed her backward till her shoulders met the mattress with a bounce. He stooped, crouched, and ran his cheeks between her legs, his stubble rubbing harsh in her groin. He pulled away the robe and buried his face. She felt his phone—cool—on her skin.

Silence.

She threw out her arms and lay spreadeagled. He rose and dragged her onto her side.

“Yeah, I think you need this pretty bad…”

Silence. Plenty of silence.

He rolled her face down. Her toes left the floor, and he threw the robe over her head.

She felt his knees bend as he pushed between her legs, resting his phone between her shoulder blades. “Okay, you’re gonna get it now. You can take this baby…”

And take that baby she did.

Thirty-three

SHE RAISED her left foot and eased it into the panty. Her knee popped like a trodden-on twig. Then she raised her right foot—only succeeding second try—and nearly fell off the edge of the bed. She dragged up the undergarment, pushed her palms against the mattress, and hauled herself upright. Unsteady. She tugged on elastic till it snugged her waist.

Phase one of getting dressed was complete.

On the twenty-seventh floor of the Grand Hyatt, San Francisco, Trudy Mayr pinched the skin around her navel. She watched her flesh sink like an oven-ready turkey. She sucked in her belly, and creases hooped her midriff. Nasty. She was getting so thin.

She must have slept in a thousand hotel rooms like this one: brown recliner armchair, lightwood desk, and art picked to blend with the carpet. Once upon a time, she’d have reveled in the minibar, room service, overnight laundry. But this morning her soul ached only to be done with it. A week from today, she’d be free.

A clock beside the bed said 09:27. She’d lain awake half the night, worrying. Ben Louviere hadn’t returned to the hotel, as he should have. And she’d been fuming over an email from Atlanta. She’d phoned Marcia Gelding to report on Murayama. And a fat lot of good it had done. The CEO was busy on an investors’ call, apparently, and Mark Damerich, her assistant, took a message. She told him what was wrong, but nobody seemed to care. His reply was a slap in the face.

Dr. Mayr: Ms. Gelding is tied up this afternoon but has asked me to let you know Mr. Hoffman will look into this matter and contact you directly. Meanwhile, Ms. Gelding says please adhere to the agreed arrangements. Thankx. M.

She reached for a bra, wrestled its hook-and-eye fasteners, and maneuvered her arms through the holes. The packaging was labeled “moonlight white,” but it looked more rinsewater gray. She leaned forward to coordinate her breasts into position, but a shoulder strap slipped. Try again. She recovered, gripped the cups, and gave them a shake.

That was as good as it gets.

After donning a fresh dress, it would be Friday’s first Doral.

Then she heard a slam in the corridor outside.

WHEN HE opened the door, Doc Mayr gushed in as if escaping third class on the Titanic. “Where were you last night?” she growled. “Now don’t be trying to fool me. You’ve been consorting with that girl, now haven’t you?”

He dodged from her path as she flooded toward the windows, eddied like a whirlpool, and drained. She paused to steady herself, rocking left and right. A cigarette pack bobbed in her hand.

Lying was futile. He’d been pissing when she knocked. He hadn’t even opened the curtains. The bed wasn’t slept in, a sheet corner was folded back, and the counterpane removed to a closet.

“Hey, good morning. I was about to call you. Mr. Hoffman said I should take her to dinner.”

“Then I hope you enjoyed it.” She shook out a cancer stick. “Because the next thing you’re doing is calling Delta.”

“What, we’re leaving?”

She raised the cigarette. “No, we’re not leaving. You’re leaving.”

“I’m leaving? Oh, right.”

This was tricky: she didn’t know his assignment. She thought he was here to help her.

As instructed, he hadn’t called the general counsel since yesterday, so there was still last night to report on. Driving north across the city from Potrero Hill, his head was all Sumiko: the feel of her body, her warmth, intelligence, style. Then he’d called the Glinski sister, soft-soaped her with a story, and asked if he could stop by later.

He lifted a book of matches from the vaccine chief’s fingers, tore one, and struck a light. Fizzzz. “But you know, ma’am, I promised to pick something up for Dr. Honda. Says it’s what’ll finally reassure her about Wilson, the trial, and everything.”

“Well, whatever it is, I can pick it up myself. You’re done here, finished. And that’s that.”

“But she’s asking—I mean insisting, really—for me to see someone. It’s a relative of a lost to follow-up case. Says it’s all in the SPIRE protocol.”

“SPIRE’s nothing to do with her, and if anything needs doing, I’ll do it myself.” The cigarette wagged. “You’re never even helping half the time.”

He opened the closet, lifted his navy suit, and ripped away a polythene wrapper. “Sorry. I really am. I apologize. But Mr. Hoffman specifically asked me to keep an eye on her. And on Dr. Murayama as well. Kind of confidentially. That’s what I was doing in the restaurant.”

She exhaled a cloud. “Theodore Hoffman can keep his nose out of it. This is a clinical research matter. If I can’t get whatever we need on the phone, I’ll catch a taxi.”

“Two hundred miles.”

“What is?”

“The relative.”

“Damn it, I can talk with them on the phone.”

“Wants to give me a document.”

“What?”

“Her sister’s death certificate.”

“We don’t need death certificates. That’s disproportionate.”

“I wondered about that, but I think Dr. Honda feels it’s important.”

“Then they can email it.”

“Hasn’t got a scanner.”

“Alright, they