Quicksilver

Nate was tired after class and a bit knotted-up with stress. We showered and I gave him a naked full-body massage, especially working his shoulders, back and front while my thighs rested on his hips. If his stiff cock happened to slip into my juicy pussy and I happened to cowgirl-ride him, well, did you expect otherwise?

===== Tuesday-Wednesday, week 12 =====

We fell into a pattern. Awaken with sex and breakfast. To the gym in the morning for workouts and swimming. Enjoy sex and lunch. Busy in the afternoon, me painting, Nate studying now. Then sex and dinner. Nate goes off to class, I go back to painting with instrumental or choral music playing. Nightcaps and sex and sleep.

I sketched and painted three more basic sittings Wednesday. None argued much.

Argo called Wednesday evening.

"Lydia, I know this is short notice, but Kinglsey rented his exclusive art-car contract with you to an Audi dealership in Santa Clara. Could you work this Saturday?"

"Nate and I had planned a weekend holiday. He's just finishing something stressful."

"How about for three times the money Kingsley paid you, and a new Audi Fox?"

"You're tempting me. Tell me more."

I visualized an Audi and the Citroën hidden in the new house's garage, with the Beetle on the street. I would need a guarded parking lot if each art-car session gave me new wheels. Hmmm, we could register them to the corporation for use by the upcoming management team. Bribery, hah!

"Zed Engle, the Audi dealer, has a locale he's hot for, a rocky cove near Half Moon Bay, and a flat white Fox sedan he wants beautified. He'll hire the same film crew and you'll have total ownership of the footage. The weather forecast is favorable. Will you want the same time of day as with Kingsley's session?"

"That'll be fine if the fog stays offshore. But how soon do you need an answer? I need to talk to Nate, and that won't be for an hour."

"I'll haunt the North Beach gallery till midnight at least. Please say YES when you call."

I picked up a distracted and stressed Nate after class. He wavered, but agreed that time on the coast would not hurt, and might help him decompress. I called Argo when we got home.

"Okay, it's a go, but Engle transports me and Nate to and from the site without delay. Tell him to pick us up at nine and have the target car totally prepped when we arrive. Otherwise it's the same as the Kingsley session."

I visualized dollar signs rolling behind Argo's eyeballs. I felt the same sensation.

Nate tired during our lovemaking but did not surrender. I cuddled his snoring self.

===== Thursday week 12 =====

The nascent daily pattern was interrupted but would likely resume next week with Nate songwriting and working on circuitry instead of belaboring his classwork.

Today's interruption: Testing! I took Nate to the FCC office, then drove myself to a parking garage near the S&J LLC office. I had an actual conversation with Mr Salman. He agreed that Jeremy could work part-time as our manager, and he would put together the rest of our management team. I was so relieved! That was not a task I wanted to do myself.

I picked up Nate after two hours; he was so stressed, he twitched! Cliff House was open for lunch and cocktails, exactly what I prescribed for him. He unwound almost to normality as we sat on the San Francisco Peninsula's northwest corner watching the moody waters, whipped-up by some distant storm.

I prescribed more distraction. Let's see: take a long, scenic drive, or go home and fuck him unconscious? Which would you choose?

After a long, naked afternoon in bed and a modest dinner, I drove him to tonight's short class. He invited me in and I miraculously found an open parking space. We climbed dingy stairs to a dingy classroom strewn with desks filled with diverse students, wall charts of electronics, a chalky blackboard, and a tense atmosphere.

The elegant Black instructor, introduced as Mr White, oversaw a review of today's FCC exams. Students passed him their test notes. Mr White expressed satisfaction with their reports and reminded them of tomorrow's graduation party.

This class finished in one hour, not three. Nate showed me singed-smelling workshop rooms on our way out. The distinctive scent of ionization, resin, and solder burns, he explained.

We went home and played another fierce round of strip chess. Everybody won.

===== Friday, week 12 =====

We were free but nervous during the day. I painted; Nate played songs about electricity. Would 'Plug Into Me, Baby, I'm All Charged Up' ever be a hit?

I joined Nate again for tonight's final class time. A meeting room was crowded with students and their friends. Mr White had collected the exam results posted at the FCC office after noon. Yes, everybody passed their exams! Much handshaking and hugging ensued.

Nate was especially ecstatic. He earned both licences he tested for: Technician with microwave endorsement, and Engineer with high-power endorsement. I saw stress wash off him.

The party was casual, with cookies, crisps, and non-alcoholic punch. Nate talked earnestly with a few students but we soon bid farewell and motored home.

Nate was a wild man in bed. I squealed a lot more than he grunted.

===== Saturday, week 12 =====

Sex and breakfast, and assembling my art bundle, and we were ready.

The coastal session was fine, as smooth as the event a month ago. A silver luxury sedan sped us south on the Pacific Coast Highway to a private site overlooking a cove where three sailboats tossed gently in the mild breeze. I had dressed warmer than last time, in a baggy sweat suit over my undies.

The target car was clean; I easily painted the surroundings, with the hood and roof showcasing a view into the cove. I twisted the geometry a little for good continuity. The film crew remained unobtrusive. The completed car went back into its transport truck. Our driver had me and Nate home by three. Time for business.

=====

I called Argo. Nate sat nearby, writing in a small notebook; more lyrics, I guessed. I put the call on speakerphone so he could hear.

"Okay, that's done. What now, another 'blastoff' event?"

"You got it, but it will be tamer than Kingsley's circus. Zed's dealership is a lot more spacious and the crowds should be less manic. Does next Saturday morning work for you? By the way, I have three more potential portrait sittings this Monday and Wednesday, pretty vanilla, although the last Monday sitting would be a series of three, with her going from modest to topless. The first Wednesday sitting includes a parrot. I'll have Milo deliver their applications to you right now and you can decide, yay or nay."

"Sure Argo, that all works. A riot on Saturday, and oatmeal on Monday and Wednesday. Do any of the subjects seem troublesome to you?"

"No, you should have no hassles. Like I said, they're pretty vanilla. Well, the parrot may be gabby."

"Okay, send Milo, and yes, Nate and I will be present at this 'blastoff'. Zed sends a car, of course. And I get to pick a new car then to drive home; that's in the contract. He pays the licence and taxes before he signs it over to the corporation.."

I heard him say something off the phone. "I just sent Milo out the door. Be ready."

"Will much press be there?" Nate asked. "Will we need wraparound shades for disguise?"

"Probably. But Zed has hosted spectaculars before; he knows how to handle publicity."

"He'll be selling 8mm films for customers to buy, right?" Nate asked. "How about a stack of 45 RPM records with a cover by Lydia? And they pay extra for her fresh signature."

He asked how to get the records; I gave him Signe's phone number. Then we signed off.

My mental calculator whirled. I, or rather the corporation of which Nate and I were the sole owners, owned the rights to the images on the painted car, the film, and the record cover; royalties would accrue from each. I would direct the management team to find tax loopholes and shelters, and low-risk investments. I did not know how long the money would keep flooding in.

=====

I pinched my skin. Hmmm, getting a little flabby. I easily dragged Nate to the gym for our workouts and swimming. We would need this every chance we got.

I called for a high-protein Thai dinner delivery. We ate, drank better wine, and plotted.

"Can you keep up this pace?" Nate asked. "Produce, produce produce. Can you survive?"

"The material answer is, I don't feel exhausted. The spiritual answer is, I need sustenance, moral support, and love, dammit! I need you, dammit! With you here, I can do anything!"

"How about a rented bike ride through Golden Gate Park tomorrow? I'll carry your art bundle in a backpack and you can capture many familiar scenes. From a marketing vantage, I think a series of paintings and quality prints of The City's beauty would sell well."

"I'll ask Argo about that, but yes, a ride tomorrow will be lovely. Like your legs."

I did things with his lovely legs and other bits of his anatomy. Figgy was amused.

===== Sunday, week 12 =====

I had long feared that our relationship would somehow come crashing down, and it nearly happened today. I almost lost Nate. But physically, not emotionally.

After sex, breakfast, and dressing in loose shirts and shorts, we rolled the Citroën to a bike shop near the park's Ocean Beach end and chose comfortable road cruisers. Weather was warm and partly cloudy with good indirect light. I painted acrylics and sketched on a notebook-sized tablet.

It happened near the Japanese Tea Garden. Pack-laden Nate was riding a couple of bike lengths ahead of me. A red pickup truck turning from a parking area slipped into the bike lane and brushed against him, sending him and the bike into a pile of shrubbery beside the roadway. His thick-framed glasses went flying.

I did not have time to cry out; I could only watch him tumble, tangled with the bike and pack and foliage. I braked right behind him, tossed my bike off the road, and ran to him. I saw blood, oh no! I saw him breathing, oh ghod! The truck drove on, the driver oblivious.

I looked around and saw a police cruiser in the opposite lane. I waved my arms and shouted, "Help! Help!" The cop car's pinball lights flashed; it passed, U-turned, and pulled up behind us. A woman officer hopped from the passenger door.

"Hit and run!" I cried. "He's hurt! Oh ghod!"

The cop trotted to us, looked at bloody Nate, and trotted back to the car. I saw her lean inside; the driver talked on a microphone. She trotted back.

"An ambulance is on the way; it should be here very soon," she said.

I heard an approaching siren. UC Medical Center on Mount Parnassus was only a few blocks away and the fire department rescue unit was even closer. The woman cop stood close to wrecked Nate; the driver came to me, took our names, and said they would stay on-site until a park service truck came to take the pack and bikes to the local precinct house. They were evidence now.

The ambulance arrived. Paramedics quickly examined Nate and carefully extracted him from pack, bike, and bushes. They eased him onto a gurney, loaded him inside, and invited me to ride inside. Of course I went with him! After retrieving his glasses.

I knew what Lyn feared about Jason. I could not stand to lose Nate.

This must have been a slow day at the Emergency Room; they tended to Nate immediately. I could not watch, but waited nervously with a few other distraught folks in institutional plastic chairs.

The female officer found me a few minutes later. She took my report. Yes, a red pickup. No, I did not see the licence plate. Yes, the truck was in the bike lane and yes, we are both sober. Then our names and address, and she stopped and peered at me.

"You are becoming something of a celebrity, Miss Barnes. Yes, I know about the furors surrounding your events. Could someone have targeted you or Mr Kramer?"

"I doubt it greatly," I said. "We told nobody we were biking here today. How could a driver have recognized us? I think it was just negligence."

"I tend to agree, Miss Barnes, but I had to ask. The driver will probably get away with this. Finding a particular red pickup in San Francisco with maybe some scratches on a rear fender? Most unlikely. Let's just hope Mr Kramer is not seriously hurt."

A nurse called my name. The cop thanked me and left. A harried-looking doctor in stained greens faced me.

"Luckiest damn hit-and-run I've seen in a long time," she said. "Bruises and scratches all over but no concussion, fractures, or organ damage that we can tell. The shrubbery and — he wore a pack, right? — that and bushes cushioned him, and the bike frame didn't break anything. His vital signs are about as expected, not bad. He's totally lucky. Still, I've ordered x-rays and blood work. I want to keep him here at least through this afternoon so we can look for further damage. If he's in good enough shape, we can release him this evening, but you should rent a wheelchair, and a van to take him home. You're in The City? No stairs to climb, I hope."

"Yes, we're not far, just on the other side of Golden Gate Park, and no, it's ground level from the street all the way inside my apartment. I can wheel him in."

"Okay then. A nurse will give you a booklet of instructions for caring for him. If he shows signs of bleeding or mental disorientation, call an ambulance to get him back here immediately."

She put a hand on my shoulder, then walked away. I decided to offer to paint her portrait in thanks for her work. I would have our management team track her down.

=====

I found a phone bank in the hall outside the uncrowded waiting room. I called Argo.

"Nate is hurt but not too bad. Damn hit-and-run while we biked." I described the day. "I can probably take him home today but I'll have no time for sittings. Put them off a week at least."

"No problem, Lydia. Clients are aware that contingencies can pop up and bite our butts. I'll tell them that something serious happened and you'll paint them as soon as you can. Best of luck."

What did the Standard Oil chairman tell his board when their corporate monopoly was broken up during the Taft administration? "Boys, it's just one damn thing after another." At least this was only one damn thing.

"Wait," Argo said, "one more thing. WIlona Smithers wants 'intimate' paintings including Nate. I take it you're not keen on the idea. I can schedule her as one of your next sessions and with Nate there in a wheelchair, she won't have a chance."

"Good thinking, Argo. In fact, return any applications for portraits outside my studio, and nothing sexier than passive nudity. Porn would cheapen my reputation. I don't need that. I'll look over my conditions in the application text and send appropriate changes to you."

"I think you're right. You don't need 'restricted' showings any more. See you later."

=====

The hospital hallway windows looked north over much of The City's residential heart and wide green spaces. I stood and stared, mostly unseeing. Nate was strong and healthy and had recovered quickly from dunking in the cold Pacific a couple months ago, but worry ate at me.

The sun was setting when a nurse called my name. She had earlier recommended a shuttle service specializing in transporting limited-mobility patients; they would also provide a rental wheelchair and walker. She told me it was time to call for a ride and that I could see Nate now.

He was a mess, black and blue everywhere, and scratched over too much of his skin. I saw that touching him would only cause pain. His torn clothes had been cut away; he wore a disposable gown, poor baby. We chatted about survival and sloppy motorists until the shuttle driver rolled a wheelchair into the room. An orderly helped Nate into the chair; the driver gently rolled him outside, onto the shuttle van's powered lift, and secured the chair and passenger.

Open Services LLC — that means *I* — bought full insurance coverage for us as soon as we incorporated. Medical bills would not break us.

Living at street level with no steps has its advantages. I rolled Nate into the apartment myself, helped him into a thin track suit in lieu of pajamas, and eased him to lie on the sofa. Figgy quickly jumped on him but Nate did not flinch. I heard loud, therapeutic purring. I brought my man — my man! — a therapeutic sandwich, and hot bouillon in a cup with a flex-straw.

"That's the first time anything like that happened to me while I biked," he said between sips and bites. "Who'd a-thunk it? It's only slow traffic on a wide-open park road, and WHACK! into the shrubbery I go. I haven't tried diving into bushes before." He winced.

The hospital had provided over-the-counter painkillers but we agreed a few puffs of hashish were indicated. I helped him to the toilet first, then brought him back and administered smoke. He soon slept. Figgy returned to him with kibble-breath. My guys looked cute together. I cried.

===== Monday, week 13 =====

Nate was still bruised and torn but was more ambulatory today, stumbling to the bathroom on his own with the walker's help, and sitting up on the sofa, playing his tenor 'uke when Figgy permitted. He played slowly and lacked breath to sing at volume but I saw vast improvement. Scratches and bruises remained.

"I might be able to sit up longer in a day or two," he said. "And that wheelchair wasn't too painful. Can you reschedule your work for Wednesday and Thursday? I can probably get in and out of the Citroën, and lounge in the wheelchair during your sittings. I have some ideas for sound processor circuits I can diagram while you paint. We'll get through this."

The Citroën DS's suspension control let me easily raise or lower the car to a height suitable for Nate's access. And the folding wheelchair fitted in its trunk, le coffre de voiture as the manual says. Don't the French have a single word like 'trunk' or 'boot'? Non! How nekul'turnyy, uncultured. Tsk.

===== Tuesday, week 13 =====

He was better still today. I could stop coating him with iodine tincture. He could sit at the dining table for soup and snacks, and to draw circuit diagrams, referring to electronics texts.

Signe stopped by with the promised stack of records for us to give out. She was shocked at Nate's condition, and my account of the events.

"Holy [expletives deleted]!" she cried, but knew better than to try to hug my wounded man.

"I've been better," he joked, "but you should have seen the other guy. No, really, you should have; then maybe we'd have his or her identity and they could rot in jail. But since I won't be otherwise occupied, I can look at the Demons' audio devices. Tell me the makes and models, and if they're not too obscure, their circuits may be published in service guides. If you have their manuals, I won't have to order them."

"I was a business major, remember? I keep all documentation. Lydia, let me use your phone."

She called Grouchy and told him to deliver the manuals and their notes on the devices' faults. "Yes, sooner would be better, please."

"We'll need the processors for our shows over the weekend," she told Nate, "but then you can have them till next Thursday if that'll help."

"Let me study the manuals' schematics first," Nate said. "I can figure where to go from there. I may need to buy some tools like a Tektronix oscilloscope and signal analyzer for hands-on work."

"Get our devices working right and those will be part of our payment."

We chatted. Signe said that response to airplay of the 'Holiday' sides was positive and she thought the general version and even the kids' version would both debut high in the charts. Nate and I could expect nice royalty checks... paid to our corporation, of course. The business would accrue tax-gimmicked income while we were paid expenses and low salaries. I had Jeremy, our part-time manager, engage a part-time accountant to work the tax code tricks.