Fifteen Years without Parole

A continuation of Fifteen Minutes of Fame and Fifteen More Minutes of Fame.

*****

The guard didn't bother to hide her yawn. Non-contact visits tended to be the dullest part of her day; tearful families, hands pressed to either side of the glass partition, a stream of apologies and pleas and I-love-yous and all manner of horseshit. Much better to be stationed in the main visiting room. There, at least, was the occasional fight, or a screaming kid to corral.

Still, the Senator was here today, and her stiff-backed contempt was refreshing. She hadn't said a word as they escorted her in and settled her in her booth, and she hadn't yet said a word to the good-looking guy—a little older than her, maybe; formal, but not quite as cold—seated opposite. Not much point in visiting, the guard mused, if all they're going to do is stare at each other.

Another silent minute passed.

"Dear," the Senator said at last, her voice tight with anger, "you won't believe what the kids have been up to lately."

***

"This was a stupid idea." Pam's smile stopped somewhere well below her eyes. "Someone's going to recognize us."

I lowered my wineglass. "So what? Nobody's going to call us out. The staff would throw them out for ruining the atmosphere—and, besides, nobody in this room would admit to watching Springer or knowing the details. All they know is what's in the papers, and most of that's not about us. Of all the places to go enjoy a night out, a super-fancy place like this is probably one of the safest."

"Yeah. But we can't talk loud enough to actually hear each other—"

"What was that?" Her expression was murderous. "Sorry. Go on."

"Don't make fun of me right now, Carl. I know this was my idea, but I really don't like this. It's hard to talk, and I hate censoring myself, and it's stuffy, and this dress—" She plucked at the red silk wrapped around her "— is horrible, and we're the youngest people here, and I'm just..." Pam shook her head. "I dunno. Just uncomfortable here. This is Mom's sort of thing, not mine."

"Hm." She really did look miserable. "We can go, if you want."

"Nah, it's fine. I'm just whining."

"Well, if it's any consolation, I'm as unimpressed with the company as you are, aside from you. And you really do look great in that dress." She rolled her eyes, grabbed her water glass. Wait for it... When she was in mid-swallow, I added "But not as good as you look naked."

She was quick; most of the water didn't make it past her napkin, which she had against her mouth in a split-second. But her cough, and her furious expression, drew a few looks from other diners. "You're gonna pay for that."

"Yeah, I know." I smiled at the predatory glint in her eyes. "Later, though. Not in public."

"But it would make dinner so much more interesting for everyone."

"Hey, if pleasing the public is your thing, that's totally fine. Hell of a lot less controversial than what we're already doing. But let's not get ourselves kicked out of a restaurant trying it."

"Spoilsport."

"At least not until after we've eaten."

The food was almost worth its exorbitant price, I decided. Small portions, big flavors, and enough wine made the strangest things seem appealing. Everything except for dessert, which was some creatively shaped pile of chocolate covered in a paper-thin layer of something shiny. Shiny and yellow. I poked at it with a spoon, watching it flake apart. "Is this what I think it is?"

"Depends on what you're thinking of. But yeah, probably."

"And I thought Goldschlager was pretentious."

"Welcome to the nouveau riche, dear brother. May your desserts always be covered in precious metal." Pam waited as a server topped off her wineglass, then clinked it against mine and drained it. "Let's never come here again."

"Deal. Wanna go?"

"God yes." She slid out of her chair, drawing surreptitious looks—and a few blatant ones—from men around the room. The dress really did look spectacular on her. "Coming?"

I dropped some money on the table, probably way more than I needed to, but I didn't give a shit. Managing cash was something I definitely didn't miss. "After you."

We linked arms as we headed for the door, the waitstaff wishing us well as we passed. Pam stopped, glancing down the corridor to the restrooms. "Are you in a hurry to get home?"

"Not really. Go ahead, if you need to."

"That's not really what I was asking." She smirked. "Go bribe the hostess, would you? Get them to put an out-of-order sign on it or something."

"I thought you didn't want to attract attention? And won't that make you look, y'know, whorish?"

Pam rolled her eyes. "You have no sense of style. Be back in a minute." Giving me a little push towards the bathroom, she walked over to the front desk, hips swaying. I tried to beat down the rising sense of excitement, of sudden nervousness, and let myself into the men's room.

I took a long look at myself in the mirror. Dark circles under my eyes; I hadn't slept well in a month. Stupid, really. Everything was going amazingly. My life was better than it had at any other point in the past decade. I had more money than I'd ever had, with more on the way soon. Pam and I were in love, or something like it.

"You fucking idiot." My face glared back at me. "You've got everything you wanted and you're still terrified it'll just fucking disappear overnight." It was something I was getting used to telling myself.

"You too, huh?"

I spun, almost slipping on the tile. Pam was closing the door behind her. "We've got twenty minutes, but I'm sensing that the mood's a bit dark right now."

"Nah, I'm just being stupid. Worried about shit I shouldn't be worrying about. The usual."

She leaned back against the door and closed her eyes. "Jesus. We're such fucking failures. We even fail at dealing with success."

"Hey." I waited until she opened her eyes, met my gaze. "Question for you."

"Shoot."

"Do you have any idea what the fuck is happening anymore?"

"Sure. We're making ourselves rich. We're gonna finish our interviews with Roger, and he's gonna finish the book, and we're gonna make a shit-ton more money on it. Then we'll move somewhere that isn't Crack Alley and... well, we'll figure that part out when we get there."

"Glad you've got it worked out that far, at least. Might be a bit harder to get there than that, but we can make it work." I frowned. "We."

"Got a problem with that?" Pam's tone was curious, but her face had something accusatory in it.

In three steps, I crossed the bathroom and had my arms around her. "Nope," I murmured, my head on her shoulder. "Quite the opposite."

She didn't say anything, but her arms tightened up on my back.

I still wasn't happy. Still couldn't shake that bad feeling. But I was better, for now, at least. And that dress was awfully thin. Could feel almost everything beneath it. That helped, too.

"You know," she said, sliding a leg between mine, "I gave that bitch an awful lot of money to have this room."

"And?"

"And we've still got plenty of time left. It'd be a shame to waste it." Her hands slid down my back, moving steadily ass-ward. "I picked the restaurant; your turn to call the shots. What do you want to do?"

I glanced around the room. Nice, well-decorated, and it seemed clean enough, but I didn't think Pam'd be too keen on lying down on the floor. One place to sit, but no guarantee it'd hold two people—and it didn't exactly suit the mood, either. Oral was great, but it was also one-sided, and I wanted to feel close right now.

And then I saw the mirror again.

"Here's an idea," I said, taking a step back. "Grab the sink. Or the counter, I guess, not the sink itself."

"Ooh, look at you, Mister Authoritative!" Pam brushed by and stood in front of the sink, her smirk reflected back at me. "Like this, 'master'?"

"Oh, fuck off. There's no way you'd be a sub. Way too stuck up for that." I moved behind her and ran my hands over her sides, feeling her warmth through the thin dress. "Not that it wouldn't be nice to not be bossed around once in a while."

"Lost that battle when you were born, kiddo." Her eyes were closed, the smirk fading into a more relaxed smile as I caressed her. "You're the younger one. Tough luck."

"Only a couple years. Hardly relevant." One hand was under her dress now, and I was trying to undo the fucking second button on my damn suit pants with the other. I pushed, gently, with two fingers, feeling the dampness of her panties. And feeling the panties themselves. "Lace?"

"Couldn't find the garter to match."

"Are you trying to seduce me, Miss Pamela?"

"Like you need lace to get hard." She was relaxing, pressing herself against my hand. "You'd be fine fucking in ratty-ass sweats."

"Oh baby, so hot, et cetera." Finally had my cock out; I nudged the lace aside and brushed the tip against the hot, slick flesh beneath. Felt her shiver. "A request."

"You're in charge. But no anal."

"I get enough shit from you as it is. Look up." As I'd hoped, she got it: her eyes found mine in the mirror. "Now stay like that. As long as you can." And I pushed forward, easing myself into her, savoring the sensation on every fraction of every inch of my cock.

Her lips pressed together, then parted in a sigh. "Best part of the night, right there."

"It's still early. We've got..." I pulled back slightly, then drove forward up to the hilt. "...A long way to go."

Pam rolled her eyes. "Don't flatter yourself."

"Look at me." I punctuated the reminder with another long, smooth stroke, one hand on her waist, the other curling around towards the heat between her legs. "I want to watch your face."

"Creepy motherfffff..." Her jaw clenched as my fingertips found her clit. But her eyes didn't move.

"Sisterfucker, I think, is more appropriate." Stroke. Stroke. I tried to relax, to keep it slow and deliberate. "Unless there was..." Stroke, and this time I held it, every bit of my length inside of her, pulling her towards me for a long few seconds. "...Deeper meaning to that phrase?"

"One more pun and you're sleeping on the couch tonight."

"Fair enough." I watched her face—the parted lips, the rhythmic exhalations timed to my thrusts. The momentarily squeezed-shut eyes as I pressed with my fingers. I'd gotten pretty good at reading her lately, but being able to see her from behind like this was uncharted territory. And only about half my attention was on Pam's expression, anyway. The other half was fighting the instinct to drop all pretense and pound as hard and fast as I could, to give in to pleasure and biology and just thrust until—

I stopped. Caught myself right on the edge. Focused on breathing. In. Out. In...

"Something wrong?"

...Out. "The opposite." Bit down on my cheek, hard. I tried to save that for important situations; might not be good to convince my brain that mouth pain and orgasms went together. Might make dentist visits easier, though. "Give me a second. You doing okay?"

"I was, until you stopped." She raised an eyebrow. "Awfully deliberate tonight, aren't you?"

"Is that code for 'slow'?" I kept a finger lazily circling her clit; no reason both of us should have to reset. "I thought that was a good thing."

"Just wanted to make sure you're keeping an eye on the clock. No bitchy waitresses at home, after all."

"Well, there's one, at least."

"Listen, trashdick, you—"

Her voice cut off, lips jammed against each other, as I started to move again. Not sure how long I'd hold out, but I'd bought myself some time. "Sorry, what was that?"

"I said you're a literal pile of garbage, a useless—" A sharp inhalation, almost a yelp, as I caught sensitive skin between thumb and forefinger. "Fuck you." Her breath was ragged, heavy, syncopated against the movements of my hand and dick.

"That's the plan." I felt myself speed up. Couldn't help myself. Sweat was beading down my back and the room was stifling and it was all good, too good. "Ten seconds."

"Pressure. And faster."

Familiar phrases, clipped short with mere essentials. She was close, and like hell I was going to finish before she did or I'd never live it down. My fingers dug in, pushing hard on her nub as I picked up the pace of my thrusts, thoughts grasping wildly for something dull, anything that wasn't the feel of my sister wrapped around my cock and the breaths and groans and other sounds of our exertion and the smell of sex and the sight of her in the mirror, eyes locked on mine, intense, almost in agony in anticipation of—

And Pam stiffened, stretched, her white-knuckled grip on the counter holding her steady as she pushed herself into me, gritted teeth beneath red lips stifling the moan that erupted from somewhere deep inside. Muscles tightened, everything tightened, as the orgasm hit, and I tried to keep up, guiding her through it as best I can.

And she didn't break eye contact. And I saw the fire in her eyes, the burning that drives her, and it was more than I could take.

I lasted another second, maybe, before I lost it, hands clutching feverishly as my cock thrusted as deep as it could, spasms of pleasure shaking me as I fired off inside of her. Of Pam. My Pam.

We panted, together, as we waited for the aftershocks to cease.

At last, they did.

"That was..." She stopped. Swallowed, eyes closed. Caught her breath. "Okay. I have to say. That was pretty fucking weird."

"Thought it might be romantic. Or something. I dunno." Not exactly my wittiest, post-coital.

Pam slid away from me, disengaging herself from my softening cock. "That much eye contact? More rapey than romantic, I'd say."

Ow. And not the joking, playful-banter ow. "Well, excuse me for experimenting. Nothing but sixty-second missionary from now on, like a good by-the-book Protestant."

She turned, grabbed my collar, pulled me into a savage kiss. "Still hot, though," she whispered, an inch from my face. "Let's try it again sometime, in a place that doesn't smell like piss and air freshener."

"What, sixty-second missionary?"

"Don't tempt me, smartass." She gave me a gentle push, then turned back to the mirror to un-muss her hair. "Next time, I get to call the shots. And you've not seen everything in my toy box yet."

"The 'no anal' clause goes both ways, I think." There was no hiding what we'd done, and I didn't much care to try, so I just made sure nothing was hanging out and led the way out of the bathroom. "Beyond that, I'm willing to negotiate."

"Aww, and I had a strap-on picked out and everything. You sure you don't want to meet Mister Twisty?"

"Can we table this discussion until we're in a cab, at least?"

Pam waved at the hostess, whose mask of professionalism cracked just enough to reveal the disgust underneath. "Please. A hundred bucks says half of the old fucks eating here have gimp suits and latex masks in their closets." Her smile turned wolfish, and her hand found mine. "And it's not like we're ever getting a reservation here again. Shall we go, my dear brother?"

I brought her hand up to my lips. "After you, sister of mine." We'd put enough emphasis on those words that they carried back into the main dining room. A conversation or two stuttered to a halt, and I grinned. "What happens when we run out of restaurants?"

"We buy a new house somewhere else, of course."

"Of course. You're always so sensible."

"Damn right I am."

***

Not until halfway through Attack of the Giant Leeches—a particularly shitty film, even by the standards of our usual Friday booze-and-bad-movie nights—did my mind finish chewing over my doubts and spit out an answer.

"Serious question." I muted the TV; now I'd never find out what giant-tits said to husband's-friend-who's-gonna-fuck-her, because I sure as hell wasn't sitting through this thing again. No real loss.

"One sec." Pam spun, pulling her still silk-wrapped legs off of my lap, then tilted back and drained her glass, which she'd filled maybe two minutes ago. "'Kay. Go ahead."

"Mom's finished, at least for a while. Career's done, legal sex offender, political hypocrite, all that jazz. Done with public life, thanks to us."

"Yup. High-five."

I shook my head, but couldn't leave her hanging. "Fine. And you and I are set, for now. The advance pays the rent; if the book does half as well as Roger says, working's optional. Maybe no flashy sports cars, but enough to live on."

"That all seems right on track so far."

"So. We won. Now, what, we retire? At twenty-something?"

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

"Might be." I paused, tried to get my thoughts in order. "Mom was driving us forward, right? We had a goal. It got things out of stasis. Moved things, brought us somewhere. And now there's nothing there to keep that momentum."

"Getting awfully existential there. Been reading Nietzsche under the covers at night? Reliving your teenage angst?"

"Please, Pam. Just one actual, serious conversation. Minimal bitchiness from both of us."

"That was minimal bitchiness."

"Look. What I'm trying to say is that Mom brought us here, and now she's out of the picture. So where do we go?"

The expected retort didn't come. She was frowning at the ice cubes in her glass. "There's two things there, I think, and you're trying not to talk about one of them." A pause to gauge my reaction; I guess my face said more than I thought it did, as she pushed on. "First, the cunt made change happen, and that's good, but that doesn't mean change has to stop. If this isn't your thing, then go back to school or whatever, or, I don't fucking know, go spend time picking up dogshit at the animal shelter. It's not like the only thing worth living for is fucking over other people."

"Strange, hearing you say that."

"Now who's being bitchy? I'm not vindictive and spiteful every second of the day—just around you." Her smirk only lingered for a second. "But that's the other half of what's eating you, yeah? The whole 'us' thing. Specifically, the fact that 'us' came from Mom in more ways than one."

"Basically."

"And now the thing that got us here together is gone, there's no reason for us to be here together?"

My chuckle sounded forced, even to me. Probably because it was. "Sounds pretty fuckin' shallow when you say it like that."

"And I don't think you believe it for an instant. If you did, it'd be a lot less funny for me to call you dickless."

"Ah."

"Because you wouldn't have a dick."

"Right."

"Because I'd have ripped—"

"Yes, I get the picture, thank you."

Pam reached for the bottle, tipped a little more into both glasses. "Here's the way I see it. And you're free to disagree, even though I know I'm right and you're deluded."

"Kind of you."

"One: the reason we started spending time together was because of Mom. And the reason we started throwing shit in her, and her god's, face was obviously because of her too. But the key word there is 'started.' We could've fucked once, done the show, and moved on."

I faked a sneeze. At her glance, I shrugged. "Allergic to bullshit."

"If you're gonna rip off movie lines, at least pick ones that aren't literally horse jizz. And, anyway, that's my point. You can't imagine doing that, right?"

No deliberation, no need to think about it at all. "Nope."

"Right. Mom was the catalyst and we're the parts keeping it going. She started the reaction, or maybe she just sped things up; after that, it's all been on us. Basic chemistry."

"Chemistry?"

"I did more than just beat up bullies in high school."

"News to me."

"Anyway. Two: we've got more in common than a shared hatred of the bitch-queen of the universe. Like this." She gestured towards the low-budget explosions on screen. "Like laughing at stuff that isn't funny. Like the shit we had to put up with growing up."

"Bad movies and a bunch of shared family crap. There are worse things to build on, I guess."