Chapter 7

Tommy wasn’t sure what Sylvester would do—knew he was a braggart but also a man not given to fantasy but action. Tommy too wanted to act now, take advantage of the opportunity, the woman in his care, at his mercy. He felt for the blameless immigrant but wanted her. “So beautiful,” he’d murmured in the car on the way over, just short of laying his hand on her thigh—as he could have; she couldn’t have done anything. A man who held himself to a high standard, a patriot, right and wrong part of the “America First” agenda he believed in—he felt himself, in this case, becoming like Sylvester in Akemi’s presence, even out of it, felt his scruples slipping, wearing thin. His cock about to burst through them. God, he wanted her. Those pursed lips. That helpless appeal. Her defiance. Her hair in light bangs in front, tied back. He wanted to let it down, watch it fall to her shoulders bared by the white elastic dance top she had on, wanted her breasts in his hand under the fabric, stretching. No, he couldn’t sleep. He thought of her bush, his hand crawling there, soothing, saying to her as that other detainee had, “It’ll be all right” and “Don’t worry, baby” and “You’re not alone.” His cock ached. He would have brought himself off if Sophie hadn’t been next to him—Sophie, his wife, whom he loved despite the rough patch they’d reached and didn’t seem to know how to get beyond. She was a reassuring presence in his darkness but didn’t illuminate it the way Akemi did. Tommy reached to caress her shoulder and she murmured, still asleep, turned away, leaving him to his thoughts and the long hours until another day started and with it the work he loved and hated.