Girl With a Past

by Sherri Leigh James

  I considered giving them some shit about inviting him in without even considering how I felt about it. But, what the hell, they wouldn’t get it. And I’d just end up feeling stupid trying to explain.

  “Don’t you like’im?” Jeff asked. “Isn’t he cute?”

  “Cute?” Carol said. “Hell, he’s a stone cold fox!”

  “I don’t have time for that shit.” Why can’t they leave me be?

  “Lex, don’t get all uptight, remember the conversation we had about you sleeping with more than one guy in your life?” she said, “Sweetie, you don’t need to be lonely, let someone in.”

  “Carol, not now.” Un-be-liev-able! She had brought this up in front of all the guys who would no doubt use it to tease me mercilessly. I glared at Carol, but she didn’t take the hint. She meant well, she cared, but she needed to learn to censor herself. But then, censorship was not her forte.

  “He seems like the perfect opportunity,” she continued.

  I rolled my eyes and sighed. “Goddamnit Carol.”

  “He’s coming over tonight,” Jeff said.

  “What? You invited him back?” I shook my head. “You guys are too fucking much.” I headed to my room, grabbed a robe, and walked into the bathroom slamming the door behind me.

  Twenty minutes later, I had washed my hair, put on clean jeans, a tunic top with a low-slung hip belt, boots, and two quick swipes of mascara. No bra of course. I wondered what time he was coming over, but no way was I going to ask.

  A chorus of wolf whistles accompanied my return to the living room.

  “Yo man, I think Lex noticed that Derek’s a fox,” Ron cracked as he and Jamie headed to the entry hall. “Ciao,” they called as they closed the front door.

  I ignored the comment, grabbed the joint out of Jamie’s hand and took a hit while I stood admired the sun setting behind the Golden Gate. The grass mellowed me out and my end of the term worries about paintings and papers disappeared. I deserved a break.

  The sunset’s rainbow of colors reflected in the dark blue water of the bay, the entire composition framed by the deep green redwood trees outside the window. I’d give years off my life to capture the magic of those colors on canvas.

  Jeff handed me a glass of dark red wine.

  “No law books tonight?” I asked.

  “Taking a night off. I really do dig Derek. He seems OK.” He smiled. “I met someone too. I think you’ll like her.”

  Jeff and I had schemed together not to get too emotionally attached to anyone until we finished school. Unlike our rich friends who had no need to work to survive, we both wrested all we could out of the opportunity to learn. But now, all I wanted was to graduate and get on with life.

  I sipped the wine, discovered it wasn’t the usual Red Mountain rotgut, held the glass toward Jeff and raised a questioning eyebrow.

  “Yeah, she brought that Cabernet over. Pretty good, huh?” Jeff winked.

  “Did you find yourself an heiress? Does she know even though you got into Boalt Law, the odds are slim you’ll ever pass the bar?” It was safe teasing because Jeff was a hardworking student with a photographic memory. He intended to make the world a better place, one law case at a time.

  “Her father is a state senator. That’s from their winery,” Jeff said.

  “Aw, going for the political connections already, huh?”

  “Lex, I really like her. And . . . I think she likes me.” Jeff had that dreamy eyed look I’d seen on other faces, never his.

  Wow, I was about to lose my best friend. I raised my glass. “Here’s to your new love,” I said, “When do I meet her?”

  “Soon.”

  The doorbell chimed.

  “Aaha.” He scrambled out of the armchair we’d liberated from the Berkeley dump and bolted for the entry hall, smoothing his strawberry blonde hair in place as he walked.

  But it wasn’t a girl’s voice I heard say hello. “Welcome, Derek. Entrée!” Jeff said.

  Derek’s tall slender body was backlit by the chandelier in the entry hall as he passed through the archway into the living room. It wasn’t until he sat down next to me that I got the full effect of his looks. Short dark brown tendrils curled at his neck and framed his chiseled features. No longer bloodshot, his blue eyes twinkled mischievously.

  Maybe Carol was right. Maybe this was the opportunity to broaden my horizons. Try someone new. It had been months since my first lover had broken my heart. My resolve to dedicate myself to my studies with no distractions was melting in the warmth of his smile.

  “Hi!” He looked me in the eye. His smile exposed those dimples again. I tried to ignore the sexual tension, like the pull of tractor beams between us, but there was even more: the recognition of a kindred spirit, a person with whom I immediately felt comfortable.

  Jeff remained at the door awaiting the entrance of his woman who arrived right after Derek.

  Flames on oak logs in the fireplace and in candles on the mantel lit the room. On the stereo Bob Dylan rasped “Lay lady lay, lay across my big brass bed.” A tray on the coffee table held two bottles of Cabernet, two more wine goblets, and a dish of pre-rolled joints. The rest of our gang made themselves scarce.

  I’d been set up.

  I poured wine for Derek and Jeff’s new girl, Lauren. Then I sat back, ignored Derek, and studied Lauren to determine if she was good enough for my best friend. I wanted to be sure she really liked him.

  She thanked me for the wine in a soft, husky voice.

  Her brown eyes seldom left Jeff’s tan, freckled face; she hung on his every word. Could she be for real? Light brown hair fell around a delicately featured heart shaped face and grazed her shoulders. She shrugged off a vintage Chanel jacket revealing slender athletic arms visible in her sleeveless turtleneck.

  “Do you play tennis?” I asked her.

  “Some,” she answered.

  “She’s being modest, she’s damn good, plays in tournaments,” Jeff said.

  “Let’s see . . . ski?” I leaned forward so I could watch her eyes.

  “Yes,” Lauren said.

  “Golf?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Bridge?”

  “I do okay.”

  “Sail?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Hike?”

  “Jeff took me on a hike last weekend. To the top of Mount Tam. It was fab.”

  So that’s where he’d disappeared. She was doing pretty well so far. Almost too good. “Like kids?” I knew Jeff wanted several.

  Lauren smiled at Jeff. “Love them.” They’d evidently already explored these avenues.

  “What are you studying?” I asked.

  “Art History.” She nodded towards my canvass above the mantel. “I hope you don’t mind . . . when I saw that one, I insisted that Jeff show me more of your work. Beautiful. Really impressive.”

  Failing to find a flaw, I thanked her and sat back to discover that Derek had placed his arm on top of the sofa behind me. I feigned being cold and went over to stand in front of the fireplace, a ploy which failed when I realized I had just given Derek the opportunity to check me out from head to foot, which his eyes unabashedly did. He grinned and joined me on the hearth.

  The four of us rapped about the subject of which there was ample supply: fucked up politics.

  “Them times that’re changing, ain’t changin fast enough,” Derek said with a Dylanesque twang.

  “Anybody else think it keeps getting worse?” Lauren asked.

  “The worst was when Kennedy and King were killed.” I remembered how my hope had died the moment I heard the radio announcer tell us presidential candidate Bobby Kennedy had been shot in the Ambassador Hotel kitchen hallway. In despair, most of us had turned to drugs, art and music for consolation, but, unlike the most discouraged of our generation, we had not “dropped out.”

  Jeff picked up a joint from the tray, lit it, took a big toke, smiled at each of us in turn, and passed the “relief from our despair” to Lauren. La
uren took a hit, held her breath, and turned to me. By the time the weed had gone around the circle twice, Jeff pulled out a roach clip to avoid any waste.

  Ron, the wannabe preppie surfer, had stayed in town to pick up his friend Suzy from the library. Around ten, they joined in the fun.

  We smoked, played a few mind games, drank, got the munchies and ordered a pizza.

  “Hey, whaddaya think about this Zodiac guy?” Ron asked as he pulled dripping cheese on to the top of the piece of pizza he had lifted from the box.

  “I think he’s scary as hell, that’s what,” Suzy said.

  “Do ya think he really killed all those people he claims?” Ron asked, looked around the circle of faces as he munched on a bite.

  “Why would he say he killed more than he actually did?” I asked.

  “Cause he’s nuts?” Jeff asked.

  “That’s obvious from the notes he sends to the Chronicle,” Derek said.

  “I can’t look at them. I wish they wouldn’t print them on the front page. Those letters creep me out.” Lauren shivered.

  “Why do they print the notes at all?” I asked. “Doesn’t it just encourage the guy?”

  “The psycho tells them he’ll kill even more people if they don’t print them,” Ron muttered, his mouth full of pizza.

  “Is it true that he kills young lovers?” Suzy asked.

  “He seems to have a knack for finding people in compromising positions on their first date,” Jeff explained.

  “How in the world does he know it’s their first date?” I asked.

  Everyone in the circle shrugged their shoulders, shook their heads.

  “Good question,” Jeff said.

  “Maybe he follows pretty girls around,” Ron said, “waits for them to meet a new guy.”

  “Oh, that’s just too, too horrifying.” Lauren shuddered.

  “Yuck, yuck, yuck,” Suzy said. “Where’s the dope? I need a hit.”

  We smoked some more, and finally decided to dance.

  Jeff changed the record to slow, romantic music. Following one dance that was more like standing-up-making-out, Jeff and Lauren wandered down the hall hand in hand. “We’re gonna hit the rack,” Jeff called out.

  Ron led Suzy into the next room where Dave was writing his usual, a business plan. Ron asked Dave for use of his bedroom.

  Dave shot Ron a scowl, but was too much of a kiss-ass to say no.

  Now we were alone in the room. Derek held me tighter, kissed my neck sending chills down my body.

  But I dreaded what I knew was coming; Suzy, the screamer. Suzy’s pre-orgasmic groans were shockingly loud when she and Ron had sex; I was embarrassed even before the noises started.

  At the first dramatic moan, followed by an even louder grunt, Derek said, “Is that what I think it is? Or I should say, who I think it is?”

  “Shit.” I nodded.

  “You wanta get outa here?” Derek asked.

  We climbed into Derek’s VW bug, the same model that we all had and headed to his place.

  All my friends owned VW Bugs. If their parents insisted they get a new one, the usual routine was to kick a few dents into the fenders and smear it with mud. In Berkeley in the 60’s, it wasn’t hip to look as though you came from money.

  I loved my bug––an early ragtop, black on the outside, red inside, and I had replaced the interior lining with yellow fabric printed with red and black ladybugs.

  Derek surprised me when he stopped at a pay phone on Hearst Avenue, made a quick call, and hopped back in the car.

  I looked at him questioningly. I was a little freaked, “What’s happening?”

  “Ah, sorry, just something I forgot.”

  Derek flipped on lights as we entered a brown shingle craftsman in the flats. I followed him into the kitchen where he stood studying the contents of the fridge.

  “Wanna beer?”

  “Sure.” I glanced around the room. The original kitchen had been updated, walls taken down to create a dining area, and the back wall replaced with sliding glass doors opening onto a deck. Unusually neat for student housing, especially male student housing. A movement in the yard beyond the deck startled me. “Do you have housemates?”

  “Yeah, three other architecture students. They’re on campus. Chained to their drafting tables no doubt.” Derek smiled, handed me a beer.

  I tilted the bottle to my lips, took a long swallow. Then I asked, “Did you call to see if they were home?”

  Derek looked at me puzzled.

  “The phone call? At the pay phone?”

  “Oh, that.” He bit his lip.

  Was that a blush? I waited for an answer.

  “I thought maybe someone had come over,” he finally said.

  “Your girlfriend?”

  “No,” he said, “nothing like that.”

  I gave him a faint smile, took another slug of the beer.

  “I thought maybe my father might stop by. Seemed like that might be a bit awkward. That’s all. He’s not. Coming by, that is.” He shot me that smile, the one I couldn’t resist. “Wanna see my room?”

  I giggled and he grinned.

  He wrapped an arm around my waist and led me to his attic bedroom with a wall-to-wall bed nestled against a window overlooking the bay.

  He patted the corner of the bed. “Come, check out the view.”

  Could I do this? Carol’s voice in my head said, “Do it!”

  “That’s quite a line.” I had to admire the clever set up. “Does this usually work?”

  “This does.” He reached out and pulled me close until his lips touched mine in a gentle, tentative kiss. I wrapped my arms around his neck and deepened the kiss. He smiled into my eyes, slid my arms off his neck, peeled off my jacket and it hit the floor.

  Yes, I could do this; I wanted to do this.

  His hand explored the center of my back. His sly smile reacted to my lack of a bra.

  He removed my belt, lifted my tunic over my head and eased me down next to him on the bed. His mouth crushed mine. Then he kissed his way down my body and stroked feathery soft touches on my breasts.

  My nipples hardened, and a growing warmth traveled down to a yearning between my legs. His mouth followed.

  Oh yeah, it definitely worked.

  * * *

  I’d finally satisfied Carol’s nagging me to fuck someone new so I would realize there were other lovers possible. She insisted I’d get over the one who had broken my heart, and left me gun shy.

  But this didn’t feel right. I fought back the post-orgasmic emotions, the urge to cuddle. He was too good, too smooth, too practiced. I refused to fall for this guy just because he was a skilled lover. In fact his skill was the very thing that put me off. He was too good to be true, to be true to me that is.

  A noise near the front of the house startled me. Probably his housemates were coming home. I had to get out of there. “Take me home please.”

  “What?” He pushed himself up on his arms and studied my face. “Now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is something wrong? Did I hurt you?”

  “I want to go home.” I turned my face to the side; I couldn’t look at the hurt in his eyes. Just his ego that’s hurt, I told myself. “Please, take me home.”

  He rolled off me. Turned his back and picked up his jeans.

  I gathered my clothes from the floor and scrambled into them. Tossing on my jacket, I threw my scarf around my neck and headed for the door.

  Derek followed, grabbed my arm on the landing. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.” I pulled my arm from his grasp. The twinge of guilt for hurting his feelings didn’t out weigh my fear of being hurt again. Didn’t so-called liberated women understand why the sex act was called “making love”? “Look, it’s not you, that was . . . nice . . . very nice . . . just, just too much for me. I’m not used to going so fast.”

  “Nice? That was nice? Not mind blowing? Not fab? Or even bitchin?” Derek pulled me around so that he could
look in my eyes. “I’m sorry. For me, it was a lot more than nice.”

  I moved out of his arms, but waited while he dressed.

  He held my hand; we walked down the stairs side by side. He opened the door and guided me through the opening with his arm around my waist. “One last kiss.” He pulled me to him, brushed his lips across mine, nibbled on my bottom lip, and groaned, “Stay the night, please.”

  I wrenched away and ran down the porch stairs to the street.

  There was a loud bang, a car backfire? A glimpse of a dark figure wearing a black hood, another bang, then something hit my head, slammed it hard, knocked me down, my hand to my head covered in warm fluid, sharp unbearable pain filled my skull.

  Then merciful blackness closed in.

  Letter to the San Francisco Chronicle newspaper received May 1969

  PRINT THIS LETTER TOMORROW OR I WILL GO ON A KILLING SPREE ON THE STREETS OF SAN FRANCISCO AND I GUARANTEE 12 DEAD IN ONE DAY.

  GOOD CLEAN HEAD SHOT

  A NEW LOCK TO MY COLLECTION

  WHAT the HELL IS THE MATTER WITH YOUNG GIRLS THESE DAYS? USED TO BE SOILED WOMEN HAD LITTLE CHOICE BUT TO SELL THEMSELVES. NOW THEY CALL IT FREE LOVE!

  LOT OF WORK TO DO.

  GOTTA PURGE THE WORLD OF THIS FILTH.

  ROLL IT

  SHOOT IT

  MARK IT WITH Z

  PUT IT IN THE OVEN

  FOR BABY AND ME

  ZODIAC

  CHAPTER

  1

  San Francisco, March 2008

  My name is Alexandra Nichols, but everyone calls me Al. Even my dad.

  Usually the best way to talk to my father is to visit his office in San Francisco, but that day he was totally into a case he was prosecuting soon. His secretary had done her best to stop my entrance, but I pushed past and opened the heavy oak door.

  “Dad, I can’t find the Zodiac file. Did your new secretary do something with it?”

  “Al,” my startled father looked up from the law book on his massive oak desk, “what do you want with it?”

  I plopped into one of his leather guest chairs, “To look at it.”

  “Why?” He removed his reading glasses, studied my face.