The father—Noel Sutherland, he had announced as he initially strode to the desk—observed this apparently familiar ritual without comment. “You did ask for the bed,” he told his wife, who nodded. The older boys, who Jennalee guessed ten or eleven, remained at attention, avoiding their father’s broad gaze.
“There, you see,” Noel Sutherland said to Gerald.
“Jennalee, tell Wesley to put a rollaway bed in number fifty-one right away.”
“Fine,” Jennalee said.
He’ll probably pee his pants if I talk to him, she was about to add when Noel Sutherland’s right arm swept a wide arc and caught the smallest boy with a strong backhand. “She said to stop it!” he roared and Jennalee waited for the cry, surprised when the boy did no more than suck in a breath as a red welt rose on his cheek. “Lead the way,” Noel said and Jennalee started out, Sutherlands behind her like a string of ducklings.
Fifty and fifty-one were the first two rooms in Building Eight at the far edge of the compound. Malvern Gardens had eleven tile-roofed buildings on its eight acres: seven two-levels, two single-story, the main building, and what they called The Hall which contained the Oak Room, ballroom-sized, and the smaller Pine and Spruce Rooms. The main building, an imposing two-story with a cathedral-ceiling lobby, housed two suites and four rooms plus the office, supply room, kitchen, and the Preece’s living quarters. Jennalee hated that, too. She’d whined about it on first sight, asking to have a room at the furthest edge of the place, something Gerald Preece managed only to sputter about. Jane Preece had quietly told her daughter no and they’d taken up as planned in the apartment-sized quarters formerly occupied by Ralph and Dorothy Burkett. Jane worked a gradual redecoration while tending many other tasks, replacing ancient overstuffed furniture with pieces from the Pacific Heights house. Some of these, she had subsequently decided, looked out of place but they seemed to reassure Gerald, so she overlooked the culture clash that slapped her each time she made the transition from the Spanish-style lobby to the contemporary living area.
“Here you go,” Jennalee said, handing Noel Sutherland the key cards. She’d done no more than open the door and stand back.
“What time is the continental breakfast?” he asked as his family hurried inside.
Jennalee had no idea. “Seven,” she said.
“Until when?”
“Ten.”
He looked down at her tiny skirt before disappearing inside.
Back in the lobby Jennalee found clusters of Sutherlands hugging and squealing. She tried to sidestep them, planning to get her sunglasses from her room and hike up to the bluff, but her father spied her. “Jennalee, good. Show Mr. and Mrs. Sutherland to sixteen.”
“I have to get my sunglasses.”
“That can wait.” He handed her the key card.
She forced a long sigh. “The sun is blinding!” she wailed as she spun and walked away, key card in hand. Everett and Aldora Sutherland hurried to catch up. Across the compound she waited for them at the unlocked door. “Here you go,” she said, pushing the key into the elderly gentlemen’s hand.
“Thank you, young lady,” he said and she caught a wave of aged breath.
“No problem.” She squinted as she walked away. She was devising a plan to get her sunglasses without being seen when she heard the distinctive roar of motorcycles and ran toward the courtyard, hoping some biker gang was crashing this potentially mind-numbing weekend.
She didn’t remain in shadow now, but leaned against a supporting column on the wide porch. It was shady here, almost cool, and she forgot the heat as she heard the bikes closing, two at least, maybe three or four. “Dad is going to shit,” she said aloud as they came into view.
Harleys, she noted, full dresser in the lead pulling a small trailer, Sportster half a length behind, sleek and black, but still big and powerful. Then something else, she couldn’t make out what kind, with two riders, one in leather, one decidedly not, everyone helmeted in accordance with California law.
Sutherlands were drifting out the door, but most hurried back inside when they saw the small procession. Only a few children remained, plus the squishy guy, now minus his wife. He stepped forward and began to laugh. “Earl!” he called, shaking the Harley rider’s hand before the man got his helmet off. “How the hell are you?”
The rider, dressed in a battered Levi jacket and black jeans, remained concealed behind his black Darth Vader-like full-face helmet. He shut off his engine, rested the motorcycle on a side stand, and only then unstrapped the cover to reveal himself middle-aged and weathered, dark hair, dark mustache. Sinister, Jennalee thought, the gang leader. She moved on to the Sportster, as did the squishy guy, who lit up at sight of a woman emerging from the helmet, oval-faced with a mass of dark curls that spilled around her jacket collar. “Aunt Liz!” he gushed and Jennalee smiled. They’re part of it. Dad is going to major shit.
The woman, taller than her husband by a good two inches, also wore black jeans, but she topped them with a worn leather jacket split at the left shoulder. Behind her the other two riders had emerged, one in Levis and leather, the other in shiny blue slacks—they reminded Jennalee of Grandpa Preece’s gabardine—and a pinstriped black on white vest unbuttoned over an outlandish orange print shirt. They appeared in their early twenties, Levis and leather strikingly handsome in an Elvis way, the garish clown with him an obvious punk devotee. While the first one wore his hair slick and sideburned in a retro-fifties style, the second subscribed to the chaos Jennalee knew from school—Lowell, not Malvern—gelled high and wild on top, nearly shaved on the sides. The stubble that remained ran down onto his face and across his chin. He completed the look with an earring in his left ear.
The two worked at avoiding each other, Levis and leather moving up to the Harley once he’d parked his own machine, the punk shaking himself out and swinging a case from his back. Jennalee had seen such cases before—long, rectangular—but suspected this one didn’t contain what the others had. The punk handled it with care, however, and hung back near the motorcycle.
The squishy guy had shared a long embrace with Aunt Liz before moving on to what must be his cousins, and Jennalee heard him call out, “Garth,” followed by a “Hey, man,” and handshake. Garth—Levis and leather now had a name—flashed half a smile and unzipped his jacket to reveal a solid build beneath classic white T-shirt. He caught Jennalee looking and reached into his pocket to extract her pink panties, which he brought to his lips while never taking his eyes off her. For the first time in maybe her whole life she had no idea what to do.
Garth stayed with her until his father, Earl, punched his arm and said something. Jennalee felt almost relieved when the incredible specimen turned away. He stuffed the panties into his back pocket where a portion remained visible on what Jennalee decided was an enticing butt.
The squishy guy had, during this interlude, moved onto the punk to pummel and laugh and ultimately embrace. “Park!” the punk shouted and the squishy guy—how appropriate the name, Jennalee thought, so large—returned the greeting with an equally loud, “Harley!”
Jennalee had been directing her attention to Garth’s intriguing backside—he had a way of standing that thrust one hip and her panties toward her—but hearing the name brought her away from her supporting column and she ventured a few steps closer as she considered this man and this woman, these parents, these motorcycle people, had actually named their child after one of the bikes. And actually the other guy looked more Harley, that heavy masculine sound like the bikes themselves, but he looked Garth too while the punk, oh, who knew how he looked. She couldn’t fit a name to him because he had this smile and she left him with cousin Park and chatter that rolled nonstop, as if they hadn’t spoken the entire year.
Aunt Liz stripped away her leather to set free a pair of substantial breasts straining the buttons of a sleeveless blue chambray shirt. “I’ll check us in,” she told Earl, and she gave Jennalee a warm hello as she passed. She’s gotta be five ten, the
girl decided as she turned back to the others. Harley was about the same height as his mother, while Garth seemed to match his more diminutive father.
Several small children ventured near the motorcycles and were yanked back by anxious parents. Then Jane Preece was beside her daughter. “Lee,” she said, then again, then, “Jennalee,” which finally got an acknowledgement.
“Hm?”
“We need you inside.”
“Has Dad seen this? Does he know?”
“Go inside and help.” Jane glanced at the men and turned away, missing Harley entirely. He’d wandered off with his cousin Parker, who he had indeed not seen in a year and who, though living a life far opposite his own, nevertheless remained closer to him than any Sutherland and possibly any Laidlaw.
For these were the Laidlaws of Garden Grove, as Gerald Preece discovered when his gaze dropped from Lizann Laidlaw’s breasts to the registration card she had completed.
“These are ground floor rooms,” she said. “That’s what I asked for.”
“Uh, yes, I believe they are.” Gerald’s hand wandered across his keyboard as he bent to look and his page scrolled away. “Yes, yes, of course,” he managed, the Laidlaw reservation temporarily gone.
Jennalee, having been herded to the desk by her mother, now stepped forward and offered to show the family to their rooms. “Fifty-two and fifty-three. They’re way at the back,” she said, taking the key cards from her father.
“Fine,” said Lizann with a broad smile. When they reached the motorcycles, she offered Jennalee a ride. “Point the way,” she said, and Jennalee climbed on and felt the Sportster’s rumble come up between her legs.
Garth pulled alongside and grinned. “Harley went with Parker,” he announced.
Lizann said no matter. “He’ll find us. He always does.”
The Harley—the motorcycle, not the boy—had come to life and Earl Laidlaw followed Lizann and Garth along the path that wound through the entire resort, going around the main building, past the middle buildings and pool, to the two single-storied ones at the back. This placed the Laidlaw residence next to the Noel Sutherlands, and Jennalee saw drapes pull aside as the motorcycles came to a stop.
After handing over the key cards, Jennalee didn’t retreat from this family as she had the Sutherlands. She hung about watching Earl and Garth unload the small trailer, which seemed bottomless as they pulled out several small plaid suitcases, a cardboard box, a worn briefcase, and two full grocery bags. Lizann popped in and out, directing traffic, while Jennalee held assorted poses nearby. She lost all composure, however, and stood stunned when, once bags and boxes were inside, Earl and Garth Laidlaw pushed the motorcycles inside as well, the Harleys in with Mom and Dad, the other—Jennalee finally saw it was a Kawasaki—in with Garth, who she assumed would share space with Harley, the punk.
Once everything was inside, Lizann came to the door. “Thanks for your help,” she said to Jennalee. “I’m sure we’ll be seeing you later.”
She closed the door and Jennalee only then, as she felt heat drying her tongue, realized her mouth was agape. “Super major shit,” she said as she started back toward the main building.
Passing the pool area, she saw Sutherlands of all sizes already splashing, desperate, it seemed, for relief from the heat which, now past mid-day, was at its peak. The air had that oven-like quality Californians dote on with the eternal observation, “Well, at least it’s a dry heat.”
Jennalee lingered near a cluster of lawn chairs, watching boy after boy—the only females the adult women—and she wondered if the little girls had been hidden away or maybe drowned at birth. She saw Noel Sutherland’s three boys, their mother keeping close watch, father nowhere in sight; she saw Everett and Aldora dangling their feet and cringing each time the children splashed with any significance; and she saw Kendall, the stumbling shoe-tying lad who now spied her and stared openly until wrestled underwater by yet another Sutherland boy.
“Miss?” A trim pale man had crept up behind Jennalee. “Do you work here? I ask because I want to know about the pool toys. You know, inflatable things? Ralph and Dorothy always put out a few. My boy especially likes the dragon.”
“They’re all boys,” Jennalee said.
The man chuckled. “Yes. Really something, isn’t it? Oh, that’s right, you’re new. Well, it’s some kind of genetic trait that Sutherlands only produce male offspring, mutant gene I suppose, some XY thing gone haywire. Six generations and only the one girl.”
“There’s a girl?”
“Well, she’s not a girl anymore. Elizabeth Ann Sutherland, my aunt. Surely you’ve seen her. If not, I know you’ve heard her. The Laidlaws never slip into town quietly.”
“Aunt Liz?”
He laughed. “Right. Aunt Lizann. She didn’t turn out exactly as Grandfather planned, but she’s a neat lady. By the way, I’m Kyle Sutherland. My father Charles is Lizann’s older brother. I’m here with my two sons, Kipp and Eric, and their mother, of course, Melody.” He nodded toward a blond woman holding a baby and a leashed toddler.
“I don’t know about the toys,” Jennalee said. “I’ll have to ask my dad. Be right back.” She was nearly to the main building when she almost ran into Wesley rounding a corner. “Wesley, oh yeah, I was supposed to tell you something, but I forget.”
He blushed and looked at his feet.
“Nope, can’t remember, “Jennalee continued. “Oh well, just ask Dad, okay?”
Wesley nodded and hurried away, cowboy boots giving him a distinctive clomp.
“Hey, Dad, the bikers put their bikes into the rooms!” Jennalee shouted as she came into the lobby, but Gerald Preece had a counter full of people, some signing registration cards, some pushing credit cards toward him, others deep in conversation with Jane, who had a local map spread and was highlighting in fluorescent pink. Gerald looked over his glasses at Jennalee and shrugged and Jennalee shrugged back. “What a hoot!” she declared and flopped onto a sofa, one leg perched up over the arm. She was as oblivious to her display as she was the inflatable pool toys.
Chapter 3
“How about a ride?”
Garth Laidlaw found Jennalee where she intended, on a chaise she’d dragged from poolside to an unoccupied square of lawn.
“My dad would shit,” she said, secure behind her sunglasses
Garth said, “Whatever,” and turned away.
“Wait,” she called, and he stopped but kept his back to her, which threw the whole encounter off balance. “Okay,” she said and followed him to the motorcycle. When he handed her the battered white, half-shell helmet his brother had worn, she groaned. “Do I have to?”
He nodded. “It’s the law.” As she strapped it over her shoulder-length dark hair, Garth dangled her panties before her. “Want these?”
“Not really.”
He grinned and stuffed them into his pocket. “Let’s go.”
Jennalee climbed on behind him and felt the engine rumble to life, that same steady purr coming up through her as it had with the Sportster his mother rode, but this time Garth Laidlaw ran a hand along her thigh before starting out. He rode easy along the winding path, Jennalee’s arms around his taut middle, and Sutherlands stared and Wesley raised a hand to shade his eyes at the sight. For it was a sight as far as Jennalee was concerned, sitting behind this total hunk on the coolest bike. It felt almost San Francisco or no, more L.A., loose, laid back, and bad. She saw the image as if through a camera lens until they left the grounds, Garth twisted the throttle, and they shot onto the two-lane road.
Jennalee didn’t know where they were going, but Garth seemed to. She contented herself with his presence—he had to be at least twenty-two—and the exhilaration of escaping the inn and her parents and their awful suffocation.
Sailing along, she had no concept of time other than not wanting the ride to end. They were far from Malvern, past Sutter Creek and Jackson, deep into gold country, when Garth abruptly turned onto a dirt road that cut between low hill
s and wound back into a grove of oak trees. When he stopped and shut off the engine, Jennalee waited, and when he went no further than removing his helmet, she slid off the motorcycle, swinging the half-shell by its strap. “This is the coolest bike,” she said.
Garth asked, “You ride much?”
“Just with this guy in the city a few times, but he had a little one.”
“Well, I’ve got a big one.” Garth looked her up and down, lingering at her hem, and she spun away.
“Malvern is like being banished,” she said, whirling around the motorcycle. “We had this great house in San Francisco and I had a super life, all these friends, and then my dad dumps it all. God, I hate it.”
“What do you do for kicks?”
“Hang with some locals, but they’re like these farm boys, really limited. It’s another planet.”
“So you decorate the trees.” He produced the panties again, took his time locating the crotch, which he sniffed at length.
“I just did it today,” Jennalee said. “They were bothering me and it was like totally spontaneous. Funny, nobody else noticed.”
“You bet they noticed. The car in front of us drove halfway off the road and I could see the wife laying into the guy, his head whipping around. No, everybody noticed, but only one answered the call.” He was still astride the motorcycle and Jennalee could see the bulge in his jeans, and then he was unzipping. “How about a real ride?” he said as his erection sprang free. He wrapped her panties around it and stroked. “You ever fuck on a bike?”
Jennalee stared at her panties which he’d now looped over his organ, violating her even as she kept her distance.
“C’mon, show me what’s under there,” he prodded, and Jennalee whirled away laughing, unable to summon a quick retort and finally, any retort at all. “You’re not gonna tell me this is some kind of game, are you?” He was working his member in earnest now, panties at the base. He kept a grin throughout the exchange, but Jennalee felt something other than amusement. She wished she still had her panties under her skirt. “How old are you anyway?” he asked.
Sutherland Page 2
