The Stake

by Richard Laymon

  Bonnie came to him. She stepped silently toward his bed. She looked lovely, glorious, her blond hair floating around her face. She wore the pleated blue skirt and golden sweater of her songleader costume, but her feet were bare.

  Stopping beside Larry’s bed, she gazed at him with solemn eyes. “I’ve been waiting for you,” she said, her voice as soft as a caress. “Why haven’t you come to me?”

  “I... I don’t know. I’ve wantedto, but...”

  “Don’t you know that I love you?”

  Her words quickened Larry’s heart.

  “You do?” he asked.

  “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Why wouldyou,” he asked. “We don’t even know each other.”

  A sweet smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “We know each other with our hearts. I love you so much, Larry. And you love me, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” he said, and felt a hot rush of joy. “Yes, I love you.”

  Then a thought came to him that seemed to crush his heart.

  “But you’re dead, Bonnie.”

  Her laugh was a quiet rush of breath. “Don’t be silly. Do I look dead?”

  “You look... so beautiful.”

  Bonnie stepped closer. She bent over him, her hair drifting down until its tresses brushed against Larry’s cheeks. Then her lips met his. They were soft, warm, moist. They parted, and he felt her breath enter his mouth.

  He lifted his arms out from under the covers. He placed his hands on Bonnie’s sides, caressed her through the sweater, felt the heat of her flesh, the gentle curves of her ribs.

  She eased her lips away. “Do I feel dead?”

  “You sure don’t,” he murmured through the tightness in his throat. “You feel wonderful.”

  “I’ve longed so much for you, Larry.”

  “I’ve longed for you, too.”

  He slipped his hands under the bottom of her sweater. A tremor swept through him as he touched the velvety skin above her hips.

  Then he remembered something else, and again his joy sank into anguish. Though he ached for her, he pulled his hands out from under the sweater and let them drop to the mattress. “I’m married, Bonnie.”

  “Do you love her?”

  He wanted to say no. But he couldn’t. “Yes,” he said. “I’m sorry. God, I’m sorry. I love Jean, but I love you, too.”

  “That’s all right,” she whispered, her warm breath touching his lips. “You can have us both.”

  “I don’t think Jean would like that.”

  “She’ll never know. I promise. It’ll be our secret.”

  Larry felt the covers glide down his body, felt the cool morning air chill his skin. Bonnie kissed the side of his neck. She kissed his shoulder, his chest.

  “No,” he whispered.

  “You don’t mean that, darling.” Her soft lips pressed his nipple.

  He moaned with an agony of desire and loss.

  “It wouldn’t be right,” he said.

  “Love is always right.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, my love.” She crawled onto him. She straddled him, upright on her knees, her light cotton skirt draping him and keeping out the morning chill. The heat of their bodies seemed to mingle in the air beneath it. Larry knew, somehow, that she wore no panties. He ached for her to sink down, to impale herself, to let him plunge high up into her slick, hugging warmth.

  But she didn’t. Not yet.

  Smiling down at him, she drew her sweater up. He watched it rise slowly, unveiling her sleek belly, the rise of her ribcage, her breasts. They were twin, creamy mounds with pink nipples standing erect. They lifted slightly as she pulled the sweater up past her face. Keeping her arms high, she slipped out of the sleeves. She tossed the sweater to the floor.

  Larry raised his hands to her breasts. Lightly, he caressed them. He thought that he had never touched anything so fine.

  Smiling down at him, Bonnie guided one of his hands to the smooth valley between her breasts. She moved it up and down, stroking herself with his fingertips. “Not even a scar,” she whispered.

  He remembered the stake.

  “Oh,” he said. “That’s right.”

  “I’m as good as new. And I’m yours. I’m yours forever.”

  She began to ease herself down.

  Larry groaned.

  This is wrong, he thought. I can’t do this. Even if Jean never finds out...

  But Bonnie was moving slowly lower, lower. He squeezed her breasts. Lower. He felt as if his penis were being sucked toward her dark, waiting center.

  The alarm clock blared.

  Larry’s eyes flew open.

  Bonnie was gone.

  A dream. It had only been a dream, and the alarm had cheated him out of its best moments. His chest ached. He felt as if he might weep.

  But he felt lucky, too. A few more seconds and there would’ve been a mess.

  He was sprawled on his back, covered only by a sheet. The sheet jutted up like a tent over his groin.

  If Bonnie had slid down onto him...

  He rolled onto his side. Jean was braced on one elbow, her back to him. As the alarm went silent, she flopped faceup and closed her eyes.

  Larry reached out and put a hand on her belly. Her skin felt hot through the thin fabric of her nightgown. Her head turned toward him. Her eyes opened a bit and she made a lazy smile. “Morning, fella,” she whispered.

  He said, “Mrnmm,” and moved his hand up the slick nightgown to her breast. Not like Bonnie’s. No fire coursed through him when he touched it. But Jean’s breast was soft and warm and familiar, and he felt a fresh stir of arousal as her nipple rose stiff against his palm. He brushed the strap off her shoulder and slipped his hand inside the loose pocket of fabric. Jean moaned. She squirmed as he caressed her. Then she rolled toward him.

  “We’re sure feeling our oats this morning,” she murmured.

  “Yeah.”

  Her fingers curled around his erection. “You’d better shut the door. Lane’ll be getting up any minute.”

  On his way back from shutting the door, he watched Jean kick the sheet down to the end of the bed and pull her nightgown up. When it covered her face, Larry’s mind flashed an image of Bonnie taking off the songleader sweater.

  Their bodies looked very much alike.

  Don’t think about Bonnie, he told himself. That was just a dream.

  And it’s crummy to think about her. It’s like cheating, like adultery.

  But he couldn’t stop.

  He didn’t want to stop.

  He closed his eyes as he made love with Jean, and the woman under him ceased to be his wife. She was Bonnie, the Bonnie of the yearbook photos, the Bonnie of his dream: eighteen, beautiful, innocent, eager and gasping and writhing with lust, ramming up against him to meet his thrusts. His Bonnie. His Spirit Queen.

  He seemed to explode. He flooded her.

  When they were done, she hooked her legs around Larry as if to keep him inside forever. She hugged him hard. He opened his eyes.

  Jean gazed up at him, looking haggard and happy.

  He kissed her mouth.

  He felt like a total shit.

  “Something wrong?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “Just that I’ve gotta go back to the library today. I hate wasting time with research.”

  “Why don’t I fix you a nice big breakfast before you go?”

  “Great.”

  * * *

  Lane smelled frying bacon as she struggled into her jeans.

  They’re having breakfast? she wondered. What’s the big occasion?

  She left the zipper down to give herself breathing room, sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on the new, blue denim boots she’d bought after school yesterday.

  Standing up, she admired the way they looked with her white jeans.

  Too bad I didn’t wear this stuff yesterday, she thought. A blush spread up her skin as she remembered standing on the
stool in her short skirt and loose blouse, Mr. Kramer standing below her, and the disarray of her clothes after the fall. Then she remembered his touch. She still felt warm, but her embarrassment turned to pleasure.

  Known he’d play doctor, she thought, I would’ve fallen sooner.

  Lane smiled and shook her head at herself as she stepped past the closet mirror.

  She took a bright blue and yellow plaid blouse off its hanger, stepped back in front of the mirror and started to button it.

  And stopped.

  What if I take off my bra?

  The idea made her stomach flutter.

  Don’t be a dork, she thought. Nobody’ll even realize except Jim, and he’ll be wanting to paw me. Mr. Kramer probably wouldn’t even notice the difference.

  Mr. Kramer doesn’t have anything to do with it, she told herself. It’d feel good, that’s all.

  Besides, my ribs are sore.

  Good enough reason.

  She took off her blouse and checked herself in the mirror. Sure enough, the side panel of the bra was pressing against her bruised ribs.

  She reached back, unclasped the bra and pulled it off. Holding it between her knees, she slipped into her blouse again. She buttoned it, tucked it in, and fastened her jeans.

  She smiled at herself.

  Aren’t you the daring one?

  The soft fabric, taut against her breasts, felt very good.

  Should do this all the time, she thought.

  No way. With most of her blouses, it would show. But this one had dark, bright colors, and a pocket over each breast. With the double thickness of the fabric there, it was hardly even noticeable that her nipples were erect.

  Nobody’ll know the difference, she thought. Just me.

  It sure does feel good.

  She turned in a circle once for a final check, then returned her bra to the dresser drawer. Grabbing her handbag, she headed down the hallway.

  What if Mom and Dad notice?

  They won’t. Ease up.

  The aromas of bacon and coffee made her mouth water as she entered the kitchen. Her parents, still in their robes, were seated at the table, bacon and fried eggs on then-plates. “What’s with breakfast?” she asked. “This doesn’t feellike Sunday.”

  They both looked at her. Neither seemed interested in her chest.

  “I’ll be spending the day at the public library,” Dad said. “Mom figured she oughta fill me up.”

  “Yeah, I’d hate for him to perish among the tomes.”

  Stepping up beside her father, Lane said, “You could sustain yourself with bookworms.”

  “Come on, I’m eating.”

  “Mind?” she asked, and reached for a strip of bacon on his plate.

  He jabbed his fork at her hand. He stopped just short of poking her.

  “I wish you wouldn’t fool around like that,” Mom complained. “You might slip.”

  “I might indeed,” he said.

  Lane took the bacon and bit it in half.

  “There goes my nourishment.”

  “Hey, I’m a growing girl.”

  “I could certainly start making breakfasts for you,” Mom said. “Just say the word.”

  “The word is ‘yuck.’ Who can stomach food at this ungodly hour?”

  “You seem to be stomaching my bacon all right,” Dad said.

  “Gotta go.” She bent down and kissed his cheek. He swatted her rump. She hurried around the table, kissed her mother, then grabbed her lunch bag out of the refrigerator and hurried from the kitchen. “See you guys later. I’ll probably be late again.”

  “Have a good day, dear,” Mom called after her.

  From Dad, “Have fun.”

  “I’m going to school, guys,” she called from the living room. She checked her book bag, dropped her lunch inside, then took the car keys from her purse and rushed outside.

  The sun felt warm on her shoulders. The mild breeze stirred her hair. A gorgeous day.

  The back of the car seat was cool through her blouse, reminding Lane of the missing straps. As she waited for the engine to warm up, she squirmed against the upholstery, savoring how it felt against her back.

  Nice.

  She cranked her window down and eased slowly out of the driveway.

  She headed for Betty’s place. On the radio Anne Murray was singing “Snowbird.” Lane joined in. She swung her arm onto the windowsill and felt the blouse pull snug against her left breast.

  Very nice.

  Steering with one hand, she swung the car around a corner.

  “Snowbird” ended.

  A jingle came on signaling the start of a news break.

  “This is Belinda Bernard with the top local news stories of the hour.”

  “Top of the morning, Belinda,” Lane said.

  “... died in a fire early this morning in their Cactus Drive home.”

  Lane glanced at the radio. Cactus Drive? Died in a fire?

  “The deceased were identified as Jerry and Roberta Patterson and their seventeen-year-old daughter Jessica.”

  “My God,” Lane muttered.

  “Flames were first noted by neighbors at approximately four-thirty A.M. Firemen arriving at the scene were unable to enter the house to attempt any rescue. Due to the heavy conflagration, however, it’s believed that the family expired from smoke inhalation some time prior to the arrival of the fire department. This was confirmed later, when the bodies of the three family members were found in the rubble, still in their beds. The cause of the fire is under investigation, but it is believed that it started in the bedroom of the daughter, Jessica.”

  Smoking in bed? Lane wondered.

  “The Board of Education met last night...”

  She turned off the radio.

  She felt cold and numb inside.

  Jessica dead.

  The girl’d been a royal pain, but God! Dead.

  How could something like that happen?

  Jessica smoked like a chimney. Spent half her life in the girl’s John, puffing away. She must’ve fallen asleep with a cigarette.

  Didn’t they have a smoke alarm?

  Lane rounded a corner. Betty was waiting beside the street. Lane stopped the car, stretched across the passenger seat and unlocked the door.

  “Did you hear?” Betty asked, swinging the door open.

  “Yeah.”

  “Holy smoke!” She hurled her book bag into the rear and dropped onto the seat. The car shook. “I knew that bimbo’d come to a bad end.” She slammed the door.

  “She’s dead,” Lane muttered.

  “Well Jesus, I guess so.”

  Lane stepped on the gas. “She didn’t deserve that.”

  “Smoking in bed, it’ll get you every time.”

  “God, I can’t believe it.”

  “I can. Boy, I sure can. Good riddance to bad rubbish. Know what happened yesterday? I went to take a leak after third period, and there she was, sitting on a John with the door wide open, sucking on a butt. I go, ‘Those things’ll give you cancer, you know.’ And she gives me this look.“ Betty demonstrated, wrinkling her nose and curling up her lip. ”And she goes, ‘Fuck you and the horse you rode in on, lardass.’ So like I can’t say I feel any great amount of sympathy, you know? She did it to herself.“

  “And her parents.”

  “Yeah. Too bad Riley Benson wasn’t sleeping over. That piece of greasy-haired shit would be improved considerably by a good dose of smoke inhalation. Know what I mean?”

  Lane nodded. It seemed wrong, knocking Jessica and Riley. But she didn’t feel like defending them. They werecreeps.

  She wondered if Riley might actually have been in love with Jessica.

  Hard to imagine him loving anyone.

  But maybe he did.

  “That babe did have some rotten luck,” Betty went on. “First she gets herself creamed, next thing you know she’s a crispy critter.”

  Lane turned the radio on, volume high. Willie Nelson and Ray Charles were singing “Se
ven Spanish Angels.”

  “A hint? A subtle but effective hint?”

  “I just don’t think we should be bad-mouthing her.”

  Ahead, Henry waved from his perch on the boulder in front of his house. He hopped down and picked up his briefcase. “Salutations, merry-makers,” he said, as Lane stopped the car.

  Betty climbed out. She held the seat back forward while Henry scrambled in behind it. Following him, she pulled the door shut.

  Lane glanced back at them. Betty had an eager look in her eyes. “You haven’t heard,” she said.

  “Heard what?” Henry asked.

  Lane started driving.

  “Jessica got toasted last night.”

  “Huh?”

  “Burnt, charbroiled, cooked, incinerated.”

  “You mean she’s dead?” He sounded perplexed.

  “Dead dead dead. She bought the farm. She bit the weenie. Dead.”

  “Holy shit,” Henry whispered.

  “It would appear that Miss Congeniality fell asleep smoking a cigarette.”

  “We’re talking about Jessica Patterson?”

  “Who else, numbnuts?”

  “Holy shit,” he said again. His hand clamped over the comer of Lane’s seat back. “Is she shitting me?”

  “No,” Lane said. “It’s true. Jessica and her parents were killed in a fire last night.”

  “Oh, man.”

  “Good riddance,” Betty said.

  “Hey, cut it out.”

  “Oh, and like she’s suddenly a saint now that she’s cooked?”

  On the radio, Belinda Bernard’s voice said, “We now have an update on the fire that rushed through the home of...”

  “It just isn’t...” Henry began.

  “Quiet,” Lane said. “News.”

  They went silent.

  “...are now indicating that a preliminary examination of the charred remains has revealed that all three members of the Patterson family sustained massive, possibly fatal injuries, prior to the fire. Details are still sketchy, but it appears that an intruder may have slain the trio, after which the fire was deliberately set in order to destroy evidence of the crimes. We also have word that a youth seen entering the house earlier last night has been taken into custody for questioning. The identity of the underaged suspect has not been disclosed.”

  “Benson,” Betty said. “Betcha.”

  “We now return you to...”

  “Holy shit,” Henry muttered. “They were murdered.”