‘Mmm,’ Dina managed. She just wanted him to get it over with.
‘You like this, baby. You like it, don’t you?’
Dina could hardly say, No.
He was thrusting on top of her with a strange, triumphal smile. ‘A virgin . . . God . . . you’re a virgin . . . That’s a shock.’
Dina gasped, looking at him.
‘Popped your cherry!’ he grunted, his face contorted in a weird laugh. He wasn’t even looking at her, just staring at the wall. ‘Popped your fucking cherry! Bet you can’t wait to get banged again. Jesus! You’re so fucking tight.’ He gasped, grinned. ‘Don’t worry, baby; I’ll give you a great review . . .’
She twisted, moaning in pain. ‘What the hell are you talking about? What do you mean?’
‘It’s what all you bridge-and-tunnel girls like. Just like your momma, aren’t you? She fucked around. Yeah, spread those legs for me, baby.’
Dina shrieked, tried to force him off her. But he was a dead weight. She couldn’t move him. She was pushing against concrete.
‘My momma? Edward, what the hell—?’
‘Fucking around with the Italians. After your pops died. That’s a great reputation, right there. Town slut. She lives nice, right?’ He thrust. ‘You treat me and my friends right, and we’ll take care of you, too. No more attitude; your pussy’s opened up now . . . Oh, oh, God . . .’ He gasped. ‘Dina! So fucking hot.’ Then he grunted, went limp and collapsed on her.
Dina moaned in distress, tears springing to her eyes.
‘Yeah, you loved it,’ Edward said. He rolled off her before she could push him again.
‘Edward . . .’ she said, sobbing. ‘What was that? What do you know about my mom? Why are you talking about me that way?’
She was hot, dehydrated, her head spinning from the wine. Did that happen? Did he turn into that grinning, taunting monkey, grinding away on top of her? She wanted to be sick.
He rolled his eyes. ‘Let’s not talk. Why do girls always want to talk? I’m going to sleep, OK?’
In seconds, he had fallen asleep, mouth open, like a large wet fish. Dina crawled out of bed and showered in her tiny stall. Then she dried off and crept back under the covers.
Maybe she was frigid. It felt horrible, felt so wrong. What the hell was he doing? Was that just dirty talk? It was like he’d turned into someone else – someone new and evil.
Dina’s head pounded. Hell, had she imagined it? Was she just drunk?
At least . . . at least she had a boyfriend, a relationship. She would get to know Edward’s family – hadn’t he said that? Maybe she’d misheard him. Maybe it would get better . . .
After a while, feeling ashamed, nasty, dirty and exhausted, the alcohol lulled her into a fitful sleep.
Dina woke before the sun was up. She rolled over in her bed. Then she realised she’d rolled over.
Edward was gone.
All morning, his words rattled in her head: Popped your cherry . . . Just like your momma . . . Town slut. Dina wanted to tell herself that it was the hangover, that he never said it. But she knew it had happened. And her body, already tense and bruised, had writhed in rejection, while he laughed and kept pumping.
She made excuses: it was some twisted fantasy – erotic talk; he would never be that way; he’d call, explain, take her to lunch with his mother. Everything would be OK.
Dina waited for her phone to ring. It didn’t. That was weird, but she had work to do . . . Maybe he was ill. She went to the coffee shop, but none of the boys came in, none of Edward’s friends.
By lunchtime, she was worried. She called his mobile.
This number is not in service. Please check the number, and try again.
‘Hey, Dina.’ Mike was looking at her. ‘What are you doing? The books need checking from last night.’
‘Oh. Nothing. Sorry, Mike.’
Dina scurried into the back office, feeling sick. She tried the number again; got the same result.
By five o’clock, she knew something was wrong. She called the college and asked to be put through to Edward Fielding.
‘We have no students here of that name.’
Hands shaking, Dina pulled out Edward’s card, the original one he’d given her. She typed up a quick email: Edward – where are you? D.
In seconds, it bounced back to her: Mailer Daemon. Address not valid.
Numbly, she worked through her shift. Edward . . . whoever he was had had sex with her and disappeared.
It was as old as time, and she was just that stupid.
Dumb waitress. Plaything. Just like Mom.
Dina ran into the bathroom, sank to her knees and threw up. Somewhere, he was laughing at her.
‘Dude, you’re so full of it.’ George Linden saw a way to get his own back. ‘There is no way she gave it up to you.’
The boys laughed. Edward looked at them – Ralph and Charlie, Gideon and Homer – he despised them, really. They were minions, who backed up the winner of the moment in the battles for supremacy between him and George. ‘Sure she did. Right on her back, legs splayed.’ He smirked. ‘Sweet little cherry, too.’
‘Bullshit, man. Nobody was getting shit from that chick.’
Edward was annoyed. This was the first time anybody had called his prowess into question. He’d given up the idea of passing her round as soon as he’d come inside her; the irritating wriggles of protest and teary eyes told him she wouldn’t be hooking herself out like he wanted. But, no matter, he’d fucked her, and that was what counted. And now he was supposed to be getting his props, dammit, not taking shit from George Linden.
‘I banged her.’
George lifted his eyebrows, annoyingly. ‘Show us the photos, then.’
‘Jesus, man! She was lying right next to me.’
‘And you didn’t snap a quick shot of that sweet ass? Come on, Ed. Give it up.’
He coloured. ‘I’ll show you, you prick. Let’s go have a coffee.’
Ralph lifted a brow. ‘I thought we couldn’t go in there again.’
‘Just once. Apparently Georgie here needs proof. What are they going to do? Ban me because the waitress opened her legs?’
‘Fine.’ Linden was a little red now, too. ‘I don’t believe you. Let’s see how she reacts.’
‘I’m not drinking the coffee, though.’ Edward was light now, giddy at the thought of showing off. ‘Bet she spits in it.’
‘Hey, Dina.’ Mike was on her case again, but she didn’t mind. For two days, Dina had been working numbly, trying to get through it.
She felt so dumb – so used, so humiliated. Edward Fielding – whatever his real name was – had just fucked her and vanished. After all the catcalls she’d brushed off, all the hooting men, this rich kid was patient for a couple of weeks, and she fell for it . . .
She didn’t even like him. Didn’t want him. And this would be the story of her virginity for the rest of her life . . .
Just like your momma. Town slut.
‘Yes, Mike?’ She was mopping down the counter in the back. Her rage and shame needed channelling. Dina had called the landlord of her building yesterday and made him an offer, a low offer, for her apartment. He’d accepted . . . Last time he saw the place, it was a grubby little dive.
She had a mortgage lined up. Credit was easy, and Dina had a plan. No income verification, a couple of points extra on the interest rate, but it didn’t matter. The landlord wanted to close this month and Dina was more than willing. Her tiny savings would be the deposit, and she would flip it as soon as the ink was dry.
She didn’t want to live where Edward had been. She didn’t want him to be able to find her. The shame was so intense, she didn’t even want this job.
One day, he might come back . . .
She polished the countertop aggressively. And, just as she was thinking about it . . .
‘Your boyfriend,’ Mike said, with a smile.
Dina froze. She put the cloth down, carefully. ‘What?’
‘Over
there. With his friends. Ready to make up, I expect . . . ?’
She didn’t rise to the question. Screw him; what business was it of his?
‘Thanks.’ Dina moved to look, her heart thumping. Maybe she had Edward all wrong. Maybe he’d been injured, in an accident, got sick and was here now to make it right . . .
He was there in the corner, sitting at his usual table with that group of goons all around him – including the one that had barracked her, the guy Edward apologised for. What was his name . . . ? George Linden.
George was born in a barn . . .
Only now they were sitting together and laughing.
Like nothing happened.
Rage surged up in her, so intense, so white hot, she had to steady herself against the counter for a minute. She was dizzy.
‘You going to take their order?’
‘Sure. Just a second.’ Dina picked up a pot of coffee.
‘That’s old. Get a fresh one.’
‘It’s fine,’ she said. She marched away from Mike, towards the table. Edward was sitting there, looking nasty, laughing and leering at her.
‘Hey, Dina,’ he said, and the other boys nudged him and cackled under their breath. ‘How you been?’
‘Can I get you something?’ she said, coldly.
‘Now, don’t get an attitude. Just because I didn’t call after sex . . .’ He shrugged, laughed. ‘You were up for it. How was I to know you were still a virgin?’
The eyes of his companions opened with shock. One of them laughed aloud, then comically clapped a hand in front of his mouth. They were all staring at her, the pack of them, raking their eyes over her like she was naked.
The anger crystallised to a white-hot point in her.
‘Hey, somebody had to pop that cherry. Be thankful it was a nice guy like me.’
‘Jesus, you fucking dog,’ George Linden said, with reluctant admiration.
And then they all laughed – all the college boys, the Ivy Leaguers, laughing at the coffee-shop girl with her high-school diploma and the face of a sucker.
Dina forced herself to wait till the cackling died down.
‘Don’t worry, Edward; I know why you didn’t call. You shouldn’t be that embarrassed. I hear it happens to a lot of guys. Especially drunks.’
‘Wait, what?’ George Linden asked.
‘He is Edward, right? That fake card . . . Classy touch, though. What’s your real name?’
‘Edward Johnson,’ one of the other frat boys blurted out.
‘Shut the fuck up, Ralph,’ said Edward.
‘Johnson by name; Johnson by nature,’ Ralph said. ‘But you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you, miss?’ And they all laughed again.
‘Actually, not so much – Ralph. See, Edward here couldn’t actually get it up. I really felt bad for him, at least at first.’ Dina smiled brightly. ‘He was crying in the bathroom, but then, he was pretty out of it.’
‘You lying bitch! We fucked,’ Edward snarled.
‘Honey, you weren’t fucking anything. I’ve seen stiffer plates of Jell-O.’
More laughter. They were really amused now, looking at Edward, enjoying the tennis match.
‘I took your virginity. You were a slut, like all the others,’ Edward spat. ‘Like your mom.’
Dina swallowed her hatred and forced a sympathetic-looking smile, instead.
‘Maybe next time lay off the vodka. Or get some Viagra.’
‘Hey, sugar, give me a try,’ George Linden leered. ‘I won’t let you down like Edward.’
‘Any problems here?’ Mike arrived. He looked critically at Dina. These customers spent money in his store – lots of it.
‘No problems. Just a bunch of rich, arrogant bastards with dicks the size of maggots,’ Dina said.
The laughter stopped cold.
‘Jesus! You can’t speak to them like that,’ Mike said.
‘I just did. Step back a second, Mike.’ Her voice was so fierce, he actually backed away. ‘These boys just need to cool down,’ Dina said, and she lifted the coffee pot high and started to pour it all over them. Black, warm, scented coffee flowed over Edward, over George, over Ralph, ruining their clothes, staining their hair.
‘Fuck!’
‘Bitch!’
‘Fucking psycho!’
‘I’ll sue you,’ Edward Johnson hissed. ‘This is fucking assault!’
‘You’re fired!’ Mike shrieked at Dina’s departing back. She had already untied the strings of her apron and let it slither to the floor.
‘No,’ she said, without turning round. ‘I already quit.’
Edward Johnson, dripping, jumped to his feet. His friends were laughing at him. He was soaked. The suit was ruined. Instead of celebrating his triumph, they were all pissed off. And worse – he looked foolish.
Edward hated to be thought a fool. It was his biggest fear – being mocked, ridiculed. He’d come in, just for a minute, for a light-hearted poke at the stupid waitress, and now this.
She was in the back room, changing. Her boss was at the table, trying to calm the fellows down, offering to pay for their dry-cleaning. Bad publicity, lawsuits, a small item in the Post – he didn’t want any of it.
Edward waited until Dina emerged, minus her uniform, wearing her plain back pants and the tight sweater. She looked great, like he remembered. He hated her.
‘Bitch!’ He reached out and gripped her arm. ‘You’ll pay for that. I know where you live.’
Dina shook herself free.
Edward glared at her, bitterly. ‘I’m coming to get you,’ he threatened. ‘Believe it.’
She smiled – and, for the first time that night, it reached her eyes. ‘Oh, no, Mr Johnson, you don’t understand. I’m coming to get you.’
Chapter Five
Shelby Johnson was having a wonderful evening.
His lecture series was going down so well. The students and young people were lapping it up. He loved to talk about his foundation, his charity work and his vision for the state. What they weren’t doing up in Albany. How all New York’s vast wealth never reached the poorest . . .
Of course, Shelby knew all about vast wealth. His charities were tax-efficient write-offs. Coldharbor Bank, where he was president, was doing so well; it was a private haven for the society rich, who all knew him socially. He had a marvellous wife who threw the most wonderful parties, and he arrived at all these events in his personal limousine, complete with vanity plates.
He hadn’t announced for Congress yet; that was coming next week.
Frankly, the party machine didn’t know what had hit it. He was just smarter than them – smarter than the lot of them, the striving State Senators and pushy little judges and district attorneys who thought they had a shot at the big time.
Shelby was self-financed. He didn’t have to raise money – he could just write a cheque.
He had business success – a real track record.
And he’d donated to others long enough to have built up that reservoir of good will. People owed him favours, and Shelby was coming to collect.
This tour was the warm-up act. Nothing stirred voters’ hearts like education, not here in New York. And Shelby loved receiving the adulation of the students and the educators. When he jumped on the platform at these community colleges or youth centres, they applauded like he was some kind of rock star. He especially loved it when the kids asked him for advice.
And if they were pretty girls . . .
His eyes slid across to the co-ed, perched on the back seat of his car. Goddamn. The way she looked at him with such hero-worship . . .
Her name was Laura . . . what was it? Oh, yes. Laura Fielding. She was a student at NYU, and she’d really taken to his politics – so to speak.
First he’d seen her in the front row at the Ninety-Second Street Y community centre. She’d asked a question, and smiled and clapped at his response, bouncing up and down in her seat, those firm little titties bouncing along with her.
Next, it wa
s at the Lincoln Center, a free event, and she hung out afterwards.
‘Mr Johnson . . . my name’s Laura. Laura Fielding. I so admire your politics. Are you going to run? I’d love to volunteer.’
‘Thank you . . .’ He nearly said, ‘honey,’ but stopped himself in time. ‘What are your contact details?’
She handed over a number on a piece of paper. That low-cut dress, modest below the knees, but – goddamn – what a pair!
He called that night – nothing special, just sounding her out. She was breathy, full of admiration. He was a great man. She wanted him to run. She wanted to help.
‘How can I serve?’ she said.
Shelby had invited her to the next event. She helped lay out programmes. She was diligent, and very discreet. She was also totally sexually available.
‘I want an older man,’ she said. ‘Somebody who knows what he’s doing.’
‘I’m married,’ he said, weakly.
She pouted and stuck out those fantastic breasts. ‘Come on, Shelby, I can’t be the first. Anyway, I want to come along for the ride. All the way to Washington.’
He couldn’t resist. He didn’t want to. And now, here she was, in his limo. His aide – in a fantastic short skirt, with old-fashioned stockings high up her thighs, and he could see a glimpse of milky-white flesh like a glimpse of heaven.
‘We’ll head to the hotel,’ he told the driver.
‘Oh my God.’ He stared at the ceiling, panting. ‘That was incredible . . . Unbelievable.’
None of the momentary distractions he’d been with before – and there had been one or two . . . hookers, strip-club hostesses – had given him anything like this amount of pleasure. Her firm, tight young body, the beautiful face . . . Echoes of lust were still throbbing in his groin.
‘We have to do it again.’ His mind was already on to the next time, the next campaign stop, the next hotel. Shelby indulged his fantasies. After he was elected a hero, she’d be given a nice safe job in his office. Nothing too big, of course, but something to keep her always available. Every powerful man should have a sexy mistress. He flashed on Laura Fielding in a silk blouse, tight pencil skirt, seamed stockings. Sucking on a pencil. Sucking on him. ‘Maybe I’ll see you next week? At Albany?’
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