"I don't wanna stick you-" Nick began.
"Go. We'll split the tips tomorrow."
Why not? If Dawn was invited, he was entitled to tag along. He was
certainly as good as any of these other creeps.
They blasted in noisy and out for a good time.
Stock greeted them surrounded by several of his football buddies all
well on the road to oblivion.
"Hiya, sexy," Dawn said, provocative in an off-the-shoulder sweater and
short tight skirt. She nuzzled in for a deep French kiss. "Takin' you
outta circulation is a crime!"
Stock guffawed, winked and burped. "Let's get the disco going'. You
take care of it, Dawn."
"Sure thing, handsome-anything you want. An' I mean anything."
He stuck his tongue out, flipping it obscenely from side to side.
"I've had that."
His friends roared. Dawn did too.
Nick headed for the bar. So Stock had screwed her. Big surprise.
He helped himself to a cold beer, swigging from the bottle and checking
everything out. This was some set-up, it must have cost big bucks-what
with the tent, a full bar, dozens of tables and chairs, flowers and all
that crap. There was even a dance floor, which Dawn was now dragging
Stock onto as the disc jockey took over from the Dawn was the uninvited
guest; at least her name wasn't on the official list.
sedate three-piece group, blasting everybody out of their seats with
the Stones' raunchy rendition of "Satisfaction."
The last of the adults scurried toward the exit. Daphne and Benjamin
Browning were long gone.
Nick helped himself to another beer.
"Oh, no!" Meg yelped. "He's here. What's he doing in here?"
Lauren was truly fed up with her friend, she'd done nothing but
complain all night.
"I've got to go," Meg said frantically.
Lauren was in no mood to stop her. "I'll see you tomorrow," she said
coolly.
"Are you staying?" Meg asked, surprised.
"It's my engagement party. Or had it slipped your mind?"
"I suppose you have to stay until the end. You don't mind if I go, do
you?"
As a matter of fact she did mind, but there was no way she was begging
Meg to stay. "No, that's okay."
"Thanks." Meg took off without a second thought.
Lauren sighed. So much for best friends. She wished she could say to
Meg, "Stay. I need you." And she wished she could say to Stock,
"Goodbye. I don't need you."
Her parents had enjoyed the evening. Phil Roberts had turned on the
charm and talked up insurance to more prospective clients than he could
remember. Jane Roberts had declared herself belle of Bosewell, dancing
with every old man in town.
Lauren had danced with Stock and all his buddies. She'd even had to
dance with Benjamin Browning, who'd held her too close and breathed
whiskey breath in her face. Now she was ready to call it quits, but
Stock had other ideas. He was all set to let the good times begin.
He reeled off the dance floor fresh from Dawn, and grabbed Lauren.
"C'mon, sugar, let's rock n roll," he said, leering drunkenly.
"I'm really tired," she said. "It's been a long night."
"Are you kidding?" He rolled his eyes. "The evening's just
beginning."
"Do your parents know you've invited all these other people?" she
asked, gesturing at the crowd.
"What do you think? I told them I was havin' a few more friends come
by. They don't care. This is my party, I can do whatever I want."
"Our party," she corrected. "And I want to go home."
He shook his head, perplexed. "Sometimes you're a real pain. Have a
glass of punch. Relax. Get with it."
"I had a glass of punch, thank you."
"So have another one. One of the guys spiked it. Now the party'll
really swing." He attempted a kiss. She pulled away.
He laughed bitterly. "You're a helluva fiance'e."
The Stones gave way to a raucous Rod Stewart. Lauren gave him a little
shove toward the dance floor, where all his cronies seemed to be having
a great time. "Go dance with Dawn again. She loves it, I don't."
"If you're with me you'd better learn to love it," he said, slurring
his words. Then he staggered back to Dawn.
What did he think this was, school? She'd learn to do exactly what she
pleased and that was it.
Over by the door Nick caught the action. He didn't care about Dawn
taking off-it didn't matter. Lauren was the girl that interested him,
might as well admit it. And now was as good a time as any to do
something about it.
Just as he was about to head toward her, a familiar voice said, "What
in hell you doin' here, boy?"
It was Aretha Mae, a different-looking Aretha Mae with her frizzy red
hair pinned back and a starched white maid's uniform covering her
skinny body.
"I could ask you the same," he said smartly.
She glared at him. "I work here," she said. "An' you better be
getting' your ass outta here." She balanced a tray of dirty glasses
and marched back into the house.
Screw her. She wasn't his mother. He didn't have to listen to
anything she said.
Lauren was still by herself. Seizing the opportunity he sauntered
over, sitting down beside her. "How ya doin'?" he asked casually.
She turned to look at him. They'd never been formally introduced, but
what did that matter?
Oh, God! Meg would be furious if she talked to him.
"Uh, hi," she replied, trying to sound equally casual.
He nodded at Dawn and Stock on the dance floor. "They make quite a
couple, huh?"
"Hmm," she said noncommittally.
"Isn't it supposed to be you up there with him?" he asked, helping
himself to a cigarette from a box on the table.
He had his nerve. He knew perfectly well it was supposed to be her.
"How come you're not dancing with him?" he persisted. "Don't you like
to dance?"
"Don't you?" she countered.
He gave her the benefit of his green-eyed stare. "Only if it's with
somebody special."
She met his eyes for a moment, found them too dangerous and quickly
broke the look. "I . . . I have to go," she said, getting up.
"Mr. Football Hero's in no state to take you home," he said, also
standing.
She wondered why her heart was beating so fast. "That's not your
concern, is it?"
He kept on staring at her. "Maybe it could be."
"I beg your pardon?"
This girl wasn't reacting the way they usually reacted. A little
warmth would be nice. "How come you're so uptight?" he asked, trying
to throw her off balance.
"I'm not uptight," she answered defensively. "You're rude."
"Yeah? What've I done?"
"Nothing-to me.
"What's that mean?"
"You know."
"No, I don't. What?"
She wished she hadn't brought the subject up, but there was no stopping
now. The words tumbled out. "The way you treated Meg.
You took her out, jumped all over her and then dropped her. How do you
think she feels?"
Shit! That was the trouble with girls, they al
ways confided in each
other. "She told you about it, huh?"
"Meg's my best friend."
The truth, he decided, was the way to play it with this one. "And
she's nice," he explained. "But not for me, so I uh . didn't see her
again. I thought I did her a favor."
Lauren faced up to him, fighting Meg's battle. "That's a favor?" she
asked incredulously. "You don't lead someone on, then dump them."
Time to change the subject. "Why are you getting engaged to this jerk
anyway?"
Two bright red spots stung her cheeks. "You're the jerk. You don't
even know him."
"C'mon, you know he's a jerk." He paused for a moment. "I suppose
you're gonna tell me you're the happiest girl in the world."
"Just exactly who do you think you are?" she asked angrily.
"Me? I'm just passing through, honey."
"And don't call me honey."
"Why?" he teased. "Does it turn you on?"
Their eyes met for a moment. He held the stare. Once more she broke
it by walking away.
For some unknown reason her heart was still pounding as she hurried
outside. Nick Angelo was dangerous and she knew it.
yndra Angelo had been traveling on the bus for hours. She was tired
and dirty. Her clothes were rumpled and uncomfortable. Her feet hurt
and she was hungry. She peered out the window. It was raining. It
was always raining.
She'd had to change seats three times. Every time the bus stopped and
new passengers got on there was always some guy who chose to sit next
to her. After a few minutes he moved too close, started to talk, and
she was forced to shift seats again.
It wasn't as if she did anything to encourage them, they came on to her
whether she wanted them to or not. Pigs!
Kansas City had been a nightmare. Staying with distant relatives of
her mother's, she'd found the men in the family only too eager to put
their hands all over her. It seemed that every male she met wanted to
lure her into bed. What was it about her? What did she do to
encourage them? Nothing that she knew about.
She opened up her old tote bag, took out a compact with a broken mirror
and studied her face. She wasn't white. She wasn't black. She was
nothing.
It never occurred to her that she had the best of both worlds. That
her skin was the most glorious olive-smooth and blemish-free. Her jet
black hair was long and thick. Her eyes a deep rich brown. Her
jawline strong and her cheekbones etched. She looked different from
everybody else. The truth was that she was a very beautiful young girl
indeed.
The bus stopped and two men got on. It didn't take long before one of
them came sidling up the aisle and sat beside her. "Hiya, sweetie," he
drawled. "Where you headin'?"
"None of your business," she replied, turning to face the window.
"No need to be unfriendly," he complained.
She ignored him until he finally got the hint and moved away.
Maybe she was crazy for going home when she could've stayed in Kansas
City and gotten herself a job.
Oh, yeah, sure . . . some sensational job. Hooker, call girl,
stripper, go-go dancer. . . there were a million and one opportunities
for a girl like her. But Cyndra had bigger ideas. Somehow she was
going to make something of her life, and nobody was going to stop
her.
She'd gone to Kansas City for an abortion. Paid for, she suspected, by
the man who'd raped her. Of course, nobody would admit he'd raped
her.
Her mother had said it was her own fault, that she'd encouraged him.
She'd never done any such thing. She hated him, always had.
Mr. Benjamin Browning. Big businessman. Happily married family
man.
Phony son of a bitch.
The Brownings. Her mother's employers. The fine, upstanding
Brownings.
Oh, yeah, she could tell the town a thing or two about the fine,
upstanding Browning family. She'd had the unfortunate distinction of
knowing them all her life.
When she was a little girl her mother used to take her to the house all
the time and leave her in a back room while she worked. Sometimes
Benjamin Browning would come to that back room and touch her. She was
too young to understand what he was doing, but as she got older she
began to dread going there.
When she was five she'd tried to tell her mother. Aretha Mae had
slapped her sharply and said, "Don't you dare talk bout Mr. Browning
like that. I work for these people. Don't you never make up no bad
things again."
S(; Cyndra had learned to shut up. At least her mother stopped taking
her there-she put her into kindergarten instead, dropping her off on
the way to work.
School was another bad experience. She was jeered at because of her
dark skin, and ostracized because her mother worked as a maid.
Several times she was beaten up by the older kids. Eventually she'd
learned to look after herself. But not quite well enough, it seemed.
Damn Benjamin Browning! Mr. Fine upstanding Pillar of the
Community!
Damn him and his money and everything about him!
She'd been away for a month. The abortion had turned out to be a
frightening experience. It had taken place in the rundown house of a
hatchet-faced woman and a gray-haired man with bony white hands, who'd
called her "girlie" and treated her as though she was a prostitute.
For hours she'd bled uncontrollably-until they'd had to rush her to the
nearest hospital, dumping her on the front steps and abandoning her
like a delivery of prime beef.
"What happened to you?" the doctor at the hospital had demanded.
"We need names. You have to tell us who did this to you.
But she couldn't do that, so she kept quiet, just as she'd kept quiet
her whole life.
Now she was on a bus coming home, and she didn't know if she was happy
or sad.
"How old are you?" the doctor in Kansas City had asked.
"Twenty-one," she'd lied.
"I don't think so," he'd replied.
And he was right. She was sixteen. Sweet sixteen!
With a deep sigh she began daydreaming. One of these days she was
going to get out of Bosewell. One of these days the name Cyndra Angelo
was going to mean something.
By the time the bus dropped her off, the rain had almost stopped.
The driver waved goodbye and she grabbed her bag and began the long
trek to the trailer park. In a way she was pleased to be coming
home.
At least she had Harlan and Luke to look forward to, they were good
kids and she genuinely loved them. She did not love Aretha Mae,
although she grudgingly respected her for managing to survive on her
own with three children to raise.
When Cyndra was six she'd asked who her father was. "Never you mind"
Aretha Mae had replied. "That be my business, not yours.
She knew he was white and that's all she knew. Harlan and Luke were
the offspring of a black man called Jed who'd lived in the trailer for
two years, then moved out one day when Aretha Mae was at work.
J
ed had never been seen or heard from again-which was just as well, for
his interest in little Cyndra had been more than stepfatherly.
As she walked along the deserted path she started thinking about
Benjamin Browning and what she would like to do to him. Kill him, for
starters. Maim him if that didn't work. String him up by his grungy
old balls.
The truth was that she knew in her heart there was nothing she could
do. It was her dirty secret and she was stuck with it.
She thought about how it had happened, and if there was anything she
could have done to stop it.
No. Impossible. The man was an animal. Besides, he was over six feet
tall and weighed at least two hundred pounds. Whereas she was only
five feet five inches and one hundred and fifteen pounds. No
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