American Star

by Jackie Collins

  "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