Chapter 1
It was difficult for Kurt Wiley to maintain his pose of casual indifference, for his father towered above him and stormed his displeasure. But, through effort and as a result of considerable practice Kurt managed to keep lounged in the chair, his legs stretched in front of him, loafers crossed, hands crossed, too, over his flat stomach and in an attitude of indulgence.
"This is the last straw, kid," Big Joe Wiley hollered as he reached the end of the area he had chosen for pacing. "The last straw, goddammit."
Tiredly, Kurt raised his eyebrows, then lowered them. He made a quick estimate of the number of "last straws" he had thus far been allowed during the year. The number was large. And surprising. And Kurt allowed as how his father might be right, that this could very well be the last straw of the year.
Joe Wiley stopped in front of his son. He shook his finger at him, his reddish complexion reddening even more, his blue eyes blazing and angry. "Flunk-out! That's what you are, a college flunk-out. And for the fourth time in two semesters. Goddamit, kid, you have just about reached the end of the road with me. Just about hit--"
"It wasn't all my fault, Pop," Kurt said, straightening in the chair and showing interest.
"So, not your fault. So, who's to blame? The whole damn state university?"
"No. I admit my grades were poor. But that week-end with the dean's daughter, that wasn't exactly my idea, you know."
"Yeah, I know, kid," Joe said. "It was her idea. She knocked you down and grabbed you by that long, Shakespearian haircut of yours and dragged you off to her old man's cabin. Yeah, I know, I know."
Big Joe resumed pacing. Kurt, watching his father, had to admit that the old man made a dramatic figure. Big, hard, solid and quick, at fifty-five he still looked capable of whipping a bar full of enemies. And often did, Kurt reminded himself.
Joe stopped pacing. He paused in front of his son again. This time he did not shake his finger. This time his expression turned from one of anger to one of pleading. And he ceased to tower over the twenty year old boy, too, for abruptly he sat on the edge of a straight backed chair that had been placed to face the son.
"So, what's left for you, Kurt?" Joe asked.
Kurt read the signs. Joe had stormed, had hollered, had threatened. His choice of words had graduated from "kid" to the given name of his son. And the son knew that the father was genuinely upset, that he was about to make a capitulation. The knowledge of this process made Kurt Wiley feel more shame than all the hard words of the past hour. It even made him feel a sudden urge to rehabilitate. Kurt knew the feeling would soon die. But at least it was there now.
"I don't know what's left for me, Pop," Kurt said. He lowered his head, then said, "Maybe I should just go off by myself and not cause you any more trouble."
"Spare me that," Big Joe said. "You going off by yourself could only mean more trouble." He paused and leaned forward, clasping his hands in front of him and staring at the rich, thick carpeting.
"I'm sorry, Pop," Kurt said.
The big man shook his head, still staring sadly at the floor.
"Sorry. Always sorry. I swear, sometimes I'm glad your poor mother has passed on glad so that she's been spared this shame and sorrow."
"Come on, Pop. Stop making like a poet. Just give me hell and tell me what to do."
Joe raised his hands helplessly. "What to do? What is there to do? You've gone through every college that would have you. What's left? Who can we con into trying you again?"
"I'm not that bad," Kurt said.
"Bad in brains, you are not," Joe Wiley said. "Bad in the flesh, you are. You've got to separate the two use your brains and not let them get vomited all over the place because of the women you roll in the hay with. Crissakes, if I had your brains and your opportunities at your age. For Crissakes, I'd probably be a senator by now. Maybe more."
"You haven't done badly, old man," Kurt said, a note of affection and admiration in his tone.
Joe raised his eyes and met his son's. Then the big man held his hands out as if for inspection and said, "What I've got and what I've given you I've done with these hands. A bricklayer first, 12 hours a day, low pay, one brick after another, a life of bricks and then nails and wood and building and finally the biggest goddamn construction company in the state. And for what? For me? No? No man works hard for himself alone. Give a man a bottle and a good woman and he doesn't give a damn about anything else. But give him a son and he gets ambition. That's what I got because of you, Kurt. Ambition. Dreams. Riches. I dreamed 'em, goddamit, then I got 'em because I had a son. And now...,"
Kurt almost lowered his eyes. But he did not. Instead, he kept them steady until they sparked with inspiration. Then he pushed out of his chair and stood straight exactly in front of his father. The position was better, Kurt mused. It made him the dominant one.
"Look, Pop, I've got an idea," he said.
Joe's eyes raised. "An idea? You've always got ideas! And they all concern broads. And they all cause me trouble-trouble and money, goddamit, and--"
"Pop, take it easy," Kurt said. "Stop blowing and listen to me. So, all right, I'm kicked out of school again. But I can get back in once I've demonstrated a seriousness of purpose."
"Seriousness of purpose," Joe exclaimed. "You're even stealing the dean's lines that's what he said, that you lack 'seriousness of purpose'. "
"Okay, so I demonstrate that I've got it."
"Where? As a bricklayer for your old man?"
"No. At-At Funston College." Kurt's eyes lowered shamefully.
Joe Wiley jumped up from his chair. It jiggled, then did not keel over. "At Funston? You at that goddamit flunk-out university? Good Lord, spare me that. Please, spare me that!"
"Look, Pop, I know Funston isn't the greatest, but--"
"Not the greatest?" the old man stormed. "What the hell, it's not even the worst! Funs-town University, they call that place. And who goes there everybody who's flunked out of some decent school. All the rich men's brats who can't make it, that's who goes to Funston. A goddamn country club, that's what that joint is. A College! Bah! It's nothing but a whorehouse! A whorehouse with diplomas!"
"But it's a place that will accept me," Kurt tried to explain. "And I can build my credits, prove my seriousness of purpose, then after a semester or so get myself back in State or any damn school you want me to go to."
"They'll accept you, all right," Joe said cynically. "If I pay the price. They accept anybody with the price. And it's high, kid, let me tell you that."
"I know, Pop. But you asked me what's left for me. Well, that's it Funston College."
Abruptly, Joe sat down on the edge of the chair again. This time he kind of sagged, as if the energy had gone out of him.
"So, what do you say, Pop?" Kurt asked.
"I say that for twenty years old you've come a hell of a long ways, all downward, damn near in hell, if you want my opinion, and Funston just about marks the end of the road for you."
"I know that, Pop," Kurt said seriously. "But I'll make it. I really will, Pop."
Joe looked at him without speaking. And as he did, the old man's eyes changed, turned softer looking, affectionate, and even hopeful, much as if all of his son's life was quickly reviewed in a father's mind reviewed, reminded, and made to recount the good and bad of fatherhood, the hopes and disappointments, the thrills and spills, the pride and the shame.
"What do you say, old Pop?" Kurt asked. "If Funston gives me a chance, will you?"
He nodded several times before answering, "Yes, yes, I'll give you a chance."
"Thanks, Pop."
"But only one," Joe roared, his voice strong again. "One goddamn chance. The last one. You make it, or, buddy, you're on your own. No business to be yours someday. No Jaguar to screw around in. No allowance. No clothes. Nothing! Not a thing from me, do you understand?"
Joe flinched at each reminder of the losses he could suffer. But he answered meekly, saying, "I understand, Pop. And-and I'll do my best. I really will."
"You'd better," Joe said, pushing up from the chair. Then, softer, added, "It's not that you haven't got the stuff, son. You have. Hell, your scholastic ratings are the highest but you don't use the ability you've got. You horse it around on girls-girls and booze and pleasure and--"
"I know what I do," Kurt interrupted. "You don't have to remind me."
"All right." He paused, then said, "Are you going to make the arrangements with Funs-town University, or should I?"
"Stop calling it that, Pop. The arrangements are rather simple, Pop. Just-just send them a check. There's a brochure on your desk."
"A check," Joe repeated. "That simple. Send a check and a son to Funs-town and forget the whole damn thing, eh?"
"Just about like that," Kurt said. "Except for the allowance the monthly check. I'll let you know where to send that. And how much."
"Thanks a lot," Joe said sarcastically. "Thanks a lot, Kid. Jeeez, I need a drink? Want one?"
Kurt hesitated, then said, "No thanks, Pop. If I've got to reform, I might as well start now."
"Reform Jeeeez," Joe said, shaking his head as if he couldn't believe it or as if he were being conned. He continued shaking his head as he crossed the luxurious living room to a portable bar that rested in a corner. Then he turned toward his son and said, "If it's reforming you're going to do, start with the broads, not the liquor."
Kurt watched as his father hunched over the bar, preparing a drink Kurt felt dismissed. And his sense of timing told him that now was the time to depart his parent. The situation had been covered, a decision made. It was better to leave before more encumbrances to the future were presented.
"If you'll excuse me, Pop, I think I'll take a little walk," Kurt said, hoping that the inflection of his voice conveyed all the things it should for the ear of a frustrated parent.
Joe Wiley turned toward Kurt, holding a tall highball glass in his hand. "A walk, eh? In which direction?"
"Oh, just around," Kurt replied, raising his hands in a motion of indecision.
"Okay, so walk around. And while you're doing it, remember what I told you. I mean it this time, Kid."
"I know you do."
"Good. That way there won't be any misunderstanding, eh?"
"No. No misunderstanding, Pop."
"See you at dinner."
"Right." Kurt hesitated, then paused still longer before saying, "And, Pop. Thanks. Thanks for the chance."
"Don't con me, Kid. Just take advantage of this last chance that you've got." Joe turned back toward the bar.
Kurt nodded, then headed out of the living room and into the foyer. He looked around at the expensive furniture, the plush draperies and carpeting, the antiques that had been collected from many corners of the world. Then he thought how much he would hate to be separated from it all, how much he would dislike the status of anything less that that of a young, rich man to whom the future promised even greater riches.
Kurt turned quickly and left the house.
On the expansive front porch, Kurt paused. He looked to both sides, then directly in front of him. And as he stared across the quarter mile of velvet green lawn, he saw the movement and heard the roar of a motorcycle as a single sensation. Then he enjoyed the secondary reaction of sexual arousal as he knew that the fast bike would be carrying the fast girl, Gail Chalmers, his fellow-student, part-time girl, nearly full-time mistress. In a moment, the motorcycle and the girl upon it came more fully into view as Gail steered it onto the winding road that led to the Wiley's huge, colonial-type house.
Kurt glanced once behind him, then trotted down the road to intercept the approaching girl.
Gail braked the bike in a cloud of dust at Kurt's feet. When it cleared, he saw that she was smiling. He, too, smiled. It was difficult not to in the presence of Gail Chalmers, for she wore the tightest possible shorts and a boy's shirt tied just below her breasts. The bare legs looked especially agile and anxious because of the short boots she wore. The breasts looked larger than usual because of the tight knot beneath and between them. And the rest of her; bare brown arms, blonde, short and teasing-curly hair, round, blue eyes, lifted eyebrows and a wicked, red mouth, made her a figure that produced smiles and sighs and the rumble of passion within any man who was lucky enough to view her at close range.
"Man, you're really riding today, eh?" Kurt said.
"You know it." She nodded toward the house. "How did you make out."
"Okay."
"Is that all? Just okay?"
"Well, the way I always make it with the old man. You know, we made some concessions. I keep the Jag, the clothes, and he keeps the future. Right in the palm of his hand."
"What did you have to do?" she laughed. "Enter the monastery?"
"Not quite," he grinned, showing his even white teeth as the smile sliced through his well-tanned face.
Gail cocked her head curiously.
"Pop and I agreed that I'd pick up my grades and rehabilitate at dear old Funston College."
"Funs-town?" Gail breathed. "You're going to old Flunk-out U?"
"Yeah. How about that?"
"Holy cripes," Gail exclaimed. "If you're over-sexed now, what'll you be when they get through with you at that place?"
"Intoxicated with my ability," he said, saying it proudly.
"You lucky stiff," Gail said, pouting an expression. Then the expression changed and went angry. "But what's going to happen to me with you gone? There won't be any bang for me with you shacking out in the mountains a couple of hundred miles away. Hey damn it, I bet you planned to go to Flunk-out just to get a try at the chicks there."
"Ah, I did not," Kurt said. "You know I wouldn't do a thing like that."
"I don't know it," she said. She tossed her curls into a sassy swirl around her ears.
Kurt took a step toward her, then held his hand out to grip her shoulder affectionately at the very moment that she turned toward him, causing the hand to strike lightly against her breast. The contact made Kurt feel burned. He remembered that breast and its mate, recalled the firmness and the heat and the hard pressing nipples. Remembered, too, the way they heaved and sighed a cry of passion those times that Gail's body labored beneath his. And as he recalled it all, Kurt felt a sadness for having to leave it, a remorse that he had not played things smart enough to have maintained the things he wanted plus the ever-readiness of Gail Chalmers.
Gail did not draw back from Kurt's contact with her breast. She increased it, thrusting herself against it as her eyes elongated in a sign of passion. And her voice was an accomplice to seduction, for it was low when she spoke, low and dripping innuendos the sexual kind.
"Hope you're satisfied that the dean's daughter was worth it," she said.
"She wasn't," he lied.
She smiled. "At least you say the right thing, baby. Keep talking."
Kurt withdrew his hand, then, somewhat anxiously, glanced at his house. When he turned back to Gail he said, "What about a ride to the beach? You know, for old time's sake."
"Old time's sake," she repeated, her eyes traveling from his long, dark hair, over the broad shoulders, the narrow waist and lean thighs and legs that were dramatically outlined in his tight jeans.
"Yeah, old time's sake," he said. "What the hell, I'll be leaving in a day or so."
"So soon?" she purred disappointedly.
" 'Fraid so, babe."
"Geeeee."
"So, do we spin to the beach?"
"The beach is crummy this time of year," she said, obviously teasing.
"Yeah, but the boat house isn't," he said, winking broadly.
Gail twilled a laugh. "Okay, jump aboard, Buster."
"I'm already jumping," Kurt replied.
He swung his leg over the hard, back seat of the motorcycle. Gail revved the motor high, then pushed it into motion as Kurt clung to the sides of the seat, pressing himself forward just enough to bring his knees and chest in contact with the girl.
Gail Chalmers pressured the motorcycle like a madwoman. She was very expert. And her nearness, even amid the dust and speed and curving roads, accelerated Kurt's passions to a point that was nearly as high as the ninety mile an hour speed the bike attained.
The beach was achieved very quickly. So was the boat house. And so was the nakedness of Gail and Kurt. As the blonde girl raised from removing her shorts and the light thing beneath them, Kurt thought how it was always best this way, how it was more exciting when there was a singular purpose in their aim without the frills and pretense so many people had to indulge in before they knew the thrill of physical love. Not so with him. Not so with Gail, either.
"Come here," Kurt said huskily. He extended his arms outward.
Gail walked close. Her breasts jiggled. The tips waved. And her stomach began to do crazy in-and-out indentations that made Kurt think of the ripples of a lake. But a lake cooled. Gail Chalmers heated.
"I'm going to miss you, baby," Kurt said.
"Ditto," she replied.
"But we'll have week-ends. Sometimes, that is."
"Sure, week-ends," Gail said, pouting a little again.
The words between them stopped very suddenly. The mouths still moved, but only to nibble and bite and open so hot tongues could trade clashes and sweeps and wet caresses. Their bodies strained against each other; breasts flattening against a hard chest, thighs fighting for greater contact, stomachs flat and grinding together. And bringing it all together in a hot, dynamic urgency, there were the hands; Gail's around Kurt's neck, pinching, digging, begging; his at her back and buttocks, also pinching, kneading, imploring.
"Ummmmmm, you're too much," Gail cried, breaking away from him. "Too, too much."
"So are you," he panted, leaping at her.
Gail collapsed to the sand floor of the boat house just as Kurt was about to retake her in his arms. Now, their embrace was more promising. Kurt stretched next to her, kissed her for a full minute, then left those lovely lips in order to mouth feverishly at her breasts, first one, then the other, at the same time flicking his tongue across the nipples then suddenly as if taken by inspiration he flicked lower, stopped at her belly, swept it wildly and moved still lower.
"Ohhhh, no, darling," Gail cried. "You'll kill me too soon. Too, too soon, baby, and we we can't do that."
Kurt did not give up his prize. And for a moment, Gail did not let him. She pressed her thighs hard against his head. But when her breathing grew desperate, she forced him away from her. Kurt did not object. He drew apart from her, settled on his knees, then moved forward at the exact moment that Gail's body arched in welcome for the new contact he would bring.
And then there were no more words, only the hissing, skittering, rasping sounds of effort and love-making and the wild approach that had come upon them. And then the approach was over and they had arrived.
"KURT!" she said, exploding the word in his ear where she mouthed it.
"Yeah, yeah, baby," he chanted in answer. "Now, baby. Let's go. Let's--"
Gail arched on his downward lunge and they moved like some insane love machine gone out of control.
When their bodies had spent their energy for love and they lied together in the mixture of sweat and sand they had created, Kurt breathed deeply, all thoughts of love and Gail Chalmers gone and replaced by sensuous images of a campus far away, images of the people and experiences that awaited him at a college where sex was synonymous with study and passion was the curriculum.