Chapter 2
The ocean roared like blood singing in a jealous lover's ears. A safe distance between the crisp pine-needled forest floor and the frothing tide, a fire crackled under a hard, moonlight sky. Flickering tongues of fire lapped at dried branches, spitting sappily. Four figures sat on the makeshift bench of driftwood. The coals glowed red around the aluminum-foil-wrapped hamburgers. It was to be a simple meal.
"This is fan-tas-tic!" gushed Mae, the firelight playing goldenly over the shimmering ponytail hanging sensually over one shoulder, the end curl strategically dipping about the puffiness of her right nipple immodestly poking through the thin T-shirt she wore. Her blue eyes flashed dangerously from face to face, resting on Paul's tanned features. "Don't you think so, Paul? It was so kind of you to invite us along ..." Her voice dripped like honey, felt like imaginary fingers playing over the softness of Paul's testicles.
Stop thinking like that! he rebuked himself silently, taking a swig from the communal wine bottle and wiping a burgundy dribble from his cleft chin. Around the phallic glass he eyed her staring at him with her baby blue pleading eyes. Jesus, Mae could talk with her eyes ... she didn't need a mouth. Well, except for sucking ... the sweet little bitch! Paul's cheeks flushed, and it wasn't from the fire that Chet, down on his knees, poked at with a charred stick. Surreptitiously his eyes roamed from her baby-faced features, far softer but less sophisticated than Carla's, down to the fullness of her swollen breasts pressed tightly against a promotion T-shirt he'd given her a year ago. She wore it for a reason ... she won't let me go! Down to her nipped-in Scarlet O'Hara waist to slender hips and thighs. A model's body without challenge! Paul's throat went tight, guilt choking him.
Sensing her ex-lover's curious stare, Mae shot him a made-to-order cheesecake grin and arched her back, pressing the hardened nubs of her nipples so tight to the cotton jersey, he was shocked they didn't burn holes in it! She wore a pair of cut-off Levi's; dear God, he'd seen more modest bikinis.
"Did Chet tell you Playboy called me for an interview?" she giggled, batting spidery eyelashes. A hand flew to her chest, fingers spread. "Really, can you see Mae in a Playboy centerfold? It's too much!"
Paul offered a tittering laugh, bordering on nervousness. Beside him Carla sat taciturn and cold, hunkering down in her bulky sweater like a baby swathed in blankets. It would help if she opened her mouth and involved herself in the conversation, he thought somewhat bitterly, instead of leaving him to carry the ball. If Mae made a play for him, Carla had only herself to blame. Then of course it would help if Chet would lay off the bottle of Southern Comfort he hoarded beside the driftwood log.
"Might be just the break you need, Mae. Maybe you've got talents we don't know about!" he added innocently. Beside him he could sense Carla stiffen. Out of the corner of his eye, he swore he'd seen her upper lip curl.
"If anybody knows about my talents, it's you, Paul ..." she purred, her golden thighs shimmering in the firelight. "You are a talent agent, after all ..."
"I'm a promoter, not a talent agent," he reminded her firmly, more for Carla's sake than his own. "You have to have tal-" The words stuck in his throat like bad meat as the willowy blonde slowly spread her sleek thighs to warm her legs.
Paul squinted, grew nervous, as his eyes fastened on the impossibly tiny crotchband of her cut-off Levi's! Dear God, he could see the blonde pussy curls entangled around that flimsy strip of denim! He'd seen more modestly dressed Playboy centerfolds. He gnashed his teeth. Why was she tormenting him? Didn't she realize he and Carla were engaged to be married? The feel of a snake crawling up his spine made him stiffen. Christ, forgive him, but he wanted to climb off that log and inch hands and knees to force his way between those luscious thighs and feast on the sweetness of her juicy sensuality. One year ago, he would have ... did, in fact, many times. A fluttering in his chest reminded him of days when Mae would sneak into his office and kneel on her haunches; her raspberry polished fingertips would haul down his pants and up would spring his prick. He'd sit at his desk making business calls, while Mae sucked his cock. Wasn't good for the pocket book, but damn what it did for his libido!
That was then and this was N-O-W, just as he'd spelled it out for Carla in an effort to waylay her fears.
Who was afraid ... he or Carla?
A fleeting turn of his head caught a cold, accusing brown eye curtaining with softly blowing auburn hair. With emotional survival his driving force, he turned to peck his fianc'e on the cheek, his warm lips branding her cold flesh. Abruptly he fell to his knees before the fire and jabbed at the smoldering flames, hoping to God nobody had seen the growing bulge in his pants.
"Wanna hit a Comfort?" It was Chet talking thick tongued and obviously inebriated
Gratefully, Paul accepted the half-empty, preciously proffered bottle. Carla's eyes shifted from the fire to the orange-splashed features of Chet Duran. A good looking, roughneck type, she surmised. Premature age lines were etched about his soft dark eyes. Such a pity, she thought, what a waste of humanity. In his pre-Mae days he been a prime competitor for Paul, another hard-hitting promoter out to make his million on the abundant Hollywood talent. Now he'd lost it to the bottle. She wondered if he realized that.
Rubbing her hands together to warm them with the friction of her own skin, Carla watched her boyfriend unwrap a corner of the foil to check the hamburgers. He was clumsy, unstable ... unusual for the sure-foot, nimble fingered entrepreneur. And she knew why!
Carla shivered on the log, feeling like the beauty pageant loser as the tiaraed queen sat on her driftwood throne, directing the show with calculated if not exaggerated gestures which to mature men would appear laughable. Certainly Paul had sensed her aloofness, and had Mae been able to drag her blue eyes off Paul long enough she would have seen the flinty stop-this-nonsense look in her chocolate eyes. How women could be so deliberately cruel to each other was heartbreakingly astonishing!
Carla's eyes shot back to Chet, a softening wane of empathy smoothing the rough edges of insecurity. No wonder the man never spoke, except to offer his alcohol. Mae did the talking for everybody. She was the writer, the director, the actress for a one-man sex circus ... and Paul the great judge of talent, was eating it up! Chet had the answer, thought Carla, watching him tip the near-empty Southern Comfort bottle to his lips and drag a cigarette from the crinkled pack in his shirt pocket, incognizant of his girl friend who was spreading her legs a foot from Paul's face! Carla sucked in her breath then, catching the first naughty glimpse of Mae's proferred pubis. No wonder Paul had fallen to his knees and feigned concern over the hamburgers!
Forty more hours of agony, thought Carla in hot-blooded dejection and flushing anger.
The evening passed tensely. They ate their overcooked hamburgers in near silence, punctuated by Mae's abundant, chimey laughter as she and Paul filled the silence with one-line jokes. Chefs hiccoughs served a background music while Carla glowered from the sidelines. The time for bed came at last when Chet slumped drunkenly on the sand. That, judged Carla, was the first time Paul used his brain all night!
"Let's hit the sack, Carla ..." They headed for the wind-chilled down sleeping bags awaiting them under the pine trees. Brooding moodily, Carla kicked off her tennis shoes and slipped into the icy, damp sleeping bag, anxious to yank the zipper up to her throat and forget about the x-rated soap opera.
"No hug, no kiss? What's this?" demanded Paul. It was obvious he'd had his share of the Southern Comfort. He fell to the ground on his knees next to Carla. She turned a cold back to him. "Hey ... snap out of it!" he goaded, knowing he was in for it if Carla had seen him peeking between Mae's golden thighs. The suave, gentlemanly demeanor hardened now as one arm on either side of his girl friend's head, he grated down at her, attempting to roll her over onto her back and discuss the matter.
"Let me sleep, Paul."
"Not until you've told me why you're withdrawing into your tight, little shell." His voice was cold as the ocean breezes.
Carla shot upright, her auburn hair flaming in the moonlight. A venomous stare narrowed her wide brown eyes. "If you don't have the brains to figure it out you're more ignorant than I thought! You get down on your knees and toy around with the fire with your eyes fastened on another woman's genitals-and you ask me why I'm uptight! Huh!" Her upper lip curled with disgust for his behavior and her own jealousy. "Why don't you go sleep with your Hollywood Barbie doll and leave me in peace!"
"Oh, for Chrissakes, Carla," groaned Paul. "Give me a little credit, will you? Don't you know I love you?" He kneaded his way into the flaps of the cold sleeping bag and after a moment's struggle with the stuck zipper, he rolled over onto his side and stared towards the burgundy van parked a hundred feet away. Behind him, Carla's sobs whispered in accompaniment to the ocean's frothy roar and nippy night breezes.
Utterly disgruntled, the promoter rolled over onto his back and cogitated on the veracity of his fianc'e's accusations. Maybe she was right, maybe he was stupid for pursuing the idea of a camping trip together; but his reasoning had been fraternal and well intended. He'd hoped a weekend on the beach might help Chet dry out and open up his head to the possibility of going into business together. First Chet had to come to grips with his weakness that was slowly eating away at his brain. As for Carla's charge that he still wanted to sleep with the Hollywood Barbie doll, well ... he was innocent, wasn't he? If something happens spontaneously, free of deliberation, it was innocent and allowable, he decided.
Damn, I had too much to drink. Southern Comfort and California burgundy were bad bed partners and he rolled over onto his side to snatch a bottle of Calistoga from the nearby cooler. His hand froze, fingers wrapped around the icy bottle.
Behind him, he saw a flicker of light, as if someone were lighting a match. A cold shiver snaked down his spine. Twigs snapping. It's probably the hikers coming back to retrieve their backpack, he decided, flopping back into the sleeping bag. Yet ...I'm acting like a cowardly boy scout camped in my mother's backyard.
Still he couldn't rid himself of paranoia. With little effort, he forced himself to concentrate on distraction. Hollywood Barbie doll ... that's kind of funny, actually, he chuckled to himself. Mae ... He visualized her all-American baby face on a poster, her rich swells and curves draped in a skimpy bikini showing the nubs of her swollen nipples ... her dripping wet like the Cheryl Tiegs poster. Hell, Mae's body's a helluva lot sender than that one ever thought of being ... maybe I was a fool for not promoting her. Every man in America's mouth would water for wanting to crawl between her legs.
Carla's biting remark fled back to mind. "WHY DON'T YOU GO SLEEP WITH MAE?" Would he if the chance came? That was a question an honest man cannot answer ... at least not with his fianc'e sleeping next to him.
With a sigh of fatigue, he rolled over onto his other side, wishing he could cuddle up to Carla's warm body instead of hugging his own cold, bony knees. Abruptly, his head shot up. The metallic thud of a car hood slamming clanked above the ocean's heady roar.
Probably Chet climbing out of his van to take a leak, he decided and fell asleep.