Chapter 6
Chet worked at the zipper of his Levi's. Beside him lay Car la stretched out on the sand. Her long, tapered thighs deepened to the color of ripe wheat. God, what a body, and his for the taking! Chet swilled from the nearly emptied wine bottle, held it up to the sun to measure the remaining dregs and with a reckless shrug of the shoulders and muttered, "What the hell ... ?" upended the bottle selfishly. Wobbling up to his knees, he hooked his thumbs in his pants and started hauling them down over his hips and knees when the crunching footsteps on shale dirt hit his ears.
Between the manzanita bushes he caught a glimpse of dark-haired man. Their eyes met for a short moment, before the man ran off through the shrubbery, leaving Chet to stare dumbfoundedly. An uneasiness bordering on queasiness knotted in Chefs stomach; the glint in the stranger's eye was something close to murderous.
Why would anyone want to spy on them? For a scary minute, when first he noticed movement, he feared Paul might have discovered him in his fianc'e's arms. Or maybe the backpackers had returned to find their six pack of beer missing. Dizzily, he considered all this and glanced lustfully down at Carla's stretched out nudity. With a goddess like that ready and waiting, it didn't matter if the whole world was watching!
"Who was that?" Carla shot upwards, her auburn hair shimmering red in the sunlight.
"I didn't hear nobody," stammered Chet, working the wad of denim down over his ankles. "Just you and me here."
"No ... I heard somebody. I want to go back to the camp, Chet ... now!" She scrambled for her clothes. Out of the corner of one chocolate eye, she caught sight of his naked loins, erect and ready to give her a pleasure she didn't want. On hands and knees, she grabbed for her discarded clothing and slipped into it. Chet grabbed her by the arm.
"Take it easy." But it was no use restraining her. "Besides, I haven't had a chance to-"
She shot him a venomous look and grabbed for her shirt. "Get it from Mae!" she snapped, hating herself for once more being made a pawn in this crazy chess game. Anger rushed in where desire had five minutes before. "I'd give anything to be back in LA, if you want to know the truth."
"But ..."
"And forget what happened between us, Chet, because nothing happened. It was all a mistake, I never should have let you touch me ... it was wrong!" Up on dimpled knees, she punched one fist through each sleeve and buttoned up her shirt. A slender foot jabbed into her shoes and with auburn hair flying in the breeze, she was off. Behind her Chet disgruntledly yanked up his zipper and grumbled to his feet.
From the sand pile he plucked up skimpy bikini panties and brandished them in the air. "You forgot your panties, hey you!"
Too late. Carla was off down the path, tears streaming down her flushed cheeks. Somebody had been spying on them. Someone had seen her lying naked before God, with Chet mashing his face into her genitals, slobbering up her love juices. The idea was too much to accept ... too damning for her soul.
And that person's eyes were leveled on her now. A figure crouched in the manzanita bushes, hungry eyes devouring the rich swells and curves of Carla's mod-elish body. Carla's tennis shoes dug into the shale earth a leg's stretch away from the man who'd witnessed her lust. Had she known, her pace would have quickened. But now Paul filled her mind. The danger lay within herself, or so she thought ...
It was a glowering, suspicious foursome who huddled about the fire that night exchanging heated glances and speaking in monosyllables. Dinner was simple: hot dogs. The air was biting and damp, chilling as a wet towel draped about a goosebumped body.
Even Mae's bubbly mood had deflated, a fact which stoked Carla's suspicions. Through the fire flames she watched the blonde-haired, angel-faced lovely chase the weiner around on her plate picking at it with a plastic fork heartlessly. Beside her, Carla sensed Paul scrutinizing his ex-girl friend's every movement, every gesture, every non-communicative glance. Wasn't it strange, thought Carla, that after spending all afternoon with Paul, she should feel sorry for herself?
Paul regarded Mae with a fresh curiosity now. Through the fire flames he squinted at her, trying to read her thoughts. Half-girl, half-woman, jealous and insecure. After this afternoon in the cave he'd come to realize that foggy morning walks on the beach are not the proper place to make rational decisions. Early morning hours are vulnerable hours, and he was sucked into Mae's sex games like a fool. He felt curiously like an object now ... a sex object like the woman herself. As he studied the baby-blue eyes he wondered how anyone that beautiful could have so many loose screws. Asking him to make anal love to her, hinting of bisexual romps ... just what kind of woman was she, anyhow? Men were toys to her.
Warily, his eyes fled to Carla sitting beside him, half-heartedly choking down a dry hot dog, eyes fixed on the fire that played over the cascading wealth of her shimmering auburn hair. Features set placidly, an aura of decisiveness to the set of her jaw. Had he lost her? The thought stuck in his throat like bad meat. This lack of communication made him terribly uneasy. If those two women would talk to each other and forget this nonsense, everybody would be better off. Hell, Chet might even put down the bottle and get himself back into shape. Situations like this demanded a catalyst, but what and how was the question. Something had to spark the light of conversation and understanding, or they might as well all go home.
Still, Carla seemed changed somehow. Less uptight and more self-confident as if something definite was brewing in her lovely brain. He only hoped it was not revenge or thoughts of breaking off their engagement. Somehow, he'd manage to get her alone tonight and try to talk sense to her.
He turned to Carla. "Want to take a ride into Big Sur with me to pick up a bottle of wine ... maybe a couple of six packs?"
Chet who had been sitting taciturn and unresponsive, lit up. He dipped into his pocket and hauled out a crumpled wad of money. "Get me a bottle of J.D. while you're there ... and a pack of Camels. Hell, I'm almost out."
Mae tutted and rolled her eyes at the stars on this clear, dark night. The moon was a thumbnail sliver in the navy-blue sky. "You've still got a bottle of Southern Comfort in the van, Chet. You don't have to get drunk every night!"
The public rebuke was well aimed. Everyone had noticed Chet making repeated trips to the van and a glance into his eyes cemented the suspicion that he was well on his way to inebriation.
"Hey, I thought we finished that bottle off last night. You mean you been holding out on us?" Paul tried to make light of the heavy situation. Then to Carla: "Choke down the rest of that hot dog and let's get going ... stores close early down here."
Aloof, ensconced in her own world, Carla followed him to the car and slipped in. It started on the fifth try.
"Huh ... wonder what's wrong with it this time. Hell, I just sank three hundred dollars into it last week! Wait until I get my hands on that mechanic ... I'll make him eat his goddamned clutch!" He struggled with the starter. It sparked and they took off down the rutted road, gingerly avoiding pot holes until they reached Highway One. When he accelerated, the car sputtered and lurched forward like a lion.
In the cold night, her voice was icy as a sharp knife. Carla clamped her arms over her breast, hugging herself against cold air and colder emotions about to freeze in her veins. "Did you and your Barbie doll have a nice time at the beach today, Paul?"
"What's that supposed to mean?" he spat back. "Just because I went for a walk on the beach doesn't make me a criminal. Hell ... you were no fun, turning your back on me." He let out a deep sigh, disgruntled with himself. Leaning his elbow on the car door, he raked fingers through his burly brown hair. It was with an expression of sincere regret that he studied her features, softened by the car's dashboard lights. "Let's bury the hatchet, Carla. I'm not in love with Mae, if that's what you think. I was attracted to her sexually at one time, but the woman's not for me."
"You sure didn't act that way," she tutted. "Forty-five minutes to go to the bathroom? You really think I'm a fool!"
"Okay, okay," he acquiesced. "So Mae and I went for a walk on the beach this morning ... so what? I apologize."
She turned a bitter face to him. "Oh, so now we're making apologies. Before everything was innocent, but now you're sorry! That doesn't add up, Paul!"
He pulled the car over to the shoulder of the road and reaching over the gear shift, hugged her shoulders, pulling her tight to his chest. He buried his face in her soft hair. "I'm sorry," he whispered into her ear.
"Please, don't bore me ..." she groaned, pushing him away from her. "There's nothing to discuss."
"There's everything to discuss!" He stared at her for a long moment, catching the shimmer of headlights in the rear-view mirror. An old pickup truck whizzed by, honking. "You love me, Carla ... we can't let a weekend break us up."
The words escaped her lips before she weighed the consequences. "I don't know why you think you have the monopoly on apologies ... you might find it amusing that this afternoon Chet and I made love. What do you think of that?"
Paul's jaw fell," his eyes bulged. His right hand smacked across her face with a resounding whack that left a painful welt on her cheek.
"You creep!" She jumped to her feet and leaped over the low car door. The car's headlights blanched her trembling frame, her face pale, drawn. "You think you can mess around with Mae, but when I start feeling a little loose, you go crazy! You and your damned double standards! You can both go to hell!" Her voice cleaved the night air, her hands drawn into fists. Crying hysterically, she ran down the road into the night.
"Carla! Get back here!" In the confusion, he hadn't noticed the engine had died. "Shit!" he grumbled, pounding the steering wheel when the engine stubbornly refused to turn over. On the sixth try, it started. He made a tight U-turn in hot pursuit. Lurching, the car advanced a few yards, then died. He stomped on the accelerator. Nothing. First gear, more gas. It was no use.
He squinted into the dark night. No sign of Carla. Clenching his fists, he hammered at the steering wheel and let fly every swear word he had ever heard ... including a few in Spanish. Leaping over the car door, he rolled the MG onto the shoulder in case a vehicle should come swerving around the bend.
Traffic on the country road was sparse and most drivers, fearful of picking up strangers, unsympathetic. Two cars passed him by and one motorcycle with a blonde haired girl clutching her lover around the waist, hair flying in the breeze, golden thighs clamped to the bike. Jesus, she looks like Mae! Nope, he had to quit thinking that way. Carla. He cupped his hands and called out to her. He squinted into the forest, trying to catch sight of her willowy figure, but the moon was but a sliver in the cold, dark sky.
A Highway Patrol car ground to a halt. "Got a problem, mister?" The uniformed policeman pushed back the bill of his cap and regarded the young man suspiciously.
"My car broke down. Where can I get a tow truck?"
"Get in and I'll drive you to the store. They've got a garage. Maybe Joe can help ya out. Kinda late though."
The sky was hard and cold and clear as the black and white patrol car rolled into Joe's Grocery parking lot, just off the main stretch. Next to it sat a gas tank and a small station above which the flying red horse made strange contrast to the dilapidated building. A closed sign hung by a string dangling from the rubber gas hose.
"Don't look too promising," said the patrol man, opening the car door and heading for the coffee shop section where he spent his nights drinking hot coffee and watching the slender string of traffic on the highway.'
Paul headed for the cooler and drew out a six pack of beer. That and a bottle of wine sat on the counter top now. He was ready for something with a punch ... besides Carla's insults.
An old man with wire-rimmed glasses was pouring the patrolman a cup of hot coffee. He turned to regard his new customer.
"Anywhere I can get a tow truck?" he asked, then jerked his head toward the row of hard liquor bottle in back of the counter. "Better give me a fifth of Southern Comfort too."
"Tow truck? Not at this hour. What's your problem?" The older man wiped the dust from the bottle with the sleeve of his shirt. His fingers played over the cash register keys.
"My car's broken down about three miles out of town. I need to haul it to a garage before somebody crashes into it." The man leaned his age-spotted hands on the counter top and studied his young customer. "You stayin' in a hotel?"
"No ... we're camping down the road." He lowered his voice and evaded the subject, knowing full well he was trespassing on private land. All he needed was a ticket to make his weekend a total disaster.
"Where 'bouts?" The old man was insistent.
"Down off Johnson Road a bit. But we're pulling up camp tonight," he added hastily in a voice low enough to evade the policeman's ears. He glanced over the old man's shoulder to see the patrolman heavily ensconced in the green sports sheet section of the newspaper.
Joe stared long and hard at the young man. "How many people you camping with?"
"Just me and my wife and another couple."
It sounded strange to hear him call his wife. After tonight they were total strangers, it seemed. "Why do you ask?"
"We people down here in Big Sur like to keep to ourselves ... we don't gossip much, but we've been hearin' stories about campers down on Johnson Road getting harassed. Don't know if there's any truth to it ... but I wouldn't stay there if I was you. Cops been looking around those parts for a coupla campers that never showed up again. Think they mighta got washed out by a wave. Can't be too careful, though."
The tinny sound squawked on the patrolman's beeper. He grumbled, folded up the green sheet, rattled a few coins on the counter top, mumbled a "Thank you," to Joe and the screen door banged shut behind him.
A look of startled concern creased Paul's brow. The knife, the woman's hiking boot ... the slam of his car hood ... and Carla out there in the woods alone melded into one horrifying sensation constricting his throat.
"You see any other campers out there?"
Paul shook his head. "I found an abandoned backpack and a cooler full of food. Aside from that-" His face went tight. "I better get back there right away. Anybody here can give me a ride?"
The old man shook his head. "Too late for that ..."
Paul's jaw fell slack; he swallowed tightly and picked up the grocery bag, hearing only half of what the man was telling him. Dear God, don't let Chet be drunk, he thought miserably. Mae out there alone. No, he didn't have to worry about her; she had the van to lock herself up in. But Carla ... his wife to be ... the woman he'd slapped across the face in a fit of unjustified jealousy. Carla headed for the campsite with no flashlight, no weapon, tromping through the woods, insane with anger and hurt.
His hand clamped on the old man's arm. "I gotta get a ride back there. Christ, I have to! Lend me your car, please ... I'll give you mine!"
The old man shook his head again. "Sorry, kid. I don't drive no more ... I live in the back of the store."
Paul tore through the screen door, his heart pounding, blood singing in his ears.
"Hey, mister ... where's my money! Hey, you can't leave without paying!"
Sitting on the driftwood log, staring into the flames slowly dying now, Mae felt a loneliness a woman of her pulchritude seldom felt. She shivered, shoulders hunched against the biting night cold. Her blue eyes rose to stare up at the thumbnail moon where slivers of clouds blanketed its skimpy light. A splattering of stars sprinkled over head. Sniffling, she wiped her nose with the back of her hand and searched for the Big Dipper, her thoughts lost in emotional storm of regret. Paul in love with another woman, Chet lying drunk on the sand like some Bowery bum.
Chet groaned, eyelids flickering from the warmth of the fire. He grabbed for the nearly emptied Southern Comfort bottle that found its way from the van only when the others had left.
"Do you always have to get drunk, Chet," she tutted disapprovingly. "Why do you do that? Why can't you be happy just to be with me?" Bitterness sparked in her veins, a bitterness normally camouflaged by her syrupy attitude towards the opposite sex. "Other men like to be with me."
Chet snickered drunkenly. In his inebriated state his handsome face aged-like now. Mae glared down at him. He was no longer the fun-loving, happy-go-lucky rich boy she met six months ago: he was a worthless bum. Frustrated, she leaped up from the log and screamed down at him. "Just for your information, Chet, I made love to Paul twice today! How do you like that? But you don't care. You don't even make love to me anymore. You make love to your fucking bottle!"
Chet glared back at her through drunken, venomous eyes. "Got news for ya, honey ... little Carla and I sucked each other off today. Yeah, Chet can get it up ... but not for you!"
"You bastard!" she yelped, tears stinging her blue eyes. "Go ahead, get drunk! Who needs you? I'm going to bed!"
Fifty yards away, crouched in the bushes, two men listened to her rage, and four eyes followed the leggy blonde storming back to the burgundy van.