Chapter 6
Those first minutes in the car were frantic. He threw the packages in the back seat of the Thunderbird and swept her demandingly into his arms. He kissed her as though she were being taken away from him, as though this were their final parting embrace. Her lips were as hot as his, pulsating with desire, surging over with a craving madness that said: Lets do it.
His hands were all over her, squeezing the pliant softness of her breasts, digging between the hot moistness of her spread thighs, and it was only when she broke from him, gasped, "Honey, we're in the middle of New York City," that he restrained himself and paused to catch his breath.
She made a vain attempt to push his hand out from under her dress; he stubbornly held it there. He pushed her panties aside.
"Bill!" She squirmed free of him.
"I'm hot."
"Well, so am I, but...."
Suddenly, he saw the two boys. They had hunched over and crept up to the car. She saw the direction of his glance and started to turn. He drew her back into his arms, pushed her dress up. Again, she broke free. "Bill!"
"Scared?"
"No, but I don't need an audience, either." She nodded toward the two youths. "In case you didn't know it, we're contributing to the delinquency of you-know-who."
"Can't blame 'em. Pretty girl, pretty legs...."
"All right, lover boy," she said with a mocking smile. "Start the car. I think you and I have some homework to do."
The ride home was a good one almost like old times. They bantered double-meaning jokes back and forth, he played with her legs, and she threatened him with: "Just you wait 'til I get your clothes off." He wasn't sure he could wait, and he was surprised by his willingness to forgive and forget the nightmare of these last few days. He supposed it was love; love was the cure for everything somebody had fashioned that advice and it wasn't too hard to take.
They reached the apartment shortly after ten. Darla said that everything was fine, Karen had fallen asleep right after they left. Edie wanted to double-check. "Ever since that prowler broke in here...." She flashed him a worried glance, then tip-toed down the hallway.
"What prowler?" Darla asked, her eyebrows suddenly raised.
Bill shrugged. He didn't care to discuss it. "It's nothing," he said quietly. "Don't worry about it."
Edie came back. "She's all right. I guess I'm just nervous." She glanced at Darla. "Bill, maybe you ought to drive Darla home, huh? I mean...."
"I can walk," the girl cut in.
"Bill?"
"Maybe she's right, Darla. It's kind of late. I'll drive you."
The girl smiled helplessly. "If you say so."
"I think it would be better," he answered, and then turning to Edie, he said, "Is there anything you want at the store while I'm out?"
She motioned him into the kitchen. "Maybe you'd better pick up a bottle if you can. There's not much bourbon left...." She opened the top button of her dress. "...I'll be already for you when you get back," she whispered.
He tried to peek into the dress.
"When you get back," she said, flouncing away from his gaze.
"I'm ready now."
"That's what I'm afraid of." She pushed him toward the living room.
"Okay, for you," he said joshingly. "If you don't love me anymore, I'll just have to get a new girlfriend." He put his arm around the babysitter and pulled her toward the door. "C'mon, Darla. Let's go where we're appreciated."
"G'bye, Mrs. Trumball," the girl gushed.
"Goodnight, Darla."
Bill glanced over his shoulder. "Goodnight, Mrs. Trumball."
"Lunkhead," Edie grinned. She blew him a kiss.
Going down in the elevator, he felt he owned the world. He was on equal terms with Edie that made a tremendous difference; the prowler story was fake, of course he was sure of that but he'd had his revenge with the office girl, so he was happily willing to bury the axe.
When they reached the street, he was whistling, giving Darla playful jabs in the ribs. He opened the door of the Thunderbird. "Honey, if you weren't sweet 15...." He gazed longingly at the bumps beneath her white cotton pullover. "...I sure wouldn't be taking you home this early." He winked at her and she winked back.
He came around to the other side of the car, taking a deep breath of the warm, languid night, telling himself that everything was going to be fine yes, just great. And then he saw the piece of paper fastened beneath the windshield wiper. A parking ticket? He opened it. A note. He held it to the streetlight, saw the crude, hastily scrawled message. His hands trembled. Anger blazed in his eyes. The note read: Ask your wife when she's going to do it again. Ask her if it was fun.
The crazy sonofabitch, Bill thought. The bastard had screwed Edie, and now he was bragging about it. He balled up the note and flung it toward the gutter. He jerked the door open.
"What's the matter?" Darla asked.
His hot stare burned into the girl's curious eyes. "Nothing. Not a thing." He crawled in beside her. "Darla?"
"Yes."
"Are you in a hurry to get home."
"No. Why?"
"Would your folks mind?"
She shrugged her shoulders. "I don't think so. Anyway, I don't have to tell them, do I?"
"Won't they phone if you're not home right away?"
"What for? They know I'm babysitting. Besides, they went to a show."
He started the car. "I've got to get something. You might as well go along for the ride."
She thought that was fine. She also thought the car was 'super' and could it do a hundred. He told her it would. And then she babbled on about school, how she wished they had a longer vacation, small talk that annoyed him and failed to dispel his growing anger over the anonymous note.
"You don't talk very much," she noted. "In fact, you act like you're mad at me about something. Are you?"
He felt ashamed of himself. He had made her uncomfortable with his silence. "I'm sorry," he said. He put his arm around her, a gesture of friendliness rather than a pass, and he added, "How's my best girl?"
Darla snuggled up beside him. "She's just fine."
He kissed her hair and a warm sense of paternalism stole through him. Some of his loneliness disappeared. "You're all right, Darla. I kind of like you." He said it because it felt good to express those words to someone; he hadn't meant to be sentimentally drippy, but she instantly chose her own interpretation. She placed her small hand in his lap and rested her head on his shoulders.
"I kind of like you, too," she said. Her leg was pressed against his.
He felt a rapid awakening. A warning bell told him how easy she'd be, how nice her bumps were, and how quickly she would agree to park and neck. But 15 ... Christ, she could make him a barrel of trouble. She could even send him to jail.
"Do you have any cigarettes?" she asked.
He jockeyed the Thunderbird onto an expressway that would take them to Brooklyn. He fumbled for the cigarettes. "I didn't even know you smoked," he said.
"You weren't supposed to know. I don't tell everything I do."
The remark was intended for him, he thought. She was reassuring him, saying there was nothing to worry about, that he could do whatever he pleased and she wouldn't tell. He gave her a cigarette, lit it for her. Then he pulled her close again. She enjoyed it, let him have a drag on her cigarette, and when his hand ventured up from her rib cage to cup the virginal warmth of her young breasts, she acted completely unconcerned about it, as though it were the most natural gesture in the world. He maintained his exciting grasp all the way to the roadhouse.
"Can't I come in with you?" she asked.
He explained that he'd only be a minute. Walking into a gin mill with a 15-year-old girl would be courting trouble, he told himself, and that was something he could do without.
However, he was longer than a minute. He had three double bourbons before he approached the bartender about slipping him a bottle, but there was no problem. The bartender handed him a paper sack containing the fifth, he paid for it and then hurried to the darkened parking lot and the girl.
He felt horny, maybe the bourbon could be blamed, but she looked so lushly inviting when he returned to the car, and without thinking seriously of the consequences, he swept her into his arms and kissed her.
She stiffened, but she didn't fight it. He felt encouraged. His hands strayed to the hotness of her pullover. He played with her breasts and she purred like a well-fed kitten. The stiffness went out of her body. Her tongue slipped between his lips, and with increased daring, he took new liberties with her breasts.
She loved it. She put her hands over his and urged him to press harder. He did. Then she guided his hand under her sweater.
He should stop now, he thought. In another minute, he would be pulling her stretch pants down and they would be crawling in the back seat. She pressed his hand onward to her bra. The hardness of her nipples throbbed against his moist palms. Why shouldn't he? he wondered. She wanted it; why not give it to her?
Suddenly he freed one hand from the hot fruit inside her bra and began stroking the forbidden land of her thighs. She slumped lower in the seat. Her legs parted, everything was "go".
His breathing grew irregular. He forced her down on the seat, and it did not occur to him what would happen if a police cruiser suddenly drove up beside them; he was too hot to know or care. In blind abandon, his hand plundered to the vertex of her stretch pants. He rubbed her body. Suddenly she seized his wrists.
"I can't," she cried.
He didn't argue; it wasn't smart. He slid back behind the wheel. The girl rose to a sitting position. "I should have told you," she said. "I mean...."
He didn't immediately grasp what she was trying to say not until she added: "It's that time of the month."
He smiled good-naturedly. "Forget it."
"But I won't. I shouldn't have let you get all excited and everything." She moved her hand across his lap.
"I could still do something for you...." she was close to home base. Very close.
"...I mean...."
He removed her hand, gave her another tight little smile. "You don't have to."
"I will if you want me to."
"It's not necessary. I'll live." He started the car.
"You're not mad?"
He told her he wasn't.
"I'll make it up to you," she promised.
"You don't have to."
"But I want to," she insisted. "I really, really want to."
He felt a quick return of devilishment. "You want to what?"
She curled next to him, put her hand brazenly between his legs. "You know."
"No, I don't."
"You do."
"Tell me."
"What I want to do."
"Uh, huh."
She whispered hotly in his ear. "I want you to love me!"