So Willing

Four

The trouble with just pointing the car and heading down the road was that you might just happen to wind up in Brighton. And it wasn’t easy to imagine a worse place than Brighton. Even the cruddy cabin by the cruddy lake, rustically rotten as it was, would have been better. Except, of course, for charmers like Rhonda and Adele.

The combination of Relationship Rhonda and Dykey Adele made it necessary to head for greener pastures. But Brighton wasn’t exactly greener pastures. It was more on the order of a desert.

It was so simple at first, Vince thought. You got in the car, stepped on the gas, and drove. When you found a quarry worth pursuing, then you stopped.

Sure you did.

The problems occurred after you were heading down the old road. There were plenty of problems. For one thing, you didn’t know where the hell you were going. For another thing, you had to get the damned car back to the damned cabin in a week, maybe ten days at the outside. That sort of ruled out a trip to any town that might be worth going to.

This limited things. He couldn’t go to Florida, which might have been nice, and he couldn’t go to California, which also might have been nice, and he couldn’t go to Alaska, which might have been even nicer. But he still could have gone to New York, or Philadelphia, or Boston. New York, in some small way, meant Rhonda, which was disturbing, but Boston or Philadelphia would have been one hell of a lot better than Brighton.

Brighton.

But there was one more problem, one overwhelming problem, and the problem was money. More precisely, the lack of money. He had fifty dollars and change with him when he took off, and while fifty dollars was a small fortune when you lived with your folks, fifty dollars was very little when it was the sole support of both yourself and a car.

A hungry car. A car that, with a good tailwind, managed ten miles to the gallon. A car that drank oil like a Bowery bum with a thing for petroleum. A car that could easily burn up fifty dollars getting to Boston or Philadelphia or New York.

The smart thing to do was to turn back and give it up as a bad job. But that meant Rhonda, and Adele, and more than anything else it meant admitting defeat.

So he did the dumb thing — which meant Brighton.

He pushed the car seventy miles down the road, passing two towns even worse than Brighton, towns consisting of a gas pump and a general store and three empty houses. And then he reached Brighton, which had more empty houses and two general stores and an occasional hitching post. It was about time either to fill the gas tank or park the car. So he parked the car. It was cheaper.

He had a plan. The plan was the essence of simplicity. He would get the cheapest room he could find, eat the cheapest meals he could stomach, and lay the prettiest girl in the town. Not a virgin, and not a dyke, and not an Uninhibited Relationship. A girl, an ordinary girl. There had to be at least one pretty girl in Brighton, for God’s sake.

So he got a room, a cubbyhole in a white frame Rooms-For-Rent run by a gray-headed keep-smiling tub of lard named Mrs. Rebecca Sharp. The room was fifteen dollars a week with meals, and by the looks of Mrs. Sharp, she could cook well. The room was clean, the meals turned out fine, and money was a little less of a problem.

And then, all settled, he went on the hunt for the prettiest girl in Brighton. And found her.

Her name was Saralee Jenkins and she was beautiful. Her face was the best part, sort of along the lines of a small-town Grace Kelly, with long blonde hair and blue eyes and an occasional freckle on her nose. The body was good, too. Not quite as good as Rhonda, maybe, but a hell of a lot better than Adele the Dyke. She was kind of short, with well-established breasts and a very slim waist, with legs that were damned fine up to the knee and probably better and better as they went along.

And she was not a virgin. If anybody was not a virgin, she was not a virgin. No virgin looked at you in quite that way. No virgin moved her tail in quite that manner when she walked down the street. There might be a virgin somewhere in the civilized world, but this was definitely not the one.

She worked behind the counter at the drugstore, making sodas and sundaes for the local yokels and frying an occasional greasy hamburger for an occasional greasy kid. Vince saw her for the first time when he stopped in for a coke, and he knew right away that this was the girl; that she was the only one in Brighton worth bothering with, that she was fair game, and that she was not a virgin. This last point he knew instinctively, and later he found it out for certain.

And this was part of the problem. In fact, it was the problem, plain and simple.

She was married.

There were a few rules in the quail-hunting game, and one of them was that you did not fool around with a married woman. You just didn’t. All you got out of it was trouble, and occasionally you got killed, and it just wasn’t worth it. Vince had had enough opportunities in the past, and once or twice he had been genuinely tempted, but each time his guns had remained in his holster and the prize had not been shot down. There were women in Modnoc, available women, and they had made their availability obvious. But he had pictured himself in the saddle when the horse’s owner walked into the room, and he had quietly forgotten the women involved.

But this was different.

For one thing, Saralee was too damned willing to play. That message hit him the minute he saw her, even before he saw the gold band on her finger. The way she looked at him, and the way she talked to him, and everything else about her — she was just there to be had.

Which was bad.

What was worse was that he wanted her, wanted her badly. The Adele episode had left him badly shaken. He needed a girl now, and without one he might go quietly mad. And the rest of the available talent in Brighton was either ugly or virginal. Saralee was neither.

He wanted her and she wanted him. And meanwhile her jerk of a husband, old Bradley Jenkins, stood in the back of the store filling prescriptions. That was all the dumb son-of-a-bitch seemed to know how to do. There was Saralee, itching for love, and the moron was filling prescriptions. It was ridiculous.

He talked with her for about half an hour the first day. She kept dropping hints and he pretended to be too dumb to see what she was getting at, which would have been very dumb indeed. Then, miraculously, the coke was gone, and he had a chance to leave.

So he did.

He spent the rest of the day trying to find someone else to spend the week with, but there wasn’t anyone. The girls who had looked merely beastly at first, now looked downright nauseating. He walked all over town, which took all of fifteen minutes, and the more he walked and the more girls he looked at, the worse they looked and the better Saralee looked.

He got back to Mrs. Sharp’s just in time for supper, which didn’t taste as good this day as it had the day before. He didn’t feel much like eating. He felt being alone, and after dinner he went to his room and stretched out on the bed.

There were so many reasons to stay away from Saralee Jenkins. Fine reasons. But the more he thought about them, the less important they became. There were other reasons, reasons why he should crawl between Saralee’s anxious arms as soon as possible; and these reasons grew bigger and loomed larger and more significant the more he pondered them.

She was hungry for it, that was for sure. Her broken-down excuse for a husband wasn’t doing his job. She needed a young man, and he needed her, and that was that.

She would be good. She would be damned good and hungry the way she was, hungry for him. It was good to have principles, and staying away from married women was a good principle to have, but there was a limit. She was worth stepping out of line for.

More important, it wasn’t as if he was crapping in his own backyard. Nobody knew him in Brighton. He could creep up on her like a thief in the night, get what he’d come for, and then head back to the little cabin on the lake. That would be the end of her and the end of Brighton, and to hell with both of them.

He still didn’t like it. Either way he didn’t like it. Staying in Brighton without sleeping with her would be impossible, and creeping back to the lake with his tail between his legs would be unbearable, and heading onward and downward to still another hick town in the middle of nowhere would be even worse.

And, in the meantime, the second day was drawing to an uneventful close. There were just five more days, and then it was back to the lake, which meant he didn’t have a hell of a lot of time to play games. Five days to get in and get out and go home.

The first thing to do, he told himself, was to relax. He counted his money, decided he couldn’t really afford to see a movie but that he was going to do so anyway.

The price was a pleasant half a buck, which was a break, but the movie was a western, which wasn’t. He sat through it, sighed with relief when it was over, and headed back to the room to sack out.

Before he went to sleep, his mind was made up. He was going to drop over to the drugstore the next afternoon. If anything happened, it happened. If nothing happened, nothing happened.

He drifted off to sleep hoping desperately that something would happen.

Something happened. It was a few minutes after two when he strolled into the drugstore, took a stool at the counter and ordered a coke. She gave him, in addition to the coke, a huge grin and a quick wink that was about as subtle as a blasting cap. When she shoved the coke at him she managed to lean so far over the counter that her uniform dropped about five inches away from her breasts. The breasts had looked damned good with the uniform around them and looked even better all by themselves. He tried to look away, but it wasn’t easy.

“Like what you see?”

He stared at her.

“Because if you do—”

A customer came in and mercifully cut the discussion short before it really got going. The customer was a middle-aged woman with a pot belly who had the gall to order a double banana split with extra whipped cream. It took Saralee awhile to slap the garbage together, and while she was splitting bananas and scooping ice cream he tried to pull himself together.

She wasn’t just forward. She was brazen, and eager, and ready. It wasn’t a quail hunt, not this time. It was a rooster hunt. She was the one who was doing the hunting, and he was the one who was being hunted, and somehow this took the joy of the chase out of it.

But, at the same time...

It took the woman a lot less time to devour the double banana split than it had taken Saralee to prepare it. The sloppy old broad waddled out of the drugstore and off into the wilds of Brighton, and there they were again.

He felt trapped.

“He’s old and he’s ugly and he’s no good,” she was telling him. “And you’re young and fresh and I want you. How old are you, Vince?”

“Seventeen.”

“Is that all?”

“That’s all.”

“Most boys your age would have said they were older than that.”

He shrugged. If she thought he was going to lie about his age just for a chance at her fair young body, she had another think coming.

“I never lie,” he lied.

“I’m only nineteen,” she said. “I guess it’s all right. I mean, I’m two years older than you, but it doesn’t make much difference. You’re probably pretty mature for your age, anyway.”

Sure, he thought. But only below the neck.

“And he’s forty-three,” she said, nodding in the direction of the prescription department. “Forty-three years old and no damn good at all. You know what it’s like for a girl with a man like that?”

“Must be rough.”

She nodded. “It’s horrible.”

He took a breath. “Look,” he said. “I mean, there must be guys in town. You shouldn’t have any trouble.”

“That’s just it, Vince. I’m not a tramp. If I did it with anybody from Brighton it would be all over town. Don’t you see? But you’re from out of town and nobody would have to know. We would just do it and it would be great and then it would be over.”

“I guess I’m the answer to a maiden’s prayers.”

She leaned close, giving him another look at her navel. “I’m no maiden,” she said. “But you’re the answer. You got a car?”

“Sort of.”

“Listen to me. You pick me up on the corner of Fourth and Schwerner at seven-thirty. We’ll be done with dinner by then and I’ll tell him I’m going out for a walk. But I won’t be going for a walk. I’ll be going for a ride, and then we’ll stop the car, and then well both be going for a ride again. You understand?”

“Seven-thirty,” he said stupidly.

“That’s right. You’ll be there, won’t you? Because I’ll be waiting.”

“I guess so.”

“You sound afraid. You’re not afraid of me, are you? I don’t think you’re afraid. I’ll bet you’ve had lots of girls. I’ll bet you’re real good at it.”

“Don’t worry,” he advised her. “I’m not a virgin. There aren’t any.”

For a minute she looked bewildered, which was understandable. Then she did another deep knee bend and showed him her chest again.

“Look what I’ve got,” she said. “All for you. And more, all for you. Anything you want, and it’s all for you, Vince. Don’t keep me waiting.”

You’re not afraid of me, are you?

Hell, no. Not him. He wasn’t afraid. He was going to pick her up, and take her for a drive, and give her a workout that would keep her happy for the next hundred years. And then he would get back in the car and point the car away from Brighton and that would be that. Afraid? What in hell was there to be afraid of?

He was scared stiff.

He didn’t taste dinner. But he finished it, somehow, and by seven-fifteen he was in the car. He drove to the gas station, put a couple bucks worth in the tank, and headed toward Schwerner Street. He drove along Schwerner to Second, and then to Third, and all the way he kept half-hoping that he would get to Fourth and she wouldn’t be there.

She was, of course. He stopped the car and she was sitting next to him at once, her lips already parted for a kiss. His tongue darted between the lips and her arms wound around him and that chest of hers pressed tight against him. And then he wasn’t scared any more.

“I couldn’t wait,” she said. “I thought you wouldn’t come and I thought somebody might see us and I thought I would go out of my mind. But you came and nobody saw us and it’s all right now. Take a right turn, there’s an old road a few miles up. Nobody ever goes there. We’ll be all right.”

He couldn’t talk. He just drove, finding the old road, wondering absently how many other guys had taken her there, then stopping the car and not wondering or caring about anything but Saralee.

The chase was gone, but there was something far more exciting in its own way than the chase. There was a woman, a woman born for love, and there was Vince, and the two of them were getting along fine.

The old awkwardness of seduction in an automobile didn’t come into the picture, not when the girl involved was so eager to be seduced. He was happily surprised when Saralee scampered over the seat and into the back the minute the brakes were on.

From there on it was ideal. He didn’t have to undress her because she began tearing her own clothes off instantly. He had all he could do to get his own clothes off fast enough. Then she was in his arms, and she was kissing him again, and all of her was next to all of him.

“Sooooooo good, Vince. Touch me here and here and here. Touch me all over, touch me, kiss me, bite me, do everything to me. Don’t ever stop, Vince. Please don’t stop. I don’t want it to stop. I want it to go on forever. Please, Vince. Oh, it’s so good. So good, Vince, and I need it so much, and yes I need it, Vince, yes it’s so good don’t yes don’t stop keep going yes I love it yes I love it yes I love it I need it I want it oh yes yes yes yes YES!”

It was over, suddenly, and the uncomfortable feeling of having been seduced was overridden by the joy of having been seduced so expertly. There was no getting around it — some girls were a lot better at it than other girls. And when a girl was good at it, and wanted it, it made a difference. One hell of a difference.

Of course, the car wasn’t the best place in the world. It was cramped, even an old boat of a car like his father’s. And it must have inhibited her performance, as good old Rhonda would have put it. Not that Saralee seemed at all inhibited, not in the least. But the poor girl didn’t have enough room to move around in.

And she loved to move. Oh, how she loved to move. And she moved so nicely.

“Vince—”

He cupped one of her breasts and gave it a friendly squeeze.

“Vince, I needed that. You have no idea how much I needed that. It’s been so long.”

“Look,” he said, “I don’t want to get personal, but what the hell’s wrong with your husband? Is he dead or something?”

“He’s no good.”

“Well... doesn’t he even try?”

She giggled. “Once a night,” she said. “Once a night, every goddamned night of the year.”

He gaped. “Isn’t once a night enough for you?”

“Well,” she said, giggling, “to begin with, it isn’t. Not tonight, anyway, because we’re going to do it again as soon as I get my wind back.”

“But—”

“Ordinarily, once a night would be enough. Once with you, for example, would be plenty. But Brad gets through before I even get started. All he does is get me the least bit hot and it’s over and I have to crawl up the walls.”

“Oh,” he said.

“And I can’t stand it, because I need it, and you came along and I knew you’d be good. And you are good, Vince. You’re wonderful. You’re the best ever.”

“Well,” he said. “Thanks.”

“And we’re going to do it again,” she said. “Right here and right now, but we’ll have to hurry a little so he doesn’t get suspicious. We’ll have to start right now, so get set, honey. Because we’re going to do it and it’s going to be great.

“Now,” she said. “Now, yes, now, Vince, now!”

It was too soon, and he was tired, but she was persuasive.

Very persuasive.

And very skillful.

So skillful, in fact, that when in the course of things he pulled a small muscle in his back he didn’t even notice it until later.

And it was worth it, anyway.

There was always the smart thing and the dumb thing, and it was beginning to seem as though the dumb thing was whatever he did. Or, rather, whatever the dumb thing was, he picked it.

Maybe he was just dumb.

Because, if he was smart, he would have gotten the hell out of Brighton the minute he dropped Saralee on the corner of Schwerner and Fourth. The game was won, the trophy would look good on the wall, and that was that.

But he wasn’t smart.

He stayed the night at Mrs. Sharp’s. That was dumb, of course, but it was also natural. He was just too damned tired to drive all the way back to the lake without a good night’s sleep first. Besides, he’d paid up for a whole week. He might as well collect a night’s sleep there and breakfast in the morning before he left.

Sure.

That, he told himself in the morning, was not exactly the truth. Vince, boy, you’re not being honest with yourself. You don’t give a lily-white damn about breakfast in the morning. You’re wondering what Sexy Saralee would be like in a real bed.

Which was something he didn’t have any right to think about.

For one thing, once with Saralee was enough. Twice with Saralee had almost been fatal, albeit wonderful, and a third time would be dangerous.

On the way to the drugstore, he told himself it was just to see her, to say good-bye. No sense running out without even telling her so long.

Uh-huh.

“Tonight,” she said. “Tonight, Vince. Again tonight, and not in the car because it’s better in a bed. Tonight we’ll do it in a bed, Vince.

“Brad works late tonight,” she went on. “You come over to my house and we’ll do it and it’ll be perfect, just perfect. In my bed. It’s a big double bed and we’ll have loads of room. You’ll like it, Vince.”

That sounded entirely possible.

“169 Hayes Street,” she said. “Right on the corner of Fifth. Come up at eight o’clock and it’ll give us two hours before he gets home. You come right up, Vince. You understand?”

He understood. Boy, did he understand. He understood so well he wanted to crawl in a hole.

“Look,” he said, “Saralee, I mean, I have to get back home and—”

“Hush up,” she said. “You better go now. I’ll see you tonight.”

So I’m stupid, he thought. So I’m a damned fool who ought to know better. So I’m a low-grade moron with a rock for a head. So what?

He parked the car around the corner from her house, then listened to his knees banging together on the way to her door. He rang the bell once, wondering what in God’s name he would do if her husband answered the door, and then listened to his teeth chattering until she came to the door and opened it. She was stark naked.

He stood there, just staring, and then he managed to step inside and get the door shut.

“Jesus Christ,” he said. “I mean, that’s pretty stupid, Saralee. Suppose it wasn’t me at the door, for God’s sake. Suppose—”

“I saw you,” she said. “From the window.”

“But—”

“So I knew it was you and not somebody else. I didn’t want to waste any time. I still don’t want to waste any time. I want to get started, because we only have two hours, and I want to make the most of both of them. What’s the matter? Don’t you like the way I look?”

He couldn’t answer. All he could do was look at her. Most girls, he had learned long ago, look a lot better with some clothes on. And a naked girl who was just sort of lying down looked a lot better than one walking around. But Saralee was an exception. She was perfect naked, perfect the way she wandered around without seeming conscious of the fact that she was nude.

She was lovely.

“Hurry,” she was saying. “The bedroom is upstairs, and we want to go there right away, and you’d better hurry.”

They hurried.

In the bedroom, with the door shut, she helped him get his clothes off. She really wasn’t much help. Every time she touched him he got confused and fumbled with his clothing, but finally he managed it and they were both naked.

And both on the bed.

She was telling him to hurry up, that she couldn’t wait, that she’d been going out of her mind all day waiting for him.

But this time he was going to play it the way he wanted to.

“You’re going to wait,” he told her. “I’m going to drive you out of your mind.”

And he spent a lot of time kissing and touching her, and pretty soon she was squirming and moaning for him, making strange sounds from somewhere in the depths of her throat and begging him to hurry, for God’s sake, to get the main event started and stop wasting time on the preliminaries, to hurry up because she was going mad.

It was time. His point was proved, and she had learned her lesson, and now he did not feel that he was the one being seduced. This time it would be good, and when he finally did get the hell out of Brighton this would be something to remember.

“Come on,” she said. “Vince, please. I’ll kill you, Vince. I’ll kill myself. I’ll go mad. I can’t take it, you better start doing it and stop fooling around. I want it, Vince, I need it. Vince, please—”

He got ready, and was about to begin, and then he noticed that she wasn’t talking any more, that she wasn’t saying a word, that she was looking past him with something horrible in her eyes.

So he looked around.

And there, big as life, was Bradley Jenkins.