Jackie Collins, page 17
him.
He traced her breasts with the tips of his fingers-touching her softly,
stroking her nipples until she began to make small gasping sounds.
Jeer! Her skin was like satin, her hair long and silky fanning out
over the sheets. And she smelled so clean and fresh. Most girls he'd
slept with favored heavy perfume and had cigarette breath. Dawn Kovak
wore musk; he had to scrub to get her scent off him.
"Come on, Nick." Now she was leading him, reaching for his zipper,
wriggling out of her jeans.
She had the longest legs he'd ever seen.
He peeled down her panties and tossed them on the floor, dipping his
fingers, feeling her urgent need, and finally getting on top of her and
carefully easing into the trip of a lifetime.
She opened up to him with no inhibitions. It was her first time but it
didn't matter.
He broke through as gently as he could and took her all the way.
When they were finished he held her in his arms-cradling her until she
fell asleep, a smile on her face.
He'd made love a hundred times since the first time when he was
thirteen, but never like this-never had feelings been part of it.
Lauren Roberts.
Lauren Angelo.
It sounded good.
He'd finally found a soul mate, and as far as he was concerned their
lives were forever entwined.
you will never see him again," Phil Roberts thundered. "Do you
understand me, Lauren? Do you?"
She understood him all right, and his harsh words came as no
surprise-so why was her heart breaking into a thousand tiny pieces?
Why was there a feeling of dread in the pit of her stomach? Why did
she want to die?
She glanced over at her mother. Jane's mouth was set in a tightly
compressed line. Lauren knew the expression; it meant I'm not getting
involved-don't ask me.
"Daddy-" she began.
He held up his hand. "No! I do not wish to hear your excuses.
What you did was unforgivable. Taking the car. Staying out all
night."
"I called," she said defiantly. "I explained the roads were closed. I
couldn't get home."
"And as for the way you've treated Stock, it's beyond my
comprehension."
"He's a jerk, Daddy. He called me a prick tease."
"Lauren!" gasped Jane.
"How dare you speak like that in front of your mother," Phil roared.
Lauren imagined herself as a stranger watching this dramatic family
scene. Phil Roberts-red in the face, puffed up with self-righteous
anger.
Jane Roberts-a faded beauty in a small town, her shoulders tense,
standing by while her husband took charge.
And then there was Lauren. Sixteen years old and no longer a virgin.
Sixteen years old and desperately, wildly, incredibly in love.
They couldn't stop her from seeing Nick. What were they going to
do-lock her in the house?
The moment she'd walked through the door they'd started on her.
Why did you break your engagement?
Nick Angelo is nothing but trash.
How can you do this to us?
What will people think?
Who cared what people thought? She certainly didn't. For once in her
life she felt absolutely, totally alive.
"Go to your room," her father said harshly. "And stay there until we
give you permission to come out.
Good. All she wanted was to be alone so she could think about Nick,
relive every wonderful magical moment. The touch of him, the taste of
him, the sheer thrill of being in his arms. She turned to go
upstairs.
"We're very disappointed in you, Lauren." This from her mother.
Oh, go bake a cake! You have no idea who I am anymore.
Her room was a mess, just the way she'd left it-her bed unmade, the
sheets rumpled from Nick's overnight stay. She bent to sniff them,
maybe catch his odor. Oh, God! She had to see him again soon, she
missed him already.
Her rock heroes-John Lennon and Emerson Burn-gazed down at her from
above her bed. Once her idols, it now seemed silly to worship from
afar. She unpinned the posters, rolled them up and put them in her
closet. Then she stared at herself in the mirror, deciding that she
looked exactly the same-no real change, except maybe the expression in
her eyes. There was something new there-something intangible.
After making love she and Nick had slept in each other's arms all night
as close as two people could be. And in the morning they'd made love
again, and this time she'd enjoyed it even more. She'd cried out for
him to enter her, and then she'd cried out from sheer pleasure as her
body jerked in response to his loving and she'd experienced a feeling
so sensational, so amazing that she'd wanted to burst into happy
tears.
"What was that?" she'd gasped.
"What?"
"That feeling I just had."
"You came," he'd told her.
"Came where?"
And he'd explained that making love wasn't only for the man's
satisfaction.
"How do you know so much?" she'd asked, feeling a strong twinge of
jealousy.
"Cause I got taught by a whole bunch of older women. Now I can teach
you."
She'd reached for him. "How about teaching me more.
They didn't leave the motel until eleven in the morning. He drove
slowly along the treacherous icy roads, while she snuggled next to
him.
By the time they reached Bosewell it was almost two-thirty.
"I'll get out at the gas station," he'd said. "Unless you'd like me to
come in an' face your parents with you. I don't mind."
"I do. It's better I handle them alone."
He'd pulled the car up across the street and jumped out. "I'll call
you later."
She'd laughed and slid behind the wheel.
He'd come around and kissed her through the open window.
"I . . . uh She had a right to be demanding. "What? Say it."
He'd attempted to make light of it. "I love ya.
"You too."
And she'd watched him run across the street-her hero in a bloodstained
tux with a battered nose.
Now she was back to reality.
As soon as she reached the safety of her room she picked up the phone
to call Meg and find out what had been going on in her absence. Before
she'd finished dialing her father appeared at the door.
"No phone privileges," he said, his face long and dour.
"But, Daddy-" she started to object.
"I said you will not use the phone," he repeated sternly, entering her
room, pulling the phone from its jack and carrying it off under his
arm.
They were angrier than she'd thought, probably because she'd broken up
with Stock. It wasn't that they resented Nick, she rationalized; they
didn't even know him. Maybe after a few weeks she could introduce him
into their lives and they'd soon realize what a terrific guy he was.
The real truth was there was no way they could stop her from seeing
him. School resumed shortly and then she'd be with him every day
whether her parents liked it or not.
Right now it was quite obvious they weren't going to let her out of the
house. No car. No phone. No contact with friends. She was a
prisoner. A prisoner with her thoughts.
Ah . . . but her thoughts were going to keep her very happy until she
saw Nick again. Very happy indeed.
"You dumped on us," Harlan said accusingly, sitting on the steps
outside the trailer, zinging pebbles at an empty can.
"Hey, that's not true. I couldn't make it. I had an accident. Take a
look at my face," Nick said.
"You promised us a movie," Harlan said glumly.
"I wasn't here," he explained, edging past him into the trailer. "I
told you why."
Luke lay listlessly on top of the mattress he shared with Harlan.
"What's the matter with him?" Nick asked.
"I dunno." Harlan followed him in, shrugging. "He got sick."
"What's your ma say?"
"She ain't here."
He went over to Luke and placed his hand on his forehead. The kid was
burning up.
"When did he get like this?"
"Dunno," Harlan said, sighing.
Nick stripped off his clothes, realizing there was no way he could ever
return the tuxedo. It was good that when Joey had checked out the
clothes from the rental place he'd given a phony address.
"Where's Cyndra?" he asked, pulling on his jeans.
"Out with Joey." Harlan leaned against the door looking miserable.
"Tell you what," Nick said cheerfully. "Soon as Luke's better we'll go
to that movle.
"You said that before."
"Yeah, but this time I ain't gonna be stuck in Ripley with a broken
nose.
"You look funny," Harlan said, staring at him, his head to one side.
"Yeah, yeah, I know."
He wondered what Lauren was doing. After she dropped him at the gas
station he'd worked for a couple of hours, but it was so quiet he'd
finally made the trek home, picking up his bike from outside Dawn's
without ringing her doorbell. Joey hadn't been at work, so he had no
idea what the buzz around town was. He'd been planning on going back
to the drugstore to see Louise and Dave, but now he didn't feel he
should leave Luke.
"Anybody got a thermometer around here?" he asked.
Harlan gazed at him solemnly. "What that?"
"Forget it," he said. "Hang on, I'll ask Primo."
His father was in his usual position-stretched out like a sleeping
rhino, snoring heavily. The television was blaring, and there were
three cans of beer stacked in a row on the floor next to the bed. He
wore a torn undershirt and dirty underpants. A half-eaten bag of
potato chips spilled out on his chest.
Roughly Nick shook him until he came to, bleary-eyed and pucefaced.
"Whassamatter? Wass going' on?" he griped, burping loudly as he
hoisted himself into a sitting position. His rheumy eyes focused on
his son. "Wadda you wan'?"
"It's Luke," Nick said, trying to get through to him. "He's burnin'
hot an' just lyin' there."
"Ain't my problem." Primo yawned, automatically reaching for a beer.
"It could be if anythin' happens to him," Nick said, hating his father
even more, if that was possible.
"Whyn't ya tell Aretha." Primo's attention was now taken by a
bikini-clad blonde with jiggling tits cavorting across the television
screen.
"She's at work," he said shortly.
"Quit botherin' me. Throw a bucket a water over him-that'll cool him
down till she gets back." Primo reached into his underpants to scratch
his crotch. "An' don't tell her bout Luke till she done fixin' my
supper.
For a moment Nick stood there trying to figure out what to do.
Then he spotted the keys to the van on the table and swiped them on his
way out. Fuck Primo. Fuck the fat pig.
By the time he got back to the other trailer Luke was breathing
funnily.
He made a fast decision. "We're takin' him into town," he told
Harlan.
"Wrap him in a couple of blankets an' let's get movin'."
"Sit down, Aretha Mae," Benjamin Browning said.
Aretha Mae hovered in the doorway of his study, her expression wary and
suspicious. "Why?"
Benjamin picked up a silver pen from his desktop and twirled it between
his thick fingers. He did not relish the job Daphne had landed him
with, the sooner it was done the better. "Because I say so," he said
irritably. "Come in. Close the door behind you and sit down,
goddamnit."
She did as he requested, albeit reluctantly. Once she was seated he
swiveled his leather chair at an angle so that he didn't have to look
her in the eye.
"Yes?" Her voice betrayed her impatience.
"I am terminating your employment," he said coldly.
She was startled. "What you sayin'?"
"I'm firing you. Your services are no longer required."
A nerve twitched beneath her left eye. "Oh, they ain't, huh?"
"Mrs. Browning and I have decided you deserve six weeks severance pay
on account of your years of service with us." He passed a signed check
across the desk. "Mrs. Browning has requested that you do not return
to work after today. Is that clear?"
"Clear . . ." she muttered.
He thought she was accepting her termination without argument.
Thank God for that.
"Well . . ." he said, willing her to go quietly. "That's all."
"That's all," she repeated his words, not moving.
"You may go," he said, dismissing her with a cursory wave.
Aretha Mae stood up, placed both hands on his desk and glared at him.
"I ain't going' nowhere, you son of a bitch," she said, forcing him to
make eye contact.
He'd known she would try to cause trouble. It was too much to expect
that she would go quietly. Once . . . many years ago when she'd first
come to work for them, she'd been lovely. Young and vibrant with long
legs, big breasts and a sassy smile-just like Cyndra -a juicy little
piece, hot and sexy. Now, seventeen years later, she was a dried-up,
bitter old woman. Skinny and wild-eyed with sunken cheeks and dyed red
hair. Even Daphne had aged better than her, and Daphne was ten years
older. Not that he fucked his wife anymore, but once a year on their
anniversary he made her get down on her knees and give him a suck. He
knew how much she hated it, and it gave him immense pleasure to watch
his penis vanish into that scarlet slash of a mouth. Daphne didn't
dare refuse him. Daphne would never give up the grand title of Mrs.
Browning.
"I'm firing you," he repeated. "Don't you understand English? You
have to go."
"No such thing as Aretha Mae havin' t'do nothin'," she snapped, sitting
back down. "No such thing, an' you know it."
He threw his silver pen down on the desk, full of exasperation. "I'll
double your severance pay if that's what you're after. Three months'
wages and out of here today."
"Ain't going'," she said stubbornly.
Now he was getting really angry. "Why not?"
"Cause three months down the line I ain't got no job, no money, no
nothin'."
"You can find another job."
"In Bosewell? No shit? What other family got themselves a full-time
maid?"
"There's always work in the paper factory or the canning plant."
She jumped up again. "No!" she said forcefully. "I work here-an'
this is where I stay."
He was silent for a moment before saying, "What do you want?"
"Same money I'se getting' now for the rest of my natural life. An'
five thousand dollars in the bank for my Cyndra. Oh, yeah, an' a
