*** Archive Note: The chapter numbers in this text file accurately represent the physical pocketbook. There are two chapters labeled "Chapter Eight" and no "Chapter Eleven."
CHAPTER ONE
This was Adam Lombard's first faculty meeting. He had been looking forward to it for weeks, ever since Gideon Hodgkiss, dean of the exclusive Mekins Academy, had signed him on as the head football coach. Two weeks ago he had come up to the school to meet with the team members, put them through a few preliminary practice sessions and explain a couple of intricate plays he had worked out during the summer.
The boys had liked him and he had thought them a fine group of young men. They had all hit it off together just fine. Adam was looking forward to a good season, with pleasant associations. On Monday the main student body had begun arriving. School was officially scheduled to open tomorrow; today the students were settling in and the faculty was holding its first meeting.
They were seated in a semi-circle, facing the massive desk, behind which Dean Hodgkiss, a middle-aged balding man, was now sitting. Adam let his eyes wander over the group, knowing that in the days to come he would get to know them all intimately and would be dependent on them for social and academic activities.
There were fifteen, in all, eight men and seven women. Adam's gaze passed from one figure to the next. His brief scrutiny of each was almost complete, when his roving eyes stopped and froze. He was looking at a young girl. She couldn't have been more than twenty-one or twenty-two. She was the most beautiful creature that he had ever looked upon. Her hair was a chestnut brown and hung loosely, framing an exquisite face. Her nose was small and slightly uptilted at the end. Her lips were full and rich; her eyes a gray green in color. Her lovely legs were crossed. Her dress had been accidentally caught up when she sat down, and a goodly portion of her bare thigh was exposed.
Adam's first reaction was one of embarrassment. He looked up at the girl's face, but her attention was focused on Dean Hodgkiss. She was quite unaware of her exposed thigh.
Adam's eyes darted around at the circle of faces, but no one at all was looking at the girl. He became aware then that no one else was in a position to see the delectable portion of bare flesh.
His eyes went back to the girl and fastened upon the exposed thigh. Fastened ? They feasted upon it. Without giving it a conscious thought, he imagined his hand touching that silky white skin, caressing it, fondling it. Suddenly he realized that he was becoming aroused. His loins were growing warm. He swore at himself because of the sensation. He thought of the team, of the first game of the season they were scheduled to play one week from the following Saturday. He thought of lovely Betty Walker, the girl to whom he was to be married on the day before Christmas.
But all the while he was staring at the girl's bare thigh, and wild thoughts were running through his head, desire was coursing through his body. Remembrance of Betty brought on a feeling of guilt, and yet he kept staring at the exposed thigh. Suddenly he became aware that Dean Hodgkiss had cleared his throat and had begun to speak. Adam wrenched his eyes away and looked at the dean.
Hodgkiss was saying, "I want to welcome you all to Mekins Academy's eighty-first year. Since there are several new faces among the faculty this season, I think that the first order of business should be to introduce ourselves and the subjects which each of you is to teach." He glanced at the far end of the semi-circle. "Miss Quimper, will you begin, please?"
An elderly, gray-haired woman with a pinched, ferret-like face, got quickly to her feet. "I'm Miss Olive Quimper. I teach English Four." She sat down and the person sitting next to her, a man, rose and said he was Ben Hearst and that he taught algebra.
One by one they rose and introduced themselves. Then it was the girl's turn. Adam suddenly realized that he had been holding his breath. He let it out with a great swishing sigh. The woman sitting next to him, gave him a quick look, then turned to look at the girl. She was standing, and it was with a feeling of relief that Adam saw her skirt fall back into place. "I'm Anne Yeaton. I teach English One." Her voice was low and sultry. She sat down.
A moment later, Adam was on his feet, announcing his name and telling the assemblage that he was the head football coach. He sat down, and, as though drawn by a magnet, his gaze turned to the girl, Anne Yeaton. To his astonishment, her dress had been caught up again, even more of her thigh was revealed. He lifted his eyes and his heart gave a great thud when he saw that she was looking directly at him. Her expression was one of boldness, almost defiance. The ghost of a smile appeared on her lips as she turned away.
Meals at Mekins Academy were served in a building called Fairchild Hall. There was a large room where the students ate. They sat at a half-dozen long narrow tables and were waited upon by fellow students who, by performing this chore, were paying for part of their tuition.
Adjoining the large room and separated from it by an open archway was a smaller room. This was reserved for the faculty. They sat at two large round tables and were waited upon by other student workers.
Adam spotted Anne Yeaton the moment he stepped into the hall. She was seated at the table nearer the door. Without hesitation, he headed for that table, only to stop in frustration when he discovered that all the chairs were taken. He glanced at Anne Yeaton, but she was engaged in animated conversation with Ben Hearst, who was seated next to her.
Disappointed, Adam crossed to the second table, moved to the far side and dropped into a chair from which vantage point he could stare at the back of Anne Yeaton's head. He was furious at himself because of his disappointment at not being able to sit near Anne. He was more furious because that disappointment seemed to have such sharp edges. What the hell was the matter with him anyway? For God's sake, he didn't even know the girl. Moreover, he was engaged to marry the sweetest loveliest girl in the world. Betty was not only sweet and lovely, she was intelligent, a brilliant conversationalist, eager and alive, exciting to be with.
"My, but you're a handsome young man," someone whispered in his ear.
Jolted out of his reverie, Adam turned quickly. It was Olive Quimper, the elderly English Four teacher. She was seated next to him, smiling up into his face.
Adam forced a grin. "Why, thank you, Miss Quimper."
"Oh, you must call me Olive. We're very informal here at Mekins."
"Very well, Olive. And you call me Adam."
"Indeed I will, Adam. You mustn't think me forward because I remarked on how handsome you are."
"I liked it."
Olive Quimper's eyes twinkled. "I hoped you would." She leaned toward him in a conspiratorial manner. "You won't believe this, Adam, but I'm a football buff."
"Are you indeed?"
"I am. I attend all the games, know the players and predict victories and defeats."
"Then please tell me how we're going to do against Seabrook High a week from Saturday."
"Oh, you'll win that one. Shall I tell you how I know?"
"By all means."
"First, I came up a couple of days early just to check on Mekins' new football coach."
"And what did you decide?" Adam was interested in spite of himself.
"I decided," stated Olive Quimper firmly, "that Mekins is indeed fortunate to have hired such a gifted coach. The boys like and respect you, and that's half the battle."
Adam laughed. "I hope I don't have to depend upon that one thing too much."
"You won't. You have Doug Gaskins to take care of the plays."
Adam nodded. Doug Gaskins was the team's quarterback. He was back for his senior year. After talking with and watching the young man at practice for a couple of days, he realized that the quarterback, who was also the team's captain, was a player of unusual ability and potential. Miss Quimper, he decided, did indeed know her football.
Adam started to make some further remark, but the words stuck in his throat. He had glanced across at the second table just as Anne Yeaton dropped her napkin and bent over to pick it up. In the one brief instant Adam glimpsed the cleft and the swellings of two perfectly formed breasts. In the moment before she tucked the napkin back on her lap, she lifted her glance. Briefly, their eyes met. Then she had turned and was again talking to Ben Hearst.
The effect of this brief encounter astonished Adam. His insides turned over. He sucked in his breath noisily.
"Is something wrong?" Olive Quimper asked, concern in her voice.
Adam made a gurgling sound, seized a glass of water and gulped down a mouthful. "There. That's better. Something got stuck in my throat, I guess."
Two rows of cottages, facing each other, lined Faculty Row. Each was painted a different color. They were frame, attractively de-sighed and most were vine covered. Each contained two bedrooms with adjoining bath, living room, tiny kitchen and a dining area.
Two faculty members were assigned to each. Adam's cottage, painted yellow, was at the far end. It was cozy, furnished in maple, and he loved it. His roommate was-or would be, Jeff Carroll, the basketball coach. However, the basketball season would not get underway until late October, and Jeff wasn't scheduled to arrive until then. Hence, for the time being, Adam had the place to himself. This he liked too.
Adam wasn't a drinking man, but he always kept a couple of bottles of Scotch on hand, in case some "drinking" friends dropped in, or in the event of an emergency.
Tonight there was an emergency. Anne Yeaton occupied all of his thinking. There was a constant picture of her in his mind. It was crazy; it was unreal, but no matter how hard he tried, he could not ignore its presence.
"You stupid bastard," he thought to himself. "Get hold of yourself. You don't even know her. She's only another girl."
But she seemed to be more than "another" girl. A vision of her had captured his mind, and held it captured.
It was dark when he let himself into his cottage. "This," he thought to himself, "is an emergency," and went into the kitchen and mixed himself a stiff Scotch and soda. He carried the drink into his living room, switched on the television set and sat watching the San Francisco Forty-Niners clobber the hell out of the Los Angles Rams in a pre-season game. He watched two Gabriel passes being intercepted, the second resulting in a touchdown, and switched off the set in disgust.
"So what do I do now?" he wondered,' and tried to drive the picture of Anne Yeaton from his mind, without success. He gulped the remainder of his drink and was heading for the kitchen for a refill, when his doorbell rang. "Now who the hell can that be?" he mumbled, crossed to the door, switched on the outside light and opened the door.
Anne Yeaton was standing on the threshold. "Hi," she said. "Can I come in?" She stepped quickly inside. "Turn off the light," she said.
Automatically, Adam turned off the outside light. He didn't say anything. He just stood there, staring at her stupidly.
"Don't look so surprised," she said. "I just couldn't stand it any longer."
"Couldn't stand what any longer?" Adam asked.
"Quimper. They put me in the same cottage with Olive Quimper because we both taught English and they thought we'd get along. I don't suppose you have a drink? I need one."
"Of course. I was just about to build another one for myself. Come on into the living room."
He ushered her into the living room. She sat on the sofa and her skirt rode halfway up her thighs. Adam stared. He couldn't help himself. She was wearing the same dress she'd worn at the faculty meeting, yet somehow she looked more voluptuous, more desirable.
He tried to think of something to say, and finally came out with, "What's wrong with Quimper? I rather enjoyed her at dinner. She's a football buff."
"That I know. When she's not talking football, she's talking English. Over and over again. She's a bore. Well, are you going to get me that drink, or are you going to just stand there staring at my legs?"
Adam flushed. He gulped. "Sorry." He picked up his own glass. "Don't go away. I'll be back in a minute." He hurried into the kitchen, his insides churning. He slopped Scotch into the two glasses, added ice and soda, and went back into the living room. He had half expected that she would be gone, but she wasn't. She was still on the sofa, her legs crossed, her thighs still revealed. He handed her one of the glasses.
"Sit here beside me," she said.
He did so and watched her gulp down half drink. She gave a grateful sigh. "That's good. You know, I thought I was going to be bored stiff at this place, until I saw you."
"Oh?" said Adam.
She stretched out her legs. "Do you think I have good-looking legs? I saw you admiring them at faculty meeting."
Adam began to tremble. He set down his drink for fear of spilling it. He moistened his lips. "Yes," he said, "I think you have good-looking legs."
"Do you think they're sexy?"
The same overwhelming desire flooded through Adam as before. The blood ran hot in his veins. He wanted to reach out and touch one of those silky white thighs. He wanted to caress it, to feel its warmth beneath his hand. And suddenly, all control lost, he did just that.
Instead of objecting, Anne gave a little squeal of delight. "Oh!" she exclaimed. "That feels good!"
Abruptly, without either of them knowing exactly how it happened, she was in his arms. Her body, her breasts, were pressed hard against his. Their lips sought each other's. They kissed long and passionately.
What happened next was never quite clear in Adam's mind. It was only the end result that remained clearly etched. He remembered slipping his arm beneath both her bare thighs. Her arms encircled his neck as he picked her up and carried her into his bedroom.
It was four o'clock the next morning when Anne prepared to leave. They were in the kitchen, having a final drink.
"I'd better go out the back door," Anne said. "I can skip along behind the cottages. The one that Quimper and I occupy is the blue one, three down."
"Will you come again tomorrow night?"
"Do you want me to?"
"You know I do."
She looked at him archly. "How much?"
Adam took a deep breath. "I think I want you to come more than I've ever wanted anything in my life."
"Then I'll come." She lifted her face and he kissed her, holding her tight, fondling her. At last she pulled away. "Until tomorrow night then, darling."
"I'll be counting the minutes."
"As will I."
He held the door open for her, kissing her the while. And then she was gone.
CHAPTER TWO
Somehow Adam got through the next day. He wasn't quite sure how he managed it. It was a period of constant torment, of excited anticipation, of recriminations and guilt. A picture of Anne was always there in his mind, tormenting, teasing. Subconsciously he realized that she had the Indian sign on him. The knowledge confused and bewildered him. She was a sorceress, a witch, and a bitch. Consciously he admitted these facts, then chastised himself mentally for having entertained such thoughts. She was a dear, sweet girl.
At football practice that afternoon he was standing near the fifty-yard line, watching the first-string varsity scrimmaging with the second team. Much to his own annoyance, he kept glancing at his watch. "Two, three, at the most five hours," his mind kept repeating, "and she'll be in my arms. We'll be in bed." He swore to himself, and looked up. Doug Gaskins, the quarterback, had come up and was respectfully waiting to speak.
"Well, Doug, what is it?" Adam snapped, and immediately regretted his tone of voice.
Doug said, "We just tried that end-around play. Did you see it?"
"Of course."
"What did you think?"
"It was all right. Why?"
Dong shifted from one foot to the other. "I was thinking. What if I tossed the ball back to Ferris and he threw the pass to Forbes? That way, Forbes could step outside, even if he was nailed at once. That way, we'd have an automatic time out."
Adam took a deep breath. He must get control of himself. It was a good suggestion. He should have thought of it himself. "It would be fine, Doug, but only if we were crowded for time. I mean, it would be a sort of crisis play."
"Good. I thought you'd agree." Doug started away, but stopped, searching Adam's face. "Is anything wrong, coach?"
"Wrong? With me? Why do you ask?"
"I don't know. You look sort of beat."
"Not beat. Worried. Seabrook isn't going to be easy to beat."
Doug grinned. "Then you can stop worrying. The game will be a shoo-in."
"I hope so." Adam smiled, adding, "I do have a hell of a headache. But it will pass. I've had them before."
"Anything I can do?"
"Just don't mention it to anyone else. If it gets worse, I'll ask Nels Darcy to take over for the rest of the afternoon." Nels was Adam's assistant coach.
Adam hurried through his meal at Fairchild that evening. Anne didn't come in until the dinner hour was almost over. His heart leaped at sight of her, but she didn't even glance in his direction. Instead, she sat at her usual place at the first table with her back to him and didn't once look around.
It was after eight when Adam got back to his cottage. He glanced at his watch. Perhaps she'd come earlier tonight. Perhaps she'd be here within the hour. The thought sent shivers up and down his spine. He busied himself by crumpling up some newspapers and laying kindling atop them in the fireplace. He sat on the sofa in front of the grate and imagined how it would be: He'd hold Anne in his lap, kissing and fondling her. Then, when they were both aroused to an unbearable state, he'd pick her up and carry her into the bedroom. The thought excited him to such an extent that he rose and began pacing the room, aware of the warmth in his loins, of the rapid beating of his heart.
When nine o'clock came and still Anne didn't arrive, he began to grow tense, listening with tightened muscles to every sound, hoping to hear her light step mounting the steps to his porch. He went into the kitchen and unlocked the back door. She'd come that way! Naturally she'd not want to be seen entering the front door.
By eleven o'clock, Adam was beside himself. Should he call her cottage? No. That would be downright foolish. What if Quimper answered? What explanation would he give for calling at that hour of the night?
Damn her! She'd lied to him. She'd aroused him to the point of insanity, had promised to come back tonight, and then had forgotten all about it. Tears of frustration filled his eyes. How could any woman treat a man like that? Perhaps she was with another man. The very thought turned on a frenzy of jealousy. He tried to reason. She'd said she had expected that her tour of duty at Mekins would be a bore until she'd seen him looking at her legs. She'd been sincere when she'd said that. He was sure of it.
At eleven-thirty Adam went into the kitchen and mixed himself a stiff drink. He sat at the table there, gulping it. "I've got to cut this out," he said savagely. "I'm not going to turn into a damned alcoholic. I've got guts enough to lick this thing without help." And then he tossed off the remainder of the drink, and poured another. Once he froze, his fist tight about the glass. He thought he'd heard a sound, a step, a subdued voice. An instant later he relaxed when a cat squalled just beyond his door.
It was after one when Adam finally went to bed. He was stoned. Standing in the middle of the bedroom, he tried to remove his trousers, tripped and fell flat on his face. For a long time he lay full length, breathing hard, cursing. "Goddamn you, woman, what are you doing to me?" He began to cry. "You weak sonofabitch," he reprimanded himself, "get hold of yourself. What kind of a man are you?" Whimpering, he managed to tug off his trousers and climb into bed. Still whimpering like a chastised puppy dog, he fell into a drunken slumber.
The ringing of the telephone awakened Adam the next morning. Groggily he reached for the instrument and fumbled the receiver off the hook. " 'Lo," he said thickly.
"What's with you, man?" a male voice asked.
"Who's this?"
"Ben Hearst. Thought we had a date for a set of tennis a couple of hours ago."
Adam stiffened. Christ! He'd entirely forgotten that he'd promised to meet Ben at the courts before classes started. "Damn it, Ben, I'd forgotten entirely. No excuses, except that I had one of those bloody headaches last night and took a couple of belts before going to bed. Overslept, I guess."
"How do you feel now?"
"Okay. Is it too late for a game?" He hoped to hell Ben would say it was. At the moment Adam doubted his ability to get out of bed.
" 'Fraid so. I've a class in fifteen minutes."
"I'm sorry as hell, Ben."
"Forget it. We'll make it another time."
"Right." Adam hung up, swung his feet to the floor and sat on the edge of the bed, head in hands. Now, by God, he did have a headache. A beaut. Well, he'd have to live with it. He was about to try staggering into the bathroom, when the phone rang a second time. This time it was a girl at the other end of the line. Adam's heart leaped. Could it be-but it wasn't. It was Maude Parker, Gideon Hodgkiss' prim-looking secretary.
"Just wanted to remind you of the reception tonight, Mr. Lombard."
"Reception?" Adam said blankly.
"I'm sure you read about it in your opening week schedule. Or perhaps you didn't receive one."
"Schedule? No," Adam lied, "I didn't receive one."
"Oh, I am sorry. Those things sometimes happen." Adam got the distinct impression that Miss Parker was telling him that such things never happened if left in her hands. "In the meantime," Miss Parker went on, "I'll remind you that the reception is being held this evening in the gymnasium. Dean Hodgkiss will be the host. There will be dancing and refreshments. Please try and be there at eight."
"Of course. And thank you for reminding me, Miss Parker."
Later, brooding over his second cup of black coffee in the kitchen, Adam thought, "She'll be there. She'll have to be." He brought his fist down on the table top. "Goddamn her, I won't speak to her. I'll show the little bitch that a toss in the hay means no more to me than it did to her."
Adam arrived at the gym promptly at eight. The room was gaily decorated with banners and streamers. A small combo sat on a raised platform. In front of it stood the reception line consisting of Mr. and Mrs. Hodgkiss, Miss Parker, and five other people Adam didn't know but who, he presumed, were somehow connected with the school.
Adam's eyes swept the room, and suddenly his heart was in his throat. He felt cold inside and his hands began to sweat. She was standing in a corner, chatting with a group of faculty members. At the moment she was facing him and their eyes met fleetingly. Then Anne deliberately turned her back to him and stared up into the leering face of a fat, gray-haired old man whom Adam recognized as a chemistry teacher.
Adam's jaw tightened. Resolutely he strode toward the reception line. "Damn her!" he swore. "Damn her to hell." And yet he was maddeningly aware that his heart was pounding. Adam moved through the line, murmuring the proper words, showing the proper amount of respect. He shook the last hand just as the combo began playing its first number. Without thinking, as though impelled by a force beyond his control, Adam strode across the floor and stopped in front of Anne. "May I have this dance?" he asked.
For a moment she stared at him blankly. Then her face lighted up in a smile. "Of course, it's Mr. Lombard. We met at the faculty meeting." She turned, nodded briefly, then came into his arms. At the first touch of her, he began to tremble. All of his resolutions were shot to hell in that first moment. Putting his mouth close to her ear he whispered, "You promised to come over last night. Why didn't you?"
Anne threw back her head and laughed softly. When she spoke it was in a conversational tone, quite as if they were discussing the attractiveness of the decorations.
"You said tomorrow night. It was four o'clock in the morning. That would make tomorrow tonight."
Adam's heart did a flip-flop. By God, she was right. He'd been an idiot. "Will you come tonight?"
"Do you want me to?"
"Yes. Oh, yes. I've thought of you every minute," he assured her.
Suddenly, briefly, she thrust her body up against his. Then her head was back once more and she was smiling up into his eyes.
"I can feel that you want me to come."
Abruptly Adam realized that he had an erection and she had felt it. He blushed.
"Blushing becomes you," she told him, "but it isn't necessary. It's the way I want you to react when you have your arms around me." She wasn't, he knew, referring to his blushing.
"Let's leave now," he begged. "Right now."
She laughed as though he'd made an amusing remark. "We can't, silly. We'd be too conspicuous. After this dance, you go home. Tell them you have a headache or something. I'll break away as soon as I can. Leave your back door unlocked."
When the dance ended, Adam relinquished Anne to the group with whom she had been chatting and made his way to the reception line. He stood in front of Mr. and Mrs. Hodgkiss and smiled weakly. "I'm awfully sorry, but I have a really mean headache. I'm afraid I'd better go home and lie down. It was a delightful party."
"Oh, you poor boy." There was concern in Mrs. Hodgkiss' voice. "Do you have frequent attacks? Mr. Hearst mentioned that you were forced to miss a tennis date with him this morning for the same reason."
Walking home through the cool night air, Adam thought, "Christ! This headache business is getting out of hand. Why couldn't Hearst have kept his mouth shut?" It occurred to him that if old man Hodgkiss became convinced that his head football coach was subject to migraines, he might lose his job. But it was only a passing concern. Adam was too excited, too eager for what lay ahead.
Reaching his cottage, he let himself in, switched off the outside light, bolted the door and went immediately into the kitchen and unlocked the rear door. Afterward, he got out glasses, a bottle of Scotch and yanked a tray of ice cubes from the refrigerator. He strode into the living room, touched a match to the material in the fireplace and "stood for a moment staring down at the leaping flames. He was aware that even now he was listening for her step at the back door. He switched on a bridge light, then put a stack of records on the player, turned the volume down low, and looked around. It was an inviting, intimate scene.
Adam returned to the kitchen and was about to mix himself a drink when there was a light tap at the door. He put down bottle and glass, strode to the door and jerked it open.
Anne stepped quickly inside and closed the door. She looked more beautiful than ever. Her eyes were bright, her expression eager. "I came as quickly as I could," she breathed.
"It seemed like forever."
Then they were locked in each other's arms, their lips and tongues crushed together in a passionate kiss. Adam pulled away at last. "Would you like a drink?"
"That can wait. Just hold me."
For answer, Adam picked her up, carried her into the living room and sat her on his lap in front of the fire. She wiggled contentedly. "This is nice," she whispered. "Cozy and intimate." She lifted her face, her lips slightly parted. "Kiss me," she said.
Adam bent his head and kissed her hungrily. They held the embrace for a long time. Tentatively, Adam ran his hand up under her skirt. She wiggled. "Ummm. That feels good. I like it. Please go higher."
His hand moved about under her skirt. He was painfully aware of the great throbbing bulge in his crotch. Deliberately she moved her fanny atop it, relieving the pain somewhat. Again she looked up at him. "Do you like that?"
"I love it."
"Tell me."
"I love feeling you moving on top of me."
"I think you'd better take me to bed before we both explode."
Adam scooped her up in his arms and carried her into the bedroom. They undressed quickly. For a moment Anne stood in front of him, savoring his admiring inspection. She was perfectly built, perfectly rounded in the right places. "Am I satisfactory, Adam?"
"You're the most beautiful creature I could ever imagine," he admitted, awestruck. "Sexy?"
"Beyond belief."
"Do you want me."
"Desperately."
"Show me."
In the next instant they were in bed, gasping, feeling, kissing, engaged in a mad fore-play. At last, when Adam could contain himself no longer, he prepared to mount her. She held him back and he looked at her in astonishment.
"A girl--likes to be told what's going to happen to her, darling. What are you going to do to me?" she asked.
The astonished look remained on his face. "Sexual intercourse," he mumbled. "Fornicate."
She slapped his face lightly. "I don't want to hear those dull old dictionary words. I want to hear the words that have a real sexy meaning, words that arouse me and should arouse you." There was a vicious gleam in her eyes. "Tell me," she hissed. "Say the words you know I want to hear."
"Fuck!" he blurted. "I'm going to fuck you."
Instantly her expression softened. "That's it, darling. You're going to fuck me and I'm going to love it." She squeezed his penis. "What's that?"
"My pen-" he began, but when the look came back into her eyes, he said, "It's my cock."
"And what's that down between my legs where your hand is now?"
This time he didn't hesitate. "It's your cunt."
She gave a little shiver of delight and kissed him. "Those are the words we're always going to use whenever we're making love in the future. Those and a few others. Doesn't the mere sound of them excite you?"
Adam admitted that they did, which was true. Anne rolled over onto her back, spreading her legs. "Come fuck me, Adam, darling," she invited.
Later, stark naked, they sat at the kitchen table having their first drink. Adam couldn't keep his eyes from her beautiful body. He hadn't wanted to get out of bed, but Anne had told him. "We must rest for a while, darling. We'll enjoy it so much more if we do. I want you always to be this eager."
"I couldn't be any more eager than I am right this minute," Adam had told her.
But she had insisted that they go into the kitchen and have their drink. Now she said, "Do you enjoy looking at my naked body, Adam?"
"Yes," he cried hoarsely. "I adore it."
"Do you think you could fall in love with me?"
"I know I could. I already have."
"You're sure?"
"Positive."
"Say it," she insisted in a serious tone. "I love you, Anne. More than I ever thought it possible for any man to love a woman."
For a moment her eyes gleamed, "Then you'll do something for me, if I ask?"
"I'd do anything for you, Anne. I'd love doing things for you."
Anne got up and came around the table. She stared down into his lap. "From the way that thing is jumping around, I think it's time we got back into bed."
A moment later they were back in bed, locked in each other's arms. Adam wanted to get into action at once, but again Anne held him back. Misunderstanding the gesture, Adam grated, "I'm going to fuck you, Anne. Fuck, fuck you, fuck you. That's what you want to hear, isn't it."
"Yes, only."
"Only what?"
"You said you'd do anything for me."
"I will. Damn it, I will."
"I want you to write me letters. I want you to describe everything that we've done tonight, using the proper words, telling me how much you enjoyed it and how much you love me."
Adam hesitated, and Anne took his chin in her hand, looking deep into his eyes. "If you knew how such a letter would arouse me, you'd enjoy writing it." And when he still hesitated, she went on, "Either you'll promise to write those letters, dear, or I'll leave right now and you'll never get me into this bed again."
"No!" he cried hoarsely. "For God's sake, Anne, don't say that. You're tearing me apart."
"Then, will you write the letters ? '
"Yes, xes, yes."
"Promise?"
"I promise. You can depend on it."
She smiled and kissed him. "Thank you." She pulled him over on top of her. "Fuck me again, darling. This time hold back as long as you can. Make it last."
It was one o'clock when they finished their second drink and Anne began putting her clothes on. Adam started to get dressed also, but she stopped him. "Stay exactly as you are, darling. I want to remember you standing there naked."
So Adam, feeling rather foolish, stood in the middle of the floor, stark naked, watching Anne pull on her panties, adjust her bra, and finally drop her dress over her head. He wished she had prolonged the business.
At the kitchen door, she took hold of him and kissed him longingly. Feverishly he asked, "Will you come over tonight, Anne? Please."
She shook her head. "Not until I've received your first letter. If it is as exciting as I want it to be, then I'll come."
"I'll write it before going to bed," he promised.
She gave him a squeeze, kissed him again, took a last lingering look at his naked body, and left.
CHAPTER THREE
After Anne left, Adam sat at his desk and began composing a letter to her. At first he was hesitant about his choice of words. But the more he wrote, the more excited and aroused he became. He found himself enjoying the task of graphically describing their sexual relations, of using the words she liked to hear. He wrote longingly of their next meeting, of how eagerly he was looking forward to it, of how he hoped and prayed she would be as eager as he. He declared his love in no uncertain terms, describing the empty tortuous hours he would have to endure before he had her in his arms once more.
Dawn was creeping in at the windows when Adam finally finished writing. He addressed an envelope, folded the letter and sealed it inside. After a moment of deliberation, he rummaged in his desk, found a stamp and affixed it to the envelope. Then he jogged down to the corner and dropped the letter into the mailbox. He didn't want a day to pass before Anne received it. Returning to his cottage, he mixed himself a healthy drink, and gulped it while getting undressed. It was full daylight when, pleasantly drunk, he finally climbed into bed and blacked out.
The sun was high when Adam awoke. His head ached and his mouth felt furry. He glanced at the bedside clock. Ten-thirty. Good grief! he was supposed to have been at the gym at ten. Adam didn't bother to shave, shower, or make coffee. Instead he washed down three aspirins with a glass of tomato juice, and set out for the gym. If the boys who were there noticed his tardiness, none gave any indication. They were too busy enjoying themselves without being under the watchful eye of an instructor. In a matter of minutes, Adam had brought them to order and was putting them through a series of exercises.
By Friday afternoon Adam had had no indication that Anne had received his letter. Twice at mealtime he had glimpsed the back of her head and that was all. Not once, by chance meeting or otherwise, did they have an opportunity to exchange words. She had been in Adam's mind constantly. He was sick with worry.
On impulse, Adam dialed Olive Quimper's number. Anne answered. Adam's heart leaped, but he managed to restrain himself. "May I speak to Miss Quimper, please."
There was a moment's hesitation, and Adam knew she had recognized his voice.
"May I ask who is calling?"
"Coach Lombard."
There was another moment of hesitation, then an eagerly whispered, "Darling! I loved your letter. Tonight." Then he heard Anne call, "Miss Quimper. It's for you."
Adam's heart was thumping when he heard Olive Quimper say, "Yes? This is Miss Quimper."
He swallowed hard, got control of himself and said, "Miss Quimper, this is coach Lombard. I wondered if you planned to attend the game."
"Oh, dear boy, of course. I wouldn't miss it for worlds."
"Fine. I've arranged for you to pick up two complimentary tickets at the box office."
"Why, you sweet boy. But why two tickets?"
"I thought perhaps your roommate-I can't think of her name-might want to go too."
"How thoughtful of you. Her name's Anne
Yeaton, and I'm sure she'd love to attend."
"Splendid. There's just one thing."
"Yes?"
"Will one of you wear a bright dress and tell me the color? That way, I can spot you in the stands."
Miss Quimper giggled. "How cute. I don't have a very bright dress, but Anne does. I saw it in her closet just yesterday. It's red. I'll ask her to wear it."
"Excellent. I'll be looking for a red dress."
Mekins won its first football game against Seabrook, but only by the narrowest of margins. Adam knew that the victory was not because of him, but in spite of him. His pre-game locker room talk had not been a pep talk. Rather, his remarks had been desultory and uninspiring.
On the field, while the team had been warming up, he had spent most of the time searching the stands above the fifty-yard line, for the glimpse of a red dress. Foolishly, he had been thinking of making himself appear a hero in Anne's eyes. He had wanted her to look at him adoringly and worshipfully when next they met. But there was no red dress, no encouraging wave of a handkerchief. Adam felt let down. When the whistle for the opening kickoff sounded, he scarcely noticed.
At half time the score was 14-14. In the locker room Adam lectured the team unmercifully. They looked at him ruefully, curiously, accusingly. Inwardly, Adam cursed himself. He knew he was being unfair and unkind. He was taking his letdown feelings out on the team. He was making himself out a louse, and it was all because he had been unable to glimpse a red dress in the stands.
Toward the end of the fourth quarter, with the score still tied 14-14, Doug Gaskins skillfully manipulated his team down field to within field goal distance. Frank Davis, the field goal kicker, came in and booted the ball through the uprights from the forty-two-yard line. Two minutes later the game ended with Mekins the victor by three points. The stands went wild. So did the team. They hoisted Adam to their shoulders and carried him off the field. He felt guilty. He felt that he had betrayed them all.
That night, on his way home from Fairchild, after being forced to make a victory speech, which he felt was false and stupid, Adam bought a case of Scotch and carried it into his kitchen. He stood in the center of the floor and glared about him. By God, when she arrived he'd tell her a thing or two. She wasn't going to treat him like that. He was a football coach, and she'd better get used to the idea.
He built himself a drink and swallowed it. Who the hell did she think she was? Who did she think he was? He began pacing the floor.
Abruptly he stopped. Where the hell was she? It was after ten. She should have been able to get away before now. She had said tonight, hadn't she? Suddenly he tensed. What if she didn't come? God, he'd never be able to live the night through.
He plumped down into a chair and reached for the bottle. He tried to analyze himself, the situation. What had he allowed this woman to do to him? He thought about it, and always came up with the same answer. He was sick. She possessed him, body and soul. He was lost beyond recall. He had become a weak specimen of humanity. He had to admit it. Where, in . God's name, was it all going to end?
There came a light tapping at the door. Adam leaped to his feet and jerked it open. Anne stepped inside, "Darling! I thought Quimper would never go to sleep."
He seized her roughly by the shoulders.
"Where were you at the game? You said you'd be wearing a red dress. Damn it, we almost lost the game because of you."
"Oh, poo." She kissed him lightly. "I wasn't at the game, darling. Football bores me. It seems so childish and so brutal."
Adam wanted to choke her. But he didn't. Instead he pulled her to him and kissed her feverishly. "Oh, Anne, Anne! I die when you're not with me. I love you so."
"And I love you, Adam. Now let's not quarrel over a silly football game. We have many hours of happiness ahead of us." She pressed her body against his. "Tonight we're going to try out positions--. "
Adam scooped her up in his arms and carried her into the bedroom.
It was past midnight when Adam and Anne sat in the kitchen having their farewell drink. Adam looked across at his lover, his expression anxious. "Tonight, Anne?"
She smiled at him brightly. "Tomorrow night-if you write me a nice letter."
"Did you really like the first letter I wrote?"
"I loved it. It was even better than I expected. It excited me, aroused me. Didn't .I prove that while we were in bed?"
"You were wonderful!"
"I satisfy you then, give you fulfillment?"
"Satisfy me? Completely? No. I only want more of you. You'll never satisfy me."
She laughed, came around the table and sat on his lap. "That's the way I want it to be. Always."
"It will be."
"Promise?"
"I don't have to promise. I won't be able to help myself." He fondled her breasts. "I don't know what's happened to me. I've never met a girl like you. You've possessed me completely."
"And you don't like it?"
"I love it. It seems to me that I've been waiting for you all my life. Now that you're here, it seems like a dream."
"It's no dream, darling. I'm here, and I'll always be here. I've been waiting a long time myself. I knew I'd found my man when I first saw you at the faculty meeting." She stood up. "And now I must go. Nothing much can waken Quimper after she gets to sleep. She snores like a fog horn, but one night she might wake up when I come home so late and begin asking questions." Anne suddenly giggled. "I loved the way you called her about the tickets. Was that just so you could hear my voice?"
"Yes."
"Well, after I get your next letter, I'll call you, and Quimper won't be around. We won't have to pretend."
After Anne had gone, Adam poured himself a final drink. Sitting at the table, he thought, You're a shit. A poor, weak shit. A spineless bastard. She's a tramp, and you know it. She's destroying you, and she knows it. She's going to make you lose your job. Then what? She'll kick your ass out of her life.
And his last thought before dropping off to sleep was, I don't give a damn. She knows how to satisfy a man. I'll never let her go, Never.
On Wednesday of the following week, just as Adam was about to leave for Fairchild Hall at the dinner hour, his telephone rang. Eagerly he picked up the receiver. Anne had promised to call. "Hello."
"Hi, darling!"
Adam froze. His heart plummeted down into his boots. The voice was familiar. It was that of Betty Walker. Betty Walker, the girl to whom he was engaged to marry. Christ! He hadn't even thought about her since that first night with Anne. A sense of guilt and shame swept through him. With a great effort he brought enthusiasm into his voice. "Betty! Gosh, it's good to hear from you. How is everything?"
Betty's voice bubbled over the phone. "Darling, I have great news. Dad is driving to Sanborn ridge on business next Saturday. I'll ride as far as Mekins with him. He'll drop me off for the weekend. I'll be there in time for the game with Sydney Military. Can you find me a place to stay?"
Adam's mouth felt dry. His insides had turned to ice. "No problem," he managed. "It's the second home game of the season, and the town will be jumping. If I can't get you a room at the inn, I'll have one of the female teachers put you up."
"You sure I won't be too much trouble?"
"Of course not. No trouble at all."
Betty's voice was exuberant. "Oh, darling, that's wonderful! It will be so good seeing you again. I can hardly wait!"
"Only three days," Adam said. "Then I'll have you in my arms." It was what she expected him to say, and he said it. But to himself, he snarled, "You goddamn hypocrite."
"I love you, Adam Lombard," Betty whispered.
"And I love you, Betty Walker," Adam replied. He hung up and sank into a chair. God almighty, what was he going to do? What if he and Betty met Anne? What explanation could he offer? What would he say? Surely each girl would suspect the other.
Well, for now there was only one thing he could do. He picked up the phone and dialed the inn. Yes, they had one room left for the weekend. He told them to hold it for Miss Betty Walker. He'd stop by in the morning and pay the tab.
He hung up and sat thinking. Lordie, lordie, what a mess. Last night Anne had come to him again and had thrilled him anew with her sexual tricks. His second letter, she told him, had thrilled her even more than the first. She'd asked him to write another, and he'd promised to do so.
Well, he wouldn't write the letter. If he didn't, Anne wouldn't appear at his back door on Friday night. That way, he could get a good night's sleep. He needed it. He looked and felt like hell.
The thought of missing a single night with Anne depressed him. If he didn't write the letter what would she think? He had promised.
Would she think that he had tired of her, that he didn't want her to come? He swore aloud and got to his feet. Damn, damn, damn! She'd probably punish him by staying away a week. He'd go out of his mind if she did that.
He considered calling and trying to offer some excuse. The game. He needed a good night's sleep before the game. Balls! Football bored her. She couldn't understand that it was important to him; that his job might be at stake. He didn't call. He decided he had no alternative. He'd have to let things stand as they were.
CHAPTER FOUR
Adam had finished breakfast and was rinsing off the dishes when he heard a car stop out front. He went to the door and opened it. It was Betty and her father. At sight of him, Betty began running eagerly up the walk. Gray-haired, stocky, and dignified, Mr. Walker trailed along behind.
Betty flung herself into his arms. He held her close, kissing her with as much enthusiasm as he could, muster. Over her shoulder, Adam saw Mr. Walker waiting patiently, a half smile on his lips. He put Betty aside, and thrust out his hand. "How are you, sir? It's good to see you again."
The two men shook hands. "Hello, son. By the way, I watched last Saturday's game on television. Your boys did all right."
"We got the breaks," Adam said modestly. "Say, why don't you two come in for a minute? I'll put a pot of coffee on."
Walker glanced at his watch and shook his head. " 'Fraid not. I'm due in Sanbornville before noon, and I can just about make it." He gave Adam a look. "And I imagine you're due at the field about now."
"As a matter-of-fact, I am." Adam grinned, relieved because the elder Walker had given him the excuse he needed to get away from Betty. Adam and Betty walked her father back to the car and Adam retrieved Betty's overnight case from the rear seat. They waved Walker on his way, then, arm in arm, they returned to the cottage.
Once inside, Betty looked around and exclaimed in delight. "It's lovely, darling! So cozy and friendly." She went running from room to room. Adam, trailing along behind, heard her added exclamations. He met her as she returned from his bedroom.
"Everything's perfect except the bedroom," she said. "The bed looks as though you'd been having some horrible nightmares. I'll straighten it up for you."
"No!" Adam cried sharply.
Betty turned back, frowning slightly. "But, darling, the sheets are soiled and need changing, and one of the blankets is on the floor. I'll only be a minute."
"No," Adam repeated. "There's a housekeeper who comes in twice a week to straighten things up. Today's her day. She won't like it if I permit someone else to do her job for her."
Betty smiled and asked mischievously. "Is she young and pretty?"
"No. She's old and ugly."
They returned to the living room. Betty curled up on the sofa. "We've so much to talk about, darling. I hardly know where to begin."
Adam offered an apologetic look. "Betty, please try and understand. I was due at the field a half hour ago. Could we postpone our talk until after the game? I've made reservations for dinner at a nice little club called The Terrace. We'll both be relaxed then and can talk our heads off."
Betty smiled, got to her feet, came to him and kissed him. "Of course I understand, darling. It was thoughtless of me not to realize that this is the most important day of the week for you. Just drive me to wherever I'm to stay, and we'll meet after the game."
Adam looked at her tenderly. "I wish I could find something wrong with you. You're too perfect for a numbskull like me."
"I hope you'll always think of me as being perfect. It won't be hard to live up to with a husband I'll never consider to be a numbskull."
Fearful that Anne might be wandering around the campus, Adam took a roundabout route to the inn. The inn was a low, rambling building, vine-covered and with a wide porch. Betty's eyes shone. "Oh, Adam, it's lovely. Lovely and quaint and comfortable-looking. I'm going to enjoy staying here."
"I knew you'd like it."
Adam stayed with her while she registered, then carried her overnight case up to her room. They paused in the doorway before saying good-bye. Adam looked at her for a moment, and knew once more a sharp pain of guilt and shame. She was such a lovely person, pretty, wholesome-looking and-yes, she was extremely well built. He was a fool, a plain damn fool. He kissed her briefly, told her that he was looking forward to seeing her after the game and stalked away.
The first half of the game was a fiasco. Sydney scored two touchdowns in the first quarter and kicked a pair of field goals in the second. During the half, Adam faced his team in the locker room. He was livid. "What in hell is the matter with you guys? Didn't any of the things I taught you guys sink home?" .
A voice asked, "What were those things, coach?"
Adam whirled around. "Who said that?" No one answered. They looked at him steadily, innocently.
"Oh, so that's it. A wise-ass, eh? Well, let me tell you young punks something. Tomorrow night and every night next week, I want all of you guys out on the practice field. We'll see if we can knock some of the cockiness out of you. By next Saturday, if you live and I can make arrangements with some grammar school team, perhaps you'll be able to play football."
Adam turned and strolled to the door. With one hand on the knob he stopped. Inwardly he was hating himself, cursing himself for his unjustified outburst. His jaw tightened. With a great effort he swallowed his pride. Abruptly he swung around and strode back into the room. "Boys!"
They looked up at him, their expressions sullen, scornful.
Adam swallowed hard. "Boys, I want to apologize for that outburst. It was uncalled for. You're a good bunch of kids, and you're doing your best. If you aren't making points, it's my fault." He paused brushing his hand across his eyes. "I haven't been well ... damn headaches. Once more, I'm sorry. Forget everything I said, if you can. Now get out there and play football." f
He turned and stumbled away, but not before he saw that the boys were exchanging glances, smiling at each other. Had he won their respect back, or did they just think of him as a weakling? During the two weeks of pre-season practice, they had learned to like him, to respect him. He wished fervently that he could recapture that feeling of rapport.
Standing on the fifty-yard line, his arms folded, staring out at the field that was already swarming with players and officials, Adam remarked, "They're a good bunch of kids, young, impressionistic, looking to me for leadership, wanting my approval for anything they do, ready to take my advice and orders without question."
Momentarily, a lump rose in Adam's throat. He swallowed and looked up at the stands. Betty was somewhere in that sea of faces. She was sitting, he knew, on the forty-yard line in the third row, and he knew also that she would have been rooting louder than anyone for the Mekins players during that disastrous first half.
He wished he could pick her out of the crowd, but the distance was too great. Still, when a girl rose, looked toward the bench and waved wildly, Adam waved in reply. Then he thought to himself, "How ridiculous! Betty would be sitting on the Mekins side of the field, not the visitors." He was about to turn and look behind him when he felt someone at his elbow. He swiveled his head around. It was Doug Gaskins, grinning broadly.
The quarterback said, "Thanks, coach."
A warmth of feeling ran through Adam. Could he have recaptured Doug's respect because of that one brief speech of apology. Again the lump rose in Adam's throat. He nodded and squeezed Doug's arm without speaking.
A moment later the opening whistle sounded and Sydney kicked off. Eleven players in red jerseys came charging down the field with all the confidence of a team that knew they had the game on ice.
But the confidence was short-lived. Colin Johnson, the Mekins fullback, caught the ball on the twenty-yard line, tucked it under his left arm, ducked his head and, following four determined blockers, went plunging down the field. Three Sydney tacklers got their hands on him, but he shook them off, hurtled a fourth red jersey and went plunging straight for the Sydney goal line. There was only one man in his path, the Sydney kicker. But the kicker wasn't used to such a responsibility, nor was he very fast on his feet. He'd done his job by getting off a beautiful punt. Still, he did his level best. He threw himself at the charging white shirt, missed him entirely. Johnson went over the Sydney goal line standing up.
Mekins converted and the score stood at 20 to 7 in Sydney's favor. The Mekins' stands went wild. Adam, who had leaped to his feet, let the tension go out of him. He unclenched his fists, and swore softly. "We're going to win!" he thought. "We can't help but win-with that show of spirit."
Two plays after Mekins' kickoff, Sydney fumbled the ball. A Mekins' player scooped it up and fought his way. to the ten-yard line. On the very first play, Doug Gaskins. backed up for a pass, waited for Ivan Forbes, one of his tight ends to get into position behind the Sydney goal line, then casually threaded the needle for a completed pass and a second touchdown. After the conversion, the score stood at 20 to 14.
Shortly after the beginning of the fourth quarter, Doug Gaskins called for time, and trotted over to the Mekins' bench. "Coach," he said, his expression anxious, "I can set the team up for an easy field goal. Then-"
"No!" Adam interrupted grimly. "Two field goals would only tie the game. Doug, this is one we want to win. Go for the touchdown. Keep the ball on the ground."
Doug's face broke into a grin. "That's what I hoped you'd say. Don't worry, we'll do it."
And they did. Doug went back into the huddle and barked out his signals. Two plays later, employing a double handoff, Doug sent Dana Gleason scampering around left end for Mekin's third touchdown. Adam heaved a great sigh and nodded to Jason Flagg. Jason did most of the kicking for the Mekins' team. He was good, but today he was nervous. He realized that the outcome of the game more than--likely rested on his young shoulders. Trying desperately not to show his feelings, he ran out onto the field and lined himself behind his fellow players. He knew the Sydney players would make a determined attempt to block his kick, which only added to his nervousness. If he missed, the score would be tied, and would probably remain that way until the end of the game.
Jason got himself into position, nodded to Doug Gaskins who would hold the ball for him. He watched Doug's hands open, saw the ball come shooting back. Even before Doug caught it deftly, Jason was on his way. His shoe met the pigskin squarely, and he thought he had it made. But he hadn't. The ball floated and then, as though caught by an invisible force, veered off to the left. The referee gave the no-good signal.
The Mekins' stands groaned and Jason trotted shamefacedly back to the bench. He avoided looking at Adam, but Adam, smiling, walked over to him. "Look, kid, you can't win them all. No one expects you to. The game's not over. We'll take 'em yet."
Jason nodded gratefully, but there were tears in his eyes.
The score was 20 to 20 and, despite Doug's best efforts, the game ended in a tie.
Betty met Adam at the main gate. At sight of him she rushed into his arms and kissed him. "Darling, your boys played wonderfully. I'm proud of you."
He smiled at her ruefully. "As MacArthur said, 'There's no substitute for victory.'"
"And as Grantland Rice said, 'It isn't whether you win or lose, but how you play the game.'"
Which was true, except for one thing: The record books only recorded final scores; they never mentioned how well a team had played.
Adam drove Betty to the inn and left her. "I'll pick you up in about an hour. We'll drive out to The Terrace where we can be alone and talk. I think you'll like the place."
"I'll like any place if I'm with you," Betty told him.
They kissed, and Adam drove back to his cottage, congratulating himself on having aroused no suspicion in Betty whatever. But he dreaded the evening that lay ahead.
The Terrace was a low, rambling building, perched on a cliff overlooking a small body of water named Lake Nipmuc. Adam and Betty sat at a candlelit table, close to an open fireplace in which logs crackled and snapped and sent cheerful flames leaping up the chimney.
Betty looked around, her eyes shining. "I love it, darling. It's divine, romantic. It's the sort of place a girl--likes to be taken by the man she loves."
Adam felt a rush of guilt, but he managed a smile. "I thought you'd like it."
"It was sweet and considerate of you to choose such a lovely setting." She reached across the table, took his hand in hers and squeezed it. "And now we have so much to talk about. I've been so busy thinking about and planning the wedding." She went on, chattering away as only a happy and prospective bride can do. "I've settled on our silver pattern at last. Mother helped me, of course, but then they-Dad and Mother-are giving us a complete service as a wedding present." She gave a little laugh. "I don't dare tell you what it's costing them. Oh, I do hope you'll like the pattern."
"I will," murmured Adam, feeling more and more that he was wallowing in a quagmire from which there was no escape.
"And then there was the matter of linens. Uncle Roger and Aunt Emily insisted on making them their responsibility. Aunt Em only asked about the monograms on the towels." She stopped talking and looked across at Adam, frowning a little. "Adam, I don't believe you've heard a word I've said." She laughed. "I don't suppose I can blame you. Such things don't interest a man, but they're important to a bride."
Adam roused himself. Guiltily, he had been thinking of Anne, at how she intended to arouse him the next time they were in bed together.
"I'm sorry, darling. Of course I've been listening. I think that your folks and your uncle and aunt are most generous."
"I'm glad. Now there's the matter of the wedding invitations. Have you made up the list of whom you wanted invited?"
"My mother promised to make up the list."
"Oh, that's wonderful! I'll contact her the minute I get back to Grafton. Now, Adam, this is important. I know that you wanted a simple wedding, but Mother has convinced me that a church wedding with a reception at our home afterward is something that we'll always cherish. Would you mind so much?"
"Not at all. I think a church wedding would be fine."
"Oh, I'm glad." Suddenly Betty was looking at him again, the same little frown furrowing her brow. "Adam, is anything wrong? You haven't acted normal since the moment I arrived."
"I'm sorry." Adam brushed a hand across his eyes. "It's these damned headaches. I can't imagine what brings them on, but lately they've been giving me a lot of trouble."
"Oh, you poor boy. I didn't know. Have you been to a doctor? Is it worry about the team?"
"Partly, I guess. They're not doing as well as I hoped. It's my responsibility. I've been blaming myself."
"There's no need. I thought the team performed beautifully, especially in the last half."
He considered telling her about his little speech in the locker room, but decided against it. It would only conjure up doubts in her mind. She'd ply him with questions until he told her the whole story.
"I'll be all right," he told her confidently. "They pass as quickly as they come. Tomorrow
I'll check with Doc Bryant."
"Promise."
"I promise."
Betty smiled. "I think if we have something to eat, it will do us both some good. Then I want you to go home and get some sleep. We can have breakfast together, can't we? Dad is picking me up about noon."
"Of course." A surge of relief swept through Adam. The headache gag, he decided, was paying off in quarters least expected.
They ordered and ate and drank wine. Then Betty insisted that Adam take her back to the inn and return to his own cottage and go to bed.
Adam made a token resistance. "I'm spoiling your evening. I hadn't planned it to end like this."
"You're not spoiling it. It's been a lovely evening, one that I'll long remember."
"You're sure."
"I'm positive."
"You're very kind and considerate, Betty."
"That's because I love you, darling. It's easy and gratifying to be considerate of the man you love."
Back at the inn, they momentarily clung to each other.
"Tell me you love me, Adam."
"I do love you, Betty. So very much."
"That's all I wanted to hear." She kissed him. "Until tomorrow then."
For a moment he was reluctant to let her go. Then, feeling like the worst sort of hypocrite, he climbed into his car and drove back to his cottage.
It was only eleven o'clock when Adam entered the cottage. He didn't switch on the living room lights, but felt his way toward the kitchen, thinking only of mixing himself a quick drink. He felt for and found the kitchen switch and snapped on the lights. He took one step forward and stopped dead. Anne was seated at the kitchen table. She was wearing only the skimpiest of dresses. Her thighs were revealed almost up to her crotch. Her breasts were barely covered.
Adam's heart began to thump. "Anne!"
"Yeah. Anne." She got up, came and stood directly in front of him. Her eyes were bleak, her lips drawn into a thin straight line.
"Who was she?"
Confused, Adam blubbered. "Who was who."
"That bitch you were mooning over at The Terrace."
"Oh, her."
"Yes, her."
Adam tried to get control of his senses. "She's a girl from my home town. We grew up together. She came down for the game."
Anne's voice was taunting. "Just a girl from your home town. A pal. Tell me, Adam, did you fuck her?"
Adam's insides boiled over. Momentarily, some of his dignity returned. "That's none of your damned business."
"I see." Anne's lips tightened even more. "I see," she said coldly. She turned away. "Good night, Adam."
She had reached the door, had her hand on the knob, when Adam cried, "Anne! Please don't go."
Anne paused with her back still toward him. "Well."
"I didn't."
"Didn't what?"
Adam swallowed. His Adam's apple bobbed. "I didn't fuck her."
CHAPTER FIVE
Anne turned, came back and stood in front of him. Her expression had softened somewhat, but there was still a hard look in her eyes. "Did you ever fuck her?" she asked.
"No."
"Did you ever try?" Adam hesitated. "Tell me," she hissed.
"I-I suggested once that I'd like to take her to bed."
"And what did she say to that?"
"She said that she thought it best to save our sex life until after we're married."
Anne laughed gratingly. "Oh, what fools some women are." She regarded him for a moment in silence. "What's this virgin's name."
"Does it matter?"
"Yes, it matters. What's her name?"
"Betty Walker, and she's one of the nicest persons I've ever known."
"You won't know how nice she is until you've screwed her a couple of times. Men never know." Another pause. "And you're planning on marrying her?"
"We're supposed to be engaged."
"I didn't ask you that. Are you planning on marrying her?"
"Anne, for God's sake! Haven't I told you enough?"
"No." She turned, walked over to the table and sat down. "Why don't you mix us a drink, darling?"
"Of course." Glad of the respite, however brief, Adam crossed to the sink and took down a bottle of Scotch from the cupboard above it. He opened the refrigerator door, pulled out a tray of ice cubes, and returned to the sink. He upended the tray and let water run on it until the cubes began to drop out.
Anne said, "Don't stall, Adam. This is something you'll have to face sooner or later, and it might as well be now."
When Adam turned away from the sink with the two drinks in his hand, he saw that she had loosened two more buttons of her blouse. All but the nipples of her breasts were revealed.
Adam began to feel a stirring in the region of his crotch. He sat down quickly before Anne could see what was happening to him.
Anne giggled. "Too late, Adam. I saw." She suddenly smiled warmly. "I'm only glad that I can arouse you so easily." She picked up her glass. "Drink up, darling. This is going to be a night you'll long remember."
Adam took a long swallow and set down his glass. "Anne, do we have to talk anymore?"
"What would you rather do?"
"You know what I'd rather do."
"Say it. I want to hear you say it."
"I want to fuck you."
Anne smiled, leaned across the table and kissed him. "You're sweet." She settled back in her chair. "You'll have all the fucking you can handle before the night's over. Right now there are a few things that have to be settled."
Adam waited, knowing what was coming. His eyes held a tortured look.
Anne said, "Would you like to have me answer the question for you?"
"What question?"
"Oh, shit! You know what question. Are you planning on marrying this Betty person?" Adam opened his mouth, but Anne went on, "Never mind. I'll answer it for you. You're not going to marry Betty Walker, and I'll tell you why. You're going to marry me."
Adam took another drink. His insides were turning over and over. He avoided her eyes.
"Look at me," Anne demanded. Adam looked at her, his expression haunted. "Get that dumb stupid look out of your eyes. Tell me you love me."
Adam licked his lips. God in heaven, he did love her. He wanted her, needed her. She owned his body and his soul. "I do love you, Anne. I never knew it could be possible for a man to love a woman so much."
"More than you loved Betty Walker?"
He nodded.
"Say it."
"I love you more than I ever loved Betty Walker."
Smiling triumphantly, Anne came around the table and sat in his lap. He fondled her while they kissed long and passionately. At last she pulled away. She picked up his glass and handed it to him. "Keep your hand occupied with that for a few minutes longer, darling. It will only take a minute or two to make my little speech. Then-" She broke off, laughing meaningfully.
Anne reached over, picked up her own glass and swallowed half its contents. "Adam, I'm not the tramp you must think me to be."
"I never-"
"Hush." She kissed him lightly. "Let me finish. I've slept with a number of men, darling. Quite a few in fact. But I've never slept with the same one twice."
"Oh?"
"You were the first, dearest. Shall I tell you why?"
Adam nodded. He had begun to tremble. Unreasonably, a fiery wave of jealousy was sweeping through. The mere thought of her offering her body to another man made him almost physically ill.
"Please try and understand, darling. I'm actually quite a practical person. Some time ago I realized that it would be foolish to marry a man with, whom I wasn't sexually compatible. Sexually incompatible marriages don't last long. Well, I found my man, and I was determined to satisfy him sexually and be as exciting when satisfying him as I possibly could."
"Am I the man?" Adam asked hoarsely.
She kissed him. "You know you are, darling. You gave me complete fulfillment, as I gave it to you."
"And there'll never be another man in your life."
"Never. I promise."
Adam tossed off the rest of his drink. He stood up, holding her in his arms. "I think, young lady, that we have a good deal to prove to each other on this night of nights."
She giggled and buried her face in his neck. She loosened the remaining buttons on her blouse. "Take me to bed, my handsome lover, and I'll give you all the proof that you want. Or do you want me to prove it here?"
On impulse, Adam said, "Here." He sat back down in his chair.
Smiling, her eyes partially glazed, Anne arranged herself in the proper position.
Every member of the faculty at Mekins Academy was assigned a small group of students for whom they acted as advisors. Their duties consisted largely of admonishing them to write home, discussing their grades, and finding answers to any problems that might arise.
On this morning Adam found a student, a member of the junior class waiting outside his office door. Adam recognized him at once. His name was Lafe Bryant, and he was the most disliked boy at the academy. Overly big for his age, he was a bully and an all-around stinker. He participated in none of the school's sports and few of the social functions. His parents were fabulously wealthy. They indulged their son, an only child, to an extreme, providing him with an expensive sports car and an allowance that was altogether too large for the boy's good.
Adam tried and succeeded in forcing a thin smile. "Hello, Lafe. Something on your mind?"
"Yeah. I want to talk to you."
"Okay. But when you talk, remember to put a 'sir' on your statements."
"Yes, sir."
"And don't make a fool of yourself by overdoing it."
The boy grinned and remained silent. Adam unlocked his office and led the way inside. He nodded to a chair on the opposite of his desk and sat down, brushing aside a stack of mail.
"Okay. What's the problem?"
"Sir, I'm in a jam."
"What kind of a jam?"
"I've got a chick knocked up."
Adam controlled himself with an effort. "A town girl, I assume."
"Sir, that's a rather silly statement, isn't it? This isn't a coed school, so it would have to be a town girl. Unless," the boy added with a smirk, "you suspect me of screwing some of the female members of the faculty."
Adam's hand banged down on the desk. "That'll be enough of that kind of talk, young man. Try to not be such a smart ass. You're not talking to one of your cronies who hang around simply because you have a larger allowance than they."
"Sorry, sir. I guess that was uncalled for."
"Okay. Now what makes you so sure you're the father of the child?"
"Because I'm the only one who's been screwing her."
"You're sure of that?"
"Sure I'm sure. That chick wouldn't even look at another guy."
"You sound pretty confident. How many times have you--er--had intercourse with her?"
"Oh, we ball every chance we get. I've banged her maybe fifty times."
"And you took no precautions?"
"She ran out of pills, but she wanted it just the same. So I gave it to her."
"You couldn't restrain yourself?"
"Sir, put yourself in my place. Suppose you were banging a broad regularly-and I'm sure you have, being a grown man-no offense meant-and you were in the hay with her and she was throwing it up at you, would you have restrained yourself?"
Momentarily, Adam evaded the boy's bold stare. The kid was hitting close to home and it gave him a sinking sensation. "Never mind what I would have done. The fact remains that you have a town girl in trouble. Okay, what's her name?"
Lafe gave Adam an oblique look. "Nancy Poole."
"Who?" Adam came forward in his chair, a shocked look on his face. Nancy Poole was the daughter of Robert Poole and Robert Poole was the most important man in town. He was president of the bank, senior member of the city council, active in all social and business organizations. But most important, he was chairman of the board of directors of Mekins Academy, had personally donated funds for the construction of a new gymnasium.
"You fool!" Adam barked. "You utter damn fool!"
"That does make it a bit sticky, doesn't it, sir?" Lafe commented on the circumstances.
"It sure as hell does. Where's Nancy now?"
"She's in the hospital."
"Is she having an abortion?"
"No, sir. I hope she's having a miscarriage. She was unconscious when I brought her in."
"When you brought her in. What happened to her?"
"Well, sir, I beat her up."
"You what?"
"It's like this, sir. I'd been told that if a girl were only a month or two along, she'd come around if she were in an accident, or if she were beaten up. So I beat her up, and then drove her to the hospital. I told the doc I'd found her lying along side the road in that condition."
"And what weapon did you use to perform this heroic deed."
"A baseball bat."
The boy's voice was flat, matter-of-fact, entirely devoid of any remorse.
Adam's senses swam. A feeling of nearly uncontrollable fury raced through his body. He half rose from his chair. "You unspeakable little bastard, I'll-"
"Easy, coach." There was stark fear in the boy's eyes, but he held his ground. "You know what will happen to you if you lay a hand on me."
Adam knew. There was a state law. If a teacher struck a student, no matter the provocation, not only would he lose his job, but his credentials would be revoked.
For a moment Adam remained in his crouched position, his eyes blazing. Gradually he got control of himself and sank back into his chair.
"Bryant, you're worthless scum. And a fool. What do you think is going to happen when Nancy returns to consciousness? She'll tell them what you did to her."
The boy shook his head. "No she won't. She was at home alone looking at television. I was wearing a mask. I came up behind her. She never knew what or who hit her. I carried her out to the road, planning to leave her there."
"But you didn't."
"No. She seemed pretty badly bruised, so I brought her to the hospital. I wasn't lying when I told them I'd found her lying beside the road."
"Big deal. You're a hero. What if she doesn't return to consciousness? What if she dies?"
Bryant smirked. "That's where you come in, sir."
"Me?"
"Well, if I had to have an excuse for that night, I thought I'd say I was at your cottage. I'd gone there to ask for help in my homework. All you'd have to do is say that I was there-unless, of course, you had company."
Adam's insides went cold. So that was it.
The little sonofabitch knew about Anne. He'd probably followed her to his cottage. Or, more--likely, he'd come to the cottage after delivering Nancy to the hospital. He'd heard voices and listened, drawing his own conclusions.
Slowly, deliberately, Adam got out of his chair and stepped around the desk. He reached out, seized a handful of the boy's shirtfront and jerked him to his feet. Bryant cringed, his eyes terror stricken.
"You'd better not hit me, coach. Remember the law."
"To hell with the law, you miserable little prick. This is going to be worth it."
Adam struck the boy stingingly across the mouth with his open palm. Blood appeared. Bryant cringed. Tears filled his eyes.
"Don't hit me again. Please! I won't tell."
"Tell what, you cowardly little bastard? Stand up and take it like a man. I'm not wearing a mask and I'm not carrying a club."
With his free hand, Adam drove his fist into the boy's stomach. Bryant's breath went out of him with a swishing sound. He doubled up. Adam let go his shirt front and delivered a hard right to the kid's jaw. Bryant let out a bleat and dropped to the floor.
Adam came and stood over him. "Get your breath back, sonny. I'm not through with you yet."
The boy looked up at his tormentor, his eyes stricken with fear.
"Don't, coach. Please! You can't hit a man when he's down."
"A man, no. You're not a man. You're a stinking louse. However, I'll put my instincts aside for the moment and obey the rules."
He reached down and jerked the cowering boy to his feet. Slamming him up against the wall, holding him there with his left hand, Adam proceeded to pummel the boy's face. He let loose with all the pent-up fury that was raging within him. Blood spurted from the youth's nose. One eyes swelled shut. An ear rang from a blow to the side of the head.
Satisfied at last, Adam released his grip. Bryant sank to the floor, unconscious. Adam stood looking down at him for a moment, rubbing his knuckles. He hadn't meant to kill the kid. Or had he? The little bastard deserved no better fate? After a while, Adam crossed to the water cooler, filled a cup and returned to pour its contents onto the boy's face. The youth sputtered and opened his eyes. Adam dragged him to his feet.
"Get out of here, you little punk prick. Run to Dean Hodgkiss and tell him what happened to you and who did it. Then tell him why I did it. If you don't, I will. And if Nancy Poole dies, I'll see to it that you spend the rest of your days in a jail cell."
Adam loosened his grip and Bryant fell to his knees. Whimpering, Bryant crawled to the door, reached up, took hold of the knob and pulled himself erect. He looked back at Adam.
"My father will take care of you. He's rich and he's powerful. It'll be you who'll spend some time in a jail cell."
Adam took a threatening step forward. "Get out, you miserable little bastard, or I'll work you over again. And this time I won't be so easy on you."
Bryant fled.
CHAPTER SIX
For a long time Adam sat at his desk, thinking. The feeling of rage still raced through him. He didn't for a moment regret working the kid over. He'd been so cocky, so sure of himself. It almost seemed that he'd been bragging, boasting about how cleverly he'd acted. The whole episode was so bizarre as be unreal. Yet Adam knew that it was real. The brazen little bastard had been telling the truth.
Gradually Adam's thinking straightened itself out. He frowned. There had been a discrepancy in the kid's story. In a moment he realized what it was. Bryant had wanted him, Adam, to be his alibi. He wanted Adam to state that he'd been in the coach's cottage that night, in case Nancy died.
But why? Bryant had stated that he'd carried Nancy's unconscious body to the hospital himself, so the doctors knew that he was aware of the "accident." Well, the answer to that wasn't difficult to figure out. Bryant had a cunning mind. If he were questioned, he'd simply say that he'd been with Adam and found the girl's broken body after he'd left the cottage.
Thoughtfully, Adam pulled his telephone in close and dialed the hospital.
"Mekins Hospital," a crisp female voice answered.
"I'd like to inquire about the condition of Miss Nancy Poole."
"Who's calling, please?"
"This is Coach Lombard at the academy."
"Oh, yes, coach. Miss Poole is doing as well as can be expected."
The standard answer. "How well is that?" Adam snapped. "I want to know her exact condition."
There was a pause. "Just a moment, please." Another pause. Longer. Then a click. A man's voice came over the wire. "This is Doctor Dana Gleason, coach." The medical man cleared his throat. "I was wondering how you knew that Miss Poole was here. We've notified no one, as yet. Her parents aren't home."
"Lafe Bryant, the boy who brought her in, told me. I'm his counselor here at the academy. He was pretty well shook up. He wanted to get it off his chest."
"I see. Did he also tell you that Miss Poole was pregnant?"
Adam hesitated. "How would he know a thing like that?"
"Well, she was having a miscarriage when he brought her in. Of course, I realize that the boy is young. Still, many young people do know about such things these days."
"What is Miss Poole's condition at present, Doctor?"
"She's still unconscious. I'm doubtful about her recovery. She was pretty badly beaten, you know."
"Beaten? Young Bryant seemed to think she'd been struck by a car."
"Oh, no. She was beaten. With a club."
Adam's mouth felt dry. "You're sure?"
"Oh, yes, we're sure."
"Have you notified the police?"
"Of course. They've already begun their investigation."
"Well, thank you, Doctor." Adam hung up and pushed the telephone away from him. He sighed deeply. Well, that was that. The first person the police would question would be young Bryant. They'd see that some one had worked him over. They'd ask him about it, and he'd have to tell them.
Adam sighed again. Well, there went his job and probably his future as a coach. And just when he'd won the solid respect of the team. He got up and paced the office. Maybe the kid wouldn't tell. Maybe he'd feel that Adam would blow the whistle on him. Adam suddenly found himself in a quandary. If he didn't blow the whistle on Bryant, and if the police found out that the kid was the culprit, Adam would be charged with being an accomplice. He swore out loud. Damnation! Doctor Gleason already knew that the kid had paid him a visit. He should call the police right now. Adam reached for the phone, but before he could pick it up, it rang.
It was Anne. She was excited, agitated. "Adam! I'm in a phone booth downtown. Something terrible has happened!"
With a growing sense of apprehension, Adam waited. "Adam?"
"Yes, darling, I'm here. What terrible thing has happened?"
"One of my letters-those you wrote me-is missing."
Adam's spirits sank. "You're sure? Couldn't you have misplaced it?"
"No. I know exactly how many there were. I kept them tied with a ribbon hidden beneath some lingerie in the bottom drawer of my bureau."
Adam smiled wryly to himself. It was the first piece of evidence that he had that Anne ever wore any undergarments.
Anne rushed on, "I know exactly how many--many there were. I count them every night, just to make sure. Adam, I know who stole the letter."
"Who?"
"That snoopy old Olive Quimper."
"Oh, Anne, I don't think that sweet old lady would stoop to such a thing."
"Sweet old lady, my ass. You should hear the way she talks to me sometimes. You wouldn't believe the language. She took it, all right. She's probably gloating over it right now, getting her jollies."
Try as he would, he could not picture the sweet old spinster poking through Anne's drawers, looking for something she didn't know existed.
"Couldn't it have been the housekeeper, Anne? Housekeepers feel they have a right to poke."
"No! I know it was Quimper."
Adam sucked in his breath. The sound of Anne's voice was causing a warmth to steal through his body. "Well, let's not talk about it anymore over the phone. Can you come over tonight? We'll discuss it then."
"Do you want me to come over?"
"You know I do."
"Why?"
"You know that too."
"Say it." Her voice had become low and sultry.
Adam put his mouth close to the transmitter. "I want to fuck you."
She laughed softly. "And I want you to fuck me, darling. Just talking to you makes me horny as hell. Do you love me?"
"Yes."
"Say it."
"I love you, Anne darling. Please come early. We have a lot to talk about-and to do."
Betty Walker couldn't sleep the night she got home from her weekend at Mekin. She rolled and tossed, lay still with her eyes tightly closed while she counted sheep. But sleep wouldn't come, and at last she gave in to the thoughts that had been nagging at her mind ever since she'd kissed Adam goodbye.
It had been a brief kiss, delivered in the living room of his cottage while her father waited patiently in his car outside. Adam had walked her to the car, shaken hands again with her father, kissed her briefly on the cheek, and stood back, waving them off.
On the drive back home, her father had given her one quick glance. "Lovers' quarrel?"
"Of course not." She laughed, but the laugh was a bit strained.
"What then?"
"Adam is worried because Mekins didn't win," she said to disguise her real reason.
"Mekins didn't lose either."
"Adam is stuck with that silly MacArthur theory, 'There's no substitute for victory.'"
"Well, there's the Grantland Rice philosophy, 'It's not whether you win or lose, but-' "
"I know. I know. I reminded him of that, but I'm afraid it didn't prove very comforting."
"Well, a good coach has got to learn how to take his losses with his wins."
There were some things Anne couldn't talk over with her father, so Anne changed the subject. During the rest of the drive she chattered gaily about the inn. The wonderful dinner they had enjoyed at The Terrace, about the lake and how much she liked those friends of Adam she had met.
Now she lay on her back, staring wide-eyed but unseeing at the ceiling. Now she allowed the thoughts that had been nagging at the back of her mind all day to ease themselves into her consciousness. Something was wrong. There had been something lacking in the brief times she had been alone with Adam. She hadn't any idea what it was, but she had sensed it, felt it.
She frowned. What in the world could it have been? It was an intangible something on which she couldn't put her finger. Adam had said the right words; when they were alone, he had told her that he loved her and had kissed her fervently with genuine feeling.
Betty's frown deepened. Fervently? As on many previous occasions, he had tried to pry her teeth open with his tongue and, as always, she had refused to allow him to do so. Was that what was bothering him? Bosh! She thought, they had an understanding about sex. They had agreed that sex would be more exciting and beautiful once they were married.
For a moment longer she let her mind dwell on the matter of sex. Several times Adam had put his hand on her breasts, and for the moment, before gently taking it away, she had let it remain there. The contact thrilled her more than she cared to admit. In those moments she guessed that she had wanted him as much as she imagined he wanted her.
Once, after she had taken his hand away, she had said, "Darling, do you think I'm an old stick-in-the-mud ? "
"Of course not. Once we're married, I'll be glad you didn't give in to my desires."
She hugged and kissed him. "Once we're married, it's going to be a wonderful joy giving in to your desires." And she had added with a tender smile, "It's going to work both ways, dear. I have desires too, you know. You're going to be surprised."
Well, if it wasn't sex, Betty thought now, what was it? There was something. Those headaches he had been complaining about. She had known Adam all her life, and he'd never once complained about a headache.
She thought of the rumpled bed, of his reluctance to let her straighten it up. A sudden chill took hold of her as the thought passed through her mind that there might be another woman. A sense of guilt drove the thought away. Not Adam! Not the honest upright Adam that she knew and loved.
The next day Betty tried and succeeded in being her usual cheerful anxious self. It was Mrs. Walker's bridge day, and after the older woman had gone, Betty dialed Laura Shelton's number. Laura was her closest girl friend. She was engaged to Paul Thornton, a dentist. She and Paul were to be married next month. Betty would be the maid of honor. The four of them, Laura and Paul, Betty and Adam, had grown up together.
Laura herself answered.
"Hi."
"Betty! So how was the weekend?"
"Glorious. Look, you're alone, aren't you?"
"Mom's joining your mother at the bridge club. Come on over. We'll talk about men. Two in particular."
"Be there in half an hour. Something important I want to discuss."
"Right. See you."
Laura was petite, with chestnut brown hair, ample breasts and good-looking legs. Paul had once described her as the sexiest-looking broad he'd ever met which, he always added with a grin, was the only reason he was marrying her.
The two girls greeted each other affectionately and went into the living room. Laura sat on the sofa and Betty in a chair nearby. Laura took one close look at her friend and stopped smiling, as she asked, "So what happened up at Mekins? Adam ask for his ring back?"
Betty shook her head. "No. But something happened. I wish I knew what it was. That's what I want to talk about. Adam acted-well, he acted almost indifferent."
"I know. He tried to screw you and you wouldn't let him."
Betty took no offense at her friend's remark. Laura was outspoken and outgoing. Betty was used to it. They had often discussed sex freely and with no holds barred.
"Laura, be serious. Adam was somehow withdrawn. I got the distinct impression that he was relieved to see me go."
"I am being serious, darling. Haven't you ever gone to bed with Adam?"
Betty blushed. "No. You know I haven't."
"I've always been hopeful that you'd tell me you had."
"Why?"
"It isn't right for two people to marry without first finding out if they're sexually compatible," Laura offered as her opinion.
"You've said that before, and I still don't get it. I can't think of anything more exciting and beautiful than the first night in bed with the man you love, on your honeymoon."
"Great. But what if you find out that you don't dig each other with the sex bit. What if he's hot and you're cold or vice versa? Then it's too late. You're stuck with each other. I suppose you believe that Adam's never screwed another girl."
"I like to think that he hasn't."
"Darling, how naive can you be. Show me a guy who hasn't banged a broad or two before he falls in love, and I'll show you a freak, a man who isn't worth having." Laura crossed her shapely legs. Her short skirt rode halfway up her thighs. "Suppose-just suppose-that Adam's found a girl up there in Mekins that he's screwing. They both like it. Where would you get off?"
Betty gave a little shudder. Involuntarily, she thought of Adam's rumpled bed. She said, "Have you and Paul ... ? " She left the sentence unfinished.
"Has Paul ever screwed me?" Laura laughed. "Dozens of times." She patted the sofa. "He's going to give me a quickie right here this afternoon on his way home from the office. I can hardly wait. He get what he wants. I'm not taking any chance of losing that big hunk of handsome man."
Betty found that she had begun to breathe hard. "I had no idea . ... "
"You never asked. You've been spending your time trying to be so goddamn pure. Darling, you're missing one of the biggest thrills of life: Satisfying your man and letting him satisfy you."
"Do you really believe that Adam wants to-wants to screw me?"
"Well, if he doesn't, he's a fool. You're really built for a good stiff cock. By, the way, what color panties are you wearing? Pink, I'll bet."
Betty nodded. Her thoughts were racing. Laura flicked up her skirt, revealing the skimpiest, sheerest pair of black panties that Betty had ever seen.
"See these? Black. Men like black underclothes on a girl. Panties, slips, bras." Laura laughed again. "Whenever Paul lets me wear a bra." She flicked her skirt back down. "Get with it, Betty. Screwing the man you love doesn't mean that you're going to be cast into hell. Go back up there to Mekins, crawl into bed with the guy, give him what he wants and make him beg for more. That way, you'll both know what you're getting into."
"Oh, Laura, do you think I should?"
"I know you should. It's the only way. And don't act as though you're making the great sacrifice. Be as aggressive as he is. Use the right words. The four-letter words."
"I-I don't know the four-letter words-all of them," Betty confessed in embarrassment.
"Then I'm going to tell you what they are right now and what they mean."
Laura talked and Betty listened, absorbing every word. Her breathing was ragged. Her body felt warm all over. There was a moistness in her crotch.
The front doorbell rang. Laura leaped to her feet. "That's Paul!" She ran into the hall.
When Betty passed them on her way out, they were locked in each other's arms, their bodies pressed close together, hips grinding, mouths working against each other. At the door, Betty glanced back. Paul had freed a hand and was fondling one of Laura's breasts.
Betty went out quietly. She ran to her car and got in behind the wheel. She was still breathing hard. She had never felt so excited or sexually aroused-not even when Adam had made violent love to her. That, she knew now, was because she had steeled herself against arousal. She'd been a fool. For a moment she sat still, gripping the wheel, trying to control her emotions. But she found it almost impossible to do so, because her mind was filled with a vivid picture of what was right now happening on the sofa in Laura's living room.
Betty didn't go home at once. Instead, she drove to the town's garment district and entered a lingerie ship.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Naked, satisfied, fulfilled, Anne and Adam sat in the kitchen sipping their drinks. It was only ten-thirty and they had agreed to climb back into bed again for more lovemaking before Anne went home. Right now they had some talking to do.
"I still can't believe that sweet old lady would steal the letter," Adam said.
"I've told you and told you she's not a sweet old lady." Anne's eyes were blazing. "You should hear the way she talks to me."
"Like how?"
"More than once she's told me to go fuck myself."
"You're kidding."
"No, I'm not kidding. I think she--likes the sound of the word. She gets a kick out of using it. And she's always asking me if the boys I go out with try to screw me."
"And what do you say?"
"I tell her it's none of her goddamn business."
"Good."
"My answer is always an excuse for her to go into her room and lock the door. I think she plays with herself."
Adam's eyebrows shot up. "You mean she-isn't she too old to masturbate?"
Anne giggled. "Nobody's too old to masturbate, darling. I'll prove it to you when we grow old together." She giggled again. "Once I sneaked up to her door and put my ear against the panel. You never heard such moaning and groaning and thrashing around on her bed. Oh, yes, she plays with herself, all right."
Adam was beginning to feel horny and decided to change the subject.
"You really don't have any proof that she stole the letter."
"I don't need proof. I know she did and I can tell you how I know."
"Tell me."
"I keep the letters in my bottom bureau drawer underneath my underwear. They're all black frilly things, panties, slips, bras. They're very skimpy and-"
Adam interrupted. "Why haven't I seen you wearing those things?"
Anne smiled, came around the table and sat in his lap. "Don't you like my naked body?"
"Of course I like your naked body. I love it, but sometimes a man--likes to see his girl in under things so he can use his imagination, then take them off."
Anne hugged and kissed him. "You're a doll, darling. Just the kind of man I want. And don't worry. You're going to see me in my underclothes. I bought them just for you. It's going to be fun watching you take them off. As if you didn't know what they'll be covering up!"
"Wear them the next time you come over," he begged.
"I will. Now let me finish. I know that Quimper pokes around in my bureau drawers. When she saw the sexy-looking lingerie she probably picked up a few pieces, fondling them, wishing they were hers, getting her jollies."
"And that's when she saw the letters."
"Of course. She took just one, never dreaming that I counted them every night."
Adam sighed deeply. "You're probably right. When I called to say I'd left tickets for her-and her roommate-at the box office, I asked that one of you wear a red dress, so I could spot you in the stands. She said that she'd seen a red dress hanging in your closet."
"Which proves that she'd been snooping around my room!"
"Well, we've got to get the letter back."
"I'll get it," Anne said grimly. "I'll get it if I have to tear her room apart."
"Suppose she carries it with her?"
"She probably does. She probably reads it every time she goes to the ladies' room. Even so, some night when she's snoring away, I'll look into her bag."
Anne squirmed in Adam's lap. "Darling, you wonderful man, do I feel what I think I feel?"
Adam grinned. "There's no doubt about it. It's time we finished our drinks and-"
Just then the telephone rang. "I'd better answer it," Adam muttered. "If I don't, whoever it is will probably get curious and come over to see what's wrong."
He set Anne onto her feet and walked into the bedroom, aware that Anne was padding along behind and aware, also, of his swollen manhood. He heard her giggle.
"Just follow wherever the young man points," she chortled, "just so long as he doesn't point downward."
Adam gave her a look and picked up the phone. "Hello."
"Adam, darling, it's Betty."
"Letty! What in the world! Is something wrong?"
"Something's wonderfully right, dearest, I have the best news."
"Tell me," he asked, his curiosity aroused.
"Not over the phone, beloved. This is a face-to-face matter. It's that important. I'm driving up to Mekins next Saturday."
"Oh, gosh, Betty, I'm sorry. The team's going to be out of town Saturday. We're playing Glasgow Prep."
"I know that, silly. I have a schedule. You'll be home Saturday night, won't you?"
"Yes, but I'll probably be late."
"I don't care how late it is. Leave a key under your door mat in case I get there before you do."
"Golly, I don't know. Is it that important?"
"It's more important than you think."
Adam glanced at Anne. Naked, she had affected a pose, standing in the doorway. Her lips formed the words, "Tell her."
He shook his head and said into the phone, "Okay, Betty. I'll be looking forward to seeing you Saturday night. I'll get here as quickly as I can."
"I wish Saturday were tomorrow," Betty said. "Good-bye, beloved."
Adam hung up and turned to find Anne standing directly behind him.
"Why didn't you tell her?" Her voice was petulant.
Adam placed both his hands on her shoulders and stared down into her upturned face.
"Listen, Anne, you don't tell the girl you're engaged to marry that you've fallen in love with someone else, over the phone. At least if you're any kind of a man you don't."
Anne started to reply, but changed her mind. A warning bell sounded in the back of her mind. She could push this man just so far, she decided, before he balked.
So she smiled, slipped her arms about his waist and rested her head on his chest.
"And you're that kind of man, my darling. That's why I love you."
"You won't be foolish enough to come over here Saturday night."
"Of course not." Anne threw back her head and looked up at him. "Is she going to stay here all night?"
"Naturally not." Adam frowned. "I must remember to make a reservation at the inn."
"Be sure you do." Anne kissed him. "And now, I believe we have some unfinished business in the bedroom."
Adam grinned, everything else for the moment forgotten. "That we do, pretty girl. That we do." And he picked her up in his arms.
Olive Quimper, wearing a long cotton nightgown, sat on the edge of her bed and for the hundredth time, read the letter that she had stolen from Anne Yeaton's bureau drawer. And as she read, a warmth crept through her body. Her loins ached. When she finished reading, she gave a little shiver, clutched the letter to her bosom, and began rocking back and forth, making little moaning sounds. Her eyes were closed and her mind was projecting lewd pictures.
Anne had guessed correctly when she'd told Adam that the elderly spinster had wanted to fondle her sexy lingerie. Miss Quimper envied the young girl her beauty, her beautifully shaped body, her altogether sexy appearance. And because she envied her, she hated her. The little bitch! Who did she think she was, wiggling her ass whenever she crossed the campus and whenever there was a man to see?
Miss Quimper stood up, slipped out of her nightgown and stood in front of the full-length mirror. Her body wasn't all that bad, she told herself. True, her breasts sagged a little, but that could be expected of a woman of her age. Her age! She wasn't as old as most people seemed to think. Forty-nine wasn't old. She still had her dreams and her hopes.
She examined the rest of her body closely. Her belly had only the slightest of bulges. Her legs were long and shapely. On impulse, she unpinned her hair, and let it fall down over her shoulders. It was a deep brown in color, with only an occasional streak of gray. "I am sexy," she thought. "I could dye my hair and look even more sexy."
She went back to the bed, and picked up the letter again and sat, naked, thinking. It had, actually, been quite by accident that she'd found the letters. She had formed the habit of sneaking into Anne's room whenever the girl was absent, snatching a piece of lingerie from the bureau drawer, fondling it, hugging it to her, getting her jollies. Once she'd been tempted to undress and slip the panties on, just to know the delicious touch of them against her skin. Then she'd noticed that the panties were new. If she tried them on, Anne would surely know that they'd been worn and would accuse her as the most--likely suspect.
On this day, acting wholly upon impulse, she'd swept the entire pile of lingerie up at once-and so had seen the letters. Ordinarily, she wouldn't have touched the letters. Other people's mail didn't interest her. But something had caught her eye. She'd peered closer, then gasped. The handwriting on the top envelope was familiar. It was the same as that on the envelope that Adam Lombard had left at the box office containing the complimentary tickets.
Without hesitation, she'd slipped the envelope from beneath the ribbon that bound the package. Heart pounding, she'd carried the letter into her room, locked the door, sat down on her bed and read as her heart thudded against her ribs, her breathing became a series of rugged gasps, and her skin burned. "Oh, God!" she'd whispered. "Oh, God!" She'd read the letter again, absorbing every word. The result had been the same. She'd become aroused, wildly, insanely sexually aroused, and sat on the bed for a long time, trembling, trying to control her emotions. "That little bitch!" she'd breathed. "That goddamn whore!"
Miss Quimper had fallen in love with Adam the first time she'd seen him at the faculty meeting. He was exactly the type of good-looking, six feet four of manhood that she had always dreamed about. She knew that her case was hopeless. Not for a moment did she think of it as otherwise. But now that she had found him, he would remain her secret dream man. She could and would devise means of meeting and talking to him. Naturally, his main interest was football. How fortunate that she was interested in the game. It was the excuse she needed.
As Miss Quimper sat on the edge of her bed, naked, and stared down at the letter in her hand, she knew she was holding a bombshell. She had but to show the letter to Dean Hodgkiss, and Adam and Anne Yeaton would be fired on the spot, their careers ruined.
Is that what she wanted? Anne, yes. But what about Adam? It would mean that the young man would be taken out of her life forever. He would hate her for what she had done. She didn't want that. The trouble was, she couldn't involve one without the other.
Miss Quimper read the letter through again. Now, as always, she got as much of a thrill from it as she had when she first scanned the lines. Lewd thoughts began running through her mind. One in particular kept repeating. Each time she discarded it as being utterly absurd and ridiculous. But when it returned again, she let her mind dwell upon it, thinking of it at first as something fanciful yet delightful.
"I'll confront them both," she thought. "I'll tell Adam that unless he fucks me, I'll show the letter to Dean Hodgkiss." A little shiver of joy ran through her body. The picture in her mind was so delightful that she elaborated on it. "I'll make his little whore watch while he's screwing me. I'll make him say all the things he said to her, all the things in the letter." Her thoughts became wilder and wilder. "I'll make him fuck me every week. I'll make her watch too. They won't dare refuse so long as I have the letter."
Miss Quimper had worked herself up to a high pitch of sexual arousal. When she finally got into bed, she didn't bother to put her nightgown on again.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Adam was eating breakfast when the telephone rang. It was Doctor Gleason.
"Coach, I've some bad news for you."
"Oh?" Adam tried to keep his voice steady, but he knew.
"Nancy Poole died early this morning."
"No! Oh, God no!"
"A sad state of affairs. They've charged young Bryant with first-degree murder."
Adam hesitated. "Did Miss Poole return to consciousness? Was she able to talk?"
"No. She remained in a coma until the end." The doctor cleared his throat. "Coach, as far as I know, Bryant hasn't told the police that he spilled his guts to you. I think he's waiting for his father to get here before he talks to anyone."
"I see."
"Coach, there's one more thing. As you know, I'm an avid football fan, and I think you're doing an excellent job with the team." Adam remained silent. How could he possibly know that the doctor was a football fan ? He'd never met the man. He wondered what was coming.
"You must understand," Doctor Gleason went on, "that if the police question me, I'll have to tell them that you mentioned to me that young Bryant had discussed the matter of Miss Poole's 'accident' with you. I'm legally bound to do so."
Adam felt a chill. This was a warning. Doctor Gleason would protect himself at all costs. He sighed.
"Okay, Doctor. Thanks for the warning." He hung up before the medical man could reply.
Nancy Poole's death did not cause the excitement on campus that Adam expected. He thought ruefully that because she was a "town" girl, nobody cared much. He was surprised, however, that Lafe Bryant's arrest didn't create more of a stir. After all he was a student.
It occurred to him, as the morning progressed and no one mentioned the boy's incarceration, that the news was not yet generally known. Dean Hodgkiss had probably somehow arranged to keep young Bryant's arrest quiet until after the arrival of his father. When the truth became known, the student body would probably attempt to storm the jail with hanging in mind.
That afternoon, Anne Yeaton went downtown and bought herself a voluminous tote bag with shoulder straps. Back at the cottage, she transferred Adam's package of letters to the bottom of the bag, stuffing the contents of her regular bag on top.
That night, she listened with her ear pressed against Miss Quimper's door for fully fifteen minutes before she was positive that the spinster was sleeping. Then, with heart pounding, she quietly opened the door and stepped inside. She started across the room and froze when Miss Quimper's snoring suddenly stopped: But in a moment, the rhythm of the snoring began again. Miss Quimper had merely turned over in bed. Anne tiptoed to the dressing table, picked up the purse lying there, opened it and rummaged inside. Her heart leaped when she felt the sharp edges on an envelope. She removed the letter, closed the bag and noiselessly stole from the room.
Back in her room, she examined the letter by the light of her dressing table lamp. It was the stolen letter! Triumphantly, she added it to the package in her new tote bag. Then she prepared herself for her regular sortie to Adam's cottage.
Adam was waiting for her at the door. He took her into his arms and kissed her passionately. "My dearest. Where have you been? I thought you'd never get here."
She thrust her body up against his. "I had something to do. I'll tell you about it later."
His hands roamed over her body. "You didn't wear your new underwear," he said resentfully.
"That's part of what I have to tell you. Come." She took him by the hand and led him into the bedroom. "Undress me, darling."
Afterward, spent and satisfied, they returned to the kitchen, as usual. Adam mixed their drinks, then said, "Now tell me what was so important that you had to do that made you late in getting here."
Anne grinned, picked up her new tote bag and showed him the letters. "They're all here. All of them. I found the one Old Quimper stole."
"Where?"
"She was carrying it around in her handbag, just as we suspected."
"But how did you get it?"
"Waited until she'd been snoring for about fifteen minutes, then sneaked into her room and fished through the old bag's bag."
Adam frowned. "You were taking quite a chance, darling. What if she'd wakened and caught you in the act?"
"So what? If I had known that she had it in her handbag all the time, I'd have taken it by force."
Adam wagged his head. "You're some girl." His expression became grave. "Doctor Gleason called me this morning. Nancy Poole died."
"Who's she?"
"I told you. She's the girl young Bryant found lying beside the road-or said he did, and brought into the hospital."
Anne shrugged. "Well, it's no skin off our behinds."
Mildly shocked at her indifference to the tragic death of the girl, Adam gave her a reproachful look. "It might be if he tells the police he was here with me on the night of the so-called accident."
"Where is the boy now?"
"They've locked him up."
"Well then, we should worry. If he hasn't talked yet, he probably won't." She laughed. "And there won't be any danger of his spying on us again."
Adam's emotions were suddenly mixed. Anne was not at all concerned that a young and pretty girl was dead, and that a boy, however disliked he was by his fellow students, had been arrested and charged with murder. She was, in fact, only concerned with his and her welfare.
He looked across the table. Anne was the most beautiful, the most desirable girl he could ever imagine. He started to say something, changed his mind and picked up his drink instead.
Anne drank with him. She finished her glass with a satisfied sigh. "One more drink," she said. "Then let's return to the scene of more enjoyable activities. I've thought of a new position I want to try out."
Adam nodded agreeably, all other thoughts banished from his mind. His passion was as great as ever. He went to mix the drinks.
The next morning Anne was awakened by someone pounding on her door. A moment later the door burst open and Olive Quimper stormed into the room. The spinster's eyes were blazing. "You little bitch! You stole my letter! I want it back."
Anne yawned elaborately. "Just what the hell are you talking about?"
"You know damn well what I'm talking about. You sneaked in my room while I was asleep and stole it out of my bag. You're a thief. I should have you arrested."
"Why don't you do that, old woman? You can describe the letter, of course."
"Of course I can describe it. It-" The spinster broke off. Tears of frustration filled her eyes.
Anne casually pulled the sheet up over her naked breasts.
"That's it," Olive Quimper sneered. "Cover yourself up. You're so goddamn modest. I'll bet that if I were a man, you wouldn't take such precautions."
"If you were the man I'm thinking of, I wouldn't have to cover myself up. I'd be naked."
Olive Quimper's mouth worked. There was a venomous hatred in her eyes. Anne decided that the old spinster was on the verge of hysteria. Loss of the letter had apparently set her off her rocker. When the old woman spoke again, her voice was low and even. "I might just describe the letter. I might just describe it to Dean Hodgkiss. Then where would you and young Mr. Lombard be?"
"Probably in bed," Anne laughed, then added, "I think Dean Hodgkiss would take such a wild story from its source-a frustrated old maid with an unfulfilled passion and a wild imagination."
Anne was prepared for what happened next. She had gauged Miss Quimper's state of mind correctly. The spinster was indeed off her rocker. Her frustration was so great that she was not accountable for her actions.
For fully a minute Olive Quimper stood there and hurled obscenities at the young girl. Then, with an agility that belied her years, she sprang across the room, jerked open the bottom drawer and began flinging the black underwear right and left.
Anne leaped from the bed. Her naked body flashed across the room. She wrapped her strong young arms around the spinster, lifted her bodily, spun her around and threw her to the floor. "Get out of here, you dried-up old cunt! Get out of here before I knock you senseless."
But Olive Quimper was beyond reason. She got to her knees and crouched there, her teeth bared, her eyes spitting fire. "Call me a dried-up old cunt. You'll pay for that. I-I'm not dried up, I-I'm desirable."
Then she sprang. She hurled herself forward, screaming, fists flailing. Anne stepped lightly to one side. She drove her clenched fist forcefully into the spinster's midsection. Miss Quimper grunted and doubled up. Anne seized a handful of her antagonist's hair, jerked her upright, spun her around and sent her lunging toward the nearest wall. Quimper's head hit the wall with a dull thud. She grunted again and slowly sank to the floor. She crumpled there and lay still.
Breathing heavily, Anne came and. stood over her fallen victim. "Damned old fool," she muttered. She turned then, went into the kitchen and came back with a pitcher of water. She had poured most of its contents on the spinster's ashen face before the old woman stirred, sputtered, and at last opened her eyes.
"What happened?" she mumbled.
"You ran into the wall, grandma. Now, will you kindly get your ass out of here before I lose my temper."
Miss Quimper sat up, muttering. Her eyes were glazed. "My letter. I want my letter."
"Sure, sure. You'll get your letter. I'll write you one myself."
Anne helped the old woman to her feet. She led her, still whimpering, into her own room and eased her down onto her bed. For a moment Anne stood there, looking down at the pathetically sprawled-out form. The spinster's mid-calf skirt had ridden up above her knees, revealing her bony shanks. The outline of her sagging breasts were barely visible.
Anne said scornfully, "You sure are desirable, old woman. You sure are."
CHAPTER EIGHT
*** Archive Note: This book did indeed contain two chapters labeled "CHAPTER EIGHT"
Lafe Bryant lay on the cot in his jail cell and idly flipped the pages of a girlie magazine. Ordinarily he would have stared long and lewdly at each of the nude women arranged in full color in erotic poses. But just now his mind was elsewhere. For the life of him he could not drive away the thoughts that kept returning to torment him. If he were found guilty, would they send him to the chair? He began to sweat. No! They couldn't. He was still a minor. But the idea of spending the rest of his days in jail wasn't particularly comforting. Damn it! Why did the little tramp have to die? He hadn't hit her that hard. Or had he? He must have. Idly, he wondered if she'd had a miscarriage.
Lafe had been allowed to make one phone call. He'd called his father in New York. The elder Bryant had listened stoically while the boy had given a brief explanation of why he was in jail. Then in his usual booming voice, he'd said, "Don't say another word on this telephone, son. Don't say anything to anyone until Elton and I get there. Do you understand?"
"Okay, sir." Elton Ferris was his father's lawyer, one of the smartest in New York City. "When will you and Mr. Ferris be arriving, sir? I hate this place."
"We'll grab the first plane. Should be there in a couple of hours. Now keep your mouth shut."
"Yes, sir."
Lafe was afraid of his father. He always had been. The old man was big in size and big in every other way. He'd fought his way up from a clerk in a loan investment company to the company's president. He owned the majority of stock and had invested wisely in other stocks. He was, according to all financial reports, a millionaire many times over. Although he feared his father, Lafe knew that he held an ace in the hole. He was an only child. His mother was dead, and he was the apple of the old man's eye.
Lafe tossed the girlie magazine aside and grinned smugly to himself. If anyone could get him out of this mess, his old man could. The boy had unlimited faith in his father's ability to do anything.
A half hour later a jailer unlocked the door to Lafe's cell.
"Come along, son. Your father's here."
Lafe followed the jailer down a short corridor and into the visitor's room. His father and Elton Ferris sat at a table. Lafe tried to look at his father and couldn't.
"Look at me!" Bryant barked in his deep, bass voice.
With an effort, Lafe lifted his eyes and for an agonizing moment met those of his father.
"By God," the old man thundered. "You are guil-"
He broke off, and Lafe whined. "Listen, sir, I can explain-"
"Shut up!" Bryant snapped. "Don't say another word until I tell you to."
"Yes, sir."
Bryant turned to his lawyer and nodded. Ferris, a tall, thin, balding man with a thick brown moustache, got up and moved about the room, peering under tables and other items of furniture. Satisfied at last, he returned to the table and nodded.
John Bryant said, "They probably never heard of a bugging operation in this hick town, but I don't want to take any chances." He looked at his son. "Go ahead. Give it to us right from the beginning, and tell it all." He glanced at the lawyer, but Ferris had already removed paper and pencil and was prepared to take notes.
Lafe began, "Well, I'd been seeing this girl, Nancy Poole, quite regularly . ... "
"Were you screwing her."
"Yes, sir."
John Bryant nodded. "I can't disapprove of that. You're old enough to know that your pecker should be used for other purposes than pissing through. Now I suppose you're going to tell me that you knocked her up."
"Yes, sir. I did."
"For Christ's sake, didn't the kid ever hear of the pill?"
"She was taking them but, well, she ran out of them."
"And you banged her just the same."
"Yes, sir. She wanted it, so I gave it to her."
John Bryant permitted the ghost of a smile to touch his lips. So far this wasn't as bad as he had feared. A simple abortion could take care of everything. But why was the kid in jail?
"Go on," he said.
"Well, Nancy and I waited another month. She didn't come around, so I beat her up."
"You what?"
"I'd heard that sometimes a pregnant girl would have a miscarriage if they were involved in an accident."
John Bryant said slowly, "You'd better fill me in on that. Let's have the details."
Lafe explained what he'd done exactly as he'd told Adam.
"Well, did she have the miscarriage?"
"No, sir. She died."
"She died. The girl you beat up died?"
"Yes, sir."
"Why, you goddamn fool."
"Yes, sir., ;
"And that's why you're here in jail. You're accused of murder!"
"Yes, sir. Doc Gleason at the hospital examined her and said she hadn't been hit by a car as I told them. He said she'd been beaten by somebody who used a club." Lafe tried to grin, but couldn't. "They can't prove a thing, sir. I have an alibi."
Elton Ferris spoke for the first time. "Your alibi better be good, Lafe. You're in one hell of a mess."
Ignoring the attorney, John Bryant said, "What kind of an alibi?"
"It's rather a long story, sir."
"We'll take the time to listen."
"Well, one night I was walking along Faculty Row and I saw a girl running behind the cottages. I was curious because I recognized her. She was Anne Yeaton, the English One teacher. I followed her. She entered the back door of the cottage at the far end of the row. That's where Adam Lombard, the football coach lives."
"So you spied on them."
"Yes, sir. First I went up to the back door and listened. When I heard them go into the bedroom, I sneaked around to that side of the cottage. The drapes at the window were closed, but they didn't reach the sill. There was enough space for me to see what was going on.
"And what was going on?"
This time Lafe did manage a slight grin. "Man! I saw a pornie movie once. This was twice as good!"
"I suppose afterward you went home and beat your meat."
"No, sir. I went to see Nancy. You can understand how hot I was. Pills or no pills I would have laid her."
"How many times did you witness this bedroom drama?"
"Five, sir."
"And each time you screwed Nancy afterward?"
"Whenever I could get to her, sir."
John Bryant was silent for a moment, studying his son, his mind working.
Elton Ferris spoke for the second time. "How does that give you an alibi for the night of the 'accident.' Lombard and Miss Yeaton would simply deny your story. It would be the word of two adults against that of a boy."
"I was coming to that, sir. I went to see Coach Lombard. He's my student counselor."
"Are you going to tell us that you told Lombard you'd been watching him fuck the teacher?"
"No, sir. I was much more clever than that. I told him what I'd done to Nancy and-"
"You told him that you beat Nancy up? You ore a goddamn fool."
"Wait a minute, sir. I had to tell him."
"Why?"
"Because the thought crossed my mind that I might have to have an excuse on the night of the accident. Even though I told a straight story, they might suspect something."
"Which they did."
"Yes, sir. So I told Coach Lombard that I was visiting him on the night of the accident. He was helping me with my homework. I told him that he mustn't forget, that unless, I told him, he was having company that night."
For a moment there was silence in the room. A look of grudging admiration had crept into John Bryant's eyes. By God, the kid was clever. Just like his old man. Clever. Crafty. Cunning. Suddenly he leaned forward. "By the way, son, what happened to your face? Did someone beat you up? The police?"
"No, sir. Coach Lombard beat me up."
"Why?"
"Because he said he didn't like what I did to Nancy. He called me a rotten little cowardly bastard. Then he swung on me. I tried to fight back, but there wasn't any use. He's twice as big as I am," Lafe described.
"Why that dirty sonofabitch! Hitting my boy! I'll break every bone in his body. I'll-
Face livid, Bryant rose. Elton Ferris rose, too. Calmly, he said, "Take it easy, John. Lafe's got a murder rap facing him. We won't beat it if you go knocking hell out of the football coach. We both know there are better ways. Easier ways."
Slowly, John Bryant relaxed and dropped back into his chair. "Yeah," he said. "You're right, Elton, about easier ways. Knocking the hell out of the guy can come later."
Bryant looked across at Lafe. "Don't worry, son. I'll get you out of this. I've never failed you yet, and I won't now."
Lafe's eyes glowed with relief and triumph. "I knew you would, sir. I just knew it! Gosh, what a relief."
CHAPTER NINE
The game between Mekins Academy and Glasgow Prep was a thriller. At the end of the third quarter it was scoreless. There had been some exciting moments. Once, in the first quarter, Adam had stopped his pacing in front of the Mekins' bench and stiffened. Glasgow, sticking to the ground, had brought the ball down to the Mekins' five-yard line. It was fourth down with goal to go. Glasgow could easily have kicked a field goal, but acting upon the advice of their coach, they decided to go for the touchdown. Six points, probably seven, would give the team the shot in the arm they needed.
Everyone in the stands was on his feet when the two teams lined up. A hush fell over the crowd. The Glasgow quarterback's signals could easily be heard. Adam felt a wave of relief when he saw that they were going to try the middle. He had every confidence in his defensive linemen. His faith was justified. The Mekins' line held. They had possession on the three-yard line.
At half time Adam talked to his players with all the confidence that he felt. "Boys, you're going great. I couldn't ask for better performances. Glasgow's probably the toughest team that you'll have to play this season. If we tie them, there'll be no complaints. If we beat them it will be a feather in our caps."
"We'll beat them, coach," a voice cried. "You can count on it."
There was a murmur of agreement among the players. Adam grinned. "That's the spirit. But let's not get overconfident. We've got to do some smart maneuvering to outsmart this bunch. I know Jim Burton, their coach. Played with him once. He's a strategist of the first water. Our job is to out-strategy him, and I think we can do it. This is how."
Adam spent the rest of the half-time period explaining his plan. "It won't make heroes out of any of you, but we may win the game, and that's what counts."
The Mekins' players trotted back onto the field filled with a new confidence and a new respect for their coach. The third quarter was pretty much a repetition of the first two. The ball changed hands four times, with neither team making any serious threats. At the beginning of the fourth and final quarter Glasgow had the ball. They advanced it to the mid-field stripe in a series of brilliantly executed plays. Two plays later they were at the Mekins' forty and had a first down.
Watching from the side line, Adam grated. "Hold 'em! Hold 'em right there."
And the Mekins' players did. They had the ball on their own thirty-eight-yard line. Adam gave Doug Gaskins a nod and the offensive team trotted onto the field. Much to the surprise of everyone-everyone of. the spectators, that is-Doug stepped out of the pocket and sent a blistering pass to Ivan Forbes on the Glasgow thirty-yard line. Ivan caught it neatly and stepped out of bounds.
Two plays later, with ground gains of two yards each, Doug had lined his team up in direct line with the Glasgow goal posts. The scoreboard showed one minute left to play. Adam nodded to Frank Davis, his field goal kicker. Frank already had his helmet on and had started out onto the field simultaneously with Adam's signal. Doug Gaskins crouched over the ball, his hands extended. Mekins' center snapped the ball. Doug caught it deftly and put it in place. Frank ran forward and kicked. It was a perfectly executed boot. The ball arced up above the frantically reaching arms of the opposing team and sailed neatly through the two uprights.
A mighty roar arose from the Mekins' rooters. The score was three to nothing in favor of Mekins. Thirty-five seconds later the game ended. Mekins had won.
Adam had not ridden with the team in their chartered bus on their trip to Glasgow. He had driven down in his own car. Now he was glad he'd made that decision. Driving home alone, he had a chance to think, to concentrate on the game just won. Play by play, he analyzed every movement. Of course, he would wait until he saw the movies before making any major decisions, but at the moment he believed that he had picked up some valuable information that he could pass on to the team.
It was dusk when Adam reached the academy. There was a car parked in front of his cottage. He stared at it for a full minute before recognition came. It was Betty's small compact. He'd been so absorbed in his analysis of the game he'd entirely forgotten that she wag coming. Thanking his lucky stars that he had remembered to make a reservation for her at the inn, Adam ran up the walk. Betty opened the door for him.
"Hi, darling!" She flung herself into his arms and lifted her face to be kissed.
Adam was vaguely aware that the kiss was different. It was warmer, more moist. He pulled himself away and grinned. "We beat Glasgow three to nothing. Have you checked in at the inn?"
Ignoring his remark about the game, she shook her head. "I'm not staying at the inn. I'm staying here with you."
Adam frowned, not understanding. Betty laughed softly and took him by the hand. "Come," she said. "I'll tell you about it."
She led him into the living room and sat down on the sofa. He saw then that she was wearing a very short miniskirt and that it rode more than halfway up her thighs when she sat. Her legs were bare and her breasts were straining against the fabric of her blouse. She patted the sofa by her side. "Come sit here, darling."
Adam sat and she snuggled up to him. Her body felt warm and smelled delicious. They kissed again, and this time Adam was distinctly aware that her tongue was pressing against his teeth. Tentatively he parted his teeth and her tongue darted inside his mouth. For fully a minute they were engaged in a passionate embrace.
Betty-took one of his hands and pressed it against her right breast. The contact sent a quiver through his body. Looking up at him, she said, "Darling, I want you to fuck me."
Adam stared at her dumbly.
She laughed softly and pressed his hand against her breast. "Do I shock you, dearest? I shouldn't. I'm the girl you're going to marry. Remember?" She kissed him lightly. "I've thought about it a long time, Adam, and I've decided that two people shouldn't marry unless they knew that they were sexually compatible. If they found that they weren't, getting married would be a tragic mistake. Don't you agree?"
Adam nodded without speaking.
"I've been mean and foolish. I've known you wanted me, and I've stubbornly refused. You do want me, don't you, darling? You do want to fuck me?"
Again Adam nodded.
"Say it. I want to hear you say it. Say you want to fuck me."
Good God! Adam thought. Were they all alike? Did all girls want their men to spell it out? Somehow the words seemed out of character with lovely, innocent Betty Walker.
Involuntarily, his hand dropped to her bare thigh. She pressed herself up against him. "Oh! I like that, darling. It feels good. Feel me up. Go as far as you like."
He pulled her over onto him, working her mouth over with his. She drew back. "Now are you going to tell me you want to fuck me?"
"Yes. Yes, I want to fuck you, Betty. I've wanted to fuck you since we were in high school. I've suffered because of it."
"Now I'm going to make it up to you. I'm not going to be foolish any longer." She sat up straight and turned her back to him. "Unzip me. I want you to see all of me."
A moment later, with Adam's help, she had shrugged out of her blouse and kicked her miniskirt aside. He saw that she was wearing the briefest pair of thin black panties. They barely covered her pubic hair. Adam sucked in his breath. What a beautiful woman! What an exciting, sexy body!
"Is it too early to go to bed, darling?" Betty whispered in his ear.
Adam knew a moment of panic. Then relief flooded through him. Mrs. Nulty, his housekeeper, had been in that morning and had straightened up his cottage, which would include fresh sheets on the bed. He picked Betty up and carried her into the bedroom.
Sometime during the night, Adam awoke. Someone had knocked at the back door. He had been expecting it; his mind had been geared, which accounted for the fact that he had wakened instantly. He lay stiff and rigid, hardly daring to breathe. Beside him, Betty slept peacefully. Another knock sounded, then there was silence. But it wasn't until five minutes had passed that Adam relaxed.
For a long time Adam lay wide-eyed, thinking. Once Betty stirred. In her sleep, she put one arm around him and nestled her head in the hollow of his shoulder. He kissed her lightly on the forehead. They had found that they were compatible. Very much so. It was all new to Betty, yet she had been tender and loving and helpful. She had put her trust completely in the man whom she loved.
Adam thought, "Have I made a mistake? Is this the girl I want to marry and spend the rest of my days with? Or do I want to saddle myself down with that damned tramp?" The word came to mind involuntarily, before he could check it. "I got carried away. I let sex rule my mind and my body."
Before he dropped off to sleep, Adam had reached a decision.
CHAPTER TEN
Olive Quimper's wrath knew no bounds. It was after noon when she came out of her stupor. Well, no matter. It was Saturday. No classes. She remembered that the team was playing Glasgow Prep, and that she had planned to drive down. "To hell with it," she thought. "Sight of that miserable coach would only make me sicker than I am." Her head ached because of its forceful contact with the wall, and her stomach was sore as a result of Anne driving her fist into it.
Miss Quimper began to whimper. Her thinking, as earlier that morning, was unreasonable and irrational. "She's got my letter. That stinking little bitch has got my letter. She stole it She has them all. She's carrying them around in that tote bag she just bought. Now I'll never be able to get it back."
Without warning, Miss Quimper began to sob. Her body became wracked with ragged gasps for breath and pitiful, whimpering outbursts. Abruptly she stopped and lay still. From somewhere had come a rational thought. The tote bag. It was new. Obviously Anne had bought it so that she could carry the letters with her. But wait! Anne was a smart conniving cookie. Wouldn't it occur to her that she couldn't bring such a voluminous contraption into class? Wouldn't she leave it somewhere? Or wouldn't it occur to her that someone could easily snatch the bag from her shoulder? A girl as smart as Anne would realize that there was more danger of the letters being stolen if she carried them in the tote bag than if she hid them in some safe place? And where would that safe place be? In her room, of course. Because the little bitch would realize that that's where she, Quimper, had made her first find and Anne would reason that Quimper would never suspect that Anne would again hide the letters in the same place.
Heart thumping, Miss Quimper scrambled out of bed, straightened her clothing, and went out into the living room. The door to Anne's bedroom was open. There was no sign of the girl. "Probably out screwing some member of the faculty while she waits for Adam to get home from the game," the spinster muttered.
She stepped into Anne's room, and her heart leaped into her throat. The tote bag was lying on the girl's bed. Miss Quimper turned the bag upside down. Its contents tumbled out onto the bed. She wasn't surprised not to find the letters. The girl would have been a fool to have left them inside. Next, the spinster searched the bureau. She wasn't surprised not to find the letters there either. The black underwear, however, was back in place, neatly folded. In a sudden burst of rage, Miss Quimper yanked them out and sent them flying around the room.
She stood still then, thinking, looking around. The closet. She walked over and opened the door. Anne's sexy-looking dresses were hung neatly on a rod. Miss Quimper pushed them aside and peered into the depths of the closet. Nothing. Nothing that could even contain the letters. No boxes, bags, or purses. There was an overhead shelf. Miss Quimper stood looking up at it for a long time. It was too high for her to reach. By the same token, it would have been too high for Anne to reach. There were storage boxes up there and a couple of suitcases.
Determined not to pass up any possibilities, the spinster got a chair, placed it in position, and climbed up. She pushed aside the boxes and explored in behind them with her hand.
Her heart leaped. Her fingers contacted a package of letters tied with a ribbon. She picked them up and stepped down from the chair, almost falling in her excitement. She stared down at the package. They were the letters she'd been looking for. The sexy letters that Adam had written to his mistress. All of them. Overcoming an almost overwhelming desire to sit down and devour their contents, Miss Quimper returned to her room. She stuffed the letters into her purse, tucked the purse under her arm and triumphantly set out for the office of Dean Hodgkiss.
Adam and Betty had been awake on that Sunday morning for more than an hour. They had spent the time making love, enjoying each other, pledging their devotion.
Betty suddenly reached over and took hold of his manhood. "We are sexually compatible, aren't we dearest?"
He kissed her. "Beautifully so."
"Oh, I'm so glad I made the decision to come up and spend the night with you. You don't hate me for it, do you, darling?"
"I love you all the more for it."
"If this is a prelude to all the nights we're going to have together, I couldn't be any happier."
'Then be happy," Adam said, taking her into his arms.
It was just then that the front doorbell rang. Betty looked up at him questioningly. "You'd better answer it, dear. It might be something important."
"On Sunday morning?" Adam grunted. "Nobody ever calls on anyone around here this early on a Sunday morning." Nevertheless, he climbed out of bed, slipped into a robe and padded barefoot to the front door.
A stranger stood on the porch outside. He was, Adam judged, a man in his early fifties, almost as tall as the coach, stockily built. He was well dressed, and was used to giving orders and having them obeyed. Without knowing why, Adam had an uneasy feeling.
"Yes?"
"Your name Lombard? Adam Lombard?" The stranger's voice boomed throughout the cottage.
"That's right."
"I'm John Bryant. Lafe's father."
"Oh. Well, look, Mr. Bryant, could you come back later today? As you see, I'm not dressed yet and-"
"No, I couldn't come back later today." John Bryant stepped inside, unceremoniously shouldering Adam aside. He closed the door and stood with his back to it, glowering at the coach.
Adam's uneasiness, now tinged with resentment, grew. He wished to hell he'd closed the bedroom door. Then he mentally shrugged. Even with the door closed, Betty would be able to hear every word spoken by that booming voice.
John Bryant produced a thick manila envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket. He crossed to the living room table and dropped it. It fell with a thud. Turning, he looked at Adam with a glint in his eyes. "Young man, there are fifty thousand dollars in that envelope. It's yours, tax free." He paused, watching for the effect of his words on Adam. There was none. Adam merely stared. There was a sort of numbness creeping through his body.
Bryant went on, "Know what that envelope says? It says that my boy was here last Wednesday night between eight and ten o'clock. You were helping him with his homework."
Adam at last found his voice. "If Lafe told you that, he was lying."
John Bryant's eyes blazed, and Adam for the first time felt the power of his personality. "My son doesn't lie, Lombard. Not to me, he doesn't."
"If he told you he was here last Wednesday night, he was lying." A stubbornness, a belligerence had crept into Adam's voice. Too late he remembered Lafe's threat.
Bryant smirked. "What's the matter, coach? Trying to protect yourself? Perhaps you were fucking some broad in that bedroom of yours."
"Why, you-" Adam started forward, but Bryant stopped him by stepping up and thrusting a powerful hand against his chest.
"Don't start anything, Lombard. If you do, you'll wish you hadn't. I can take you apart in nothing flat, despite your youth and size. Used to be a boxer. Used to play professional football."
Adam felt sick. He didn't doubt that the older man could take him. The hand that had pushed against his chest had muscle behind it. But even if he'd wanted to fight, there'd be a scandal-and Betty Walker was in his bed.
"Lafe gave me a pretty good rundown on you, Lombard. He said that you were fucking half the women on the faculty. Oh, don't look so affronted. And next time you'd better make sure that the drapes on your bedroom window are closed completely. Lafe says you put on a pretty good show for him. He said it was better than any pornie movie he'd ever looked at."
Adam's mind was reeling. God! Was this actually happening? Betty was hearing every word.
Bryant glanced toward the hall that led to the bedrooms. "Bet you've got a cunt waiting for you in there, right now. Shall we see?"
Bryant took a step in the direction of the hall, and Adam leaped in front of him. "One more step, old man, and you'll get your chance to take me apart."
Bryant took one look into Adam's anguished face and leered. "Ah hah! So I was right. Is that the cunt's car out front? I wrote down the registration number, just in case we want to check on her later."
Adam felt hatred burning in him like a disease. "You filthy-minded old goat. Get out of here!" .
"Well, look who's calling someone else filthy-minded ! According to Lafe's description of your antics with broads in that bed of yours, you win the fur-lined piss pot. And I'm including sodomy."
Adam's face was white. He was trembling and felt chained, helpless. If Bryant attempted to look into the bedroom again, and Adam failed to stop him. ... He left the thought unfinished.
Bryant returned to the table and picked up the envelope. "Oh, I don't condemn a man your age for getting his tail wherever he finds it. Natural. I know, for example, that my boy was fucking the Poole girl. More power to him. But do you know what? She told him that you'd been screwing her too. She must have been a pretty good lay. Maybe it was you who beat her up.
All of the pent-up rage in Adam's being burst their bonds. With a savage, animal-like scream, he lunged forward. The trouble was, he went at the attack blindly. It didn't occur to him to think of strategy, or trying to defend himself. He just hurled himself, wildly swinging his fists, but he ran into a straight-armed fist. The blow landed squarely and Adam dropped like a log and lay still.
Skin burning with shame and horror, tears streaming from her eyes, Betty Walker tossed aside the sheet that partially covered her naked body, sat on the edge of the bed, put on her shoes, then wriggled into her blouse and skirt. The black panties and black half slip lay in a crumpled heap on the floor. Last night they had been a source of excitement when Adam had eagerly removed them. Now they were an object of shame and disgust. A sob caught in her throat. How many other girls' underwear had he removed with his eager lustful hands? A fresh burst of tears streamed from her eyes.
Taking care to avoid the under things, Betty crept to the window and looked out. A vacant field stretched away in front of her. Her car was parked around a corner of the cottage to her left. She felt reasonably certain that no one would be abroad on this early Sunday morning. No one, that is, but Adam's visitor, the man who had ruined her life.
Half blinded by tears, Betty noiselessly opened the window. She put one leg over the sill and was disgusted when her ridiculously short miniskirt scooted up to reveal her pubic hair. Swiftly, she swung her other leg over the sill and slid to the ground. She ran to the corner of the cottage and peered around it. Her compact was still parked at the curb; nothing else was in sight. As she started to run toward the car, she thought she heard a dull thud inside the cottage. She didn't know what it was, nor did she care. She only wanted to get away from there.
John Bryant stood for a moment looking down at the inert body of Coach Lombard. He straightened at last, shaking his head. "The dumb bastard. He could have taken me if he hadn't lost his head. Well, it isn't the first time I've bluffed a man into blowing his cool."
A car started up out front. Bryant ran to the window. He reached it in time to see it being driven away by a girl. He grinned. "Not a bad-looking little piece," he thought. "Can't say as I blame Lombard for banging her. All those women! Wonder what the guy's got that I don't have?"
He went back and picked up the envelope from where he'd dropped it when Adam charged him. For a moment he stood in deep thought, absently tapping the envelope against the palm of his left hand. Things weren't working out exactly as he had planned. From Lafe's description of the coach he'd figure that Lombard would be a pushover for fifty grand. If the guy had any sense at all, he'd take the money and the girl he'd been shacking up with and get to hell out of the country. But, no! The coach had to protect the honor of the girl. Bullshit! Sooner or later, this young gent would learn that a good piece of ass could be found between any girl's legs.
Bryant sighed deeply and stuffed the envelope back into his pocket. He glanced down at Adam. "Sorry, old man," he muttered, "but you goofed. Instead of being a happy man with fifty thousand bucks in your pocket, you're going to be framed for murder. Tough." He turned and stalked indifferently out the front door.
Minutes later, Adam stirred. Remembrance came slowly. His jaw ached and he opened and closed his mouth a couple of times. Well, at least nothing was broken. Groggily, he got to his feet. Man! That old gent sure packed a wallop. He had been a fool to lose his head, but even now a new rage rose in his chest as he remembered what had happened.
Bracing himself against the wall, he staggered down the hall to the bedroom. He wasn't surprised to find the window open and Betty gone. He didn't blame her. He didn't blame her at all. He noticed the black panties and half slip lying on the floor. He picked them up and sat on the edge of the bed, holding them almost lovingly in his lap. God! Had all this really happened, or was it a dream ? It was no dream. It was stark reality. He could imagine Betty's humiliation and shame when Bryant's booming voice reached her ears. Adam cringed. The worst of it was he hadn't denied any of the charges. He couldn't have denied the charges. To do so would have meant a heated argument and more charges, with Bryant probably bursting into the bedroom while Betty was still here and in bed, naked.
A picture of Lafe Bryant's ugly little face projected itself in Adam's mind and he swore aloud. Could the sneering sonofabitch actually have been watching him and Anne perform in bed ? The thought appalled him. He got up, went to the window, closed it and pulled the drapes. He stared incredulously. The bottom of the drapes fell over the inside edge of the sill. There was a small V-shaped opening between them and the window jam.
Christ! Adam began to tremble at the thought of the little bastard's eyes glued to the opening while he and Anne rolled around on the bed. They had showed no restraint. It must have been something to watch.
CHAPTER TWELVE
*** Archive Note: To make up for two chapters labeled "CHAPTER EIGHT", there was no chapter labeled "CHAPTER ELEVEN"
The telephone rang three times before Adam could pad into the living room and collect his senses enough to answer it.
"Hello."
"You goddamn bastard, why didn't you let me in last night?" It was Anne, shrieking at him hysterically.
"I'm sorry, Anne. I must have fallen asleep."
"Fallen asleep, my left tit. Every other night you've been sitting in the kitchen waiting for me, naked and with a hard on."
"Please, Anne. Can't we talk later? I'm not feeling well."
"No, by God! We can't talk later. We're going to talk now. And don't give me any crap about one of your phony headaches."
"Listen, Anne-"
"Shut up! You listen to me. You had some cunt in bed with you last night, didn't you?" Her voice had a rasping sound to it. Adam suddenly realized that she sounded vulgar. Her use of the four-letter words had, up to now, excited him. Now he knew only disgust. He said nothing.
"I asked you a question, shithead." He sighed resignedly. "Yes, Anne, I had a girl in bed with me last night."
"Did you fuck her?"
The absurdity of the question hit him. Impulsively, he said, "No. We were playing ticktack-toe."
"Oh, so now you're Mr. Smart Ass. Tell me, darling, did she give you a blow job?"
Adam's ire spilled over. "Knock it off, you cheap little bitch, or I'll-"
"You'll do what, cunt lapper?" Anne laughed shrilly. "If you're thinking of hanging up on me, don't. I have a piece of news that will crack your skull open. Who was the cunt?"
Adam had, in fact, been about to hang up, but something in her voice stopped him. "So what's the big news?"
"First, answer my question. Who was the cunt?"
Adam hesitated. Anne yelled at him, "You might as well tell me. I took down the registration number of the car parked in front of your cottage. If it's owned by who I think it is, you're in big trouble."
Adam thought, "Well, that's two of you who took down the registration number." Aloud he said, with as much dignity as he could muster, "The young lady who was here last night was Betty Walker. You don't have to check on her registration."
"I thought so. Isn't she the little virgin from your home town to whom you were engaged?"
"I'm still engaged to her."
"And what about me?"
"What about you?"
"Stop me if I'm wrong, but the last I knew you were going to toss Betty to the winds because you know I'm a better piece of ass."
"I know that no longer."
"Why, you insulting prick. If I had your balls in my hands I'd pull them out by the roots." Anne paused, breathing hard.
"Listen, Anne I'm getting tired of this. We're getting nowhere."
"You used me!" Anne shrieked. "You made me go to bed with you by promising to marry me. You kept screwing the pants off me by making more promises. Now you think you can merely toss me aside. Well, you're not going to get away with it."
Of all the ridiculous, absurd statements. She sounded irrational. She was probably drunk. Adam resisted another impulse to hang up. He wanted to know what her big piece of news was.
He said bitterly, "Kept screwing the pants off you? I've yet to see you wearing a pair of pants."
"Oh, sp you're sore about me not wearing my black underwear. Well, I've got news for you, sonny. Now you'll never get to see me wearing them."
"Thank God that's settled. Was that your big piece of news?"
"Hardly. My big news is this: Quimper stole my letters again. You remember the letters, darling. Those gems you wrote to me."
"I thought you were going to carry the letters around with you for safekeeping?"
"Nope. Quimper would smell them out sooner or later. I hid them behind some stuff on the shelf in my closet."
"Are you sure Quimper found them?"
"Who else? An hour ago I saw her hotfooting over to Dean Hodgkiss' house."
"Anne! For God's sake! If she shows those letter to Hodgkiss, do you know what it means?"
"Sure I know what it means. It means the end of your coaching career here and everywhere else."
"What about you?"
"Don't worry about me, darling. I have another career in mind. Know what it is."
"I can guess."
"Tell me if I guess what you're guessing. I'm going to become a hooker. A real professional high-class hooker. I've decided I like the work. You were a big help in making up my mind, darling."
"Wait a minute, Anne. Don't do that. It's a downhill road all the way."
But Adam found he was talking to a dead telephone. He hung up slowly. His head was splitting. He felt' sick all over. God, what a mess! He thought of John Bryant and a feeling of rage filled him. He got up, went into the kitchen and poured himself a straight shot. He drank it in a single swallow. He poured some more whiskey into a glass and filled the glass with water. Steadier now, he sat at the kitchen table and tried to think. Somehow he'd have to convince Betty that it was all a mistake, that what she'd heard were the words of a crackpot, or a dope addict. That's it, a dope addict! When he'd opened the door a man had stood there holding a gun on him. The man's wild ravings were the result of a drug-infested mind.
Well, it was worth a try. Anything was worth a try.
He considered calling Betty right now, but abandoned the idea. He was in no mood to call anyone. Eyes narrowed, Adam went over every detail of the morning's confrontation with Bryant. In retrospect it seemed that the-old man had been needling him. But why? What could he possibly gain by all that vulgar talk? A cold finger suddenly traced its way down Adam's back. What was it Bryant had said just before he delivered the knockout punch. For one thing he'd said that Lafe had told him that he, Adam, had been screwing Nancy Poole. But that wasn't all. What was it? Adam's hand smacked down onto the table. He'd said that maybe it was Adam who had murdered Nancy. A sickening shudder convulsed Adam's body.
Dean Hodgkiss peered at Miss Quimper over the rims of his glasses. They were in his study. A letter lay on the desk in front of him. "I'm not in the habit of reading other people's mail, Miss Quimper? Why should I read this one?"
"Because the future of Mekins Academy is at stake, Dean Hodgkiss," Miss Quimper purred. She felt sure of herself, completely satisfied. She had rehearsed carefully this interview with the dean, anticipating his questions, and was prepared to answer all of them, Before leaving the cottage she had removed only one letter from the package and stowed the remainder in her handbag. It would have seemed ridiculous if she'd presented the dean with the entire package. He'd wonder if she hadn't stolen them. Moreover, she was looking forward to reading the other letters at her leisure.
"How did you happen to come into possession of this letter?" Dean Hodgkiss asked. "It was lying on the living-room table when I got home. I thought it was mine."
"Why would you think it was yours?"
"Because Anne-Miss Yeaton-always gets home before I do. She picks up the mail from the floor beneath the mail slot. If there's any for me, she leaves it on the living-room table."
"But why, when you discovered the letter wasn't for you, did you continue reading?"
"I think, Dean Hodgkiss," Miss Quimper replied patiently, "that when you've read the letter you'll understand."
Dean Hodgkiss sighed deeply. "Very well, if you feel it's that important, perhaps I'd better read it. Although you understand, it's against my principles."
"I understand perfectly, Dean Hodgkiss."
The dean adjusted his glasses, picked up the envelope, opened it and removed the paper inside. He unfolded the paper and held it for reading. His eyebrows arched, and Olive Quimper smiled triumphantly to herself. But the reaction she expected wasn't forthcoming.
Dean Hodgkiss looked at her for a moment, then held out the paper. "Is this what you wanted me to read, Miss Quimper?"
Miss Quimper stared at the sheet of paper. It was a blank! Miss Quimper let out an uncontrolled shriek and leaped to her feet, snatching the paper from Dean Hodgkiss' grasp. She glared at it, as if willing words to appear.
Quite as if she had forgotten the presence of Dean Hodgkiss, she snarled, "That bitch! That two-timing sonofabitch!"
She snatched up her bag and unceremoniously dumped its contents on the dean's desk. She grabbed the package of letters, slipped off the ribbon and one by one began opening them. Trembling, her eyes filled with horror, she looked up at Dean Hodgkiss. "They're all blank! That goddamn little bitch took out the letters and filled the envelopes with blank papers. I'll kill her for this."
An agitated Dean Hodgkiss got to his feet. "Miss Quimper, I don't know what this is all about, but I certainly didn't expect to hear such language coming from your lips. I think, Miss Quimper, that you'd better leave. Immediately!"
Anne wasn't surprised to find the package of envelopes containing the blank papers missing from the shelf in her closet. In fact, she was rather happy about it. She knew that Quimper would not bother to open the envelopes; she'd be too anxious to get over to Dean Hodgkiss' office with her prize.
Anne laughed aloud when she thought of the spinster's reaction when Hodgkiss opened the first letter and found it to be blank. "The old bag must have gone out of her mind," the girl giggled. "Brother, would I have liked to have been there. She probably would have said I'd double-crossed her."
Anne wasn't surprised, either, when Miss Quimper didn't return to the cottage that evening. "Either Hodgkiss had her locked up," she decided, "or the old dried-up bitch is off somewhere getting herself blotto. She's probably imagining she's going to bed with Adam."
Adam! That sonofabitch! She'd fix him, and, oh, would her revenge be sweet. Never had a man turned her down before, and this one wasn't going to get away with it.
Anne considered her decision to become a whore. The idea thrilled her. It would be exciting. It would be fun. Best of all, she'd be paid for what she liked doing most. "I'm beautiful, and I know it. What's the use of being modest? Men want my body, and they're going to have it-for a price. I'll make the men I select squirm. I'll make them suffer the way Adam Lombard made me suffer. He thinks because he's big and strong and good-looking he can fuck anyone he wants to. Well, maybe he can, but so can I."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Olive Quimper didn't return to the cottage at all that night. Anne never gave it a second thought. She couldn't care less. She made breakfast, glad to be alone. Today she was going to blow the lid off Mekins and she planned to be far away before the explosion occurred. After eating, she dumped the dirty dishes in the kitchen sink, then found some blank envelopes and affixed stamps to them.
At ten o'clock she was at the school library when it opened. She had skipped her first two classes without compunction. In the reference room she found a telephone directory which contained a listing of subscribers in Adam's home town. She found Betty Walker's name and copied off the address on one of the stamped envelopes.
Next she produced Adam's letters. She selected the most juicy and, grinning maliciously, tucked it into the envelope, then closed and sealed it. She addressed another envelope to Dean Hodgkiss and enclosed a second letter. Now she addressed a letter to the Reverend Thomas Adams, the school chaplain.
One envelope remained. So who'll I send it to? she thought. A wicked smile crossed her face. Who else, indeed, but Quimper? The old fool had tried desperately to try and steal the letters. Now Anne would give her one. She'll probably read it a thousand times, getting her jollies until the paper's worn out.
Anne thought of one more person to whom she should send a letter. She walked up to the desk and asked the girl in charge if she had a blank envelope and a stamp that she could spare. The girl had both. She returned to the table addressed the final envelope to Douglas Gaskins, captain of the football team. She thought happily, "'If that doesn't cook Mr. Adam Lombard's goose, nothing will."
There was a mailbox on the sidewalk outside the library. Anne dropped her letters in the slot and turned to find herself confronted by a man.
"Miss Yeaton."
"Yes?"
She recognized him then. He was Ben Hearst, algebra teacher and Adam's best friend.
"Oh, Mr. Hearst, I didn't recognize you at first." He was a tall, fairly good-looking man in his early thirties, extremely shy.
Ben Hearst said, "I was wondering-well, there's a good movie in town tonight-I was wondering if you'd like to go?"
Anne studied the young man's face for a moment. A wicked thought crossed her mind and she answered, "I'm not much of a movie fan, Ben. How about driving out to a motel and making love instead?"
Ben Hearst stared at her stupidly. He looked stunned. He looked like a man who didn't believe his ears.
"If you'd rather not," said Anne, starting away.
"No! Wait! Don't go! Please!"
Anne turned to face him. "Well?"
"Miss Yeaton. Anne, there's nothing in the world that I'd like to do more. I've thought about it. Believe me I have. Never in my wildest dreams did I ever think it possible."
"Why?"
He stammered, "You're-you're so beautiful, so lovely, so-so desirable."
Anne studied him for a moment, gauging, estimating. "It will cost you fifty dollars."
Ben Hearst gulped. His eyes were filled with lust and passion. "I can pay it, Anne. I'll gladly pay it. God, it'll be worth every penny. What time shall I pick you up?"
"You won't. Every eye on campus would be watching. What color is your car?"
"It's a light blue, late model Chevy sedan."
"All right. There's a motel out on Milford Road called Trail's End. Drive out there around dusk tonight. Rent a room in the rear, then park your car in front of it. I'll be there shortly after dark."
"Oh, Anne, that's wonderful! You'll be sure to come?"
Anne smiled. "A girl in my business always keeps her word."
On Monday morning Adam called Jake Mallory. his assistant coach. "Jake, can you take over practice today? I have one of those damned headaches."
"Sure, Adam." Jake sounded worried. "You sound like hell. Is there anything I can do? How about if I send out Doc Wainwright?"
"Thanks, no. These things come and go. I'll be all right in a day or two."
"Well, if you're sure . ... "
"I'm sure, Jake. And thanks." Adam hung up. He hoped he hadn't sounded as drunk as he actually was. He hadn't shaved or bathed since Saturday night, just before Betty had arrived. He was still wearing his robe, and he had a monumental hangover. He'd tried to sleep Sunday night, but it wasn't any use. Twice he'd dozed off, but each time he'd roused up, gone into the kitchen and sat at the table, drinking Scotch.
He'd realized that sooner or later he'd have to get himself cleaned up and go out. He was running low on Scotch. He had never felt so miserable in his life, both mentally and emotionally.
Over and over he thought about the scene with John Bryant. Was the guy actually going to try to frame him for Nancy Poole's murder? He swore aloud. There wasn't a chance. He had no case at all. Yet, as before, an icy finger traced its way down Adam's spine. God, what a situation! Three weeks, just three lousy weeks ago, he'd been the happiest man alive, starting out on a new career with everything ahead of him, in love with a beautiful girl, their wedding planned.
Adam made coffee, fried a couple of strips of bacon and two eggs. But after the first mouthful, he threw up and the vomit dribbled down the front of his robe. He stripped it off and pulled on a pair of shorts. Afterward, he poured himself a straight shot. The whiskey settled him down somewhat, and he considered calling Betty. Twice before he had picked up the phone with this in mind, but both times he'd abandoned the idea. He wanted to be reasonably sober when he finally made the call.
Now he stood, returned to the bedroom, and looked into a mirror. The image that stared back at him was frightening. He had a two-day growth of beard. His eyes were bloodshot. Some of the vomit had caught in the hair on his chest. He caught sight of Betty's black underwear lying on the floor. He picked them up, smoothing out the panties and half slip as best he could with the flat of his hand. He sat down again on the edge of the bed, once more holding the undergarments in his lap.
God, what had he done to Betty? What sacrifice had he made her go through? She'd been a good, sweet, wholesome loving girl. Now she was ravaged, and he had ravaged her. Tears streamed down Adam's face. He began rocking back and forth, clutching the panties and half slip as though they were Betty herself, sobbing his heart out.
Ben Hearst stopped on his way to the Trail's End Motel and bought a bottle of Scotch and a six pack of soda. Then it occurred to him that Anne might not like Scotch, so he added a bottle of bourbon.
Ben was grinning when he set out again for the Trail's End. He'd never been more excited. Thinking of the lovely Anne, his heart began to thump. He could hardly wait. His loins felt warm. It was hard to believe that such a beautiful girl could be a hooker. He wished that he'd found out sooner. He felt that he'd missed a lot. His eyes began to gleam. There was a whole school semester ahead. He'd make up for lost time, if she were at all agreeable.
The Trail's End Motel was set some distance back from the road. The young clerk waited patiently for Ben to sign the registration card. Ben hesitated a moment, then Wrote "James Harrison, 118 Main Street, Traversack." He knew there was a Traversack somewhere. He wasn't sure where and he damned well didn't know if it had a Main Street. He didn't care.
The clerk glanced at the card. "Very good, Mr. Harrison. Will that be a double or a single?"
Again Ben hesitated briefly. "I'd like a large single room with a big double bed, as far back as possible." He yawned elaborately. "Been traveling all day. Dead tired."
The clerk nodded. He was used to renting rooms to single men who wanted to be far back, who wanted a double bed and who said they were dead tired because they'd been traveling all day, but who looked as fresh as a daisy. He took a key from a peg and handed it to his guest. "The last one in this row," he said. "Number one hundred and two. I think it will suit your needs. That will be twenty dollars."
Ben produced his wallet and extracted a twenty dollar bill and a five. The clerk looked at him in feigned innocence. Ben grinned. "Just make sure I'm not disturbed. I really want to sleep."
"I understand sir. Thank you, and have a good night."
The room was in a cabin by itself. It was large and was furnished with a king-sized bed, a bureau, two chairs and a luggage rack. There was a spotless bath and a kitchen alcove containing a tiny refrigerator, sink, two-burner gas stove and a small table.
Ben deposited his bottles of liquor on the table, looked around and grinned. "Perfect," he said aloud. "Perfect." He opened the refrigerator and pulled out an ice tray. It was full. He upended the tray in the sink and started water running on its bottom. When the cubes fell out, he removed the dividers from the tray and replaced the loose ice cubes. After that, he removed the two bottles of booze from their sack, opened the Scotch, pried the top from one of the bottles of soda, and mixed himself a drink. Ben wasn't much of a drinker, but this was his night to howl, and he intended to howl.
It was dark outside. Ben glanced at his watch. Damn it, she said she'd be here as soon as it got dark. Where the hell was she? He sipped his drink and waited. Fifteen minutes passed. He was about to step outside and look around, when there came a light tap at the door. He jerked it open and Anne stepped inside. She looked ravishing and sexy in a dark blue dress with a V neck, revealing the swellings of her breasts. Ben took one look, sucked in his breath, and took her into his arms. He began to work his mouth over hers.
She let him have his way for a minute, then pushed him away. "Let's take things in order, my dear. There are a couple of things we have to settle first."
"Like what?"
"Well, first, there's the matter of our business arrangement."
Ben stared at her for a moment, then smiled. "Oh, that. Oh, sure." He reached into his pocket, produced his wallet and extracted two twenty dollar bills and a ten. "Is that what you had in mind?"
"That's it," said Anne. She took the money, stuffed it into her handbag and dropped the bag onto the bureau.
"Anything else?" Ben had begun to tremble.
Anne glanced at the bottles on the table. "I'm glad to see you brought along some liquor. I always like a drink before being screwed. It fires me up." And she added, "You'd better toss off a straight shot yourself. I don't appreciate being laid by a man who's trembling."
Ben walked into the kitchen alcove. "Scotch or bourbon?"
"Scotch."
He built her a stiff drink and freshened his own. They sat facing each other at the table.
Anne said, "Now let's have a friendly little chat. Are you married, Ben?"
"No."
"Have you ever been."
"No."
She took a sip of her drink. "Ever fucked a girl?" she asked point blank.
Her use of the word didn't shock him. "Of course."
"How many girls? How many times? You don't look the type."
He glared at her defiantly. "Well, I am the type. I've fucked plenty of girls."
"Tell me about one of them. Describe it in detail." She saw defiance in his face and she said quickly. "Oh, don't be so shy. I like to hear about men and women fucking. It makes me horny. You'll find how horny it makes me when we get into bed."
Ben took a long swallow from his drink. He described a mythical screwing. He told about how he'd been taking this girl out. He'd made passes at her and hadn't gotten anywhere. Then one night they were in the back seat of his car on a deserted road. At first she'd resisted him. But finally she'd permitted him to take her panties off, and he was home free.
Anne's eyes were shining lustfully. She asked a few pointed questions, and Ben gave her pointed if imaginative answers.
Satisfied, Anne turned her back. "Unzip me."
Ben did so, his fingers no longer trembling. Anne walked to the center of the floor and let her dress drop. She stood before him, stark naked. Ben sucked in his breath.
"Like me?"
"You-you're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."
"Take your clothes off so I can see what you look like."
Ben stripped in a matter of seconds. She looked him up and down. "Not bad," she commented. "Not bad at all." She came to him, threw her arms around his neck and pressed her body close. "How would you like it-a straight fuck or a blow job?"
Ben leered at her lewdly. "Let's take them in that order," he said as he picked her up and threw her down on the king-sized bed.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
On Tuesday morning Adam called Betty. He'd slept the night before. Or rather he'd blacked out. In the late afternoon he'd finished the last of the Scotch and flopped down on his bed. Oblivion came almost at once. Sometime during the night he'd awakened and made a trip to the bathroom. Afterward, he'd headed for the kitchen, remembered that he'd finished the Scotch, and went back to bed instead. He didn't wake up again until eight o'clock.
His head ached, his mouth was dry, and he felt crummy in his dirty shorts. He lay for a few moments rubbing his three-day-old beard and thinking.. Today he'd call Betty. If he drank enough black coffee he knew he'd be up to the task.
He made a trip to the bathroom, splashed water onto his face, then padded into the kitchen. He put coffee on to perc and while he was waiting he dialed a liquor store and ordered a half case of Scotch to be delivered. He knew he'd need fortification if Betty wouldn't listen to reason.
He sat at the table for a long time drinking cup after cup of black coffee. What was he going to say to Betty? What plausible explanation could he give? No matter from what angle he approached the matter, nothing seemed plausible. Then he remembered the fanciful tale he'd made up about the dope addict with the gun. The more he thought about it, the more he became convinced that he could put it across. It was just far out enough to make her think. He sighed. There didn't seem to be any alternative.
Today, as yesterday, he fried two eggs and a couple of strips of bacon. This time he kept them down. He felt a little better, but not much. While eating he went over every detail of what he'd say to Betty. Presently he emptied the percolator, drank the remaining coffee, and padded into the living room. He was trembling violently. He wished he had a drink. Just one drink, he thought, would steady his nerves.
He stood for a long time staring down at the telephone before he summoned up enough courage to pick it up. Twice he tried to dial before his shaking finger found the proper digits.
Betty herself answered. At the sound of his voice she burst into tears. "Oh, Adam, how could you? How could you?" Her weeping came over the wire in great wracking sobs.
"No, listen, Betty. I can explain if you'll just give me a chance."
"Explain ? How can you explain such a terrible, terrible thing? You've made me feel that I wish I were dead. All our beautiful dreams. Our plans and thoughts. A-and what I did. I feel debased, unclean."
Adam swallowed and tried to get a grip on himself. He felt like the lowest form of heel. "Wait, Betty. The man who came to the door Sunday morning was a dope addict. He had a gun. There was nothing I could do. If I'd made a move or crossed him in any way, he'd have shot me. Then if he found you, I shudder to think what might have happened to you. All those vulgar things he said were the result of a drugged mind."
Betty was silent. She remained silent so long that Adam began to have hope that she believed him. "Betty? Are you there?" he asked.
"Yes, Adam, I'm still here." She stopped sobbing and her voice was steady. "That was very good, Adam. A convincing story. You almost had me believing. That's because I-I guess, in spite of everything, I wanted to believe." She paused. "Now I wonder if you can explain the letter I received in this morning's mail." She looked at him coldly.
"Letter?" Adam's insides began to churn. "What letter are you talking about?"
"It was a letter written by you to a girl named Anne."
Oh, God, no! He sat gaping at the phone. No! his soul cried. She wouldn't sink so low as to do a thing like that. But she had. He said into the phone, his voice containing a hopeless, beaten note, "I-I'm sorry, Betty. I truly am."
"So am I." She began to cry again, her aching heart in every sob. "We-we could have been so happy. I-I guess most men are like that. I should have known. I should have understood that something was wrong that weekend I came down for the game. But to me you were so perfect, so much my idol, I was blinded."
"Don't, Betty. Don't. You're torturing me."
"Perhaps being tortured a little is the best thing that can happen to you. Perhaps it will be a guideline for your future activities." She paused again and Adam could hear her choking back her sobs. When she continued, her voice was controlled. "For the moment, Adam, you've destroyed me. You've shattered all of my dreams, all of the good things I've known and cherished. I feel dirty, unclean. But I'll survive. I know I will.
"Goodbye, Adam. Please don't ever call me again or try to see me."
Adam heard the click as she hung up. He felt numb. His mind was a blank. Automatically he replaced the phone and sat hunched forward, his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. Christ! What was the easiest way to commit suicide? The easiest way! That's the kind of shit he was. Always the easiest way. The line of weak resistance. The course taken by weaklings and cowards.
Someone knocked on the back door. Adam's heart came up into his throat. Anne! He hoped it was. He'd kill her for what she'd done to him, done to Betty. He leaped up, ran into the kitchen and jerked open the door. But it wasn't Anne. It was the boy delivering his half case of Scotch. Adam almost fainted. His ears these past weeks had been attuned to Anne's knock at the back door. Recovering, he said. "Come in, Charlie."
The boy entered and placed the half-filled case on the table. Adam pulled out a bottle, twisted off the cap and tipped the bottle up to his mouth. He drank until the whisky began to sear his insides. He gagged a little, smacked his lips and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The boy was watching him, wide-eyed. Adam smirked. "Wait here, Charlie." Still holding the bottle, he picked up the bill that lay on the table beside the case, went into the bedroom, counted out the amount and added a dollar tip for Charlie, and returned to the kitchen.
Charlie took the money, but kept looking at Adam. "Are you sick, coach?"
Adam tried to smile, but managed only a leer. He shook his head. "I'm fine, Charlie. Little headache. It'll go away in no time. Thanks for bringing over the booze. I've included a tip for you."
Charlie nodded his thanks, hesitated and said, "There's something I ought to tell you, coach."
"What? Make it fast. I've got work to do."
Charlie glanced at the bottle, at Adam's stained shorts. "I see you have. Coach, there was someone in the store yesterday asking the owner, Melrose, questions about you."
Adam was suddenly beset by a sense of apprehension. "Who was it?"
"A private detective. Mr. Melrose called him Mike. He said he was working for Dean Hodgkiss."
The sense of apprehension grew. "What kind of questions was Mike asking?"
"Mostly he wanted to know how much whiskey you'd bought at the, store during the past couple of weeks."
"And did Mr. Melrose tell him?"
"At first he refused. But when Mike offered him some money, Mr. Melrose went over the customer list and gave him the information."
Adam took a long swallow from the bottle. "Do you happen to know how much whiskey I've bought, Charlie?"
"Yes, sir. Five cases."
"Five cases. Wow! Seems like a lot, doesn't it?" Adam tried to sound amused but he wasn't and Charlie knew it. "Yes, sir, it does."
"Well, thanks for telling me, Charlie. Maybe I'd better buy my whiskey out of town hereafter, eh?"
"If you don't mind my saying so, sir, I wish you'd stop buying whiskey period."
"Oh, but I do mind your saying it. Now, suppose you get your ass out of here. When I want your or anyone else's advice, I'll ask for it. But don't hold your breath."
"Okay, sir." Charlie opened the door, but hesitated, looking back. "I just want to say, sir, that I think you're a terrific coach, and I hate to see you blowing it."
Then he was gone.
Shortly after midnight Anne and Ben awoke and began making love. Anne did her best to please. In her newly chosen role she knew she'd have to please a lot of men, whether she liked them or not. Ben wasn't the handsomest man she'd-ever met, nor did he have an especially charming personality. But he had ardor, and she knew that all of the men in her future would have ardor.
Not for a moment did she regret her decision. This was what she enjoyed doing best, and the thought of being paid for it was like a stimulant. After all, men were pretty much alike when it came to sex. She knew and understood them. Just then her future looked bright.
Presently, fulfilled, exhausted, they lay side by side and went to sleep.
Anne rose before dawn, slipped on her dress and shoes and went into the alcove kitchen. She switched on the light, rummaged around in the cupboard over the sink, grunting in delight when she found a half-filled coffee can. She located a percolator, filled it with water, dumped in some coffee and placed it on a burner. Minutes later she was sitting at the table drinking coffee laced with bourbon.
Ben woke up. He blinked. "Hey, what's up?"
"Not you, Bennie boy. Come on over and have some coffee."
Ben got out of bed and crossed to the alcove. "What's the idea of getting dressed? To hell with the coffee. Come on back to bed."
"Nope. Party's over." She grinned up at him. "Was your fifty bucks well spent?"
"Sure. But, look, I'm just getting started."
Anne shook her head. "No more screwing tonight, sonny. I've got to get out of here before daylight."
Ben considered ripping off her dress and laying her right there on the alcove floor. But something in the girl's attitude changed his mind. He had the uncomfortable feeling that he wouldn't get to first base if he tried using force. And it had been such a glorious, wonderful night. So he sat down facing her, feeling uncomfortable because he was still naked and she was wearing her dress.
Anne got up and poured him a cup of coffee. She picked up the bottle of bourbon and looked at him questioningly. He nodded, and she added a stiff shot.
Ben sat down, took a sip of his coffee royal, made a face and asked, "What's with you, honey? Why are you up so early?"
"I'm getting out of here before daylight."
"Why? No one's going to recognize you leaving this place. Where's your car?"
"Down the street a ways."
"But why leave so soon? What time's your first class?"
Anne shook her head. "No more classes. No more Mekins Academy."
"You mean you're quitting your job?"
"That's it, lover boy. For good."
"I don't get it." Ben frowned. "Why can't you keep on teaching, and-well ... "
She laughed, her eyes teasing. "And carry on my whoring as a sideline. Is that what you're trying to say Bennie?"
"Well, yes."
"Would you be one of my steady customers?"
"You bet I would!" he cried eagerly.
Her expression mocked him. "How much money do you make, lover boy?"
He flushed. "Enough for-"
"Enough for a once-a-week bang?" she interrupted.
Ben's face was brick red. "Maybe, maybe I could get you some other customers."
"You mean you'd pimp for me? Wow! That would be something. Ben, the pimp. Who would you get, Bennie? Someone like Adam Lombard, for example?"
Ben shook his head, his expression serious. "Not Adam. He's a pretty straight sort of guy. Engaged to a lovely girl."
Anne hooted. "Now there's one for the book. I've got news for you, sonny. Adam's been screwing me since the first day we met. He's a real red-hot lover. A madman in bed. As for that girl you think he's engaged to . ... " She shook her head. "No more. I took care of that little detail."
"I don't believe it. Not Adam."
"Don't you? When you get back to the academy, you'll find a stir on campus. If not, ask Hodgkiss or Quimper or the Reverend Adams about their morning's mail." Anne's eyes were . suddenly cold, her mouth set in a thin tight line. She drained her coffee cup and stood. "As for your pimping proposition, sonny boy, I have bigger plans. I can get my own customers, and they'll pay a hell of a lot more than fifty bucks per night." She crossed to the bureau and picked up her handbag, heading for the door.
Ben shook off the stupor into which Anne's incredible words had driven him. He leaped to his feet. "Wait! Don't go. I can pay you more money. I know I can."
Anne paused with one hand on the knob. Her voice was taunting. "How much more? Maybe seventy-five dollars?"
"More. Any amount you say. I'll get it if I have to steal it."
"Well, now. that's the most flattering thing that anyone's ever said to me. I knew I was good, but not that good. It speaks well for my future." Her expression, which had momentarily softened, hardened again. "The men I service are going to be up there in the millionaire class. Men who'll gladly pay any amount I ask when they find out what I have to offer. Prostitution is an old, old profession, lover boy, and it's an honest profession." She opened the door. "So get yourself another pussy to play with, Bennie, and forget me, if you can."
"I can't forget you. I don't want to forget you." Ben started for the door, but before he could reach it, she was gone. He stood in the doorway, until the sound of the girl's footsteps died away. A moment later he heard the sound of a car starting up. Headlights speared the darkness as an automobile whisked past the entrance to the motel, heading in the opposite direction from Mekins.
Ben sighed deeply and closed the door. He knew as well as he knew his own name that Mekins Academy and all the surrounding country has seen the last of Anne Yeaton.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Something awakened Adam. He opened one eye and lay listening. The effects of last night's drunk weren't as bad as they had been, despite the fact that he'd consumed the contents of two bottles of Scotch. His system was conditioning itself to the constant absorption of alcohol. His physical appearance, however, had worsened. His beard was thicker and more unkempt-looking. He hadn't bathed. He stunk.
Adam closed his eye. Whatever the sound was, to hell with it. A moment later he opened both eyes. He suddenly knew what the sound had been: the flapping of the lid on his front door mail slot. He closed his eyes and rolled over. He couldn't care less what had been shoved through the mail slot.
Or could he care less? He distinctly remembered that a soft thud had followed the flapping. What did it remind him of? He sat up. It reminded him of the sound the manila envelope had made when John Bryant had dropped it on the living room table.
Cursing to himself, Adam got out of bed and staggered into the living room. It wasn't the manila envelope. It wasn't an envelope at all. It was a small square package, neatly wrapped in white paper. Adam picked it up. He recognized the handwriting at once. It was Betty's. Instantly he knew what the package contained. Her engagement ring. Tears filled his eyes. What else could happen to add to his misery?
He tossed the package on the table and weaved his way into the kitchen. The solace that he could find in a bottle would ease his pain, if only temporarily. He yanked a bottle from the nearly empty case, twisted off the top and half filled a glass. He took a long swallow and plopped down into a chair.
He tried to think of what he should be doing, but his thoughts wouldn't jell. A panorama of pictures paraded through his mind. Anne, naked in bed. Betty, naked in bed. The cold features of John Bryant. The sniveling features of Lafe Bryant. Ben Hearst. Miss Quimper. Dean Hodgkiss. Somehow they all got mixed up. He laughed hysterically. He was seeing Dean Hodgkiss and Miss Quimper in bed. They were wildly making love. Miss Quimper was screaming in delight. Then suddenly Dean Hodgkiss disappeared and Ben Hearst took his place. Miss Quimper acted as though she expected him. Her passion seemed insatiable. Anne came in and began screaming obscenities at them. Neither seemed to notice her. Anne tore off her clothes and jumped on top of Ben.
Adam slapped the table top and rocked back and forth, doubled up with laughter. Suddenly he stopped laughing. Ben Hearst, Miss Quimper and Anne all disappeared. Betty and Doug Gaskins had taken their place. Betty was trying to fight him off, but Doug persisted in trying to rape her. Adam pounded the table with his fist. "You sonofabitch!" he yelled. "Get away from my girl! I'll kill you for this!"
He swung his arm wildly, knocking the half-filled glass of whiskey from the table top and sending it crashing to the floor. Adam swore, seized the bottle of liquor and tilted it up to his mouth. He tried to recapture the pictures, but they were gone. "Hallucinations," he muttered. "That's what I been having. Hallucinations. Doug wouldn't do that. Betty wouldn't even get into bed with him. They're both good decent kids." He took a swallow from the bottle. "I gotta stop drinking. I gotta shave and take a shower and go down to the practice field. Those kids like me. They respect me. They make me feel like a man."
The front doorbell rang. Adam waved his arm angrily in the direction of the living room. "Go 'way. Can'tcha see I'm busy?"
The bell rang again and was followed by a heavy pounding. Adam tilted the bottle again. "All right. All right. I'm coming. I'm coming."
He lurched to his feet, groped his way toward the living room, fell to his knees once and got back onto his feet by bracing himself against the wall. The pounding on the door was continuing when Adam, holding himself upright by clinging tightly to the knob, opened it.
"Don't want none," he started to say, leering. Then he stopped and gaped. There was a whole crowd of people gathered on his front porch. He recognized Dean Hodgkiss at once, but his vision was too blurred to identify any of the others. Holding onto the doorknob with one hand, Adam made a sweeping courtly gesture with the other. "Come in, gentlemen," he said. Then he recognized Miss Quimper. "Ladies and gentlemen, I should have said. To what do I owe this great honor?"
They crowded into the small living room: Dean Hodgkiss, Olive Parker, John Bryant, his son Lafe, The Reverend Thomas Adams and Police Chief Merrill Handscomb. They were all grim-faced, accusing. Dean Hodgkiss produced a letter and thrust it under Adam's nose. "Young man, did you write this?"
Adam closed one eye, bent forward and peered at the handwriting. He straightened up.
" 'S'right. I wrote it to Miss Anne Yeaton, English One teacher."
"And this?" Miss Quimper thrust forward her letter.
Adam nodded. "Sure did. Wrote 'em all. Wrote 'em, shall we say, in the heat of passion."
"Disgusting," Miss Quimper said. She turned to Dean Hodgkiss. "Dean Hodgkiss, I demand-"
The dean gave her a bleak look. "You're in no position to demand anything, Miss Quimper. Especially after bringing me those blank sheets of paper. I'm still wondering how you got them-unless you stole them. That's a matter we'll have to go into later."
Adam tried to look dignified, but he was still gripping the doorknob in an effort to stand erect. " 'S'right,' he said. "She's not only a thief, she's profane. She told Anne to go fuck herself. Now what do you say to that, Ollie?"
"I say you're drunk," the spinster snapped. "I can even smell your body."
The Reverend Adams took a step forward. "Young man, will you please watch your language?"
Adam attempted to bow to the reverend, and almost fell on his face. He pulled himself erect by the doorknob. "Reverend, I apologize, but she said it just the same."
Dean Hodgkiss said, "Coach Lombard, I'll expect to see your resignation on my desk not later than tomorrow morning."
"You got it, Dean, old boy."
Dean Hodgkiss started for the door. "Come along, Miss Quimper."
Chief Handscomb blocked their way. "Please. I'd like you both to stay. There may be some questions I'd like to ask you both."
Dean Hodgkiss nodded and remained where he was. Olive Quimper seemed delighted. Her eyes were fiercely bright. This was something she was going to enjoy.
Chief Handscomb faced Adam. "Son, you're pretty drunk, and this is a serious business. Suppose you go into the bathroom, splash some water onto your face, and fix yourself up a little. We'll wait here."
Adam nodded and weaved his way into the bathroom. Instead of splashing water onto his face, he stepped out of his shorts, turned the cold water faucet on full in the shower, and entered. The stinging icy pellets sobered him up considerably. He hadn't liked the expression on the chief's face, but he knew the officer to be fair, willing to listen to all sides of a story. Adam was grateful for this respite that had been given him. He'd have to get himself together.
Five minutes later he stepped from the shower, toweled himself dry, went into his bedroom and found a clean pair of shorts. He felt reasonably sober now, but in order to help things along, he went into the kitchen, found that the percolator held at least a cup of cold coffee. He swallowed it all, drinking from the spout. He returned to the living room where he found his guests pretty much as he'd left them.
"Feeling better?" the chief asked, his voice not unkindly.
Adam brushed his hand over his beard. He nodded. "I didn't think you'd want me to take the time to shave."
The chief inclined his head and studied Adam for a minute. "Coach, there are a few questions I have to ask you. Be careful with your answers. They're important."
"Fire away, chief. I've nothing to hide." Adam tried to sound confident, but he felt a chill of apprehension.
"Where were you last Wednesday night between the hours of nine and eleven?"
Adam's eyebrows went up. "Where was I? Why, I was right here, I suppose."
"You're not sure?"
"Wait a minute. Let me think. Kind of hard for a person to remember where he was a week ago." His brow furrowed. "Yes, I'm sure. I was here."
"Have you a witness who can confirm that statement?"
Adam glanced around at the circle of faces. He saw then that Doug Gaskin was among those present. The quarterback's face wore an agonized look. There was another man among them, a man Adam didn't recognize. Olive Quimper was leering at him, as though she had some secret information which, when released, would set him back on his heels. He said slowly "Yes. I have a witness."
Olive Quimper shrilled, "If you mean that hussy Anne Yeaton, you can count her out. She packed up and left last night. She wrote a letter telling me all about it. I have the letter right here in my purse."
Chief Handscomb turned to look at the spinster. "Did Miss Yeaton say where she was going?"
"No. And you won't find her either. She's going to change her name."
"Change her name? Why?"
Miss Quimper hesitated. "She's going to become a prostitute. She says she can make ten times as much money as she can teaching school."
Adam was the only one facing the window, and so he was the only one who saw the blue Chevy drive slowly by. A moment later the car returned and parked.
Adam knew the car and knew its driver. He wondered what on earth Ben Hearst could have in this matter, but it didn't matter. Things couldn't be much worse. He saw Ben get out of the car, come quietly up the walk and step lightly onto the porch. He remained there listening.
Chief Handscomb jerked a thumb toward Lafe Bryant. "That boy," he said to Adam, "says he saw you driving away from where he found the broken and beaten body of Nancy Poole. That was last Wednesday night."
"If the boy told you that," Adam said levelly, "he was lying."
"Hah!" That was the booming voice of John Bryant. The thickset form of the older man stepped forward. He glowered Adam and turned to his son. "Tell them what else you know about this matter, son."
Lafe Bryant, eager, enjoying himself said, "Well, I'd been seeing Nancy a lot. I mean-"
"Were you intimate with her, son ? Tell us if you were."
"Yes I was." '
"Go on."
"Well, I'd been screwing her every chance I got. Most of the guys on campus were doing the same thing. She was a good lay and-"
"Just a minute!" The man whom Adam had not recognized elbowed his way toward Lafe. "Listen, you young brat, I'm Nancy Poole's father. Are you saying that my daughter was a tramp?"
Lafe eased up beside his father. "Yes," he said defiantly.
Several things happened then. Robert Poole made a lunge at young Lafe and John Bryant laid a heavy hand on the dead girl's father's arm. But before anything else could be said or done, Chief Handscomb was in among them. He shoved Bryant backward and held onto Poole. "Easy does it. If there's any roughhousing to go on here, I'll do it. If either of you steps out of line again you'll find yourself wearing handcuffs." He glared at Lafe. "You got any more to say, boy?"
"Yeah. Some of the faculty were screwing Nancy too. She liked older men. When she got pregnant she knew it was the coach that got her that way and-"
"How?"
"How what?"
"If she were as promiscuous as you seemed to think, how did she know who got her pregnant?"
Lafe shrugged. "I dunno. Girls know about those things, I guess. Anyway, she told me it was the coach."
The chief took a deep breath and turned to Adam. "What's your side of the story, coach?"
"The little bastard's lying in his teeth. Thursday morning he came to my office and admitted that he'd gotten Nancy in a family way. He said he'd beaten her up because he'd heard that pregnant women frequently had a miscarriage if they were in some kind of an accident. He said he'd brought her into the hospital and told Doctor Gleason that he'd found her lying beside the road, unconscious."
"Hah!" It was John Bryant's booming voice again. "That's what I call thinking on your feet, Mr. Lombard. It's the most preposterous story I've ever heard. No boy could dream up a wild tale like that. Why, you people should be grateful that my son stopped to pick the girl up."
"Your son," said Adam calmly, though he was seething inside, "has an imagination that won't quit. You've only heard half the story."
There was a note of doubt in the chief's voice when he asked Adam his next question. "What possible reason could young Bryant have for telling you such a wild story, coach? It was practically an admission of guilt."
"That's the other half of the story. Blackmail."
"Blackmail? How?"
"He wanted me to swear that he was here in my cottage that Wednesday night. I was supposed to be helping him with his homework."
"And if you didn't?"
"The kid had been spying on my cottage. He knew I had a visitor. He knew if he told who the visitor was, my career would be ruined. Well, he's succeeded in doing that, so I guess it doesn't make any difference now what I say."
"Brother! And he expects us to believe more of his lies." John Bryant looked at Handscomb. "Chief, I demand that you arrest this man and charge him-"
"And I demand that you keep your mouth shut, Bryant. Unless you keep quiet, you'll be charged with obstructing justice." The chief turned to Adam. "Do you have more to say, coach? What was your answer to the boy?"
"My answer," said Adam, "was to work him over, but good." Unconsciously he rubbed the knuckles of one hand into the palm of the other. "And I enjoyed every minute of it. I wanted him to know how it felt to be beaten up by someone bigger than he. Lafe told me he'd used a baseball bat on Nancy. I was only sorry that I didn't have one handy."
"And then?"
"Then I threw him out of the office and called the hospital. I talked with Doctor Gleason. He told me that Nancy wasn't the victim of a hit-and-run driver as Lafe had told them. She'd been beaten up."
"Was the girl conscious?"
"No. She was still unconscious. Doctor Gleason had doubts that she'd ever come out of the coma."
There was stirring and muttering among the listeners. John Bryant was having a hard time restraining himself. The others seemed to be frozen into silence, awaiting Adam's next word.
Chief Handscomb asked, "Is that all coach?"
"No. I heard that the girl died and that Lafe had been arrested, charged with murder. The report was that he'd sent for his father and that the old man and the old man's lawyer were on their way up to Mekins."
"Anything else?" the police chief asked.
"Yes. Sunday morning Bryant appeared at my door and thrust his way inside uninvited."
"What did he want?"
"He had fifty thousand dollars in an envelope. Or so he said. He tossed the envelope on the table and said it was for me, providing I'd swear his son was here with me Wednesday night."
"What did you say?"
"I didn't say anything. He began abusing me with his foul talk."
"And you took it?"
"For a while I did. I-I had a visitor on that day too."
There was more stirring and murmuring among the listeners. "Who was she?"
"I didn't say it was a she. But in any event I can't give you the name."
"The way this thing is going, you'll probably have to eventually. That is, if you have any idea of getting yourself out of this mess."
"Sorry, chief."
John Bryant could restrain himself no longer. "That's the damndest rottenest lie I ever heard. Where's the money now? Ask him where the money is."
Handscomb gave Adam a questioning look and Adam shook his head.
"I don't know. Bryant's talk got so foul and so personal that I sprang at him. It was a foolish thing to do. I think he'd been needling me, and was expecting the move. He came in with a straight-arm and I went down for the count. When I came to, Bryant was gone and so was the money. He'd already implied that if I didn't take his bribe, he'd frame me for Nancy's murder."
The room was suddenly quiet. There it was, all out in the open, the whole sordid story. Every eye was trained on Chief Handscomb.
Robert Poole stepped forward. He said in a cold, hard voice, staring at Adam accusingly, "It seems to me that I'm the injured party here. Someone murdered my daughter. I want that someone arrested."
Chief Handscomb sighed deeply. He reached for his handcuffs. "Coach," he said, "it appears that I have no alternative. Everyone seems to have witnesses but you."
"Just a minute. Hold it, everyone," a voice interjected.
Everyone swung around. Ben Hearst was standing in the doorway.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Chief Handscomb said. "Who are you, and what is your interest in this case?"
Ben stepped into the room. "My name is Ben Hearst. I'm the algebra teacher at Mekins Academy."
"So?"
"I happen to know that Adam did have a visitor last Wednesday night."
"Who was it?"
"Anne Yeaton." Ben looked at Adam apologetically. "Sorry, Adam. Anne and I spent last night together at Trail's End Motel. She told me she was with you last Wednesday night."
Dean Hodgkiss gave an audible gasp. What kind of a school was he running anyhow?
John Bryant snorted. "A--likely story. These two are obviously friends. They've dreamed this up between them." But the old man's voice wasn't quite as confident as it had been.
Ben said, "I hardly think we had time to dream up a story, since the first I, or anyone else for that matter, knew about Adam's-er-affair until Anne told me."
"I knew it," Miss Quimper shrieked. "I knew it all the time. It was in the letters."
Dean Hodgkiss gave her a stern look. "The letters that you stole, Miss Quimper?"
Miss Quimper subsided, muttering to herself.
Chief Handscomb eye Ben Hearst. "Can you prove that you and Miss Yeaton were at the Trail's End, Mr. Hearst?"
"Oh, yes," Ben replied smoothly. "Miss Yeaton is a strikingly beautiful woman. The clerk couldn't keep his eyes off her. I'm sure he'll remember."
"And she told you that she was here last Wednesday night?"
"She did indeed." Ben permitted himself a smirk. "She remembers it vividly. She was quite proud of the way she had ensnared our football coach. More than that," Ben paused and glanced at Miss Quimper, who was trying to unobtrusively shrink into the background. "Anne said she'd written Miss Quimper a farewell note, bragging of her exploits with Adam."
Chief Handscomb looked at the spinster. "Is that the letter you said you had in your purse, Miss Quimper ? May I see it, please."
"No!" the old maid screamed. "You can't have it." She clutched her purse to her bosom. "You can't have it! You can't!"
Chief Handscomb extended his hand. "If you don't hand over the letter, Miss Quimper, I'll have to hold you for concealing evidence."
Dean Hodgkiss said sharply, "Give him the letter, Miss Quimper."
Whimpering, her lower lip trembling, the spinster opened her purse, rummaged inside, and produced a letter. She handed it to the officer. Chief Handscomb removed the letter from its envelope and read it through. He frowned, glanced at Lafe Bryant, returned the letter to its envelope and handed it back to Miss Quimper. He sighed deeply then, produced a pair of handcuffs from beneath his jacket and approached Lafe Bryant.
The boy cringed against his father. "No! Don't let him take me, Dad. I didn't think that Nancy would die. I only wanted her to have a-"
John Bryant clamped his hand over his son's mouth. "Shut up, you blubbering little idiot!" And then, more quietly, he added, "Nothing's going to happen to you, boy. I have enough money to see to that."
Adam and Ben were alone in the cottage kitchen. Adam mixed a drink and placed it before Ben. Ben asked, "How about you?"
Adam shook his head. "I'm off the stuff. I almost let it get me."
Ben took a sip of his drink. "Adam, I have a confession to make. Anne didn't actually specify last Wednesday as one of the nights she was here. I merely assumed that she was."
"A good assumption. It saved my life. Ben, I appreciate your sticking you chin out."
"Forget it. I couldn't stand by and see you railroaded into the chair by that little weasel. You know something? I think the chief was on your side. I think he pulled a fastie to make the kid confess."
"You mean Quimper's letter?"
"That and other things. I don't believe Anne said anything in the letter but that she was leaving Mekins and was launching herself on a career as a prostitute. She was needling the old girl."
Adam nodded. "He never once mentioned what the letter contained. He merely looked at Lafe accusingly and got out his handcuffs. He didn't accuse the boy of murder. He didn't have to."
Ben took a long swallow of his drink and gave Adam a searching look. "Adam, what about Betty?"
"I've lost her. She hates my guts. Can you blame her? She was in my bed when Bryant called. She heard every word he said."
"You give up easily, don't you, boy?"
"I wish to hell there were some hope."
"Don't look so damned abused. Get hold of yourself, man. There's plenty of hope."
Adam made a futile gesture. "I cheated on her and I lied to her. No girl will stand still for that."
"What are you, some kind of martyr or something? Listen to me, Adam, Betty's an intelligent girl and she's in love with you. She isn't going to stop loving you just because you went overboard for a couple of weeks. Better men than you have done the same. You and Betty have known each other all your lives. She knows that what you did isn't an every-day occurrence. She's probably crying her heart out right now. Give her a couple of weeks, then go to her, tell her you're sorry, but admit to anything she accuses you of. Be honest. Women are funny. They'll accept most anything from the man they love."
Adam sighed deeply. He decided to accept Ben's advice. He didn't think it would do much good, but there was hope in his eyes.
