John Carrol leaned back in his swivel chair, and looked over his desk at the tall, full-fleshed stripper who was slowly coming to her feet. Her green eyes challenged him in a way to leave little unsaid in describing the spectacle of her act before the patrons of the Jay-Cee Club-or her appetites, off-stage.
Long, flowing blonde hair cascaded over her broad shoulders, shining with golden high-lights as she tossed her head. Her full lips, stretching in an ample smile over white, even teeth, were teasing, provocative with their promise of generosity. She stood, now, to her full height ... just a shade short of six feet.
The magnificent, thrusting bosoms struggled against the tight confinement of the cream nylon blouse, in turn prisoned at the woman's tiny waist by a wide, leather belt. Carrol, thought she looked entirely the personfication of the stage name she used: Goddess Golda; however, she'd asked him to call her Frankie, when she introduced herself.
"I'll show you," she said, the husky, intimate quality of her decidedly bedroom voice which had instantly snagged his attention coming into his office, producing another sympathetic reaction along his nerves. "I'll show you how I make the marks come in for more-and still more of the Goddess. There's nothing I don't do to please the customers!"
"Moonlighting with the customers isn't allowed, here," Carrol said, more coldly than he felt. It just wasn't possible to look at Goddess Golda without some sort of automatic, physical reaction. Hers was the sort of body which made a strip act highly profitable for John Carrol's type of club ... if he were lucky enough to find bodies like hers possessed by girls who could use them in a show.
Several years in the business had taught John how to judge a female the moment she walked into the office. When his secretary, Norma Blake, had ushered Frankie in, John had already made the decision to hire her. But, the formalities were necessary; though John could see with half an eye that every movement this girl made was shrewdly calculated to generate a highly-charged aura of sex.
At the words concerning going with the customers, Frankie shook her beautiful, blonde head, without rancor. "I don't play footsies with the customers, Mr. Carrol, except on stage."
"Oh?" he responded, ears quick to catch the emphasis on the word 'customers.' It wasn't subtle he knew, but he also knew that nothing about this girl was. She came on full-bore. Nor was the idea an original one. Many a stripper had offered some fun and games on the side to the boss. But John (who, with his wry sense of humor, always thought of himself as a 'straight man' in a shift of meaning for the term) had never been remotely tempted, until now.
Now-with the heat of the argument he'd had with Alice (his wife) earlier still rankling inside him ... the lithe body of the beautifully-endowed female before him blurred in focus....
When he approached the subject with Alice, John had been careful to choose his words. It was one thing to hear rumors about your wife and another man ... but quite another thing to consider, having no proof. For three days he'd tried to convince himself that his wife would not turn to another, but the more he'd thought, the more logical the idea became. Owning a night-club occupied his evening hours. Since the other man happened to be a playboy and a former friend of his wife's, these facts implied much insofar as opportunity was concerned. Then, being fully aware of his wife's jealous nature ... there was just no way John could avoid asking the question.
He'd been up most of the night. The drinks he'd taken in the closing hours of his 'duty' tour at the club had lulled him to sleep when he crept into bed. Impulse had urged him to wake Alice and demand an answer, there and then. However, being married to a woman for five years had educated him. So, he waited.
At breakfast, close to noon, John asked his question, casually, looking across the table at the slender, brown-haired woman who shared his bed. He believed he loved her-at the time of their marriage-although the basic motivation for their wedding was her contention that she was pregnant by him. This had turned out to be untrue. She wasn't pregnant by him or anyone else. However, time had glossed over the error and their marriage, considering everything, John felt, had been pretty good. Five years of it.
"I hear you're seeing Carl Denver," His eyes watched closely for Alice's reaction.
Her look stabbed toward him as the light-brown eyes read his question back to her. She frowned, then replaced the expression with a smile, quickly. Too quickly for John's peace of mind.
"Oh-he's an old friend, Johnny," she said, as if that explained everything. To John, it missed by a country mile.
"I hear that you're seeing a lot of him," John persisted, quietly, continuing to check her reactions closely.
"What are you suggesting?" Alice asked, angrily, her body stiffening and the knuckles of her slim hands suddenly white as they grasped the edge of the table.
"Why? Why, Alice?" he continued, quietly. He knew now that the rumor was correct. She had been seeing a lot of Carl Denver-she was having an affair with him. It was strange, he recalled, he could feel nothing at the knowledge. He felt-detached.
Alice's body held its rigidity for a long moment then, suddenly, tears began to streak her cheeks. "I-I don't know how it happened, Johnny. I don't, really, know. Just-well, you continually at the club-always with girls-I never see you ... Well, Carl came back and I-well...." Her voice trailed off and quickly a change of expression went over her features. They seemed to sharpen and the heat of anger and pain flared in her eyes. "Damn it all! I know about you and that Blake woman! And-and about all those other girls ... why am I on the witness stand? I don't question you, do I? What gives you the right ... so, I had an affair? What difference does it make?"
Still detached, John rose and moved to the front door. Alice leaped after him, running into his arms.
"John-John, please forgive me!" Her arms strained frenziedly about his neck, her eyes were pleading behind the tears which fell from them.
"Alice! For God's sake. I don't know what's gotten into you, but this ... this is just too much! Our marriage hasn't been the best, right from the beginning. It started with a lie. How do I know how many other men there were?"
She jerked back as though he'd slapped her. "John-you have no right. I said I was sorry. I'll never do it again-it was finished a couple of days ago!"
John had merely shrugged, the detached feeling persisting. He was conscious of experiencing no emotion. The drinks the night before, the long hours of sitting, wondering if the rumors were true and, now finding that they were ... It was difficult to feel anything for the woman he faced. His wife.
And yet-there were five years of marriage between them....
"I've never touched another woman since our marriage, Alice," he said, quietly. "I've told you this-time and time again. What you did is unforgivable, to me!"
It was then Alice flew into a rage and, before John could get through the front door, she hurled a book at his head, frenziedly. He quickly slipped out the door and traversed the stone path to his car.
A couple of jolts of whiskey under his belt had smoothed out the irritating jangles in his nerves when he arrived at the club....
... John's eyes brought the tall, blonde stripper back into focus before him. He had the odd impression he'd been sitting, thinking for a long time, but a glance told him it couldn't have been long. Perhaps a minute to scan, mentally, an important moment in his life. One moment which might wreck five years....
Frankie Robbins moved, then, and the action captured John's complete attention. It was a swift movement of hands, arms and nylon as the blouse slipped gracefully away from her magnificent breasts, over her head.
Then it was she rolled her mobile hips, uttered the characteristic stripper's cry to urge on excitement, and snapped a hard bump at him, her breasts trembling with impatience as they fought against the restraint of her bra.
Lowering her blouse to a chair, Frankie teasingly, challenged him with her great, green eyes, hot with suggestion as she dropped her fingers with exaggerated slowness to the zipper of her skirt. He could almost hear the music in time with the rotation of the smooth, roundness of her hips, the while the skirt slowly made its way down over all the rounded shapes until the pink panties, snug and enticing, emerged. Kicking away the skirt, her arms went overhead as her routine of bumps and grinds went into high gear. Lips parted and shining, tongue flashing constantly across the scarlet surfaces and eyes sparklingly enticing, she was-in an instant-a lewd goddess, dancing a pagan, jungle rite.
For a moment, John sat, fascinated by the artistry which the tall Frankie unleashed with just a few, basic motions of her spectacular body. Strippers, he knew, were rare who were true artistes and could provide spectators with the real, animal sex excitement the true artiste could evoke. Strippers were a dime a dozen who peeled with the professional air of having done it for a thousand and one nights ... because they had to get undressed to go to bed, anyhow. They were a glut on the market-usually frustrated dancers who couldn't make it and turned to stripping as a last resort.
Frankie Robbins-Goddess Golda-wasn't one of these.
Her hands slipped up to the cups of her bra and it looked, even to John's experienced eye, as though it were the touch of a thousand masculine hands-hands which enjoyed every titillating moment of the contact. The lush, wide-mouthed lips blew a moist, scarlet kiss in his direction and John wished it were the real thing.
Despite himself, the girl was inducing a growing reaction in him. He attempted to crowd it down as being unprofessional. He always had ... he prided himself on being nothing if not professional and business-like. He never used the club as a playhouse; never turned auditions into sex parties and, among the performers who knew the Jay-Cee Club, his name was good as gold. No girl ever got into his club on her back; no performer every stayed on his bill who didn't please the customers. John looked at a lot of bad performers, true, but most all the good ones made a bee-line for his place when they came into town.
Frankie was not alone in the ability to generate sex like a dynamo creates electricity. He had seen many, despite the low percentage in the overall classification of stripper. John had never allowed himself the privilege of violating the show-business discipline ... never look at an audition with a smile or with an expression that was anything other than coldly business-like. With John, it was a business-and a good one. It was his aim to keep it like that.
Suddenly another thought crossed his mind. What difference did it make if this magnificent broad did turn him on. His own loving wife had invited another man to share her urge for sex....
John suddenly watched those beautiful, voluptuous hips as they moved to the music, playing in Frankie's head. And with each suggestive bump, grind and jerk, he felt the erotic appeal of her grow along with the excitement which was throbbing within him.
Frankie, with a motion that was so graceful it hardly seemed to have happened, released the catch at the back of her bra and it slipped from the beautiful, huge globes as though of its own volition. The nipples were bright cherries, riding on tight mounds of pink which jerked and twitched with every motion, fascinating, hypnotizing. Her hands slid beneath them lovingly, to cup and lift them, offering them as though to the kiss of a lover.
John's imagination, coupled with his surrender to Frankie's magic had grown to painful proportions and he fought against the urge to move for comfort's sake. He also crowded down the equally urgent desire to move around the desk and take advantage of the situation. Frankie's actions in stripping before him with no request for an audition, left little room for doubt as to the outcome of any advance he might make.
Now, she was uttering little grunts and moans as her great bosoms rose and fell as if in the grip of irresistible passion. The savage goddess was caught up in her own frenzied spell and the rite was moving to its climax.
Despite himself, John moistened his lips with his tongue, wanting to look away, but not daring to move. It was then that Frankie began her move to round his desk with a grinding action of the flashing hips calculated to drive men to a peak of desire. Both arms flew upward as she let out a wild yell and then she was standing but a foot away from him, motionless, hands on the fantastic hips and looking down at him, calmly, her expression quizzical.
"Well, Mr. Carrol, what do you think of the sample?" she asked.
"Better than most," he grunted, ungraciously, fearful his voice would betray the state of his emotions if he tried to say more.
"That's all?" Frankie asked, big eyes widening in irritation.
"No!" John managed a small laugh, although he had no wish nor reason to laugh. "You'll do. Report to Miss Blake, tell her to assign you to a spot on the bill tonight. And, if there's anyone else waiting, have her send them in, would you please?"
The girl looked at him for another moment and then shrugged, the little motion making her bosoms dance invitingly.
"If you ever want a private show, just let me know," Frankie said, beginning to get back into her clothing. "It bugs me, not being able to get a rise out of a man...."
"What makes you think you didn't?" John asked, his eyes meeting hers.
"Oh ... then I did get to you?"
"Let's just say 'yes' ... and let it go at that," he chuckled, now feeling like laughing at himself. "And let's say you did a very good job."
"Now, I'm glad," she smiled, easily, blowing him a kiss. "You know, everybody I've talked to says you're alright, Mr. Carrol...."
"Just make it Johnny," he cut her off in friendly fashion. "We don't go too much for formality around the club. Makes the customers feel more at home-if you want to call it that!" John felt safe in standing now as Goddess Golda resumed her blouse and skirt, still exhibiting a totally innate grace as she finished restoring her clothing to its original chic appearance. As she draped her light sweater across the wide shoulders, John suddenly felt a little shaky. It would have been no problem at all to make a pass at Frankie Robbins and she'd certainly have run with the ball. She confirmed this as she picked up her bag and leaned one luscious thigh against the edge of his desk.
"Well, John," she said, arranging the drape of the sweater beneath her long, golden hair, "if you ever want me to do something-special-keep in mind I have nothing against it." John wondered how many times he'd heard the offer and in how many different choices of words. He sighed, relieved, as Frankie left with her inviting smile; her invitation still floating on the almost imperceptible suggestion of her perfume....
Norma Blake, John's secretary, came into his office and John found his eyes travelling the lines of her lissome figure with a heightened appreciation; noting the high thrust of her breasts in the always-proper business dress which flowed so easily around her body. Norma was an extremely attractive woman, a widow for eight years, and a good friend. Norma was the sort of woman he could talk to....
"Just one more," she said, easily, "a singer by name Terry Anson." Norma brushed back a lock of black hair from her forehead as rhe stopped by the desk. "Nice-looking, redhead, about five feet five of spectacular figure. If she sings as good as she looks, she ought to be a smash and-what's the problem?" Norma broke her thought as she picked up the existence of John's disturbance.
Her percipience never failed to shake him-and please him-and he experienced the mixed emotions as he looked up into her frowning eyes. He shrugged.
"It's-it's a personal thing maybe I'd like to talk about, later. Don't quite know. Alice and me. Would you get me a bottle of Scotch from the bar, Norma?"
She nodded, smiling warmly and the lights in her eyes spelled out more than friendship. John had known for some time that Norma loved him. He felt she was the kind of woman a man could love-the right man, at the right time.
In a characteristically swift and graceful motion, she spun on one spike heel to head for the door, the full skirt swirling up to reveal the smooth columns of exceptional legs. While not the sex-bomb Frankie Rob-bins was, Norma had something that few strippers ever had-or wanted, for that matter-refinement. It was no asset to a stripper, but to Norma, coupled with her sensitivity, and understanding and her ability to care about people, it was a pleasurable thing, especially to John. He enjoyed it in her to the point of delight.
No sooner had Norma vanished than the door reopened and a bouncy redhead entered, closing the portal behind her. There was something shy, something haunting about her blue eyes and the full-to-pouting sauciness of her mouth but, in the assurance and poise with which she crossed the room, hand outstretched in greeting, there was no shyness; it was the confident act of a true professional.
"I'm Terry Anson, Mr. Carrol," she said, "and I'd like to work for you as a singer." The voice was low and just touched by a faint huskiness. "If you'll give me even a try-out, I'll be more than willing to make it worth your while."
John's breath squeezed in his throat as he rose to shake her hand, tiny in his and, as she leaned across the desk, the pressure of her fingers intimate, he could not escape the smooth swelling of her breasts and the dark, mysterious valley which lay between them. Suddenly John's mouth and throat felt dry and hot.
He had received the message-from where he had no definite idea-that Terry Anson would do anything he asked her, just to secure a spot in his show. What Terry didn't know was that John had just been exposed to a tremendously effective operator in the area of arousing sexual desire in the male animal. A spark would set him off like it would a gas-filled room.
He resumed his seat, waving her to a chair, and tried to think of something other than the total attraction of the woman's provocative body. He also tried to sweep into a dark corner the smoothly-controlled brazenness of her offer; the fire which had sparked deep in the innocence of her blue eyes as she offered whatever he wanted in return for a chance.
John tried, desperately, to think about his wife; instead his errant thoughts went to Frankie Robbins. Then he tried for Norma Blake in a panicky effort at orientation away from the sexuality which pulsed in the room between them-but the image of Terry Anson before him, with her manifest innocence and her subtle promise, wrecked the effort. At that moment, John realized that, if something weren't done with his marriage, he'd go into the arms of Frankie Robbins, of Terry Anson and of Norma Blake with the pent-up frustration of five years of what he recognized (in a flashing instant of perception) was a totally unsatisfactory relationship with Alice. In the backwash of this ebbing realization, he knew he was but a step away from leaving his wife....
Shaking his head in an attempt to order his tumbling thoughts, John was appalled at the change in him. Over the years, he'd had many an offer of sex from women desperate to advance in show business. Until this morning, he'd never realized what a powder-keg he sat on in this office, and a vague understanding that, somehow, Alice had sensed it, came into focus. Maybe, he thought, he should give her a chance to explain further her reasons for her affair with Denver. Perhaps he just didn't realize the tremendous pressure of her provocation-maybe they should begin again....
John never finished the thought. His eyes had begun, once more, to caress Terry's voluptuous figure; a body which, with a deep and painful hunger in his loins, he wanted to see bare before him. He knew he had only to ask. She'd told him so....
But John also knew this was no way to run a business. The most important thing, he thought desperately, closing his eyes for a moment, was that Terry Anson sing-sing well-because, no matter how good she was in bed, it was no recommendation for a spot on the Jay-Cee Club's show. The panic within John convinced him that all he needed was a small push, and he'd fall over the out-of-bounds mark. Even before his marriage, John had never 'played.' A couple of girls-both love affairs-but, never for kicks.
And never anything like this woman, sitting beside his desk; nor nothing like Frankie Robbins ... both of them so packed with sex attraction it surrounded them like a perceptible aura....
"Tell me about yourself, Terry," he heard himself saying, struggling for composure, "and let's see what we can work out." With a tremendous effort, he leaned forward to place his forearms on his desk and smile reassuringly into the innocent and exciting blue eyes ... a tremendous effort which comforted John a little in his agitation. At least he retained some control over himself and, over the surging, pounding turmoil in his loins, he felt a light film of relieved perspiration cool on his forehead....
CHAPTER TWO
Terry Anson sat in the comfortable leather chair at the end of John Carrol's desk, suddenly relieved at the release of her own inner tensions at his friendliness. She scoffed, inwardly, at herself for not believing the information she'd been so careful to gather about this man. Her display of sex attraction in their initial seconds together was insurance-so intent was she on capturing his attention until she could focus it on the ability of which she was so confident-she could no more have avoided giving the subtle invitation than she could have flown to the moon.
Now that she'd turned it on, she was incapable of turning it off. She'd been told she didn't have to trade John Carrol anything for a spot in his show ... if she had the moxie ... and Terry knew she had it. But if there was no spot for a singer open-if he recognized her ability but didn't like her style-if, for any of the myriad reasons a performer fails to get a job, despite having a world of talent-she was determined to insure the "ifs" clear out of the picture.
Terry crossed her legs, deliberatly, noting the instinctive follow-on of John Carrol's eyes with satisfaction. She knew what the picture was-she'd sat before a mirror and crossed her legs in every dress she owned before wearing it for an interview and this dress had a most pleasing effect, Terry knew. The warmth shimmered in her eyes, a far more subtle, more suggestive and intimate invitation to romance than the almost blatant urge to sex which was the result of Frankie's invitation. Terry, too, was bold in her restrained offering, but she was honest. An affair with her could be the thing of a moment ... or a binding one, for a time. She gave the impression, to John's well-developed ability to judge people, of a female who felt deeply, loved violently-but was ruled by a hard-core practicality. If an affair was necessary to her success, with Terry singing came first. She'd put just as much into insuring the opportunity to sing as she'd put into her performance under the lights.
This John Carrol saw, recorded mentally, and-in doing so-felt a small shock of surprise. He had judged females-lots of them-for a lot of years. It was automatic; it was a part of his job. But what surprised him was the excitement he felt at the judgment of this girl. He knew it was something within him rather than within her, though he had to admit she was an engrossingly and excitingly endowed woman. He sensed that the excitement was triggered by the fact that-for his first time during the years he'd run the club-the possibility of an affair was bubbling like strong wine in his veins. He could not uproot it from his mind and, even more surprising to him, was the fact that there was no guilt, no regret in the background. He felt an odd sort of relief and wondered if it might be numbness from the dimension of his emotional shock.
While all this was tumbling in the squirrel-cage John's mind had become, Terry occupied the time with extracting a cigarette from her bag and John politely leaned across to ignite it with his desk lighter. This required he draw his eyes away from the engaging sight of Terry's well-constructed legs. She had tiny feet, so small they almost made her slim ankles look heavy. But the generous length of her curvaceous calves and the thrust of the full, feminine thighs made John's hands tremble as he put down the lighter. The sheen of taut nylons-the tiny crescent of bare flesh which winked briefly as she crossed the delightful thighs--her voice caught his eyes and drew them up to hers.
"I want a job singing, Mr. Carrol. I'm good and I can prove it to you. If there are any requirements, I'm more than willing to talk about them-and to fulfill them without bickering." The statement was made almost flatly and John felt a leap of admiration for the business-like manner in which she spoke. The innocence of the big, blue eyes never wavered on his, the tiny, husky timbre in her low, sexy voice again started the sympathetic vibrations deep in his nervous system.
He shifted, uncomfortably, struggling to keep his eyes from straying to the fullness of her dark green frock-the bodice which fought back the attempts of the breasts to escape captivity. The hem of her brief skirt was also a temptation to his gaze-with the lush expanse of tender curves above and below the smoothly rounded knees. In John's imagination, women's legs-attractive ones-always exuded their own personality. Terry's unlike her eyes and mouth in their innocence, looked urgent, wanton, hungry and imperious.
When John replied to her request for a job, he was surprised at the automatic expression of desire which came from him, almost as though his sub-conscious had spoken.
"What if I offer you a singing spot-but with certain strings attached?" he asked, actually startled at his words. Then he recognized it was a tentative move-experimental-he was anxious to find how far he could go, and how fast. At this point, John was like a small boy with a new toy. There was no resolve to take Terry up on any arrangement; he reassured himself that just knowing it was possible was enough.
Terry smiled, her eyes glancing to the brown leather sofa under the built-in book-cases. "If you mean what I think you mean...."
She left it in the air and John, grinning with a release of some secret tension, allowed it to remain there.
"Tell you what," he said, "come in tonight and get with Jerry, our pianist. If he okays you, we'll audition you, live, tonight. OK?"
Terry shrugged and smiled. "That's fine with me."
John stood up then, to move around the desk and help the girl to her feet. In the moment his hand was under her forearm in a gentlemanly gesture, he felt an uncontrollable urge to kiss her. It was totally impulse; she was close to him; the conversation had been suggestive and leaving little if any doubt as to what she offered. He pulled the girl toward him, into his arms, his pulses leaping at the willingness with which she pressed against him and the heated pressure of her bosom. Her arms went around his neck and the full, innocent lips came up to his, open.
The kiss was long, deep and lingering, involving lips, tongues and bodies, intensely. John's head was spinning, his excitement leaping inside him at the ease with which it had been accomplished.
Just as they released each other, the door opened and John's eyes leaped toward the motion as he froze, inside.
Alice, his wife, stood there with shock plain on her features. The expression was so clearly one of wifely hurt that John felt nausea swell like a sponge in his stomach. Then she turned, swiftly, and vanished, the door slamming behind her.
For an instant, John couldn't move and then he sprang to the door, flinging it open to charge through Norma's office, just outside; leaping across the small stage and through the crowded tables and chairs of the club, he pursued the fleeing figure of his wife. His feeling was one of panic, mixed with bitterness, that his one act of infidelity-and a totally experimental one-should have been witnessed by Alice. Now she would never believe him.
He caught her in the parking lot, reaching for her desperately as she attempted to open the car door. Alice was crying, uncontrollably, tears streaming down her cheeks, her lips trembling. Hate blazed in her eyes as she glared at him.
"Let me alone!" she yelled, almost in hysterics. "Alice-Alice, for God's sake, listen to me-I...." She slapped him with all her strength. "Don't ever touch me again. I-I came to ask for-forgiveness. I was willing to beg-I believed you when you said you'd never touched another woman-and I find you in one's arms." She straightened in angry resolve. "It's been a mistake from the beginning," she gasped. "You can go to hell!" She turned her back on him and got into the car.
John, numbed with shock, was speechless. There wasn't anything he could say, he knew-at least, nothing Alice would ever believe.
He stood, rooted, watching her car swerve angrily out of the parking lot to disappear around the curve of the building. Then, the starch went out of his figure and he slumped, exhausted, against the fender of the car beside him. He felt like he'd been running for hours, that all the strength, energy and will had suddenly drained from him. Suddenly, he was conscious of a keen sense of loss and the hard want for his life not to dissolve under him-not to throw five years of marriage away like a crumpled paper bag.
He began to walk, slowly, unaware of what he was doing-of time passing-of his surroundings. His mind, like a tread-mill kept rerunning the facts of the revolting situation, coming to the same conclusion each time. It was over ... and through no real fault of his.
* * *
Alice struggled to get a grip on her emotions as she drove swiftly away from the club. She accepted the fact that it was finished, but she wasn't so foolish as to think she didn't care. She knew she cared far too much. She knew, from lifelong experience, that now-in this brief time-she could accept it without pain. But when the anaesthetic of shock wore away, she would end nakedly sick, emotionally and physically bereft and agonized. It was instinctive for her to head for Carl Denver's office-but it was logical, too. She had a tremendous desire not to be alone. She couldn't stand it-she wouldn't-and Carl would be more than pleased to see her.
But, at the last moment, she chickened out and instead of going to Carl's office, stopped in a cocktail lounge, a short distance away, where they had met many times before. Once inside the dim, intimate room, she went to the pay phone and dialed Carl's office.
"Alice!" he exploded into the phone, pleased. "Where are you?"
"I'm at-at Charlie's. Carl ... I have to see you."
"But-I thought....
"Please, Carl. Things have changed. I don't care what we decided. Things have changed and I have to see you." Alice realized that the hysterical note was plain in her voice but she needed the comforting presence of this man; she needed escape: mental, emotional, physical reassurance and Carl could supply it-if nothing else.
"Sure, baby, sure," Carl's soothing reply, in a deep masculine voice sent new strength through her trembling limbs. "I'll get done and be there in about thirty minutes. I'll just take the afternoon off-it's dead as Kelsey today."
"Oh Carl-thank you! I do need you, desperately!" She didn't care if he heard the pleading. All she could think of, now, was the feel of his hands making love to her breasts; the demand of his lips on hers, making her catch fire with hunger for him, the raw desire that drove her to uncontrollable heights of erotic action.
"Now, hang loose, baby. I'll be there before you know it. Order yourself a drink, sit down and let yourself relax. You're all wound up, and nothing's that important...." As she slipped into a booth, she recalled the confident, unruffled assurance of his voice. Had she not known exactly where she stood with Carl, it would have contributed to her turmoil. But Carl-she thought to herself-Carl likes to lay me-he likes any woman who is violently responsive to his skilled love-making-and that's all he likes. She knew he was happy to have her on the string ... it flattered him. To her, none of this was important because she got her reward-sexually.
With the double Martini before her, she realized that she needed the drink at that moment even more than she needed Carl. She attacked it eagerly. By the time Carl arrived, Alice was on her way to the state she liked best-she was for kicks and nothing else mattered. Husband, marriage ... nothing but the delights of those repeated flights to the moon that made her emotions flutter like a flag in a gale....
* * *
It was dark, but John Carrol was still dazed and numb. Sitting in a cocktail bar, he was contemplating his second after-dinner Martini and trying desperately to force his mind away from the treadmill on which it continued to run. The more he thought, the more John realized that he badly needed someone to talk to. The decision was difficult to reach, in his mental condition, but had come when he finished the dinner he'd ordered and eaten like an automaton. Downing the drink, he went outside to a cab stand and gave the lead driver the address of Norma Blake's apartment.
It was the shortest ten minutes John could remember, the ride to Norma's place. He felt as if his nerves were worn through. He had walked for hours and it wasn't until he became conscious of darkness descending on the city and the hunger pangs in his midriff that he realized how long he had been afoot. Paying the cabbie, John turned and looked up at the apartment building, then at his watch.
It was a reflex because he knew Norma would be home by dark. She left the club office around four or five, depending on the work load and when he wasn't in the office, afternoons, she generally went home about four. He tried to think, standing there, what he would do and say but his mind continued in turmoil from fatigue and alcohol.
"The hell with it!" he grated, half-aloud and started for the entrance. He had never visited Norma's place before, alone. Both he and Alice had been there twice for parties. But, despite the warm and close personal relationship between them which existed in the club's office, whenever the need to talk something out with her had arisen, it had occurred at the office. With the knowledge that Norma loved him and was not averse to an affair, neither of them had either made a pass at the other nor offered any suggestion toward greater intimacy.
Her apartment was 17 and, at his ring, it was several seconds before he heard footsteps moving toward the door. When it opened, Norma's face immediately hard-muscled, and presented exceptional proportions. His eyes, deep-set, gave a brooding yet sensitive flavor to his facial expressions. When he lifted his eyes from pouring the wine, Alice suddenly felt naked as the excitement flooded over her once more.
"Well, Alice," he said, giving her one of the half-filled glasses, "let's drink to a wonderful evening of sharing."
Touching lightly, they lifted their glasses and Alice proceeded to take a heavy swallow from hers.
"Hey-not so fast!" he smiled at her.
"I just feel like getting drunk!" she proclaimed.
"I don't want you to be drunk," he explained, moving close to kiss her cheek. His arm around her waist pulled her close to him. His eyes held hers, looking down with soft fires burning in their depths. "You're a wonderful woman, Alice, believe me, I know. I've had many women but none more lovely, more wonderful to hold, to make love to than you. Every time I look at you, the reaction hits me-hard!"
Alice laughed. "That was cleverly put."
"I mean-violently. You do hit a man where he feels it most!" He drew her closer and she could detect the measure of his desire.
"You are reacting!" she exclaimed, both pleased and amused. She needed the reassurance of this man-telling her how she made him feel and then proving it to her. It was necessary to her that she feel sexually arousing and desirable.
"I'm reacting like any man would react to a woman as beautiful as you are," he said, kissing her lightly on the lips and releasing her. "Now, for a little lighting...."
Going to the television set, he turned it onto a blank channel and adjusted the brightness until it created the fantasy of flickering moonlight; moving then to in to mix the drinks.
* * *
Alice felt thrilling excitement sweep over her as the motel room door closed behind Carl Denver and her.
The room was beautiful and she knew the tariff was expensive. It was the sort of place Carl would select-romantically, he wanted perfection. A huge double bed, contemporary furniture and a large-screen television to provide the perfect night-light ... the flickering, artificial moonlight to mysteriously highlight their naked bodies as they made love.
Carl moved to center stage, immediately, removing any suggestion of cheapness or furtiveness by now allowing Alice a moment in which to feel awkward or ill-at-ease. The bottle of chilled champagne in his hands was a tool with which he started creating the atmosphere for what would follow.
Alice was tight already. This much she knew. The conversation during the afternoon had ventilated the frustrations in her married life as she told Carl much about John and herself. She realized, in an instant of clear insight, she'd told him much more than had been really necessary. But Carl was a good listener, having found it was well worth his while.
Alice watched him as he opened the bottle and poured the bubbling wine into the tumblers from the dresser-desk. He was a good-looking bull of a man of large proportions, his huge hands handling the champagne bottle as though it were a medicine bottle. His features, while not rugged, were totally masculine-he wasn't the 'pretty boy' type-and the sandy, close-cropped hair was becoming. She guessed his height as better than six-feet, three and she knew, from previous experience, that his naked body was symmetrical, reflected surprise. She stood, a robe pulled tight about her lissome figure and a glance John could not restrain revealed the press of her nipples against the nylon.
"Come in," was all she said, closing the door behind him. "I was just getting out of the shower. Let me get something on...."
John shrugged for want of immediate words to tell her she need go to no trouble on his account-but the thrust of her nipples against the robe had stirred an erotic response in him.
"Where've you been?" she asked, then, concern in her eyes.
"Walking," was his laconic reply. "Got a drink around?" She nodded toward the dining area adjacent to the kitchen.
"Sure. Fix one for me, too."
"I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"
Norma grinned, brushing back the lock of hair from her forehead in a characteristic gesture. In the depths of her dark eyes, John could see the warm affection. It was like her to say nothing directly; to leave the path of the conversation to him.
"I had nothing planned except television, maybe a cocktail and then to bed. No date." She turned away to her bedroom, urging him to make the drinks strong ones. John nodded, his eyes automatically falling to the slight motion of her firm buttocks beneath the clinging robe. They engendered a fascinating twitch to the length of the nylon draped about her, but there was no exaggerated movement. Norma was not obvious and John, watching her disappear, admitted to himself, again, that Norma was a good-looking woman, including the blessing of a beautiful body. He felt a small, warming reaction at the thought it would not be difficult to persuade Norma to let him make love to her. Then he was fighting back the thought as he went touch the switch beside the door cutting off the room lamps. Alice had the impression of being in total darkness at first and she stood where she was, knowing he would find her.
Then she felt his arm going around her and his hand, from behind her, found the lift of her breasts and he fondled them softly as small cascades of pleasure went through her. Then she felt his body press against hers as his lips found the curve where the soft column of her throat met the generous display of her shoulders. His lips and tongue setting little, tiny fires as they touched her.
"Oh, Alice...!" she felt the warmth of his breath in her ear as he whispered his excitement. The muscles of her body stretched and tightened, involuntarily, as the chase of excitation along her nerves speeded up. She felt he was tightening her, like a fiddle string, as she turned to press herself against him, close. The need for his kisses and continued caresses was like a voracious appetite, driving her....
The affair between Alice and Carl had been the product of her own tremendous excitement at the sight of him, some months before, when they had met by accident in a drug store. When her unbelieving eyes found him, the unexpectedness of it had stunned Alice for the moment. But then, she felt her body expand and grow hot with the memories of what she had shared with the huge man before she married John Carrol...." Alice, how wonderful to see you again!" he had exclaimed and she knew, delightedly, he must be feeling the same exulting delight inside which she was experiencing. She had no feeling that six years had separated this moment from their last meeting. Carl had hardly changed. To her, he was fantastically handsome-tremendously exciting, just to look at.
"Carl! What are you doing here?" she had gasped, in her surprise.
"Well-any reason why I shouldn't be here?" he laughed and she joined her merriment with his, laughing at her own words. As he moved close to her to take her outstretched hand, once again she was feeling young, free and excitingly happy. Their affair had been a torrid, violent relationship which, ordinarly-because of their enjoyment of each other-might have led to marriage. Only Carl was not the marrying sort.
"I hear you're married, now," he said.
She nodded. "That's right."
"Happy?" he asked, studying her face closely for her reaction.
"Who's really happy?" she smiled, shrugging. "Life isn't ever that simple, is it, Carl?" Her question had a note of pleading in it, expressing the hope that he would agree with her.
"I'm happy." His smile didn't alter.
"Really happy, Carl?" she persisted.
"Why shouldn't I be? I live as I want. No strings. Making money at what I like to do best ... none of the problems of the so-called lonely bachelor. You know, Alice, some guys are meant for marriage-they can't face the jungle of single blessedness." He chuckled. "Now me-I couldn't survive being married."
Alice could believe him. Certainly believe he would not suffer loneliness. Carl was the type of man who could make some women feel hot all over with a look and a few words. He had the ability to make a woman feel exalted, desirable, great ... as though she could be happier than anyone had a right to be. He had the magic touch and, with him, it was a merry-go-round-fantastic, perhaps, but to him, it was a ball.
Her thoughts leaped backward, remembering in a hot surge of recollection what it was like with Carl. Then his voice shattered the pictures.
"Have you anything planned this afternoon?"
She lifted her eyes to his, feeling the hot flesh creep into her face. He could hardly have read her mind, yet the statement offered and promised just what her mind had been sorting....
"There's so much we have to talk about," he went on, his voice touched with the correct amount of bland innocence to make her believe that talk was all he wanted. Perhaps it was true.
"I do have things I should get done," she said, quickly-on the defensive and awkwardly seeking a means to escape a situation which, she knew so well, would quickly become something over which she had no control.
"What, for instance?" Carl persisted, teasingly. "Look-we haven't seen each other for ages. I want to know what's happened to you."
Alice felt herself swinging in the opposite direction, melting inside, hungering for an afternoon with Carl. Here was a man she'd known before her marriage; who liked her for what she was ... With John, it was different. Always, she had the feeling that he was cheating on her. It hurt, because there was nothing she could do or say about it. The gambit of the non-existent pregnancy she had used to force him into marriage which might not, otherwise, have occurred, hung over her head. But, she had felt, all's fair in love and war and Alice was desperate for marriage, a family and security. When the revelation that she could not have children hit her, it was a thunderous blow. Subconsciously, she had the feeling she deserved it.
She realized her marriage to John had been accomplished on the rebound from Carl. Yet, she loved John as much as it was possible for her to love a man.
"Yes, Carl ... why not?" she heard herself say; and they had gone to a cocktail lounge for several drinks as she brought him up to date on her marriage and her life but not couching on anything in the area of intimacy.
At his suggestion they go to his apartment for more drinks and talk, Alice went along with what she knew, by then, was strictly a gag. It was a couple of days later she knew why she had gone with him. She'd fooled herself into thinking nothing would happen-but it was only a mental device to allow her to do what she had suddenly experienced a driving desire for. She'd played with fire, as the old saw had it, and she'd burned herself to a turn. With Carl, you didn't suggest a friendly kiss or holding hands. His attitude was that a woman was a body-and a body was for loving. The way Carl did it, was beautiful. Each time she returned to earth after the skyrocket ride to the zenith, she always remembered the fairy-tale quality of Carl's love-making. Alice admitted to herself it was impossible for her to resist him. When Carl reached for her, she fell into his hands like a ripe plum....
Flashing through Alice's mind, under the magic of Carl's hand on her breasts and the pressure of his body against hers, the thoughts vanished as his lips came down on hers. Instantly her fires within had leaped and she concentrated every fibre of her being on getting his huge body onto the bed with her. Purposely, he let the moments pass as desire built and beat inside her and, just as she thought she must beg him, he began to move her toward the bed. Suddenly, the muscles in her legs seemed to go limp.
"Oh, Carl!" she gasped, writhing as she felt his hands removing her clothing. How she wanted to be naked under his hot hands! She writhed in delight and desire as Carl made the most of baring her body, hands gently pulling, caressing, working her garments off, one by one. His fingers brushed her thighs, her bra-imprisoned breasts, her bare back as he found the catch of her bra and then the naked tips of her bosoms; hands which never ceased exciting her as he laid her, naked and shuddering with pleasure, back on the bed. It was then that he began kissing her intensely, his tongue exciting her to a peak of erotic need that pounded for satisfaction.
"Carl! Please, Carl...!" It seemed an eternity before he joined her, the heat of his naked body moving next to her on the bed. Writhing, panting, she found herself speechless as his hands and lips moved to more intimate caresses. Her body was swollen to bursting with need; her nerves tingling and itching with it. Her breasts were tight, hot knots which seemed to press against her lungs and cut off her breathing. She struggled and gasped for air, and found the words to voice and cry her need, to plead with him for release....
When it came, the explosion of pleasure was such an exquisite agony that she screamed, going momentarily berserk with the keen joy which raged through every particle of her, shaking her and flinging her in swooping, breath-taking arcs, suffocating her with unbearably sharp sensation.
Afterward, the need swelled and goaded her again....
"Carl-I don't know what's the matter with me-more-love me more-make me wild again! I need it Carl, more than ever before-Carl, kiss me...!" Never had she felt such compulsion, as though the only way she could hold on to sanity was in the ultimate ecstasy of continued release-on and on until she exhausted the fire and the hunger and floated in complete, black nothinginess.
She felt as though a dam had burst, inside her and he was the only way she could stop the outgoing rush of her very being.
"You're wonderful, Alice," she heard his voice laughing softly against her ear. Of all the women I've known, you've always been the very best."
"I can't believe it, Carl," she gasped, twisting, head rolling in the forest of her wanton hair, "but I don't care-I don't! I don't want anything but your huge body over mine...." He laughed again, his hands cupping, caressing her breasts; his kisses starting the tingles leaping along her nerves.
"What's happening to me?" Alice asked herself, silently, for a frantic moment, straining hard against Carl to feel each inch of him she could touch as she arched against him with a fierce strength from outside herself. As his lips recaptured her breasts, Alice asked no further questions but gave herself up, completely, to the overpowering sensations again racking her consciousness.
"Oh Carl!" she gasped, "Carl-Carl-Carl-oh, that's wonderful-oh, yes-oh, Carl, that's driving me-oh, it's driving me mad!" Her voice broke and she sobbed: "Carl-I can't-I can't stand-Carl!"
As he began to move, she knew, frantically, wildly, insanely, what was coming and struggled, mindlessly, arms and legs clutching, beating, threshing at what she knew not....
CHAPTER THREE
Norma returned to the living room, attractively clad in skin-tight capris with a clinging, knit top. Her black hair fell to her shoulders and she was surrounded by an enticing cloud of cologne which added to John's excitement. She dropped, gracefully, to the sofa beside him, but not close, to pick up the drink he had set on the coffee table for her.
"Well, John, I'm surprised to see you. It must be a weighty problem to bring you here at this time of day. What may I do for you?"
For an instant, John teetered on the point of suggesting they retire to her bedroom for a little loving tenderness but, applying his drink to his lips to prevent a recurrence of the automatic speech to Tony earlier in the day, he crowded down the sensuality.
"I don't know, really, where to begin," he said, "but...."
"Let me help," Norma put in. "It's something with you and Alice."
"You can say that, again," he agreed.
"OK then," she complied, smiling, " 'that again'!"
"Funny girl," John smiled at her. "Anyway, it's washed up unless I can find an explanation...." He turned to Norma, concerned. " ... well, Alice thinks I've been shacking up with girls in the show."
Norma sat motionless for a moment, stunned. Then she exclaimed: "You've got to be kidding!"
John shook his head. "I'm serious."
"Well, Alice must have rocks in her head!" she protested, leaning forward. "That is ... unless you've been doing something I don't know about. I've never known a more loyal husband. Many's the time ... but that's not important," she broke off the thought. "You have a reputation for being the least out of line operator with talent for miles around!"
John shrugged. "But how do I convince my wife?"
"Don't try," Norma advised.
He shook his head. "You don't understand the situation."
"Well, John, why don't you fill me in on what I don't know ... and maybe I can size it up a little more helpfully." She patted his arm. "I don't like to get involved in anyone else's domestic problems, but, John-you are something else again." She grinned. "I'd do anything for you ... even to talking over your domestic troubles with you." John's mind attempted to isolate the intimate promise her eyes and voice made but gave up trying to find it in her words. His mind, by now, was dulled and sluggish from the emotions and the liquor which the day had forced on him.
Finally he sorted out the next thing he wanted to say.
"I don't know about her and Carl Denver!" he blurted. "I guess everybody does...."
Norma nodded slowly. "I heard something...."
"It was over-so she said. We'd had a fight this morning when I asked her about it. Then, she came into the office just at the wrong time this morning. That-girl singer-well, something happened and...."
"I guessed." There was amusement, tinged with regret in Norma's statement.
John went on to explain in detail what had happened, from the time he talked to Alice to the moment she drove off. Everything he could remember, he told her, finished the recitation in exhaustion, saying: " ... and so, here I am, crying on your shoulder!"
He tossed off the remainder of his drink, turning his head to Norma to ask: "So, what now?"
A long silence fell between them. Finally Norma, her voice soft and slightly husky, made a hesitant reply.
"John-I can't think of anything that would-really-help. You know-a woman believes-only what she wants to. That's the-the difficult part."
Sudden anger at the futility of it all boiled in John and he barked: "Damn it all! Why the hell can't a woman trust a man?"
Norma moved closer, putting her hand on his arm, gently. "It's not all that simple, John, and you know it. Some women just can't believe even in themselves so, naturally, they won't trust anyone else. Yet, there are probably just as many who go too far in the other direction for their own good-and believe too strongly in a man. That can be just as painful, and all you can do is wait that out and hope for the best."
"Five years shot to hell," John groaned, dropping his face into his hands. After a moment he lifted his head. "It's too late. Too much has happened to put it back together." Suddenly his arms went around Norma, pulling her close before she could move to resist. His lips found her soft, moist ones as excitement and tenderness raced through him. He was pulling her even closer when her arms stiffened against him and pushed him gently but definitely away. John didn't hesitate to release her. Both were silent until Norma sighed:
"No, John. It just isn't right."
"Yes." He knew she was right.
"It's not me you want. In this moment, you desperately want to escape. I don't want it that way, John, and you, of all people, should know that!" She stood, moving to a chair opposite him.
"Norma, I'm sorry," he finally said, feeling foolish and suspecting he looked shamefaced as well. But there was nothing he could do to abate the pounding in his temples which the touch of her lips had caused. It had been an electric contact-and something more.
"Don't be sorry, John," Norma smiled. Her face was flushed and her eyes didn't meet his. She sat nervously, her hands toying with each other. "It's just that-this isn't the right moment. If-if things were different, John-I don't know-probably it would be best if you got back to the club...."
John rose, quickly, knowing she was right. For him, things had gotten out of hand. Why, he wasn't sure, indicating the depth of his upset. But he recognized Norma was right-he should leave.
As he went out, Norma stopped at the door to say:
"Some-some other time, maybe, John." She touched his shoulder and he felt the electricity go through him once more. Again the temptation to take her in his arms returned but he smiled and thanked her quietly, moving down the corridor.
Walking along the street toward a cab stand, John tried to pull his thoughts from Norma and from the problem which had brought him to her apartment. He also tried to veer away, mentally, from the sudden desire which her lips had fired in him. The father he walked, the more convinced he became that the only thing he really needed was a woman ... and there was quite a selection at the club. A woman, a bottle of booze ... these spelled escape from the dilemma which, by now, had him throughly sick and tired of its unchanging facets. He'd take any route to escape facing the mess his life had become.
* * *
Norma Blake stood looking at the closed door for some time after John vanished through it. Her nerves were painfully evident to her and tears were welling down her cheeks. She fought the dry lump in her throat, finally returning to the sofa, sitting with hands in her lap.
The hard hunger of her love for John-and the painful necessity to deny him what he wanted-made her writhe inside. It had been a long time since she'd felt this way about a man. And she'd loved John Carrol for more than a year. The old secretary-falls-for-the-boss story-yet something more, because John Carrol was a gentle, sensitive man-and a loyal one. Far more so than her husband, Larry, had been. The three years of their marriage had been violent and passionate-but unsatisfactory. She had loved Larry to the day he died and he, in his own way, had loved her. Larry's idea of love had been providing for his wife, taking her out twice a week and making love to her three times a week. But, he had his outside girls and she found this out.
Norma never made a play for John Carrol because she despised the entire idea of such behavior and had, long before her husband's own betrayal the more deeply confirmed her aversion. She recognized her own attraction to John and recalled how easy it would have been for her to succumb to that attraction, just a few moments before. One quick kiss almost led her straight to the bedroom. But she knew that it wasn't desire for her that motivated his pass at her-it was a desire for escape-and any woman who aroused him would have been acceptable to him in that moment.
However, Norma recognized, that wasn't the way she wanted John Carrol. She wanted him, but only when he came to her with a desire for herself-a desire which stemmed from her own person and identity. Much as she felt the deep affection for John, she would not be a casual score-a therapeutic lay, so to speak-for him. Norma Blake just wasn't that type of female.
* * *
John Carrol had come to rest at the long bar which ran the length of one side of the Jay-Cee Club. A mirror backed the bar, fronted by shelves of glasses. Through and around these, it was possible to follow the action in the room or on the stage without turning from the bar itself. John was slightly smashed and was confronted by a double martini which he knew wasn't going to help abate his tipsy condition. His eyes were casually following the work of the stripper then on stage; a slim dancer who went by the name of Vera and who had the ability to distract the customers' attention from her lack of fleshly endowment. She was a fill-in who worked between shows and was gifted with enough savvy to keep the spectators happy between presentations.
John had asked the bartender about Terry Anson, since he'd missed her act and she wouldn't be on again for another hour. Ben, the barman, gave, with circled thumb and forefinger, his critique of Terry's performance, adding a wink and the spoken information that Jerry, the pianist, had really flipped over her. There was the suggestion, in Ben's words, which didn't please John-that Jerry might be making passes, excited by Terry's enticing body-but he shrugged it away. It didn't matter ... just so long as she was available when John wanted his own kicks....
He'd sat for some time, trying to come to terms with the strange idea of getting into the action on-the-side. His marriage, now that he was viewing it in the black-light of the bar corner and alcoholic diffusion, had been a strange one, right from the start. It started with a lie but, John thought, they had managed to find a happy relationship-as for love, he questioned the category. What kind of love could survive with one partner being constantly jealous? John could recall Alice's flying into a rage over nothing more than his talking with another woman-being at the club later than usual or later than she believed necessary. His glance at a woman on the street would send Alice into moodiness. His good-humored protest, that looks meant nothing, brought from Alice the retort that a man only looked at a woman when he was speculating on what she was like in bed. John had looked at her in wonder when she made that statement; wonder because the involved reasoning of a female would think it was all that simple....
Then the music of the small combo mushroomed into the club and on stage, Vera rotated her hips swiftly to end with a bump following the progress of some imaginary object off into orbit, which delighted many customers, well on their way to orbit, themselves. Applause rose as, with eyes shaded by one hand, Vera indicated watching the crash. Cheers and laughter rose with the applause as she switched from sex to comedy and did an exaggerated tip-toe off stage, humiliated.
John grinned as he finished his Martini and left the bar for the stage, moving to the curtained entrance to the backstage area. Vera had just come off from a quick second bow.
"Business sounds good tonight, boss," she smiled at him.
"You're doing a fine job, honey," he grinned at her. "Where'd you come by the comedy ending?" She smiled up at him, shrugging.
"Just something that came to mind when the combo started. The timing was just right for the music curtain."
"Funny girl," he chuckled. "I like it." Vera stepped close to give him a quick hug and was gone. He moved toward his office, passing Frankie Robbins who was dressed in a scarlet, flaming gown which hugged her figure like another skin. The great breasts danced in their effort to leap the low-cut bodice.
"See my act?" she asked, with a warm smile, the green eyes gleaming brightly.
"Missed the first show," he confessed. "I haven't seen you-out there." He nodded, grinning, toward the stage. "I'll catch you this show. Seen Terry Anson?"
"Who?" she asked, brow knitting.
"The singer," John explained.
"Oh-haven't seen her since she was on. Pretty good, she was." Frankie stepped closer to him. "Buy a girl a drink, later?"
John grinned. "Been a rough night," he said. "I'll take a raincheck, though." She patted his cheek and a tingling sensation went through John as he watched her walk away, then turned to go on to his office.
Once inside, he went to a small liquor cabinet and picked up a bottle of scotch. Then, going to his desk, he pushed the lever on his desk intercom.
"Fred," he said, "have you seen the new singer, Terry Anson?"
The gruff voice of the stage manager replied:
"Think she's in the girls' dressing room, John."
"Thanks," the owner replied, putting down the bottle and leaving the office to return backstage, stopping before the door with the legend: "Ladies' Dressing Room." John knocked, firmly.
"Everybody decent?" he called, using the traditional stage expression to request male entry into female dressing quarters.
"Come on in, boss," a girl's voice answered and John entered to face the smiles of Vera and Terry Anson, seated before makeup mirrors, having a cigarette.
"Hi, kids," Johnny greeted them. "How'd you do?" he asked Terry, smiling.
"Vera said they liked me," she smiled, blue, innocent eyes on his.
"Ben, the barman confirmed the report. Good. Terry, have you a few minutes for talk?"
"All the time in the world, Mr. Carrol," she said, rising and coming toward him.
"Better call me Johnny," he corrected, his smile including both girls. "People say 'Mr. Carrol' to me, I look over my shoulder to see if my father's standing behind me."
"There ain't a straight man alive," Vera giggled at him as John shrugged in apology for his attempt at humor.
As Terry, walking ahead of him, started toward the office, John felt nervous and awkward. It was the first time in his experience he'd ever made a pass at an employee and the thought kept him edgy and off-balance. He twisted, inside his clothing, in distaste at the feeling....
* * *
"Theresa!" her mother's bawling voice floated across the tracks to where the child was playing under the freight-house dock.
"Ooh, geez, my mom will kill me!" she exclaimed, looking down at her soiled shorts and shirt.
"Maybe she won't be mad, Terry," her little negro friend, Mary Banks comforted, "le's brush you off good befo' you go...."
"Thanks, Mary, but brushin' won't help," Terry said, in apprehension, "If mom's mad...."
"Theresa!" the call came again and the two children looked at each other as they instinctively assessed the caller's temper in surprise.
"Like she sho don' soun' mad," little Mary contributed, her small, deep-brown forehead wrinkling in questioning speculation. Terry's eyes were puzzled as she confirmed her friend's analysis.
"She doesn't," the small redhead agreed, wonderingly. "Well, 'bye Mary-see you tomorrow?" Mary nodded happily as Terry trotted across the tracks, her co-ordination controlled to a precocious degree. When she reached the bank on the far side of the freight yard, she turned to wave a final goodbye to Mary and turned back toward her home to call:
"I'm coming, Mother!" Then she trotted down the steep bank to the section of small, shabby houses which adjoined the freight yards. As she entered the back door, her mother looked up from the highball she was mixing to her small daughter's grimy form.
"Terry, honestly, you can accumulate more dirt on a small body than any kid I ever saw!" Terry looked wonderingly at her mother. Usually such comments were in an aggrieved tone of voice. Then the little girl remembered. Her mother was having a drink. They must be having company. On the rare occasions when the Mullens family's budget allowed such a luxury, it was always a special occasion. Mom always softened her harassed approach to her two youngsters and Terry, accustomed to the norm, smiled at the prospect of a treat ... her mother's good humor.
Grace Mullens was the widow of Terrence Mullens who had lost his life in a trucking accident. Little Terry didn't remember her Daddy, too much. She'd been just a little past two years old when her father had been killed. Terry's mother had gone to work in the office of Trans' Western Express, the truck company which had employed her husband. With her earnings (and the mortgage on the small house paid off by an insurance policy) Grace managed to get along.
However, it wasn't the type of existence she wanted for herself, nor was their home a satisfactory abode for rearing two daughters, Grace felt. In the beginning, the houses had been new, neat and attractive. But a drop in railroad activity had seen many of the solid residents leave the section with a resultant deterioration in the well-kept condition of the small homes there. Now, Terry's mother looked at the overall shabbiness with a fearful eye. Sometimes, the feeling of desperation almost made her ill as she walked from the bus stop along the littered sidewalk. Of course, kids were responsible for most of the untidiness, but Grace remembered the neat laws and carefully tended shrubbery with a deep regret....
"Can I have a taste, Mother!" Terry asked, her eyes on the glass. Grace's eyes crinkled slightly at the corners as she looked down into the guileless blue eyes of her eight-year-old.
"Theresa Mullens, you know very well this is bourbon whiskey and you don't like the taste of it." The mother suppressed her smile at the persistence of the small, redheaded replica of her dead husband. It never failed ... Terry wanted to try everything and Grace, wisely, did not hide things behind the veil of prohibition. There was nothing which Terry and Kathy, her older sister, could not talk about or sample at home.
"Please?" Terry asked. "I might like it, now." Her grin was impish. While her mother's discipline was strict with both her daughters, there was also a warmth and closeness among the trio which, when Grace's constant feeling of harassment allowed, emerged to shed its delight upon the participants.
"Alright, little wart!" Grace exclaimed, handing Terry the drink. The child took the glass and tilted it to her lips, sipping gingerly. Then with a grimace of distaste, she handed it back to her mother.
"Bluaacch!" she exclaimed, a sound popular with Terry's contemporaries which described the complete range of distaste.
"I thought not," Grace smiled. "I won't have to worry about that for awhile, yet."
"Worry about what, Mother?" Terry asked, eyes inquisitive.
"About your developing a taste for this," Grace said, lifting the glass.
"Yucchh!" Terry responded. "It just ruins the taste of good B-l."
"You," her mother said, "are to bathe and get into your blue jumper. Uncle Bib is coming to take us to dinner."
"Oh boy!" Terry shouted, leaping in excitement, then reconsidering, "but couldn't I wear my green...."
"You spilled chocolate syrup on your green," her mother reminded her, eyes pinching a bit when she remembered the amount of cleaning she'd have to pay for. Theresa, angel, I wish you'd be more careful. When you want to wear something, especially, it's always soiled." Terry nodded, downcast. "So hop to it, now. Kathy should be out of the bathroom...."
John Bibby, Terence Mullens' apprentice helper, enjoyed the courtesy title of "Uncle Bib" among the Mullens girls. He'd been working with big Terry just 18 months when the driver was killed. Bib was lucky, escaping with a broken leg and shoulder when thrown free of the cab, but nothing could have gotten big Terry out of the fire which erupted almost at the same instant the cab crashed. A piece of rusty angle-iron, possibly thrown onto the paving by kids, had gutted the right front tire on Terry's tractor as he wheeled around the long bend at the base of the descent. The lurch, as the tire blew, threw the wheel into the culvert abutment ... and all hell broke loose, according to the account given by a driver whose car was behind Terry's big rig by about a half mile.
Bib was nearing nineteen when the accident occurred. The Mullens family had been his friends and he spent much time at their house, talking for hours with big Terry about trucking. Himself an orphan, Bib was grateful for the never-failing interest Mullens gave him. Big Terry had found him hiding on the terminal dock one day, frightened and hungry and without a job, drawn by an explicable love for the Diesel monsters which moved the goods ... a love which Terry knew, tacitly, but which was demonstrable only by actions, never by words.
Ascertaining Bib's story and impressed by the lad's tremendous affection for the wheel, Terry talked with his fellow drivers and interested them in apprenticing Bib. They were instrumental in getting the union to accept a down payment on his fee and to allow Bib to liquidate it by installments. It was like a personal invitation to heaven to young John Bibby and he never forgot it. When Terry died, Bib almost went out of his mind with grief. His affection for Grace and her daughters was a continuing emotion and, at least once a month, he took the family to dinner. While Grace would not accept Bib's offers of financial help, she couldn't refuse the endowment policies he bought for the two children. With luck, Grace knew, they'd provide training for her girls, something Grace herself lacked ... the tools to earn a better livelihood....
The quiet sound of a car stopping before the house drew Grace from her reverie as she leaned against the kitchen built-in work top, savoring her drink. She moved into the living room, brushing at her dress, as Bib got out of his car and came up the walk.
"Hi, Grace," he greeted her with his contained smile as she opened the screen for him and offered her cheek for his kiss. "I hope you're hungry. I could eat a fan-belt without dressing."
"You always could, Bib," Grace laughed. "Come out to the kitchen and I'll make you a drink...."
"You were kind enough not to mention I'm always thirsty, too," he grinned, following her to the back. Grace was a fine figure of a woman and Bib, who never suffered for feminine companionship, allowed his eyes to rest themselves affectionately on the magnetic dimensions of the widow Mullens. His feeling for Grace was far from platonic and it would have needed only the nod of her taffy-brown head to make him follow, eagerly, to the bedroom. After big Terry's death, the younger man's thoughts had increasingly explored his feeling for Grace but he knew the disparity in their ages would not permit a permanent arrangement and he, further, knew that Grace's character wouldn't allow a continuing 'temporary' liaison. Bib valued his relationship with the family too dearly to jeopardize it.
"Hi, Uncle Bib," Kathy's clear treble greeted him, as the thirteen-year old moved into the kitchen, to greet him with open arms.
"Hi, Kathy, angel," he smiled, enfolding her in a bear hug which required considerable bending for his six foot plus frame. "You get prettier every day," he said, releasing her as he tilted her chin with a finger and dropped a kiss on her nose. "I don't know where it's all going to end."
"You're so nice," Kathy said, directly, the clear hazel eyes looking into Bib's affectionately, as she stepped back.
"It's being with nice girls makes me so," Bib kidded, smiling. "Normally, I'm a bad-tempered truck-driver-oh, Kathy, there's a bag in the back of the car. Would you get it for me, please?"
As the girl moved to comply, Grace frowned at him.
"Bib...." He held up a hand.
"Grace, I've drunk your whiskey for long enough to supply a little in return. Please don't fuss at me." He took the drink she offered, with a smile. "Listen," he continued as they moved back to the living room, "how do you think the girls would like it if we drove down to the ocean. I'm hungry for fish...."
"Bib, wherever you say is fine, but please don't spend a lot of money...."
"Grace Mullens, the last two times we've gone to dinner, I've gone where you wanted. Now it's my turn to pick ... OK? The cafeteria was fine ... tonight I have a window table reserved so we can watch the ocean perform for us...."
"Forgive me, Bib," Grace smiled. "I'm just too touchy for my own good, but I don't want us to be a...."
"You're all the family I have," Bib said, quietly and Grace heard the many unspoken things behind his words and slipped an arm about his waist, to hug him lightly. As they sat down, Terry danced in, greeting him boisterously.
"Uncle Bib!" she cried, running to him as Bib dexterously put down his glass before she flew into his arms.
"Hey, there Stop-Light!" he responded, the nickname stemming from Terry's shining red hair. "How did you get clean?"
"I took a bath," Terry said as she climbed onto his lap.
"Do you know you're beautiful, when I can see you?" he joked.
"Uncle Bib!" Terry protested, severely.
"I'm joking," he hastened to say. "You're beautiful even when you've got two pounds of dirt ground into you."
"Oh, Terry," Kathy said with lofty, teen-age dignity as she returned with the bag from Bib's car, passing through to deposit it the kitchen, "you'll get Uncle Bib all wrinkled...!"
"Gee, I forgot!" Terry said, sliding away to the sofa beside him, "I'm sorry."
"Terry, be sorry for nothing," Bib smiled, dropping the arm around the small, solid body to hug her close for a moment. "You're welcome to sit on my lap any time ... and so is Kathy. But she's getting so grown up she doesn't think it's dignified anymore."
Bib could never explain the shimmering of rapport which he always felt with the younger child. There was a warmth and slightly tugging aura about Terry which mystified him....
Kathy returned to sit on Bib's other side and he lifted his other arm to contain her straight shoulders. Smiling, Kathy lifted a hand to lightly clasp his fingers. Bib sat very quietly as he felt the warmth and trust and affection in Kathy, her eyes looking up into his. Then he turned to little Terry-and was a little shocked to feel it again-the sensation of warmth and the drawing toward the child.
Concealing his inward unease, he squeezed the youngsters against him briefly, then removed his arms and picked up his drink again.
"Well, Grace, let's drink up and roll. We can get another appetizer or so when we get down to the Shore Station. Would you girls like to have dinner by the ocean?"
Their excited assent answered his question....
The slimmer Kathy graduated from high school, Bib took her and Terry for a day at the beach. Grace, not a sun-worshipper, begged off and, with an abundance of food and a large cooler filled with ice and cans of beverages, they departed. Since it was a week-day, Bib had no trouble locating a stretch of beach which they had almost to themselves. It was a long and memorable day for the three, spent in alternating periods of splashing excitement in the sun, and lazing in somnolent and delicious relaxation under the beach umbrella. In addition to the cans of soft drinks in the cooler, Bib had included beer and a small jar of vodka Martinis, calculated to soothe his thirst. Terry, now nearly thirteen, insisted on sampling Bib's Martini and wrinkled her nose, disdainfully at its taste; then she began to bug him for a can of beer.
"Well, look, now," he protested, "I could go to jail for that....giving you beer." Terry giggled.
"I know," she said, "we'll pour it into an empty ginger ale can." So delighted with her ingenuity was she that Bib hadn't the heart to refuse her.
"I do this under protest," he said, rinsing the soft drink can to transfer the beer, "and just remember that your mother has to know what goes on...." Terry nodded her head, confidently.
"That, I know," she said, with no show of disturbance as she stretched an eager arm for the container. Kathy had remained silent, poised on her knees during the discussion and ensuing action. Now, she spoke up.
"Uncle Bib," she said, eyes dancing, "since this is in honor of my graduating from high school, can I have what I want?"
"Oh, lord," Bib said, checking himself halfway back to a reclining position, "Kathy, angel, what is on your female mind?"
"Well," she said, flashing a glance into Terry's mischievous eyes over the ginger ale can, "I would like to have a Martini."
"Sheesh!" Bib groaned, dropping his head into his hands. "I'll spend the rest of my life in jail for contributing...."
"Please, Uncle Bib," Kathy teased, caught up in the excitement of the day, "just one, little Martini?"
"Your mother will bat my brains out!" he wailed. Kathy shook her head.
"No she won't," she said, confidently. "If we're with you, she won't...."
"You'll get it on the rocks, Kathy-and, for heaven's sake, girl, please drink it slow."
"I will!" she said, eyes sparkling, watching his every move as he poured the contraband....
Kathy, slightly dizzy from the effects of the Martini, elected to go into the shallow surf, spending a half hour in the surge and spray of the ocean. Terry stood up and followed, trotting into the water.
"How do you feel, sis?" Kathy asked. Terry hugged her already-noteworthy bosom in shapely, round arms.
"Warm and soft and crazy," she giggled. "I'm gonna get wet and go stretch out in the shade with Uncle Bib."
Bib propped his head up to watch Terry come back from the water. His sunglasses shielded the concern in his eyes as they played over the entrancing lines of Terry's figure as she moved slowly, her toes enjoying plowing through the dry sand. The puzzling effect of the younger Mullens girl on John Bibby bad intensified over the years; sometimes he felt the pull of her so strongly he wondered if he might be sick, in some strange manner. Women were no problem with Bib. Naturally reticent, he hadn't bothered to get involved with the females which move in some truckers' orbits. In the matter of women, John was a loner and did his hunting in bars far removed from a trucker's natural locale. He sought and found a class of female companionship more to his taste in his hunting grounds....
Suddenly, watching Terry's slow progress up the beach, John knew a part of the 'thing' with Terry ... she was almost an exact duplicate of her mother! He sat up in his excitement, so he could see her more clearly. That was it-the set of her head, the shape of her arms and curve of her waist and hips-the high set of her breasts and the subtly inviting lines of thigh and leg ... it was Grace. Not a child Grace. It was something else-as though Grace had receded in time and passed him, stopping her retreat at 13. He did some quick arithmetic in his head at the same time his mind rejected it in panic. He was 29, nearing 30 ... impossible!
Terry moved beneath the shade of the umbrella, a vague smile on her lips, her eyes veiled. Sinking to her knees, she crawled to the beach towel beside Bib and stretched out, arms beneath her head. As she moved her hips to hollow out the sand beneath them more comfortably, Bib felt his heart leap-or skip a beat-as the taut, young body unconsciously performed the suggestive movement. He closed his eyes, leaning his head forward on forearms across his bended knees. Trying to shut out all sensation, he sat, trembling a little as he felt the familiar sensation begin to pulse inside him ... it was there. The warmth the feeling of being pulled, drawn toward the beautiful, precociously-developed child beside him. He shivered but savored the mysterious magnetism Terry generated for him. To disguise his feelings, he lay back again.
He felt a warm pressure against his thigh and looked down to see Terry's round knee had moved against him. She did not remove it and he forced himself to lie, quietly, feeling in a simultaneous surge of confusion, the pulse of desire beginning to swell....
Not knowing what to do, he demanded: "Smashed-on beer?" Terry, dreamy-eyed, rose on an elbow, shaking her head with a smile.
"No, Uncle Bib, I just feel all warm and dreamy and lovey...." He almost went into shock as she half turned her body against his, feeling the hard pressure of her breast, the delightful weight of a rounded arm as it traversed his chest, putting her head on his shoulder. Paralyzed, Bib could feel his heart pounding and a painful constriction increasing in the tight swim trunks. Then the firmness of Terry's warm thigh moved over his and, as indecision ripped at him, the round limb came to rest on the painful stress of his arousal. He could feel Terry stiffen for a moment and, in panic, he snaked away to sit on one hip.
Terry got to her knees with a wondering smile on her red lips. "Why, Uncle Bib-you-you're shook...!"
Gulping he grasped her shoulders and shook her a little. "Listen, Terry-baby, please ... this is one thing your mother must never know! Promise?" The pressure of his hands on her shoulders hurt. Terry winced and nodded as Bib sprinted, clumsily, toward the concealment and succor of the ocean....
When Terry got the female lead in the high school musical, she was something of a local phenomenon. Someone on the school paper dug up the fact it was the first time a sophomore student had ever made it and the local newspaper made a feature story of the event. Her almost professional poise and assurance made her a hit and the three night run closing the school year elicited another daily newspaper feature, this time not on the teen page.
Grace, no less than Bib, was somewhat astounded at the abrupt emergence of a performer in the Mullens family but Grace's astonishment was diluted somewhat in a flash of recollection. Big Terry had an innate ability to command attention by the tone of his voice, the choice of his words and the compelling quality of his gestures. So she felt a surge of relief that Terry's life had taken a direction which was solidly based on inherited instinct and not through the eternal pressures of whimsy....
"Since I'm such a big deal," Terry demanded, "I want Uncle Bib to take me on another beach picnic."
Her words fell into a silent spot in another family dinner out. Bib's eyes darted from Terry to Grace to Kathy but came back to hold Terry's. He couldn't read her....
"Terry," Grace started to protest at her daughter's brashness, "don't impose on Bib...."
"Wait...." Bib choked, cleared his throat and went on " ... a minute. This-nothing this family wants is any imposition. I'm proud of-I've tried to let you know you're all the family I know; have ever known. I...." He broke off, and under the scrutiny of three pairs of eyes, his face began to flush. "I'm sorry," he said, gaining control of himself with an effort, "I'm sorry I can't refer to you as 'my family' but-well, no matter. Grace, if it's alright with you, I'll take Terry on a beach picnic. Can you and Kathy go ... take a day off? I can't change my run with Chuck and Dodge on vacation...."
"I'd love it, but I think I'd better not," Kathy said, regretfully. "I'm doing so well at the office, I can't believe it...."
"Bib, the sun just blisters me," Grace said, "I'd be a drag ... a party-pooper. I'm sorry I popped off and I apologize for the crack about 'imposition.' Please forgive me." Grace's hand moved to lie on Bib's as he nodded and a smile forced its way back to his face.
He looked back at Terry. "OK for Wednesday?" he asked.
"Wonderful," she breathed, innocence blazoned on eyes and lips....
Bib couldn't assess his feelings accurately as he picked Terry up that morning, but the brief beach coat flared with her every move as she came across the porch and down the walk.
"Thank you, Bib," she said, moving across the seat of the car close to him, "for doing this. I have a lot of things I want to talk to you about and this seemed the best way...."
He cut his eyes at her, startled, but there was no change of expression as she smiled up at him, innocence the overriding message in lips and eyes. They arrived at the beach to find almost the same place they'd had two years previously, when Kathy graduated. As the umbrella was raised and planted, Terry busied herself with beach towels.
"Gee, we must be almost the first ones here. Almost nobody's around ... like they knew I wanted you all to myself."
Startled, Bib looked at the girl as she stretched out on the towel, feeling a sensation of warmth as she agitated the firm buttocks to imprint them more comfortably against the sand. She smiled up at him and patted the towel beside her. "Lie down, Bib ... I want to talk to you." She chuckled. "That's a joke, bub."
"I know it is," he answered, a little testily to his surprise. Already the magic of Terry's nearness was at work on him. In the two years since Kathy's graduation, the red-haired youngster's body had subtly refined and intensified in its earlier promise. Where previously Terry's figure had drawn his eyes because of the surprising excellence of its proportions, now the attraction was intensified by the ripening of her lines and the subtle maturation of her personality. Terry had grown a little taller, in stature, but this had contributed to the refinement, the intensification of her basic, provocative appeal to his eyes and his emotions. Pulsing beneath all the surface allure was the pressure, the urgency of her extreme youth-the threatening-to-burst quality of youth ... to say nothing of the secret lure of forbidden delight.
Bib felt confusion mix with his emotions in a greater proportion as his eyes hungrily feasted on Terry's supine body. The warmth of her he'd always felt had turned to heat; the magnetic pull she exercised over his emotions was increasing like a whirlpool....
"You said you had a lot of things you wanted to talk about...." Bib tossed the words out with more bravado than he felt. Terry's head turned as she looked at him, nodding, and let the silence grow for a few moments.
"Could I have a beer?" she asked, sitting up with a graceful action of her body. "I-I'm going to need help to loosen my tongue." Bib looked at her, beneath a slight frown, then produced two cans of beer and opened them.
"OK, but keep an eye out for cops," he muttered.
"Bib," she began slowly, "I think I've always been in love with you." Shocked Bib stared straight ahead at the beer can, half-way to his mouth. "A long time ago, it was like a little girl and her daddy. Everything about you was right and wonderful-but I only thought about you when I was having good, happy thoughts. Then, a little later, the feeling began to change. When I was about eight or nine, I could feel something, when I was close to you. I couldn't have told you what it was, but I could feel it. I can feel it now, and it's stronger than ever."
Bib mechanically completed the movement with the can of beer and nodded, numbly. "Yes," he croaked, clearing his throat.
Terry's eyes leaped swiftly to his face. "You mean, you feel it, too?" He nodded, again. She exhaled a breath, deep-pent from inner tension and smiled. "Well, if you feel it too, that does it."
"Does what?" Bib demanded, mystified, his eyes darting to the irresistable lure of Terry's delectable body to retreat again as though stung.
"Makes telling all this easier," she said. "Anyhow, in the past few years, several things have happened to me. Inside. Things I didn't dare tell Mom-and didn't want to. There've always been some secret things Mom didn't know, but I felt they were things that would upset her." Terry took another long pull from the beer can. "But, ever since Kathy's graduation picnic, I've been growing up, pretty fast." She moved the body which was disconcerting Bib to a constantly increasing degree, closer to him. With a small leap of panic, he felt the curve of a firm hip lightly against his. "What happened with you and me on that picnic," she said, levelly, her eyes holding his, "set off a whole string of firecrackers inside me."
"Terry...." Bib started to apologize in a strained voice which she choked off by half-turning against him and rubbing one small palm over his chest. That set off a string of firecrackers in Bib.
"Bib, I've been curious as a bug about sex since I was seven or eight. It began with fighting with boys under the freight house. I got a few bloody noses, but I learned pretty good ... so the boys stopped picking on me. I got to be one of them, pretty much. When we had to take a leak, they kidded me because I didn't have a dingus ... but I learned to do it, standing up." Terry giggled at Bib's shock, and took another big swallow of beer, as the crimson rushed up into his face. Then she laughed aloud, at his discomfiture.
"Terry, honey, I...." Bib, trying to protest, tried to rise, but the firm pressure of Terry's small hand restrained him. That hand, on his chest, was playing havoc with his emotions, too....
"When we got older, the boys wanted to wrestle, and we did. And, it was exciting, but I balked when they wanted me to take my pants off, because they refused to take theirs off." The head of Terry's hand in its movement, had worked its way up his chest and he jerked as her fingertips began lightly playing with his nipple. Outraged, he looked into her eyes, starting to protest, but something in them stopped him. "I sensed what they wanted to do, but I wouldn't let them. I found ways to turn them off or, if I wanted to, take care of them." Terry's round arm tilted the beer can to empty it and drop it by the food hamper. With another surge of shock, Bib felt Terry's hand leave his chest and begin to caress the plane of his abdomen.
"Terry, baby, this is...." he tried to rise and tried to talk again, but the smiling, determined Terry leaned, half-above him and he met the hard bulge of her young breast and retreated.
"Terry is no longer a baby, Bib," she said, soberly, her fingers toying with the hair on his flat belly. The swell of discomfort began in his loins under her touch; perspiration breaking out on his forehead. "I've had some experiences with high school boys ... older boys and they've wanted the same thing the kids I used to play with wanted." She shook her head. "I know what happens with girls who go that route. There are three of them-pregnant-in my class, right now. Terry Anson Mullens is not going to be a mattress-back for a bunch of snot-nosed kids. I have a reputation to keep-I'm going into show business and I'm not going as a tramp." Bib jumped, for real as her pink fingertips dipped enticingly under the tight elastic of his swim trunks, the muscles of his abdomen contracting in shock. The jungle beat of his heart was pounding against Terry's breast. She could feel the excited pulse of it beneath her, as his heart thudded against his ribs. "When I felt your...." she indicated his loins by an increased penetration of her fingers beneath the top of his trunks, " ... that day on Kathy's picnic, I began to put some things together in my head." She snuggled to stretch half-over Bib, her tight breast swelling outward a little against the heave of his chest. "Bib, what I feel isn't anything but good, old-fashioned, hot-pants love. I've been half-ding-a-ling with some of those boys feeling me up and kissing me, trying to get into my pants."
A strangled sound escaped Bib as the questing fingers beneath his trunks touched him, Terry darting glances around to make sure they were unobserved. "Terry, for God's sake!" he gasped in his panic mixed with desire.
"Bib, honey, darling," her voice began again, low, husky and entreating; her determined fingers capturing, moving, straightening his throbbing masculinity to ease it upward, under his trunks, "I want you. Bib, Bib ... please do it to me. I want to know what a real man is all about. I know all the rest of it, Bib...." Her fingers were around him now, and the slow, knowing movement of her hand was choking him with delight, his breath catching in a hard wad at the tops of his lungs. He felt something hot splash on the skin of his shoulders, his startled eyes recording the fact that Terry's were spilling tears down her cheeks. She released him, to bring both arms upward to hug him, moving her body tight against his, her taut, young thigh moving over him to prison his stinging excitement with the weight of its perfection. Bib groaned aloud, his hands instinctively flattening against her back to press her closer to him.
"Terry, darling-how can I...?"
"Don't stall me, Bib. You know how. And I know how you've wanted Mom, all these years." She lifted her head, the tears still rolling. "Don't you think I'm a half-size smaller picture of Mom?" she said, a smile touching her trembling lips. "Wouldn't you like to make love to me? You'd be having Mom and me, all rolled into one, Bib!" A small sob caught in her throat. "I know th-this is all there c-can be f-for us, be-because I know you. I know darling, Bib, that we Move each other, in some c-crazy, mixed-up way! Let's go home Bib-take me home and make love to me, please?"
Bib lifted the two of them to a sitting position, his body shaking. "I'll take you home to get dressed," he growled, shakily. "Then, God help me, we'll go to my place...."
* * *
"I wanted to explain about this afternoon," John Carrol said to Terry when they'd relaxed with drinks. "I'm sorry I ran out...."
"Oh, Johnny, you don't owe me explanations," she smiled warmly. Her voice low and inviting, brushed his nerves with the same, pleasurable irritation he remembered. John stared at Terry, clad in another green dress which lifted her breasts, tapered spectacularly at the waist and flared. The brief skirt displayed an exciting picture of her provocative legs which had fascinated him so much at their first meeting.
"Terry, there are some explanations in order-things to be put straight," he said rising to stand before her, impelled by a sudden impulse to be closer to her. She raised her head to smile up at him and John again was intrigued by the innocence of eyes and mouth. His eyes couldn't resist dropping to the tight bodice; the delightful shadowed valley which lay between the polished twin rounds of her full breasts, the swells of them above the bodice, catching the soft light of the office lamps. John stifled an impulse to lean down and softly apply his lips to them.
"How-your drink alright, straight?" John asked, forcing himself back to his duties as host. Terry smilingly put him at ease.
"I like my liquor the way it's served," she said, and again John was drawn by the apparent innocence of her eyes and mouth.
"I thought you might," he said, feeling a little more at ease.
"Why?"
"Well, you seem to be a real, live swinger, where living is concerned," he explained. "You come on like you like it."
"You always that accurate in diagnosing women?" she asked.
"Let's just say I've talked to lots of girls in this office and seldom are they uninteresting." Terry nodded.
"Few people are, really, I would guess," she said, swirling the liquid in her glass. Their eyes hadn't left each other since she'd taken her glass from John.
"Speaking of swinging, John," Terry said softly, "I'm a swinger in the accepted sense. I don't make a big thing of it and I'm choosy about it, but I tell you because I want to ask: are you a swinger, John?" The frankness, without boldness, really-just honestly bringing him up to date on the girl-stopped John.
"Well," he stalled, grinning, "what would be your reading on me?"
"I'd say you're a very sensitive man and, given the opportunity or the provocation, you'd be a swinger, yes." Terry took a generous swallow of her drink. A little smile touched her lips and John noted the little dimples at each corner of the full, soft lips.
John sat beside her and, the moment he did so, he realized how inexperienced he was. Terry was the first woman he'd even looked at with desire-real desire since he'd gotten married. His sex life prior to marrying Alice hadn't prepared him for casual affairs. Somewhere in John's upbringing, he'd acquired the attitude that sex was something for marriage. If you hadn't wedlock in mind, sex was out. John recognized that his was not a philosophy which was widely held and there had been times when he wondered why his differed sc. He'd given up trying to isolate the source of it but acknowledged to himself it was probably in something he'd heard his father or mother say, or indicate by something they'd said.
"A-about this afternoon, Terry," he said, "forget it. Not the kiss," he grinned, "but...."
"About your wife?" she asked, openly, her face expressionless and only the twinkle of the innocent blue eyes betraying she was needling.
"That and anything you might have heard about me. Okay?"
"First, Johnny," she said, moving to face him, her knee touching his as she did, "I don't give a damn about your wife-I should say about your private life. That's your business, entirely. I want everything out of life I can have-I want to be a star-I want to know sex with all the people in whom I feel a deep enough attraction-I want to miss nothing that a normal person should experience. If you're worring about my knowing you have a wife, forget it. I know and I haven't changed my attitude about the rest of it."
John took another drink, impatient for the liquor to remove the feeling of awkwardness which persisted in him. "I...."
"You'd like to make love to me, wouldn't you?" she asked, the mischief evident in her eyes, now. John knew she was perceptive enough to sense his discomfort and was enjoying it-not maliciously-but teasingly. "Alright, I'll tell you what I think about it. I like the idea-and I liked it from the moment I walked into your office today. I told myself then: 'this man looks good to me and if the chance comes, I'll take it.' I want to know what you're like but that's all, Johnny. It's not a matter of undying devotion and I'm not about to fall in love with you. I'm attracted to you and I'd like to taste you...."
John looked at her, silently, as a few seconds passed. Then his smile came back.
"You know, Terry, you're quite a woman," he said, huskily.
"I've been told that before," she chuckled. "Men find it hard to understand why a woman would come right out and discuss her desires in the matter, but I don't give a tinker's toot. I know all about the female mystique and all that jazz-but I have just as much right to express my feelings as a man.
"You do it better, I'll bet," John grinned.
"I don't go along with this double standard thing. If men can do pretty much what they like, I think women should have the same privilege. I was introduced to sex at fifteen-and I like it. Love it, in fact and, with the protection a girl has today, I indulge my tastes. I'll say this, the men who strike my fancy aren't numerous. You happen to be a man who excites me and I'd like to know what you're like-and have you know what I'm like. This is good Scotch-it's getting to me-but you got to me a long time before, so ... how about it?"
Terry's smile was warm and inviting, the full lips shining and moist as John leaned forward to kiss them.
The instant they touched, the room was charged with electricity.
John almost jumped at the erotic reaction which surged through him at the touch of her soft mouth. He forgot what he was thinking-that Terry was completely different than he'd expected. This thinking he'd not have been surprised to hear from Frankie Robbins, but, coming from Terry with the innocent eyes and mouth....
She came into his arms, hungrily as their mouths teased and inflamed each other. Terry tugged away to breathe and got to her feet.
"This dress is choking me," she chuckled, unzipping it at the back in a fluid motion and stepping out of it. Her only clothing now was snug, sheer panties and a half-bra which left the cherry-pink tips of her bosoms open to his hungry eyes. She wore no hose, yet, standing in her heels, the shape of her legs was no less effective than when he'd eyed them earlier in their nylon casings. John's lips instinctively dropped to a swelling nipple as Terry came back into his arms and he exulted at the way she writhed in his arms as he gently possessed the hard, pink confection.
"Oh, Johnny, that drives me wild!" she gasped. He believed her.
"They're beautiful," he hissed, returning to them, avidly, lowering her to the cool surface of the sofa, the heat of her tensing, lovable body rising into him as they pressed together.
"Love them, Johnny-love me!" she gasped. "This is what I want-this kind of love...!"
CHAPTER FOUR
For John, it was something wild. Everything about it fell into place naturally and perfectly. The Scotch had helped him up to the barrier, he knew, but from there, Terry Anson had taken him into her complete possession and moved him past it into another world. Her reaction to his kisses and caresses stimulated him to redoubled effort and he was only dimly aware of her hands, plucking away his clothing. He couldn't bear to not be touching her, holding her, kissing her every instant. For the frenzied moments in which his clothing was stripped off, he missed her, madly....
And then, they were close again, the warm, firmness of her swelling breasts pushing against his chest, hotly but affectionately as her arms captured him in their soft prison and that innocent, soft, ripe mouth stung him again with its thrilling charge....
He became conscious of her hands, then, moving, seeking, caressing, teasing, exciting him and his own reactions began to seem wild and unrestrained. Terry laughed aloud, in excited, joyous abandon as she knew his response to her and he retaliated with mouth and hands and arms, exploring her delicious, maddening figure until she arched and drummed her pink heels against the leather of the sofa. How long he was lost in the delirium of her delight, John had no way of measuring. He only knew it was to him like swimming in billows of sensation which touched him and penetrated him through and through. His muscles strove and tensed and he concentrated on holding Terry tight and not letting her slip away from him as the rollers heaved them together. He dimly heard his own broken, unintelligible words of delight and over them Terry's little cries and gasps and moans and exclamations of enjoyment.
And then the dam burst, flinging them into semiconscious, spasmodic ecstasy and their emotions beat against each other like huge-pinioned birds until the tumult died away and they sprawled in each other's arms, bodies shining with the perspiration of their amorous efforts together. John could dimly feel the thrust of Terry's tight-swollen breasts as they rose and fell beneath him, her breathing deep and hungry....
When their eyes came back to clear focus, Terry rose unsteadily from the couch, pushing her hair into a semblance of order, a satisfied smile on the full, innocent lips. John watched, fascinated, the tight movements of her breasts as they danced, enticingly, above the delightful contours of her waist and torso. John knew he had never seen bosoms to compare with them. Stepping unsteadily into her heels, Terry replaced next her bra and John suffered a momentary pang as the delights, half-masked, still seemed to look at him with alluring eyes. Involuntarily, he moved to her, taking the tiny waist in his hands and pulling her close, hard against him.
"You were wonderful!" he blurted, kissing her lips, cheeks and eyes.
"I wish we had time for more," she said, breathlessly, slipping the rounded arms about his neck. "I go on, pretty soon now, Johnny."
He relased her, reluctantly, to smile down into the sparkling eyes as she swiftly got into the rest of her clothing.
"You're a real trouper," he chuckled, teasing her chin with the pad of his forefinger, "the show must go on, hm?"
Terry laughed. "Or is it, 'the customer is always right' maybe?"
"Whatever's right," he sighed, his eyes regretting it was over.
"You know something, Johnny?" she said, still fussing with her hair, "you're very, very good. I enjoyed every bit of you and every second of it. Why don't you, the next time you feel you'd like to, make an evening of it with me ... say, at my apartment? We could take all the time we want...."
Her matter-of-fact words deflated John a bit, but she lifted his spirits as she went on.
"You know, I really liked it the way it happened. Sort of like a surprise package I didn't expect-I like that. It makes it all the more enjoyable." John's eyes were fascinated with the play of the tiny dimples at the corners of her mouth. She slipped close to him and slipped her arms around his neck again, kissing him warmly. "Don't forget how good it was with us, will you? I wouldn't like it if we never did it again. You know how to get to me, Johnny-and that's good for a girl. Not all men know-but you do. I like a man who does a good job!"
Then she was moving toward the door, but just before she opened it, she turned, halfway, to look over her shoulder and blow him a kiss. "Anytime, Johnny-anytime you want. You were great-and, thanks!"
Then the door closed behind her as she slipped gracefully out and closed it without making a sound. John Carrol stood, slightly dazed. Everything which had happened to him from the time Terry sat down with her drink had been almost totally unexpected. Terry, he reflected, was an unusual, an uninhibited girl who, at first glance, would appear to be shy, very feminine and somewhat timid of life. Yet, for all her scoffing at the 'female mystique,' there was that subtle something about Terry that reached inside and took hold of him. Her frankness was part of it, but it failed to dispel the essential female aura of her, despite her masculine bluntness....
John shook his head, bewildered. He thought, then, about Alice and about her soft, hesitant, romantic approach to love-making. He could not have found a more direct opposite to Alice than the forthright, yet mysterious Terry.
Then, he felt a pang, remembering Alice liked sex but always had insisted that she must feel something, romantically, for the man to arouse her. Knowing that, John could only feel his marriage was done because Alice would have to feel much more than just sexual desire before she could go into the arms of another man. What would it have been like had Alice been like Terry? John knew a moment of regret for the times when, with Alice, he'd had what was so much more than sex alone-it was the feeling of completeness which came from being in love with another. The pang grew when John remembered that Alice had known Carl Denver long before she had known him....
Going to the desk, John poured himself another drink. Turning out the lights in the office, he pushed the latch on his doorknob and sat down on the sofa, opening the slats of the Venetian blind to look out over the busy avenue. His mind still like a squirrel cage, he felt a great weariness closing in on him as the events of the day fought their way back into the forefront of his thoughts. He downed the Scotch in three pulls and then, the cumulative effect of the liquor he'd consumed all through the afternoon and night, caught up with him and the room tried to spin out from under him. Dropping his glass onto the carpet, he lay back on the cool leather of the sofa and closed his eyes against the exhaustion which pulled him away from the lurching, swerving effects of his drunkenness and dropped him, almost instantly, into a deep slumber....
John's dream began while he was running on a sandy beach, the sky purplish-red in a blazing sunset. From the distance, he could hear Alice's voice calling: "Johnny-John where are you?" Her voice was pleading and John slowed his flight to turn toward the voice. Then, from the greenish mists a feminine figure appeared and he cried: "Alice-Alice, I love you!" but when his arms felt the body in them, it was Terry Ansons, her tight breasts lifting for him to kiss them. With a sudden feeling of fright, John turned to run in the opposite direction, tripped and fell, his face smacking into the packed sand with stunning force. As he turned over, slowly, trying to get his bearings, he looked up to see the tall form of Frankie Robbins, legs wide apart, standing naked over him. Her huge breasts swaying slightly, fascinated him as she opened her red lips to ask: "Ya wanna lay me, buddy?" She leaned slowly forward, the huge breasts descending until he was smothered in the soft, cushiony swell of them, choking him. He fought to get free of them, to breathe but still they surrounded him, covered him, heavier and heavier, choking, smothering him as he began to feel a huge faintness, a sickness which slowly squeezed the life out of him....
John suddenly jerked upright on the sofa, his body wet with sweat and his head pounding as though a hammer were operating with untiring vigor inside his skull.
The light from the parted slats of the Venetian blind above him blinded him and shot bolts of pain into the throbbing already going on in his head. With a groan, he turned away from the light and tried to bury his head in the sofa.
He lay there for some time, trying to find the strength to rise, hoping the hammering would stop but it went on until he thought he couldn't stand it a moment longer. With a tremendous effort, he sat up holding his head and, staggering, went to the desk for headache pills....
A half-hour later, the agony of his headache somewhat abated, he sat with dry mouth and turbulent thoughts, trying to think of what his future offered. He could fill it with women like Terry Anson, Frankie Robbins-or he could hold out for love, for a wife and the kind of marriage he wanted. Maybe, just maybe, it could be with Alice.
He knew one thing for sure: he couldn't face life until things were settled between Alice and himself-one way or another. As of that moment, John realized that he still hoped there might be some way he could salvage his marriage from the wreckage in which he seemed to be tangled. Heaving himself to his feet, he started getting into his clothes. He needed food, he needed to get rid of his horrible hangover, and he needed to think, clearly; not to be driven by the roiling, unceasing confusion which had filled his mind since yesterday.
Going through the silence of the club, following a path through the forest of upturned chair legs on the tables, John again felt the pangs of regret for five years he'd devoted to a marriage which now seemed lost beyond the possibility of succor. The club had been built during their marriage-had been built because of their marriage. His future had been tied to the future and the success of the club because it was the means of his and Alice's livelihood. It wouldn't be the same, without her....
He had another thought, then-the place wouldn't be the same without Norma Blake, either. She was a part of his life-a part, which, without his knowing it, had become indispensable. John wondered how much Norma loved him-if she could ever become a part of his private life...?
And then the confusion and the depression of loss hit him again and it seemed as if his whole life were turned upside down and there was no pattern, no logic, no direction to it....
CHAPTER FIVE
Pullinng up in his driveway at home, John Carrol sat in the car, eyeing the house in which he and Alice had lived the five years of their life together. He was still wondering how it all happened-what had gone wrong. Certainly in the beginning this had started out badly; but the difficulty (it seemed to him at the time) had been overcome because he and Alice loved each other. After all, if anything, Alice's action had only speeded up a marriage which, at the time, would have occurred, in any case. If Alice had loved him that much-enough to jeopardize their marriage by misrepresenting her pregnancy--certainly it was something on which he could lean....
But, there were other things which got into the way. First, there was the revelation they couldn't have children. Then, Alice's totally unjustified jealousy of the female talent at the club which always triggered hurt insinuations that something more than business was the root of his interest. Then, too, there were other irritants to Alice's jealousy-conversation with an attractive woman at a party, for instance-which always brought on scenes afterward when Alice had taken too much to drink. This she did, almost invariably.
John heaved a sigh, looking at the little, white house. The neatly cut lawn spread away from the front porch under a rock roof which gave a modern appearance to a home, really more rustic in appearance than any of its neighbors. A huge stone fire-place covered one wall of the living room, and the broad, squat chimney dominated the front of the house.
Lighting a cigarette, John continued the process of attempting to sort out the thoughts which had been so jumbled in his mind these past hectic hours. There was still much he needed to think about ... before he faced Alice. Half-way through his smoke, he saw a black convertible slow to a stop before the house. His own car hidden by the hedge and the planting about the house, John felt a lead weight of depression form in his stomach as Alice stepped out of the car.
A tall, good-looking man walked her inside the concealment of the high fence of the hedge where they stopped, he taking her hands and Alice lifting her lips to his tender kiss; then he turned and left. As she moved up on the porch to the door, she saw John's car and her eyes darted to his. The effect had all the impact of a blow; Alice reeled, suddenly against the door and then, after a brief time, she snapped erect, body rigid to key the door open and go into the house. When the door closed behind her, John, with another deep sigh, realized the decision had been made for him....
Starting the car and backing out of the driveway, John felt a strange sense of weightlessness. No depression-more a sense of reluctant acceptance. But the empty feeling remained. He drove back to the club and, when he entered, he experienced pleasure when he saw Norma was seated at her desk in the outer office.
"Hello, John," she smiled, rising to come around to him. "You look positively beat, my friend." John shrugged, opened his mouth to reply, but could find nothing to say as Norma led him into his office, and closed the door behind them. "Where have you been all night?" she asked, anxiously. "You look like you've been through a wringer."
"Maybe that was what it was," he grinned, wondering what thoughts were moving behind her eyes. Norma was a warm, kindly woman-the type a man could depend upon for support, whatever the circumstances. As she went to dampen a wash-cloth in his office bath, John thought again how close he had come to trying to make love to her. If her answer had been yes ... he shifted his line of thought as she returned and, as though he'd been a small boy, sponged off his face with the refreshing coolness of the cloth.
"Doesn't that feel better?" she asked. John laughed.
"Feels like I'm a six-year-old," he said, taking her wrist in a restraining hold. He was surprised at the delicacy of her structure, looking unbelievingly at a wrist which almost vanished in his hand. Yet, Norma was neither small, nor was she skinny. He marvelled at the fact her delicacy was revealed solely by her wrists.
"Well, your face looked like a kid's, just in from a hard day of play," she laughed. "I'll bet you slept right here," she said, her mood suddenly changing to mild scolding.
"Well, I had some other ideas...." and the moment he said it, John wished he'd swallowed his tongue.
Norma made no reply for a moment; then she placed a hand softly on his shoulder as she said: "I'm sorry, John but, as I said, there's a time and place for everything. Right now, you've got to concentrate on straightening out your life."
"Now what does that mean?" he replied, feeling on the defensive.
Norman shrugged. "Well, let's just say that a woman would be foolish to become involved with a man in your position, unless, that is, she's just out for kicks. Not me, John ... I've known you too long, and...."
"Not too well," he suggested, standing to move away from her. The conversation was irritating him, for some reason.
"I know as much about you as it's necessary to know," she said. Then, putting her hands on her hips, she asked: "What is it ... what's wrong, John?"
He leaned back against his big desk, crossing his ankles, and his arms. "I'm considerably upset, Norma, and I guess this just isn't the time for someone to be telling me ... well, the conversation is bugging me. Know what I mean?"
Norma studied him in silence for a moment, her big dark eyes veiled, no emotion showing on her features. For a moment, she seemed a totally different person from his secretary of long standing. In a way, the two of them had teamed to build the Jay-Cee Club into the success it was.
"Look, John, you know I'm not a Nosy Parker. But, remember, too, that I'm a human being-of the female gender-and I...." She broke off, then continued: "Look, if there's something bugging you, lay it on the table, John. We've never double-talked each other." John recognized Norma was a little annoyed and that there was also an undercurrent of something else which he could not identify.
"OK, Norma-I'm sorry-and thank you. I'm just in a foul mood and not fit company for man nor beast. Forgive me?" He looked at her, suddenly realizing he very much needed her to lean on. The fleeting wonder of what he'd do if she weren't there crossed his mind.
"There's nothing to forgive!" Norma said, twisting to move to the door. She stopped there to turn and smile shyly. "I'm sorry, John. It was silly of me to get miffed over nothing." John shrugged.
"Alright, let's forget it." He attempted a smile but missed. For the first time, he noticed then that her trim, dark dress showed off her excellent figure without being obvious. Yet it revealed that, beneath her clothing, she had a beautifully-proportioned body. As she opened the door, John asked:
"How about having dinner with me tonight?"
Norma let the door close and turned to him slowly, her eyes coming to his questioningly. For a long moment she stood, looking at him, her thoughts shuttered by the expression on her face. John felt, at that moment, as if he were looking at Norma Blake for the first time-it was as though some unseen and unknown change had occurred, suddenly. Her look was speculative-as she might look at a man who'd asked to be her lover. Actually, John's feeling was right. The elements of their relationship had changed and Norma was looking at him through eyes which were considering him as a new and very important factor in her existence; possibly the most important.
Finally, she replied, in a soft, unsure voice. "That-that will be fine, John. Around seven?" John nodded.
"Seven, then."
Then she was gone and John, suddenly alone, wondered what he was heading into. He was still married. Norma was, obviously, in love with him. Most of all, he didn't want to become too seriously involved with a woman, now of all times-that could only be a mistake. Yet....
* * *
The club was empty, except for Terry Anson and Jerry English. Jerry was seated at the piano, running through arrangements with Terry and she was feeling a tingling sensation at the level expression in the musician's eyes as they held hers steadily. Jerry was a fine musician and, from the first, there had been between them an almost extra-sensory feeling-a wordless communication which allowed them to work perfectly as a team, almost from the beginning. Jerry, was a tremendous accompanist and Terry felt the rapport between them and it bolstered her already-high confidence to smash performances. Right now, the tingle spread excitingly ... she could feel Jerry undressing her mentally ... and anxious that she should know it. He had a way of looking at her that made chills race up and down her straight spine-and dance along her nerves, right out to the ends.
The afternoon before, when they'd done a run-through on a few of her arrangements, this man had watched her, out of the same, heat-inducing eyes. His suggestion that they have dinner together was a temptation to Terry but, at the time, she'd had too many other things on her mind. The first-and most important was to find out just how things stood between John Carrol and her. She'd picked up many bits and pieces of information that day ... learning that John's marriage wasn't looking too solid-the whisper reaching her that Alice Carrol was playing-and still further confirmation of the reputation John Carrol possessed for not playing around with the female talent in the club.
This intelligence, to Terry, was a challenge and spurred her on in her concentration on John as a means of solidifying her position. Terry had a voracious appetite for getting ahead and had had to struggle all her life. Her father had been a hopeless alcoholic the girl's mother ran out when Terry was just nine. By the time the girl had reached fifteen, she'd learned what men were all about. At eighteen, Terry was the most sought-after girl in school; popular, as well for her singing as for her provocative body. By twenty, she was well schooled in the art of pleasing a man, sexually. Sex was a big part of her life and an important part, to Terry. She reasoned that if a woman wanted to get out ahead of the pack in show business, she-first of all-had to be a top-notch performer. You needed the talent and you needed to school that talent. Terry had worked like a fiend to do that. Next, knowing that sex made all segments of the world go round (more so in some than in others), that she needed to be as good in bed as on stage. This she had accomplished, too.
Looking at Jerry English, Terry realized he could do her lots of good. A fine accompanist, he was also a swift, original and solid arranger. Their talents complemented each other and they had, almost from Terry's first eight bars of singing, felt a mutual respect for their abilities. Terry recognized that, as a team, they could make it big. Now, his feelings hot behind his eyes and his fingers flawlessly following her phrasing and her emotion, she knew just as definitely that Jerry wanted to make it with her.
"That's fine!" Jerry said, at the conclusion of 'I'm In the Mood For Love' as Terry's sotto voice ending trailed off into a thrilling silence. Jerry had a way of speaking softly, yet his almost flat utterances, somehow, were more colorful and expressive than had he shouted or whispered for emphasis.
"Thanks," Terry smiled, turning to lean on the piano, facing him. The cut of her bodice gave Jerry an unobstructed view of the tops of her beautifully full breasts. "Jerry, you just play up a storm!" Jerry rewarded her with his controlled grin.
"You have to, to work at the Jay-Cee. Johnny demands the best he can get and, on this, he never gives up." Terry noted, with a small thrill of excitement, that his eyes had never left hers to stray to the enticing vista above her bodice.
She straightened, stretched, thrusting her breasts forward. "I'm getting tired," she said, glancing at her watch. It was three thirty. "I could use something to eat."
Her thoughts were going in a direct line, toward a simple destination: to go to bed with Jerry. Get him interested in her and this would result in extra rehearsal time-maybe some special project arrangements at less than they usually cost. She knew that Jerry was loaded with ideas and-sooner or later-there were songs he'd suggest she do-and provide the arrangements to make sure she did them as he heard them, inside his head. This was Terry's first job in a spot which meant something. She'd worked Fairs and specials and a bunch of one-nighters-had even done two weeks on a camy, pinch-hitting for the vocalist on the girlie show-but the Jay-Cee Club was a real, commercial credit. She'd come across the lead by sheer luck-a casual word from a friend over a drink-and from there, Terry had played it strictly by ear. She was still doing so. She'd struggled to get to a spot such as this-now she was giving it everything she had.
"Let's step out for a snack," Jerry said, grinning, running a large hand through his blond hair. Terry let the suggestion hang in silence for a few beats; letting Jerry sweat out her answer. Him, she intended to use, and to play him smart. Her eyes, level on his during the silence, she appeared as though she were giving his proposal a lot of serious thought. As she stood, her eyes holding his, she became aware of a sensation inside her which was highly surprising to her ... she was growing weaker and weaker as she gazed into the grey-blue eyes, set in the square-cut features. Those eyes, again, seemed to be stripping her, bare, right where she stood. Terry felt the heat of little fires spring up to burn erotically through her body.
As she continued to look at him, she wanted to strip her clothes from her figure, wiggle onto the grand piano top, pull him into her arms and engulf him. It was possible-the club was empty except for the two of them-but discovery was highly possible. Norma Blake and John Carrol were in the office and that was what made it impossible.
That, and her determination to play it cool.
She found herself nodding, then, like a schoolgirl. "Why not?" she said, a bubble of elation threatening to burst in her throat. She felt like kicking herself. This wasn't the way she'd intended to do it....
* * *
Alice Carrol had gone through the day in a daze. Breakfast with Carl, lunch alone, then a shower. A high-ball, next. She'd smoked her way through two packs of cigarettes. She cleaned house, just to occupy herself. It was late afternoon and she automatically moved into the kitchen to scout the food cupboards and plan dinner for John....
She stopped there, slamming the open cupboard door and rushed into the breakfast nook, sinking down to cry, her head on the table.
"What the hell am I going to do?" she tearfully demanded of the walls around her.
After a moment more, she got up to move to a small bar in the dining room to pour herself a stiff drink of whiskey. Then, her eyes began to roam the surroundings as she moved from the bar into the living room, noting the beautiful and expensive furniture she and John had acquired during their marriage.
It was like a disturbing dream-and all of it starting from Carl Denver. From the beginning, it had been Carl. Then, after her marriage, she'd managed to forget him, mostly ... until he re-emerged, at the moment when her relationship with John seemed to have gone stale. Now, Alice realized, it didn't really matter that John might have been cheating-it didn't make him any different in his treatment of her. Their life together, in all ways, had been very good. The house was theirs as well as everything in it. The club was theirs. They had built a good life-and now, she had managed to ruin the whole thing. And the trigger was her own sense of insecurity that the suspicion of John's infidelity aroused. Not the knowledge ... just the suspicion.
Practically, what did it matter? If he was laying everything he could find in a skirt-he was a good husband. He made love to her every time she wanted him. So what if he looked at another woman with fire in his eyes and an unspoken desire in his mind-so long as he was a good husband in other ways, had she really any room to doubt her place in his regard?
Alice knew the answer already, poured another drink and sank into an easy chair to mull her misery. After the third drink had been swallowed, she realized she couldn't, longer, sit in the house alone. The knowledge of what her own emotions had trapped her into doing was a bitter pill that she could not easily digest....
So, she had a few more drinks and, by dark, her head was a-whirl. The hi-fi was blasting, filling the house with music which still failed to drown the misery inside her. The tears were flowing again as she stood in the center of the living room, a half-finished drink in her hand. Now, her feeling had changed. All she felt was a sense of complete defeat-and a bitter hatred toward John, who'd been laying anything in skirts-cheapening her, his wife and making her feel guilty. Who the hell did he think he was...?
* * *
After she and Jerry had eaten, Terry suggested her place. "I have some jazz albums I think you'll like," she said.
She lived in a small, one-bedroom apartment, only about five miles from the club. It was nicely furnished and she'd just recently bought a small stereo set ... the only furniture she owned.
However, it wasn't music which interested Terry. When she led Jerry into the living room, she indicated the stereo with a wave of her hand, saying:
"Check the records-play what you like. I'll mix a couple of drinks for us...." Returning to the living room, she put the glasses on the cocktail table, excusing herself again. "Be right back," she said. Jerry was kneeling before the stereo.
"Hey, Terry, this is a hell of a collection."
"Like it?"
"Great-you have the ear. Getz OK?"
"Any time," she agreed, moving into the bedroom. There she pulled the zipper on her dress, stepped out of it and removed her bra to stand, looking at her body in the full-length mirror.
A wonderful body, she thought, honestly. The breasts are large and placed high-provocatively high-round and firm and delightfully nippled. When she moved, the beautiful globes jiggled and bounced-they didn't swing. The medallions which centered them were a luscious pink and the nipples seemed tiny in comparison with the size of the bosoms. Her stomach was almost flat and the curve of her hips was an enticing swell from the tiny waist above them. Try slipped her fingers beneath the elastic of her pink panties, smiling at her reflection.
Jerry English was going to get quite a surprise, the next time he laid eyes on Terry, she was determined of that. A nice, exciting, and-she also determined-unforgettable surprise....
CHAPTER SIX
Terry felt desire dart through her like a hot lance as the man reached up and drew her down to him. His initial reaction had been startlingly casual, to Terry. When she walked back into the living room, completely nude, Jerry had simply grinned, stood up and joined her in the center of the room. Then they moved to the sofa.
His hands moved lightly to enjoy the texture of her firm buttocks, his sensitive finger tips pressing and appreciating the resilience of her as they stretched on the sofa.
"You're beautiful, Terry," he murmured against her throat, lips and tongue sending tiny electric shocks through her smooth body. One hand cupped a round breast, making Terry twist more closely against him ... and then his lips found hers, his tongue a darting, daring marauder as her breath stopped in her throat.
A, sudden wildness pounded through her as she began to respond to the intensity of his kisses, and to the stirring touch of his caressing hands as they moved from her buttocks to waist, to stomach and the sensitive, quivering smoothness inside her round thighs. She began to shake, her hands diving desperately beneath his sweater, wanting to get him shucked down to the kernel of him so she could explore the taut muscularity of his body.
"Oh! Jerry, Jerry...!" she cried.
He laughed, softly, pushing her away to stand, looking down at the spectacle of her luscious nudity for a long moment. Then slowly his hands began to work at the fastenings of his clothing. His shirt followed the sweater, then his slacks....
"Oh-oh, hurry!" Terry begged, writhing in loneliness on the sofa. She could feel the pounding of the drums of desire working deep inside her; knew that, before long, she'd feel and tremble and pulse with each throb of their beat. Would he never get back to her? Her impatience tore at her as she watched the slow process of his undressing.
And then he reached for her, leaning down as his lips found the warm, tight substance of her breasts, his fingers again playing the delightful sensations on her trembling stomach and thighs. Suddenly, she went wild as his kiss made her body bow with exquisite desire.
"Oh, Jerry! Jerry...!" Her hands became talons, dragging his nakedness against her with a frenzied strength. Still he toyed with her, letting her go almost to the line of insanity as he teased her and threw fuel into the fires consuming her. Finally, when she was completely out of control, her finger-nails biting his thighs, painfully, he slapped her.
"You bitch!" he growled and Terry felt another electric, paralyizing shock twist her at the blow. She had been hit before ... but never with such erotic explosiveness. Then, she went completely out of her mind, plunging, writhing, twisting and aching in every nerve until she felt his body descend on hers, and the wonderful sensations rip her to sensual shreds. She knew the crush and the thrust of his body was pushing the breath slowly out of her body but she fought like a tigress to stay alive long enough to die the way she had to....
She was bathed in perspiration, shaken, dumb when it was finished. Even as he moved away from her, his fingers remembering the delights of her bosoms, she wanted him again. Then. And again and again ... The need to have his body crush her was an agony inside her. Never had she been turned on like this, before.
Terry reached for him, with an inarticulate sound, to climb up into his embrace, her eyes locked on his, their lips a breath apart. Then she found her speech.
"Y-you were wo-wonderful!" she gasped her breasts pushing against his chest, ". ... ju-just wonderful...!"
* * *
Norma looked at her reflection, clad in bra and panties, as she applied make up. It was a little past six-thirty, her body still tingling from the shower. She was thinking about John Carrol-and they weren't lady-like thoughts. Norma knew about sex-quite a lot about it ... but she knew that much of her knowledge had been gleaned in totally physical encounters to satisfy a physical need.
Tonight, however, she had no such idea in mind. This could be the start of something real. She knew it in every corner of her being.
John Carrol was different:-had been from their first meeting. From that moment, she had loved him-in her way. She knew at the instant they met, instinctively, this was the man for her. But, John was married.
Now, things had changed. John would be coming here and she would give him cocktails-and how easy it would be to give him much more. She smiled in the knowledge that men were just like little boys. A woman, wise with the instinctive knowledge of her sex could wind one around her little finger.
Norma's study of her person in the mirror revealed a flawless and creamy skin-breasts which were not large but spectacularly placed. High and symmetrically positioned, they commanded male attention and Norma knew it from many an optical maneuver. She was lissome, without being willowy. She possessed grace, the fluidity of lines characteristic of a fashion model, but without the emaciated appearance which marked them. To the casual eye, Norma might seem slight, but to the discerning view, she was made with just a little more, everywhere, than a slight female posessed. Studying Norma closely, she gave an impression of refined opulence. Every bone was correctly sized and positioned, every ounce of tissue was most advantageously placed and shaped. There was no waste in Norma's conformation.
She stood, smiling mischievously, to imitate the club strippers with a little bump and grind, before moving to take the black sheath from its hanger and paint her excellent body with it. Norma faced her attitude of mind. Tonight, she was a huntress, stalking her natural prey. If John Carrol was free to date any woman he wished, he was fair game....
Her door buzzer sounded just before seven. Norma was working with the zipper of her frock and continued her efforts. Then she heard John's voice.
"Anybody home?" he called, outside. Norma went to the door, holding the dress around her torso, to unlatch the door and stand behind it, out of sight of the corridor, as she asked John in.
As he closed the door behind him, smiling, he became aware of her partially covered state with an interest, heightened by alcohol.
Turning, Norma looked over her shoulder at John to ask: "Would you help me, please?" For a moment she wondered if he'd make a pass and half-hoped he would.
His hands reached to close about her all but bare shoulders, and, in that moment, Norma held her breath, waiting, unsure....
Then his hands moved away to deal with the recalcitrant zipper. After a few seconds, he stepped back, hands dropping to his sides. "There, Norma, that should take care of the pesky thing."
As Norma thanked him, turning to face him, again, he ran a finger around the inside of his collar in mock agitation.
"Touch and go there, for a minute," he grinned.
"Oh?" she returned, trying to make it casual-as though she had not fully realized the situation. Then she felt a little foolish. After all, they were both adults and the situation had been intimate.
"Yes-come to think of it, it was," she agreed.
John stepped toward her. Norma warned, him off with both hands on his chest, smiling.
"What?" he said.
"You had your chance, now the opportunity has vanished." John's eyes, bright from the stimulation of what he'd drunk, looked at her and a grin began tugging at the corners of his mouth. Then his laugh broke the ice for both of them as Norma joined him.
"You know, I've got to remember what I learned in grade school," John said. "Opportunity only knocks once. Why do I keep forgetting the simple, basic things? Maybe I've lost faith in them."
"That you should never do," Norma said, indicating the sofa with a gesture of her hand. "What's your pleasure, sir?"
"Better stick to Scotch on the rocks," John said, easily, sitting down and Norma moved to the kitchen to mix.
Returning to the living room, Norma felt more relaxed. For a brief interval, things had seemed awkward to her until she remembered how close she and John had been, without recognizing it in any overt way, for a number of years. In the awareness of the change in his situation and the bearing it had on their relationship, she had lost touch with being herself, briefly. Now she knew what had thrown her off balance for a little. She hadn't realized that their relationship hadn't changed-it had only expanded, bringing with it an increased awareness of each other.
Suddenly, she felt comfortable sitting beside John. A woman alone was out of gear with living ... and a woman was not meant for loneliness anymore than the male of the species. If you attempted, in your unmarried state, to enjoy life as you wanted, it was you against the world. Go out for an evening with a man you didn't know too well and you were likely to find yourself struggling against a repugnant intimacy which he assumed was his reward for filling your time. On the other hand, a platonic relationship seldom produced a fun evening. There was no spice, no sauce, no flavor to it and it was just passing time. That she could do alone-but she didn't like it. She was not averse to sexual affairs-but she was extremely selective about her partners. Why this should offend men, who, in the same breath, demanded purity of their women, was a constant source of annoyance to Norma and conclusive evidence that men were no more logical than little boys.
However, just sitting beside John was a new sensation. She wanted John and his nearness sparked a recklessness strange to her; at least since becoming an adult, it seemed strange. This situation-this time, time-here and now-she had longed for, many nights in her lonely bed with the dark pressing around her, filled with the foreboding of doubt that it would ever happen.
"Well," John remarked as he nestled a little closer to her, "I am always excited, inwardly, at how lovely you look. Is this a new dress-I haven't seen it before, have I?"
She looked at him over the rim of her glass, giving her head a tiny shake to indicate a negative answer. She felt electric, alive and fascinating for the first time, so long, she couldn't remember the last time. It had probably been with her late husband....
"You haven't seen it before, John, but it's not a new dress." She nestled a little in the softness of the sofa pillows beside him. Here we sit, she thought, alone together as I've wanted to be with him for so long-and we don't have a thing to say to each other. Just like a couple of runny-nosed children. The awkward feeling came back.
"What are you thinking?" John asked, his perceptiveness sensing her unease and his instinct being to correct it.
"Thinking?" Norma laughed, suddenly. "Well, we are Norma and John, aren't we-the two who work together, day in, day out at the club? Double-harness for several years, but we never flirt, never touch, never smooch-just buddy-buddy all the time and laugh at our problems, together? Are we that couple?" Damn, she thought, it's tougher to relax with an old friend than a new acquaintance ... just because the old friend might represent something different.
John frowned, lit a cigarette, then offered her one and lit it for her.
"You know, Norm," he said, "this is strange, isn't it?"
Her only reply was a nod.
"Maybe we should act like strangers, who've just met." He touched her cheek with an affectionate finger. The contact made Norma go weak and excited inside. She was sure he was going to kiss her but the moment passed.
"Well, one thing I refuse to do is starve a lady to death," he grinned, finishing his drink. "Hungry?"
"I think so," she replied, wishing she could tell him she was so jittery inside she really didn't know. "What had you in mind?"
"How about the Benton House-nice dance music, an excellent bar and wonderful steaks. Also, it's far enough out of town so we can really feel we're in the country. Sound alright?"
"Fine, John," she replied as he got to his feet, and took her hands to lift her up. As she came to a standing position, John stood perfectly still for a little, then pulled her close to him. They looked into each other's eyes for a long moment, then his lips moved to touch hers, softly, as his arm tightened around her waist. It was a gentle kiss-just the tender pressure of their mouths-but Norma felt as though it were all the wonderful kisses she'd ever dreamed of, wrapped up in this fleeting caress. For her, it held a beauty and perfection which made her dizzy.
As John drew slowly away, his eyes held an odd expression-a little wider, but a little more somber; yet they seemed, also, to be sharper, more alert as though he were inwardly probing for an answer to a deep problem.
"Well," he said, hesitantly, "shall we go?"
Norma's impulse was to walk into the bedroom, take off every stitch of her clothing, and come back to John, naked as September Morn. The only reason she didn't was that she was dubious John would understand her motives and mistake her for one of the many easy women who might throw themselves into his arms at the opportunity.
Instead, she nodded, unable to speak because of a sudden lump which blocked her throat-a roiling desire surging through her nerves which shook her from head to foot. She moved to get her coat from the closet and gave it to John to hold for her as she slipped into it. They went out, quickly, leaving the intimate seclusion of Norma's apartment and the erotic invitation it held.
* * *
John Carrol's thoughts were like a pendulum-coming to rest nowhere. Before leaving the club that afternoon, he'd had a phone call from Frankie Robbins which had been suggestive and exciting. It was the type of conversation pleasant to a man averse to a serious involvement yet finding sexual involvement pleasant to consider.
"Hello," Frankie greeted him and he couldn't place the voice at first.
"Hello?" he repeated, inflection indicating he didn't recognize the caller.
"You don't even know me!" she said, following with a throaty, sexy laugh, a little colored by alcohol. Maybe she was tight, but it gave an exciting color to her speech. "I was home, alone and got to wondering when we might get together...."
Then the bell rang in his mind. "Frankie!" he exclaimed.
"Yes!" she replied, "and I'm a little tight. Hope you don't mind."
"Just so you kill the customers tonight," he reminded her.
"You sound stem. Never tight on stage ... maybe a little high, because I'm better high ... and you should see my private performance when I'm high. Why don't we get together sometime?" John could tell 'sometime' meant 'come right over' and he had a feeling that she might be very lonely. That seemed strange to him, because he'd never figure Frankie to be lacking in male companionship, if she wanted it.
"What had you in mind, Frankie?" he asked, to kid along a little.
"What do you think?" she laughed. "You know, boss, I'm a little too tight-maybe. But I'll be alright tonight. If I'm not, you can fire me without a pay check. OK?"
"Why not take the night off?" he offered.
"Never-I'll give the customers a real jolt for their money! Check the house when I finish or ask around tomorrow if you don't catch the show tonight. See if I'm not right." She laughed, again, then suddenly broke the connection.
John waggled the instrument in his hand, puzzled, then hung up with a chuckle. Women were interesting, for one reason, because you could never figure out what they'd do next.
He left a note for Jerry English to cut Frankie's act if she were smashed-otherwise, let her go on, but keep an eye on her and give him a report.
John's natural desires heated with the thought of a private party with Frankie Robbins. And, his speculation fired his desire for any woman-especially the one next to him.
* * *
Now, sitting beside Norma as they drove to the restaurant, John tried to channel his thoughts into considerations other than sexual. Kissing Norma, true, had fired him up ... but it had done something else, too. It brought into focus the fact he considered Norma something special-not a woman to be used and thrown aside.
The atmosphere in the restaurant was calculatedly intimate and, in John's frame of mind, it heightened the romantic aspect of his being there with Norma.
The dark wall paneling and heavy ceiling beams did nothing to amplify the already dim illumination. Tables were small oases of soft light, scattered through the near-gloom, and under the softness of the electric candle-light on the snowy cloths, faces became smooth, creamy, almost disembodied cameos of light and shadow.
Both were silent under the spell of their surroundings after they'd ordered cocktails. John, through the smoke of his cigarette, had been studying the features of Norma's soft face, automatically comparing them with Alice's. He felt a small surprise when he realized that his wife's looks did not quite measure up to Norma's beauty. John's interest heightened as he noted the sensitivity of Norma's face, the nose slender without being sharp and with just a suggestion of upturn, the high cheek bones, full lips and big, dark eyes which, aware of his scrutiny, looked back at him candidly, unafraid of his searching stare.
Martinis arriving, they tapped glasses in expectant salute to a happy evening and drank.
"You know, Norm, it seems strange-being out with you."
"Thank you!" she said with a sarcastic inflection but a humorous twinkle in her eyes. He smiled in recognition of his inept statement.
"You know what I mean! It's nice-but, after all this time, I feel I know almost nothing about you-personally. Some, of course, but I'm mostly in the dark as to your likes and dislikes, habits...."
Norma smiled. "Not much to know. I like to shower in the morning, and I'm like a mother bear until I have my coffee. I seldom drink before dinnertime, unless someone invites me out to lunch-and I like my steak almost raw in the center." She chuckled. "A man I knew-a long time ago-a Texan, commented on my preference for very rare beef. Said he'd seen a cow hurt worse than that get well."
John, laughing, said: "Well, that's the way we'll order yours, then."
"Better not," Norma said, falling into the lure of the silly turn of mind, "I might decide to take it home for a pet....
* * *
Terry stretched and tensed sensuously on the bed, an aroused little woman, housing the heat of a desire which the seductive lines of her body advertised as insatiable. To Jerry English, she was a rare treat since-of all the women he had known-Terry Anson was the source of seemingly endless delights. She never seemed to tire of sex-and she never ran out of ideas.
Some hours had passed since they'd arrived at Terry's place. Now they were relaxed on her bed, a seeming afterthought to the first, urgent lovemaking on the living-room sofa. Jerry had been surprised at the rapid return of his own desire following their first taste of each other.
Now, he lay thinking about her large, firm breasts, standing like creamy globes on her body, the small, intensely pink nipples standing stiff to invite the touch of his fingers and the heat of his kisses.
"Jerry, do you like me?" Terry asked, rolling to him to rest the swollen bosom against his bare chest. "I mean-really like me?"
Her voice was so serious that Jerry felt a quick pang of alarm. The last thing he needed or wanted was a serious involvement.
"Terry, you're positively spectacular in bed!" he assured her, giving his honest reason for his attraction to her.
"I like that," Terry said, squirming until both the firm globes pressed hotly against Jerry's skin. He hadn't been able to resist taking one in his fingers to fondle. She leaned down to kiss him. "I like the way you do things to me, Jerry."
"I'll bet you say that to all your lover-boys," Jerry chuckled.
Almost, she pouted, but a giggle wrecked it. "You're right-or almost right! I like sex-and I especially like a man like you." Her wriggling commenced again until her luscious form lay on his. Jerry could feel the roller-coaster ride was beginning again and his ardent hands found the tight rounds of her buttocks, his fingers pressing the delightful firmness, hard. Terry's mouth found his ear and, with a small sting of pain, she bit him.
With a growled oath, Jerry flipped over to pin Terry beneath him, arms and legs suddenly whipping about her savagely as his lips began to taste the soft, velvety skin as though starved for it. It was getting late, he knew-they'd have to go back soon-but right now, all he could do was to crush the heat and desire of this delightful, small animal in voracious want. There'd never been a girl like Terry....
She was writhing beneath his hard muscles, sobbing, uttering small, explosives profanities, her hands wadding and tugging the sheets in excitement. Then, when in blind rapture she tried to capture his tormenting masculinity with her twisting, hungry body, he possessed her slowly and deliberately and the shock of their release, when it came, immobilized them both, for a long, long moment, in a paroxysm of paralyzing delight. As Jerry's aching, tensed muscles relaxed, he felt as though he'd drowned in the crashing, thundering climax of a great symphony, the music still echoing in his throbbing head. He became conscious of his breath, rushing in and out of his lungs, as through a tear in the bellows of a huge pipe organ.
He rolled away from the quivering Terry in the dimness to think of the many girls-the singers, the customers, the fans-the lonely women he'd had. Jerry had had his share and he'd begun early. A comely widow on his street, a customer for his lawn-cutting activity as a boy in his mid-teens, had seduced him one afternoon in a memorable experience. She'd invited him into the kitchen, when he'd finished her yard, for a cold drink and his eyes couldn't stay away from the nylon-sheathed mystery of her knees and thighs, constantly coming back to them through the glass of the table-top. Recognizing his fascination and his excitement, she had subtly fed both. When, daringly, his throbbing desire brought him around the table to her side, she kept her own, blazing hunger under a firm hand as his excited kisses and unsure hands stung her. When she'd led him to the sofa in the living room and stretched upon it, lifting her skirt to her waist, his panting, blinding passion made him like putty in her hands ... his body like hot steel in her fingers as she introduced him to manhood....
Jerry sighed, losing count of the women in his past. This one, next to him now, was something else. It was as though Terry had been created for sex. He couldn't make love to her without wanting to make love to her again. She was wild and free and natural and exciting. She made love like she sang-with intense artistry and overwhelming emotion-and as though she never wanted to stop. He sat up, his eyes finding the light outline of her arousing beauty in the dimness and going to the proud stance of her breasts. He was filled with her beauty and with the pounding knowledge of how wonderful she was to make love to. Suddenly, he felt the danger of the emotions which she evoked in him and quickly got to his feet.
"Jerry-where...?" Terry sat up in the darkness. "Work. Remember?"
"Oh double, diddledly damn! We'll be late!" She shot out of bed to pause for a beat with her arms around him. "You were wonderful!" she breathed, raising her lips.
"So are you, Terry-double wonderful!"
"Again-soon!"
"Whenever you say, baby."
"Like after work, tonight?" she said, writhing against him as though to arouse him again.
"Hey-this is Jerry-not Superman!"
"That's right: Jerry Superman. Anyhow, we could sleep together and let nature take its course, couldn't we?"
He laughed, pleased. "And why not?" he asked, kissing her lightly.
"You know, Jerry," she said, choosing her words and speaking slowly, "I'd like to be your girl on a short-term basis-so we could be together most of the time-that's if you like the idea. You could sleep here, nights ... it would be so handy!" She giggled.
Jerry was pleased, again-and a little surprised.
"No strings, baby?" he asked.
"No strings. I'm for fun, Jerry. I love your kind of kicks and I dig your music like you dig mine. You like?" she nodded at the bed, stepping back from him, reaching for her clothing, breasts trembling with the motion. Jerry exhaled.
"Baby, in that sack you're like crescendo, largo, and molto grandioso ... not to forget mucho caliente. I like...!"
CHAPTER SEVEN
Alice Carrol was stoned ... and still working at it, attempting to drown her anguish. She'd left home some time before-how long she couldn't recall. Now she was sitting at the bar in a cheap tavern, living on Scotch and soda, rocking a little in the blast of sound from the coin phonograph. A couple was on the floor, twisting vigorously in the jungle compulsion. The joint was stale with smoke; indifferently swept. It was a favorite pickup spot for off duty servicemen in the area.
Alice had often wondered what made a woman become a prostitute. The idea was highly repugnant to her-the thought of faceless men pawing and handling her, kissing her breasts, thrusting themselves upon her with sweaty, odorous bodies only demanding sensation and not giving it, repelled her. It made sex cheap, dirty and animal. For Alice, sex was tenderness and love and giving.
With an effort, she fought down the impulse to throw her half-empty drink at the pair dancing. The girl was obviously a professional with the revealing dress, the bad skin from excessive makeup and the hard eyes which went with making a living this hard way. How could people let such things happen, she wondered, angry but restraining her urge to do something violent. She recognized this was not the time nor the place. The thing that was causing her distress was not here.
The bar tilted and Alice felt a small tinge of nausea. Quickly, she lifted her glass and soothed the feeling away with a swallow of the drink. She realized it was much too late for her to be wandering about, alone, but the feeling that nothing mattered, now, pushed the small concern aside. The bereft sensation persisted-nothing mattered, but she still loved John Carrol-and she felt like the knowledge was slowly cutting her heart out. She felt, right at this moment, she'd give anything to restore her life to what it had been....
"Can I buy you a drink, miss?" a soft voice asked pleasantly, close to her side.
Alice turned, unsteadily, to focus on the man with the young face, seated next to her. He was a nice-looking male, something over voting age, she'd guess, with features almost delicate. His face was dominated by deep-set eyes; his lips were full-almost feminine in their fullness-yet not detracting from the masculine character of his look. Despite herself, her eyes dropped quickly from his face to trace a quick glance at his body. She realized that there was a basic, urgent appeal about him for her and was surprised to feel it.
How easy it would be ... all she had to do was say 'yes' ... and the drink would be the prelude to a series of actions which would find her naked body linked with his on some strange bed. Afterward they'd depart on ways strange to each other ... still strangers and strangers to remain. Alice recognized it was easy, if that's what you wanted.
She was conscious of a quickly rising aversion to the direction her thoughts were travelling, trying to squelch the pictures they brought, as fast as they formed.
"Thank you, no," Alice replied, trying to make her refusal firm but failing to keep the undertone of snappishness under control.
"So-no. Don't make a beef of it, lady," the man said, moving down the bar to another stool as though she had something contagious.
Maybe that was part of it, she thought. Perhaps her life had become a contagion and through no fault of her own. What had happened? What had turned John Carrol against her? Why had he stepped out on her-sought the pleasure of other women-why had he stepped out on her? Wasn't she good enough in bed to keep a husband?"
The thoughts chased themselves in an endless cycle through her mind and she signalled the barman for a refill as she drained her glass, hoping she could keep her anger so soaked in alcohol that it couldn't flare into open flame. There was no other idea she could arrive at which seemed to offer any relief for the continuing anguish coursing through her-nothing but violence.
A shudder racked her as the picture of John in another woman's arms flashed into her mind in sharp detail. The bitterness and the pain it triggered-then and now-made her grit her teeth and clench her hands in violent reaction. Murder was in her mind and it wouldn't take too much fanning to make the spark leap to flame. She didn't realize it, but the spark was smoldering deep in her mind....
* * *
As he held Norma in his arms, John felt wonderful. The music was good and the evening was turning out excellently. Norma felt good to hold. The Martinis had helped heighten his awareness of pleasure but John knew it was Norma's light, graceful body close to his which made him bubble inwardly. Dinner had been delicious and the feeling of intimacy with Norma had grown through the meal. Here-and in this atmosphere-Norma was a totally new woman to him. It was puzzling. Certainly she was no stranger, but it seemed to John as though this was a Norma he hadn't known for five years; hadn't worked with almost every day over those years. It was puzzling, but John was enjoying it.
"Enjoying yourself?" he asked. His pulses leaped as she moved silently closer to him in answer.
The push of her tight breasts against his chest was sending thrills of sensual excitement through him. John had held few women in his life; had been completely satisfied with the love and the nearness of his wife for so long....
But this-this was something new and something different.
Perhaps this was something which he'd wanted for a long time and had been afraid to acknowledge or experience. The realization struck him that he might have desired Norma for years-and not admitted the fact to himself. He tried to analyze his feelings for her. It was difficult because the past few days had shaken up so many things he couldn't sort them out. He knew one thing, though-any affair with Norma was for keeps and the knowledge chilled his elation a little. He didn't know if he wanted a permanent involvement with anyone....
The beat of the music went to Latin and Norma's hips moved against him, subtly suggestive. Excitement again surged through John at the touch and, suddenly, the only thing he wanted to do was to take Norma to bed-hungering for the sensations their bodies could give.
The dim lights in the room heightened the unreality of the scene and John's sense of being someone else. As the music ended, Norma smiled up at him and the inner heat in John swelled and pulsed.
"It has been a wonderful evening," John told her as they returned to their table. He nodded when the waitress asked if they wanted another round of drinks and, as she moved away, the two of them sat, gazing into each other's eyes, like two school-kids in the grip of an overpowering infatuation. Norma broke the silence to say:
"I think it's getting a little late, John."
He started to glance at his watch and then realized that Norma's words didn't necessarily reflect her anxiety over the hour. It was late-and getting later-in their relationship, and every moment which passed was a moment lost from the embrace of each other's arms. John took a reading on Norma's eyes and verified the thought.
"Well, shall we finish our drinks and go-home?" he asked.
Norma smiled, enigmatically. "If I didn't know you better, I'd say you were suggesting something, John Carrol."
He nodded. "You caught me in the act," he assented.
"In the face of such full and free confession," she smiled, "I can think of only one come-back. As they say in the fiction paperbacks: 'your place or mine?' Mr. Carrol."
"Considering everything," he said, smiling as he got to his feet, "I should say, your place...!"
* * *
It was the first time Alice Carrol had been in the Jay Cee Club at night for three years. She had never, really, liked the place and, in her present mood and condition, she liked it even less. The headwaiter did not remember her, and that didn't help. He blocked her way as she started in to the club room.
"Yes, madam, what may I do for you?" he asked, his words a thinly-veiled aversion to seating an unescorted woman.
"I'm Mrs. John Carrol and I would like a table where I can shee-see the slitage." She struggled to make her speech behave but it was not notably successful. The head-waiter did a double take at the garble and hesitated in indecision.
"Is Mr. Carrol in?" she demanded.
"No, Mrs. Carrol, I'm sorry, but he is not."
"Well, tell Jim I'm here!" she ordered. Jim was the head barman and he'd been with John since the club opened. The head-waiter grinned.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Carrol," he apologized. "It's been so long, I'm afraid I didn't recognize you."
"'Sail right. When does that new shing-singer go on?" The booze she'd drunk was rocking her to her heels. When she was seated, she ordered another drink, sitting and waiting for Terry Anson to come on. The head-waiter had said it wouldn't be long. As she sat, waiting for her drink, the scene in the office snapped back into focus in her mind. She got angry again and, pushing back her chair, stood up, almost knocking the waitress' tray out of her hands. Grabbing the drink, she started backstage, having decided to face Terry Anson immediately.
"Bill th' man'gment, honey," she tossed back at the waitress as she left. A guard, posted to keep customers from wandering backstage, stood by the door, but recognized John's wife and nodded as she entered. "Where 'sh-Miss Anson?" she asked.
"She's in Room C, Mrs. Carrol,' he answered. Alice found the door, steadying herself with a hand before she lifted it to knock. Then, changing her mind, she pushed into the room, the door slamming shut, loudly, behind her.
Terry was sitting before one of the makeup tables as Alice barged in, Terry seeing her reflection in the mirror.
Startled, the singer stood and turned to face the intruder. She was wearing a stage dress-a tight-fitting blue evening gown which lifted her already high breasts to emphasize the cleavage between the full, firm globes. Her red hair cascaded, loose and shining, to her shoulders and her appearance was a masterpiece of nature and makeup, working in harmony. Alice recognized that the creamy skin, alluring body and beautiful hair combined to make a package of irresistible feminine charm and was probably excellent for business.
The realization intensified Alice's anger and she fought down the temptation to throw the drink at the poised, beautiful woman before her.
"Who th-the hell you think you are?" she demanded, angrily. Her ire was building but Alice still held on to her control.
Terry's face reflected surprise. "I know who I am," she answered tartly. "Who are you and what do you want in my dressing room?"
Alice almost strangled on her fury. "You know what I'm talkin' 'bout. I'm talkin' 'bout you an' my husban', tha's wha-what I'm talkin'...!" Alice was interrupted by a hiccup and her rage got the upper hand. "I c'd kill you f'r that!" she shouted, her arm flying out to splash the drink on Terry's chin and over the front of her beautiful gown. For an instant there was an ominous silence. The fire leaped in the redhead's eyes and she tensed angrily, then her breath released in a long aspiration.
"Wha' right you got af-t' go after a married man?" Alice demanded, grittily. She opened her lips to continue but shock silenced her.
"Why God-damn your eyes, I'll pinch your drunken head off and throw it in your stupid face!" The rage and detestation in the singer's voice hit her with almost the impact of a blow. "Listen to me, you rumpot-and hear me well. No woman goes after a man who's really married-not if she's in her right mind. She's just wasting her time to try. But it takes two people to be married-d'you know that? Not one-two. And the story's all over this club about you ducking into riding academies for canters with that big, tall blonde man. You're not married-you're playing mattress back on the motel circuit, Bo-Peep...." Alice flung herself at her tormentor in a frenzy of rage and pain.
She was never exactly clear as to what happened next. She remembered clutching the thick fall of red hair in her fingers and starting to pull. At that instant a jarring shock at the apex of her spread thighs paralyzed her with screaming pain. She staggered back, retching, her buttocks striking the edge of the makeup table, bouncing her forward again, against Terry. In desperation, rage and pain she wrapped her fingers around the singer's throat, squeezing with all her frenzied strength. She felt the other woman move and hastened to lift a thigh, instinctively, to cover the agony of her pelvis.
But, just as quickly as it had come before, a hard object smashed into her body, just below the meeting of her ribs and another paralyzing envelopment of pain made every muscle go slack. The room blacked out as she fell backward, her head bouncing against the un-carpeted floor.
The next thing of which she was conscious was strangling and choking while someone was slapping her face, vigorously, back and forth. She opened her mouth to scream, choked and the slapping stopped. When she could breath and focus her eyes, she looked up at the form of Terry Anson, standing over her, murder in her face and rage in her eyes. Stepping close to Alice's prone body, the sharp toe of the redhead's pump drove into Alice's hip in another shock of pain which made her scrabble away and try to spring to her feet. Failing, she pulled herself slowly and unsteadily to a standing position by using a chair. Terry slowly followed, moving on her like a cat covering a mouse with which it's toying.
Watching the drunken woman's eyes, Terry's glittering orbs read sentience returning as she unzippered her whisky-splashed gown and stepped out of it.
"Listen, you drunken slut, you stay out of my way. Don't come slooming in here with your gut full of alcohol and your head full of imaginary wrongs! You're wrong-I can tell, just by looking at you, you're as wrong as a No. 7 ticket in a six-horse race. You better read me, good, or you'll get hurt, bad! I learned my way around, fighting boys-and I'll beat your stupid fanny to a froth if you ever so much as speak to me again! You hear me?" A stinging palm rocked Alice's head on her weaving shoulders. "Now get your easy ass out of here or you won't have anything left to pass around to your boy friends. And don't go running to your husband with this or I'll turn both of you inside out with an assault and battery suit that'll tie this joint up like a Christmas Present-and spread your fun and games over the front page of every newspaper in the state! Beat it, bum!"
Hate, rage and shame fought for a place on Alice's shocked features. Her anger was throttling her and, if she'd had a weapon, she'd have murdered Terry Anson or died trying. Slowly she looked toward the door, fighting down the urge to vomit, staggering under the force of her emotions and the load of drink she'd taken on. Hair bedraggled by the water Terry'd thrown on her to revive her; face mottled red and her consciousness scarred irrevocably by the humiliation she'd brought down on herself, she backed to the door as someone knocked and yelled to ask what was going on in there. Alice found the knob and opened the door to stagger out and through the crowd of performers who looked at her in mingled curiosity and contempt. Hate for Terry Anson was all that kept her from dissolving into thin air as she staggered past people whose aversion to her was an aura she could almost see.
"You alright, Terry?" the guard asked anxiously. "You'll be on in a couple of minutes."
"Ask Jean if she can stall 'til I get into another dress," Terry snapped. "I'm alright-just had a little misunderstanding with a tourist, passing through...."
Alice cringed at the contemptuous words as she careened toward the back door into the parking lot....
CHAPTER EIGHT
John never remembered, clearly, the drive back to Norma's place from the restaurant. The moment he stepped into the night air, the drinks seemed to come down on him and numb his feelings. He did recall flashes of being at the wheel, driving slowly and carefully. Opening the door to Norma's apartment, he struggled to remember the drive back but couldn't.
As they moved into the light of her living room, Norma turned to him and surprise crossed her face.
"John ... are you alright?" Then, with a little laugh, she asked: "What happened ... did the drinks get to you?" He had started to sway slightly and couldn't get his eyes focused clearly on Norma.
"I-I guess they must have," he said, "b-but I didn't think I had all that much to drink...." Norma steered him to the sofa and sat him down.
"Probably the accumulation of a lot of things the past couple of days," she daignosed. "You rest easy and let me put up a pot of coffee...." John watched her graceful movement toward the kitchen and leaned, carefully, back against the sofa. The next thing of which he became conscious, was Norma, shaking him gently.
He drank the hot coffee gratefully. When he was on his second cup, he tried to apologize:
"Norm, I'm really sorry about this." Norma smiled in relief.
"John, think nothing of it," she said, "I'm just relieved that it's not something serious."
John felt strange; while he could think clearly and talk without difficulty, yet he was possessed by a great lassitude and had no desire to attempt to move.
"It does strange things sometimes," Norma was saying, "that combination of stale liquor and fresh air. You know, John-it might be best if you stayed here, tonight. I don't think you ought to try to drive anymore. I didn't realize how you felt." Norma stood. "I'll make you a pallet, as they say in the cowboy songs, but not down on the floor...." She went for bedding as John moved, laboriously, from the sofa to a chair and returned to make up a bed on the soft sofa pillows.
"Thanks, Norma," John smiled, thinly. "I sure hate to trouble you...."
She came to him, smiling, to lean down and look into his eyes. His own glance could not resist darting to the bodice of her snug gown, which gaped a bit as she supported her weight with her hands on the arms of the chair. His interest, though, in the attractive bulge of her firm, medium-sized bosoms was, at that moment, entirely academic. Norma noted his quick glance and her smile broadened.
"Better get into bed, you peeping-John, you," she said, softly. He grinned into her eyes.
"Just can't resist beauty, I guess," he said, half-apol-ogetically.
"Your'e a nice man," Norma said, dropping a light kiss on his lips, "and it's a nice change to have one around the house." Then she was gone, closing her bedroom door behind her. John sat for a moment, then got out of his clothes and into the temporary bed she'd made for him. Lying in the dark, he felt the room move slowly around him. He felt as though he were falling through an endless, black shaft to nowhere.
* * *
Norma lay for a long time, staring into the darkness in her bedroom, her mind turning with what had almost happened-and what she had wanted to happen. A little disappointed, she was also somewhat relieved, as though an imminent and grave decision had been postponed due to something beyond her control. There was a great mystery, she concluded, to timing and atmosphere and state of mind and condition of body chemistry, which helped to make sex the more complicated, the more mysterious, the more difficult and the more desirable. It was not, she thought, something which everyone could turn on or off like a table lamp. Sex, it sometimes seemed, had a mind of its own....
* * *
How long he had been asleep, John didn't know. He looked at his watch, but the faint glow of the luminous dial was so feeble he couldn't easily make it out and he gave it up. As he lay there, the strangeness drained away and he remembered where he was-in Norma's apartment-on Norma's sofa.
Then his mind turned to the lovely woman in the other room, asleep and, now completely in control of his faculties, John slipped quietly from the sofa and moved to the bedroom door. Silently he turned the knob, opening the door and tiptoeing in to stand beside Norma's bed. As his eyes became accustomed to the light, filtering faintly through the closed edges of the Venetian blinds, they eagerly searched the form of the sleeping woman. John noted, with approval, how graceful Norma looked, even when completely relaxed in slumber. The cover had drawn away from her figure and he could make out the pointed tips of her breasts as they lifted the sheer material of her night gown. Her lips were slightly parted and her breathing was deep and regular, She was a lovely vision and John stood for a long time, looking down on her, feeling a little guilty at intruding to stare at her as she slept.
He stifled the urge to lean down, kiss her breasts, her throat and her lips; to blow on the spark of desire he'd sensed in Norma and bring it to full flame and then let the fire consume their hungers.
Again he was cognizant of her loveliness and, as his desire began to exert an inner pressure again, John forced himself to turn, silently and retrace his tiptoe steps back to his own bed.
It wasn't that his desire for Norma was something he could stifle that easily. There was something else which nagged at him, around the edges of his hunger, distracting his impulses. There was something about the thing he wanted to do, which just didn't seem right. It was too much like taking advantage of Norma, after she'd been so considerate of him.
A warm affection for the graceful, lovely woman suffused him as he completed his silent trek back to the sofa and eased himself down at one end of his bed, cigarette and lighter in hand. He lit the smoke, after a moment, reflecting as it burned down under repeated drags, how unsatisfactory it was to smoke when you couldn't see the smoke. It actually, John reflected, diminished the taste of tobacco, when you smoked in the dark.
As he finished the cigarette and was crushing out the ember of it in the ashtray on the table beside him, he sensed her presence, the fragrance of her and, startled, looked up to see the faint blur of her figure, standing light against the enveloping darkness.
Rid of the cigarette, John stood as Norma took his hand to pull him forward. He followed as she led him to her bed, stopping at the side of it to turn to him, her soft arms going around his neck, the tenderness of her soft kiss tempering the hot desire which suddenly burgeoned within him.
When they broke their embrace for breath, Norma turned swiftly to take his hand again, and, like a little girl, bounced onto the mattress on her knees, pulling John, urging him to join her....
CHAPTER NINE
The last show was finished and Jerry English was turning the pictures of Terry Anson-gleaned earlier in the day-over in his mind. All evening long, she'd been flashing him looks which, knowing first-hand about her inventiveness, had him wondering what she was cooking up. He took a few moments to talk with the bass player. There were new arrangements which needed to be completed in the next few days. Jerry had them all but finished-he used his complete scoring for piano parts-and Don usually copied the score for the other instruments, individually, from Jerry's original.
As the bass man departed and Jerry stacked the music to put into the cases he kept the book in (he refused to leave scores on the piano because you could lose them too easily like that) Terry eased her luscious body alongside the grand, resting an elbow on the top.
"Had a thought about an arrangement on an old oldie I'd like to expose you to," she said. "Think you're in the mood-tonight?" He grinned down at her.
"Well," he said with an exaggerated air of indecision . : .
"We could go up to my place for a hot snack...." Jerry held up a hand, palm out.
"Say no more, belter," he said, fondly, "you just sold me."
"I'm no belter," she protested, joining his badinage, "I are a chanteuse, pure and simple." As Jerry opened his mouth to reply, she put a hand against his chest, warning him in mock severity: "And no cracks about any of it, you hear?"
Jerry chuckled and patted her cheek.
"I wasn't referring to music," he said. "I understand Alice Carrol barged into your dressing room and ended up with lumps."
"Oh ... that nothing broad! I should have broken her jaw. You tell me how to dope that girdle full of squirrels-you don't know what happened the day I came to work here, do you?"
"I don't know nothin' past that pit," Jerry grinned. "Works out better that way, mostly."
"Well, I was talking with John in the office and Miss Antsie Pants comes prissing into the office, unannounced and no-knock. Just like tonight. It happened that the boss was completing a short pass-nothing, really-and it lit her fuse. She blew the situation up into a major catastrophe."
"And you had nothing to do with it," Jerry stated, grinning.
"Nothing, whatsoever," Terry retorted, imitating his inflection and returning his grin. "If I had, little Miss Snot-nose would have busted her bustle, this I'll guarantee you."
"That I'll buy, too," Jerry chortled.
"Anyhow, tonight she comes on like outraged virtue, accusing me of chasing her husband-meaning like I'm breaking up her marriage-and everybody I've talked to in the club has filled me in on her tall, blond boy friend with the king-size muscles and, I guess, all the goodies. Further, everybody I've talked to told me John was no chaser-and that includes the kids here. So, the only conclusion I can jump to is that John knows the story, too. Or, having verified the story, he's faced her with the facts and she's got the nervous trots, now. John's going to get the bill for cleaning my blue evening gown, too. The stupid sow threw Scotch all over the front of it!"
Jerry shrugged and tried to think of something other than the picture of Terry in John's arms. It didn't please him-he didn't dwell on the fact that he'd probably shared every woman he'd ever known with other studs-suddenly, he felt his love-life lacked something; especially in this new-found delight in Terry Anson. She was the type of girl who liked her kicks where she found them and with the delights it was obvious Terry offered, she'd have no trouble finding them, most anywhere. The realization caused a sudden sting of annoyance to flare in Jerry English. As he put Terry into the car and went around to get under the wheel, the realization came that something serious seemed to be growing, in his mind, around the fascinating person of Terry Anson. He wondered, as he keyed the engine to life, if that was a good idea....
* * *
John Carrol was submerged in and inflamed by Normy Blake. The opportunity for which he'd planned, had seemed, earlier, to be lost beyond reclaim. Now, despite the delight she was creating for him, John was having some difficulty in adjusting, mentally, to the rapid alteration of circumstances and atmosphere. Even with Norma captured by his hungry embrace, he struggled to align himself with what was happening.
Norma's softness was like a sweet, haunting melody which wound about him firmly, yet tenderly. Like the continual winding of tiny, silken threads, he felt himself growing more helpless in the thrall of her sweet allure. The more the outpouring of affection grew, the closer he pressed to her, physically and mentally; the more breathlessly inescapable she became--but he had no slightest wish to escape.
John's experience with women was not wide enough for him to quickly assess his reactions to Norma. He only knew that the sweetness, agonizing, almost in its sharp and thrilling possession of him, was like nothing he'd ever known before.
And, it was not all the softness of her avid lips, the hungry swell of her breasts against the filmy gown, the urgency of her lovely arms about his neck, pressing her beautiful body ever closer to him. There was a far more exciting and emotionally satisfying mystery which was involved in the beauty which had opened to him and wrapped itself about him.
Norma had offered herself, lovingly, completely in a moment of perfection. Her act had generated the atmosphere in which their bodies and minds floated; had directed the course of their lovemaking. The faint, filtered glow of almost-light which crept into the room created more shadow then illumination so that everything seemed unreal and illusionary ... except the warm and delightful woman who shared the shuddering delights they were inducing in each other.
Her mouth, warm, eager and soft, was pressed to his and he repeatedly trembled at the sensations her pointed tongue evoked in him as she savored him. He could feel the swelling of the firm breasts and the increase of their pressure against his chest. John ached to touch her everywhere ... caress the excited breasts and find with loving and worshipful fingertips every hollow, curve, swell and plane which was Norma Blake. He wanted to touch her, endlessly and, as he touched, to kiss everywhere his fingers left love. All his conscious desire was focused in the sharp, hot want to give her every motion, action and pleasure that love could give.
His hungry hand found the swell of her bosom, caressed its turgid, perfect swell; toyed with the quickly-hardening tip. He felt the trembling of her lips, at his caress, and a new, vigorous wave of sensation rushed over him. No move Norma made failed to induce new wonder and new delight in John's singing body and as she transported him, his mind reeled with the wonder of how this could be. What was the mysterious property the body and the mind of this woman possessed that the tightening of a muscle here or the touch of her tongue there could raddle him with unbearable and delightful sensation? A gasping sob escaped John as Norma's hand fell to the task of urging him out of the little clothing he wore.
He was never conscious of their figures separating but was aware, at length, that the heated nakedness of their bodies was pressed and stretched tightly and hungrily together. As the hunger and the wonder drove John, he caressed, with his lips, Norma's ears and throat and cheeks. She uttered tiny, pleading sounds as he offered her caresses he had often thought of but seldom given to any of the few women he'd known. Norma shuddered and her back arched in delightful spasm as John's seeking lips found her breasts.
Then came the realization that Norma was urging him, with hands and body, gently, to cover her hungry beauty with the eager tenderness with which they were pressed, side-by-side, and he did. As she ardently accepted the bulk of him upon her and lashed him to her with the tender, urgent bonds of arms and legs, he shuddered in repeated delight. It seemed that nothing in existence could be superior to the filling, surging pleasure which racked him but Norma's aura of sweetly imperative desire drew him closer and closer until he felt the ultimate delight of her brush him with soft fire. Amazed, then, John knew her in the full of her desire as, with body and limbs, she writhed and tensed and drew upon him until she accomplished her own possession in sobbing, gasping delight and John was paralyzed in the continuing and growing wonder of this woman.
By now, John had lost all sense of time. How long they remained, thus, caught in the pulsing snare of their love, he had no way of knowing. Then he felt Norma move beneath him and read her message in the small action and himself moved to taste the complete gift of her. Then they were winnowing out the pure, sparkling ecstasy of each other on pinions which pulsed and lifted and swelled them until they touched the zenith of their flight and touched and brushed and crushed and burst together in crying spasms and tumbling wonder and soaring ecstasy....
When John awoke, light was streaming in slender bands through the blinds at the window. He felt as though the miseries through which he had passed these last few days had never happened. He turned his head to the picture of Norma's nude beauty, lying gracefully in slumber beside him and knew that, whatever had gone before, the confusion and the indecision in his life was the result of one lack-the magical perfection of this wonderful woman. John's problem was resolved. He must put an end to his life with Alice-at once....
CHAPTER TEN
Alice woke with a monumental hangover and, lying abed with the throbbing pain, her thoughts began anew to worry the cause of her unease. Coupled with the distress of her alcohol-induced distress, the combination was near-maddening.
She forced herself out of bed, noticing by the bedside clock it was after ten, and dropped her gown to the floor as she moved unsteadily toward the bathroom. While she adjusted the water temperature, she eyed her reflection in the mirrored wall, taking some comfort from the excellence of her body at the same time she felt a renewal of anger at her husband. Why had he turned to other women? She was no witch.
Then, she speculated, it was probably in search of something new. Just as she had succumbed to the renewed excitement of Carl Denver's caresss.
But, she assured herself with complete falsity, she'd have never returned to Carl's embrace if John hadn't been playing with a long succession of easy women which went through the club! And to top them all, there was Terry Anson. Alice stiffened in rage, knowing the urge to kill-knowing it clearly and keenly.
As she soaped her body, the touch of her hands on her breasts brought Carl Denver and his love-making into the forefront of her mind and she dwelt awhile on the pleasure of her erotic recollections as she finished her bath.
As Alice put on her robe, the front doorbell rang and she moved to answer it, wondering who....
It was John she opened the door to-John standing uncertainly and attempting to smile at the strained features of his wife. The attempt died as Alice demanded:
"What are you doing here?"
"I live here, or I thought I did," he returned, annoyed at her brusqueness.
"For five, unfaithful years you slept here. Now, I don't care where you live."
"Alice, you'd better get your facts straight," John said, his face grim and bitter. "I never lied to you. Five unfaithful years, like hell. I never touched another woman, from the time we were married, until you went back to Carl Denver. I've had it-and so have you."
"You know where you stand with Carl Denver!" she cried, paying no attention to his words, "I...."
"Then I suggest you go stand with Carl Denver. Nobody in his right mind could take this. I tell you the truth and you call me a liar. You justify what you're doing by something I haven't done." His stony eyes held her silent. "As I've said to you once before ... I've had it with you ... we're through!" he whirled on his heel and left, the door slamming with a violence that rocked through Alice's aching head like a blow.
When Alice returned to reality her body was aching from the long time she'd reclined on the floor. Evidently she'd dropped there when John turned his back on her. She didn't recall falling, the only thing which remained clear was a long series of mental pictures of her husband, involved in a fantasy of heated and perverted sexual activity with girls Alice remembered playing the club. He was a beast and she hated him.
Another period of fuzziness brought on another series of erotic imagery and, when she emerged again, she found herself sitting at the breakfast table, a bottle of whiskey before her and an empty glass in her hands. Perhaps the alcohol had cleared her head. At least, now she was back to her one track sequence of John's unfaithfulness and his false accusation that she'd been unfaithful to him. There had to be a way to make him admit the truth but she couldn't formulate a plan. As she sat, the thought formed that it would come to her ... whatever she must do ... it would come to her....
* * *
John, sitting in his office, rejected the thought of a drink for the third time and, realizing it was evening, pressed the intercom key to talk to the barman and ask him to send out for a rare steak. Shortly afterward, there was a rap at his door and, surprised at the swiftness of the service, he called out an invitation to enter.
It wasn't his dinner. It was Frankie Robbins, and she moved to his desk, lush hips thrust forward to come to a halt when the desk edge met them. She was wearing the under-costume for her Goddess act-skintight, red bra and bikini panties; as Frankie placed her hands on the emphasis of her hips, they'd pulled the robe open to reveal her near-nude body.
"Well, what can I do for you?" John automatically asked.
"What can I do for you?" she countered. Sex oozed through her speech and John detected that she was a little high.
"Been boozing?" he asked, looking at his watch.
"Only a belt before I came in," she answered with a small shake of her shoulders which sent the big breasts dancing. "I only have about a half-hour before the first show. How about a drink?"
"Sure you need one?" John countered. Frankie moved to sit on the corner of the desk.
"Look, baby-I hear you're on the loose. You could loosen up all my tensions," she smiled down at him.
"How about it?" she asked.
John felt the reaction build, his eyes recording the flat abdomen with its small navel and the lush curves of thigh and hip which rested on the desk.
"Could we make it later?" he asked, thinking of the food he'd ordered and his famished condition. He felt Frankie freeze and his eyes met hers as she moved her thigh off the desk.
"That's what you told me before-but later never comes. Look, Boss, I'm just a healthy girl, making an honest pass and there's nothing wrong with that. But, believe me Boss, I won't push it again...." Frankie's voice sounded hurt as she turned a little, to leave. John reached out to touch her bare body lightly with his fingertips. The contact stopped her. He could feel it inside him. This was pure sex-something he'd never tried before, except with Terry Anson, and then he'd been so confused he hadn't been able to sort out his impressions. He wondered if he'd really enjoyed it-he really couldn't remember.
"Frankie-later. I mean it," he said, his voice urgent.
She swung to him again, a sudden light hot in her eyes.
"When?" she demanded.
"You have an hour between shows-the first and second-haven't you?" he pointed out.
"Yeah," she nodded, "about an hour...."
"We'll pull you off the second show. Can't be asking the talent to work double-time now, can I?" The levity was wasted on Frankie. She undulated to the door and stopped there, turning to stare back at him, a puzzled expression on her features. She gave a small shake of her head as she opened the door and left, letting John remain with his muscles half-flexed to rise and leaving him with a vaguely uncomfortable feeling which, he recognized with a flash of irritation, seemed to be with him constantly of late.
It wasn't long after the door closed on Frankie that a knock sounded against the panel and John, drink in hand, called out:
"Come in."
"Hlyah, John-got your favorite-sirloin rare, with fries and mixed salad." It was Chuck, one of the bar staff, who looked after feeding John. He had an 'in' with the Chef of L'Aiglon, across the street, and used it.
"Chuck, it looks and smells wonderful, thank you. I'm starved," John said exhaling in appreciation and lifting his drink in thanks.
"Jean's best," Chuck grinned, ducking out the door.
John felt much better after he'd eaten and poured himself another Scotch on the rocks. His spirits lifted, fortified with food and bannered by the application of good whiskey; and he turned his thoughts to speculation on what his forthcoming appointment with Frankie Robbins might be like. After a moment, with a wry grin, he gave it up and decided that he could better spend the time watching the statuesque blonde in her act. Knowing Frankie, he knew watching her would be stimulating; especially in view of the 'main event' the two of them had arranged for later, in his office.
Frankie stood in the wings as the MC wound up his short routine and a burst of laughter applauded his last gag. She felt a flutter in her middle, wondering if she might have had a little too much to drink but rejecting the possibility at once. The flutter was due to John Carrol-and a hunger for him which had flared the afternoon she'd walked into his office. The almost somber precision of John's mien and the effortless control he seemed to exercise over his own actions and emotions had raked across the tendrils of Frankie's consciousness like a thumb-nail over harp strings. She hadn't lost a bit of the desire which had, alternately, smoldered and flared deep inside her. Frankie shrugged, compulsively, remembering that this was always the way it had been with her. One man would fix himself in her erotic focus-often through no volition nor conscious action on his part-and once he'd given Frankie 'the hots' (as she always phrased it to herself) that was that. She had to make it happen with that man and it was nobody else until she'd made it with him. Between these fixations, Frankie was normally selective of her men, but, while she was hung up on the occasional man, nothing did her any good until she could either have him, or failing that, find enough fault with him (by conscious effort) to get herself untangled. It was a queer thing, she sighed to herself, recognizing it for that, but there seemed to be nothing that she could do about it....
* * *
It had started, with Frankie, when she was sixteen years old. At that age, precocious in her physical development, she was the erotic target of most of the boys in her school. Not that she had encountered this situation overnight ... Frankie's body had been the focus of many a pair of hot, male eyes from the time she presented the nearly-complete conformation of a mature woman, which had come at about age thirteen.
Frankie knew lots about sex, first-hand; her mother had a big thing about it and with it. The adolescent Frankie had inherited the voluptuousness of body which characterized her mother, but she hadn't, despite the atmosphere in which she lived, adopted her mother's attitude toward sex. Some reticence, deep within the youngster, made her hold back-some unformed and unexpressed feeling that this was something which was her mother's province, alone, and not for her ignorant exploration or participation-made her stay aloof from the numerous attempts boys and men made to get to her.
The small flat in which Frankie and her mother lived was far from comfortable and their life, most often, was just a half step behind hand-to-mouth. But sex was her mother's recreation and escape and exercise and justification for living, all rolled into one. The jerry-built walls of the flat absorbed none of the sounds which came from the room of the young girl's mother; the number of men who visited the cramped flat was legion. At first, the panting, gasping moans and grunts and cries had frightened Frankie; then she became inured to them and, at length, she began to assess them with an experienced ear. She regarded, in big-eyed speculation, those visitors who evoked the most unbridled response in her mother, wondering what mysterious thing it was they did to her mother which delighted her so that, at times, she squalled like a tabby cat engaged in copulation.
Oddly enough, despite the fact that their abode was in the city, Frankie's first inkling of sex came from the animals in the neighborhood. The initial step in her education was the contemplation, in shocked wonder, of the coupling of the next-door neighbor's tabby and a wandering tom-cat. The noise had first drawn her attention from the arithmetic book; the action and the climactic sounds had held her enthralled until the torn released his victim and made his escape over the high board fence.
As Frankie lay back on her lumpy mattress, breathless and mysteriously excited, she reasoned that her mother wouldn't enjoy the grip of teeth in her neck (besides she'd never exhibited any such marks) so there must be something more to the activity than discomfort to produce the vocal response with which, by this time, she was quite familiar. So, she waited for the inevitable rite of Saturday night when a smiling, often awkwardly uncomfortable caller would spend a few moments in their mean living room, observing a show of the amenities before Frankie was dismissed to her room and the visitor and her mother began their mysterious games.
Quite often, there was a gift from these male callers. Frankie's mother did not consider herself a prostitute-she doubled as a dance-hall girl and stripper to scratch out a difficult livelihood-but the gifts were always welcome; were the only touches of luxury in the hardscrabble existence of the two females. Frankie reflected that her mother was never very good, on stage, straightening with pride in the knowledge that she, Frankie, was just the opposite. She had acquired a visual familiarity with the business of stripping, sneaking peeps from concealment while supposedly waiting for her mother in the dressing quarters, and had gone on to expand and refine her knowledge of the art. She was one of the best-and she knew she was good.
Finally the girl's curiosity had forced her to the keyhole of her mother's bedroom on several Saturday nights when the light had been left on ... and Frankie knew more of the picture. This evoked a normal response of sympathetic excitement, but still left much to be learned. One of Frankie's acquaintances, goaded by the girl's activity on the playground equipment one late afternoon provided further enlightenment. Frankie, just half-past thirteen, hadn't yet exhausted her hoydenish urge which persisted from earlier years. As she swung down from the ladder, her dress dropped to cover the tight panties which the eyes of her lone male companion had traversed with each exposure above his head.
"What's wrong?" Frankie demanded, noticing his bent posture as she resumed her feet. His face flushed and Frankie's eyes fixed on the fly of his dusty trousers to note the displacement there. She sat down and indicated that she wanted him to sit next to her. He did so, trying to cover his excited state with his arms, but Frankie would have none of it, pulling his arms away. At this manifestation of interest, the boy relaxed a little. Frankie was handy with her fists and he wanted none of them.
"Got a rail on," he explained, huskily.
"Why?" Frankie again demanded. The boy nodded toward the ladder overhead.
"Your dress fell back," he admitted, hesitantly, his eyes falling.
"So-what's that?" she demanded, scornfully. "All you saw was my pants." The boy shrugged, poising for flight, but Frankie's eyes, checking to area to find they were alone and concealed from adjacent residences by the playground equipment, decided to investigate farther.
"I-well, I don't know. I just saw 'em an'...." the lad's voice trailed off. He'd noticed Frankie's surreptitious survey and the innate lure of secretiveness held him.
"You ever seen a-a girl's?" Frankie demanded fiercely.
The lad shook his head. He had-peeping at his sisters through the bathroom keyhole-but he wasn't about to admit it to the formidable Frankie. A sudden instinct made him bold.
"You ever seen a boy's?" he probed, and Frankie was neatly trapped. She opened her mouth then closed it, recognizing if her answer were negative, he'd be one up on her. If she said 'yes,' his next demand would be a scornful challenge to prove it by identifying its owner and this got into the taboo area of adult country. So, Frankie, reluctantly, admitted ignorance.
"Wanta see?" he asked, his boldness expanding. Frankie, with another look around, reluctantly nodded her head, her eyes riveted on the object of her curiosity, projecting against the boy's pants.
"Al-alright," she said, clearing her throat.
"You first," he said, working at the fastening of his fly.
"You think I'm gonna take my pants off?" Frankie's ire flared.
"Naw," it was the lad's turn to be scornful. "Just pull 'em to one side, a little. No-I can't see-the other side."
"Oh, alright," Frankie grumbled complying, "there it is. Come on, now-take yours out." The excited lad hastened to do so. Frankie looked, wide-eyes at the display, then frowned as the boy stopped.
"Alright, where's the rest?" she demanded. Her companion snickered.
"Thought you said you'd never seen one," he jibed, reaching down....
The one thing which remained in Frankie's mind was that sex was littered with pitfalls ... mental and physical. The experience in the playground confirmed her belief. The mutual, tactile exploration which proceeded from their exposure, made small impression on Frankie, save for satisfying the burning curiosity which itched in her fingertips. The boy's hand was painful and disgusting in its touch....
Dodging, constantly, surreptitious caresses from her contemporaries, and guilelessly-mounted attempts by adults to get her alone, secretly, Frankie was dubious at the offer of a job her sixteenth summer, between school terms. One of her mother's callers owned an appliance repair business a short distance from their flat. His helper had been drafted and, deciding not to replace him for the summer to enhance his profits, he needed someone in the office when he was out on service calls.
However, it was a legitimate-Mr. Grissom was interested in sex at Mrs. Robbins only to the extent of one visit with Frankie's mother-and he felt, in Frankie, he could hire an intelligent youngster for a reasonable figure. He suggested the employment, not to Frankie, but to her mother. This gambit succeeded; her mother voted affirmatively for her taking the job, knowing it wasn't offered as a means of Frankie's seduction. The money, to the maternal parent's credit, was secondary in importance, badly as it was needed.
Mr. Grissom was patient in teaching the girl her duties: answering the phone and doing it pleasantly and intelligently; noting service calls accurately; memorizing the questions to ask callers. Frankie absorbed it and did it well. Her employer taught her one thing at a time and, before the first month was out, she was making his bookkeeping entries and writing out, in her precise schoolgirl hand, the few invoices his business required. Mostly, Mr. Grissom dealt in cash. As time passed, and Frankie recognized that the intentions of the employer were not what she'd feared, a mutual liking grew between the two of them. It existed because Mr. Grissom never came back to the apartment after his initial visit. Few of her mother's visitors made more than a second visit, but Frankie could not have condoned liking Mr. Grissom had he continued relations with her mother....
At the end of a month, then, Frankie was competent, handling her duties easily, and, quite often, finding time hanging heavy. One afternoon, about three-usually a dull hour for calls-she had gone to the restroom and, curiously, peeked through one of the holes scratched in the paint which opaqued the window. She was surprised to see into the stockroom of the Variety store, next door, which extended some distance back of the appliance repair location. A young man was talking to a young girl near the desk and, as Frankie noted their interest in each other seemed to be teasingly erotic, the phone interrupted her and she hustled out to answer it. After she recorded the call, she moved to the window in the back wall, around the corner of the restroom partition, and, applying an eye close to the almost-closed Venetian blind, she got almost a full length view of the couple at the desk. Evidently the girl was new at the job, since the fellow seemed to be explaining forms and indicating the location of merchandise to her. Frankie could tell at a glance that the girl's interest was almost equally divided between his explanations and him. The girl didn't flaunt it, but females have a sixth sense about such things and the signs seemed plain to Frankie.
Thereafter, she spent a good deal of time watching them, sensing that something was developing; her curiosity heightening and her excitement peaking as the days passed and isolated instances showed the intimacy between the two was growing. Evidently the girl worked elsewhere in the store part of her day, since Frankie rarely detected her presence in the stockroom before two-thirty or three in the afternoon. By mid-morning, the young man had finished stocking counters; by a little after four, he had locked up and vanished, most days.
By mid-July, the heat was oppressive in the afternoons and they were a drag. Frankie could have spent most-or all-of her time at her exciting observation post, but checked only to make sure that her familiar actors were present. By this time, the young man was freely touching his companion, albeit, he confined his teasing contacts to ticklish areas, such as her ribs or drawing a finger-nail up her straight spine, or, perhaps, tickling an ear with a paper spill. Frankie noted, with a smile, that the girl's reaction was always full; she gave him his money's worth, taking it big ... and keeping him coming back for more.
The character of their by-play then began to change, subtly. If the girl were seated on the high stool at the stand up desk when he tickled her spine, she kicked her legs a little higher and pulled her dress down a shade slower than before. More often, standing at the desk, she'd move to stand against him for an instant. Sometimes, when he'd tickle her, she'd grab his hand in such a manner that it brushed her breast or her buttocks.
Frankie, like an inveterate serial reader, was avid for the next installment in the pantomime and watched them every day. One drowsy afternoon, the streets were almost deserted in the heat and time seemed to be stewing in its own juice, so to speak. She went to the window, to note a shipment of merchandise just delivered as the truck pulled noisily away from the loading dock. The big cartons, containing soft goods, by their markings, had been stacked next to the door which led from the stock room into the store and Frankie noted the young man eyeing the stack dubiously, and testing its stability with his hand. Shrugging he went back to the desk with a sheaf of papers as the door opened and the gaily saucy girl in the piece swung in, hands clasped behind her buttocks, breasts out-thrust in her tight, brief dress. Frankie couldn't hear their conversation but knew it had to do with the girl's appearance as she pirouetted and posed, smiling and pleased.
Laughing the young man moved to stand at the desk and go to work on the papers, while the girl perched on the stool, pert legs crossed, the brief dress pulled several inches above her knees. Frankie noted the full curves of the legs and a thrill of anticipation went through her as she noted the young man's eyes kept coming back to the display. The girl, evidently, was in a mischievous mood this day. As she sat on the stool, hands clasped over her knees, she occasionally stretched a toe of her pump to touch her co-worker's leg, the act always bringing his eyes to the display of taut, nylon-covered limbs. As he turned away from the desk toward her peep-slot, Frankie noted, with a leap of her pulses, that the young man was exhibiting a clearly discernable masculine response to the provocative presence of the girl. As she rocked, laughed and talked on the stool, the dress hem moved a little higher and the young man's obsession with the exposure of her provocative limbs intensified. At some sally, he made, the girl either lost-or pretended to lose-her balance. Frankie heard her squeal, her legs flying apart to reveal the white of her panties as the young man shot out a quick hand, swinging her back by grabbing an out-flung arm, the action ending as the stool toppled and the girl fell against the young man, legs spread, dress to her hips, and safely cradled tight against him in his muscular arms. For the space of a few heartbeats, they froze together, the girl's face upturned. Frankie could see the muscles of his arms swell as he increased the pressure of her body against his. Then his mouth descended and the girl's exposed legs, bent then stiffened as his mouth covered hers. She attempted to struggle but, Frankie could tell, not too hard, as the kiss persisted. When they broke their embrace, both were panting, the girl's bodice fairly dancing with her respiratory effort, her hands making fumbling gestures to pull the brief dress down. As the young man bent and turned to retrieve the stool, Frankie noted the extreme distension of his slacks, saw the girl's eyes dart downward too, as she fussed and patted at her hair.
As the man, in his excitement, attempted to right the high stool, it skittered, out of balance, from his grasp, bouncing against the recently stacked cartons of merchandise. They tottered and fell, and, as the two turned to watch the collapse, Frankie noted that the caroming cartons jammed into a barricade before the door which opened into the stock room. Throwing up both hands in pretended disgust, the man righted the stool at the desk and waved the stack away from consideration. The girl, laughing, finished with her hair and started to mount the stool again but was balked as the young man's arms again captured her waist and he pulled her tight against him and resumed kissing her. His hands slipped downward to her buttocks as his back arched and he pushed, tentatively, against her, Frankie noticing, breathlessly, the girl's hands clenching and unclenching on his back.
Her own heart pounding and her breath hanging in her throat, Frankie uttered a muffled "damn!" as the phone ran. She tore away from her peeping to answer it and was relieved that it was a wrong number. By the time she glued her eye to the slot again, the young woman's hands were pulling, listlessly, at the embrace in which the aroused man held her. His head moved ceaselessly as he kissed her and Frankie, grinning nervously, noted the trembling of the girl's unsteady legs. As her resistance ceased, and her arms and hands fluttered for a place to rest, the young man lowered one hand beneath her pert buttocks and began to work the tight dress upwards. Twisting in an attempt to balk his move, she could not break his ardent kiss and, as Frankie's thumping heart threatened to escape her ribs, she saw the slow, purposeful rise of the brief dress as he pulled it above the swell of her buttocks, to reveal the tight panties clinging to her hips without a wrinkle.
Then their kiss broke for a moment as the girl, eyes half closed, gasped and panted, evidently pleading with him to stop; but he shook his head and, lifting her onto the stool as he might a life-sized doll, he moved between the struggling thighs and resumed his kissing. As the girl's legs waved and searched for the rungs of the stool, he began to work the tight, clinging panties down over her hips. Now Frankie could see the girl's lower lip caught in her teeth as she felt the man's hands baring her but he completed the task, deftly, still holding her with one tight arm, lifting her, then drawing the garment down her thighs. He moved from between her shaking limbs for just long enough to draw the garment down, over her feet and, wadding them, to stuff them into his side pocket. Frankie could see the perspiration running, glistening down his cheeks; his shirt wet with it. Breaking his kiss and his embrace, he turned, staying between the girl's parted thighs and Frankie gasped as she clearly saw the shadowed target between them. His hands were fumbling with his slacks and, with difficulty, he tugged and writhed as he struggled to prepare himself to make his next move. Frankie's eyes blurred; she batted them furiously, wiping at them with the back of her hand to clear her vision.
She succeeded as the man extracted the object of his effort and her mouth dropped open in a gasp as she got a clear view of the aroused, upward curving appendage. Its tip swollen and its length jerking, it seemed enormous to her inexperienced eyes. As he worked all of himself free, Frankie could feel the pinwheels of sensation rowelling through her bosoms, her pelvis ... every part of her body. She thought she'd never get another breath as the young man turned the girl on the stool so her back was steadied against the desk. Then, both their heads inclined downward, watching, Frankie saw his knees bend and his feet shuffle as one hand moved to guide himself and he possessed the girl with a slow lift of his hips as her legs alternately kicked and froze in her excitement....
Frankie sagged against the window, the echoes of shocking waves of sensation pulsing along her nerves, receding, delicious, unknown to her previously. The actors in the dumb-show she had witnessed in every detail had provided her with an education she could not have otherwise come by except through perilous involvement of her person. Now, through the demonstration-and her own reaction-she had pierced the veil of mystery about the cries from her mother's room; the efforts of unwary school boys to 'cop feels'; the attempts of repulsive, grown men who, drooling, tried to entice her on street corners ... and these she could sweep out of her mind as undesirable. But the paralyzing, shuddering ecstasy which the pantomime had triggered in her own, hyper-excited nervous system, explained the 'why.' She didn't, Frankie considered-with instinctive wisdom, know it all but, with what she knew, her mind was like a bee-hive, piecing together a lot of what had gathered in it, as unrelated bits and fragments, to fill in a growing jig-saw puzzle of understanding....
She braved her mother's disapproval to ask her some very direct questions and, after the older woman's embarrassment wore off, they had their first (and last) mother-to-daughter dialogue concerning the subject of sex in which Frankie persisted until she found out what she wanted to know-how to do it without having babies. It was a long and gruelling time for both of them, but the last week Frankie worked for Mr. Grissom, before school opened, she raised the window one afternoon, as the young man locked the stock-room door and started down the alley for home.
"Hi," Frankie said and his head snapped around, a pleased grin coming to his lips as he saw Frankie's lush body....
* * *
Frankie heard her cue and her body went into action as she moved onto the stage in the hot glare of lights, music and applause beating at her ears. She caught sight of John, watching outside his office, and bumped her hips at him, in the joyful abandon she assumed on stage. Her performance was an erotic masterpiece and she took three legitimate bows. As the applause started to run down, and the MC prepared to go into the next routine on the bill, she gathered her robe snugly about her voluptuous body and strode through the darkened club, along the wall, to John Carrol's office.
When John re-entered his office, Frankie was again sitting on the edge of his desk, robe thrown aside, the only covering on her the tiny, narrow g-string the law required. John's eyes sought the great breasts, feasting on the big nipples. John knew the girl was a hell of an asset and would keep the customers coming for months. He was still shaking in reaction from her act.
"What would you like to drink?" he asked.
"Just booze," she answered, unsmiling.
John poured them both straight Scotch, and she nodded her thanks as he gave her the glass.
"How'd you like the show?" she asked as she lifted her drink.
"Just one little degree hotter and we'd be neck-deep in cops," he complimented her. "Great!" Standing close to her he could feel the erotic stab of reaction at her nearness-you couldn't help it, John felt-but suddenly something was lacking. Frankie sensed the subtle change in the atmosphere, looking at him with thoughtful eyes. She reached back and suddenly the g-string disappeared as, completely naked, she stood before him, her gaze never wavering. As she moved to walk to the sofa, John started to follow, but Frankie stopped him with a hand on his chest.
"No," she said in a low voice, "not yet. I'll give you a show in a little while. You watch it from behind your desk ... then we'll see if I don't get your batteries charged." He looked at her a moment then went back to his desk. After a while, he re-filled their drinks, conscious now that he had an aversion to the entire idea; feeling the awkwardness of the situation grow. He was uncomfortable and Frankie was waiting for him to unbend.
Finally, she got up and began her show, moving her body in sensual patterns which increased in intensity as the moments passed.
Watching, John realized, he felt nothing.
"Turn on, baby," Frankie whispered, breaking her silence. "Come on big for Frankie and it'll be the best lay that ever happened to you ... I really mean it...."
Her words vanished in the explosion of the office door bursting open and slamming shut. Startled, they jerked their eyes to the intruder. Alice was standing, her back against the door, a revolver levelled at Frankie.
"So, you don't play around!" she gritted. Her voice made cold chills dance on John's spine. He sensed, immediately, that Alice was out of herself. The cold began to gather in his belly as he slowly started to his feet.
"Don't move, John!" her voice slashed at him.
"How much have you had to drink, Alice?" he asked quietly.
"Nothing for several hours, Johnny. I don't need liquor for this. I just sat and thought about the women you've been banging in here and I swore to myself I'd pay you for it. In full."
John stood helpless and the naked Frankie was frozen in place. John frantically tried to think this was a nightmare but knew it wasn't.
"I'm going to kill both of you," Alice said in a harsh, flat voice....
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Despite his momentary immobility due to the shock and surprise of Alice's noisy entry into the office, John's mind was racing. That she was out of her mind, he didn't doubt for an instant. The look in her eyes and her unsteadiness on her feet sparked the sensation of double alarms in John's intensified awarness of danger ... Alice had probably drunk herself into a state of heroic desperation. Further, he had no doubt that she was entirely capable of carrying out her threat to murder both Frankie and himself.
Forcing himself to casual action, he leaned forward to steady himself with an arm on his desk. As he moved, his finger opened the intercom switch which would carry the conversation in his office to all the other outlets in the club. His hope was that someone would hear what was being said inside the office and provide a diversion by knocking on the door.
"You can't kill us, Alice," John said, calmly but in a penetrating voice. "Everyone will hear the sound of a shot and be in here at once...."
John tensed as Alice waved the weapon, impatiently. "I don't care about that," she said with an inflection of contempt. "You ruined our marriage; you've ruined my life. I don't have anything left to live for...."
"Listen, Alice," John interrupted her, still speaking calmly, "you're making too much of this. Things will work out, Alice ... but you can't accomplish anything by this-nothing." As he was speaking, he moved around to the front of the desk and lounged against it, his arms folded on his chest.
Frankie was frozen, not having moved since Alice had burst into the room and the stripper, totally nude, had her eyes locked on the pistol in Alice's hand, staring at it, wide-eyed. John kept his own eyes on Alice's, holding her gaze and looking for any move toward carrying out her threat. Somehow, he knew, he had to get that gun out of her hand.
"Alice-sit down and let's talk this over...."
"No!" The word burst from her, angrily and John tensed as he saw her eyes flick angrily to the naked Frankie and back to him. "I came here to talk to you, hoping there would be something ... some way we could put things back together. I thought, maybe, you had been telling me the truth-maybe you didn't play around with the women you hire, but it's true, John ... it is true, isn't it?"
"Look, Alice-you wouldn't believe anything I said, right now, would you?" he asked, desperate to divert her attention from the present situation.
"I've thought about it the entire day," Alice went on, as though John hadn't spoken. "All day long, I've sat in that damn, lonely house and thought. The longer I thought, the more I knew there was no chance for me. Not with all these naked bitches throwing themselves at you...." Her eyes snapped back to Frankie, filming with hate as the gun seemed to grow heavy in her hand. She wavered on her feet as John leaped forward with all the speed he could muster.
But Alice lifted the gun toward Frankie, her face twisting in rage and, as John's hands fastened around her arm, the pistol exploded and Frankie screamed and dropped.
John couldn't believe this wild, maddened creature was the wife he'd lived with for five years. She struggled with a strength he'd never thought possible in a woman and as she plunged and writhed to turn the gun on him, eyes filled with hate and a fleck of foam at her lips, he felt a surge of nausea when he remembered the times they'd shared in their bed. Now, suddenly, she had become something driven by hate-an evil thing which he could only touch with revulsion and a desperate need to force into helplessness. This wasn't really Alice, he thought, this is an insane woman-an animal obsessed with the need to kill....
The gun fired again and, as her free hand clawed at his eyes, he heard a third explosion. Twisting on her arm, with all his strength, he smashed his body against hers, scarcely feeling the shock as their feet flew from beneath them and they thudded to the floor. The pistol fired once more, a muffled, dull sound which jarred him with its concussion. At the same time, he felt Alice's body arch beneath his and go limp and motionless. For moments, John hung onto the arm he held, pain from the continued tension of his grasp spreading up his arms and into the straining shoulders. When he took in the fact that she was no longer struggling to kill him he moved, painfully to a sitting position, every muscle in his body trembling as with an ague. He dropped his aching head onto the support of arms crossed over his knees as the door burst open and a crowd of people rushed in, their voices excited, most of what they said unintelligible to John through the roaring in his head. He finally heard someone say, clearly:
"She's dead...." John jerked his head upward, trying to focus his eyes on Alice's body. Then he realized it was Alice they were talking about. He saw the blood and knew, instinctively, he must have twisted her arm, as they fell, so that Alice's insensate urge to kill sent that last bullet into her own body, apparently killing her instantly. Dumb, shocked he sat, looking at Alice's still form and then he began to rock and cry softly as the full impact of the tragedy struck home. All he could feel or sense was that it was all his fault ... all his ... Then he blacked out.
* * *
Norma Blake was finishing a late snack when her phone rang. Her immediate thought was wondering who would be calling her at this hour.
She had gone to the office, as usual, after spending the night with John. Her own feelings in a turmoil, she soon determined she couldn't sit at that desk another moment. John had left her without any word-when she awoke, he was gone-and she had no idea of his reaction to the gift of herself in the night. Norma walked out of the club, got into her car and drove. Deep into the back country, she headed, away from the traffic of the busy, main highways. The roads she travelled were sparsely travelled, the hills and fields heavy with the bright heat of summer. As the countryside lulled her into a feeling of peace, she began to think more reasonably about what had happened between John and herself.
Norma knew-had known for a long time-that she loved John Carrol. But, she also knew, she wanted no part of breaking up anyone's marriage. Mentally, she lashed herself for doing what she had done, but, finally, as her thoughts quieted, she also recognized that, had John made any move to make love to her, she'd given herself just as surely. She accepted that what had happened, would have happened, sooner or later, the way she felt about John.
However, she was adamant about his marriage. She considered that the best thing she could do, feeling as she did, was to leave her job at the club. It was the only way, the only solution for Norma: get out before things became any more involved than they were....
The phone continued its ringing. Norma moved swiftly into the living room to answer it.
"Norma, this is Dave," said the caller and she could hear the excitement in his voice. "Something's happened here at the club and I thought...."
Something in his excitement made Norma's breath clog in her throat. "It's John...!" she gasped.
"Well, it's...."
"What happened, Dave? Is John alright?" Norma fought a sudden hysteria which attempted to seize her. She fell into the chair, gripping the phone with white-knuckled fingers.
"No, look, Norm ... John's alright. Well, he's in shock but he's not otherwise hurt. It's his wife. There was an accident ... with a gun ... and she's dead. I'm calling from County Hospital and I thought you'd oughta know...."
"What happened?" Norma gasped. Dave ignored the question.
"Look, Norm, they've got John here. He's unconscious but he rouses occasionally and, when he does, he keeps mumbling your name...."
"I'll be right there, Dave. Thanks...." She hung up, controlling her trembling with a tremendous effort, and seizing her purse from the coffee table, she hurried to the door....
Her mind was whirling as she drove. John needed her-was calling for her. Alice Carrol was dead! How? Dave had said it was an accident-with a gun. With a gun? What had happened to John-why was he in shock? Gun? Could he have...?
Guilt stabbed at her as she cried out at the thought. She might have triggered the tragic death of another human! The thought made her stiffen, her grip on the wheel making the car swerve, frighteningly.
Then she fought for calmness, realizing that her contribution to the situation between John and Alice was minimal and could have only occurred in the last twenty-four hours. But fear claimed her, nonetheless and she began to pray softly that her actions had nothing to do with what had happened. She knew it would be most difficult to live with herself if that were true. At the moment, she felt it would make any relationship between John and herself completely impossible.
By the time she reached the hospital and parked her car, she was on the verge of hysterics, despite her best efforts at control. She remembered little until, a door knob in her hand, she looked into the room where John Carrol lay unconscious or asleep in a hospital bed. The room was small and the antiseptic smell of it crept into her consciousness and helped her get a grip on her emotions. Somehow, the odor of a hospital had always had a sobering, quieting effect on Norma bringing with it, as it did, a foreboding and a feeling of things which must be coped with.
Closing the door, Norma moved to a chair beside the bed and sank into it, her eyes fixed on John's pale face. He made no response to the small rustle of her move and she concluded he was unaware of her presence.
Dave had been waiting for her in the lobby and, big hands under her elbows to steady her, had talked quietly, briefly to her before taking her to the floor nurse. Now she attempted to recall every word he had said as she had stood, fighting to control her urge to cry, while he tried to explain what had happened.
As the deep, regular breathing of the man in the bed reassured her, her feelings began to quiet and Dave's information came into focus, piece by piece. Alice, evidently, had sneaked the pistol from beneath the bar while Jim, the barman's, attention had been distracted. Then Alice had gone to John's office and attempted to shoot him and Frankie, who had been with him at the time. Norma put a quick squelch on the momentary stab of jealousy. She was here as a friend. All that existed between John and her was a mutual, tacit liking ... and that one night together in which she had given herself to him. There were no promises, there was no understanding between them which looked toward altering their relationship ... unless Norma wished to make further moves. After all, Norma reflected on the ground rules of morality involved, his wife had 'slept out' on John. There were probably few who would hold the opinion that an aggrieved husband did not have the same privilege.
Then she gave over the effort of sorting the situation out and let her eyes freely study John's face .... somewhat pale, more than a little drawn in the aftermath of the tremendous emotional experience he'd had. Norma felt the swell of tenderness inside her as she gave herself over to the tremendous affection for him; reminding herself, needlessly, how long she had loved him-silently. Here was a man who could possibly be hers, if circumstances and time played into her hands. No matter what else was true, Norma knew this was her chance. John would need someone....
Then she curbed the run of thought in that direction with the realization that it would involve her, completely. Norma was incapable of partial participation, where John was concerned. Then she realized that it was not her own involvement she feared. That she wanted. It was John she wondered about. Knowing him as well-possibly better-than a mistress or a wife could, she knew John was not involved with the female talent at the club. Perhaps, lately, he had stepped over the line, but knowing John as she did, she sensed it could be only a temporary thing with him, perhaps induced by the shock of discovering Alice's infidelity.
John was not a scalp-hunter-it was one of the first things about him which attracted Norma's attention to the man.
Another disturbing conjecture flashed into her mind, then. It was very possible that John, after his experience with his wife, might be just as averse to another involvement as he'd been to the conditions which led to the rift between Alice and him. She reviewed the possibility with a stab of fear....
John broke in on her reverie with a moan as Norma straightened and turned toward him. As she put out a hand to touch his shoulder, he writhed in a sudden spasm, sitting up, eyes wide but unseeing. His mouth opened, and hung open, trembling, as Norma, startled leaped to her feet, reaching out to restrain him. A loud, hoarse cry burst from him and he fell back against the pillows, shuddering, as the nurse came quickly into the room....
John sensed he was in some strange place-some place which was totally alien to him and somehow disquieting-a place which might hold great danger for him. He didn't remember how he came to be there nor how he had arrived. Nothing was clear to his view; the only sound he could identify was voices which said nothing he could make out, clearly. He could sense hands touching him, feel their pressure on his upper arm and, shortly afterward, the blackness moved in.
Out of the coal sack fog which billowed around him, he would have brief periods of sight but all he felt was horror. All these brief, lurid pictures had to do with Alice ... Alice destroying herself, one way or another. Once, she placed the muzzle of the revolver between her red lips to pull the trigger. At the shot, her head dissolved from view, the hatefully smiling lips the last to vanish, after they'd viciously snapped: "It's all your fault...!" Then she stood before him, headless, blood covering her body as her arms reached out to embrace him.
It was then he yelled in horror, dimly aware of a white figure coming swiftly to the door, as he fell back on the bed. This time, he felt his arm sting minutely as he was conscious of a voice, soothing, unintelligible, low. Moving his head, back and forth on the pillow as he felt himself slipping away, once more, he was conscious of a familiar figure standing at the other side of the bed. Norma! He knew it was Norma and attempted to reach out to her as consciousness slid away from him again....
Somehow the comfort of knowing Norma was somewhere close to him softened the turmoil which had tortured him. Now and again, he roused from his existence in unreality to see Norma bending over him and felt the soft, cool touch of her fingers on his forehead. Once, on awakening, he found the strength to reach for her, feeling her come into his arms warmly and gently. For no reason he could explain, he felt himself burst into tears, wondering why he should be crying like a child....
Seldom did he awake without finding Norma in the room with him. When he found himself alone, the depression and the feeling of guilt swept in on him at once; but when Norma was there, everything seemed right and good....
John didn't know that this went on for over a week as he teetered on the brink of a nervous break-down. His emerging on the safe side of the line was largely the result of expert medical care ... aided and abetted by the, to John, blessed presence of Norma. She was the buffer off which the guilt and depression bounced, unable to reach him. It was she who drove him home the morning they discharged him from the hospital.
It was a beautiful morning and, as Norma headed for her apartment, John looked at her questioningly. "I'm taking you home with me," she announced in a quiet, no-argument tone of voice. John felt a surge of elation, too weak to argue had he wanted to. The night before, he'd been worried and nervous at the thought of going back to the house and the club. Things were in Norma's hands-and he felt a great and expanding relief inside himself....
CHAPTER TWELVE
IN CONCLUSION
It was six months since the tragic death of Alice Carrol. The Jay-Cee Club was closed to the public for the night, a private party was in progress.
Norma was there with him, but the party was for Terry and Jerry English, who had gone on a brief honeymoon three months previously. Now Terry was taking a hiatus from show business ... to become a mother. Naturally, Jerry was taking a terrific ribbing from the members of the show cast, but, despite his musician's armor of "in" attitudes, he was enjoying it all. Terry sparkled and joined in the teasing.
A number of things had happened in the six months since Alice's death and most of them had been good for John Carrol. The bitterness of Alice's death had almost caused him to sell the club but Norma's reasonable approach to his feelings of guilt and her logical business head had brought John back onto the track. Norma had run the club for that period-and business was never better.
The investigation of Alice's death had been a harrowing experience for John, but the coroner's jury had absolved him of blame in his wife's shooting, all the facts having been arrayed to produce a verdict of accidental and self-inflicted fatal gunshot wound. There was no doubt that Alice was temporarily deranged; a post-mortem had revealed she was also greatly under the influence of alcohol. The testimony of the police physician as well as the officers who had investigated the shooting; the testimony of club personnel as to Alice's actions preceding the shooting, all combined to produce an undisputed opinion of no responsibility on John's part, save the desperate effort to curb his wife's homicidal actions.
One thing which brought him a chuckle later was Frankie's description of what happened when she dropped to the floor at the first shot and John had dived at Alice. The stripper had grabbed her robe and struggled into it, behind the desk, retrieving her bra and g-string before the club personnel had burst in. Consequently, when they found her, concealed by the desk, she was buttoned into her robe, her skimpy costume safely concealed in one of the pockets.
"It was just instinct, John," she confessed, "and it was the first time in my life I ever felt the urge to get my clothes on!"
Norma had displayed a total lack of patience with any feeling of guilt on John's part. It only came to discussion between them at one time-they were both a little tight, at the time, celebrating the sale of John's house, which Norma had negotiated. John had begun to feel depressed and Norma had promptly mixed another pair of Martinis for them. Putting one into his hand, she sat down beside him on the sofa.
"Now look, John," she'd said, again in the no-argument, no-nonsense tone of voice he'd heard from her often in their discussions of other business, "you can't afford the luxury of feeling guilty about Alice's passing. In the first place, the coroner's jury found she was totally smashed and out of her mind. She was out of her mind because she crazed herself by jealous suspicions which-you know yourself-were completely unjustified in the five years you lived together. There was nothing anyone could do about a woman who insisted on this means of torturing herself. John, I had a husband who slept out on me as a way of life ... and, even so, our sex life was pretty good. But I'll bet I didn't torture myself one half of one percent as much over something I knew was going on, as Alice did over something which wasn't. Now, neither of us can do anything-anything to alter what's already done. If you have to feel guilty about something, you'd better be hard-headed about it, and feel guilty toward yourself for all the sex you missed. Alice gave you full credit for it, you know. What the hell sense does it make for you to feel guilty? No matter what you had done, you'd have been wrong, in Alice's book and it's just as crazy for you to feel guilt over what happened as to admit Alice was right. Now the thing to do is to take the good life offers you ... and forget the rest of it. That's all there is, John ... and I'm never going to mention this again. I just hope you recognize I know what I'm talking about...."
Frankie, grinning, winked at Norma and addressed herself to John. "You ever change your mind, boss ... just let me know."
"Ha!" Norma answered, with a wry smile, "he does and I'll scratch all your eyes out!" The group laughed at the grim sally. They knew Norma and respected her from the months of her calm administration of the club's affairs. John cleared his throat.
"I've had this on my mind for some time," he said, as the group fell silent. "I hadn't intended to bring it up right now, because I haven't discussed it with the more important party concerned ... sometimes referred to as the "party of the second part" ... and, believe me, that's the wrong designation...." he broke off, a grin broadening on his face. "By now, I'm sure you recognize that without Norma, this place," he waved his hand to indicate the club, "would probably be a supermarket. I could say that, to protect my investment, I have to do this-and it's true-but the fact is, I find that my life doesn't mean a thing without her." He turned to Norma, sliding an affectionate arm around her shoulders. "I have thought of trying to arrange a proper setting for this, but it scares me. So, while we're among friends-of both of us-I want to ask you if you'll marry me." His eyes held Norma's; she was looking at him, startled, as if she couldn't believe what she was sure was happening.
For a long second, lips parted in shock, Norma looked up at John and the, tears flooding her eyes, she nodded and suddenly covered her face with her hands as she came into his arms. The club was suddenly alive with cheers and applause as Norma, shoulders shaking, cried in John's tender embrace. Jerry knocked his chair over as he leaped to his feet and headed for the piano. Flipping up the key cover as he sat down, he broke into the opening bars of "Here Comes the Bride," but with a beat and phrasing which brought a shout of delight from the other members of the group. They dived for their instruments too, and as the volume of the twist beat rose to a crescendo, Terry and Frankie grabbed for Norma and John, pulling them out onto the small dance floor and, spotting them in the center, the gang formed a circle around them, twisting like mad and singing at the tops of their lungs: "Here comes the bride, yeah, yeah, yeah...!"
Norma finally mopped her eyes dry with John's hanky as, to encouraging shouts and applause, she fell into the beat and started to "twist up a storm," as Vera described it later. John with a helpless look, tried to emulate his beloved's gyrations but finally gave up and pounded his palms in rhythm as the group brought it to a crashing climax with a final sixteen bars. As they laughed and kidded, returning to their seats in momentary, panting exhaustion, Norma and John were surrounded by good wishes and words of encouragement from the club staff, entertainers and all. Jim the barman had cut for the bar mid-way through the music and returned to the table with another round of drinks.
Jerry took his and got to his feet, solemnly. Raising his glass he said, very formally: "I should like to propose a toast to these two, whom all of us admire...." Clearing his throat, for dramatic effect, he recited into the dead silence, as all except John and Norma stood, glasses raised before them:
"Here's luck to friends Norma and John;
"It's aces that they both have drawn.
"John's found him a girl
"Who'll make his life whirl-
"Like, man, git a hold ... and hang on!"
Jerry was rewarded by a burst of cheers and laughter for his extemporaneous limerick as the group drank to John and Norma. Urged to his feet by his wife-to-be, John stood shyly before them and then reached down to take Norma's hand to pull her upright beside him.
"I'll never be able to speak on my feet like Jerry English," he grinned, "just as there are few .musicians who could fill his seat at that piano." A murmur of approval and enthusiastic applause agreed with John's sentiment. "I'm going to let Norma make her own response to your good wishes. I just want to ask if you folks think you could keep this place going if I take Norma to get married and go on a brief honeymoon?" At the enthusiastic chorus of "yeas!" which followed, John bobbed his head and lifted his drink. "Thank you, from the bottom of my heart ... may you all find your heart's desire; you're the finest bunch of real pro's I ever knew." John drank and sat down, leaving Norma standing. She looked around at group and a tremulous smile touched her lips for a moment.
"What a man!" she said, "here I've been trying to lure him into popping the question with moonlight and roses ... and he waits until he's in the big middle of Grand Central Station to do it!" She waited for the laughter to subside before she continued, timing her next line perfectly. "You know, he's really got me worried. I'm afraid he'll only comes on at his best in front of a crowd!" Appreciative cries penetrated the laughter, and John, blushing a fiery red, heard Don, the bass player, advise, "Norma, book this act into Macy's window!" When it was quiet again, Norma looked at them and lifted her glass, a twinkle in her eyes: "Bless you all ... I'd have never made it without your help. Keep 'em clapping...."
Bidding Jim goodnight as he locked the doors, Norma and John strolled to his car, arm in arm.
"Norma, sweetheart," he asked, "where would you like to be married?" She hugged his arm, tightly, quickly against her.
"Look, mister, I've been all through that orange blossoms routine. I don't care whether I get married at the bottom of a well or on the roof of city hall. What bothers me is, when ... not where!"
"Would you believe," John asked, "a drive across the state line where there's a J.P. who's a real specialist in after-hour weddings?"
"John, who'd be awake...." she glanced at her watch, " ... by three forty-five. That's how long it would take...."
"Judge Williams would," John said smugly.
"Jud-how do you know?" she demanded, eyes searching his face.
"Because I called him at ten," John explained, "to tell him we'd be there between three-thirty and four."
Norma hugged him ecstatically. "Br-r-rother, you just can't trust men...."
"Have to find some way to keep you guessing," John said, handing her in to the car. "You're too sharp for my own good...."
