Bonnie tried to make sense out of the words, but it was useless. The laws of the Apaches were alien and mystifying to her, but she knew they would give her the excitement she craved.
Leo Gordon went on: "The test is simple. Bonnie is for sale to the highest bidder, all funds going into the tribe treasury. The winning bid gets the neophyte for tonight, to do with as he wishes."
"Or as she wishes!" came a female voice.
The meaning of what had been said came through to Bonnie. She was horrified, yet titillated, by what lay in store for her...
CHAPTER ONE
Bored!
It was a pervading sensation that seemed to be with her always, thick and clinging, like a sluggish mist hanging close to the earth. Bored. Nothing seemed to matter. None of Bob Horner's words, surely. They were dull and arranged ponderously, expressing unimportant ideas, concepts meaningless to Bonnie Dixon. Dull, Nothing described Robert Horner more accurately than that single word.
Without turning to where he sat behind the wheel of the Caddy, she could visualize his face. Oh, he was good-looking enough, handsome, in fact, but with a kind of proper and icy appearance that was blank and without excitement. His eyes, blue, but not too blue, seemed always to be staring, to wait expectantly for someone to speak, to inspire him to respond. Seldom did anything come out of Bob Horner that was different or interesting or provocative.
When she thought of spending the rest of her life with him, of being married to him, Bonnie wanted to scream. How long had they been engaged? Thirteen months, two weeks and three days. Another girl might have remembered the time in detail because of love and concern. Not Bonnie. She counted each day as excruciatingly painful in the absence of excitement. What a square he was!
She shifted her position, and the white pleated skirt she wore flared higher on her naked legs, halfway up her fine strong thighs. She made no effort to adjust the skirt downward. She watched him out of the corner of her eye and saw him glance quickly at her legs, saw his mouth tighten--in embarrassment? In revulsion? He averted his eyes.
More than thirteen months, she thought, and he had yet to do more than kiss her a few times. He had never even tried to do anything more, and that bothered Bonnie, for her superb young body ached for a loving caress, for an expression of desire, for an easing of the deep and strange cravings that surged through her.
She stretched her legs and looked at them. They flashed long and white in the darkness, and she knew they were very well-shaped. She recalled easily the last time she had stood naked in front of the full-length mirror in her bedroom and studied her body, admired it. She had stood, feet together, hands at her sides, interested in the way her legs met at ankle, calf, knees, thigh, with no unsightly gaps between the firm flesh. She had especially enjoyed the neat joining at the point of her sweet blonde triangle, that place where all yearning seemed to commence, that mysterious wedge of desire.
She sighed and turned to face Bob, and ran one hand slowly along her naked thigh. The contact felt good, gave her pleasure, triggered concentric waves of excitement in the pit of her stomach. She wet her lips.
"Bob."
"What, darling?" He spoke without turning. "Look at me."
He shifted toward her, almost reluctantly, she thought, aware of the thumping of her heart. He kept his eyes aimed directly at her eyes. "What is it, Bonnie?"
"How long has it been since I've been back here at Bayville?"
'Two weeks," he said, with some surprise.
"That means in eight weeks I must leave again, go back to school."
"That's right."
He was so damned agreeable that she wanted to scream. The pounding or the ocean, not one hundred yards from where they were parked, crashed against her eardrums, and it was almost painful.
"Is this all we're ever going to do?" she said quietly, wanting to shout, to shake him, to rouse him out of the lethargy that engulfed him whenever they were alone. "I'm sure other girls occasionally are kissed by their fiances."
He smiled at her, a small, almost pitying smile. He bent forward and placed his lips against hers, held for a beat, two, straightened up. That supercilious smile was still there.
"Better, darling?"
"Is that your idea of a kiss?" Her voice was larded with resentment, and more. "I kiss my father with more passion than you show to me."
"You know my opinions about pre-marital love-making," he said reasonably. "There's no point in starting something we can't finish."
"But we can finish it."
His face clouded over. "I don't like to hear you talk that way, Bonnie. It isn't becoming."
"Then kiss me. Really kiss me. At least once, so I know you can."
He frowned, considered, then leaned forward. His lips were soft, but lifeless, neither warm nor cool. She slid one hand behind his neck and pulled him close, sending her pink tongue stabbing against his teeth, exploring the line of gum, probing the tender tissues inside his cheek. She took his hand and eased it onto her right breast, to that full, firm, young mound, wishing she hadn't worn a brassiere, hoping he could feel the straining desire present in the erect peak. She arched her belly toward him and moaned into his mouth.
He pulled away, disapproval evident in every line of his proper face. "I wish you wouldn't do that sort of thing, Bonnie."
"I want you to make love to me. We're going to be married...."
"And when we are there will be time enough for everything."
"And what am I supposed to do until then?"
"Exercise self-discipline, even as I do."
She sniggered. Nothing seemed to bother him, to make him lose control, to force him to act impulsively without measuring each move, every gesture.
"You think that I'm pure, don't you, Bob?" she pried thinly. "That I've never been...?"
"Keep quiet, Bonnie. There is no need for this sort of thing."
A bitter chuckle broke across her finely contoured mouth. "There's an awful lot you have to learn about me.
"I know all I have to know," he said sternly. "You're a fine girl, Bonnie. You come from a fine family. You live here in Bayville, a proper and fashionable community with a distinguished history. You go to a good school. You think about things as I think about them and you want the same things out of life that I do. And I don't understand your acting this way. Still, whatever is bothering you will pass, I'm sure." His eyes fluttered to where her legs reached from under the white skirt, exposed all the way to her hips so that he could see a neat white V of pink nylon covering that special and private place. He tore his eyes away. "Adjust your skirt, Bonnie."
She grinned mirthlessly and tauntingly at him. "Does it bother you, Bob? I imagine it's very sexy this way, with my skirt hiked up. Do you think I have pretty legs?" She placed her hands lightly on her knees and let them ride slowly upward, softly stroking the insides of her thighs. "Does that get to you, darling? Are you feeling anything now?"
"Pull down your skirt." It was a direct command, his voice tight and hard, allowing for no opposition.
Her hands had gone as far as they could and the contact sent a shiver of delight through her. She wanted... more. Much more. But his expression, and the tone of his voice, turned her off. Had she dared, she would have struck him. Instead, she lowered her skirt.
"You're a prig, Bob," she bit off. "A dull prig."
"I'll forget you ever said that." He started the engine of the Caddy. "It's time I took you home."
"It's only eleven o'clock," she protested.
"It's time."
She felt trapped, as if all authority for her own life and her own needs and wants had been usurped by him. Time to go home, Bonnie. Time to study. Time to eat. Time to go to sleep. Her future sprang into being before her eyes, a montage of loosely related images dancing across the screen of her mind, revealing a picture both painful and boring, a future cut-and-dried even before it was lived. There would never be anything new, or exciting, or tempting, simply a series of similar days empty of all meaning. And nights even more hollow and unrewarding.
"No!" she said suddenly.
"What?"
"I don't want it this way. Not your way. I want more." She opened the car door and started out.
"Where are you going, Bonnie?"
"To hell, if I can, and back again. Maybe, but I can't stand it this way. There must be something more."
"Come back here."
"Don't come after me, Bob," she cried, as she hit the sand, already running. "I want to be alone now. I must be."
"Bonnie!"
She gave no answer as she headed to where the dune sloped down to the beach proper. If he called after her, the sound of his voice was lost in the night, swallowed up by the powerful surf thumping at the beach.
She ran as fast as she could, but her heels made moving in the soft sand awkward. She fell twice before finally removing the offending shoes. A sudden sense of freedom took hold of her at the touch of the damp, cold sand. She danced along and soon had put Robert Horner from her mind. How long she ran she never knew. But finally, heart pounding, and breath coming in short intakes, she sank to the sand, stretched out, arms wide, peering up at the speckled sky, waiting for her strength to return.
Her mind drifted. This was to be her final summer vacation. Next year she would graduate from college, and it was planned that she and Robert would be married that June. The last summer! She wanted it to mean something, to provide special adventure and rewards that she could nurse for all her life. Memories, good memories and bad, were the way of toting up a lifetime. More than anything, she wanted never to look back on her life with regret, missing those things she had wanted to do and didn't.
She sat up and stared out to where the breakers were gleaming phosphorescently. The beat of the waves was a primitive tempo that caused a pulse to leap into action in her temple. There was a tautness in her large breasts and a dull hollowness in her gut. A surge of desire came over her, desire to move, to utilize her body, to feel...
She began to strip off her clothes. Her hands moved quickly, lowering zippers, loosening fastenings, stepping out of her panties. She could hardly wait to be naked and exposed. Once undressed, she stood with feet rooted far apart in the damp sand, arms stretching overhead, eyes squeezed shut, body twisting and writhing under the caress of the cool night air. She resembled some mystical nymph come out of the deep to prance on the shore, body full and firm, young high breasts untilted to pink peaks, now slightly flattened as she reached; her softly rounded belly held the promise of life, falling swiftly away to the shadowed blonde patch, hips smoothly round and buttocks tight and thrusting, resilient, shimmering in the starlight. Venus by the Sea.
Without warning, she was running at top speed toward the pounding breakers, splashing into the foam, joyous cries coming out of her as the icy water splashed against her hot skin. She fell forward, half dive, half collapse, arms thrashing, legs kicking, driving out to where the sea swelled in sensuous regularity, swimming until her arms went heavy, her legs leaden. Only then did she roll onto her back and allow the waves to rock her gently as she rested, lying with eyes closed, oblivious to where she was.
It was a long time before she started back to the beach. She swam endlessly, it seemed, and now a sense of panic took hold of her, for she had no way of knowing that she was headed in the right direction. Darkness was on every side of her, impenetrable, suddenly ominous. She strained to catch sound of the surf and heard nothing. She kept swimming, fighting the weariness, the fear, until at last she heard that heavy thumping, fingers of water dancing along the flat hard sand. She swam harder.
Through the surf, she staggered, exhausted, excited, triumphant. It was as if what she had just experienced, the long solitary swim, the brief terror of the unknown, of the end, had jolted her into a fresh awareness of life and its rewards. But that would all come later, for now she needed to rest, to regain her strength. She fell and crawled the rest of the way, making her way unsteadily up the beach to where the dunes loomed, darker lumps in the night. She flung herself onto the seaward slant of a high dune, burrowed into the sand for warmth and rested.
It was a long time before she heard the sounds. At first, they were part of the night noises, the rustling, the sibilant exchanges, the whispers. In time, they broke through to her consciousness and she felt strange, not afraid, but touched by an instinctive emotional response to what she heard, not quite certain she could identify the sounds. She held herself very still, hands flat out on the rise of her belly, aware of the powerful cadence of her heart, of the spasm of desire that stabbed deep into her loins.
She heard a voice at last. Unintelligible words, their meaning nevertheless reminiscent, filled her with a vague nostalgia. Something once experienced, now past and almost forgotten, came and went in some silent portion of her brain. Reluctantly, carefully, knowing no other choice, Bonnie lifted herself onto her hands and knees, breasts falling free, belly descending, long golden hair a damp veil across her cheeks and on to her shoulders. She moved slowly up the dune until she reached the crest. There, like a jungle cat stalking its prey, she flattened out, peered alertly into the dark. Searching.
And then she picked them out, fuzzily shadowed in the starlight. A man and a woman. Naked, both. Nothing hidden. A strange and wonderfully natural tableau, their movements slow and deliberate, a kind of metaphysical image. Bonnie caught her breath and inched forward until she could see the standing woman and the man, kneeling to her, as if she were a shrine at which to worship. Bonnie saw his head come forward and heard the sounds that came out of the night and her every joint seemed to lock into place and she wanted...
Wanted everything.
CHAPTER TWO
How LONG Bonnie lay watching, she never knew. Time was meaningless, and it passed in rhythm to the sensuous exchanges of the couple on the sand below. Time's beat was in the writhing hips of the woman, counterpoint to the insistent thump of her partner's lust. It was in the boiling of Bonnie's blood as it rushed headlong along her veins. It was in the jangling of her nerve ends.
Abruptly, the woman on the sand threw back her head and arched her body toward the stars and emitted a long, soft moan that grew in intensity, broke off, resumed in short, gasping cries that signified nothing and everything. The man mumbled incoherent encouragements, and Bonnie was able to watch no longer. She buried her face in the crook of her right arm and bit down hard on the flesh of her other forearm. The pain was good.
After a while, the couple on the sand lay still, breathing regularly and Bonnie studied them for a long interval before daring to back down the dune. It was an effort to stand, to brush the sand off her body. She glanced around, trying to pierce the dark. Where had she left her clothing? She took two or three tentative steps, decided to search in the opposite direction, and moved up the beach. She was cold now and lonely and anxious to get home. She longed for the warmth and security of her own bed.
Her mind refused to remain dormant, however, ranging back to what she had seen behind the dune, exciting her reactions, triggering her imagination. Strange, incomplete fantasies drifted around her skull and she wondered where such ideas came from. She stopped. Her clothes. Surely she would have found them by now. Perhaps she was searching in the wrong direction. She turned and hurried back along the beach, keeping to the base of the dunes, trying to stay in the shadows, afraid that someone might appear and see her naked and exposed.
She moved faster and felt her breasts, taut and tingling in the night, the nipples shriveled with cold, jiggling freely. Instinctively, she put a hand to each, holding the full mounds as the cups of a brassiere might. Her pace increased, eyes tracking across the sand for her things. She didn't see the two men until they had moved off the dunes and directly into her path.
They stood there, solid and powerful, both of them, ominous and mysterious, in black leather jackets studded with silver buckles and stars, in black trousers and jump boots. They stood there, faces blank and threatening, eyes slitted, mouths gaping. They stood there, saying nothing and looking at her the way a wild beast might look at his prey.
A scream died on her lips and she froze into position, unable to speak or move. Her brain barely turned over, all processes weighted and slowed by terror. Finally, that portion of her brain that controlled the motor processes functioned laboriously and she made one tentative step away from the two men. One of them, the shorter, stockier of the two, leaped quickly into her intended path.
"Not yet," he muttered.
"That's right," the other added, leering. "It isn't time for you to go."
"We never saw anything just like you," the first added. "Not walking around jaybird naked, anyway."
"You do this often?"
"Please," Bonnie managed in a small voice. "I'm trying to find my clothes." The irrelevance of the remark struck her even as the words came out. She strained to think of something clever and devastating to say, something that would remove her quickly and easily from this unhappy situation.
"You look great without clothes," the taller man said.
Later, Bonnie would recall it all and wonder at how much she remembered with such clarity. The tall one had black hair that grew low over his brow, almost down to his eyes, and his mouth was sullen and threatening. He had big, bulky shoulders and extraordinarily long arms, hands hanging out of black leather sleeves like weights.
The other one was a head shorter, his hair long and yellow, hanging almost to his shoulders. He was a narrow man, compact at hip and shoulder, with a wiry quickness to him and a mean glitter in his green eyes. Hate turned down the corners of his thin lips. He put a hand to his mouth and chewed on a thumbnail, shuffling forward, boots scraping sand. He gestured to Bonnie's hands, still cupping her breasts protectively. His grin was mirthless.
"Can I do that for you?"
"Oh, let me alone," she wailed.
"You must be kidding," the tall one spat out.
"Who's first?" the short one said, eyes never leaving Bonnie.
"Me."
"Not a chance."
The tall one hesitated. "If we fight for her she may get away."
"That's right."
"Okay. You first. Then she's mine for the rest of the night."
"You got a deal."
The short one moved with amazing speed. One moment he had been standing ten feet away, feet apart, still. The next, he was at her, forcing her backward, mouth coming down hard on her own. She was surprised at how strong he was, his bony fingers biting into her flesh, his body hard against her. Then she was flat on the sand and he was trying to loosen his belt.
"Please," she managed to say. "Don't do this."
He laughed, a short, hard sound, but said nothing. Not so his tall friend. He inched forward and now bent to watch.
"She doesn't fight back very much, does she?" he said.
The little one glanced up, then back at Bonnie. "That's right." There was surprise in his tone. He grinned thinly. "Whatsamatter, baby, you found what you're looking for?"
"No," Bonnie said. "Please. Let me go."
"Oh, get with it," the tall one said. "You're wasting my time."
"Not for long," the other returned, swinging back to the prostrate girl. "Now," he said to her. "Now I'm going to show you what a man is made of."
She couldn't help but remember the couple behind the dune and how they looked. Naked, both of them. And the movements they made in the dark and the sounds that came out of them. A twinge of anticipatory excitement slithered along Bonnie's spine.
"I don't want you," she moaned, as the yellow-haired man kissed her breast, his lips working at the pink peak now thrusting skyward. "You won't get away with this. I'll remember who you are... the police... the law..."
The tall one was laughing, a low sound, but full of muscular amusement and lack of fear. He inched closer and urged his friend on to greater efforts.
"Cut it!"
There was no mistaking the authority in the voice, a new voice not heard before. It came from behind and above them, from the apex of the nearest dune. Bonnie's eyes rolled back in her head and she searched the darkness until she found the figure posed against the starry sky. Now he came skidding down to the beach.
The tall man straightened up and a soft expression of regret passed over his lips. A moment later Bonnie became aware of the short man lifting himself off her, saw him adjusting his clothes, recognized the expression of dismay and intimidation that ghosted across his bony face. Then the stranger was standing over her, appraising her, offering a hand and helping her to stand up.
"You all right?" he said. His voice was low and hard, edged with steel, and the glint in his pale eyes matched the sound.
"They were going to...."she began.
"Nothing happened. Nothing. You're all right, so don't make a fuss." He glanced around. "Where are your clothes?"
"I don't know," she replied. "I was trying to find them when they grabbed me." She gestured vaguely. "Somewhere in that direction, I think."
"Find them. Both of you."
The tall one moved off, his friend trailing disconsolately behind. Bonnie watched them go, impressed with the authority that so commanded them. Her eyes went back to the stranger.
"My name is Mike Shaw," he said.
"I'm Bonnie Dixon."
He put out his hand and she took it and they shook solemnly. All at once she burst out laughing. "What's so funny?" he said. "This. All of it."
"I don't get it." He wasn't laughing, and she sobered quickly, intimidated by the lack of humor in his voice.
"Look at me," she said. "Here I am standing in front of you naked. And you a stranger. And we're introducing ourselves formally, as if this were some kind of a garden party. I was almost raped by those friends of yours, and yet you and I are shaking hands and exchanging names. It is funny, I think."
A slow reluctant smile played across his full mouth. It gave him an ingratiating, boyish look. She realized that he was very good-looking, his features strong and regular, his pale eyes large and luminous, his brown hair soft and thick and wavy. He was a big man, a six-footer, and well-proportioned, the look of strength in every line of him from his angular jaw to the solid set of his legs. He, too, was wearing a black leather jacket, but it was devoid of all embellishments and his tight blue jeans were tucked into heavy black engineer boots. Bonnie noticed that a plaited leather riding crop was tucked into the top of one boot.
"I suppose you're right," he murmured. "It is sort of funny." The smile disappeared. "What are you doing out on the beach this way? And alone?"
"I went swimming and then couldn't find my clothes."
He grunted and looked in the direction his two friends had gone. "They'll find them for you."
"Thank you."
He looked at her then frankly, measuring, letting his eyes absorb every inch of her body, traveling slowly from the high thrusting breasts over the gently rising belly down to that geometric symbol of femininity.
He grinned. "I can't say that I blame the boys. You are a juicy-looking item."
She wet her Lips. "Are you going to...?"
He gave an impatient toss of his head. "You're really looking for trouble, aren't you?"
"No."
"Then keep quiet about some things. Wise up." He took cigarettes out of his pocket and lit two, handing her one. Then he sat down and looked out at the ocean. She stood behind him and studied the way the hair curled up on his neck and in back of his ears. "You ever hear of the Apaches?" he said at last.
"No."
"It's a club. A cycle club. Motorcycle. A bunch of guys and gals interested in fun, in good times. Real good times." He threw a quick glance over his shoulder. "But that wouldn't interest you. You're one of those fancy types from the other side of town, aren't you?"
"I'm no snob, if that's what you mean."
He stood up. "Here come the boys."
The two leather-jacketed men came out of the dark. The tall one carried Bonnie's things. He handed them to her.
"Get dressed," Mike Shaw said.
All at once a flush of embarrassment came over her. She moved up the beach into the shadow of a dune and dressed hurriedly. When she returned the three of them looked at her appreciatively. The blond man laughed.
"She looks great dressed, too."
Mike Shaw nodded. "That's Buster Horan," he said. "And the big guy is Leo Gordon. This lady, boys, is Bonnie Dixon."
They shook hands all around, the ritual grave and precise.
"Sorry about what happened, Bonnie," Leo said, looking down at her from his great height. "But you know how it is."
"Yeah," Buster added. "You know."
Bonnie nodded. "Let's not talk about it."
Leo glanced obliquely at her. "You going to do anything about it?"
Bonnie looked puzzled.
"He means the cops," Mike explained.
She wet her mouth. "No. No cops."
There was an audible sigh of relief. "Where do you live?" Mike said, and she told him. "Come on. I'll ride you home. You boys go down to the clubhouse, I'll see you later."
His motorcycle was an impressive vehicle, all black, gleaming with stainless steel and with the look of power and speed. He straddled it and kicked the engine into life.
"Get behind me." She did as he ordered, skirt curling high on her thighs, knowing it would flare even higher once they got out on the highway, and not caring. "Hold on to my waist." She reached around until her hands met, gripping tightly. The cycle roared into motion and suddenly they were speeding along the strip of concrete, the wind smooth and cool against their cheeks. "I won't go too fast," he shouted over his shoulder. "No sense scaring" you first time out."
She made no reply, holding tighter to him, impressed with the masculine hardness of his torso, enjoying the way her breasts flattened against his powerful back. She leaned her cheek against his shoulder and closed her eyes and gave herself to the strange and exciting moment, a moment like nothing she had ever before experienced. Too soon, they reached their destination, her house. She stood down and mumbled something about how kind he was to take her home.
He drew the riding crop from his boot and placed the tip of it in her belly. He pressed lightly but firmly.
"Out there on the sand," he muttered. "You really looked great."
"Then why...?"
"Because that's not my way." He jabbed the crop easily into the soft flesh and she was aware of the power behind it. "You like riding a cycle?"
"Oh, yes."
He ran his tongue slowly around his full red lips. "Sometime you may want another ride. Some real action. When you do, look for me. There's a bar. The Count Down."
"I'll remember."
He jabbed harder. Once. He laughed briefly. "I know you will."
He wrestled the heavy cycle into motion and roared off. She waited till he was out of sight before going inside. It was a weird night, she mused, a night she would never forget, a night that would, she was certain, affect her entire life.
She was right.
CHAPTER THREE
SLEEP REFUSED to come.
Yet her body was weary. She went right to bed, lying on her back, eyes closed, waiting for oblivion to envelop her. It wouldn't happen. A nerve in her right thigh twitched and later that same leg cramped and she stretched against the sharp pain. Her mind kept wandering over what she had experienced earlier, until she was certain she wouldn't be able to sleep.
She got out of bed and lit a cigarette and went into her bathroom and drew water for a bath. She lay back in the water, allowing the moist heat to seep beneath the flesh, to relax the muscles, wash away the tension, forcing her mind to remain blank. Finished with the cigarette, she lit another, smoking slowly, inhaling deeply. Finally, she crushed out the butt and began to soap her body.
Her hands, tender and searching, were exhilarating against her own skin, and tiny slivers of excitement shot through her time and again as she touched this erogenous zone or that one. She tried not to think, not to remember how it was when she saw that couple making love behind the dunes, how it felt to have Buster Horan's half-clad hardness against her flesh, how it was to embrace Mike Shaw and pleasure herself against the speeding night wind.
She dried herself carefully and applied a scented lotion to her skin. She felt fresh and clean and ready.
But for what? She found no satisfactory answer as she padded back to her bed. She lit another cigarette and blew smoke in billowing clouds at the darkened ceiling, and fought against the thoughts that insisted on filtering through her defenses.
Bob Horner. Lean and handsome. Properly handsome. Proper in everything. His manners, his approach to life, to her. If only once he would kiss her with some passion, hold her so that she could enjoy the strength of his arms, of his hands, caress her in such a way as to raise her emotions to unexplored heights, fire her imagination.
Those men on the beach. Not much older than herself, they possessed a toughness, a stirring danger that threatened and enticed, that drew her interest and excited her. Why couldn't Bob be more like them? That Buster Horan, his fingers digging anxiously into her flesh, into the soft roundness of her bottom, causing her to rise to him, to the thrust of his male-ness. She giggled as she visualized that moment with Leo Gordon hovering hotly over them, causing it all to be even more exciting, more dangerous. She remembered clearly Buster's frantic little movements, his uninhibited seeking of a nest for his craving, and the hoarse sound of his breathing in her ear. Oh, how he had wanted her!
And then it was going to be Leo. So big. Six and a half feet of him. Shoulders broad and powerful. Surely he was that powerful, that hard everywhere, a mass of entwined muscles that stretched and bunched and jutted forward in continual yearning. She visualized the sullen cast to his mouth, the hot, voluptuousness of his lips and the low jut of his forehead. What a beast he was!
An exotic craving washed over her, and it was as if some private part of her had coughed softly. Or a nerve contracted. Or a muscle leaped in spasmodic anticipation. She stubbed out the cigarette and closed her eyes, and in the lidded darkness saw Mike Shaw's sensual face come floating into view. The thick wavy hair was windblown and the pale eyes were unblinking, strange, almost to the point of whiteness, glinting with unspoken promises, and threats, the angular jaw tough and hard, the full, mobile lips moving back and forth into a secret smile as if only he knew what it was that amused him.
A craving for something unnamed passed along the network of nerves in Bonnie's body, and her flesh tingled and crawled as if with a life of its own. She pressed her hands flat against her sides, allowed them to slide slowly, deliberately over the womanly curve of her hips, onto her belly, higher to where the ribs began. Her fingers made contact with the soft rise of her breasts, the flesh firm, yet soft, with a kind of warmth all its own. The fingers explored gently as if finding the twin mounds for the first time, traveling hesitantly higher to where they peaked in rising pride of pinkness, loosing wildly breaking waves of sensation, a cascade of growing passion.
A moan broke out of her and she rolled onto her side, squeezing her eyes tight, trying not to see herself on the beach, naked and unashamed in front of Mike Shaw, his eyes drinking in each part of her, lingering lovingly at those emblems of her privacy, those parts that so ached and strained for the kind of joy she had never truly known.
Her hands were moving lower now, each, as if propelled by a motivation of its own, moving independently. The flesh of her bottom was smooth to the touch, and her thighs, firm and smooth on the outside, softening as the curving thrust was crossed, the inner flesh hot and moist where thigh had kissed thigh. She turned onto her back with a tiny cry of regret and delight, legs askew, hands reaching, finding, fingers practiced.
The darkness seemed to tumble crazily, and a tuneless song came from afar to fill her ears as all her senses were heightened and speeded up. She thrashed about in insistent yearning to a savage beat that grew wilder with each passing moment, her fingers a flock of fluttering moths that never quite lit, that teased and tingled, and drove her insane with wanting.
Then a gathering of forces, of everything, a peak of desire, of strength, of tautness, of a bubble ready to burst. She twisted her head, buried her face in the downy pillow. And at that moment--apocalypse! The whole world destroyed in a burst of sound and feeling and color. Bright and dark and deep and blue. Nothing else existed and there were no other people. Not anywhere. She screamed into the pillow and waited for peace to come.
Only then was she able to rest.
* * *
The days dragged by interminably. There were the endless afternoon teas to be attended with her mother, the simpering conversation of the very proper ladies of the community, talk that bored Bonnie and was meaningless. Time and again it became necessary for Mrs. Dixon to remind her to pay attention when someone addressed her, to be polite, to remember that these were the people with whom she was going to spend the remainder of her life. It was a depressing thought.
And there were the charity affairs, the sorting of clothing and other items to be contributed to the needy, the selling of raffle tickets to raise funds, the polite smiles, the empty mouthings.
And Bob Horner was no help. Three times each week he came around to take Bonnie to dinner. Afterwards, they sometimes visited friends of his, people equally proper and stuffy, who spent most of their time assuring themselves of how wonderful they were, and how superior to other people. Bonnie wanted to scream at them, to shock them out of their smugness, to force them to feel something real.
One night, after such an evening, Bob brought her home and walked her to the door. He took her in his arms, holding her not too close--the ritual kiss.
"Don't forget Saturday night, darling," he said. "I've got tickets to the summer theatre. They're doing one of those avante garde plays. Something by Brecht or Le Roi Jones. It should be amusing. And your parents are coming with us."
"All right," she said without animation.
He bent forward and kissed her lightly on the mouth. "Good night, darling." He released her.
She lunged at him without warning, arms encircling his neck, mouth fastened to his, lips working, tongue probing. She arched her body against him, hips swinging, belly working against his middle. He pushed her away, a shocked expression in his eyes.
"Bonnie, please. What has come over you? Let's not make things difficult."
"But can't you see that things are difficult? Very difficult. Please, Bob. Take me somewhere. Anywhere so that we can be alone. Don't leave me now."
"You are being silly," he replied reasonably, patting her cheek. "It's late and I must get home. Work tomorrow, you know." He pecked her on the forehead and was gone. She hated him at that moment.
* * *
On Saturday evening, Martha and George Dixon, and Bonnie and Bob, dined at the Shore Club, the exclusive restaurant with a price list exceeded nowhere in the world. The food, of course, was excellent, the wines beyond reproach. Mr. Dixon and Bob discussed the state of the stock market and the prospects for the future while Martha Dixon chattered on about clothes, bridge and the guest list for Bonnie's wedding the following year. Then they drove to the theatre in Mr. Dixon's custom-built Rolls.
Bonnie felt herself get caught up in the play, an esoteric condemnation of a materialistic society and the effect it has on ordinary people, as well as those of particular sensitivity. It was during the middle of the second act that the roar of a passing troop of motorcycles outside the theatre drowned out the actors.
"Something must be done about those people," George Dixon hissed. "They are ruining Bayville for decent people."
"Somebody should do something," Martha Dixon agreed.
"I'm going to phone the mayor tomorrow," Bob Horner replied righteously. "I will insist on his taking steps to curb their lawlessness."
Bonnie closed them out of her mind. And now the play no longer existed for her, either. All she could think of was Mike Shaw and how it had been that night, riding on his cycle, her arms tight around his middle, his hard, masculine middle. A glob of thickness came into her throat.
When the play ended, the applause was perfunctory. This was not truly acceptable stage fare for Bayville. The ideas of the playwright were too far out, too progressive, demanded more of the audience than they were able to give.
They went to Marin's, the place to go after theatre, for coffee and dessert. Bob ordered a sundae heaped with whipped cream, and Bonnie thought he looked ridiculous, like an overgrown child.
"A terrible play," her mother began, spooning a rich cream pie into her mouth. "And so vulgar."
"Absolutely," George Dixon agreed. "Vulgar. And absurd. Life simply isn't like that."
"In this world," Bob Horner said, "life can be whatever you want to make it. People have only themselves to blame when things go bad for them. An intelligent man...."
"Oh, don't be so damned stuffy!" Bonnie burst out.
"Bonnie!" her mother said.
Bonnie stood up, face livid. "What a pompous bunch we are," she cried. "That play was directed at precisely the kind of people we are, so sure, so smug, so comfortable in our affluence, so safe behind our proper lives, behind the authority of our wealth and the law. It never occurs to us that people live other kinds of lives, want other things, find pleasure and satisfaction in ways we might never think of."
"Bonnie!" her mother said. "Sit down and be quiet."
"I won't."
"What's come over you, Bonnie?" George Dixon inquired mildly. "This isn't like you at all."
"I'm sick of this life we all lead. Sick of its dullness and purposelessness. Of the same things each year, each month, each day. None of us ever learn anything. That playwright was trying to tell us something, and we simply tune him out as if he didn't exist."
"Would you like an aspirin, dear?" her mother said felicitously. "It will settle your stomach."
"It is not my stomach," Bonnie rasped out. "I am fed up with the emptiness of my life, of everything about it. Those people on the motorcycles... I wish I were with them. I bet they know how to enjoy themselves, find some excitement in life." . "That'll be enough, Bonnie." Her mother's face went stern, and there was no mistaking the displeasure in her voice. "Now sit down and be quiet."
Bonnie's head swiveled around to Bob Horner. She leaned forward and peered into his eyes, her voice soft and pleading. "Take me somewhere, Bob. Somewhere so that we can be alone. And make love to me. Make me know what it is to feel alive. Please."
He took her hand in his and stroked it. His voice was gentle and larded with compassion. "Just sit down and relax, darling. Perhaps another cup of coffee...." She tore her hand away and strode out of Marin's without another word. Her mother called after her, but she paid no attention. "Go after her, Bob," Mrs. Dixon said. "Bring her back."
He shook his head slowly. "No. Right now, the last one in the world she needs is me. Whatever it is that's bothering her--let her get it out of her system."
It wouldn't be easy.
CHAPTER FOUR
BAYVILLE WAS one of those Long Island towns that look very much the same as they looked one hundred years before. The houses, painted and shuttered and gabled, the small shops, the narrow sidewalks studded with trees, a sense of timelessness. It was a place that provided a summer home to some residents of the city, but in general was not plagued by tourists.
Now, at night, with midnight fast closing in, there were few people abroad and no one bothered Bonnie as she moved slowly through the quiet streets, deep in thoughtful turmoil. She left the center of town behind and headed aimlessly toward the north end. She shuffled past the grade school and the high school to where the athletic field stretched out in the dark, the grandstand looming like an angular impressionistic blob of ink in the night. She headed for it, climbed the planked seats, and sprawled out on the top row, berating herself for losing her temper, aware that as a result she would be in for a lengthy lecture from each of her parents, not to mention Bob. She sighed heavily. Obviously, she would have to concoct some excuse acceptable to them all for her behavior. Perhaps she could claim illness, a temporary upset, anything to shorten the trying scene she would face.
She leaned back on her elbows and gazed up at the sky. It was dotted with stars, and she let her imagination wander, trying to visualize another planet in some distant galaxy millions of light years away where at that precise moment a girl might also be contemplating the heavens and wishing life were more fulfilling, more spiced with adventure and excitement, more rewarding. If something didn't happen to alter the pattern of her existence, Bonnie could see herself withering away in Bayville until it was too late, until she would become just like her mother, all energy and vitality eroded by time and boredom. It was the roar of the cycles that intruded and brought her erect and alert.
There must have been twenty of them, all fancied up with gleaming extras and fox tails, headlights bright and powerful, slicing the darkness into moving triangulations, motors revved as they turned and leaned and jetted ahead. Through the deep throaty motor-roar she could hear the hoarse laughter of men and the shriller cries of girls. It was then that she realized that some of the bikes carried two people, the driver and a piggy-back rider, a girl, she supposed, though they were clad the same as the men.
The cycles began to execute a series of figures, squares, circles, eights, sparks flying from gleaming exhausts. And there at the head of the serpentine column of speed and power Bonnie spied Mike Shaw. Even in the dark he stood out, clear and commanding. Perhaps it was the way he sat his bike, tall and straight in the saddle, not hunched over the handlebars as were the others, kind of cool and relaxed, authority in every line of his strong body. A chill rippled through her.
She shuddered, hugged herself, and reached for a cigarette. She fired a match and sucked hard, cheeks depressed tightly, very conscious of herself, of her feelings, of her body. She flipped the match and blew smoke and dragged again.
"Hey!" came the clear cry above the motors. "There's somebody up there."
As if by signal, the motors went silent and the headlights blacked out. Bonnie felt herself grow tense under the silent scrutiny from below. The cigarette! She flipped it away and rose quickly, heading for the far end of the stands.
"Get him!" came the low, intense command.
Bonnie began to run. She stumbled once and almost fell, regained her balance and moved on. Behind, she heard fast-moving footsteps, closing fast. She didn't want to be caught, and her lungs ached as she ran as fast as she could. It was not enough. Hands reached for her, swung her around. She tore free, tripped and fell, rolling across the wood slabs. Someone grabbed her and held her down.
"Hey, man," came a masculine voice. "It's a broad."
"Yeh," answered a girl. "So just leave her to us."
Bonnie was yanked roughly to her feet and a heavy hand raked across her face, rocking her head, causing her cheek to sting.
"Who are you?" demanded the girl's voice. "What're you doing up here?"
"A spy," came another female voice. "A Monarch, maybe."
The rough hands shook Bonnie, and she feared her head would come loose. Other hands were laid on, and fingers dug deep into the flesh of her arms.
"Let's work her over right here. Teach her a lesson."
"Maybe we better take her down to the others."
"Mike will want to question her," came the male voice.
"I'll make her talk," came the first female. The hand shot across Bonnie's face again, this time harder. She groaned, launched a reflexive kick at her tormentor. The girl swore when the swinging foot landed on her thigh. "Dammit! I'll teach you to kick me. I'll break your back."
Mike Shaw's voice cut through the darkness. "What the hell's going on up there? Come down here and let's see what you found."
"It's a dame, Mike," someone shouted.
"Bring her down."
"You're lucky," the girl hissed into Bonnie's ear, hand twisting her wrist behind her back. "But this isn't over yet, and my chance will come. Maybe I'll give you a real stomping."
All at once Bonnie felt herself grow weak and frightened. What had she gotten into? She remembered clearly now what had almost happened to her on the beach that night, how close she had come to being molested by both Leo Gordon and Buster Horan. Mike Shaw had saved her then, but could he do it again? Would he want to? Then she was dragged in front of him, and the time for conjecture was past.
He stood there, handsome face immobile, chiseled features set, booted legs apart, riding crop hanging from one hand. As he gazed at her he began to tap the crop regularly against the top of his engineer's boots, ticking off the seconds. For some reason, the sound unnerved Bonnie.
"Twice," he began in a low tone. "Twice you've shown up without an invitation."
"I... I was just sitting up there. Thinking." Her voice sounded false, the words empty in her own ears.
Her eyes darted over the faces of the others who were staring at her. Nowhere did she see sympathy or understanding, and all at once she realized that she might be in serious trouble, for every visage was hard, mocking, threateningly implacable. To these people she was an enemy. "I wasn't doing anything," she ended lamely.
He grunted, and his pale eyes focussed on the hands of the girls holding her. He used the riding crop as a pointer.
"Let her go," he said softly.
One girl released Bonnie immediately, but the other merely tightened her grip. This was the girl who had slapped Bonnie, who wanted to beat her, who promised to stomp her. Tall and well-proportioned, her fine female form evident even in the leather cycle costume, she had long red hair gathered in a single braid down her back. Her beautiful face was contorted in anger.
"She's a Monarch," the redhead bit off, "come to spy on us."
Mike Shaw exhaled audibly, and his pale eyes rolled skyward and back again. "Let her go, Paula. She's no Monarch."
"How can you be sure?"
Mike's expression hardened, and the pale eyes went icy. He reached out with the riding crop and tapped lightly at the hand that held Bonnie's arm. He punctuated each movement of the crop with his words.
"I said... let... her... go."
For a brief moment, Bonnie thought Paula meant to defy Mike. Then she felt the girl's hands fall away. There was a noticeable lessening of tension from the others watching. Mike smiled without humor.
"We met this lady before," Mike said now to Paula, his voice easy and reasonable. "A few nights ago on the beach."
"That's right," Buster Horan broke in. "She was wandering around in the...."
"... So you see," Mike interrupted, "you might say we're old friends. Bonnie Dixon is her name. This beautiful redhead with the fiery temper, Bonnie, is Paula Hart."
"I didn't expect anybody," Bonnie said. "I wanted to be alone, and this seemed like a good place."
"Sure," Mike said. He glanced around at the others. They still eyed Bonnie suspiciously. He laughed. "Come on," he said, "let's not stand around here with egg on our faces. Let's hit the road!" He turned to Bonnie. "Want to come along?"
"Yes," Bonnie said quickly.
Without warning Paula Hart thrust herself between Bonnie and Mike Shaw, face drawn angrily together, her eyes slitted. "You can't!" she shot out. "She's not one of us. This is an Apache ride and you can't papoose an outsider."
"There's no rule, Paula," Buster Horan threw in.
"It isn't right," Paula retorted hotly. "You mustn't bring her along."
"I'll do what I want," Mike said thinly. "I'm chief of this tribe."
"The council," Paula said. "They'll have something to say about this. What you're doing is endangering us all...."
"Shut up!" he said.
"I won't! How do we know we can trust her? She's passed none of the Ordeals!"
Mike pushed her aside and reached for Bonnie's hand. "It's only a little ride," he said, turning.
Paula's face went crimson, her eyes glowing hotly. She grabbed Bonnie and yanked her back, almost knocking her down. "She's not coming!" she bit off.
There was that brief beat of time when nothing moved. The world stopped revolving on its axis. Then a thick snarl broke out of Mike Shaw. His hand flashed out, the hand that held the riding crop. The thin length of leather whooshed through the night air. Paula saw it coming and threw up one arm, tried to dodge the blow. It was no use. The crop landed across her forearm with a sharp crack. She groaned and moved back, Mike after her, swinging the crop with purpose and precision, each blow aimed, and landing. It was clear that he was picking his spots, staying away from her face, not anxious to cut her. He whipped the crop fiercely across her jeaned legs, and her yelps of anguish were in echo to the slap of leather against soft flesh. Then she got it just below the waist as she turned to escape, taking the full force of one stroke across the gentle rise of her belly. She doubled over, and before she could straighten, three quick ones ripped at her tight round bottom.
"Oh, Mike!" she wailed, and Bonnie wasn't sure whether it was protest against the pain or an invitation for more. Then suddenly it was over. Mike glared at Paula and shook the crop under her still defiant chin.
"Next time I'll scar you, Paula. Maybe one across each cheek of yours, something to remember for a long time." He looked around, face impassive and all the more threatening because of that impassivity. "Anyone else got objections?" No one had. "Okay let's hit the road!"
They all scrambled for their motorcycles, including Paula Hart. Mike smiled at Bonnie.
"Come on," he said quietly. "We're going to have some fun." He led her to his machine. "It's every bike for himself!" he shouted to his followers. "Let's tear up the countryside!"
A roar of approval came from the others and seconds later the throaty roar of two-score powerful engines springing to life filled the night.
"Hold on tight," Mike said to Bonnie as she mounted behind him. "I'm really going to give you a ride this time."
They went scooting across the athletic field. Most of the others turned left at the road, heading out of town. Not Mike Shaw. He steered right for the center of town. At the corner where Main Street intersected, forming Revolutionary Square, he pivoted the heavy machine around the Memorial Statue and a flock of startled pigeons fluttered skyward. Mike's laugh pierced the noise of the motor, and he accelerated the machine along Main Street. As they shot along, Bonnie saw someone step out of a darkened doorway, waving his arms. It was a policeman, helpless without a vehicle with which to give chase. A triumphant peal broke out of Mike Shaw, and Bonnie clutched him tighter and her laughter joined his. Never could she remember being so excited, so thrilled by any experience as this. The wind was velvety cool against her skin and she felt free and powerful.
"Faster," she urged. "Go faster."
The machine leaped ahead, and it seemed to her that they had left the confines of the atmosphere and were sailing amongst the stars, free of all restrictions, of all laws and obligations, of all responsibilities. This, she told herself, was living. They were alone in the world, in the universe, tearing across space on a narrow strip of concrete designed only for their use, un encumbered by other people and their demands. She wished she were naked and could feel the night against every part of herself.
How long they rode she never knew. Once, from far behind, they heard the lonely wail of a siren, but saw no sign of the police, and Bonnie decided that one of the other Apaches was in trouble. That had no effect on them. Abruptly they lost speed, and she became more alert to her whereabouts, glancing around. Vaguely she remembered this place, a piney woods about twenty miles outside of town, a combination of trees and hilly sand thick with a coarse species of grass. They bumped along between the trees until Mike braked the cycle to a halt. They got off and sat down under a tree, and he lit cigarettes for them both.
"How do you feel?" he said, after a while.
"Wonderful, Mike! I love riding that way, fast and free."
"You're okay," he said softly. "So are you."
He took a long, slow drag, before crushing the cigarette into the sand. She watched him carefully as he removed her cigarette from her hand, offered it silently for a final puff, then extinguished it. She knew what to expect and told herself that now was the time to stop him, to call a halt to the proceedings. After all, he was a stranger about whom she knew nothing more than his name. She remained silent.
His hand came out, forefinger tracing the line of her jaw, tracking down her graceful neck, across her collarbone, downward to where the cleavage between her full breasts began. He hesitated for only a moment, pale eyes holding hers, the finger riding lightly over the swell of her right breast, finding the dormant peak of that mound, outlining it in movement and thus giving it a growing life.
"You shouldn't," she made herself say without conviction.
He grinned and began to unbutton her blouse. She held herself very still until the blouse was off. She was glad she had worn the lacy pink brassiere.
"What a beauty you are!" he bit off huskily. "Now stand up."
She did, and from where he sat he loosened the fastenings of her skirt, let it fall to her ankles, then drew off her half slip. She stood, legs planted solidly apart, in bra and panties, spiked heels and stockings, the creamy white of her thighs split by the narrow garters which reached under the pink lace in tantalizing fashion. His eyes drank in the sight.
"The other time," he rasped out. "On the beach. When you were naked. I wanted you then, but it wouldn't have been right for me. Not after Buster had been at you, trying. The first time I wanted you clean and untouched... my private property. After tonight it won't matter...." She wasn't quite sure she understood him, but she didn't care. A surge of desire sprang into being from some dark place in her guts and spread throughout her body. She felt the faint trembling begin in her knees and was afraid she would fall. She held herself very still, wanting him to be able to look at her, allowing him that visual pleasure and taking pleasure in the murky expression in his pale eyes. He made a small motion with his hand.
"The panties," he said.
She took them off in a single swift movement. "Turn for me."
She did, moving slowly, giving him plenty of time.
"Now. The bra."
She reached. It fell to the sand.
"Oh, beauty," he breathed. Then, after a long interval: "Walk toward me. Slowly. That's it. Not too fast. Oh, yes."
He came up on his knees, hands reaching, fingers caressing the soft flesh of her small round bottom, searching and finding, hearing the moan that broke out of her. He muttered something against the hot moist flesh of her thing.
"What, darling?" she said.
But there was no time for words as he bore her over backward on the sand, and that grainy bed felt rough and good against her flesh as his mouth found her mouth in a hot joining, tongue battling tongue, the rhythms of their bodies natural and powerful.
"Mike," she gasped. "Those clothes. Take off those damned clothes."
He made only a partial accommodation to her words, and her protests were drowned against the swelling manhood of him, the muscular hardness that brooked no objection as his strength rose and fell with an insistent drive that sought to pound her into the earth.
And almost succeeded.
CHAPTER FIVE
THEY RODE slowly back to town. Everything seemed to be in half-time, and Bonnie was suspended in a state of misty satisfaction, her excitement simmering, waiting to boil over again, the night different from any she had ever experienced, a turning point, a change in direction and tempo. She wondered sleepily where it would lead, and wondering, didn't care, for it was bound to be an improvement over the past, better, more rewarding, a series of important and gratifying discoveries.
Neither of them spoke until they came to her house. He eased the cycle to a stop, turned off the motor, and accompanied her to the front door. They faced each other and her arms encircled his neck.
"I wish we could stay together all night," she murmured.
A smug smile lifted the corners of his mouth. "You liked this evening?"
"Mmmm. Loved it, darling."
"We Apaches know how to satisfy our women."
She leaned back and looked up at him. His expression told her nothing. "Are you prepared to vouch for all the members of your club?" She laughed. "You couldn't possibly know about all of them."
He didn't smile. "Have it your way."
She sobered quickly. "I don't understand."
He loosened her hands from in back of his neck and lit a cigarette. She had to ask for one for herself and he made no attempt to light it for her.
"The Apaches are no ordinary bunch," he said thinly, absently almost, a vibrant note creeping into his voice, a base tone of passion, throbbing faintly. "Nobody could be closer than we are."
"You didn't seem very close to that girl, that redhead, Paula Hart."
"Don't let what happened fool you. Paula is an Apache, and that means she's important in my life."
She was puzzled, as much by his intensity as by the meaning of his words. She wanted to question him, thought better of it, instead dragged, blew smoke and waited.
"We own this turf," he said softly. "All of Bayville, the highways, the back roads, the woods, the beach. Especially the beach. No Monarch would dare set foot on Apache beach."
"Who are the Monarchs?"
He shrugged. "They're from Deniston, about thirty miles cross-country. They've got more members than we have but not more guts. Not since the last time we faced them. What a rumble that was! Everyone was in it, all the Apaches, every Papoose, and we sent them running backsides over teakettle into the night. You don't see Monarchs around here since then."
"Why do you fight with the Monarchs?"
He looked at her wonderingly. "Why not? They're our enemies. Besides, it's a kick."
"You really enjoy it?"
"Of course. I'm not only president of the Apaches, but the War Chief as well."
The intensity and excitement he felt was communicated to her, and she felt herself stirred, a strange and exotic sensation that made her wonder what it would be like to be a part of his world day and night. How different from her own life with its clearly defined and proper inhibitions. As if reading her mind, he measured her, spoke carefully.
"Would you like to become an Apache?"
"I think so."
"You must be sure." He waved a hand at the house. "Don't think that because your folks are loaded it means anything. The Apaches are no juvenile delinquents. Sure, some of our members come from poor families, but we don't operate just for money. We're out for fun, for kicks, for getting the biggest charge possible out of life."
"I'm for that."
"And you'd have to do exactly as you're told by your superiors. No matter what they want you to do."
She filled her lungs with air. "I can obey orders." She flicked her cigarette away. "Anything would be better than the way I've been living."
He nodded. "It won't be easy."
"That's all right with me."
"There's a tough initiation."
"What is it?"
"You won't know that until the time comes." He paused, then went on. "If you're accepted and become a member, you'll have to commit yourself to another member, to being a squaw and riding behind on the jump seat."
"Can I choose the member?"
"Not really. Oh, you can indicate a preference, but if somebody else wants you then it is up to the two people involved to settle matters. Of course, you have another choice."
"What's that?"
"You can get your own cycle."
Bonnie felt a quick flare of excitement in her gut. Her eyes glittered in the darkness. "I'd like that, to have my own motorcycle."
A swift expression of annoyance passed across his rugged face, then disappeared. He shrugged and ground his cigarette into the dirt. "That's up to you. Anyway, you're a long way from that point."
"When do I become a member?"
He measured her carefully before he spoke. "You'll be notified of the time and the place." He started toward his motorcycle.
"But when?" she insisted.
"When we want you to know," he tossed over his shoulder, not stopping. "And maybe not at all," he added, kicking the machine into gear. She watched him roar into the night, and went inside only when the last harsh notes of the engine were no longer audible.
* * *
The days passed without any word. She began to think that Mike had changed his mind, didn't want her to become an Apache, meant never to see her again. And this evoked a sense of loss in Bonnie. That single night with him had given her more thrills and pleasurable sensations than she had ever before known. Now the time spent with Bob Horner was all the more intolerable, his proper ways impossible to tolerate. Then one night, after dinner, the phone rang. Bonnie picked it up. She didn't recognize the female voice on the other end.
"Bonnie Dixon?"
"Yes."
"Be at the corner of Pineapple Lane and Finch Drive in exactly thirty minutes. You'll be met."
"Who is this?"
"Pineapple Lane and Finch Drive in thirty minutes."
The caller hung up. Bonnie gazed curiously at the phone. She wanted to believe that this was a summons from Mike Shaw, from the Apaches. But how could she be sure? What if she was wrong and this was some kind of a crank attempting to lure her into the night? Could she afford to take the chance and go? Did she dare not go when she considered how becoming an Apache could change her life?
"I'm going out for a while," she announced with forced lightness.
"Who was that?" her mother asked absently.
"A friend of mine. I'll use the Thunderbird, if that's all right with you, father."
He glanced up from the financial trade paper he was reading. "What? Oh, yes, of course. But drive carefully."
"Yes, drive carefully," her mother added.
"I will indeed."
Fresh lipstick. Half a dozen rapid passes of a comb through her golden hair, tying it back in a ponytail, and she was on her way. She drove slowly and still reached her destination ten minutes early. She circled the block once before parking and lighting a cigarette, trying to quell the rising anticipation in her middle, the growing sense of something about to happen. She was on her second cigarette when she realized that it was fifteen minutes past the appointed meeting time. Perhaps it was all a joke. Or some kind of test. Then a car came into sight, rolling slowly down Pineapple Lane. The driver, a man with a hat pulled low over his eyes, spied her, eased the car to a stop and leaned out the window.
"Waiting for someone, baby?" he leered.
She wet her lips. "Maybe."
"I ought to do just fine. Let's go somewhere and have a few drinks and I'll show you a good time. A real good time. And if you turn out as good as you look, I promise you'll be well repaid."
No, she thought. This couldn't be part of it. Only a coincidence that this man had come along. He was in no way part of the Apaches.
"Go away," she said, averting her head.
He laughed curtly. "Your loss, slut," he bit off, and hit the gas pedal.
She sat there gripping the wheel, aware that her hands were trembling, that a bead of perspiration had broken and rolled along her spine and into the hollow of her back. A sigh escaped her full lips. She reached for a cigarette and lit it, glancing into the rear view mirror as she did. Two girls were strolling idly in her direction, out for an evening's walk, apparently in no hurry. She sat back and watched them come on. Perhaps this was the start of it. After all, a girl had phoned. They walked past without giving her even a glance. Bonnie slumped down in the seat, certain it had all been a bad joke, somebody's idea of fun. Then the girls turned back. They peered in at her.
"What's your name?" one of them said.
"Bonnie."
"Okay. Come with us."
She slid out of the T-bird and moved down the street between them. Neither of them spoke and so she said nothing. They walked for nearly a mile until they came to an old Chevy, parked at the curb.
"Get in."
She climbed into the front seat next to the girl who had spoken, the other getting in behind. Suddenly a folded handkerchief was slipped over her eyes and her hands automatically went up.
"Hold still," she was ordered. "This is just a blindfold so you won't know where our meeting place is." The handkerchief was knotted. "All right. Let's go."
The car groaned into motion and Bonnie held herself very still, wondering what she had let herself in for. They drove for about twenty minutes over a smooth paved highway before turning onto a rough road. The old car creaked as it fought its way over bumps and through potholes, finally coming to a wheezing stop. The blindfold was removed, and Bonnie blinked to clear her vision, looked around.
She was in a wooded glade, moonlight streaming down. The rustling of the leaves and the weird shadows they cast gave an eerie atmosphere to the place. Everywhere Bonnie looked she saw parked motorcycles and the leather-clad figures of the Apaches. Nobody moved.
"All right," the girl in the rear seat said. "Get out."
Bonnie obeyed. The girl placed a hand between her shoulders and shoved, and she stumbled forward.
"Don't push," she protested.
The girl snickered. "Move to the center of the clearing," she ordered. Bonnie almost protested, thought better of it, and did as she was told. Slowly the Apaches left their machines and formed a circle around her. She recognized some of them: Buster Horan, Leo Gordon, Paula, Mike Shaw. They were all solemn, grim, their faces set in almost identical molds of determination and expectancy. A thick glob of fear formed up in the pit of Bonnie's stomach, and she began to wonder what she was letting herself in for.
Paula Hart stepped forward, an impressive female figure, black leather trousers gleaming in the moonlight, tight to her skin, flaming tresses cascading across her shoulders, her beautiful face frozen as she appraised Bonnie.
"Bonnie Dixon," she began, voice heavy- and ritualistic. "You have been brought here to be considered as a possible member of the Apaches. Is this your will?' Bonnie wet her suddenly dry lips. "Yes."
"Then know this," Paula went on. "To become an Apache is to make a total commitment, one from which there is no withdrawal. One becomes an Apache forever, and obedience to the laws of the tribe is demanded upon the threat of severe punishment. Once accepted, a neophyte cannot turn back. Is that understood?"
"It is."
"You will be given the laws of the Apache tribe for study at the proper time, but for now it is enough that you know that Apaches are concerned with living life to its fullest, to enjoy each moment, to find new thrills, new excitements, new rewards. Courage and daring are our watchwords. And loyalty." Paula's green eyes appeared to glitter dangerously in the moonlight. "An Apache is loyal to his fellow tribesmen beyond any other obligations. Outsiders are meaningless and to be scorned. They provide us with a source of entertainment, of pleasure, perhaps, but to them we owe nothing. In moments of stress there is never a choice for an Apache but to dispatch his obligation to another member of the tribe, no matter the cost. Is that clear?"
"It is clear."
"Apaches," Paula went on, "make mockery of all law, all authority, all power, except that of the tribe itself. To break the laws of society is to obey the laws of the Apaches. To steal from an outsider is proper and laudatory, not for money, necessarily, but for the pure joy of stealing. To inflict physical harm on an outsider can provide a thrill beyond any other. Are you prepared to dispatch these obligations to the tribe if you are accepted in membership?"
"I am," Bonnie said in a low voice.
"Speak up!" came a voice from the onlooking circle.
"I am prepared to dispatch all obligations to the Apaches," Bonnie said firmly.
"Good," Paula said. "Who vouches for this neophyte?"
Mike Shaw stepped forward. "I do so vouch."
"And who seconds?" Paula asked. "I do," Buster Horan said.
Paula nodded, still staring unblinkingly at Bonnie. "Then," she murmured, as if savoring the thought, "let the Ordeals commence."
At that the circle seemed to close in about them, and Mike Shaw took his place alongside Paula. His expression was inscrutable, his pale eyes flat and lifeless, his voice without color.
"You," he said to Bonnie, "have agreed to be presented for initiation in the Apaches and the first portion of the triple Ordeal is designed to test your desire to oppose the frustrating and contradictory laws of society. You will commit a crime."
He fell silent, and after an extended interval Bonnie realized that some response was expected of her. She nodded her head.
"I'll do whatever you want."
"Good. A team has been selected to guide you and assist you in this endeavor. Paula, Buster and Leo will accompany you into town. There you will seek out and attack someone, robbing him, doing whatever is necessary to accomplish this end. Any questions?"
"No questions."
"Very well. Paula is in charge of the operation. Now get started."
They sped back to Bayville, Bonnie riding piggyback on Paula's cycle, no words passing between them. After they parked the bikes, Paula led the way to a quiet intersection; they took up positions in the shadows of a couple of large oak trees.
"We'll wait," Paula whispered.
It was nearly an hour before anyone came along; two men, walking slowly, engrossed in their conversation. Bonnie was sure that they would not chance an attack on two men; she was wrong.
"This is it," Paula said. "Bonnie, you wait for them at the corner and when they come near you flirt with them, proposition them. We'll come up behind and jump them. When we hit them, you get into it. I don't want to see you standing around. Understood?"
"Yes."
"Take off."
Bonnie headed for the corner with pounding heart. She wished she could quell the fear in her gut, yet at the same time there was a burgeoning sense of anticipation. She took up her position in the shadows and watched the two men come on. They were in their middle years, just young enough to be able to put up a formidable battle if given the chance, and young enough to be interested in a pretty blonde girl. Bonnie wracked her imagination for a suitable approach until there was no time for thinking. She stepped into their path.
"Oh," she said, smiling at them. "I didn't mean to startle you."
One of them smiled back. "A pleasure."
She leaned over and smoothed her stocking, hiking her skirt high on her shapely leg, allowing them a good long look. She gazed up at them. "Couldn't we," she began meaningfully, "all three of us, go somewhere quiet? It could be fun, the three of us, the kind of night you only dream about."
"Do you mean what I think you mean?" the first man said.
"Try me," she murmured. "And it's all free."
The man's face lit up. His mouth opened for a reply, and at precisely that moment Buster and Leo launched themselves at the two men from behind. Down they went, struggling and protesting, even as the two Apaches rained heavy blows at them. Then Paula dived in, swinging her fists. Bonnie ordered herself to move, to prove herself, to join the melee. For a moment, nothing happened. Her legs were rooted to the ground. Then, with a hoarse cry, she dove forward, cursing wildly, punching with both hands. She felt the shock of the first blow land, the impact traveling up her arm, into her shoulder, and it was a thrill never before experienced. Again and again she lashed out, blindly, not seeing, striking back with all her might.
It was Leo Gordon who finally pulled her off the prostrate man. She struggled against the restraint until Paula's hoarse voice came through to her.
"That's enough. It's over. They're both out cold."
Bonnie looked down at the two unconscious men. A flash of weakness took hold of her, quickly drained away. She had done it! She grinned at Paula, who almost smiled back.
"Now rob them," she said.
"What?" Bonnie said.
"Go through their pockets. Quickly. We don't want to stand around here."
Bonnie knelt and swiftly did as she had been told. A minute later she straightened up, holding the men's wallets, their watches. She emptied all the cash from the wallets and dropped them.
"Now what?" she said.
"Now go home," Paula said. "If our report satisfies the other members you'll hear from us again." Her grin was a tight lip movement without humor. "If they are dissatisfied you'll hear from us anyway, in a rather unpleasant way. Now take off!"
Bonnie spun around and hurried away. It took her nearly an hour to find the T-bird, and by then she didn't know whether to laugh in triumph or cry in despair.
But the best--or worst--was still to come.
CHAPTER SIX
BONNIE COULDN'T clear her mind of the memory of that night. She nursed it back to life in her brain and once again enjoyed the thrill and the danger, the solid impact of her blows on the flesh of another human being, the pain she was delivering, the blood that had seeped out of ears and nostrils. And the thin fear that she was actually committing a crime, could be caught and punished, jailed. It all combined to provide an exhilarating feeling such as she had never before known, and she held on to it with a rare desperation.
The pleasure in her actions was heightened the following day when the Bayville Chronicle carried the story of the mugging on the front page, with photographs of the two victims. The men's faces were bruised and cut and swollen from the many blows received. Bonnie read and re-read the story many times, studying the pictures, reveling in the fact that the men were even younger and huskier specimens than she had supposed, a fact which made her first entry into crime all the more impressive. She wallowed in the memory.
But as the days passed and she received no further communication from the Apaches, she began to fret and grow short-tempered. Surely by now, she told herself, they would have decided whether or not to accept her. A simple phone call could have set her at ease, and she didn't understand why Mike Shaw hadn't called. Gradually she came to the conclusion that the Apaches had blackballed her. But why? Hadn't she acquitted herself properly during that initial test? Paula Hart! Of course! Paula had disliked her from that first night, hadn't wanted her around. The beautiful redhead was threatened by Bonnie's presence, she decided, afraid of the competition, and so had arranged to exclude her from the tribe. Bonnie swore to revenge herself on Paula.
Yet when the call came, it was Paula who phoned. There was nothing mysterious or cryptic about this call. It came at mid-day, and Paula cheerfully announced her identity and inquired about Bonnie's health.
"I'm well, thank you," Bonnie said, carefully. She didn't want to appear too anxious.
"Good. That was quite a good job you did. I gave you an excellent report."
"Don't thank me. You did the job better than most. I've been through first-stage Ordeals where the neophyte simply froze and couldn't move. But not you. Using your sex so obviously to get their attention was a good idea. Most girls simply flirt verbally. But you captured their interest wholly and made it easy for the rest of us. And once you got into it, you really threw some good punches."
"Does that mean that I'm accepted?"
"Not so fast," Paula replied, suddenly cold. "There are still two more stages, which is why I am calling. You see, I'm chairman of the membership squad. New members are my responsibility. J hope you have no plans for this Saturday night."
Bonnie thought of Bob Horner. "I have a date."
"Break it."
She never hesitated. "Yes."
Paula's voice grew confidential. "Now this is what you do... Leave your house at precisely nine o'clock. Drive downtown and park your car in the lot behind the supermarket."
"Then what?"
"Wait."
"How long before...?"
Paula hung up. Bonnie slowly replaced the phone in its cradle. She couldn't quite figure out Paula. One moment the voluptuous redhead was friendly and warm, and the next cold, almost ominous. What made her so unpredictable? Bonnie wished she was able to understand Paula; she felt herself drawn to her, and would have enjoyed becoming her friend. Perhaps, afterwards, when she had passed all the phases of the initiation, when she was a full-fledged Apache. Perhaps then Paula would allow her to come closer. She hoped so.
On Saturday, Bonnie followed instructions carefully, exiting her house at the indicated time, driving carefully downtown, parking, standing alongside her car, smoking nervously, waiting. This time she didn't have long to wait. A black sedan came rolling into the lot, Paula behind the wheel. She motioned for Bonnie to get in the back. She did so and found Buster Horan and Leo Gordon waiting. Once again they blindfolded her, pushing her to the floor at their feet.
"We're going right through the center of town," Paula explained. "Wouldn't want people to see you."
"Where are you taking me this time?" Bonnie asked.
Paula laughed. "Oh, we have a place we call our clubhouse."
"And it's a good one," Buster injected.
"That's right," Paula agreed. "Perfect for our purposes. An old farm no longer in use. We fixed it up."
"From the outside it looks like an old wreck," Buster enthused.
"But inside," Leo added. "We really did a job."
"That's why the blindfold," Buster laughed. "Nobody would ever look twice at the place because it looks like every other deserted farmhouse in this part of the country."
"But you'd never find your way there without help," Paula said. "Now enough talk." She swung the car to the left, then back to the right, the first of many such confusing--to Bonnie--maneuvers she was to take before the car finally rolled to a stop and Bonnie ordered out. She was led along a rocky path until she heard a door open, and she was guided down a short flight of steps. Her nostrils were assailed by a slightly sour scent, the odor of age and decrepitude. The farmhouse was indeed old.
The blindfold came off, and she blinked against the light that flooded her eyes. She looked around. All the Apaches were there, watching her stolidly. They were in a large room with a low, beamed ceiling. The basement of the farmhouse, Bonnie supposed. A system of spotlights had been rigged to the beams so that the center of the room, around which the Apaches formed a human fence, was flooded with light. An old worn carpet covered the floor. Bonnie felt a hand between her shoulders and she was shoved roughly to the center of the lighted area. Before she could voice a protest, Paula was speaking.
"The neophyte is Bonnie Dixon," Paula intoned, her green eyes flat and turned inward. "She passed the initial Ordeal well. There was a momentary hesitation, a not unusual condition, though she recovered quickly and was quite enthusiastic from then on. Are there any questions about her conduct on that occasion?"
There were none, and Paula went on.
"Strength, courage and intelligence. These are the hallmarks of an Apache. We have enemies, specific and general. Let an Apache run into a couple of Monarchs and there is hell to pay. And there are others: society as a whole, and singularly the fuzz. These enemies can be merciless and rough, and tonight's Ordeal is designed to examine the neophyte's ability to fight back, to endure punishment, to win." She swung around to Bonnie. "Tonight you are on your own. There is no team to aid you, no unsuspecting victims to tempt and pounce upon. Here you are dependent only upon yourself and your brains and your body. Especially your body."
That drew a laugh from the onlookers, and Paula waited for it to subside before proceeding.
"We have chosen a worthy adversary to test you," she said to Bonnie, a glint or amusement coming into the green eyes.
"I don't understand," Bonnie said.
Paula motioned, and a tall figure in black detached itself from the circle and joined them. At first Bonnie thought it was a man; then she realized that this was a tall, husky girl who towered over her.
"Meet Cindy," Paula said. "She will test you."
Bonnie chewed her lip. "How?"
"You two will fight until one of you no longer can.
Bonnie's eyes widened. "You mean with our hands, the way men do?"
"Exactly. But not only with your hands. With any part of your body you wish to use. Feet, knees, anything. It all goes in this test."
Bonnie measured Cindy. She was nearly six feet tall and well-proportioned, with a bony face that signaled strength and determination.
"I tell you now," Paula said thinly, "that it is up to you to win. Cindy is an experienced rough-and-tumble fighter and will do her best to put you down for keeps."
"But I've never had a fight," Bonnie said lamely. "I hope you learn quickly," Paula said wryly. "Now take off your clothes."
"Everything?"
"Strip down to your bra and panties."
Bonnie looked at Cindy. She had removed her leather jacket and was peeling off her shirt. Reluctantly, Bonnie began to undress. It was an effort to concentrate solely on removing her clothes, and only when she wore nothing but the brief black lace bra and panties did she look up, trying not to notice the men eyeing her speculatively, to remain unaware of her near-nakedness. She studied Cindy, now waiting in the center of the floor. She seemed no smaller in her underwear, her fine thick thighs bulging with muscle, her flaring hips without excess flesh, her huge breasts firm in her bra, her shoulders sloping with power and her arms hard and strong. Fear slithered around Bonnie's guts and she wanted to turn and run. Instead she moved toward the other girl.
"The Ordeal ends only when one of you is unable to go on," Paula said. "There are no rounds, no times out, no interruptions of any kind. It goes all the way." She stepped out of the way. "Very well," she said softly. "Begin."
Bonnie didn't know what to do. The experience was too new for her, too different. She stood there watching Cindy, head reeling, heart pounding, hands hanging loosely at her sides, not truly comprehending what was happening. It was Cindy who snapped her out of it. The big girl moved swiftly across the space that separated them, fists swinging. Bonnie saw the blows coming, but couldn't avoid them. She felt the powerful impact of Cindy's left fist on her ribs, just below her right breast, and went spinning off to one side. The second blow glanced off her skull above the hairline and knocked her to the floor, rolling. Sharp pains shot out from her ribs, and she wanted to cry. There was no time. Cindy moved too fast, launching a kick at her. She saw it coming and pulled up her knees, the blow deflected. She heard Cindy swear as she lost her balance and struggled so as not to fall.
Bonnie pushed herself erect and backed off. She needed time, time to let the pain in her side ease off, to clear her head of all extraneous matter, to understand the situation better and decide what she could do to combat it. Cindy came on swinging punches and Bonnie retreated, all but breaking into a run. This drew a disapproving murmur from the Apaches, but Bonnie paid no attention. Time. Time. Time. The pain was lessening, and already she had concluded that she could not oppose Cindy with strength against strength. The big girl was too powerful for that, too experienced. She ducked away from a looping right hand, not quite enough. It landed on her forehead, and she went over backwards. But there was no pain and her head remained clear. She rolled to one side to avoid Cindy's kick and came up to a crouch, watching Cindy carefully, appraising.
Cindy shuffled forward, arms wide, fists clenched, face livid and eyes wide. All at once Bonnie knew that the big girl was afraid and because of that fear was trying to end it quickly, to avoid punishment, and that knowledge gave her hope. She lowered her head and drove forward like a fullback hitting for a first down. Her head landed with force in Cindy's middle. Bonnie heard the big girl grunt, the breath whooshing out of her; then Cindy went over onto her back. Bonnie kept driving, following Cindy to the floor, fists flailing at the other's face and head, landing punch after punch. A stream of glistening crimson leaked out of one corner of Cindy's mouth.
She cursed and fought back. Somehow she managed to get her legs up, feet against Bonnie's gut. A powerful heave sent Bonnie tumbling, Cindy scrambling after her. Now the crowd began to cheer and call out encouragement. Bonnie felt herself rocked by a series of blows, and then she was on her back and Cindy had grabbed her thick blonde hair in both hands and was pounding her head against the floor.
The pain was almost too much to bear, and tears overflowed her eyes. Her immediate reaction was to strike out, to hit. But her first blow fell short and lacked power. A quick thought came to mind. One hand shot out and yanked, and Cindy's brassiere tore free. Bonnie dropped it and reached for one of those huge descending breasts. She squeezed as hard as she could, digging sharp nails into the resilient flesh. Cindy screamed and pulled away.
The Apaches cheered.
Cindy backed off, rubbing the sore breast, swearing at Bonnie, vowing to cause her serious and permanent injury. Bonnie made no reply as she circled after the bigger girl. The mood of the fight had changed, and she knew it. No longer was she afraid. No longer was she the unsure neophyte. Experience and skill came quickly, if painfully, in this arena. She knew now what she must do to triumph, and she intended to do it.
She watched Cindy carefully, watched the heaving breasts, the struggle for breath, and she waited for her chance. It came suddenly. Cindy released the pained breast and straightened up to fill her burning lungs with air. At that moment, Bonnie charged. Cindy jabbed, trying to hold her off. Bonnie brushed the ineffectual left hand aside, coming in under it, driving her right fist deep into the soft mound of belly protected only by the nylon panties. Cindy doubled up, and Bonnie slugged hard at the back of her neck. The big girl flattened out on the floor. Bonnie stood over her, breathing hard, waiting.
"Finish her!" somebody called.
"Finish her off."
"Do it now!"
Bonnie took a deep breath. She had no choice. She lifted her right leg as high as possible, drove it down into Cindy's back, behind the kidneys. The big girl screamed into the carpet. Bonnie kicked out again, her heel catching Cindy on one ear. Blood appeared immediately, and Cindy lay still. Silent. For a long ominous beat there was no sound in that room, then a great cheer went up. Hands reached for Bonnie, patted her, caressed her, stroked her. Everywhere.
"You did it," Mike Shaw said. "You were great. Nobody ever whipped Cindy before."
"Except me," Paula Hart said. "I beat her. We're the only ones."
"Shouldn't we get a doctor for her?" Bonnie said.
"Don't worry about her," Mike said. "She'll be taken care of."
"And now," Paula said, calling for quiet. "Now we must get Bonnie ready for the final test, and in some ways the most important one."
"I'm so tired," Bonnie said.
"You'll be given time to rest," Mike said.
Paula clapped her hands. "All right, handmaidens. From now on, you take over."
Six female members of the Apaches materialized and led Bonnie through a door at the far end of the room and up a narrow staircase.
"What happens now?" she asked wearily.
That drew a giggle from the girls, but no answer, and Bonnie ceased to care. She was simply too exhausted to think or worry. Besides, she told herself, nothing could be more painful than her battle with Cindy. She was wrong.
Pain can be measured in many and strange ways.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE HANDMAIDENS led Bonnie into a bathroom, then left her standing while each of them busied herself with various tasks. Bonnie gazed around in awe. Never had she seen a bathroom to compare with this, not even in the homes of her parents' wealthy friends. Obviously, this was a room specially created and constructed with loving care.
"You approve of this room?" one of the handmaidens smiled.
"I've never seen anything like it."
"A lot of time and money and careful work went into this."
Another girl joined them. She smiled at Bonnie. "Can I get you a drink?"
"Oh, that would be nice."
"Name it. We have it all."
"Vodka gimlet."
"Coming up." The girl went to a marble-topped bar on the far side of the room, and now Bonnie let her eyes take it all in. The room was huge for a bathroom, perhaps twenty feet across, and octagonal in shape. In the center, the tub was located, a huge, old-fashioned iron vessel finished in thick gold paint. A girl was carefully drawing a bath, scenting the water with oils, making certain it was the proper temperature. Other girls were spreading lush bathmats on the floor and arranging brushes and sponges and fluffy oversized towels and a selection of colored soaps on a nearby bench.
The girl returned with the gimlet. Bonnie tasted it, and the sting of the vodka brought the strength into her limbs.
"Is that bath for me?" she asked.
"It is."
"What a delightful idea. And what happens afterwards?"
That elicited a delighted chuckle from the other girls. "You'll find out."
"Now it's time for you to be undressed," one of the handmaidens said.
Bonnie put the drink aside. "All right. I'll take off my things."
"No. We will undress you. That is our function. You are to do nothing, only relax, rest, find comfort and pleasure in what passes, and prepare for what lies ahead."
"I'm not sure I understand."
"In time you will. Now, the clothes."
They all gathered round Bonnie and hands began stripping off her brassiere, sliding the panties down her long shapely legs. When she stood naked, they looked at her solemnly.
"You have a magnificent body," one of them said.
"Thank you."
"Your breasts are large, but not too large, not sloppy."
'And that belly, so female and desirable."
"Ahh," said another, turning her slowly. "See those buttocks. How firm they look, and the way they meet."
"What a beauty she is!"
Bonnie felt strange, pleased by their comments yet disturbed that women should see her in such sensual terms. At the same time, she couldn't help but admit to herself that such compliments were pleasant to hear. She took pride in her body and it was nice to have her opinions verified. She reached for her drink.
"I love the way her breasts fall forward."
"Not too much."
"That's because she has good muscle tone."
"Now," said one of the handmaidens, removing the gimlet from Bonnie's grasp. "Now you must be bathed." She led her to the tub. "I hope the water is not too hot. Try it."
It was fine, and Bonnie slid into the tub, stretched out and allowed the warm oiled water to ease the tensions in her body. She felt her muscles loosen and grow slack, her nerve ends quiet, her brain become dull and almost numb.
So it was that it took a little while before she realized what was happening. Hands were fluttering across her body, six pairs of hands, massaging her flesh, fingers digging deep, giving rise to a sensuous apathy never before known. She sighed and told herself she should protest, make them stop. But she did nothing.
"Now we will wash you, Bonnie," a voice spoke into her ear. "You must stand."
Hands helped her erect, held her to keep her from slipping, while others soaped her body, missing no spot, stroking gently and provocatively at her breasts, fingers making tiny circles that outlined the nipples, exploring each hollow, each orifice, easing along her thighs. No woman had ever touched her before, and she wanted to make them stop, but lacked the will. A soft moan escaped her mouth, and someone giggled. Otherwise the room was silent. The soaping completed, she was rinsed and helped out of the tub, tenderly dried. Then her body was lightly powdered and scented with a delicate perfume.
One handmaiden sank to her knees before Bonnie and guided her feet into soft fluffy slippers. Still on her knees, the girl leaned and brushed her lips lightly over the flesh of one thigh, and then the other. A shiver rippled along Bonnie's spine.
"How do you feel, Bonnie?" one of them murmured.
She could hardly speak. "I...."
"We understand. Now. Get into this." A sheer scarlet silk sari with gold embroidery was draped around her nakedness, covering it, while at the same time revealing it in outline and mystery, enhancing it.
Fingers fussed with her hair, brushing, combing, arranging it in a golden fall across her shoulders, reaching almost to her waist. Lipstick was applied with mathematical precision, eyes outlined doe-fashion, her brows penciled lightly.
"There. It is done."
"She's beautiful."
"What a price she'll bring."
They were leading her out of the bathroom and down the stairs, and Bonnie wondered what came next, yet somehow didn't care. A kind of misty veil had descended over her eyes, over her brain, and everything seemed to be happening in quarter-time, to the cadence of a reluctant drummer. Soon they were back in the room where the fight had taken place, only now the scene had changed. No longer did harsh lights illuminate the room; soft, colored lamps glowed gently in each corner, the air was thick with cigarette smoke, and a sweetish aroma, cloying and strange, drifted to Bonnie's nostrils; everywhere couples sat close together, embracing, holding hands, drinking. A low platform had been erected at one end of the room and the handmaidens led her to it.
"Stand there," she was ordered, and obeyed silently. As soon as she was on the platform, a single spotlight came on, bathing her in its harsh white beam. She squinted against it and wished they would turn it off. It occurred to her that under that powerful, piercing light the diaphanous sari hid none of her nakedness. A hot flush came to her cheeks, and she wanted to place her hands here and there to shield herself, but didn't dare.
Leo Gordon stepped to her side and stared admiringly at her. "The one who gets you is gonna be real lucky," he murmured, then louder: "All right. This is it. Most of you know the rules. Since the neophyte has decided against becoming the squaw of the Apache who nominated her, in this case Mike Shaw, she must undergo this third Ordeal which ties her to the Apaches by reason of flesh and blood and desire."
Bonnie tried to make sense out of his words, but it was useless. Everything was a jumble. He went on.
"The test is simple. She is for sale to the highest bidder, all funds going into the tribe treasury. I'll act as auctioneer, and in case of any questions my decisions are final. The winning bid gets the neophyte for tonight, for just this night, to do with as he wishes."
"Or as she wishes!" came a female voice.
That drew a loud laugh, and Leo agreed. "That's right. He or she."
A quiet portion of Bonnie's brain seemed to open up, and the meaning of what had been said came through to her. She was horrified, yet titillated, by what lay in store for her. This explained the close attention given her by the handmaidens, the preparations, and the sensual caresses, all part of the plan to ready her for the highest bidder. She told herself distantly that she should run away, get out of this before it was too late, but she knew she wouldn't. A rising sense of excitement held her and made her anxious for what was to come.
"All right," Leo intoned. "Let the bidding commence for this blonde beauty. Take a good look, ladies and gentlemen, and see what you're bidding on, what you may get, or what you may miss."
"Show us!" came the cry.
Leo reached up and gave one powerful yank. The flimsy sari came away in his hand and Bonnie stood naked and exposed. She stared at some amorphous point in the middle-distance and held herself very still and tried not to think.
"Look at that face," Leo Gordon said thickly. "And that body. Those breasts are fantastic, and dig that belly, those legs. Everything. Now you've seen it all, so what am I bid for rights to this piece of fluff? The bidding is open."
It began slowly, a five-dollar bid coming from a bulky Apache with a Lincolnesque beard. Another male upped the bidding to fifteen dollars and someone. made it sixteen. The dollar bid drew a laugh. But not from Bonnie. She held herself very still, afraid of what was going to happen, afraid of what she might do, or might not do. Her eyes searched the Apaches sprawled around the room trying to pick out Mike Shaw. The bidding had reached fifty dollars, and she had yet to hear his voice. At last she found him, leaning against the wall, chin in hand, one finger tapping thoughtfully at his strong jaw, watching narrowly. If only she dared call out to him and tell him how much she wanted him to win this weird auction for her body. Then, as if he had read her mind, he made a bid.
"Seventy-five dollars."
It evoked an appreciative reaction from the crowd, that jump of twenty-five dollars. Leo called for more bids, but none were immediately forthcoming.
"Going once," Leo said, "for seventy-five dollars. Going twice." He raised his hand in imitation of an auctioneer. "Going three--."
"One hundred dollars!"
This voice had not bid before, yet was strangely familiar. Bonnie's head swiveled around and saw Paula Hart swaggering into the center of the room, a smug expression on her beautifully hard face. She glanced over at Mike and grinned tauntingly.
"How's that for openers, darling?"
Mike came forward to stand alongside Paula. "I want her," he said simply.
She stared back at him. "So do I."
He nodded deliberately and reached into his pocket. "Strictly according to the rules, Paula?"
"Strictly," she retorted.
Mike looked at Leo Gordon, who shrugged and spread his hands helplessly. "You know the rules, Mike. You got to ante up the exact amount in cash right away. No bidding on the come. No I.O.U.'s."
Mike fingered the bills in his hand. "I bid one hundred and twenty dollars."
A sigh went up from the audience as if they knew that his best effort was not nearly enough. They were right. Paula, grinning triumphantly, pulled a roll of bills from her jacket pocket. She peeled off a number of them and put the remainder away.
"One hundred and twenty-five dollars," she said, tossing the money on the floor. She glanced around. "Is there a bid to top mine?"
There wasn't. Mike Shaw turned around and walked away. Bonnie watched him go, regret and anticipation mingling in her bloodstream. A hand went reaching for her, guiding her off the platform. It was Paula.
"Come, my dear," she murmured. "You belong to me now."
Bonnie allowed herself to be led out of the room and back up that flight of steps, down a short corridor and into a darkened room. She heard the door click shut behind her and Paula disappeared in the impenetrable blackness. A moment later a soft pink lamp came on and Bonnie looked around. Everything in the room was blood red, the carpeting, the bedspread, the walls, and a long, low sofa covered in crimson velvet. A mirror covered the entire ceiling.
"Well," Paula said, "how do you like our little tribal love nest?"
"I've never seen anything like it."
Paula snickered. "Before this night is over you'll see other things."
"Paula," Bonnie began. "I couldn't... I've never been with a girl... I simply couldn't...."
"Oh, yes you could and you will." Paula's voice was thin and edged with steel. "Remember, you don't have any choice in this situation. This is the third stage of the initiation, and once begun it can't be stopped."
"I'll give you back the money."
Paula's laugh was softly grim. "The money isn't important to me. You belong to me tonight, and every Apache downstairs will attest to that fact. Afterwards, you can do what you want. But I'll tell you this, displease me and you'll be blackballed, and with what you know at this stage of the game a blackballing could be dangerous for you."
There was no mistaking the threat in Paula's voice. Bonnie shuddered and averted her gaze.
"What do you want me to do?"
"There. That's better. You see those things on the couch? Begin by putting them on while I get undressed. I have some particular idiosyncrasies."
Bonnie moved toward the couch and there found a pair of black leather boots, thigh-length, a wide black leather cycle belt, its buckles and studs gleaming, leather wristbands, and a short-thonged whip with knotted ends. Her head swung around to where Paula was already half naked.
"What do you expect me to do? You're not going to whip me!"
Paula laughed, the sound ending in a gasp of anticipation. "Of course not, darling. You are going to whip me. Now put on those things."
Bonnie moved as if in a daze, shoving her feet into the high boots, fastening the belt around her waist. It ran from just under her ribs to a point midway down her thrusting belly. The wristbands were buckled into place and she picked up the short whip and hefted it. It had a nice solid feel to it, and she swung it once, twice, hearing the thongs crack.
"I'm going to love this," Paula said. Bonnie turned and faced the redhead, eyes ranging over her voluptuous body. Her creamy breasts were huge and high, the nipples jutting proudly and as crimson as the walls. Bonnie's eyes drifted downward and saw in every line of Paula's body a larger reproduction of her own, each curve blending perfectly with the next, a series of unflawed valleys and protuberances, of shadows and thrusts, the pink badge of her womanhood a precise triangulation.
"I don't know if I can...." Bonnie muttered.
"You must," the other girl said, coming forward. "And I'll make it easy for you. Tonight I am the submissive one and you the dominant female, my master, and I your slave. Imagine that I have incurred your displeasure, done something to offend you, and that I am deserving of the worst punishment imaginable. You must teach me a lesson for all time, you must beat me severely, whip me, everywhere, so that no inch of my flesh remains untouched." leant...
"You will...." Paula's hand lashed out and made violent contact with Bonnie's right cheek, the pain sharp and stabbing deep. She gasped in resentment and fury and without thinking swung the whip. That first blow caught Paula full across both breasts, and an anguished scream broke out of her full mouth. She collapsed on her knees, head bowed, forehead touching the floor, moaning pitifully. Bonnie was horrified and bent toward her.
"Oh, I'm sorry, Paula. I didn't mean it. But when you hit...."
"Don't stop," Paula pleaded. "Beat me now. Hard. Everywhere. Everywhere. Especially here." She touched her full-fleshed bottom. "Punish me. I deserve it for I've been bad. I'm evil and require punishment...." The words kept tumbling across her lips in sporadic outpourings, and all at once Bonnie could stand no more. Her right arm, whip hard and large in her hand, pulled back and flashed down with all her might.
"There!" she shrilled wildly. "There, you rotten bitch! And there. And there and there and there-and there-andthereandthereandthere...." When she finally stopped, the whip dropping from her weary fingers, Paula's back was criss-crossed with angry red welts. Blood seeped out of a few of them. She moaned softly and writhed about on the carpet. Bonnie staggered over to the sofa and collapsed in a sitting position, legs askew, head back. Dimly she was aware of Paula pulling herself to her knees, crawling toward the couch. She was aware of the big redhead's hand sliding onto the flesh of her thighs, of her face against the soft inner flesh, of Paula's lips working soundlessly on her skin, of the delicate probing of her tongue.
Then the movement of Paula's mouth was upward until it could go no farther, until it had reached that mysterious place so deeply desired, and the contact was strange and wonderful, an ignition of fires heretofore dormant in Bonnie. Concentric circles of hot cravings broke away from that private place and brought new life to every corner of her being. She moaned and fell back, arms and legs wide.
And then it was all positioning of body to body, and thrusting, and pounding, of probing and exploring, of moist tissue against moist tissue until the agony gathered in a single place, the pressure almost beyond endurance, the reaching eternal. And then...
The little death.
CHAPTER EIGHT
ACCEPTANCE.
It seemed to Bonnie that for the first time in her life she truly belonged. She was an Apache in body and spirit, the conversion complete. Total. Nothing she did was disconnected with her new friends, no thought was removed from them, no ambition failed to include them. Soon she was offering suggestions for improving their situation, new ways of finding excitement, fresh forms of titillation. Her imagination seemed more daring, conjuring up bolder concepts of action; she was equal to anything and anyone, and wilder than most, apparently without inhibitions.
She insisted on learning to drive a motorcycle, and Mike Shaw undertook her education. By her third lesson she was steering the big bike cross-country, seeking the roughest rides available. She took the steepest inclines in stride, up or down, drawing Mike's admiration.
"I never saw anyone so at home on a cycle so quickly before," he said.
They were speeding along a deserted stretch of roadway, Mike on the jump seat, and she laughed triumphantly at his words, exhilarated by the sense of power and freedom present in wheeling around without restriction. Now Mike's compliment sent her spirits soaring.
"Watch this!" she cried exuberantly, and the heavy cycle virtually leaped ahead. They sped along the straightaway flat out, Bonnie crouched low over the handlebars, blonde hair streaming in the wind.
"Take it easy," Mike called. "No sense taking chances."
His caution amused her, but she made no reply, her eyes staring through the beam of light that sliced them into the night. A bend in the road loomed ahead, a sharp turn to the right. She held the wheel steady, ignoring his command to slow down. Just before they came to the corner she braked hard, the heel of her right boot jamming against the concrete, using it as a pivot as she swung the heavy cycle in a 180-degree turn. Mike almost fell off at the unexpected maneuver, and he swore and grabbed. Abruptly, they were speeding back in the direction from which they had come, Bonnie's laughter a peal of pure joy, the victory of sensation sought and achieved. She felt truly alive for the first time, every nerve jangling with anticipation, her skin tingling with excitement, her heart thumping in delight. She swung off the road onto a bumpy dirt road into a copse of birch trees, fighting the jouncing wheel. A high rise loomed ahead and she goosed the machine. It tried mightily, groaned, and gave up. A stall.
They both climbed off the cycle and dropped to the ground. He lit cigarettes and gave her one. She dragged deeply and peered through the rustling leaves at the star-speckled sky.
"How long?" she said.
"What?"
"How long since I've been an Apache?"
"Two weeks," he said.
"No," she said. "Three weeks. And two days. And it's as if I had no life before. Everything is wonderful and I want it to go on forever."
His laugh was harsh, and he reached out with one horny hand and caressed her breast, squeezed. She gave no indication that she was aware.
"You like it all, don't you, Bonnie?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean the excitement, the drinking bouts, the pot sessions, the sex."
She sucked smoke into her lungs. "I want to experience everything life has to offer."
"You've been doing exactly that these last few weeks. I understand you and Paula have gotten together a few times since that first night." She made no reply, her face impassive in the night. "Well," he went on, snubbing out his cigarette, "it's time you and I had another session." He reached for her again, hands rough, muscling her toward him, his mouth seeking hers. She turned away.
"Don't," she said, voice cold.
"Have you given up men?" There was no levity in his tone, and his fingers tightened on her flesh. "You're hurting me."
"I would have imagined you'd dig a little pain, after Paula."
She freed herself and leaned back on her elbows and continued smoking. "It's Paula who digs the whipping, not me. I imagine you know that from personal experience."
"What if I do? Jealous?"
"Don't be a child, Mike. I thought all Apaches were available to each other in every way, if they want to be."
He snorted. "Is that why Buster and Leo have been hanging around with you so much?"
She giggled and tried futilely to blow smoke rings. "Buster and Leo have adopted me," she said softly. "They want to see that I remain in good condition, that I get into no trouble, that no one hurts me."
"A private bodyguard."
"It seems like a nice idea."
He sighed and leaned back. Somehow she had moved beyond him, and he no longer understood her. Though he was still nominally president of the Apaches, and Bonnie had never questioned his authority in any way, he sensed her rising power and influence within the tribe. Her unfettered imagination, her wild daring, her willingness to try anything and her reliability in a pinch had endeared her to all the Apaches, and they looked naturally to her for guidance and leadership. Mike knew that if an election were held tomorrow she could be voted president. A surge of resentment went through him and he wanted to hurt her, to punish her. He remembered that first night on the beach, the night he had saved her from Buster and Leo. He alone had brought her into the Apaches, despite the suspicions of others. And now she was usurping his position, undermining his authority in subtle ways, depriving him of his rights as a warrior over a squaw.
"I want you now!" he hissed, reaching.
She made no resistance as he dragged her closer. "There's no need to prove your strength to me, Mike. I know you're more muscular than I am." She avoided his gaping mouth. "If you'll just let me finish my cigarette...." He released her, his passion diminished, his desire ebbing. What had happened, he asked himself. How had all this come about? He felt helpless and controlled, a puppet thoroughly stringed. After a lengthy interval, she flipped the cigarette away, a long, crimson arc. Then, a secret smile tugging the corners of her mouth, she turned to him.
"Well, darling," she said breathily, "what are you waiting for?"
He felt nothing, nothing except anger and hate. But he showed none of it, remembering how her body looked and how it felt, nostalgia for the earlier craving growing. He yearned for her in a directionless, confused manner. When he spoke it was hesitantly, in the way of a fumbling schoolboy. He reminded her of Bob Horner.
"What do you expect me to do?"
Her laughter was throaty, vibrant, the deep tones stirring his bowels. He watched as her hands reached for the hem of her white skirt, lifted slowly, deliberately, watched as the long full legs came into view, the thighs above her stockings white and lush, the satiny skin broken only by the narrow black garter. And still the skirt rose until it curled gracefully above her hips, and for a moment he wasn't certain, and he blinked to be sure that she wore no panties. A hoarse cry broke out of him and he swooped forward, mouth gaping, unintelligible mutterings pouring out of him. She laughed quietly.
"You're learning so well, darling," she murmured, and her head went back, golden hair blanketing the earth, while she gave herself to the fierce cadence of the moment.
They headed for Apache village, the old farmhouse which the tribe used. Bonnie drove the cycle and Mike held onto her waist. Neither of them spoke all the way back. Bonnie knew something was up the moment they arrived, cycles parked all over the grounds.
"This isn't a meeting night," she said as they hurried up to the door. "Something must be wrong with this many people being here."
"Maybe not," he said weakly. "Maybe it's just coincidence."
She glanced scornfully at him, but said nothing. Soon, she thought. Soon he would have to be replaced. His strength had been superficial and was rapidly draining away. She led the way inside. There was a great crowd in the downstairs room, clustered around the couch on which three young Apaches sprawled out, their faces battered and bruised, bloodstained.
"What happened?" Bonnie said.
A hush fell over the room and eyes were averted, as if no one dared to tell her. She repeated the question, and it was Paula Hart who finally replied.
"These three were out joyriding and they met a group of Monarchs. The Monarchs chased them off the road until they couldn't use their bikes. Then they jumped them and beat them."
"There were at least twenty of them," one of the bruised Apaches offered regretfully. He was a tight-muscled man, and Bonnie had seen him in action and knew him to be fearless and competent.
"Did you fight back?" she asked.
The silence was ominous. The youth nodded. "We never had a chance. A couple of them held me and some others took turns walloping me. They took our cycles and made us boot it back to town."
An oath broke out of Bonnie. "Well, what are we going to do about this?"
No one said anything for a long interval. "Nothing," Mike Shaw muttered finally. "We're under-strength, and the Monarchs have always outnumbered us and now more than ever. Maybe two, three to one. There's nothing we can do."
"We'll put on a membership drive," someone said. "Build up our power. Train a bunch of new guys. Then we'll show these Monarchs."
Bonnie felt the anger rising. She tried to cork it, but it came steaming out of her, a swinging, raging, hating anger. She felt the pain of the beaten Apaches as if it had happened to herself, felt her pride diminished, felt a growing, an insistent thirst for revenge.
"We must do something!"
"Sure," Mike said sarcastically. "But what?"
"I'll think of something," she bit off.
"You do that," he said thinly. "Only make sure you don't get all of us killed while you're doing it."
She faced him fully and stared unblinkingly at him until he turned away and made a pretense of lighting a cigarette to cover his reaction.
"I am going to devise a plan to finish the Monarchs once and for all. A plan to win with. A fighting plan. And we will show them all who walks tallest around here."
No one spoke about it again that night, and after a while they left in two and threes, conjecturing about the obvious power struggle between Bonnie and Mike which had finally broken out into the open. Already many of them were taking sides, though the greatest number still remained uncommitted. It was Paula Hart who expressed it best.
"So far Bonnie's handled herself pretty well. But most of it is talk. I want to see her come up with a real cool caper, something no one else would think of. Until then, Mike is president of the Apaches."
It was a condition Bonnie had vowed to change.
CHAPTER NINE
BONNIE'S CAMPAIGN to become chief of the Apaches was predicated on a single philosophy--to prove herself braver and more creative as a leader than Mike Shaw, or anyone else. It would, she knew, take a lot of doing, for though there was no law against it, no girl had ever won the reins of leadership. She intended to be the first.
To this end she kept dreaming of new forms of adventure for the tribe. She insisted on a stepped-up campaign of mugging, to the despair of night-time strollers along Bayville's quiet streets; and in the quiet of a Sunday pre-dawn morning she led a squad of Apaches into the downtown area, removing the concrete mushrooms that served as highway dividers, and depositing them on the lawns of nearby houses, and overturning mail boxes and trash receptacles. It was the very pointlessness of such actions that shocked the townspeople, and editorials in the local paper voiced the collective horror and despair, to the amusement of the Apaches.
Despite these activities, Bonnie was not able to come up with a single stunt that would give her the stature she sought. She was sure it would come in time and until that moment she intended to keep applying pressure, to increase her prestige among the members. That's when she decided she was ready to get a motorcycle of her own, announcing her intention at a regular meeting.
"Well," Mike drawled tightly, "it shouldn't be hard for you to get the dough. All you've got to do is ask Daddy for it. He's loaded."
That drew a burst of derisive laughter.
She glanced around coldly. "How did you get the money for your machine, Mike?" She already knew the answer, but wanted to hear him say it, to tip the scales further in her favor when she announced her intentions.
Mike scowled at her. "I stole the money."
"How?" she insisted.
"I rolled drunks, and I hit the beach after guys who were having a ball with their girl friends and I lifted their pants while they were busy."
That evoked a chuckle of recognition, for this was one of the regular activities Apaches indulged in for kicks. It was always good for a laugh, imagining a man forced to head back to town without his trousers. Bonnie waited until the snickering died out.
"I don't think I'll get the bread for my cycle that way, Mike," she said evenly, enunciating each word clearly, wanting to be sure everyone heard, everyone understood. "But I do intend to get the dough from my parents."
"That doesn't surprise me," he said dryly. Bonnie puzzled him. Here she was challenging his authority, openly vying for his position, yet still she made herself available to him on occasion. He couldn't reconcile her actions with her ambitions, and it bothered him. He sighed. "Okay, so you're going to ask Daddy for the cash. That's your right."
She watched him carefully. There! He had set it up perfectly and now she would finish him off, drive home the clincher.
"I'm going to get the money from my father," she said softly. "I'm going to take it from him."
"What do you mean?"
"I intend to rob my father."
There was an audible intake of breath. "You mean you intend to hit your old man so you can buy your own cycle?"
"That's it."
"What a gas!"
"Oh, lady, you are wild."
"Something special, that Bonnie."
Mike tried to meet her triumphant gaze. "How do you intend to do it?"
"I'll form a team." Her eyes tracked around the room. "Leo. Buster." She hesitated, then grinned. "And Paula. Do you want in?" Their response was immediate and affirmative. "That's it, then. I'll outline my plans to them and we'll move when I'm ready."
Bonnie selected the night with care, a night her parents would both be at home, a night the Apaches were holding a special membership meeting in order to initiate three new members.
"Remember," Bonnie warned Mike and Cindy. "My team and I were at the meeting all evening. We never left, not even for a minute."
"Don't worry," Cindy said. "We'll cover for you if anything goes wrong."
"Nothing," Bonnie spat out, "will go wrong. I've planned it all to the smallest detail."
The plan was simple. Bonnie, Paula, Leo and Buster, dressed completely in black leather, including full-face wind masks and leather helmets, would ride to within one hundred yards of the Dixon home. From that point they would wheel their machines onto the lawn, secreting them behind the shrubbery that shielded the grounds from the road. They would enter the house through the rear door and seek out Bonnie's parents and hold them at knife point, forcing Mr. Dixon to open his safe where he always kept a supply of cash.
"But don't use those blades," Bonnie warned the others. "If we have to you can rough my father up a little, just to scare him. But that's all."
Paula emitted a thin laugh at that, and Bonnie recognized the wild gleam that glittered in the redhead's eyes.
"I mean it, Paula. I don't want them hurt. All I want is the money."
"Sure, Bonnie. Anything you say."
It was almost too easy. After parking their cycles, they padded to the back door, eased it open, and moved into the house. The Dixons were in the living room lingering over coffee and brandy, talking quietly. They were unaware of the intruders until it was too late. Mrs. Dixon saw them first, and she screamed. Even as she opened her mouth to cry out again, Paula was across the room and at her, hand slamming hard over her mouth, shoving her back down into her chair.
Mr. Dixon, seeing the gleaming blades in the hands of the four black-clad invaders, made no sudden moves. "Please," he said simply. "Don't hurt my wife."
"Nobody'll get hurt if you obey orders," Buster snarled, his voice taut and anxious. It had been decided that in order to preclude any possibility of recognition, Bonnie would maintain absolute quiet. She had briefed Buster thoroughly. "We want your dough, Mr. Dixon, and we want it now. No fuss, no conversation." He made a cutting gesture with his switchblade.
Mr. Dixon reached for his wallet, handed the contents to Buster who snickered through his mask. "Stand up," he ordered. "Now let's get to that safe of yours."
Mr. Dixon glanced around. "You've been misinformed," he said quietly. "I have no safe."
Paula, her hand still clamped over Mrs. Dixon's mouth, gave that lady's head a sharp tug, and an anguished cry broke out of Bonnie's mother. Bonnie took a quick step forward, but caught herself. She motioned for Buster to get on with it.
He touched the point of his blade to Mr. Dixon's throat. "Don't make us use these blades on you and your wife, Mr. Dixon. Remember, it's only money."
Dixon stood up. He held himself straight and was full of dignity, and Bonnie couldn't help but be proud of him. "You will not get away with this."
"Speed it up," Buster said.
Mr. Dixon went over to the paneled wall and touched a section of the molding, and an entire panel swung outward on concealed hinges, revealing a safe. He turned the dial and opened the heavy door. Leo shoved him aside and emptied the contents into a brown paper bag Bonnie had supplied for just that purpose. Finished, he and Buster tied Mr. Dixon and gagged him. Mrs. Dixon received the same treatment.
"We didn't tie you too tight, Mr. Dixon," Buster said. "You should be able to get lose in twenty minutes or so, time enough for us to get clear."
Outside, they wheeled the motorcycles out onto the road, and only when they were sure the sound would not carry to the Dixon house did they start the motors. Then, laughing triumphantly, they zoomed back to the farmhouse to boast of their escapade and the smoothness with which it was executed.
Bonnie let the others do the talking, very much aware of the simmering hostility in Mike Shaw's pale eyes. Just the concept of robbing one's own parents was coup enough; to pull it off so professionally was icing on the cake. Finally, Mike could stand no more and called for quiet.
"All right. What's done is done. This meeting is to initiate new members, so let's get on with it."
The room grew quiet, and the lighting was adjusted and the platform moved into position. This was the third stage, the auction for a single night's ownership. Bonnie felt no interest in the goings-on as the first two neophytes were led out and bid upon; teenage youths, she found them dull-looking and unattractive. Besides, she was still reliving the moments spent in her own living room earlier, the thrill of holding her own parents at knifepoint, of robbing them, of planning and executing the whole daring idea. No one eke in the tribe would ever have thought of such a daring foray. Not Paula. Not even Mike. Only she possessed the imagination and boldness to conceive such a plot and she revelled in the memory, calling up again the heightened sense of power and importance she had felt.
Then the third neophyte was led onto the platform, and her presence gradually seeped through to Bonnie. She straightened up in her seat and forced herself to concentrate.
The neophyte was young and beautiful, a girl of dark, smoldering excitement, her body a lush succession of curves and thrusts that promised endless de light to whoever possessed them. Even as Bonnie had been introduced to the Apaches, so was this girl, draped in a transparent crimson sari that defined her exotic loveliness. This time it was Paula Hart who served as auctioneer. She called for an opening bid and got it. Bonnie held herself very still and waited.
The bidding reached twenty-five dollars, and Paula stripped away the sari and there was a collective gasp of appreciation. The neophyte had an almost unbelievable body. Scarcely more than five feet tall, she owned immense breasts that rode high on her chest in arrogant defiance of gravity, huge mounds of tawny skin peaked by tumescent brown nipples. Bonnie's eyes ranged downward across the finely shaped rib-cage, to the wide, womanly hips, fleshed out perfectly, falling away to strong thighs that tapered quickly to finely boned ankles. They were the legs of a dancer, Bonnie mused, powerful yet shapely. Her glance rose and came to rest at the place of joining, the juncture of leg to torso, the neat black angle of promise that seemed all at once so strange and appealing, so necessary, so desirable.
"Fifty dollars!"
Bonnie forced her mind back to the bidding. It was Mike Shaw who had made the offer, strutting to center-floor, grinning indolently up at the young girl, mumbling for her ears alone. And Bonnie saw the girl smile back, saw her eyes flutter with interest. A surge of hostility broke over Bonnie and she reached into the pocket of her leather jacket, extracted the wad of cash taken earlier from her father's safe. She knew exactly how much was required to buy the cycle she wanted and counted off that amount quickly, adding another fifty to it for incidentals. Quickly, she toted up what remained. Two hundred dollars! A confident grin sliced across her full mouth.
The bidding had gone up to eighty-five dollars, and Bonnie could see the look in the neophyte's eyes, the look that showed she wondered just how high a price she would bring. Now Paula turned her, trying to talk up the bid, displaying her splendid buttocks to the room. Bonnie swallowed against the thick glob that formed up in her throat. She lit a cigarette and saw that her hand was shaking.
"One hundred bucks!" The bid came from Mike Shaw. He looked around,, confident that no one would go higher. Paula called for another bid but none came. She began to call off the sale when Bonnie stood up. She filled her lungs with air. There was no sense in wasting time or energy. She was determined that Mike Shaw would not get this girl, not on this night. Bonnie wanted the neophyte for herself, wanted her as a capstone to this evening of victory, of excitement, of thrill.
"Two hundred dollars!"
Mike glared at her across the room even as Paula began to tick off the sale. Bonnie grinned mockingly at him and saw the tight set of his full mouth, the flatness of those pale eyes. Had she been less self-involved Bonnie might have recognized the signs for what they meant, but she was bathing in her own glory and could see nothing but the pleasure still to come.
"No, damnit! No!" The words ripped out of Mike with alarming force. Someone yelled a warning, but it was too late. He came across the room, face livid and mouthing imprecations, the riding crop raised aloft.
Bonnie glanced up too late, the crop flashing downward even as she did. It sliced across her breasts and only the thick leather jacket saved her. Nevertheless, the force of the blow sent her tumbling to the floor, Mike after her. He struck again with the crop, and she took it on her left thigh, the blow sending a sharp pain to" the bone. Then he hooked his left fist at her face. She ducked and received the blow alongside her ear, toppling over, Mike scrambling after her.
That's when Buster and Leo got to Mike. Working as a team, they tripped him and pinned him to the floor. Leo slugged him across the jaw and Mike grunted. By then, Bonnie had come back up to her feet, eyes flashing, trying to ignore the throbbing inside her skull and the searching agony in her thigh.
"No!" she commanded. "Let him up."
"But Bonnie...." Leo began.
"I said let him up."
Reluctantly, they obeyed. Mike brushed himself off, pointedly ignoring his jaw, already pinking from the blow he had received. "I don't need favors from you, Bonnie."
Leo stepped forward, cursing. "You're the president of the Apaches. You know better than this. The bidding is open and highest bid wins. Bonnie outbid you. It's her right to claim the neophyte for the night."
Mike made no reply. Paula Hart pushed her way into the circle around them. Her eyes darted from one to the other. "What you did was unforgivable, Mike. Therefore I'm calling for a special presidential election right now!"
"I nominate Bonnie!" Leo cried.
"Seconded," came from a voice in the crowd.
Bonnie held up her hands for quiet. "Not now. After I've figured out a way to whip the Monarchs, something no one else has managed to do, then I'll take my chances on a vote. As to what's happened here tonight--well, I know no one here will forget about it. Now, I claim what I won fair and square. The neophyte belongs to me. Think about it, Mike, that lush beauty alone with me all night. Think about the both of us, Mike, together, and none of it for you." She laughed and made her way to the low platform where the young girl waited, the sari now veiling her nakedness. Bonnie extended her hand and the girl took it silently. Together they headed for that upstairs room. Moving fast.
CHAPTER TEN
BONNIE CLOSED the door and turned to the neophyte, who stood in the center of the room and gazed around in awe. She tossed a brief smile at Bonnie.
"It's like stepping into a red world."
"You like it?"
"It's very stimulating."
"What's your name?" Bonnie said softly.
"Leah."
"You're beautiful."
Leah turned and faced Bonnie. "So are you," she said gravely.
"I'm glad you think so." She made a sweeping gesture. "You understand about this place, this room. It is the last stage of your initiation. Your acceptance into the Apaches depends on how I rate you here."
Leah's eyes glittered and her lips worked. "I understand. That man who hit you, he wanted me very much, I think."
"So did I."
"But not as much as he did. He wanted to kill you."
"He isn't man enough for that." She shrugged out of the leather jacket. Then she had a thought; she reached out and pulled the sari away, let it float to the floor. "What a body you have! I almost can't wait."
Leah surveyed her gravely. "I have never been with a woman before."
"Does it trouble you?"
"I don't think so."
Bonnie sat down on the sofa and motioned Leah over. "Help me off with my boots."
The girl smiled shortly and turned her back to Bonnie, bent and lifted one booted leg, tugged hard. It came free and she dropped it, then lifted the other leg into position.
Bonnie was fascinated by the soft curve of Leah's bottom, the full thrust of each cheek, the shadowed division, the dark and mysterious way her legs met, the hint of what was turned away. Bonnie reached out and touched her lightly.
"You like me?" Leah said.
"Very much."
"The way I look, I mean."
"You are magnificent."
"And you will be patient with me, lead me, show me, teach me? I am so dull-witted."
Bonnie knew she was being manipulated, recognized the expression of Leah's self-concern, read her aims loud and clear and expected she might be used in the future. But that would take care of itself. It was now she was most concerned with. She stood up and began unbuttoning her blouse.
"I'll show you what to do," she said thinly. "What I want you to do. How I want to be pleased by you, and if it is in my mind to please you, I may do so. But you are here for my pleasure, my fulfillment. Remember that."
"Yes, Bonnie."
The blouse came away and now the narrow black brassiere. The air felt good against the large mounds, swinging free.
"What beautiful breasts you have," Leah murmured.
Bonnie made no answer, stripping off the jeans she wore. And the panties. She stood, legs planted wide apart, allowing Leah to look at her.
"I'm nineteen," Bonnie said, for no apparent reason. "You," she went on thickly, "must be younger. Much younger. Maybe years younger. Maybe not." Leah opened her mouth to speak, but Bonnie waved her silent. "No. Don't tell me. I'd rather not know. Sometimes it's better not to know certain things. It makes life a lot easier. Now come here."
Leah obeyed and they stood very close, touching at thigh, at belly, nipple brushing against nipple. A soft, throaty animal plea broke across Bonnie's lips and, mouth wide, her head moved down, and Leah's mouth gaped open to receive her, to accept her moist, stabbing tongue, to return as good as she got without instruction. There was a quickness about it. A compulsiveness. A swift seeking of the hands, finding this part and that, no love, no affection, simple lust instead, the perfunctory stroking and caressing without time enough for the sensations to go deep, both moved by needs having little to do with the other, neither concerned about the other, twin vehicles for tension's release.
They went to the floor, middles twisting and writhing, thumping in a savage beat that recalled another time, another world, mouths shifting, lips walking across mounds and hollows, tongues tasting without discrimination, a shifting, an arranging of skin to skin, of part to part, of body to body, seeking rapid surface sensations, neither able to go beyond, and telling themselves that the pounding pulsation of passion that lifted them was all there was or could be, that it was the beginning and the end between people, and the pleasure received was all that existed to be had. When the explosion came each screamed into the privacy of the other, a muffled, awful cry of delight. And despair.
* * *
An armed truce existed among the Apaches after that night. The tribe divided into two camps, those who held for Mike Shaw to remain as president and those who thought Bonnie Dixon should be elected to the prime position in the club. Neither of the two principals seemed willing to chance a showdown vote at this point, and both calmed their followers and cautioned them to be patient and not create a rift in the group that would be irreparable. Bonnie was especially concerned about this, explaining her position to Leo and Buster one night.
The three of them had gone for a cycle ride along the shore highway, had parked the bikes and hit the sand. Now they sat on the seaward slope of a dune and drank beer from cans and smoked and listened to the curling waves. Bonnie was lost in thought and remained silent most of the time. But the two men kept returning to the subject of Mike Shaw and his attack on Bonnie. They grew more angry.
"I'm going to get Mike," Leo said finally. "I got to do it."
"We'll do it together," Buster said. "We'll cut him good and deep."
Bonnie came slowly out of the lethargy that claimed her. She shook her head and took the cigarette Buster was smoking and sucked smoke deep into her lungs.
"No," she said tonelessly. "Don't touch Mike. Leave him alone. I've got him on the run now, but I don't want to tear the tribe apart. I know what's in his mind--he wants only to get rid of me. I want more than that."
"What?" Buster asked.
"I want the Apaches to be as one," she said after a moment. "All together again. And there's only one way to heal the rift."
"How?"
"By giving everyone a common enemy--the Monarchs. We must hit them and hit them hard. I've got to find a way."
They lapsed into silence again, sitting there in the darkness, the moon tucked away behind an ominous gray cloud. A wind sprang up and the cloud moved ponderously until the moon drifted into view. The beach came to life, lit up, a dull, stark white, the surf shifting wildly, all swells and dancing foam. Bonnie let her eyes range along the dunes to where a rock cliff began. Atop it was a huge rectangular mass--a house, all darkness and mysterious in the shifting moonlight. The house fascinated her.
"Isn't that the Whitmore mansion?" she asked finally.
"Yeah," Leo said. "They went on a 'round-the-world trip about a month ago and the place is closed up."
"Nobody at all lives there?" Bonnie said mildly. "No servants? No guards?"
"Nobody."
She stared at Leo. "How can you be sure?"
"There was this chick one night and no place to take her, so I went there. Nobody bothered us."
"You went inside? Into the house?"
"Right."
"What about light?"
"I had a candle with me, but I could have turned on the lights. The Whitmores have their own generating system."
"Sure," Buster agreed, "but the lights could be seen for miles around. If you did that the cops would be there in minutes."
"No they wouldn't. There are heavy drapes over all the windows and the shutters are locked. No light would show."
"How'd you get in?"
"Easy. I broke the lock on one of the rear doors. It was a cinch. A couple of good shots with a wrench and it went. It's still open."
Bonnie stood up, eyes still on the Whitmore mansion. "When is the next regular meeting?"
"In a couple of days. Thursday night."
"Good," she said softly. "That gives me time enough to complete my plans. I want you two to make sure that everybody is there. Every member. Nobody misses this meeting. Visit everyone and tell them. Okay?"
"Okay," Leo said.
"What's up, Bonnie?" Buster said.
"You'll see at the meeting. Now let's split out of here."
* * *
The meeting was routine. Nothing of particular interest took place, and the Apaches began to wonder about the special emphasis on their attendance. It was then that Bonnie asked for and received the floor. She stood up and looked around, waiting for complete silence before she spoke.
"I'm ashamed to be an Apache," she began softly. It took a moment or two for the words to sink in, for a reaction to occur. An angry buzz filled the meeting room. Someone in the rear rose in rebuttal, but Bonnie ignored him and continued talking.
"I thought this tribe was composed of people with guts and brains. Maybe I was wrong. All that's been happening for the last few weeks is fun and games, business as usual, with some Apaches anxious to put down other Apaches. Well, that's not for me. I say if Apaches have to fight, let them fight Monarchs!"
That drew an excited response, a burst of applause. Mike Shaw broke in.
"That's big talk, Bonnie, but you know they outnumber us. If we challenge them, the Monarchs would take us apart."
She appraised him coldly. "Not if we use our brains, something we haven't been doing up to now."
"Maybe you know a way," he challenged. "Let us in on your big strategy."
"That's precisely what I intend to do. The Monarchs can be taken, can be taken good, ruined forever. We can prove to them once and for all that it doesn't pay to fatten up on Apaches, that when they do the result is always acute indigestion."
A low roar of approval went up. She let it go on for a moment, then waved for silence.
"I've been doing a lot of thinking, a lot of planning, ever since the Monarchs jumped three of our people. I, for one, don't intend to allow that to pass unavenged. Do you feel the same way?"
"Yes!" the answer came back loud and clear. She smiled tightly. "That's more like it. All right, then. Here's the way it's going to be. You all know that Whitmore mansion up the beach on the point. Well, the Whitmores are away now, and the house is empty. Leo knows how to get inside, and that is exactly what we are going to do. We are going to throw the biggest, wildest party that house has ever seen."
"A party!" Mike exploded. "Is that your idea of a way to get back at the Monarchs?"
"Patience," she said evenly. "Yes, we are going to throw a party and the guests of honor are going to be the Monarchs."
"Oh, no!"
"Oh, yes," she went on. "And we are going to ply them with liquor, all they want, and beer, and food. And our squaws are going to be nice to their men, very nice, and our warriors will flirt with their girl's auxiliary."
"Why are we going to do this?" someone called. "Yes, why?"
"Because we are going to invite the Monarchs to sign a treaty with us. A peace treaty."
"A surrender, you mean!" Mike broke in. "I'm against it."
She retorted quickly. "That's exactly the implication I want them to get. I hope they believe we intend to cop a plea, ask them to take it easy with us. I want them to come to our party full of smugness and confidence, sure of themselves, certain of their strength, their power, their victory and our weakness."
"What's the point?" Paula asked weakly.
"The point, dear Paula," Bonnie said slowly, choosing each word with utmost care, "is to take the Monarchs apart, to shred their ranks, to bust them up finally, to murder them."
A great hush fell over the room as the Apaches digested this bit of information. But Bonnie's plan was still unclear to them.
"How is this going to be accomplished?"
"I told you. We will seduce them with kindness and weakness, and with liquor and beer and pretty girls. Let them enjoy themselves, let them have all the fun they want, let everything go their way--to the victors belong the spoils! And then, just when they're all crocked and sleepy and sated and helpless, we will pounce. What will their numbers add up to then? Nothing. For we will all be sober and ready, strong and full of anger. We will rip them and tear them and punish them and end them for good. Isn't that what you want?" she ended.
"Yes!" came the reply.
"Are the Apaches going to defeat the Monarchs?"
"Yes!"
"Are we going to prove to the world that this is the best club anywhere, the best fighters, the most dedicated?"
"Yes!"
Bonnie stood there quivering, excitement tingling along each nerve, spreading through her middle, and she knew that this night someone, anyone, would have a difficult time pleasing her. Her eyes ranged around the room and came to rest finally on Mike Shaw, sullen and angry, his full mouth in a petulant thrust. What a joke, she thought. What a fine, ironic joke! He was the one she wanted, and he was the one she would have. It would be the ultimate triumph over everyone.
But first there were orders to give.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE MONARCHS were suspicious. They refused the first invitation. A second was extended with a stronger explanation, a more conciliatory peace feeler. A preliminary meeting was arranged to discuss an agenda for a conference between the club leaders to explore the matter. This was finally scheduled and cancelled and scheduled again, six members of each club gathering in a private room of a roadhouse, trying to hammer out an acceptable treaty.
It took four days of meetings and considerable argument, of give and take and, on the part of the Apaches, a great deal of acting.
"We want to make it look good," Bonnie had warned them.
And finally a treaty was settled upon, rules of behavior agreed to, the limitations or respective sovereignty outlined, an end to conflict promised. At last the Apaches' invitation was accepted. Bonnie breathed a sigh of relief; the first long step had been made.
The party night was chosen with care and intelligence. To begin, it would be best to have it on a week night so that the traffic along the shore road would be at a minimum and chances of discovery scant. For that same reason, it was explained by Bonnie, a rainy night was preferable. To this end, the Apaches studied long-range weather forecasts. One other consideration Bonnie pointed out: they wanted a night when the police highway patrols would be elsewhere engaged and so not witness the unusual amount of road traffic heading for the Whitmore mansion. She scanned the schedule of social activities and finally found what she wanted. The annual Charity Ball would be held at the country club on a Wednesday night, a night for which rain was forecast, a heavy rain. It was perfect.
Arrangements were made. Refreshments were ordered from stores in distant communities so as not to raise suspicions because of the amounts purchased. And the Apaches handled all deliveries themselves. By the morning of the party day, all liquor and food was safely within the mansion and everything was ready. The Apaches gathered for a last meeting at their clubhouse.
"Each of you knows what to do," Bonnie said. "Those who do not have specific assignments are no less vital to this operation than those who do."
"How do we know when to start the action?" someone asked.
Bonnie grinned and reached into her purse, extracting a small shiny police whistle on a slender silver chain. "Simple," she said. She put the whistle between her lips. It had a high shrill sound when blown. "When I give a blast on this you all swing and blow the Monarchs out of this world. But not before." She blew again. "Remember the sound of it."
A hand waved around for attention. It was Leah. Bonnie smiled in the direction of the lush new member, and Leah stood up.
"I wish you'd give me something to do," she simpered, "Something special, so I don't have to figure things out."
Bonnie laughed. "Knowing you, darling, you'll be busy all night. Just be nice to any Monarch who wants you, and there'll be a lot of those, when they see you. "Be very nice."
"To them all?" Leah's eyes went wide.
"We want them weak and helpless, Leah. I imagine you want to do your share."
"Oh, yes," Leah said, sitting. "I surely do." A tiny smile of anticipation fanned across her mouth.
"Any more questions?" Bonnie said. She glanced over to where Mike Shaw leaned against the wall, his face clouded, pale eyes surly, mouth petulant. He seemed angry at this unofficial usurpation of his authority, yet he gave no indication that he would fail to go along with the will of the tribe. Bonnie made a mental note to somehow ease the defeat for him; he would make a valuable ally in the future. "Very well," she said. "I want all the squaws dressed to the teeth tonight. Look your sexiest best. And the men all shaved and clean and proper. Is everything else all set, Buster?"
"All the weapons are hidden around the mansion as - we planned."
"Good. When I blow the whistle you will each get your armor and go at them. Now let's scatter, and we'll see you later at the mansion."
* * *
The party started slowly. To begin, the Monarchs came late and all together. There must have been more than forty of them, crowding together in small tight groups, their eyes hostile, their expressions suspicious, unsure. They eyed the Apaches and were in turn eyed back, no move being made to lighten the atmosphere.
Bonnie was disturbed. Everything was going wrong. She turned to Leo Gordon.
"Put some music on the record player," she ordered. "Something lively. And then ask one of their girls to dance. It doesn't matter which one. Get with it!"
She moved across the space separating the two groups, walking slowly, knowing all eyes were on her. She knew what she looked like; she had dressed carefully and at her most provocative, a tight, short black sheath clinging to her every curve, her breasts shimmering above the low, loose-scooped neckline. She had piled her golden hair on top of her head in a mound of curls that gave her a sophisticated look, and no one seeing her could be less than excited by the image she presented. She headed straight toward the nearest Monarch, a youth named Biff.
"I thought this was going to be a party," she breathed into his face, "and it's turning into a wake. Don't you Monarchs know how to have fun?"
His face remained sullen. "Don't worry about us."
She laughed lightly and let her gaze wander over the others. "There's an awful lot of good liquor going to waste, and food. And our girls and boys have been talking about nothing else for days. Maybe all you Monarch men can do is fight," she murmured, giggling to soften the impact. "Maybe you don't know what to do with pretty girls."
"We know," Biff bit off.
She let her brows rise quizzically. She called out. "Leah!" The buxom little girl came hurrying up, every part of her in wild motion. "This is Biff, Leah. Why don't you see if he knows how to Frug, or maybe do the Fish, or the Jerk." The music had come on, blaring with a strong beat and a wide smile broke across Leah's full mouth. Her hips began to move in a tight little circle, breasts jiggling under her dress, a distant look in her eyes. Biff seemed fascinated and Bonnie moved off, motioning for the Apaches to be more friendly. Minutes later the party was in full swing.
By midnight, three-quarters of the liquor and all of the beer had been drunk. Already couples were drifting off into corners, and one or two had found their way to isolated bedrooms. Bonnie continued moving around, urging her fellow Apaches on by her presence, dancing with any Monarch who asked her, fending off the obvious passes that were made with a laugh and a promise, making sure that no Apache drank too much, wanting each of them sober and ready.
"I think the time is now," Mike Shaw said to her at one point.
She peered at the liquor supply. "Not yet," she ground out. "Wait till the liquor is almost all gone, wait till more of them have gone off with the girls, and come back. That'll be the time."
At that moment she spied a tall, ruggedly handsome Monarch coming her way. She knew him to be one of their leaders, Gil Mead by name. From the unsteady way he walked and the small idiot smile that turned his mouth, Bonnie knew that he had been drinking heavily.
"Watch out for this guy," Mike said. "He's their war chief."
She nodded and smiled as Gil came closer. "I think it won't be long now."
"Good," Mike said, and drifted away.
"I had my eye on you all night," Gil Mead muttered thickly.
She made herself giggle girlishly. "I bet you'd like to get more than that on me."
A broad insinuating grin sliced across his mouth at that. "You bet I would! And I'll tell you what, too."
"Have a drink and then tell me," she said, handing him a paper cup full of scotch. He took a long swallow and staggered closer.
"Are you wearing anything under that dress?"
Her eyes grew lidded and she arched her body so that her round belly thrust forward. "What do you think?"
"I think you're mother-naked under it. No bra, no panties, no nothing."
She laid one hand lightly on his broad chest. "I imagine you would enjoy finding that out for yourself."
"Let's go!" He gripped her arm roughly.
"Gently, darling," she murmured. "Don't bruise the flesh." She swayed closer, letting her breasts flatten against him, feeling his middle move suggestively, aware of the tough thrust of his maleness. "You'll get everything that's coming to you." She took his hand. "Come with me." Her eyes raked the room, seeing couples dancing wildly, others talking quietly in corners, some sprawled out on the floor. Still others, she knew, were busy in some of the mansion's many bedrooms. She saw Mike Shaw watching her, and Paula, and Leo and Buster. Everything was ready. Her hand moved surreptitiously to that place low between her breasts where the cold hard police whistle lay. A secret smile formed on her mouth.
"This way, darling."
She led him along a darkened corridor, past a number of doorways, some of which stood ajar. In one all the lights were on. On the bed sound asleep were three big tough Monarch men, and there in front of the mirror, still naked, was Leah, looking smug and content, applying her lipstick.
The adjoining room was empty and Bonnie ushered Gil inside, turning on a dim bed lamp, making sure to leave the door partly open. She turned to him even as he came lurching forward. His breath reeked of alcohol and his lips were hard and unyielding on her own, bruising, as she submitted to his kiss. His hands went roughly to her tight round bottom, yanking her forward, his middle rotating against her. She forced herself to return caress for caress and heard him moan, his voice small, like that of a lost and frightened little boy.
She maneuvered him toward the bed. They went over together, his hand seeking her breast, squeezing roughly.
"What's that?" he asked, suspicious even in his drunkenness.
She extracted the whistle from his grasp. "A little token from the past," she giggled. "You made it with the fuzz?"
"Something like that."
His hand went under the dress and his fingers were coarse and rough against the soft flesh, yet she couldn't help but feel a flood of spreading passion. There was still time, she told herself, and Monarch or not, drunk or not, he was a man and she had a deep need...
"Take off the dress."
She obeyed, slipping the chain and the whistle over her head, placing it carefully on the night table, reaching then for his belt. They came together out of pure lust tinged with loathing and their bodies struggled to punish each other, the pounding powerful, almost painful, each blow struck from 'way back until she thought she must surely die from it.
"Oh, baby...." he moaned.
"Not yet...." she commanded.
"Oh, baby...."
"No, dammit!"
It ended with a whimper trickling out of his mouth; he fell heavily onto his back, and for her it was as if nothing had happened. Nothing. Her disappointment gave way to resentment, to anger, to a need for a quick revenge. She stood up and gazed icily down at his inert, half-clothed form. A hint of a snore broke out of him. She looked around until she found what she wanted, a heavy china vase. Gripping it with both hands, she raised it high overhead and brought it crashing down across his contented face. He grunted once and lay still. A trickle of blood appeared from his nose and the corner of his mouth.
Quickly, now, she donned her dress and, whistle in hand, went into the corridor. She took a deep breath and blew. Once, twice, three times. A moment later all hell broke loose.
All at once screams of pain and fear filled the air, and the heavy oaths of men betrayed. A half-naked Monarch came running down the corridor, chased by a club-wielding Apache warrior and a squaw. Bonnie waited till he was abreast of her, then shoved out her leg. Down he went. The Apache never hesitated. The club rose and fell and the Monarch screamed out his agony, his shoulder crushed.
She moved away. There was chaos everywhere, fighting, unconscious bodies strewn about. She saw Mike Shaw flatten a Monarch with one punch and send another tumbling down the flight of steps, to lie very still at the bottom. She saw three Apache squaws attack a big Monarch. He went down heavily with them on top, pounding and scratching. One of them kicked him hard and the scream that rose out of him was the cry of someone who knows his manhood has just been terminated.
A Monarch woman came Bonnie's way. She pressed herself against the wall and waited. She struck out swiftly and the Monarch went spinning to her knees, Bonnie after her, fists swinging, reveling in the flat sound of bone again soft flesh. She felt the girl cringe, trying to protect her face from the onslaught, not fighting back, a whimper on her lips. Bonnie looked down at her. She was a pretty girl, very young and obviously terrified. Bonnie laughed thinly and drove her fist into the other girl's nose. There was the distinct sound of crunching bone. The girl fainted and Bonnie went looking for more formidable prey.
The fight ebbed and flowed throughout the mansion until the advantage of surprise and sobriety and preparation turned the tide in favor of the Apaches. Here and there, a Monarch broke and ran. Then all at once they were in full flight, leaving their injured club mates behind to fend for themselves.
"After them!" Bonnie shrilled desperately. "Don't let them get away. Finish them off for good."
She headed for her cycle parked behind the house. It was Mike Shaw who stopped her.
"What about this place?" he said. "It's a wreck. There must be fifty thousand dollars worth of dam-age."
"So what?" she snarled. "Nobody will ever know who did it. Now stop talking and get after those Monarchs."
It went on for the rest of the night, the highways and back roads, the scene of a running battle on wheels, Apaches hunting down and driving off the road any Monarch found. Machines and broken bodies dotted the landscape when the slate-gray dawn seeped out of the East. The Apache victory was complete.
CHAPTER TWELVE
BAYVILLE WAS in an uproar the next day. All the citizens were in full voice, demanding that something be done to curb this lawlessness. But no one knew where to start, who to blame. It was as if a regiment of ghosts had ravaged the countryside and disappeared. None of the injured Monarchs seemed to know who their assailants had been. They blamed it all on outsiders, marauding bands of trouble-makers from other areas. The citizens of Bayville were quite ready to accept this explanation, especially since nobody had died. Of course, there was the matter of the wrecked Whitmore mansion, but fortunately the Whitmores were heavily insured. Within a few days, life returned to normal.
But not for Bonnie Dixon. Her innards were in a turmoil, her thirst for action unslacked, her need for excitement no less intense. Yet she knew it was too soon to plan any wild escapades. It was a time to be quiet, lay low, revel in their victory and allow the public clamor to wither away.
Bonnie knew all that, but it did not assuage the surging need in her bowels. She cast about for some release. Bob Horner offered some hope when he invited her for a ride out to the beach. She led him onto the sand in the shadow of a dune and pressed his hand to her turgid breast.
"Bonnie," he objected, you know how I feel about this."
"What about my feelings?" she tossed back. "Can't you see that I am a woman who needs affection, a passionate woman, a loving woman?"
"People can't simply do anything they want," he said stiffly. "They must exercise self-discipline."
"Nonsense. That's old-fashioned."
"I believe in living according to the rules, Bonnie. There is no freedom without a body of law to protect the weak and the indulgent."
She felt the flaring anger come into being, break through her middle, a crazy anger, a swinging anger. She wanted to strike out, cause pain, enjoy the satisfaction it provided. She felt the same way as she had when she had shattered that vase across Gil Mead's sleeping face. She sat straighter, mouth screwed up.
"You!" she spat out. "All you do is wait, wait to get married, wait for legal sanctions, for society's approval."
"We are society, Bonnie."
"Not me. Society is a bore, a monstrous bore with its rules and regulations. And so are you, Bob. A great, hairy bore, and I've had my fill of you. If you won't give me what I want, I know where I can get it with no trouble. Now take me home."
He tried to argue with her, make her see reason, but it was hopeless. She refused to listen, and in the end he drove her home, the ride silent and too long. She didn't go into the house, waiting outside until he drove off. Then she made her way to the thick cluster of brush which hid her motorcycle. Minutes later she was zooming along the highway toward the Apache farmhouse.
The place was quiet, and at first she thought no one was there. Ever since the party, the Apaches had been leading extremely circumspect lives, staying away from the clubhouse so as not to arouse suspicions. The restlessness in Bonnie's gut grew more intense, and she wondered what to do. She went to the bar and poured some scotch into a glass. It was eerie in the big basement room with only a small lamp on and with no one else around. Then she heard a sound from the far corner, a dark, shadowed corner. She swung around, heart thumping. Perhaps this was a trap and one of the Monarchs had come seeking revenge. She cast about for a weapon.
"What's the matter, Bonnie? Nervous?" A masculine figure moved out of the shadows and she recognized Mike Shaw.
"What are you doing here?" she said, trying to conceal her relief.
He shrugged. "Where else would I be? I'm still president of the Apaches, or have you forgotten?"
"I haven't forgotten." She turned back to her drink.
He gave a bitter laugh. "But that won't be for long, will it, Bonnie? Some of the boys are calling for a special election next month and you're a cinch to be elected. That is what you want?"
She swung around, eyes flashing. "Yes, it is. And if you were man enough to hold the job you wouldn't have to worry."
"I did all right until you came along."
"Remember, you nominated me."
"I can't forget it."
He leaned against the bar. His shirt pulled tight across his big shoulders and his fine muscular body was outlined in detail. That quick image brought the old uneasiness slithering through Bonnie's belly, a hollow feeling, deep and pervading. He was weak, she told herself, and decidedly unsatisfactory. At that moment she doubted that any one man could truly please her, truly satisfy her. But he was a man and was present.
"Mike," she said softly. "What?"
"Is anyone else here?"
"No."
"Look at me," she said. He turned slowly, waited. "There is no reason," she went on deliberately, "Why we should be enemies. You do still find me attractive, don't you?"
"What's that got to do with...." He stopped, and a slow light of understanding came into his pale eyes. A snicker of disbelief crossed his lips. "Do you mean what I think you mean?"
"Why not? We always did right by each other."
He frowned. "Forget it. I'm not interested."
"I imagine I could make you interested."
"Save your energy."
"Will you let me try?"
He measured her. "Sure," he said, after a moment. "Do whatever you like. It's time you learned you can't get everything you want, just because you want it."
A satisfied smile drifted across her full mouth. There was a kind of perverted excitement to this, to her taking over the role of the aggressor, to his lack of interest, his passivity. She decided that the direct approach might be best. She stepped away from the bar, making sure to remain in the circle of yellow light.
"I'm going to get undressed," she announced softly.
"Do whatever you want."
"Remember how I looked naked?"
"I remember."
"And how I felt and tasted and smelled."
"You're wasting your time."
She reached quickly and lifted the cashmere sweater over her head, tossing it aside. She was glad she had worn the black lace bra. The pale eyes appraised her without expression. She unfastened her skirt, stepped out of it.
"Now look at me," she said.
She stood, legs solidly planted on her spiked heels, wearing only black bikini panties and the bra, hands on hips, head thrown back, the golden ponytail dropping down her back. She took one long, slow stride forward.
"Do you think I have a good body, Mike?"
"It's a great body. In every way."
"Would you like to see more?"
"Suit yourself."
The bra came off and the bikinis. He gave no sign of particular interest, head still, eyes unblinking.
"If we had some music," she murmured, "I'd dance for you. Would you like to see me dance naked, move around, everything going. Shall I do the Twist, Mike?"
His tongue reached hesitantly for his dry lips and she knew that she would get exactly what she wanted. "If you wish."
She began to Twist. Slowly at first, then she speeded up, wishing there was a long mirror present so she could see what he saw, wishing she could enjoy the movements of her hips, the writhing of her belly and that geometric wedge just below it, so she could pleasure herself watching those fine high breasts shimmer and roll and pitch to that savage tempo.
But his face was the only mirror she had. She saw the pale eyes narrow and begin to gleam, saw the lips work soundlessly, saw his nostrils dilate. He stepped forward, fingers flexing anxiously.
"Bitch!" The word ripped out of him, flat and abrupt, a short, tight word with deep and varied meanings. "Bitch of the world."
She stopped moving and leaned back and laughed at him, a wild, climbing sound, teasing, mockery in each lilting note of it, her face naked with it, white teeth contrasting with flaming lips, the pink tongue fluttering, everything still yet somehow moving, the up-tilted breasts, skin stretched tight and gleaming, the round soft belly, the powerful thighs. He shuffled forward.
"Do you," he said hoarsely, "get everything you want?"
"From now on, I intend to."
"No matter what pain you cause?"
She stretched out her arms to him, mouth a gaping taunt, eyes hot and dancing, fingers beckoning.
"Come to mama, baby, and I'll sooth your hurts."
He said one word.
It was a three-syllable word that tore through her like barbed wire, ripping and tearing and edging her craving with hate and determination, a word never before applied to her, a word strange to her ears, yet somehow expected. She shut out the sound of it, closed out its echo inside her skull, vowing to get what she wanted now. Now. One long step forward and she went to her knees, hands reaching, fingers fumbling with belt, with buttons, seeking and tugging, finding finally, and trying hard to drain him and leave him weak and helpless.
His moans filled the low-ceilinged room, and she felt him begin to tremble, sink at last to the floor.
Then it was not enough to take the essence of him. She wanted more, what she had come after in the beginning. A nerve leaped and twitched in her thigh, and she felt the great flat muscle bulge and tighten. Her mouth went dry, and there was a throbbing ache behind her eyes. "Please," she said.
He looked up at her as if through the wrong end of a telescope. "What?" he muttered thickly. "What do you want?"
"Love me, Mike. Please. Love me and free me."
He would have laughed, but lacked the strength. He wanted to strike back at her, to somehow avenge himself for all that had happened, for the many ways in which she had damaged him. But he could not find the will. He could do only what she wanted, give to her until there was nothing remaining that she demanded.
"What?" he said. "What?"
She moved above him, placing herself carefully, allowing no doubt as to her desire. A soft sigh leaked out of him and he reached and heard the deep moan of relief back in her throat as it began for her. There was no time for further thought, his flesh taking over, responding to her lust, to her visceral needs, hoping only that when it was over he would not he too much less than when he began.
A low, tuneless lusting sound came out of her, softly at first, then louder, turning gradually into a wailing lament for something that had never been and was not now, a need never truly gratified, never accurately named, never properly wooed. The sound intensified and grew louder and more piercing, a warning of imminent disaster and he struggled to close his ears to it.
They dressed slowly, each lost in the thoughts within, not seeing the other, not wanting to be aware, not wanting to care. At last she was finished and gave a final unnecessary pat to her hair. Her eyes darted wildly, but there was nothing to see there except Mike Shaw, and she couldn't look at him.
He lit a cigarette and poured himself a short drink. Another. She took a long swallow from the bottle, gagged, and swallowed again.
"This place," she said. "It's smothering me. I've got to get out."
"Then get out."
She stared into the shadows. "The road. It's me for the open road, speed, danger, the closer to the death the closer to life. Right?" He made no reply. "Right?" she insisted.
"Right."
"Come with me. We'll race the moon and each other."
He took another drink, and gave her the bottle. She upended it and faced him, eyes wild and glowing. "Let's go."
"Why not?"
She led the way outside, straddled her cycle, loving the feel of the heavy machine, black and glittering chrome, even in the dark the look of strength and power, of sleek speed to it. An unidentifiable sound broke out of her as the engine caught and the vibrating handlebars sent a tingle of excitement into her arms.
"It's fun and games," she said. "All the way."
"All the way," she repeated, easing the heavy machine onto the road. "All the way." Now, she thought distantly. Now she was going to get what she wanted. Finally. It would come to her, the fulfillment, easing the great ache, filling the endless void, lessening the eternal tension. Minutes later the search was on, the two cycles speeding side-by-side along the highway, slicing through the pockets of sea mist, headlights bouncing off the closing fog, the chill air invigorating and promising.
Now it comes, a voice whispered in her ear.
Everything.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THEY ROCKETED across the countryside at swiftly increasing speeds--seventy, eighty, eighty-five-- zooming through the thickening fog that rolled around them, two ghostly figures, Bonnie's golden hair flying in the wind, the roar of engines closing out all other sound. It was a long time before they heard the warning wail of the police siren.
It sounded from behind and was coming on fast. Bonnie glanced at her speedometer; the needle hovered close to ninety and still the fuzz gained. Her eyes darted quickly across the space that separated her from Mike Shaw. A tight, wolfish grin sliced across his tough mouth, and all at once she knew that he was truly in his element, reveling in the danger of the chase, arrogant in the power and speed of his machine, deeply scornful of the pursuing policeman.
The siren was closer now and Bonnie knew that if she looked back she would be able to see the cycle, see the goggled, helmeted head of its rider, big and authoritative in his uniform, gun at his hip. She wondered if he would fire a warning shot should they fail to stop. She glanced over at Mike again and now he looked back, lips drawn back over his teeth, eyes narrowed, pure joy etched in every line of his rugged visage. He made a motion with one hand, its message startlingly clear--"Take evasive action, let's shake the fuzz!"
She nodded, and even as she did a ripple of fear slid through her gut and for a split second she considered ignoring Mike. Then he made a sharp turn off the road, across the shoulder, heading through a sparsely wooded area, a ride for only an expert and experienced cyclist, a cyclist such as an Apache who had made the run many times before, just for kicks. Bonnie followed instantly.
The cop came right behind, no more than fifty feet distant. Bonnie had to order herself not to look back, to concentrate on the difficult and dangerous business of steering her speeding, leaping, bucking machine across the rough terrain, avoiding trees and creeping vines and encroaching brush. They came to the peak of the slope they were climbing and headed down the far side. Below was the cut for South Trace, a back road seldom used. The downward slope ended abruptly for the cut in a ten-foot drop. Suddenly Mike's intention was vividly clear in her mind. He intended heading right for the cut, knowing it was there, turning off at the last possible second; he expected her to do likewise. But the policeman, unaware, would be unable to slow down or to stop in time, and would go hurtling over the cut and onto the road below to certain death. A sick hollowness seeped into her middle and she wanted to yell out to Mike not to do it, to turn off now, before it was too late. No sound came out of her mouth and she knew that Mike had gone beyond the point of no return. Even then she saw him begin to lean, prior to making his turn. The cop was doomed.
Then, knowing that somehow she had to save the policeman's life, Bonnie wrenched the handlebars of her cycle, throwing the heavy machine into a wide skid to the right. She felt the wheels spin, fail to grip dirt, felt the bike go out from under her, felt herself thrown clear. She had presence of mind enough to tuck her chin against her chest and cover her head with her arms. She hit the ground hard, rolled heavily, rocks and sticks tearing at her, coming to rest in a thicket. Through it all, she heard the shrieking of tires, the reflexive oaths of a man fighting his machine, the ominous silence, and finally the heavy footsteps of the law coming closer. She closed her eyes and breathed a sigh of relief.
"What the hell were you people trying to do?" The voice was rough with indignation and authoritative anger, and Bonnie felt herself go limp and begin to sob.
* * *
The cop took her to the hospital where she was pronounced bruised and shaken, but otherwise all right.
"She can go home," the examining doctor announced, but the police officer had other ideas. Fifteen minutes later he booked her at the station house on charges of reckless driving and refusing to obey an officer in the performance of his duty.
"And as soon as I can come up with some other charges, young lady," he told her flatly, "I'm going to put them on you, too. Now who was the guy with you?"
Bonnie would say nothing, and they finally allowed her to make a call. She phoned her father, and an hour later was freed in his custody. Both her parents showed up to take her home, faces etched with concern, asking questions, getting no replies. .
"I want to go to bed," was all Bonnie would say.
"Don't you think you owe us an explanation?" her mother said. "Where did you get a motorcycle?"
"You almost caused serious injury to that policeman," her father said. "This is not an unimportant matter."
"I don't want to talk about it," she said.
Her parents pressed her no further, convinced that the experience had brought her to the edge of hysteria. After she was safe in bed, they told each other that they would have her examined by their own physician the next day, perhaps send her away for the remainder of the summer. By the next night, all the details were worked out. The doctor had pronounced Bonnie tired, somewhat tense, but otherwise fit, and Mr. Dixon had reserved hotel space for Bonnie and her mother in Bermuda. Bob Horner had visited, been properly solicitous and loving, and given his approval to the rest plan. Everything was so smooth, so well-organized, and everyone was so understanding, that Bonnie wanted to scream out her sense of frustration. Nothing had changed, she decided. Except for the worse, for now her parents and Bob Horner simply reeked of understanding and forgiveness. She wanted neither.
"Excuse me," she said finally. "But I'm very tired. I want to go to bed."
They understood that. They understood everything. Except what mattered. Bob Horner kissed her cheek and hugged her reassuringly. Once in her room Bonnie stripped off the sedate robe she wore and hurriedly donned a pair of slacks and a sweater. A moment later she was padding down the rear staircase and out of the house. She eased the Thunderbird out of the garage with utmost care and waited till she was a hundred yards out on the road before opening it up, heading for the Apache farmhouse.
They were waiting for her. All of them. The entire membership summoned to an emergency meeting by Mike Shaw. He stood in the center of the floor, big and tough in black leather, face animated, pale eyes sunk back in his skull, shining with a lost joy. He had been talking, but fell silent when Bonnie entered. He motioned for her to come through the circle of Apaches and stand opposite him.
"We got the word that you were all right," he said, voice thin and ominously toneless. "That the fuzz didn't hold you."
"My father...." she began, but he interrupted.
"But why should they hold you? Didn't you save one of them? Of course you did."
Her eyes widened. "He would have died if he went over that drop. He would have been killed."
"So what?" Mike said.
She looked at him in disbelief. He had really wanted to kill the cop!
"Since when is it the place of an Apache to be concerned about a cop?" He kept his voice low, and in that quiet room everyone could hear him. "It wasn't your job to worry about him. You knew what I was doing and you should have followed. That was no accidental spill you took. It was a deliberate attempt to prevent the fuzz from going for the long ride."
"Of course it was deliberate," she said, shock and wonder in her voice. "I couldn't let him die."
"You admit it?" Paula Hart had risen from her place and moved forward. Like Mike she was wearing black leather, and like him she looked hard and threatening. And watching her advance, Bonnie realized that they were all strangers to her, intellectual, emotional, ethical strangers. Oh, she knew too many of them too well in a physical sense, but that meant nothing now. On any meaningful level they lacked any and all means of communication. They talked of another person's death as casually as they discussed a new fuel mixture that might give their cycles a few extra miles per hour. It made her shudder.
"I'm through," Bonnie said gravely. "I'm resigning my membership in the Apaches. I've made a mistake. This is not for me."
Behind her she heard the shuffling of feet, the creaking of leather. She glanced around. All the Apaches were on their feet now, the circle shuffling closer, their faces sullen and glowering.
"You made a mistake, all right," Paula muttered. "But not the one you think you made. You are not quitting the Apaches. No one does. When you took the oath it was for life. Life--remember that!"
Bonnie saw nothing but hate in Paula's dull eyes, and suddenly she recognized the quick personality changes the redhead often went through, that so many of the Apaches were subject to, changes she had once thought interesting and colorful and now understood were symptoms of some deep and serious unrest. Fear came alive in a dark corner of her being and spread like spilt ink.
"Please," she said softly. "Let me out of the oath. I'll cause you no trouble. You can trust me."
"Nonsense," Paula said. "Obviously we can't trust you. Not yet, anyway. But we have a method of insuring that trust, of binding you to the tribe forever."
Mike Shaw grinned. "Tonight," he said. "We'll do it tonight."
"Mike," Paula said. "We'll be witnesses, you and I."
"That ought to do it," Mike said. "Let's get started. The rest of you will remain here."
Paula took Bonnie's arm in her hand, shoved her roughly toward the exit. She couldn't break free.
"What are you doing? Where are you taking me?"
Paula let her lips curl upward without humor. Her eyes were flat. "You are going to be bound irrevocably to us all, Bonnie. You should have studied our by-laws closely and you would know about what we're doing."
"Whenever a tribesman goes soft on us," Mike said slowly. "When either a squaw or a warrior becomes weak and uncertain in his loyalty, forgets his oath, his responsibility, he must re-establish himself, prove himself by the ultimate test."
"You see, Bonnie," Paula went on, "in saving that cop you acted in a way no Apache should act. We don't care about the lives of outsiders, and especially the life of a cop. The fuzz is the fighting arm of authority, of society, of the establishment, and we oppose all that. You fell from grace, Bonnie, fell badly, and now you must make up for it."
"I don't want...."
"It doesn't matter what you want," Mike said. "It is what we want that counts, and what we want is for you to kill somebody. Anybody will do. Some innocent passerby. Someone you don't know, so that you can't be connected with the act." Bonnie stared at him in horror. He had to be joking, she thought. A horrible joke, but still a joke. She was mistaken. Mike meant every word of it. "In that way, you will be further integrated into the tribe."
"What he means, dear," Paula said with exaggerated sweetness, "is that afterwards you will act in a proper fashion or your crime will be revealed to the fuzz."
Bonnie rocked her head from side to side. "No," she intoned. "No, I won't do it. I won't kill anyone. No. No. No."
Paula grinned thinly and hit her in the mouth. It was a short, looping punch delivered with surprising force. Bonnie went down, tasting blood. Mike helped her up and dusted off her back. Without preliminary, Paula hit her again. The process was repeated three times.
"Will you do as you're ordered?" Mike said.
"I won't kill anyone," she replied doggedly.
Paula hit her in the softness of her belly. She doubled over and fought for breath, the pain acute. Finally, she straightened up, still clutching her belly. She felt her strength draining away and knew she couldn't stand against this much longer. She saw Paula moving forward, a slight, not unfriendly smile on her full mouth. The big redhead reached out with both hands, fingers curved talon-like, sinking deep into the flesh of her full breasts. A shriek of agony ripped out of her and she went to her knees. Paula stepped back and kicked her in the gut. Bonnie threw up.
They waited patiently until her strength returned, until she was able to stand up, until the color seeped back into her cheeks.
"From now on it really gets rough, Bonnie," Mike said. "There are things we can do, with probes, with matches...."
"Things that will make you sorry you're a woman," Paula said, then: "Make you useless forever as a woman...." Bonnie had had enough. There was no resistance left in her. She nodded helplessly.
"I'll do whatever you want," she muttered. "Anything."
"Good," Mike said. "We knew you would. All right. Somebody get some liquor. Bonnie needs a shot or two to give her strength and then we'll go hunting. This ought to be a ball."
An hour later they rode off on their cycles, Bonnie behind Mike Shaw, holding to him, trying not to think. They parked on the outskirts of Bayville, on a quiet street edging a park where, during the day, old men played checkers and mothers read while their children played. They left the cycles standing, engines idling, ready for a quick departure. Mike took a heavy wrench from his saddle bag before leading the way into the park. He selected a bench at random and sat down, lighting a cigarette.
"The first one," he said, "to come along gets it. Man or woman. It doesn't matter."
"What's the plan?" Paula said.
Bonnie glanced up at the tight edge of excitement in the redhead's voice. She was anticipating the death of another human being with mounting pleasure. A shudder rode up Bonnie's spine.
"Simple," Mike said coolly. "As soon as someone shows up you and I will divert his attention, ask for a match. Anything. Bonnie will come up behind him and slug him with this wrench." He held it aloft and smiled thinly. "After he goes down, Bonnie dear, you will hit him at least two extra times in the head. And hard. I want to hear the skull crack. Let there be no doubt that our victim is dead."
No more than five minutes passed before a round-shouldered figure of a man hove into sight along the path. He shuffled slowly toward them, and in the moonlight they were able to make out a large burlap bag slung from one shoulder. He paused at a trash receptacle and dug into it searchingly.
"A ragpicker," Mike husked out. "The perfect victim. A thoroughly useless member of society. Probably belongs to no one and no one to him. He'll never be missed. You'll be putting him out of his misery, Bonnie, doing him a favor."
The ragpicker was coming in their direction and now was no more than twenty yards distant. Mike shoved the wrench into Bonnie's hand and she felt it, cold and hard, against her skin. The ragpicker was abreast of them, paying them no attention, and Mike and Paula had risen, were moving in front of him, keeping his back to Bonnie.
"Say, mister," Mike said. "Got a match? My girl and me, we've got cigarettes but no matches."
The ragpicker stopped and gazed up at them. "Got a smoke for me, mister?"
"Sure." Mike held out his pack.
Bonnie rose and moved forward, the wrench poised to strike, feet heavy and dragging. She wanted to scream out to the old man, to warn him to escape this morbid hand fate had dealt him, had dealt them both. But her body still ached from the beating she had taken, a living reminder of what lay in store should she fail in her bloody task. She felt her toe make contact with the rock, a small rock, little more than a pebble, tossed onto the path, undoubtedly, by a child that afternoon. The pebble skittered noisily across the concrete and the ragpicker turned awkwardly to see what had caused the disturbance.
His face was clear to Bonnie in the moonlight. It was a nondescript face, the features running together, the glue a scraggly beard, the eyes watery, nervous. His mouth twitched at the sight of her and then he saw the wrench and realized what was happening. One arm rose protectively and Bonnie viewed naked fear in his eyes.
"Don't," he pleaded. "Please, don't hurt me. I got nothing. No money. Just these things. Don't hurt me."
A moan of despair broke out of Bonnie and she turned and ran. She heard Mike shout and come pounding after her, heard his fast-closing footsteps. She headed straight for the parked cycles, hoping that her surprising bolt would allow her time enough to escape. It was a futile wish. He caught up with her at the edge of the park, hand reaching for her shoulder, spinning her around. But his speed prevented him from stopping and he skidded past her, turned back, advanced, arms akimbo.
"You are going to pay for this, Bonnie."
She heard Paula coming up behind and suddenly became aware of what they intended for her. Her fingers tightened on the wrench and for the first time she realized that she still clutched it. Without thinking, she drew her arm back, let fly. It was all in slow motion after that. The heavy wrench spinning crazily through the air. The expression of surprise and confusion on Mike's face. His clumsy evasive movements. The soft sound made by the wrench as it came in contact with his skull, above his left ear. The awkward way he collapsed.
Bonnie didn't wait. Seconds later she was speeding away on one of the cycles, trying to control the rising panic that threatened to burst her skull.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
HELP.
She needed help. This was the one all-pervading idea that kept returning to her disordered brain. It sliced through the fear and through the panic, making contact with that visceral part where her sense of survival was strongest.
She forced herself to think. The police? The authorities would take all the proper steps, ask all the right questions, isolate her with steel and muscle and uniforms. But they could not isolate and exorcise the fear and uncertainty she felt, the sense of being lost and alone.
Her parents? They too would make all the right sounds. They would clutch her to their collective bosoms and cluck soothingly and put her on a plane for Bermuda and the properly ordered life they had blueprinted for her. They would talk at her and instruct her and never accept her or what she needed and wanted. Want. What exactly did she want? A vision of Bob Horner came floating to mind. There was no one else; he was her only hope. And if their relationship was less than ideal, there was still hope for it, hope for them, if both could learn from all that had happened. She headed for his apartment.
He was asleep when she arrived. Yet one look at the troubled expression on her face caused him to grow alert, his mouth set and his eyes bright and piercing.
"What's happened, Bonnie? Are you all right?" He drew her into the apartment and shut the door. The sound of it closing startled Bonnie and she began to tremble. "I'll put up some coffee," he said.
"No. Please, Bob. The way I feel. I must get outside. I've got a motorcycle. Get dressed and come with me."
"Whereto?"
She shook her head. "I don't know."
A long searching look and then a swift, warm smile fanned across his mouth. "Give me five minutes to get into some clothes."
She waited impatiently, anxious to be in the open, away from the confinement of walls and doors and locks. She wanted to feel the night air on her cheeks, to hear the surf pounding, to smell the sea air. Finally, Bob was back and dressed.
He asked no questions and mounted the cycle behind her, his hands firm and strong on her waist, a reminder of the lean toughness of his body, a carryover from his wrestling days at college. She headed the cycle for the beach, obsessed with the idea of being free, of finding a kind of natural cleanliness on the sand, of feeling the rhythms of nature at the shore. She remembered a place where it was possible to ride between the dunes and so get down to the beach itself. Once there, she opened the cycle up and buzzed along the hardpack at top speed. It was a cathartic, a stimulus, precisely the prescription she needed. She felt her nerves grow loose and her mind clear. A soft laugh broke out of her and was lost in the wind. They zoomed along the deserted beach, waves breaking close by, occasionally one reaching for the wheels with its dying gasp. Up ahead she spied a familiar sight, a formation of dunes and rocky outcroppings.
Here was where it had all started, she remembered, suddenly chilled. Here she had been naked that night and watched an unknown couple make love. Here she had fought with Buster and Leo. Here Mike Shaw had rescued her, only to lead her to a fate many times worse. She slowed the cycle and brought it to a stop. They dismounted and she let it topple to the sand.
"May I have a cigarette?" she said. He lit one for her and followed her to the base of the dunes, then sat next to her on the sand, waiting patiently for her to say what she had to say. "I've been a fool," she began.
"Most of us are, at one time or another. It's the way we learn."
"The hard way. But maybe it was the only way for me. I want to tell you about it, Bob. And afterward, I won't blame you if you never speak to me again."
"Let me decide what I want to do."
She sucked on the cigarette, cheeks depressed, allowing the smoke to drift through her nostrils.
"It began right here, Bob," she said softly, "the night I ran away from you. Remember?"
"I remember."
She told it all, omitting nothing. He sat quietly and listened, offering no comment, interrupting not at all, holding himself very still, his face expressionless, staring, as if mesmerized, out at the heaving ocean. A few times she found it difficult to go on, her voice breaking, a choking thickness in her throat. Yet she persisted and somehow maintained her control. Finally, she came round to the earlier happenings of this night.
"That brings you up to date," she ended. "You know it all now." She waited, but he made no reply. A regretful sigh passed across her lips. It had been too much to expect him to accept her after all that had happened, and yet she deeply wanted his acceptance. She heaved herself erect. "Well," she said, trying to smile, "I suppose that's the end of it."
"Not quite." The tough voice came stabbing out of the night, frighteningly familiar, edged with mockery and danger, triggering a rebirth of all the fears Bonnie had felt earlier, the sense of impending doom. It took a great deal of effort just to turn around. They were spreading out so as to surround her and Bob. The four of them: Mike, a bandage on his head, Leo, Buster and Paula. It was Paula who had spoken, Paula sleek and ominous in black leather, her pale face glowing with anticipation and hate.
Bob rose slowly, flipped his cigarette away. "These are the ones you were telling me about?"
"Yes."
"Go away," Bob said evenly. "And we'll cause no trouble for you."
They laughed at that and Mike shook his right fist at them and Bonnie saw that in it he clutched a heavy wrench. "See this, Bonnie? This is what you hit me with. I brought it along specially to use on you. It was so easy to figure out where you'd go. You always did dig the beach around here, homing in like a pigeon. You read like a book with big print. And now you get it, you and that boy friend of yours. This is where you both buy the big sleep."
"Leave Bonnie to me," Paula ripped out. "She's my pleasure. You take the guy."
"That's the way it is," Mike said. "Let's hit 'em!"
Before any of them could move, it was Bob Horner who charged into action. One moment he was standing still, seemingly frozen to the beach, and the next he was tearing forward in a low crouch, arms swinging, hands open, reaching. It was Leo, big and brawny, all muscle and hardness, whom he got to first, sliding under Leo's awkward swing, yanking his ankles, sending him flying onto his back. Leo's grunt filled the air. They all saw Bob's right hand rise quickly and descend in a white blur. Leo lay still.
"Get him!" Mike screamed, and headed forward, wrench aloft. From the other side, Buster came on, a switchblade gleaming in his right fist. It was a strange sight under the silver moon to see the three men come together, to blend into a single mass of writhing flesh. Curses rang out, and the sound of bone against flesh, bone against bone. An arm rose and fell, another thrust, another reached and twisted. Then the mass split into three parts, and Bonnie saw Mike, still clutching to the wrench, go over onto his back, scramble to regain his feet. At the same time, Buster and Bob came together again.
"I'm going to kill you!"
It was Paula, rushing forward, face distorted with hate, a knife pulling her along. Bonnie froze momentarily, dropped automatically flat to the sand. Paula tried to stop, couldn't, went stumbling over her, fighting to regain her balance. Bonnie shoved herself erect, drove after the other girl. Even as Paula turned, Bonnie was on her, fists flailing. Flesh on flesh. It was a dull sound, like eggshells being crushed. Paula moaned and went down on her back. Bonnie dove and saw the knife coming up to greet her. In mid-air she twisted just enough to allow the blade to whoosh past, slicing the sleeve of her sweater. Before Paula could recover and thrust again, Bonnie hit her across the throat with the edge of her hand, a perfect karate blow. Paula gave a small sigh and lay still.
Bonnie fought for breath as she pushed to her feet, eyes searching for Bob. She found him backing toward the surf, in step with Mike Shaw's deadly advance. A quick glance told Bonnie all she had to know. There was Leo out cold. And Buster, face a bloody mess. But it was his knife that now glittered out of Mike's fist and how it got there didn't matter. She spied Mike's wrench in the sand, not ten feet away.
Bonnie moved swiftly. The wrench seemed to leap up off the sand into her hand, and suddenly she was running as fast and as hard as she could toward Mike. She saw his shoulders stiffen and twitch as her footsteps came to his ears. He hesitated, measuring this new threat. Should he turn to meet it and thus expose his back to the man? Or finish what he had started? He pivoted toward Bonnie and the knife shot out. She twisted evasively, trying at the same time to club him with the wrench. Her feet refused to function properly and she went down to the sand, rolling, Mike after her, snarling, spitting imprecations.
"I'm going to finish you this time."
She saw the blade descending and there was no avoiding it.
A swift movement came from one side and Mike seemed to lurch, to pause, suspended in mid-air, before falling heavily across her body, knife-arm limp, the blade dangling harmlessly from his fingers.
"Are you all right, darling?"
Bob tugged Mike's inert weight off her and helped her up, embraced her.
"Are you all right?" he repeated.
She began to tremble then and was unable to hold back the tears. He held her close, made soothing sounds back in his throat, murmured reassurances into her hair, and spoke of his love for her, his need for her, his desire. In time, the tears stopped and the trembling ceased and he kissed her lightly on the mouth. Her arms went up around his neck and pulled him closer, tongue searching between his lips. He pulled back, and she felt the old sense of having erred, of being guilty.
"Not here," he whispered warmly. "Not with these animals lying around. This is the last time I want to see any of them, the last time they'll be around to bother us, I'm sure." He appraised her solemnly. "Can you hang on for a motorcycle ride?"
"I think so... did you say hang on?"
"That's right. I'll do the driving from now on."
She followed him to where the motorcycle lay. He heaved it erect and got it started with no trouble at all. He motioned her onto the jump seat and started up the beach. They rode low on the hardpack and the surf splashed them and made them laugh. At last he turned onto the soft sand and let the machine stall. They climbed off and looked at each other.
"I'm hot and dirty," he said, "and I think a swim would be very good."
Nothing could have appealed to her more. "But we have no suits."
He grinned and his eyes traveled up and down her body. "I'm going swimming nature's way. You can come with me, or wait here." He began to undress.
All at once she felt very young and innocent, and very happy. She turned her back to him and stripped off her clothes. When she looked up he was disappearing into the surf. She hurried after him. They swam straight out until both were arm-weary, and then they floated, fingers touching, but nothing else. "We should go back now," he said at last. "I'm ready."
They were tired when they reached shore, the good tired, the kind of tired that promises a feeling of renewal will follow, a natural, unforced tired of muscle and flesh and wind. Then went back to where their clothes were and he used his shirt to dry off, and she her panties. Then they sat next to each other on the sand, looking out at the sea, smoking. In time, he crushed out his cigarette and she did likewise. He turned to her and his mouth came gently to rest on hers. Then: "I've never seen you," he murmured. "Not this way, not naked."
"Look, darling. All you want. To look at and touch and do with as you wish." She lowered herself slowly onto her elbows and watched his face. It was closed and his eyes were cloudy.
"Your breasts," he whispered.
"Yes."
"I never saw... never anything like you."
"I want to please you."
"And the rest of you... perfect for me."
"I want to please you."
His head came forward, mouth hungry and demanding in the wild tempo of his heartbeat. She moaned as waves of desire crashed through her and she felt her body arch as his hands rode lightly over her, stroking the soft inner flesh of her thigh, and his mouth tracked along her side, across her belly, moved lower to rouse her as she had never before been roused, giving everything she had ever been given, and more, each caress, each kiss, each movement holding the promise of that which was still to come.
All of it, she thought through the roiling sensual mist that enveloped her. All of it was here with him, her love, just waiting to come out. All the adventure and excitement, all the thrills, all the kicks. All of it. And more. Much more.
