Victims (24 page)

The lock clicked; the door swung open. Still giggling, now playing the part of the deliciously naughty schoolgirl, she dropped the key into her purse and stepped inside, striking her shoulder on the doorframe.

Their night’s adventure was about to begin.

In the tiny entryway, Haney closed the door, tested the latch, then turned to the darkened living room. Framed by the outside light of a floor-to-ceiling window, she stood beside a couch. As he moved toward her, he glanced quickly around the room. Was it a studio apartment, so called, with no bedroom? Did the couch, therefore, make into a bed? If it did, and if she chose not to break their rhythm by the effort required to convert the couch into a bed, then they had two choices: screw on the couch, with their legs hanging off, or else screw on the floor.

Behind her now, he drew her close. She responded instantly, fitting her body fiercely to his as he caressed her breasts, her belly, her pubis. Reaching behind, her hands found his buttocks as his tongue explored the corded flesh of her neck below the ear. Breathing harshly, she suddenly twisted her body in his arms, facing him fully. She was on her toes; her body was writhing, incredibly alive, pressed savagely to his, demanding that the raw, wild rhythm of his body match hers.

Then, tearing her mouth from his, she moaned: “Oh, Jesus. Come on. Jesus, come on.” She drew him to the couch, drew him down on top of her as her hands stroked his genitals, then fumbled at his belt buckle.

K
ATHERINE HANEY LAY ON
her back, staring at the ceiling. Beside her, also lying face up, Jeffrey Wade blew a lazy plume of smoke toward the ceiling. In the darkness, Katherine’s lips curved into a small, wry smile. They’d been lovers—extramarital lovers—for only two months. But, already, habit patterns were emerging: small, subtle predictabilities. After he made love, after he’d dutifully held her close for a few minutes, he inevitably rolled away from her and lit a cigarette. He’d asked her once whether she minded his smoking, afterwards. She’d answered that, yes, she sometimes minded. He hadn’t responded—and hadn’t asked the question again.

She glanced at the clock and sighed. Soon, she would get out of bed, get dressed, go home. She looked at the chair where her clothes were neatly hung. Two months ago, she’d thrown her clothes on the floor, her clothes mingled with his, proof of their passion.

“When’s James going east?” He spoke slowly, in a low, rich voice. Like his habits of movement, his speech mannerisms were deliberate. From the very first, she’d realized that Wade was playing a part, acting out a role. But the part he played was engaging: a moderately young, moderately successful “downtown” real estate salesman. In certain circles of with-it San Franciscans, it was a role he could manage with convincing assurance.

“He’s leaving on Tuesday,” she answered. “He’s going to Dallas first, then on to New York.”

“When’ll he be back?”

“Friday, probably. Or maybe Monday.”

“Why don’t we go to Mexico for two or three days? Acapulco.”

“No, thanks.”

“Why not?” A note of petulance underlined the question.

“No reason, particularly. I just don’t want to go.”

“With me, you mean.”

“I didn’t say that.”

In a moody silence, he blew another plume of smoke toward the ceiling. Finally he said, “I don’t really understand what it is you think you’re doing, Katherine. I mean, here we are, in bed. And your husband, you say, is probably in someone else’s bed. It’s a—an arrangement, you say. An understanding. But with us it’s never more than a succession of one-night stands, not really. We get together, we get it on for an hour or two, and then you get dressed and go home. That’s it. That’s all there ever is.”

Aware that irritation was agitating the tensions that sex had just soothed, she chose to say nothing. After only two months, Jeffrey Wade was joining that lengthening procession of querulous men who couldn’t content themselves with the simple act of physical love she offered. Always, they wanted more.

“Why don’t you call your lawyer?” The petulance in his voice was more insistent now, demanding an answer. “Get a divorce, for God’s sake. Give yourself a break.”

“What you really mean is that you want me to give you a break. You. Not me. You.” As she spoke, she pushed herself up in bed. With love’s afterglow fading so fast, she was conscious of her bared breasts, conscious of his eyes on her. She was aware, too, that her voice was cold. How could it happen so fast? One moment they were languorous lovers. A moment later they were talking like strangers. All because he imagined that an orgasm gave him the right to manage her life.

She heard him laugh: one short, sharp, bitter exhalation. “You’re a hard case, Katherine. You really are. Why don’t you lighten up? Smile a little. Just a little.”

She answered in a low, even voice: “You said you wanted to go to Acapulco. I said I didn’t want to go. The reason I don’t want to go is Maxine. She’s eleven, and she’s in the sixth grade. When she comes home from school, I try to be there. I don’t always make it, but I try. Which is why I don’t see myself running off to Mexico. Which is also, incidentally, the reason I’m not going to divorce James. I’ve already been divorced. Twice. Maxine already has one father and one stepfather. That’s enough. At least for now, that’s enough.”

“The loving mother.” Now he was mocking her. “I had no idea.”

“Just a mother,” she answered, measuring the words with icy precision. “That’s enough. Just a mother.”

S
ITTING ON THE COUCH
with his back to her, Haney groped in the darkness for his undershorts. He felt her naked body moving against the bare flesh of his buttocks. With his head down, still groping, he couldn’t keep the room steady, couldn’t keep the floor from tilting, couldn’t keep the walls aligned. In his throat he felt the bitterness of bile. Would he be sick? Having already humiliated him once, would his body shame him a second time?

Who was she, this woman named Estelle Blair, this floozy he’d found on a bar stool who had witnessed his disgrace, his impotency? A few hours ago, she’d been unknown to him. Yet now she was the single person, the only person on earth, with whom he shared this shameful secret.

He’d told her the truth, told her that never before had it happened to him. No matter how much he drank, he could always get it up.

Did she believe him?

No.

Even in the dim light cast by the single window, he’d seen the disbelief in her eyes, heard the derision in her voice.

If she laughed at him, if she snickered, he’d hit her with his fist. He’d leave her bloody on her cheap, cold-to-the-skin Naugahyde couch.

He found his undershorts, drew them up over his knees, over his buttocks. His trousers were next, a mound of shapeless cloth on the floor.

“It’s the booze,” she was saying. “Let’s try it again, sometime. Any time.”

With his trousers up to his mid-thighs he rose, steadied himself with one hand on the arm of the couch, drew up the pants. As he buckled his belt and checked to see that his wallet was safe, he heard her speak again:

“What you did—you know—with your hand, that was fine. I feel fine. Really fine.” But, as she spoke, he could hear amusement in her voice. Amusement—derision—he could hear it all, searing his consciousness.

“I’m glad you feel fine.” He turned away, toward the line of light on the floor that marked the hallway door. He had taken just one step when he heard it: a giggle, then a laugh. He whirled, raised his arm, swung his clenched fist, felt the fist strike flesh.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1984 by Collin Wilcox

Cover design by Michal Vrana

978-1-4804-4684-7

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