AllFreeNovel
Share Us
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
FRANCIE CALLED BRANT NEWCOMB two days later. It was a Saturday morning, and Dave had already called to tell them that he was unavoidably tied up this weekend and couldn't come down to Albany. That means another weekend alone with the kids—Saturday was Mrs. Lambert's day off, and she would be expected, without any question, to take over and baby-sit the kids. Well, this time she wouldn't do it! Why should she? Didn't Dave realize she was seventeen and entitled to some life of her own? Dave was selfish and overbearing and she hated him, but Rick would take care of things. He was really a good kid—quiet and dependable. One good tiling about Rick and Lisa, they loved her and they'd never tell on her. She'd tell them they could stay indoors and watch as much TV as they wanted, and she'd make sure there were plenty of sandwiches and snacks in the refrigerator. They'd be okay, they wouldn't even miss her, and she'd be back in plenty of time
Her hands shook when she dialed his number, hoping desperately that he'd be there. It rang for a long time before he finally answered, his voice sounding sleepy and mad at being awakened. She told him who it was, wondering suddenly if he'd remember her. There was a pause, and the tone of Iris voice changed subtly, carrying a kind of charged, challenging amusement as he told her to come up soon after noon, by which time he'd be wide awake enough to enjoy her company. He gave her the address and hung up abruptly, leaving her still holding the phone, her knuckles white with tension and excitement.
Getting away from the house wasn't quite as easy as she'd thought it would be. Rick asked her where she was going and acted sullen because she'd promised to pitch for him that morning.
"I'm tired of sitting around in this dumb old house, too," he complained. "If you can't do it, then maybe Bob Fields's dad might. He said he might the other day, when I told him I didn't have anyone to pitch for me—"
Francie cut him off short, trying to hang onto her temper. It wasn't easy because Lisa, sensing tension and anger in the air, had already begun to cry silently, her face hidden in her hands.
"Look—look, you guys, this is really important to me. I mean really. I swear. Otherwise I wouldn't be leaving you, would I? But look at some of the other girls my age—they're out driving their own cars and going on dates, and Dave expects me to hang around here all the time. It's driving me nuts!"
Rick looked uncertain, and she dropped to her knees, holding his shoulders.
"Rick, please? I'll give you five dollars. And—and no, wait, I'll give you a couple of bucks and I'll call Cheryl right now and ask if she'll come over and watch you till I get back. How's that? She doesn't have a steady guy, so she'd be home anyhow, and she was complaining just the other day she needed some bread...."
Francie usually got her own way in the end. Even with Cheryl. It took twelve dollars out of the money Brant and Jerry had given her the previous day—money she had already hidden away to start what she called her "getaway fund." But twelve dollars was worth it, even when she had to add on the bus fare to the city and a taxi from the bus depot over to the address Brant had given her.
She was glad that she had taken a taxi when she got there—it was quite a distance away from the bus depot and the crummy downtown area. Even the air here smelled different, and there were trees and beautifully kept lawns and even gardens that blazed with color. She looked up at the tall row house almost reverently after the taxi driver had left. Yeah, he'd have a place like this. Just like the kind of house that got featured in Better Homes or American Home—all the way up at the top of one of San Francisco's snobbier hills, view of the bay and all. He could have anything he wanted, she supposed, with all that money and his looks. And he wanted her—he must want her, or she wouldn't be here.
Now she wished she'd bought herself something really expensive and sexy to wear for him. But thinking about it, she suddenly giggled. Shit—what was the point? It wasn't her clothes Brant was interested in; it was her body. Still giggling, Francie rang the doorbell. A disco tune ran through her head, and she swayed to the rhythm, waiting for him to let her in.
Brant, by himself, was a perfect, polite host. Feeding her caviar and champagne out on the terrace because she'd confessed she'd always dreamed about tasting caviar and drinking champagne with it. He'd wrinkled his nose at the thought of champagne, but he'd opened a bottle for her and poured out some chilled white wine for himself. And afterward, bringing out two little pipes, he let her smoke hash with him. It was wild—the smoke made her feel kind of loose and high almost at once.
She wondered what he would do with her this t
ime, and when he would make his move, but he was taking his time—toying with her, only occasionally, as if to remind her why she was here.
Then, at last, he took her into his playroom, with its mirrors and its enormous bed, and he showed her the movie and sound equipment that was concealed everywhere. He could even take pictures in the dark, he told her, using infrared lighting.
Without waiting for him to tell her to, she started to take her clothes off, watching herself in the mirrors, and he laughed.
"How do you know I'm ready for you yet?" he mocked her.
So she knelt in front of him and unzipped his tight sky-blue pants and began to give him head. After a few seconds, he pushed her away.
"You need to take lessons, baby. That's a delicate instrument you're handling so carelessly down there, not a hot dog!"
He moved back, his cold eyes watching her.
"But I've forgotten—you're the one who likes to be hurt and then screwed, right? Or is it that you like to be screwed so it hurts? I forget easy, but I do remember that's why you're here, isn't it?"
Her pride smarting, she squatted on the floor, staring up at him.
He was jeering at her, playing games with her, and she didn't like it.
"You—you bastard. No guy ever complained about the way I give a blow job before. What do you mean, I need to take lessons?"
"Talking's a waste of time, baby. You came here to get screwed, and now I'm ready for you. And you do need lessons, but I don't have the time or the inclination to give you any. Now get on that bed and get yourself ready while I shuck my clothes."
Something in the contemptuous tone of his voice, the studied cruelty of his words, got through to her, and suddenly she didn't care if he screwed her or not.
She stood up, her face flaming with rage.
"Don't talk to me like that, Brant Newcomb. I'm no whore!"
He hit her across the breasts, and the pain and shock made her yell.
