One Night Stands and Lost Weekends

One Night Stands and Lost Weekends Page 6

He rubbed his thumb nervously over the blade, feeling how sharp it was and wondering how it would go into Moe. It would go in nice and smooth, he decided. One push and that would be the end of Moe. And that little push would also serve as the beginning of Benny Dix.

They entered the park and stopped. They were just steps from him now, just steps from him and the knife and the murder. It was time now. He knew this, but he couldn’t force himself to move for a moment, as if he were made of wood.

Now.

He stepped out from behind the tree and closed the gap between them in three quick strides, impatient to get it all over with as quickly as possible. Moe looked up and saw him, and he saw the total surprise in his eyes and the excitement and joy in Rita’s. Then the expression in Moe’s eyes changed to fear when he saw the knife, and he started to move but he couldn’t move fast enough, couldn’t dodge the knife that was coming up toward his soft belly, couldn’t even scream when the knife went in and up into him, could only clutch at his gut as he fell back and crumpled to the pavement.

Rita came to him and stood next to him, and his arm went around her while she looked down at the body that a few minutes ago had been Moe. She was breathing hard now, hot and excited, staring as if she were hypnotized at the pool of blood below her. The blood looked almost purple in the light of the moon.

They stood in their tracks for several moments without either of them moving or saying a word. He felt torn in half, sick at the realization that Moe was dead and he had killed him, and hungry for Rita and knowing that he was going to get her now, that the loneliness and emptiness were over from here on in. She had the proof she wanted.

“Come on,” she said at last. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Where to?”

“My pad. The folks are away for the weekend and nobody’s going to bother us. You think you’ll like that, Benny?”

“Yeah.” His voice was hoarse and tight.

She slipped her hand in his and gave it a squeeze as they started walking swiftly out of the park. “I think you will, too,” she said. “I think we’ll both have a good time.”

“Give me the knife,” she said. “I’ll wash it up so nobody can prove anything, okay?” She took the knife and walked off into the bathroom, and he kicked off his shoes and lay down on the bed to wait for her. He hadn’t felt this way in a long time—wanting something so much that it was an ache instead of an ordinary hunger, and at the same time knowing that now he was going to get what he wanted, that she was in the next room and soon she would be in the same room with him, lying down on the bed beside him, and then he would have her.

Moe was dead. He killed Moe, but nobody was going to suspect him and no cops were going to prove anything even if they did figure it all out. Moe was dead in the park and he was in Rita’s bed waiting for her, and even if killing was a bad thing there was nothing to do about it. It was all over—besides, it had to happen just the way it happened. He couldn’t help it, not at all.

She was running water in the bathroom, washing the knife. Smart girl, he thought. The chick would figure all the angles. If the cops made noises, she could tell how the two of them were together all the time. It was clear.

She came back holding the knife in her hand and set it down on the little brown table at the head of the bed. “It’s clean,” she explained. “I’m leaving it open for now so it’ll dry out, but there’s no sweat now. Nobody saw a thing.”

He nodded, and she sat down on the bed and kicked off her shoes. “You did it,” she said. “You proved it to me, Benny. I knew you’d have the guts, and I knew you wanted me bad enough. That was the important part.”

He didn’t answer. She leaned back on the bed, resting her head on the pillow beside his. He could smell her perfume and the fragrance of her hair and he wanted to reach for her and take her right away without waiting for anything. He’d been with chicks before, but never one like Rita, never one who was made for this sort of thing, one that oozed sex with every step she took.

It was going to be good.

“I want you, too.” She moved even closer to him and he turned so that their bodies pressed together tightly. He could feel every contour of her body and his arms went around her quickly, and then they were kissing. His heart was beating wildly and he couldn’t control his breathing and he was no longer conscious of the room or the bed or the naked lightbulb hanging over the bed or the knife on the night table.

He was only conscious of his body and hers and nothing else mattered at all.

When it was over he lay motionless on the bed while she sat up and rearranged her clothing. He felt complete now for the first time in a long time, complete and whole and relaxed at last. She was even better than she’d promised, better than he had imagined.

He could almost forget Moe and the sick expression on his face when the knife tore into his stomach. Moe was something that couldn’t be avoided, something in the way that had to be removed. It wasn’t his fault for killing Moe, any more than it was his fault for being born or wanting Rita. It just happened that way.

And it was good for her, too. She loved every minute of it, every second of the act. From here on in it was peaches and cream for Benny Dix, with Rita whenever he wanted her. And he would want plenty.

“You liked it,” he said. “Didn’t you?”

“Of course. Couldn’t you tell?” There was a touch of amusement in her voice, a note of her knowing something that he was missing.

“Yeah. I mean—You like doing that. You like it every time, don’t you?”

“Uh-huh.”

Well, he’d give her plenty to like. He rolled over on one elbow and looked at her, sitting silently on the edge of the bed. She looked even prettier than before and it was hard to believe that he had actually made love to her, that he had scored with such a good-looking broad. But he could believe it. He could remember every second of it as if it were still happening.

“I bet there’s nothing you like better,” he went on, talking slowly. “You proved that you wanted me, just like I proved it to you. Right?”

She nodded, and he could just make out the shadow of a smile on her face.

“That’s what I figured. A guy can tell if a chick’s faking, you know?”

“I wasn’t faking.”

“You don’t have to tell me. You must like it better than anything else in the world.”

The smile grew wider. “Almost,” she said, softly. “There’s only one thing in the world I like better, Benny. Just one thing.” As she spoke, it seemed to him as though she were playing some kind of a game with him.

“Yeah?” he said, mildly curious. “What’s that?”

“Something I just saw,” she answered, and he still didn’t know what she was talking about. “It was fun to see it, Benny, and I bet it’s even better when you do it yourself!”

He opened his mouth to say something, and his mouth remained uselessly open as he saw the knife in her hand, the knife he had used on Moe. For one brief second he saw the answer to his question in her eyes; for one instant he knew what she really craved, what kind of excitement sent her blood racing. Just for that single second when he watched the insane stare in her eyes as she gazed at the blood gushing from the stab wound in his chest.

A second later his vision blurred and he saw nothing.

In another second he was dead.

BRIDE OF VIOLENCE

SHE DIDN’T SAY A WORD when I pulled the car off the road behind the clump of young poplars. I cut the motor and flicked off the lights. Then I pulled her to me and kissed her.

The kiss sent my blood racing. This was nothing new. Just being with Rita, just looking at her and running my eyes over the full curves of her body was enough to send me into a sweat.

I forced myself to pull away from her. “Come on,” I said. “Let’s get into the backseat.”

She smiled, teasing me. “Why?”

“You know why.”

“Tell me anyway.”

I just looked at her. Her hair was long and golden and it spilled over her shoulders like a yellow waterfall. Her mouth was red with the lipstick I hadn’t managed to kiss away yet. Her eyes were a sort of cornflower blue that deepened almost to purple in the dark.

I wanted her so much it was killing me.

“Quit playing games,” I said.

“Games?” The eyes widened.

“Come on.”

She smiled. “I just want you to tell me why we should get in the backseat, Jim. That’s all.”

“Don’t you know?”

“I’m not sure,” she said. “Maybe you have designs on my virtue. How should I know?”

“Rita—”

Her face softened. “I’m sorry, Jim,” she said. “I don’t like to tease you.”

Not much, I thought. I didn’t say anything.

“It’s just that I don’t want us to get too involved, Jim. Honey, every time we park the car and neck up a storm we go a little farther than we did last time. I’m afraid sometime we won’t be able to stop.”

“What’s wrong if we don’t?”

“Jim—”

“Well, what if we don’t? God, Rita, I want you and you want me and that ought to be enough. Why in hell won’t you let me make love to you?”

“I’ve already told you that.”

“But it doesn’t make any sense!”

She moved closer to me. I could feel her breasts pressing against my chest. My skin felt warm beneath my shirt where she was touching me. Her lips brushed my cheek.

“Not until we’re married,” she said. “I’ve told you a dozen times, darling.”

More than a dozen times, I thought. Closer to a hundred times. I kissed her again, almost absently, thinking that this was just a repeat of a conversation the two of us went through almost every night.

But I had to keep going.

“We’re going to be married,” I said, “as soon as I get enough money saved up so that we won’t have to pick through garbage cans when we want breakfast.”

“I know.”

“I’d marry you now,” I went on. “Waiting was your idea, Rita. I—”

“You know it’s the only sensible thing to do.” She was closer to me now, so close I could feel every outline of her warm body. My arm slipped around her and stroked the firm flesh. I had a hard time getting the next sentence out; I wasn’t much in the mood for conversation.

“Okay,” I said. “Waiting to get married is sensible. But waiting to make love isn’t.”

“Suppose I got pregnant?” she demanded.

The same old arguments every damned night. “You won’t,” I said.

“You can’t be sure about that, Jim. It happens, you know.”

“Then we’d get married right away.”

“And then we’d have everybody counting the months and snickering when the baby was born. I don’t want that, Jim.”

I didn’t answer.