Flesh

a few bottles and glasses on top, the long flat surface of the bar counter, and a corner of something dark—maybe Jason’s blanket—caught in a spill of gray light from a window.

He couldn’t see Celia.

She had to be there. Asleep on the blanket.

He couldn’t hear her, either. Just his own heart and breathing.

She’s there unless she heard us in the can, he thought.

We didn’t make much noise. Jason hardly made a sound. There hadn’t been anything to hear except maybe a couple of thuds. If she was good and plastered, she should’ve slept through all that.

Roland touched his knife case. The flap was loose. Beneath it, the brass butt of the knife handle felt gummy. He left the knife inside its case. He wouldn’t be needing it for a while.

He only needed the cuffs.

On the seat of his jeans, he wiped as much blood as possible off his hands.

He held one bracelet in his right hand, letting the other dangle by its chain, and started forward.

His bare feet snicked each time he lifted one off the floor. With each step, his heart pumped harder, his breath grew more raspy. Sweat stung his eyes and trickled down his sides. He walked with a slight stoop to ease the pressure of his erect penis against his jeans. He grinned. He felt so good now, and he wasn’t even getting any new surges from his friend. Those were yet to come.

He halted at the foot of the blanket. He still couldn’t see Celia.

What if she’s gone!

Then he heard her. She was taking long, slow breaths.

Roland crouched. He reached out carefully until his hand met the blanket. He felt something through its softness—probably a leg—and realized that Celia must have covered herself after lying down.

On his knees, Roland moved to her side. He searched with one hand for the edge of the blanket, found it and lifted it. As he uncovered her, she mumbled something but didn’t awaken.

He could see her now, in spite of the darkness. She was naked, and enough light found her skin to give it a vague, dusky hue. She lay on her back. Her legs were slightly apart, bare except for darker wrappings at her knees. Her right arm, inches from Roland’s knee, lay against her side. The wrapped elbow was bent slightly, and her hand rested with curled fingers just above the jut of her hipbone. Her other arm was high, elbow pointing off to the side, hand beneath her head for a cushion.

Roland stared at the small patch of darkness between her legs. She didn’t have a bush like Dana. She must trim her hair down there, he thought.

He gazed at her breasts. They were dim mounds, tipped with darkness. They rose and fell slightly as she breathed.

With his left hand, he reached forward and touched the nearer breast. It was so smooth. It felt like velvet. The nipple, too. But the nipple seemed to squirm under his touch, rumpling and rising stiff.

Celia’s breathing changed.

“Hi, there,” she whispered in a groggy voice. “Wha’ took you so long?”

Roland squeezed her breast, then took his hand away.

Oh God, he ached! He was getting surges now, waves that pounded through him, shaking him.

“Jason?” Celia asked.

“Jason’s not here, Jason…” and Roland suddenly shrieked, “had some dying to do!” He grabbed her wrist and snapped a cuff around it.

In an instant, before Celia could begin to struggle or scream, he whipped the other cuff around his own left wrist.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Alison woke up. There was sunlight on her bed. The warm breeze drifting through her open window smelled of flowers and grass. A raucous bird was squawking as if annoyed by the pleasant chirping of its neighbors. The bells of a church, somewhere in the distance, pealed a tune. Alison imagined a congregation singing along—“In the sweet, bye ’n bye, we will meet on that beautiful shore…”

Feeling good, she stretched beneath her sheet. Then she slipped the sheet aside and was surprised for a moment to see that she was wearing her new blue negligee.

She had planned to save it for a special occasion. Maybe last night had counted as one, somehow.

She remembered coming up to her attic room after playing Trivial Pursuit and watching The Howling on television with Helen, remembered sitting at her desk and staring at the snapshots of Evan pinned to her bulletin board, feeling empty and alone, wondering about him. He was probably making it with Tracy More-Organ Morgan. The bastard. Wishing for a way to hurt him, she had taken down all the photos and started to rip one into tiny pieces. The snapshot showed her holding Evan’s hand. Celia had taken it two weeks ago on the lawn behind Bennet Hall. Evan was wearing a T-shirt with the logo, “Poets do it with rhythm.” He had a silly look on his face because Celia, instead of telling them to say cheese, announced, “Say, ‘I’m a cunning linguist.’”

By the time Alison had ripped the photo apart and watched its tiny bits float down into the wastebasket, she was in tears. She couldn’t bear to destroy any more, so she had made a neat stack of the rest, put a rubber band around them, and dropped them into the top drawer of her desk.

Hurting, she had taken off her clothes and opened her dresser. She had planned to wear one of her regular nightgowns, but the new one, blue and glossy, caught her eye. There was no reason to save it, no one to save it for. She might as well enjoy it. So she put the negligee on, sighing as it slid over her skin. She wiped her eyes and gazed at her reflection in the mirror. Her breasts were plainly visible through the gauzy top. She shrugged so that one of the spaghetti straps slipped off her shoulder. Eat your heart out, Evan, she thought. You’d go ape if you ever saw me in this, but you never will. Tough luck, shithead.

The memories brought back some of last night’s pain, stealing pleasure from the good feel of lying on the sunlit bed with the breeze sliding over her.

Alison got up and went to the window. It looked beautiful out there. She needed to do something, find a way to enjoy herself. Sundays had been fine before Evan, and they could be fine again.

This would be a great day for a long walk. Go to Jack-in-the-Box for one of those crescent rolls with cheese, sausage, and egg inside. Forget about studying, pick up a brand new paperback at the newsstand—a good, juicy thriller. Later on, head over to the quad with the book and a radio and spend a couple of hours lying in the sun. Or go to the park for your sunbathing, go down by the stream. You’d have privacy there. The quad was bound to be lively on a day like this. Would you rather be alone or have company and maybe meet someone? There’d be a lot of guys at the quad. Just decide when the time comes.

She crossed the bedroom, enjoying the feel of the clinging negligee. She felt pretty fine again.

What was that Hemingway story? A kid, probably Nick Adams, went to bed at night feeling awful because he had broken up with his girlfriend. Saw her with another guy? The thing of it was, the last line. He went to bed feeling rotten, and the next morning he was awake half an hour before he remembered that he had a broken heart.

Great stuff.

Nick Winston didn’t know what he was talking about, dumping on Hemingway.

Maybe drop by Wally’s tonight. Maybe Nick’ll be there.

Do I really want to see him again?

She peeled the negligee over her head, folded it neatly, and placed it in the dresser drawer. She rolled deodorant onto her armpits. A bath would be nice. Save it for this afternoon when you’re finished lying out.

She put on panties, went to her closet and slipped a sleeveless yellow sundress over her head. Then she stepped into sandals. She took her shoulder bag from the dresser top and left her room.

At the bottom of the attic stairs, she entered the bathroom. She used the toilet, washed, brushed her teeth, brushed her hair, and hurried out.

She found Helen sitting cross-legged on the living room carpet with the newspaper spread in front of her, a