She made a half-hearted effort to swat his hand away, but seemed to lack the coordination. Charlie cupped her breast with his hand and murmured, “God, you’re beautiful!”
Callie’s eyes were half shut, her breathing labored. “Get your hands off me!” she was trying to say, but her voice came out as slow and lazy as ketchup from a bottle. As far as they knew, she was barely conscious.
Bickham moved his hand to her crotch, tried to feel her through her jeans. Charlie, out of control, ripped her blouse open, lifted her bra, exposing her breasts. He stuffed one in his mouth while rubbing the nipple of the other with his thumb.
“Quit that shit!” yelled Bickham. “You know the rules!
Bickham wasn’t kidding about the rules. They were as important as the plan itself. Charlie had been a huge help in formulating them, thanks to years of experience watching his father prepare for criminal defense trials.
In all, there were seven rules in Fuck Club, as Charlie called their group, and the four friends had agreed to follow all seven faithfully, on pain of death.
The first rule is you never talk about the plan, even to each other, because you never know who might overhear you. When your friends ask how was your weekend you always tell them the same thing: you struck out again. What do you care if your friends think you can’t get laid?
The second rule is you wait until she’s unconscious before removing her clothes. The last thing you want is to have to explain why she’s screaming if the sex is consensual.
The third rule is, undress her completely but carefully, paying attention to which buttons were buttoned and what was tucked in, and how. If she’s a little heavy and doesn’t button the top button of her jeans, she’ll know if someone else did. She might not remember if she had too much to drink and got in your van, but she will remember she had some tissue stuffing her bra that isn’t there when she gets undressed at home afterward.
Then you fold her clothes or lay them out to avoid wrinkles or stains. “Always remember,” Charlie had said, “without the dress stain, Monica was a liar, a slut, and a stalker. With it, she nearly brought down the President!” Afterward, you dress her carefully, replacing every item as it had been before you unwrapped the package.
The fourth rule is, use a condom. You don’t want any fluids turning up later. DNA evidence is hard to overcome if you’re on record denying you had sex with her. Of course, later on you can always just say you were trying to protect her reputation, or yours, and that the sex was consensual. But in that case you’re arguing after the fact, trying to play make-up. You’ve lost a measure of credibility and created doubt. It’s better not to be in this position in the first place.
The fifth rule is you remain calm at all times. Do her gently to avoid marks or abrasions typically associated with sexual assault. You never attempt oral or anal. Oral could choke her to death because the drug constricts her breathing, and anal is something she would figure out later on.
The sixth rule is you take no pictures, videos, souvenirs or evidence of any kind. Speaking of evidence, you leave none. This means, curb the saliva. No hickies, love bites or marks of any kind. No sense giving the cops or prosecuting attorney a gift-wrapped conviction.
The final rule is you never admit to anything. If the police bring all four of you into the station and isolate you in separate interrogation rooms, you never admit anything. If the cops threaten you or tell Charlie that Bickham is cutting a deal, Charlie knows it’s a lie because of rule number seven. Under no circumstances do you break rule number seven. As Charlie says, “Put your trust in the American system of justice and you’ll be fine, because the rules of evidence are flawed when it comes to date rape. If no one breaks any of the seven rules, none of us will ever be convicted.”
Also, as long as Charlie’s involved, you inherit his highpowered father as your legal safety net.
Of course, if anyone was likely to violate the rules it would be Charlie himself—and he’d already proved it tonight by ripping Callie’s blouse and getting his saliva all over her breast.
Bickham turned the van down the dirt road toward the wooded area owned by his grandfather, drove a few hundred yards before stopping, and extinguished the headlights. I passed their turnoff and went a mile further before turning into the dirt road I knew would eventually bring me a quarter mile from Bickham’s preferred banging area.
Bickham put his van in park and cut the engine. He pushed Charlie off of Callie. “Goddamn it, Charlie. Wait your fuckin’ turn!”
“Jesus Christ, Bickham, check out these tits!” he gushed. “She’s a fuckin’ ten, man!”
“No shit,” said Bickham. “Now help me get her in the back before I explode!”
The back of the van had a couple of layers of sleeping bags spread out, so the girls wouldn’t have marks on their backs afterward.
Charlie opened the passenger door, climbed out, and lowered the passenger seat to create easy access to the back of the van. He figured he’d reach under Callie’s arms and drag her back there. But as he leaned toward her, his face exploded.
In that small, enclosed area, the gun shot noise was deafening.
