“Honey?”

Her hand felt leathery around his small, soft penis.

It'shand.

He pictured himself knocking it away.

But he knew that this was Jean. She hadn’t turned into the corpse. He wasn’t hallucinating, either. This was just Jean, and his damned imagination was simply messing with him.

Not going to let it win, he promised himself.

He scooted backward on the mattress. Her hand went away from him. He kissed her belly. Warm, soft, slick with sweat. Not dry and leathery.

Stop comparing!

But when his face rubbed Jean’s moist curls, he remembered the thing’s blond thicket of pubic hair. A shudder passed through him.

Jean thrust fingers into his hair.

He went lower. She writhed and moaned, thrusting herself against him, clenching his hair, and he lost all thought of the corpse.

Soon she was whimpering.

But not from any nightmare, Larry thought as she tugged his hair and he scurried up the mattress. He clamped his wet mouth to hers. He ran the hard length of his penis into her heat. She seemed to suck him in as if she were hungry to be filled.

“I should have... nightmares more often,” she told him later.

“Yeah.”

She was panting beneath him, lightly stroking his back. Then she turned her face away, worked her lips strangely, and raised a hand to her mouth. With her thumb and index finger, she pinched something and pulled it out.

“What’s that?”

“A hair.”

“Where’d that come from?”

“Your mouth,” she said, shaking under him as she chuckled. She rubbed her hand on the sheet, then wrapped her arms around Larry and gave him a powerful squeeze. It was as if the hug used up the last of her strength. After a moment she released him and sprawled out limp. Then he eased away, sliding out of her.

He pulled the sheet and blanket up and scooted closer to her. He rested a hand on the warm curve of her thigh. Under his fingertips was a smear of stickiness. “Ooo, yuck,” he said.

She laughed softly. “Don’t complain, buster. I’vegot the wet spot.”

“Want to trade places?”

“It’s my wifely duty to sleep on the wet spot.” Her hand covered his, caressed it, fooled with his fingers.

In the silence he began to worry that Jean might ask about his problem. He doubted that she would, though. Their sex life was something they rarely discussed. Besides, he’d made a rather spectacular recovery.

“Well,” he said, “I’d better go to sleep or I won’t be worth a damn tomorrow.”

“You’ll have to write like a dog to pay for Lane’s new wardrobe.”

“Bought out the store,” he muttered, rolling away from Jean and curling up on his side.

She laughed, then surprised Larry by snuggling against him. Normally they slept at opposite sides of the bed.

But it felt good. Her breath warm on the nape of his neck. Her breasts and belly pressing his back. Her lap against his rump. The soft tickle of her pubic hair. Her thighs smooth against the backs of his legs. An arm came down over his side and fingers curled tenderly around his penis.

“You still horny?” he asked.

She kissed his back. “Wiseguy. I just want to be close to you.”

“Well, I guess that’s all right.”

“Thanks.”

“Are you okay?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered. “I guess so. How about you?”

“I wish we hadn’t gone there today.”

“Me, too. I’ve never seen anything so horrible.” She pressed herself more tightly against him. “On the other hand, you’re always looking for material.”

“I could do without thatsort of material.”

“The real thing’s too much for you, huh?” she teased.

“Darn right it is.”

“Your fans would be appalled, you know, if they ever found out how squeamish you really are. Nasty Lawrence Dunbar, master of gore, pussy.”

“Pussy, huh? You’ve been around Pete too much.” She laughed again. “Go to sleep, tough guy.”

Going for It

Seven

“Happy trails to you,” Dad said, and swatted her butt as she stepped out the door.

She smirked back at him.

“Say hi to Roy and Dale,” he added.

“You should look so good,” Lane said, then turned away and hurried toward the car. The red Mustang gleamed in the early morning sunlight. She stepped around to the driver’s side, feeling fresh and eager in her new clothes: the mottled pink and blue T-shirt; the tie-dyed blue denim jumper with its white lace trim and pink flowerbud decorations on the bib, straps, and hem; and the white, fringed boots.

Dad was always poking fun at her clothes. She supposed this outfit didmake her look like a cowgirl.

One hot, radical cowgirl, she thought, and grinned as she climbed into the car.

At least he hadn’t made any remarks about the length of the skirt. Sitting down, she could feel the seat upholstery high on the backs of her legs. As she waited for the engine to warm up, she leaned close to the steering wheel and looked down. The skirt was short, all right. Any shorter might be embarrassing.

This was just right.

Sexy, but not outrageous.

She especially liked the lace around the hem of the skirt, the way its long points lay like frilly spearheads against her thighs.

I’m going to drive Jim nuts when he sees me in this.

As if he needs any help along those lines.

Laughing softly, trembling just a little with the anticipation of being at school on such a fine day in such a grand outfit, Lane backed out of the driveway. She turned the car radio to “86.2 A.M., all the best in Country twenty-four hours a day!” Randy Travis was on. She turned the volume high and poked her elbow into the warm stream of air rushing past her window.

God, she felt great.

Seemed almost criminal to feel this great.

She leaned her shoulder against the door, tipped her head and felt the wind caress her face, tug at her hair.

To think that she’d put up such a fuss about leaving Los Angeles. She must’ve been crazy, wanting to stay in that lousy apartment in a city full of filthy air and creeps. But she’d grown up there. She was used to it. She’d known she would miss her friends and the beaches and Disneyland. This was so much better, though. She’d made new friends, she loved the river, and the clean, open spaces gave her a constant sense of freedom that made each day seem rich with promise.

Best of all, she supposed, was the release from fear. In L.A. you had to be so careful. The place was crawling with rapists and killers. Not a day went by when the TV news didn’t broadcast stories of such horror and brutality that you dreaded stepping outside. Kids missing. Their bodies usually found days later, nude and mutilated and sexually abused. Not only kids, either. The same thing happened to teenagers, and even adults. If you weren’t kidnapped and tortured, you might be gunned down at a restaurant or movie theater or shopping mall. And hiding at home was no guarantee of safety, either. There were plenty of nuts who simply drove around town, shooting into the windows of houses and apartment buildings.

Nowhere was safe.

Lane’s joy slipped away as she suddenly remembered the chopping crashes of gunfire in the night. They had been home in their ground-level apartment in Los Angeles, sitting close together on the sofa, watching Dallason TV Lane had a tub of popcorn on her lap. Mom sat on one side, Dad on the other. All three were reaching in, hands sometimes colliding. The first blast made her jump so hard that the tub flew up, flinging popcorn everywhere. Then the night exploded as if someone on the street had opened up with a machine gun. Mom had screamed. Dad had shouted “Get down!” but didn’t give Lane even an instant to respond before he grabbed the back of her neck and nearly broke her in half as he rammed her forward. The edge of the coffee table skinned the top of her head. She wept and held her head and shuddered as the roar pounded her ears. Then all she heard was a ringing. The gunfire had stopped. Dad still clutched her neck. “Jean?” he’d asked in a high, strange voice. Mom didn’t answer. “Jean!” True panic. Then Mom had said, “Is it over?”