YOUNG
STUD
‘You
must stay gentle,’
the dossier warned. ‘He is shy and a
little afraid. Act that way yourself. Gentle, shy, fearful. And always very,
very feminine.
‘In
this young man’s culture, the matrons of the family govern many
circumstances. Woman hold most of the positions of importance.
‘Shed
a few tears and for your sake he would willingly die.’
Turning
her head away from Benny, Angie whispered a sigh. It caught in her throat.
Raising her hands to her eyes, she pricked the corner of one eye with a
fingernail.
Quiet
tears welled. Benny’s resistance shattered, Angie felt a note of triumph.
“I’ll
go change.”
Slipping
away, a seeming demure Angie kept her gaze on the flagstone to shield a
narrowed look of conquest.
Her
smile at Spike was all teeth.
Running
to her room, Angie tore the skirt and delicate silk peach top from her body.
Tossing
the contents into a disarray she ripped through the walk-in closet. Her mother
and that Mara could pick it all up later, and put away her things. Even on her
father’s income the family could barely afford her wardrobe, but the shrink
said she had to have it, and the laws demanded a child be given every chance.
Angie
headed for the back stairs. No, that would mean passing that Mara woman again.
Angie shivered. She slipped down the front stairs. Her father’s office door
was open.
“Damn.”
Angie
steeled her nerves and tried to sneak passed her father’s den. To her dismay
he glanced up from the recording he was viewing.
O’Brian
tossed aside the remote and gave a weary groan. Fondly and with no little
pride at his only daughter, he smiled. Not many men could boast of as sweet a
child as his Angelica. O’Brian rubbed at a nagging cramp in his chest. Ever
since that dammed Grey tried to ruin his Angie the pain was growing.
Two
Swords grinned.
O’Brian
noticed she was dressed to go out. He frowned.
“Who’s
that outside, honey?”
Angie
hesitated. She tightened an already anorexic stomach and buttocks in hard, so
the skin-taut cling of the riding leathers wouldn’t show.
Teeth
and eyes bright for Daddy, she smiled.
Too
enthralled by what he believed, O’Brian didn’t see the calculating look in
her eyes.
Passing
through the door, Angie gave her father’s cheek a quick peck.
Angel
gurgled in her brightest Daddy’s-little-girl mode.
“No
one, Daddy.” Really no one.
Dear
old Dad. She smirked at the bowed back. He was as big a sucker for the
weak-&-ladylike bull as Motor-Head Grey. A woman, she told herself in firm
tones, can do no wrong/a man can do no right. All men, according to her
therapist, lived for their balls.
“It’s
just little Billy Tynne. He wants to take me to a movie up in Hazleton.”
Running her fingers through her father’s thinning hair, she told him in a
soft, firm way, “Don’t wait up, now.” Please
don’t wait up.
“Welsh,
isn’t he?” The Welsh were mine owners and greedy. That the mines were long
gone from their hands meant little.
Distracted
from her by the picture frozen on the screen, his head moved in an
absentminded nod, one hand groping for the remote. With a smug grin, Angie
noted it was one of the disks he kept on the Greylov files. Bad to the bone,
Daddy said, about Carl and Benny. Carl, certainly . . . But, that wimp, Benny?
She could have laughed.
By
the time Angie had left the study, her father was mesmerized by the screen.
Lips compressed in a thin, hard line, he watched and listened, hoping for some
slip, some way to reopen the case. He sipped on a tall glass of vodka,
grimaced at the taste and drank more.
O’Brian
muttered something like, “Have a good time, honey. Make certain he uses
protection.” He let himself be swept back into that hideous, shameful
episode.
Gliding
to a halt, she half turned. “Oh, I will, Daddy.” Eyes vaguely derisive,
she smiled. “I will indeed.” Angie gust a sigh of relief and hitched up
the skin-tight leathers.
She
strutted proudly out the front door. An unhappy Spike glared at her. At her
faint smirk his face grew taut. Spike shifted his seat on the plastic flower
boxes.
He
glanced away. It was weird how men who did really nasty stuff to other people
and have to go to court could do such nice stuff after his dad put them in
jail. Weird.
Eyes
hostile, his voice sullen and devoid of hope, Spike said, “I wish you’d
dump that Donald jerk and start goin’ out with Benny. He’s real. And I
like ‘cycles.” Spike’s gaze devoured the sleek, battered lines of old
motorcycle.
Rider
and machine bask in the warmth of the boy’s adoring gaze.
Spike
wanted to smack Angie for using Benny. But he knew from talking with Benny on
the school bus to and from White Haven that his hero wouldn’t stand for any
man, not even a nine-year-old worshiper, nailing even a scuds like Angie.
Glum,
Spike watched Benny’s hungry gaze follow Angie’s jiggle as she slithered
down the steps and into the Uohali’s saddle. Curious, Spike watched the
small play of action between them. From his father’s porn collection, he
knew what Benny wanted to do and what Angie was offering. But he still
couldn’t see what all the fuss was about. The kids at River View grade
school giggled about that crap, but he never did because it was, to his mind,
something so important, a guy could die or something if he didn’t get it. At
least that’s what his father was hinting.
Angie
was pressed against Benny, laying her warm, soft head on his shoulders.
Slender hands that never knew work reached around, took the heavy oval of the
belt buckle, pressing in and down. Hearing a sharp in-take of breath she bared
teeth in cool laughter. A seething heat lay under her hands, the heavy bulk of
something straining for release. He was in torment with her presence, her
scent, the very fantasy he had of having her.
The
hands shifted. Angie reached forward, thrilled to feel rock hard thighs, back
to lightly stroke corded, washboard muscles of the stomach. He was lean. Not
even Donald felt this good. Nor did Donald have calluses from real work.
Angie
wrinkled her nose. He smelled a little, musky and male, but she didn’t mind.
His clothing though, spoke poverty and, as Daddy called the voters, common
herd-sheep.
Benny’s
tongue lashed at the hot and bitter sweat beading in the downy beginnings of a
mustache. Wishing reverently it was Angie he tasted Benny closed his eyes. His
adams apple bobbed wildly in a swelling throat.
“Mmmm,
Benny?” A tingle started deep within her. Angie’s hips slid forwards. Her
nipples hardened to diamond points, pressing through the sweaty tee shirt.
Benny stiffened. She nibbled gently on the rocky muscles of his back.
“Benny
. . . ”
She
forgot what she was about to say. Angie’s tongue touched the back of his
neck. She grimaced.
A
little sharper than she meant to, she said, “Benny, don’t you have any
other clothes? Better clothes.”
Embarrassed
and confused, he stared at the battered gas tank and slowly shook his head. He
wore jeans and tees. Nothing fancy. He hated ties and jerk suits. And shoes,
too. But boots were cool. Besides, there was no way he could afford nice stuff
like kids at school wore.
She
stiffened against him, then pushed away, just a little. Angie scowled and
shrugged to herself. She’d take care of it.
“Guess
we better go.” Benny tried to smile, for her.
Pushing
slowly again the resentment of the motorcycle, Benny rolled it quietly out of
the curving drive.
He
nodded hard, calling softly to Spike “Yo. Like, later, little bro.”
©2002 StoriesByEmail.com
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