Deadly Embrace (4 page)

Dashell, Lucy soon discovered, did not believe in doctors.

"Greedy bastards. All they're after is a man's money," he
complained in his gruff voice. "Round here we take care of our
own."

Lucy could not believe he had no intention of taking her to see a
doctor, even though she begged him to do so.

"No!" he said sternly. "An' stop naggin' me, woman."

Lucy attempted to elicit help from Dashell's two other wives.

"What makes you any different from us?" Olive demanded, an
unsympathetic curl to her thin lips.

"I... I just thought—"

"Well,
don't
think," Olive snapped, while Mona looked on.
"You'll be fine. Dashell takes care of delivering our babies around
here. He's done it seven times already."

When Lucy finally went into labor, it was in the middle of the
night. With no nurses or a doctor to guide her through the pregnancy,
she had no idea what to expect when her water broke.

The lack of knowledge threw her into a panic. And when her
contractions started, she began wailing aloud in pain, waking Mona,
who slept in the same room along with Emily, her youngest child.

Mona sat up in bed. "Be quiet!" she commanded. "Stop that horrible
noise. You'll wake the dead."

"I... I think my baby's coming," Lucy stammered, frightened and
confused.

"You can't have it now," Mona said, as if her very words would
stop the baby from entering the world. "Dashell's gone into town. He
won't be back till morning."

"Then you must get me to a doctor," Lucy gasped, as another
contraction swept over her with an intensity the like of which she'd
never felt before.

She screamed, feeling as if her whole body was being torn
apart.

"Can't," Mona said flatly. "Dashell took the truck."

Olive came bustling into the room, tying her bathrobe, a grim
expression on her plain face. "Bite on this," she said
matter-of-factly, thrusting one of Dashell's leather belts at her
young cousin. "And for the love of God stay quiet, yoiyre frightening
the children."

"Please ...," Lucy whispered, unbearable pain sweeping over her.
"You ... you have to get me to a doctor."

"You'll be fine," Olive said, stripping off the bedcovers while
Mona shepherded little Emily from the room.

"You're not the first woman to have a baby."

"
Pleasel
" Lucy begged. "I... need... a doctor!" "Open your
legs an' push," Olive said sternly. "And stop making such a god-awful
fuss."

* * *

Baby Dani was born twenty-five minutes later. Her mother bled to
death.

"How old are you?" the girl asked.

She
was nineteen, Michael knew that for a fact. Nineteen,
with big breasts, teased black hair, and the faint shadow of a
mustache. Her name was Polly, and she lived a few blocks away. He'd
made it his business to find out everything he could about her
because he thought she was the sexiest woman he'd ever seen.

"Eighteen," he lied. Actually he was fifteen, but he looked much
older and was confident that he could get away with the lie.

"Yeah?" she said, not quite convinced.

"Yeah," he confirmed, blinking rapidly—long, thick eyelashes
curling over deep green eyes.

"Hmm...," Polly said, checking him out with an appraising stare.
He might not be eighteen, but he was certainly the best-looking hunk
of flesh
she'd
ever encountered. Her sometime boyfriend,
Cyril, didn't come close.

"So you're really eighteen, then?" she said, convincing
herself.

"Sure," he answered confidently, adding a cocky "Why? You think I
look older?"

They were standing on the street corner outside her girlfriend
Sandi's apartment. Sandi had thrown herself a birthday party. Michael
had heard about it and promptly crashed. Nobody had questioned his
presence, so after a while he'd started making a move toward Polly.
When she left the party he was right behind her.

The sound of Elvis Presley singing "Are You Lonesome Tonight" came
drifting down from Sandi's apartment— maybe it was a sign.

"So...," he ventured. "Wanna get an ice cream?"

"Ice cream!" she snorted derisively, turning up her nose.
"
You're
not eighteen."

Actions spoke louder than words. Grabbing her by the arm, he
pinned her up against the side of the building and began kissing
her—shoving his tongue down her throat.

She started to push him off.

He wasn't giving up so easily. Working on instinct, he quickly
went for her big breasts, fingering her nipples the way he'd seen
some ugly guy do it in a porno movie he'd watched with a bunch of his
pals.

Bingo
! She stopped struggling and gave a little moan.

He felt an erection grow in his pants, and prayed to God that
tonight he'd have somewhere to put it. Somewhere, anywhere—he
was tired of his hand, and Grandma Lani lurking outside the bathroom
door, yelling, "What're you doin' in there? It better not be anythin'
dirty or I'll smack you silly."

He pressed his body against Polly's, making sure she could feel
his excitement. At the same time he kept up the hand action on her
big breasts while wondering if he should maneuver his other hand
under her sweater, or was it too soon?

By this time she was kissing him back with a great deal of wet
tongue
and
plenty of enthusiasm. This was a good sign.

Deciding he had nothing to lose, he slid his hand under her
sweater, pushed her bra up, and grabbed a handful of soft, warm
flesh.

"Cut it out!" she giggled, surfacing for air. "We're on the
street, anybody can see."

"No they can't."

"Yes they
can
."

"Let's go somewhere else," he gulped, hoping he wasn't about to
come in his underwear.

"Like
where
, Mr. Smarty Pants?" she asked, pulling her
sweater down and recovering her composure.

"How about a hotel?" he suggested.

"What kind of a girl do you think I am?" she said indignantly.

A
girl I'm gonna fuck
, he thought,
or die
trying
.

She threw him another look. He was so damn handsome. And hot. And
big where it mattered. All the things that Cyril was not.

"You got money for a hotel?" she asked. " 'Cause I live with my
parents, which means we can't go there."

"I got money," he boasted, trying to control his excitement at
what might lie ahead.

"Then what're we waiting for?" she asked, slipping her arm through
his.

Holy cow! He was finally about to get laid. He couldn't believe
it. The furthest he'd gotten before was with a girl at school, Tina,
and although Tina was pretty and popular, she was not into
experimenting. The most he'd ever gotten out of her was a few French
kisses and a quick feel of her breasts—which were no way as
large as Polly's, and always fully covered.

"Sex is for marriage," Tina had often told him, her pretty face
deadly serious. "We have to wait."

Like he was ready for marriage. No way. Besides, he was fed up
with waiting. He knew what he wanted, and if he didn't get it soon
he'd go crazy.

He was fifteen. He was a man. He
needed
sex.

One day he'd attempted to raise the subject of sex with his dad,
who unfortunately was confined to a wheelchair. Vinny had stared at
him for a few silent minutes before shaking his head in a gloomy way.
"Stay away from falling in love," he'd warned. "It only leads to
heartbreak."

Michael knew that his dad was bitter, although it was hard to
ignore that Vinny never had a good word to say about anyone or
anything. He sat in his wheelchair, either at home or in the store,
and rarely spoke. If he wasn't at the shop, he was stuck in front of
the TV, his favorite place.

What kind of a life is that
? Michael thought. Certainly not
the kind of life
he
wanted.

He'd never known Anna Maria, his mother, although he certainly
knew what she'd looked like. There was a big picture of her in the
center of the mantelpiece, surrounded by candles. Every Sunday at six
o'clock his dad lit the candles and said a prayer.

Lani had explained to him that some bad men had shot his mom and
that he'd been born a short time after she died. When he'd first
heard the story it hadn't meant much to him, but as he grew older he
started thinking about it more and more. Instead of having loving
parents like Tina, he was stuck with a grandmother who barely had
time for anything except work and a dad who was trapped in a
wheelchair. It made him think about his mom, imagining how different
things might have been if she'd lived.

It had been occurring to him more and more lately that he wanted
to know how the crime had happened, so one day he'd taken himself to
the police station and asked if they could look up the case and give
him some more information.

The detective in charge was a jovial fellow who knew Lani, so he'd
obliged and retrieved the file. "Not much to tell, except that they
never caught the perpetrators," he'd said. "Sorry, son."

"Did anyone find out who they were?" Michael had asked.

"Nope." The detective had shaken his head. " 'Fraid the case is
closed."

It seemed strange to him that in a neighborhood where everyone
knew everyone else's business, nobody had any clue who'd shot his
mother, crippled his father, and robbed the store.

Polly clung to his arm as they walked along the street. She
smelled sort of flowery. He wondered what she'd smell like when he
got her clothes off.

He had a plan; it wasn't as if he'd pulled the idea of a hotel out
of the air. His best friend, Max, had a night job working as an
assistant porter at a small fleabag hotel. Max often boasted that if
he ever needed a room, it could be arranged.

Okay
, Michael thought.
Let's see if he's full of
crap
.

The hotel was dark and dismal looking, the pungent aroma of cooked
cabbage lingering in the air. Holding tightly on to Polly, Michael
marched up to the small reception desk, where a bespectacled old man
sat behind the scratched desk leafing through a well-thumbed girlie
magazine.

My
luck
, Michael thought.
This has gotta be the
one night Max isn't working
.

Just as he was swallowing his disappointment, Max came walking in,
carrying two mugs of steaming hot coffee. Max, who was no slouch in
the getting-it department, took one look and quickly handed the old
man one of the mugs of coffee. "Here you go, Burt," he said
cheerfully. "Take a break. You look like you could use it."

"Don't mind if I do," Burt said, getting up and shuffling into a
back room.

"Hey," Michael said to his friend.

"Hey," Max responded, fighting to keep the knowing look off his
face. Their eyes met, acknowledging the situation.

"I'd, uh ... like a room," Michael said, attempting to sound
worldly.

"Sure," Max said, picking up a stained and torn reservation book
and staring at the blank pages. "Got a nice one on the first floor,
room number eight." He reached back to one of the slots behind him.
"Here's the key," he said, handing it to Michael while giving Polly a
furtive onceover.

She stared at him defiantly, daring him to say something.

Michael took her hand and led her to the stairs.

"You didn't tell me you had a friend who worked in a hotel," she
said accusingly. "No wonder you were so anxious."

"Not that I come here often," he explained with a sheepish
grin.

"Often enough to know what you're doing, I hope," she said,
deciding that if she was going to cheat on Cyril, she might as well
make sure it was worthwhile.

"I can find my way around," he boasted.

"I'm sure you can," she replied flirtatiously.

The room—painted a dull green—was small and
depressing. In the center was a narrow bed covered with a patchwork
bedspread that had seen better days. A small window overlooked
nothing.

"Hmmm ...," Polly said, glancing around. "Not exactly the Plaza,
is it?"

"Didn't know you were here for the fancy trimmings," Michael said,
burning up with anticipation.

"Ha! Let's see what kind of fancy trimmings
you've
got,"
she said, licking her lips in a very suggestive way.

He was breathing fast. This was quite an experience. He had a
girl, his fantasy girl, right in front of him in a hotel room with a
bed. And now it occurred to him that he wasn't
exactly
sure
what he was supposed to do. Yes, he knew he had to touch her tits.
Yes, he knew he had to kiss her in a passionate way. But what did he
do after that? just shove it in? Was that what she expected?

It would have been nice if his dad had given him some guidelines.
His pals at school weren't much help either. Virgins—every
one—much as they claimed otherwise. He was the first one doing
the dirty deed and he couldn't wait.

Polly sashayed into the tiny bathroom. "I'll be right out," she
called, shutting the door behind her.

He hurriedly pulled the bedspread off the bed. A roach ran across
the once-white sheets. He hit it with his shoe and flipped the body
behind a chair. Girls didn't like crawly things, he knew that.

Should he take his pants off, or keep 'em on? That was the burning
question. He decided to keep them on.

When Polly emerged a few minutes later she'd removed her sweater,
but she still had on her knee-high white boots, fake leather
miniskirt, and a white bra. "So," she said, facing him, a challenging
look in her eyes. "You gonna fly me to the moon, or what?"

He grabbed her with a show of strength and began kissing her
again, pushing his tongue around her teeth, kneading her breasts,
reaching for the clip at the back of her bra, struggling to get it
off.