Marcy's arms went around his spent body and she hugged him close to her entwined nakedness. She panted, "Oh… Don… i-it was super… wonderful!"
"Don't be stupid… Marcy! I didn't mean for it to be!" he mumbled. "I wanted to hurt you… you know… like punish you…"
"You d-did… but you made m-me cum… too!"
"Quite a show!" It was Ray Donahue who stood at the doorway watching them. "What's for an encore?"
Don came off the bed fast. He smelled danger, somehow. His rapidly deflating penis pulled from Marcy's pussy with a slight pop, as he rolled off the bed and dived for the.38 on the dresser.
A raucous laugh greeted his acrobatic performance. "Christ, Don… what's all that for?"
Then, he saw that Ray was not a danger; the tall youth merely stood in the door, nursing his wounded mouth and nose with a wet handkerchief. Don looked at him, sheepishly.
"Nothing… just jumpy…" he said, and put the.38 in his waistband.
"That's mine!" Ray said. "Give it back to me… and put your cock away… it looks kind of stupid flopping out of your pants like that!"
Don looked down, saw that he was right, and stuffed his flaccid member back into his pants. As he buttoned his fly, he said, "I'll give you fifty bucks for it."
"I don't want to sell it… I paid more than…" Ray stopped short, catching himself saying something he hadn't intended to say.
"That figures…!" Don shot back. He reached for his wallet, took out bills and thrust them at his erstwhile friend.
Ray wouldn't take the money from him, so Don stuffed the bills in the tall boy's shirt pocket. "Just for the record… Marcy saw me pay you… Okay?"
"Hell, Don… you don't have to make a big scene about it… it's just money!"
Don turned to Marcy, a hard, cynical smile on his face. "Now… Marcy… here's yours!" He flung a twenty-dollar bill at her. It fluttered through the air to land on her sperm-moistened pubic mound. She looked at it, stupidly.
"What's with you, Don? You're acting real weird, tonight!" she murmured, taking the bill in her hand, as she set up in the big bed.
"That's your price… isn't it? Then, that's what I'm paying!" he grunted. "… But, you're sure as hell not worth it!" He picked up his jacket and put it on.
Striding to the door to leave, he added, "Don't either of you say another word to anybody… about me and Charity!"
He left them staring after him, dumbfounded… nonplussed.
CHAPTER FOUR
It was a somewhat sad and lonely young man who mounted his motorbike and rode away from the Donahue home. There had been, for him, a short-lived thrill in his sadistic treatment of Marcy and a certain satisfaction in his domination of the boy whom he had once considered a friend; however, now as he pulled away from the curb, it was the complete feeling of aloneness that swept over him. If anything were to be done, he had to do it… alone, and if necessary, assume the consequences himself. It was a risky and dangerous undertaking! He had to have some money, fast!
Then, he thought about how stupid his grandstand play had been, back there with Ray and Marcy: fifty bucks for the gun… and twenty… just to be able to tell Marcy off! Damn! That's playing it pretty stupid!
He had to find exactly the right place… the right setup… one that would enable him to make his hit, fast, and would give him a clean getaway, afterward.
Riding up and down the streets of Redfern, he checked out several possibilities: a couple of liquor stores and two or three all-night service stations. It came to him, then; he was thinking of pulling a robbery right in his own home-town where there were too many possibilities of recognition. Why pull something else stupid, now? There are a hell of a lot more places over in San Bernardino!
Decisively, he headed for the larger city; his plan, now, to hit a late-closing liquor store, head toward Los Angeles, to throw off any possible pursuit, then work his way back to Redfern on the back roads. He reexamined his ideas and felt satisfied his plan was workable.
Idling along the streets of San Bernardino, he spotted what he was looking for, a liquor store in a small shopping center. It was the only business establishment still open, and there was but a single clerk on duty within the brightly lit store with its overloaded shelves of bottle goods.
Don parked his bike and watched the place, from a distance. There were few customers. The parking lot was almost empty. As a patron's car pulled away from in front of the liquor store, Don decided it was time to make his move.
He left his bike, out of sight, some twenty-five yards from the entrance, the motor idling; then, pulling his stocking cap down low to his eyebrows and hastily covering his lower face with his handkerchief, he strode to the door, his snub-nosed pistol in his hand.
The night clerk, a broad-faced man with a definite paunch was taken completely by surprise. He sat on a stool behind the counter, his nose buried in a paper-back book with a lurid, sexy cover.
"Put the money in a paper sack… and be quick about it!" Don ordered.
With excruciating slowness, the clerk laid the book aside and focused on the young gunman. He arose and moved toward the cash register, carefully selecting a small sack from a pile of them under the counter, as Don moved closer to watch the man's every move.
The older man glanced once toward Don, saw his obvious nervousness and said, "Son… you sure you want to go through with this?"
"Hell, yes!" he barked. "Don't talk! I just want the money!"
"Just as you say! You've got the hardware!" He punched the cash register open and scooped bills into the sack, then put the sack on the counter. "There you are…"
Don made no move to pick it up. "All of it!" he snapped. "The big stuff… underneath the cash box!"
Obediently, the clerk lifted out the cash box, picked up more bills and put them in the sack. "That's it… you've cleaned us out!" he said.
"Now, come around the counter… keep your hands in sight!" Don commanded.
Again, the man obeyed, and when he had reached the end of the counter, Don ordered him to lie on the floor.
"Don't move from there for ten minutes… and you won't get hurt!" he warned, as he turned and sprinted for his motorcycle.
Galvanizing himself into instant action, the moment Don's running figure had cleared the door, the clerk moved fast for one of his girth. He dived behind the counter and came up with a long-barrelled.45 revolver. Guessing that the robber was working alone, he went through the door fast and flattened himself on the asphalt. He saw his target, the boy was just mounting the motorcycle. The big gun, in his hand roared out once.
Don's left leg suddenly collapsed under him, and searing pain caused him to cry out. Then, he was on the ground. His pistol was jerked out of his waistband, and he was conscious that someone was examining his wound.
Merciful unconsciousness blotted out the rest… until he woke up again in the prison ward of County Hospital. When he finally became aware of his surroundings, where he was… and the circumstances of his being there, he turned his head into his pillow and wept — not because of the pain — but for sheer frustration and worry about what would happen to his sister, Charity.
Christ! I've really messed up everything!
A white, starched nurse, fat and grandmotherly, bustled in, saw that he was awake and said, cheerily, "Time for your shot! Turn over on your side… please!"
Obediently, Don turned, aware now of the pain in his leg. It hurt more than he was willing to admit. Efficiently, the nurse jabbed the needle into his alcohol-swabbed backside. "There… that'll be better, now!" she clucked.