“... could use a beer, too,” he muttered.
“And me.”
“Yeah, one for the road and how ’bout a nice juicy burger on the side.” He gave a faint grin.
“Christ. Have a heart,” Bert grimaced. “On the other hand, maybe don’t have a heart. Too soon to talk offal after the slaughter-fest down at Chez Angus, don’t you think?”
Gratefully, they looked deep into each other’s eyes and Rick felt a sudden surge of joy. It sure was good to be alive.
“C’mon,” he said. “Let’s put some miles between us and this crazy place.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
After parting company with Rick and Bert, the girls fell quiet. Trudging on in silence, they already felt lonesome. The goddamn emptiness of this whole terrain was getting to them so much, it was scary.
Andrea spoke first. “I don’t know that we did the right thing, Bonnie. Maybe we should have insisted we all stay together.”
“What are you, nuts or something? They practically told us to go our own ways. Or weren’t you listening to those people?”
“Sure, I know that. But I could’ve persuaded Rick. Y’know?”
“Yeah. I bet,” Bonnie sneered. “You made a fool of yourself back there with Rick. You know that, Andrea, don’t you?”
“You mean you were jealous of the way he came onto me?”
“Jealous? You threw yourself at him. Practically handed yourself to him on a plate. I’m surprised Bert didn’t kick up about that. I admire her. She’s got a lotta patience, that woman!”
“Oh yeah? Then how come if he loved her so much he invited himself to my tent? Answer me that, why don’cha?”
“Let’s not go over that particular scenario anymore, Andrea. Prbkane! You’re so hung up on yourself I’m surprised you don’t have an orgasm every time you look in the mirror!”
Andrea plumped herself down on a smooth slab of rock. She edged out of her pack and swung it to the ground.
Holy Moses. Was she pooped!
And what’s more, she didn’t like the way the conversation was headed. She could do without all this shit about her and Rick.
With a sigh, she flipped off her ballcap and wiped her brow with the back of her hand.
“Bonnie Jones. If you don’t stop handing me insults like this, I ain’t goin’ nowhere with you. It’s too darn hot to argue and I don’t know why we’re traveling by ourselves, anyway. We coulda gone on ahead of the others—or trailed behind. We needn’t have gone with them ...”
Andrea was almost whining now. She mopped her brow again.
Then lifted the hem of her gray T-shirt, bent her head down and wiped all of her face with it. It didn’t help much; sweat was still rolling down her cheeks.
Bonnie tried to reason with her. “Okay, okay. But you heard them say they’d rather travel alone. Rick specifically said they wanted some time to themselves.
“And if it helps, I don’t know why we had to come out here into the boonies, anyway. Come to think about it, it was a dumb thing to do. But we did discuss it, Andrea, before we set out. When we had taco and fries and cola at Pepe’s Pits-top, the day you took your social history books back to the library and they were overdue. Remember? We talked it over and agreed that a week’s vacation by ourselves, alone in the Sierras, would clinch it.”
Andrea sniffed at the front of her T-shirt.
God, it stinks. After this is all over, I’m gonna toss this thing, in the trash, no kidding.
She screwed up her eyes and peered at Bonnie, standing before her, hands on hips, with her back to the sun.
“Clinch what?” she asked suspiciously.
“Whether we could make it together, dummy. Christ, Andrea. Don’t make me spell it out.”
Bonnie huffed in frustration and edged her way out of her backpack. Pushing out her chest, she bent at the knees and lowered the bulky pack to the ground. She collapsed on the smooth rock shelf beside Andrea, stretched out her sturdy legs and examined the toes of her boots ...
Okay. Let’s take it slowly. From the top.
With a small sigh of resignation she began, “Look, Andrea, you know how I feel about you. I just hoped that ... you know ... a little time spent together and you’d begin to feel the same about me, too.”
Bonnie warmed to her subject.
“I mean, you seemed to get off on me, at the first. Now you go all girly and start making out with the first goddamn available male you see.”
Andrea sounded repentant. “Sorry, Bonnie. I’ve been a grade-A idiot, I know. But I can’t help myself. Maybe ... well, the thing is, maybe I’m not cut out to be a dyke, after wall.”
She traced circles on her smooth, tanned knee. Bonnie watched her do it and thought how much she’d like to take her in her arms.
I mean, make the sparks fly.
Float her boat until she screams for more.
Hell. She was no fucking expert at dykedom herself.
What experience had she had? She only knew that from age fifteen-ish she’d been significantly different from the other girls in class.
Always awkward around guys, she’d never actually dated one—not that she’d ever been asked. Wouldn’t have gone with one even if she had.
Neither was she in awe of guys. Not like the other bimbos, describing in ecstatic terms how they’d been to the movies/ the game/the beach with this fantastic guy etc. etc ...
Instead, she’d always aimed to come out top. The guys didn’t like that. At college she’d always had to be better than they were. Better at everything, sport, science, cultural studies—all of that ...
And then there was that, well ... call it an exploratory fling, if you like, with Deena Alvarez, her Cultural Studies tutor.
Dark, sensuous Deena.
She of the sensational body, full, voluptuous breasts and nipples like dark, ripe berries.
Okay. She’d been too wary; scared that she wouldn’t make the grade. And in the end she’d come away feeling totally exasperated with herself. Embarrassed. Pissed off. In a nut-shell, she was just too damned inexperienced. The demanding Deena had eventually gotten impatient with her—she, and her fumbling, inadequate responses. Within a week Bonnie had been out on her ear with a bunch of insecurities as high as the Empire State.
And Deena moved onto that total dork; the dumbest of all dumb broads, Caroll Helliman.
Bonnie flushed at the memory of that particular put-down. Yeah. That really had been a swinging blow to her pride and dignity. She knew she was better at most things, including sex, than that slut Caroll, who acted no better than cheap trailer trash, with her minis up to her ass and those fancy low-cut blouses of hers. Plus a gnat-size brain that got no further than the color of her lipstick. Jeez, Deena musta been desperate.
Caroll’s folks were loaded, though. They were in real estate. Had a hunk of their own the size of Disneyland. But, no matter how many sackloads of dough they had, Bonnie decided, it’d never buy “class” for their sleaze of a daughter.
What the hell. She’d bounced back from that and had had a smoldering affair with raven-haired Lindy Carson, nubile daughter of one of the night porters at UCSC.
That went sour when she caught the lovely Lindy naked and cavorting in the shower with half of the college baseball team. From then on in, it had been “no way, Jose” for Bonnie. Sex was off the menu.
Romance was for the birds, so to speak.
Then along came Andrea. Fragile, elegant, graceful Andrea, with her upturned nose, glossy blond hair and slender legs that went on forever. Yeah, Bonnie decided. Andrea was the one for her, all right.