I'm saving it for a one Mrs. Cindy Jamison.
He cackled again as he shut the door and went back to the living room, the German Shepherd Ringo at his side. Yes, this was only a preliminary, all right. Mrs. Jamison was going to be the main event, the new conquest. He could hardly wait until he saw the expression on her face when he first confronted her with her picture, because that was the one thing that really turned him on, excited him above all else.
He went to bed then and slept the sleep of the guileless, dreaming all the while of Cindy Jamison and what he would do to her, how he would fuck her and subject her to his every whim, how he would subjugate her as he had Mrs. Sally Reagan.
Oh, it wouldn't be long now, not very long at all.
And then Cindy Jamison, that stuck-up little whore-bitch, would be begging him on hands and knees for his mercy…
CHAPTER SEVEN
Cindy sat dejectedly on the living room couch staring thoughtfully into a martini glass. Her head whirled from the fifth one she had drunk since arriving with her husband and the Taylors. The talk was lively around her; the other three in a similar, lightheaded condition from drinking, though not saddened.
She hadn't wanted to be part of the foursome tonight, feeling worse than she had when Ralph and Norma had taken her and Howard to dinner at The Gandydancer. She had pleaded with Howard when he'd called during the afternoon that she wasn't feeling well, that her head ached from the previous night, that… well, none of her excuses had worked, she thought ruefully. Here she was, once more with her head spinning from too much to drink, surrounded by loud, boisterous, crude talk.
Worse, she wasn't even in her own home, where, if things got out of hand or her own emotional breaking point was reached, she could have fled to the sanctity of her bedroom. Or what was left of that sanctity, she concluded harshly. Howard had changed so drastically, especially since that night when she had allowed those nude Polaroid pictures to be taken… for since then, there had been three successive nights when he had wanted to repeat that horrible performance, to once more set up the tripod and camera and writhe in abandon on the rug, or, as the case last night, on the bed. The very sheets seemed now permeated with debauchery, with the sins of carnality, and the remembrance of how he had tried again to push her head down on his penis and the coldness with which he had treated her afterwards when she had refused to do it brought tears brimming to her eyes. She wiped them carefully and took another heavy gulp of the martini, wincing slightly as it burned its way down her throat.
And tonight, this party was the crowning blow. Howard had actually threatened her on the phone, caustically overriding her objections with brutal words. "You're coming tonight, Cindy," he grated over the phone. "You're coming and you're going to like it. Understand? It's high time you learned which side of the bread the butter's on, and if my boss wants us to go to his cabin tonight, then we're damned well going up there."
"Howie…" she'd wailed, trembling with his angered voice.
"Don't Howie me," he'd snapped back. "Get into a pair of slacks and a nice blouse, comb your hair and be ready to leave as soon as I get home at six. And have a smile on your face, too!" And with that, he'd hung up so harshly that the sound had hurt her ears.
The distraught young wife, completely confused as to what would now bring her previously idyllic marriage back together, overwhelmed by the forceful way Howard's raucous boss had taken a more than guiding influence, terrified at the prospect of a total breakdown of her life, whimpered softly on the couch of the Taylor's mountain cabin. She finished the last drop of the martini and reached forward for the pitcher on the coffee table and poured herself another. The liquor dulled the anguish which pained her, at least, and made this nightmare of an evening a tolerable thing.
The trip to Ralph's cabin retreat had taken several hours, and had been frequently punctuated by stops at taverns and cocktail lounges along the way. Ralph had also brought along a thermos of daiquiris, which he had passed around as he drove, and all the while he and Howard and Norma had discussed everything under the sun in animated, ever louder voices. The sun had already set and the air was a bit nippy when at last they pulled up in front of the stone and redwood cabin, set at the edge of a fine fishing lake in the Sierra foothills.
As befitting Ralph, the interior was masculine and a little on the ostentatious side. The living room was huge with a high oak-beamed ceiling and a large stone fireplace, which Ralph soon had filled with a huge roaring fire. The cabin wasn't so isolated as to not have electricity, but the men had trouble getting the hot water heater going, partly because it was old and cranky and partly because both of them were more than a little drunk by that time.
Cindy hadn't seen the bedrooms yet, but she had the feeling that they would be warm and homey, with great big thick double beds and feather pillows. She'd soon know, she said to herself. She and Howard were going to spend the night here, courtesy of Ralph and Norma. And while her husband hadn't said so, there had been intimations that the weekend might be extended to two nights, the four of them returning late Monday. She hoped not. God, she hoped not, for then Howard would never be away from Ralph's almost evil influence. A small shudder passed through her. What would happen with such concentrated exposure to his manager's suggestions?
Her inner torment stopped abruptly as she was suddenly brought back to the present by Norma's thin, smooth-skinned hand on her shoulder. She looked at the woman, who was smiling in a concerned, worried way, and Cindy smiled back as best she could.
"Something's the matter, isn't it, Cindy?" the other woman said in a condescending way. "You've been sitting here all evening, your face like a mask of tragedy."
"Oh… oh, it's nothing, Norma. Really it isn't."
"Of course it is, Cindy. A woman can tell, just like I could tell the other night when we talked in The Gandydancer. Do you want to confide in me now, Cindy? Before you explode with whatever's bothering you?"
The hapless wife hesitated, opened her mouth to say something, then caught herself and stopped. It was too embarrassing. Just how could she go about confiding to this woman that her husband had influenced Howard to the point where their whole life was nearly crumbling? Norma, the wife that she was, would certainly go to the defense of her husband, and rightly so, for what proof had Cindy? And Ralph, big-hearted and no doubt thinking he was doing the right thing, would be crushed and hurt — perhaps to the point of damaging Howard's career. No, Cindy couldn't tell Norma that.
But still, she was so low and miserable that she had to confide in someone. The martinis had helped in loosening her soul, in making her want to confess her innermost agony, and as she looked at Norma, her eyes once more filled with salty tears and two droplets began to course down her cheeks. Perhaps it would be a mistake, but if she chose her words and skirted the problem with Ralph, she could tell Norma.
She looked around to make sure that she would not be overheard by her husband or Ralph, saw them in a heated discussion on the merits of spoon fishing over live bait, and then turned back to Norma.
"It's… it's Howard," she whispered.
"I thought it might be," Norma said with pursed lips. "He's been acting almost as strangely as you have, Cindy." She stood up, glancing at the men as she did. "Let's step into the kitchen where we can be alone, all right?"
Nodding, Cindy followed Norma into the kitchen. She leaned against the old cast-iron wood cook stove, her hands clasped in front of her, not sure where to begin. Finally she blurted, "I… can't seem to make him happy anymore, Norma."