Cujo by Stephen King Page B

furious that her stomach had tied itself in a gripping, groaning knot. One of the endless arguments with her mother, maybe. One of the real horrorshows before she had gone away to school. When Steve came up behind her and slipped his tanned arms around her bare midriff, she acted with no thought at all; she brought her elbow back into his lower chest. Her temper was not cooled by the obvious fact that he had anticipated her. He played a lot of tennis, and her elbow felt as if it had struck a stone wall coated with a layer of hard rubber.
    She turned around and looked into his grinning, bearded face. She stood five-eleven and was an inch taller than Vic when she wore heels, but Steve was nearly six-five.
    â€œDidn’t you hear me? I want you out of here!”
    â€œNow, what for?” he asked. “The little one is off making beaded loincloths or shooting apples off the head of counselors with his little bow and arrow . . . or whatever they do . . . and hubby is busting heavies at the office . . . and now is the time for Castle Rock’s prettiest hausfrau and Castle Rock’s resident poet and tennis bum to make all the bells of sexual congress chime in lovely harmony.”
    â€œI see you parked out in the driveway,” Donna said. “Why not just tape a big sign to the side of your van? I’M FUCKING DONNA TRENTON , or something witty like that?”
    â€œI’ve got every reason to park in the driveway,” Steve said, still grinning. “I’ve got that dresser in the back. Stripped clean. Even as I wish you were yourself, my dear.”
    â€œYou can put it on the porch. I’ll take care of it. While you’re doing that, I’ll write you a check.”
    His smile faded a little. For the first time since she had come in, the surface charm slipped a little and she could see the real person underneath. It was a person she didn’t like at all, a person that dismayed her when she thought of him in connection with herself. She had lied to Vic, gone behind his back, in order to go to bed with Steve Kemp. She wished thatwhat she felt now could be something as simple as rediscovering herself, as after a nasty bout of fever. Or rediscovering herself as Vic’s mate. But when you took the bark off it, the simple fact was that Steve Kemp—publishing poet, itinerant furniture stripper and refinisher, chair caner, fair amateur tennis player, excellent afternoon lover—was a turd.
    â€œBe serious,” he said.
    â€œYeah, no one could reject handsome, sensitive Steven Kemp,” she said. “It’s got to be a joke. Only it’s not. So what you do, handsome, sensitive Steven Kemp, is put the dresser on the porch, get your check, and blow.”
    â€œDon’t talk to me like that, Donna.” His hand moved to her breast and squeezed. It hurt. She began to feel a little scared as well as angry. (But hadn’t she been a little scared all along? Hadn’t that been part of the nasty, scuzzy little thrill of it?)
    She slapped his hand away.
    â€œDon’t you get on my case, Donna.” He wasn’t smiling now. “It’s too goddam hot.”
    â€œ Me? On your case? You were here when I came in.” Being frightened of him had made her angrier than ever. He wore a heavy black beard that climbed high on his cheekbones, and it occurred to her suddenly that although she had seen his penis close up—had had it in her mouth—she had never really seen what his face looked like.
    â€œWhat you mean,” he said, “is that you had a little itch and now it’s scratched, so fuck off. Right? Who gives a crap about how I feel?”
    â€œYou’re breathing on me,” she said, and pushed him away to take the milk to the refrigerator.
    He was not expecting it this time. Her shove caught him off balance, and he actually stumbled back a step. His forehead was suddenly divided by lines, and a dark