Lovers and Liars by Brenda Joyce Page A

nonexistent bikini, nut-brown all over. Even her hair was nut-brown. The first time she had come out Vince and his guys had looked, of course, being normal men. There was nothing to look at though (unless you liked very thin women built like boys), except for her face—which was triangular, nut-brown, and attractive. Still, no tits, no ass—nothing. Vince had quickly redirected his crew’s attention to the window they were framing.
    “Holy shit, look at that,” Fred had said one afternoon.
    Vince looked and got an instant hard-on. Mrs. Crandall was in her usual position, which was no big deal—she never came on to them or anything, not like some of the Hollywood wives who loved fucking carpenters. She looked down her perfect, possibly fixed nose at the help . But a young girl with long, straight hair, a perfectly grabbable ass, and huge knockers was making her way toward Mrs. Crandall. She was wearing a skimpy halter top and short shorts. Her legs were not bad, a little plump, shapely, really, but who could get past the tits? Vince couldn’t. He wanted to look away, but he just couldn’t.
    “Hi, Mom,” the girl had said.
    Her name was Mary. She was Mrs. Crandall’s daughter. She was in her early twenties and every guy’s wet dream. Especially his.
    Vince had grown up poor in southern California when everyone seemed to be rich. Or at least richer than he was. He was raised in a slum neighborhood in L.A. He had two sisters; his mother was a waitress; his father had died (or so Mom said) before he was born. He had grown up with rats,yellow water, and peeling paint, just blocks away from movie stars dripping diamonds in silver limos.
    After high school it had gotten worse. He took up carpentry and soon was working on their homes. He had his first piece of rich tail when he was nineteen. He was working for a general contractor, who had sent him over to a Beverly Hills house to do some fix-it work. He had to put up towel holders in a bathroom (at thirty dollars an hour). The woman of the house was the wife of a hot screenwriter. She hovered over him clad in a short tennis dress. He was sweating and hard and embarrassed as hell, afraid to stand up, afraid she’d see and he’d lose his job. It was a damn good job. Not only did it pay well—he loved carpentry. But before he had even turned around, trying desperately to will his erection away, she grabbed him—and that was that.
    He’d screwed at least a dozen rich broads by the time he met Mary. Mary was different. She was young. Beautiful. Not forty and jaded and bored and looking for a young stud as a kick. She had noticed him that day she was talking to her mother out at the pool. (What woman wouldn’t have? He was aware of how good he looked; plenty of women had let him know.) Two days later he had asked her out.
    Six months later they were married.
    When Vince reappeared in the kitchen, Mary and Beth were in the same position, still drinking and snorting. He gave them both a look of disgust and jumped into his truck. He drove to McDonald’s and had two Big Macs and a shake for dinner. Then he cruised around, thinking of Belinda, wishing he were buried deep inside her, pounding away. God, he was so horny.
    To his relief Beth was gone when he got home, and Mary was in bed asleep. Or passed out. He sat down on the side of the bed, pulling off his sneakers. From behind, Mary wrapped her arms around him. “I’m sorry, Vince. Please don’t be mad.”
    He could feel her cheek and hair against his bare back.
    “Vince? Today just happened. I was so bored and Beth stopped by with the blow and time just got away from me. Please don’t be angry.” She kissed his shoulder.
    He could feel her large breasts against his back, with their pebbly nipples. He imagined Belinda clinging to him like that, rubbing herself erotically against him. He grew hard.
    “Vince?” She said his name softly in his ear.
    Vince turned around, taking her in his arms. He kissed her, one hand