The Lonely Lady by Harold Robbins Page A

eighteen to get a beer.
    “Is it good?” he asked.
    She nodded.
    “Has it been good so far this summer?”
    “Okay.”
    “The weather, I mean.”
    “I know.”
    An awkward silence descended upon them. After a few minutes he spoke. “You’re the first person I looked for when I came in.”
    Her gaze was direct. “Why?”
    He smiled. “Maybe it’s because you’re so pretty.”
    “There are prettier girls.” She was neither coquettish nor dissembling. It was merely a statement of fact.
    “That’s a matter of opinion,” he said, smiling. “You see, I didn’t forget your name. I bet you forgot mine.”
    “Walt.”
    “What’s the rest of it?”
    “You never told me the rest of it.”
    “Walter Thornton Jr. What’s the rest of your name?”
    “Randall,” she answered. She looked at him. “Is your father the?”
    “Yes. Do you know him?”
    “Not really. He just sat next to me on the bus every morning on his way to the station.”
    He laughed. “That’s my father all right. He won’t drive.”
    “Is he here now?” she asked. “I heard he had gone to Europe.”
    “He came in yesterday. I flew in from Los Angeles to meet him.”
    “I didn’t know he was a member,” she said. “I never saw him in the club.”
    “He never comes to the club. I don’t think he’s ever been here. He bought the membership for my mother. She used to complain she had nothing to do while he was away.”
    “Oh,” she said, disappointed. “I thought I might be able to talk with him. I want to be a writer and I think he’s really good.”
    “I can get Dad to talk with you.”
    “Thank you,” she said.
    He smiled. “Now maybe I can get you to talk to me.”
    “I am talking to you.”
    “Not really. Mostly you’re just answering questions.”
    “I don’t know what to talk about.”
    “That’s honest.” He laughed. “What are you interested in?”
    “I told you. I want to be a writer.”
    “Besides that. Do you like sports? Dancing?”
    “Yes.”
    “That’s not much of an answer.”
    “I’m afraid I’m not very interesting. I’m not like the girls you know.”
    “How do you know that?”
    “They know how to have a good time. I don’t. Port Clare isn’t a very interesting place to grow up in. Nothing much ever happens here.”
    “Are you coming to the dance tonight?” he asked.
    She nodded.
    “Maybe I’ll see you there?”
    “Okay.” She got to her feet. “Thanks for the Coke. I’ve got to go now.”
    “See you later.” He watched her walk toward the clubhouse. She was right about one thing. She was not like the other girls he knew. In one way or another they were all cock teasers and, oddly enough, he had the feeling that was a game she would never play.
    The muscles of her stomach relaxed as she walked back to the clubhouse. It was strange the effect he had on her. The sudden intense awareness of self, and the rising sexual heat. All the time she had been with him she was aware of the constant wetness between her legs.
    She went into the locker room, stripped off her swimsuit and got under a cold shower. But it didn’t seem to help. While soaping herself she touched her pubis and almost sank to her knees with the quick intensity of her orgasm.
    After a moment she regained her self-control and leaned her head against the cold tile wall of the shower stall. There was something wrong with her. Very wrong. She was sure that none of the girls she knew were going through what she was.
    ***
    “Looks like you goin’ to lose youah little friend, Fred,” Jack, the drummer, said, gesturing with his stick at the dance floor.
    JeriLee and Walt were moving by in a slow fox trot. He was holding her close, too close, Fred thought. There was an expression on her face he had never seen before, an intensity he could almost sense. Abruptly he segued into a fast Lindy. The orchestra stumbled for a moment, then caught up with him.
    Jack grinned. “Ain’t goin’ to he’p. You jes been playin’ it