Carla (3 page)

She even managed to forget her longing for a man.

By four o'clock she was close to the city line and the gas tank was nearly empty. She looked around for a service station. Service stations, like men, never seemed to be around when you needed them most. At last she saw one and turned the wheel swiftly, bringing the MG to a dead stop close to the gas pump.

“Fill her with regular,” she said, without looking up.

“Nice little buggy you got here.” She looked up suddenly at the sound of the deep, resonant voice. The owner of the voice was a man, naturally enough, and he was a most attractive man. The attractive quality of him was the first thing Carla noticed, even before she was aware of the grease on his hands or the stubble of beard on his rugged chin.

He was about 29 or 30, she guessed, with jet-black hair cut short and piercing eyes. His muscles bulged beneath his uniform and his shoulders were extremely broad.

“I say that's a pretty fine little car.”

“Oh, she said, realizing that she hadn't answered him. “Thanks.”

He nodded and walked to the pump, placing the nozzle in the gas tank. She watched him wordlessly, struck by the appearance of him. Her heart was beating more rapidly and her breath came hard and fast. God, what was the matter with her? Two years out of the slums and she got hot as a pistol over a grimy gas-pump jockey!

But he was definitely attractive, and she needed a man badly. Naturally she wouldn't want him as a long-term lover. He'd hardly do in that capacity.

But once with him might be nice. Very nice …

“That'll be $3.85.” He was staring hard at her, his eyes riveted to the top of the peasant blouse. She smiled inwardly. This ought to be easy enough to manage.

She took a twenty dollar bill from her purse and handed it to him, letting her fingers trail against his calloused palm. “Here,” she said.

He frowned. “This is the smallest you got?”

“Yes,” she lied.

He turned without a word and walked toward the office for change. She let him get several yards ahead of her and made her decision abruptly, turning the key in the ignition and putting on the emergency brake. Then she got out of the car and followed him into the office.

He whirled from the cash-drawer when he saw her come through the door. “What do you want?” he demanded, a puzzled expression on his face.

Instead of answering, she smiled and let him have a good look at her body. She threw her shoulders as far back as possible to emphasize the size and shape of her breasts. With a good deal of amusement she noted the way his gaze travelled slowly up and down her body, returning at last to her face. She held his eyes with hers, and for a long moment neither of them spoke.

Finally he broke the silence. “What do you want?” he asked again, but this time the words came more slowly and his voice was lower and huskier than before.

“What do you think I want?”

There was no misreading her meaning. He smiled and raised his eyebrows knowingly, and she knew she had made a conquest. Why, the slob was practically falling over his own feet.

“You picked a bad time,” he said. “I'll have to close up the station; then we can take a ride over to my place. That okay with you?”

She almost agreed; at the last minute, however, an idea flashed into her mind. If she was going to be unfaithful, she might as well try something different while she was at it.

“No,” she said. “Don't close the station.”

“What do you mean? Look, you're the best-looking woman I've seen in a hell of a while, but that doesn't mean I can walk off leaving the place open. Are you kidding?”

She stepped up to him, letting her body rest against his. Her breasts pressed against his hard, barrel-like chest and her hips ground into his.

“Right here,” she whispered. “I want you to make love to me right here, right in the station.”

His jaw fell.
“Here?
Jesus, there ain't even a couch in the office. What do you—”

“Not in the office,” she went on, rubbing up against him like a playful kitten. “In the place where you grease up the cars. On the floor there.”

“Are you nuts?” He tried to take a step back but her arms held him against hers. “Jesus, it's filthy in there.”

“That's where I want it to be,” she said evenly. Before he could reply she pulled his mouth down to hers and planted her lips firmly on his. When he returned the kiss she sank her teeth into his lower lip and drew blood. He backed away, startled and breathing hard.

“Okay,” he snapped, amazed. “You're calling the shots.”

Quickly he closed the office door and turned the key in it. Then he seized her by one hand and half-dragged her into the grease room. Once inside he released her and strode to the wall, flicking a switch to lower the grease-room door. Then he turned and walked toward her slowly, unbuttoning his shirt as he walked. The hunger in her eyes was easy to see.

She pulled the peasant blouse over her head and tossed it into a corner, not caring whether it got dirty or not. The skirt followed it seconds later. She kicked off her shoes, pulled off her stockings, and slipped out of the bra and panties and stood naked before him.

For a second he stopped dead in his tracks and stared at her. “Christ,” he said, half in a whisper. Then he came closer to her and seized one of her ripe breasts in his powerful hand while the other hand encircled her back and drew her roughly against him. Her arms went around him and her fingernails began raking his back, digging into him and hurting him. He kissed her again, harder this time, and she felt a burst of passion shoot through her whole body.

Her nostrils filled to overflowing with the smell of the grease-room. Slowly they both sank to the gritty pavement.

He rolled away from her at last and clambered to his feet, fumbling with his clothing. “God,” he said, in that hoarse whisper he had used before. Then neither of them spoke while she retrieved her clothing and dressed quickly and methodically. She felt like a woman for the first time in two years.

After she had finished dressing, he flicked the switch again to raise the door of the grease-room. She stepped outside and walked quickly to the MG, anxious to get away now that her desires had been fulfilled. It was time for her to get home.

He strode after her. “Christ,” he stammered, “I don't even know your name!”

She smiled. “It doesn't matter, does it?” She opened the door of the MG and hopped inside, fitting the key in the ignition.

She almost laughed but contained the laughter. “Don't worry,” she said. “I'll be around the next time I run out of gas.”

She stepped on the starter and the engine turned over. “And you can keep the change!” she called over the roar of the motor. Then she drove the car out onto the street, laughing to herself at the unbelieving expression on his face.

What a man he was! Hardly the type for a permanent alliance, of course, but this had been a most satisfactory afternoon. Her heart soared as she raced the MG back into town.

Chapter Three

AS SHE TURNED
the corner of Nottingham Terrace and pulled up in front of her home, something within her went limp and relaxed. The excitement of the affair in the service station finally had worn off and she was able at last to look at the whole thing rationally.

Well, she thought, you've pulled a cute little trick, Carla Macon. After living like a decent married woman for two years you throw yourself on the floor for the first rugged-looking guy you run into.
What kind of a tramp was she?

Despite her childhood spent in a Polish slum, Carla had begun to think of herself as a member of the upper class. The wife of a crack corporation lawyer like Ronald Macon automatically held a great deal of social prestige, and even before her marriage Carla had felt superior to the other residents of her neighborhood. In school she was an excellent student, spending plenty of time reading and studying. After high school, two years at a business college had elevated her to the point where she could land a job as Ronald's secretary. Marriage was an easy step ahead, and she adjusted to her new role with ease.

In a few years she had managed to change from a slum brat to a thoroughly respectable woman, and today she had chanced the loss of all she had gained. For a few passionate minutes on a filthy floor she stood the chance of losing everything. What kind of a damn fool trick was that?

The memory of the filthiness of the grease-room sent a shiver through her. She glanced at her face in the rear-view mirror and saw that it was streaked with grime and perspiration. Her hands, too, were dirty—and there was blood under several of her nails from when she had scratched him. She hunted frantically in her purse for a handkerchief and began the laborious process of getting herself clean once again. She certainly couldn't walk into the house looking like that! Even if Ronald weren't home yet, it wouldn't do any good to let Lizzie see her in such a state.

When her hands and face were again clean she took her lipstick from her purse and applied it carefully. She surveyed the results in her mirror and was satisfied. No one could tell now by looking at her how she had spent the afternoon. No doubt there were bruises on her body from the rough embraces, but they wouldn't show now.

But what a foolish thing to do! Still, it had been worth a good deal to her. The man was a magnificent animal, healthy and wild and strong. In the future she would be more careful, but she wouldn't go two more years without a man's love. There was a whole city full of men, crude and powerful men like her lover of this afternoon. It wouldn't be difficult to find one of them willing to accommodate her. For that matter she could always return to the gas station in a few months. While she surely didn't want a man like that on a regular basis, an occasional interlude with him would be time pleasantly spent.

Suddenly a feeling of guilt washed through her. Ronald loved her so much, and she repaid his love by rolling on the floor with a common brute! Well, she thought, she couldn't be expected to live forever in a sexless vacuum. As long as Ronald never found out, everything would be all right. And she resolved that she would be careful to keep the truth from him. The gas-pump jockey didn't even know her name, so there would be no trouble from that source. And
she
certainly wasn't going to tell Ronald.

She alighted from the car and closed the door gently, walking swiftly up the path to the front door of the house. She slipped her key into the lock, marvelling at how much more relaxed and self-possessed she was now.

“Lizzie!” she called, closing the door behind her.

Lizzie appeared almost instantly from the kitchen. “Hello, Mrs. Macon,” she said. “Mr. Macon called while you were out.”

“Oh?” For a split-second she felt guilty again but the guilt passed easily. “What did he want, Lizzie?”

“He said to tell you he was bringing a friend with him for dinner and they'll be home around six-thirty.”

“He's bringing a friend?”

The girl nodded. “That's what he said. He just called about a half-hour ago, Mrs. Macon. I was lucky I was making shrimp paella for dinner—it's easy to make extra with a dish like that.”

Carla smiled. Ronald's friend was in for a treat; Lizzie made paella better than any she had ever tasted, even better than the Spanish restaurant in New York where she and Ronald had dined once. “Did he mention the friend's name?”

“Oh, I almost forgot. He said his name was Mr. Charles Butler.”

“Charles Butler.” Carla repeated the name to herself, trying to remember if she had ever been introduced to the man before.
Charles Butler—
the name didn't ring a bell, but Ronald had so many friends and business associates that it was tough to keep them all straight. She knew that the Butlers were an important family in Buffalo, but this gave her no clue as to who Charles Butler might be.

With a little shrug she hurried to the staircase. There would be time later in the evening to find out more about Mr. Charles Butler. Now there was something more important: it was a few minutes to six, and she had time to take a shower and wash the smell of the grease-room from her skin. Hurriedly removing her clothing, she wondered briefly whether Lizzie had an inkling of how she had passed the afternoon. She was almost sure she had given no sign of it, but the Negro girl was sharp as a tack, and Carla wasn't an old hand at cheating on a husband.

She would have to be very careful from here on in, careful to cover her trail at every step.

Stepping into the tub, she realized that this was her second shower of the day and laughed. If nothing else, leading a double life would keep her good and clean!

She was sitting in the living-room with a cigarette when the door-bell rang. She answered it herself, pausing on the way to take a quick look at herself in the hall mirror. The house seemed to be filled with mirrors, she thought suddenly.

Her black cocktail dress was just the right thing for the evening, she decided, pleased with her choice. It contrasted vividly with the golden glow of her hair and the milky whiteness of her skin, while the sophisticated styling of it gave a contrasting impression of aloofness and reserve. But not too reserved, she thought, noticing the way her breasts pressed against the front of the dress. Not too reserved, but a mixture of respectability and downright sexines.

When she opened the door Ronald smiled at her, and his appearance belied his age. His eyes were a bright blue and he still had all his hair. Although he was almost sixty, his hair was still a glossy black except for a slight greying at the temples.

But Carla barely noticed Ronald and scarcely heard the words he was speaking. All her attention was focused at once upon the man at Ronald's side, a man she took to be Charles Butler. She couldn't take her eyes away from him.

He was not at all as she had expected him to be. She had anticipated an evening with one of Ronald's typical friends—short, bald, old, and pot-bellied. But Charles Butler possessed none of these qualities.