"All set," he said. The siren was a screaming banshee moving in on them. Could the police arrest them for merely being in the courtyard?
"Come on," Ron said.
"Don't you hear that?"
"Hear what?"
The siren passed them and went ululating down the street away from them, receding into the distance. Damn! "The birds," she said weakly.
There was a look of impatience on Ron's face.
"If there's anything wrong--" he said.
"No, no," Catherine cut in quickly. "I'm coming." She got out of the car and they moved toward one of the bungalows. "I hope you got my lucky number," she said brightly.
"What did you say?"
Catherine looked up at him and suddenly realized no words had come out. Her mouth was completely dry. "Nothing," she croaked.
They reached the door and it said number thirteen. It was exactly what she deserved. It was a sign from heaven that she was going to get pregnant, that God was out to punish Saint Catherine.
Ron unlocked the door and held it open for her. He flicked on the light switch and Catherine stepped inside. She could not believe it. The room seemed to consist of one enormous bed. The only other furniture was an uncomfortable-looking easy chair in a corner, a small dressing table with a mirror over it, and next to the bed, a battered radio with a slot for feeding it quarters. No one would ever walk in here and mistake this room for anything but what it was: a place where a boy brought a girl to screw her. You couldn't say, Well, here we are in the ski lodge, or the war games room, or the bridal suite at the Ambassador. No. What this was was a cheap love nest. Catherine turned to see what Ron was doing and he was throwing the bolt on the door. Good. If the Vice Squad wanted them, they'd have to break down the door first. She could see herself being carried out in the nude by two policemen while a photographer snapped her picture for the front page of the Chicago Daily News.
Ron moved up to Catherine and put his arms around her. "Are you nervous?" he asked.
She looked up at him and forced a laugh that would have made Margaret Sullavan proud. "Nervous? Ron, don't be silly."
He was still studying her, unsure. "You've done this before, haven't you, Cathy?"
"I don't keep a scorecard."
"I've had a strange feeling about you all evening."
Here it comes. He was going to throw her out on her virgin ass and tell her to get lost in a cold shower. Well, she wasn't going to let that happen. Not tonight. "What kind of feeling?"
"I don't know." Ron's voice was perplexed. "One minute you're kind of sexy and, you know, with it, and the next minute your mind is way off somewhere and you're as frigid as ice. It's like you're two people. Which one is the real Catherine Alexander?"
Frigid as ice, she automatically said to herself. Aloud she said, "I'll show you." She put her arms around him and kissed him on the lips and she could smell egg foo young.
He kissed her harder and pulled her close to him. He ran his hands over her breasts, caressing them, pushing his tongue into her mouth. Catherine felt a hot moisture deep down inside her and she could feel her pants dampen. Here I go, she thought. It's really going to happen! It's really going to happen! She clung to him harder, filled with a growing, almost unbearable excitement.
"Let's get undressed," Ron said hoarsely. He stepped back from her and started to take off his jacket.
"No," she said. "Let me." There was a new confidence in her voice. If this was the night of nights, she was going to do it right. She was going to remember everything she had ever read or heard. Ron wasn't going back to school to snicker to the girls about how he had made love to a dumb little virgin. Catherine might not have Jean-Anne's bust measurement, but she had a brain ten times as useful, and she was going to put it to work to make Ron so happy in bed he wouldn't be able to stand it. She took off his jacket and laid it on the bed, then reached for his tie.
"Hold it," Ron said. "I want to see you undress."
Catherine stared at him, swallowed, slowly reached for her zipper and got out of her dress. She was standing in her bra, slip, pants, shoes and stockings.
"Go on."
She hesitated a moment, then reached down and stepped out of her slip. Lions, 2--Christians, 0, she
thought.
"Hey, great! Keep going."
Catherine slowly sat down on the bed and carefully removed her shoes and stockings, trying to make it look as sexy as she could. Suddenly she felt Ron behind her, undoing her bra. She let it fall to the bed. He lifted Catherine to her feet and started sliding her pants down. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, wishing that she were in another place with another man, a human being who loved her, whom she loved, who would father splendid children to bear his name, who would fight for her and kill for her and for whom she would be an adoring helpmate. A whore in his bed, a great cook in his kitchen, a charming hostess in his living room...a man who would kill a son of a bitch like Ron Peterson for daring to bring her to this tacky, degrading room. Her pants fell to the floor. Catherine opened her eyes.