By the time he was out of the room Daphne had stripped off her red dress and was heading for the bathroom clad only in a pair of brief purple panties.
Angel did not see how she could object to the double bed without feelings being hurt, so she gave a small sigh, opened up her suitcase, and took out the blue baby-doll nightdress she had purchased at the May Company. Her one extravagance, but it was so pretty she had been unable to resist it.
Daphne emerged from the bathroom stark naked, placed both hands on her hips, and shimmied her large breasts. “Not bad, huh? An’ all mine!”
Angel hurried into the bathroom, where she showered, reflecting that maybe coming to Hawaii hadn’t been such a good idea after all.
Back in the bedroom all was quiet. Daphne was under the sheets with the lights off. Angel crept into the other side of the bed, closed her eyes, and thought about her attempts at becoming an actress. She had to get a job to keep her afloat. Perhaps she could be a receptionist in a film studio, or maybe Burt Reynolds needed a secretary. Or Richard Gere. Or . . .
At first, the hand creeping up her leg was just an irritation. She didn’t realize what was happening until the hand dived between her thighs and suddenly Daphne was upon her. “Oh, no!” she gasped in shock. “What are you doing!”
“I ain’t playin’ tennis, hon,” replied Daphne, trying to ease her fingers under the tight elastic of Angel’s panties.
“Stop it! Stop it at once!” She kicked out.
“Oh, a playful chickie, huh? Tell you the truth I ain’t averse to a few games myself.” The elastic tore, and Daphne’s fingers were quick to touch the warm triangle of fluff.
“Will you stop it!” screamed Angel, scrambling from the bed. “What’s the matter with you?”
“What’s the matter with me? Why the heck do you think I brought you here?”
“For a vacation,” she stammered shakily.
“For a fuck, sweetheart. For a little bit of soft pussy instead of hard cock.”
Angel’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh my God! I feel sick.”
“Go puke somewhere else,” blazed Daphne. “If you don’t want to play, just take your bag an’ get the hell out.”
“But . . . I’ve got nowhere to go.”
Daphne was not interested. “Tough tit,” she spat.
Fifteen minutes later Angel stood forlornly in the lobby pleading with a surly desk clerk, who told her repeatedly that there were no vacant rooms in the hotel.
Buddy Hudson, fresh from an energetic scene with an Australian tourist, could not help noticing the delectable blonde. He checked out women automatically, and this one was something. When she turned away from the reservation desk he moved in. “Trouble?” he asked sympathetically.
She gazed at him and quite literally felt her legs go weak. “Oh!” she murmured.
“Oh—what? Trouble or no trouble?” He had to have this one, she was Christmas six months early.
“I . . . er . . . I can’t get a room here.” She couldn’t stop staring. Buddy Hudson was the handsomest man she had ever seen. He was a combination of her two favorite movie stars—Richard Gere and John Travolta—but better than both, with tight black curly hair, smoky ebony eyes, and a body that was both muscular and thin.
“Hey—hey. That’s not good. Didn’t you make a reservation in advance? This is tourist-seasonville.”
“I did, but . . .” Her eyes brimmed with tears. “I just had the most horrible experience I ever had in my entire life!”
This was going to be easy. “Want to talk about it?”
“I couldn’t!”
“Sure you could. Talking always helps. Come on, I’ll buy you a drink.” He guided her to a nearby lounge, where the waitress greeted him by name. “What’ll it be?” he asked, wondering how long it would take to get her into bed.
“A fruit punch, please.”
“With a shot of rum to liven it up?”
“Plain.”
He looked surprised. “You don’t drink?”
She shook her head.
“Smoke?”
Again she shook her head.
He wondered if he dared. No. Why even make a joke of it—they all did.
“So,” he began, “tell me what happened. Some creep giving you a hard time?”
She didn’t know why she trusted him, she just did. Soon she was confiding everything that had happened to her—from the moment she first set foot in Hollywood to her recent vile scene with Daphne. “I feel so dirty,” she said quietly. “Can you imagine a girl wanting to do something like that?”
Could he imagine? Oh boy, if he only had a buck for all the chicks he’d watched making it together. This little fox was either putting him on or she was a real innocent. “I got a bed you can use,” he remarked casually.
Quickly she remembered he was a man. And men only wanted One Thing. “No thank you.”
He didn’t push, just said mildly, “You have to park it somewhere for tonight.”
“No, I don’t. I’m going to the airport to wait for a plane back to Los Angeles.”
“That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard.”
“Why?”
“Because, sugar, you are here on one of the most beautiful islands in the world. And I am not letting you go anywhere until I have personally shown you around.”
“But—”
He placed a finger on her lips. “No buts. I have a friend who owns a small hotel. We’ll get you a room there.”
“But—”
“Rule one. Never argue with Buddy Boy.”
Three weeks sped by, and true to his word Buddy showed her the island. Not only did he give her a guided tour of Honolulu, but another friend of his who operated a tourist shuttle plane took them on day trips to Maui, Lanai, and Molokai. They explored white deserted beaches, coral reefs alive with exotic tropical fish, rain forests, and the dramatic Paradise Park.
Angel had never felt so excited and alive. Buddy called up feelings in her she had not known existed. Installed in a pleasant room at his friend’s hotel, she waited anxiously each day for him to pick her up. He tried a few times to get her to spend the night at his place, but each time she explained very carefully that she wasn’t “that kind of girl.”
He laughed when she said that. But his laughter did not weaken her resolve, although secretly she had to admit that she did want him. She yearned for his hard strong body to possess her totally. When he kissed her goodnight it took every ounce of willpower to push him away.
Buddy sang in a piano bar. “I’m really an actor,” he explained. “But I needed a rest, so I left L.A., an’ I’ve been down here a few months. I was working nonstop in Hollywood. Y’know—movies, television shows. You name it, I’ve been on it.”
“Really?” She was impressed.
“Sure. Didn’t you recognize me when we first met?”
She shook her head. “I don’t watch much television.”
“Ha! An’ I thought that’s why you let me talk to you in the first place. I’m famous, kid!”
He allowed her, only once, in the place where he worked. She sat at the bar gazing lovingly at him while he warbled everything from “My Way” to “Chicago”.
“They like the old-fashioned stuff,” he explained rather sheepishly. “My real bag’s more Billy Joel and rock. But I gotta make a buck.”
One day, lying on a quiet beach, he rolled over on top of her and began kissing her harder and faster than he ever had before. “You know you’re drivin’ me crazy,” he muttered. “No way can I go on like this.”
She could feel his hardness digging into her thigh, and instinctively her body pushed toward his.
“Oh, baby!” he mumbled, burying his head in her golden hair. “Oh, baby . . . baby . . . baby . . . I got to have you. You understand what I’m say in’? Got to.”
She wanted him as much as he wanted her. He was everything she had ever dreamed of and more. He could be the family she never had. Someone to care for. Someone who would
look after her. Someone to belong to.
“We could get married,” she whispered timidly.
He backed off. Fast. Then later he reconsidered. So what was so terrible about marrying the most beautiful girl in the world? “You got it, kid,” he told her, and a week later they were married. A simple ceremony. Buddy in a borrowed suit, and Angel in a white lace dress she purchased with the last of her money.
“You know what?” Buddy announced excitedly, the day after their wedding. “We’re headin’ back to Hollywood. You and me, kid—that’s where we’re both gonna make it so big they won’t even know what’s hit ’em!”
• • •
Dreamily Angel finished unpacking the groceries and hoped that Buddy would approve of what she was fixing for dinner. Hamburgers, green beans, baked potatoes, and apple pie.
She smiled softly to herself and thought about after dinner. She and Buddy alone together. In bed together. Making love together.
Thank you, Daphne. You changed my life and made me the happiest girl in the world!
• • •
Buddy was able to jazz Frances up to at least smiling before he left her office. She even let him have a couple of drags on her joint. Not enough to get him high—but who needed drugs with Angel in his life? Just looking at her gave him a shot of adrenaline, enough to take him right through the day with no trouble at all.
Who would have thought Buddy Hudson would ever get himself caught? Not him for sure.
Buddy Hudson. Answer to every girl’s prayers. Stud. Hero. Superstar. Well, jeez—if he didn’t think positive, who would? One of these days he’d make it. One of these days.
• • •
Buddy Hudson. Twenty-six years old. Brought up in San Diego by a mother who adored him, perhaps too much. She kept him by her side at all times and only relinquished her hold to allow him to attend school.
When he was twelve his father died, and although they were left in good financial shape his mother was distraught. “You will have to look after Mommy now,” she wailed. “You must be my big big man.”
Young as he was, her words frightened him. Her closeness was already oppressive, and now with his father gone it could only get worse.
It did. She insisted that he share her bed at night. “I’m frightened” was her excuse. He hated the way she stifled him, and looked forward to school and a friend named Tony, who also had problems at home. The two of them fantasized about getting a little freedom. “Why don’t we make a break for it?” Tony suggested one day.
The idea appealed to Buddy. He was already fourteen, tall and well built, with a strong desire to get out into the world and see what was going on. “Yeah,” he agreed. “Let’s do it.”
A few days later he borrowed twenty dollars from his mother’s purse and during lunch recess he and Tony skipped out of school. They raced down the street laughing and yelling with relief.
“What should we do?” Buddy asked.
Tony shrugged. “I dunno. Whaddya think we should do?”
Buddy shrugged. “I dunno.”
Finally they decided on the beach and a movie. The beach was hot. The movie was The Thomas Crown Affair, and Buddy fell in love with Faye Dunaway, and decided that if Steve McQueen could be an actor, why couldn’t he? The seeds of ambition were firmly planted.
They rolled out of the movie with no clear idea where to spend the night, and found themselves drifting down toward the harbor. Buddy thought about his mother alone in her big bed. He wasn’t sorry, just delighted that he had managed to escape.
They hung around outside a bar, bumming cigarettes from emerging sailors, until eventually an older man in civilian clothes approached them. “You want to go to a party?” he asked, his small eyes darting shiftily.
Buddy looked at Tony, and Tony looked at him, and they both nodded enthusiastically.
“Follow me,” said the man, walking down the street to a large foreign car.
The two boys jumped obediently into the back seat.
“I think it’s a Rolls-Royce,” Tony whispered.
“More like a Bentley,” Buddy whispered back.
Now that the man had the boys in his car, he ignored them, and drove silently and swiftly. After about ten minutes Buddy leaned forward and tapped him on the shoulder. “Excuse me, mister, where exactly is this party?”
The man braked sharply. “If you want to get out, say so now. Nobody’s forcing you to go anywhere. Just remember that.”
The words made Buddy uneasy. He nudged Tony. “Let’s split,” he whispered.
“No,” argued Tony. “We got nowhere else to go.”
Very true. Suddenly Buddy wished he was home. Only he couldn’t lose face and let Tony know that.
Another ten minutes or so and they pulled into a private driveway, then finally slid to a stop in front of a brightly lit mansion. The drive was full of other expensive cars.
“Whew!” Tony whistled. “Some place!”
“Follow me,” said the man, leading them through the front door into a spacious hallway. “What are your names?” he asked.
“I’m Tony, he’s Buddy,” Tony replied amiably. “And we’re both real hungry. Any food?”
“All in good time. This way.”
He threw open double doors to a sunken living room filled with people. The room was abuzz with conversation and the clink of glasses. They stood in the doorway until they were noticed and the noise tapered off.
“Gentlemen,” their escort announced formally, “I’d like you to meet Tony and Buddy.”
Every eye in the room fixed upon them, and there was deathly silence for only a moment. “No sailors, Freddie?” An effeminate voice broke the hush, and laughter filled the room. A short butterball of a man in a bright-orange kaftan detached himself from a group and approached them holding out a bejeweled hand. “Welcome to my party, boys. What can I get you?”
Tony took the fat man’s hand. “Food!” he said, grinning, loving every minute of their adventure.
Buddy still felt uneasy. However, he allowed himself to be drawn into the room along with Tony, realizing it was too late to make an escape. Besides, when he got a load of the table full of delicious food he wasn’t sure that he still wanted to.
They were given drinks. Not hard liquor, but frothy concoctions in tall glasses that tasted more like milkshakes than anything else. Then they were served plates of rich food. Everyone fussed around them—not like they were a couple of kids but nicely, asking their opinion on this and that, filling their glasses whenever they were half empty, and giving them cigarettes. After a while Buddy felt pretty good.
“Here, try this” Butterball passed him a different kind of cigarette.
He managed only a short drag before Tony grabbed it from him and said, “Is that grass? Let me try it.”
Butterball smiled. He had sharp, ferretlike teeth.
Tony pursed his lips, drew deeply on the cigarette, then began to cough frantically.
Butterball laughed aloud, and even the man who had picked them up allowed himself a smirk.
Tony’s eyes narrowed as he dragged on the cigarette again, this time managing not to choke, holding the smoke in his lungs for a while, then exhaling triumphantly.
“You learn fast,” murmured Butterball.
“Sure I do,” boasted Tony. “What else you got for me to try?”
Butterball’s eyes gleamed. “Are you big enough to sample a little cocaine?”
“I’m big enough to sample anything!”
By this time Buddy felt distinctly sick. “Gotta go to the bathroom,” he mumbled, staggering from the room. Nobody took any notice. Tony was the center of attention as he prepared to snort the white powder Butterball lined up on a glass table.
Buddy found the can and took an endless pee. The relief was great, but he still felt ill. He wandered into the hall and spotted an open window at the back. What he needed was a few big gulps of fresh air. He opened the window wide and leaned out. Coordination deserted him, an
d before he knew what was happening he lost his balance and fell, landing hard on a patch of grass.
He remembered nothing more until awakening in the early hours of the next morning, the daylight harsh in his eyes, his body stiff and cramped. He had no idea where he was. Panic swept through him. His head throbbed and the taste in his mouth was disgusting. Desperately he tried to think as he stood up in the unkempt garden and looked around.
Tony. Me and Tony. Running away. The movies. The harbor. Man in car. Faggots. Food. Drink.
My mother will kill me. For sure she will kill me.
He brushed down his clothes and made his way around the front of the house. There were no cars in the driveway. The place was deserted, and in the revealing light of day it looked run-down and dilapidated, not at all the magnificent mansion of the previous evening.
He frowned. The front door was locked, but he was able to peer through a window and was amazed to see the few pieces of furniture in sight covered with dust sheets. The place looked as if nobody had lived there in months. He hung around, hoping that Tony would show up, all the while skirting around the house searching for a place of entry. But everything was securely locked. Tony had obviously split—and why not? He probably thought Buddy had run out on him.
Suddenly running away did not seem like such a smart idea anymore. Not when you were on your own, cold, tired, and hungry. His mother would kill him, but returning home was the only answer. He set off in what he hoped was the right direction.
The events of the next twenty-four hours still haunted him. Sometimes he would wake in the middle of the night bathed in a cold clammy sweat, and the memories would be there—as sharp as if it had all happened the day before.
Arriving home. His mother hysterical. The police. Questions.
Tony’s body had been thrown from a car in the Bay Area at five in the morning. Battered, sexually abused, very very dead. ,
The cops pounced on him as if he had done it. He was taken to the police station and grilled for seven hours straight, until his mother managed to drag him out of there with the help of the family lawyer.