The Lake

It’s a wonder he isn’t raped every time he goes out, she marveled, peeling down the zipper. Easing her fingers in between his legs, she found the hot, pulsating bulge lying there. Waiting for her. With both hands, she reached in farther, cupped his scrotum and penis, and drew them out. He moaned, squirming in her grasp.

“In me, Charlie,” she breathed.

“The house. Come into the house,” he whispered hoarsely.

“Why not here? Anyway, what house?”

“My secret place. It’s private. Come with me.”

She pouted. Annoyed at the interruption, her rim aching with need. If he’s gonna play games again, it’s finito. I’m outa here.

Still pouting, she followed him up the limb-strewn beach to a house set back in the pines. Watching out for him across the lake, she hadn’t noticed it before. He led her across the rickety porch, to the stoop and through the half-open door.

“You been here before?” she asked warily.

“Yeah. Lotsa times,” he told her. “Not with nobody else, though. I come here alone. So’s I can think.”

“Whose place is it?”

“B’longed to some rich New Yorker guy back in the thirties, Mom said. Shot his wife, buried her out back in the woods. Guy hanged himself from that there balcony, y’see up there?”

“How did they know he’d shot and buried his wife?”

“Left a note on the kitchen table confessin’ all. Said he’d caught his wife in bed with Jed Johnson, local ranger hereabouts. Nobody’d live in the place after that. It was left to go to rack ’n’ ruin. Y’can still see bloodstains on the kitchen floor,” he explained with enthusiasm, as if proud to impart this piece of local lore.

The house was dark inside; it smelled earthy and damp. Leigh wrinkled her nose as she caught the moldy odor of decaying wood—or was it dried blood?

Shivering, she wished she’d picked up her blouse from off the beach.

It had been wet, anyhow.

Might have dried off by now, though.

A sharp shiver brought goose bumps to her naked flesh. Hunching her shoulders up to her ears, she wrapped her arms around her breasts.

Charlie led the way up the stairs.

“Mind that one—and the next. These old stairs are real unsafe. Don’t want you breaking a leg, now.”

“God, Charlie. Do we have to do this? I mean, this place could put a person off it, y’know…”

She flung out an arm to balance herself, clutching at the balustrade. It was tacky with damp and mold. She dragged back her hand, checking her fingers.

“Yuck. This is gross. Charlie, you’re doing this on purpose. Tell me you don’t want to make love to me, and I’ll go. Just fade out of your life forever…I don’t need all this.”

Tears of disappointment welled in her eyes.

Disappointment? Try terminal frustration! He’s playing games with me—just like last night. Who the hell does he think he is…

“Charlie?”

They reached the landing, a mezzanine arrangement with several doors branching off into various rooms on the right. Must have been quite a house once upon a time, she thought miserably.

“Charlie…!”

He turned, sweeping her into his arms easily, as if she were a child, and carried her into one of the rooms. By its size it had probably been the master bedroom. A tick mattress lay in the center of the floor.

Jagged, broken windows overlooked the pine-fringed lake. It was a mighty fine view, she had to admit.

Any other time…

Empty beer cans, food wrappers, and other junk was piled in the corners of the room. Squatters, campers…

Even murderers…She pictured the New Yorker guy, rope in hand, taking one last look at the lake below…

Charlie put her down, then went over to an old-fashioned dresser. He opened a drawer, took out a folded sheet and an Indian blanket.

Leigh perked up.

Looks like this could be a regular routine.

She felt let down. Cheap, tawdry. She’d hoped she’d been his first. Looked like he’d been lying through his teeth when he told her he’d never had a girlfriend.

Guys. What is it with them?

Wondering what he’d come up with next, she watched, hands on hips, eyebrows raised.

“Uh-huh,” she murmured, eyeing the bedcovers and wondering who’d used them before she came along.

“Very handy.”

“I snuck these in last night, after you’d gone.” He looked as if he expected her to pat him on the head and say, “Gee, thanks, Charlie.”

She didn’t.

He spread out the sheet on the mattress. Then he put the blanket on top.

At least they’re clean.

If they’d been dirty, I’d’ve been out of here, she told herself. Then, immediately, she felt guilty. Charlie had done all of this for her. She was sure of it.

He was smiling eagerly. Folding down the bedcovers, he motioned for her to get in.

Still, she was cynical.

“The romance is killing me, buster…Can’t wait for dessert.”

Cocking his head to one side, he tried to understand her words. Her mood. He hadn’t seen her like this before. His eyes shifted to his feet.

“I…I thought you’d like my secret place…,” he said quietly, disappointed she seemed displeased.