Dreams Die First by Harold Robbins Page A

the apartment door the coke had burned out of my system and I was dragging. I reached for my key, but the door was open. The lights were on in the living room.
    Denise, still wearing the maid’s uniform, was asleep on the couch, one arm thrown over her eyes to shield them from the light.
    I went to the bedroom, pulled an extra blanket from the bed and covered her. She didn’t move. I shook my head. The innocents. They thought they were so wise. Yet they knew nothing.
    Denise was eighteen, Bobby nineteen. For them life was still a dream, an ideal, filled with beauty and goodness.
    Shit. I returned to the bedroom, kicked off my shoes and fell across the bed. I used to be an innocent. Used to be. Used to—be. I closed my eyes and dreamt.
    I felt a hand on my shoulder. “Gareth! Gareth! Wake up!”
    This was not a voice from a dream. I opened my eyes. Denise was shaking me. “What? What?” I mumbled.
    “You were shouting and screaming.”
    I shook my head groggily. “No.”
    “You were having a bad dream.”
    “I’m sorry.” I sat up and reached for a cigarette. My hands were shaking.
    “Are you all right?”
    “Yes.”
    “Did you find Bobby?”
    “Yes.” The cigarette steadied me. “He was hurt. I took him to a hospital.” I saw the look of concern on her face. “He’ll be okay,” I said quickly.
    “What did they do to him?”
    “They drugged him, then beat and raped him.” I felt the tears in my eyes. I tried to hold them back but couldn’t. Suddenly I was crying.
    She straightened up. “I’ll make you a cup of warm milk.”
    I stopped her at the door. “I’m old enough for a whiskey.”
    “We’ll put it in milk. Meanwhile, get out of your clothes and into bed.”
    The bottle of scotch was on the tray next to the cup of warm milk. She looked disapprovingly at my shirt and pants, lying on the floor next to the bed. “You’re not neat,” she said as she put the tray down.
    “I never said I was.”
    She picked up my clothes and took them to the closet. I took a sip of the milk that I had laced with the scotch. It was awful. I put down the cup and took a swig of whiskey from the bottle.
    “That’s cheating,” she said over her shoulder. “Drink the milk.”
    I watched her crossing the room. The maid’s uniform was crumpled now. “You going to wear that stupid outfit the rest of your life?” I asked.
    “Don’t change the subject. Drink the milk.”
    I drained the cup. “Okay. Now get out of that uniform and come to bed.”
    She hesitated a moment, then sat down in the chair near the foot of the bed. With her eyes fixed steadily on mine, she leaned forward, unbuckled the patent leather pumps and kicked them off, then slowly rolled down the black silk hose and hung them neatly over the back of the chair. She got to her feet and her hand went behind her back to the zipper. “Turn off the light,” she said. “I don’t want you to get excited. I want you to sleep.”
    “Too late. If you’d taken off one more stocking, I would have come.”
    “Turn out the light,” she said, not moving.
    I turned it out. I heard the rustle of her dress, then felt the weight of her body on the bed and reached for her.
    Her hands caught mine. “No,” she said firmly. “You’re too uptight. I want to make love to you, not just be something you pour your tensions into.”
    “What’s wrong with that? You know a better way to unwind?”
    “Yes. The fifth-plane exercise.”
    “What the hell is that? Some kind of mumbo jumbo you learned at the workshop?”
    “Do what I say,” she said, placing my hands at my sides. “Lie back flat and close your eyes. Let your body go loose and open your mind. I’m going to touch you in different places with both hands at the same time. My right hand will be the yin contact, the left hand, the yang. Your body currents will flow through me and be restored to their natural balance. Every time I touch you I will ask if you feel me; when you feel both hands, say yes.