Gringa by Sandra Scofield Page A

at my belly and breasts. I twisted one leg over the other to lock him out, and he used his knee to break this silly barrier. “I don’t want to!” I gasped, summoning resources for a fight. We were fifteen miles from town on an unpaved service road. What a ridiculous spot I’d picked to end an affair based on my own weakness. And Richard—Richard was the best of the lot. At least I thought he liked me. I shuddered, and he put his mouth on mine. I clung to his shoulders and drew him in; I stopped thinking. Only like this could I find release, only like this could a man want me.
    â€œYou’re bored, is that it?” Richard grunted. There was nothing for me to say. Richard poised just above me, speaking harshly. “You think I don’t know how much you fuck?” Plunge. “Farin, and me.” I twisted, making room for him. “Howard Black, and Bob Slaughter.” He dug his hands into my buttocks and came, savagely, short of the crest I sought. He fell on me, and my moan rose higher than his sigh, despairing, toward the sky. His weight on me was monstrous, the smell of him unbearable. If I had had a knife, I would have sunk it into his back, no, into his belly. “Still not enough, is it?” he spit at me. He grabbed my hand and yanked it down on me. “So you do it!” he commanded. He raised up and sat back, his legs arched over me. “Rub it, bitch,” he said. I turned my head, and he slapped me. “Rub it!” he said. This was new. I curved slightly into my side, as much I could manage with him straddling me, and, weeping now, I rubbed my finger back and forth until the friction hurt and my hand ached. Richard got out of the car, and I used the blanket to dab at myself. I dressed and moved to the front seat. Richard climbed into the driver’s seat and started the car. “What is it, exactly, that you think I owe you?” he said evenly.
    â€œNothing, nothing,” I said miserably. “But all these months we’ve made love—”
    He whooped. “Made love! Listen, cunt, it’s called fucking. Fucking. You make love to your lover. You fuck a cunt.”
    My stomach heaved. “I might be sick.”
    He stopped the car with a lurch. “Outside.”
    â€œI’m okay,” I said, humiliated. I got out and stood for a moment by the car. And I thought; he’s right. If you call things what they are, you are less likely to make them into something else. Words can fool you, but only if you let them.
    I got back in and he said, “You’re kidding yourself. Some girls are born cunts. That’s you. Jesus, that’s you.”
    Shame licked at me like fire. What he said was true.
    â€œWe’ll try a little experiment,” he said. “We’ll wait until you want it again. You call me, any weeknight. I won’t call you. You have to ask for it, next time.”
    â€œNever!” I said. But I was wrong.

Part III

Chapter 4
    ABILENE got up late one morning, washed a few things, and took them out on the terrace to drape over chairs to dry. Below on the street, Michael Sage was coming toward the building. She dropped a pair of panties to the sidewalk and called his name. There was no one else in sight. What Mexican would want to be seen near him? He was so tall! He looked up and saw her. She pointed to the underwear. He scooped up her fallen laundry and waved it above his head, shouting something she couldn’t hear. She ran down the stairs and buried her face in his chest. “I don’t believe it,” she said half a dozen times. He put his hands in her hair.
    They made love, and after, lay watching the sun pool on the floor beside the bed. “Shit!” Sage said. “What is it?” Abilene asked timidly. Her manner made him laugh at her. “In Claude Girard’s apartment,” he said. “In his goddamned bed!” Abilene laughed with him at that.
    They went to the