dialed his number, hoping desperately that he'd be there. It rang for a long time before he finally answered, his voice sounding sleepy and mad at being awakened. She told him who it was, wondering suddenly if he'd remember her. There was a pause, and the tone of Iris voice changed subtly, carrying a kind of charged, challenging amusement as he told her to come up soon after noon, by which time he'd be wide awake enough to enjoy her company. He gave her the address and hung up abruptly, leaving her still holding the phone, her knuckles white with tension and excitement.
Getting away from the house wasn't quite as easy as she'd thought it would be. Rick asked her where she was going and acted sullen because she'd promised to pitch for him that morning.
"I'm tired of sitting around in this dumb old house, too," he complained. "If you can't do it, then maybe Bob Fields's dad might. He said he might the other day, when I told him I didn 't have anyone to pitch for me— "
Francie cut him off short, trying to hang onto her temper. It wasn't easy because Lisa, sensing tension and anger in the air, had already begun to cry silently, her face hidden in her hands.
"Look—look, you guys, this is really important to me. I mean really. I swear. Otherwise I wouldn't be leaving you, would I? But look at some of the other girls my age—they're out driving their own cars and going on dates, and Dave expects me to hang around here all the time. It's driving me nuts!"
Rick looked uncertain, and she dropped to her knees, holding his shoulders.
"Rick, please? I'll give you five dollars. And—and no, wait, I'll give you a couple of bucks and I'll call Cheryl right now and ask if she'll come over and watch you till I get back. How's that? She doesn't have a steady guy, so she'd be home anyhow, and she was complaining just the other day she needed some bread...."
Francie usually got her own way in the end. Even with Cheryl. It took twelve dollars out of the money Brant and Jerry had given her the previous day—money she had already hidden away to start what she called her "getaway fund." But twelve dollars was worth it, even when she had to add on the bus fare to the city and a taxi from the bus depot over to the address Brant had given her.
She was glad that she had taken a taxi when she got there—it was quite a distance away from the bus depot and the crummy downtown area. Even the air here smelled different, and there were trees and beautifully kept lawns and even gardens that blazed with color. She looked up at the tall row house almost reverently after the taxi driver had left. Yeah, he'd have a place like this. Just like the kind of house that got featured in Better Homes or American Home —all the way up at the top of one of San Francisco's snobbier hills, view of the bay and all. He could have anything he wanted, she supposed, with all that money and his looks. And he wanted her —he must want her, or she wouldn't be here.
Now she wished she'd bought herself something really expensive and sexy to wear for him. But thinking about it, she suddenly giggled. Shit—what was the point? It wasn't her clothes Brant was interested in; it was her body. Still giggling, Francie rang the doorbell. A disco tune ran through her head, and she swayed to the rhythm, waiting for him to let her in.
Brant, by himself, was a perfect, polite host. Feeding her caviar and champagne out on the terrace because she'd confessed she'd always dreamed about tasting caviar and drinking champagne with it. He'd wrinkled his nose at the thought of champagne, but he'd opened a bottle for her and poured out some chilled white wine for himself. And afterward, bringing out two little pipes, he let her smoke hash with him. It was wild—the smoke made her feel kind of loose and high almost at once.
She wondered what he would do with her this time, and when he would make his move, but he was taking his time—toying with her, only occasionally, as if to remind
Getting away from the house wasn't quite as easy as she'd thought it would be. Rick asked her where she was going and acted sullen because she'd promised to pitch for him that morning.
"I'm tired of sitting around in this dumb old house, too," he complained. "If you can't do it, then maybe Bob Fields's dad might. He said he might the other day, when I told him I didn 't have anyone to pitch for me— "
Francie cut him off short, trying to hang onto her temper. It wasn't easy because Lisa, sensing tension and anger in the air, had already begun to cry silently, her face hidden in her hands.
"Look—look, you guys, this is really important to me. I mean really. I swear. Otherwise I wouldn't be leaving you, would I? But look at some of the other girls my age—they're out driving their own cars and going on dates, and Dave expects me to hang around here all the time. It's driving me nuts!"
Rick looked uncertain, and she dropped to her knees, holding his shoulders.
"Rick, please? I'll give you five dollars. And—and no, wait, I'll give you a couple of bucks and I'll call Cheryl right now and ask if she'll come over and watch you till I get back. How's that? She doesn't have a steady guy, so she'd be home anyhow, and she was complaining just the other day she needed some bread...."
Francie usually got her own way in the end. Even with Cheryl. It took twelve dollars out of the money Brant and Jerry had given her the previous day—money she had already hidden away to start what she called her "getaway fund." But twelve dollars was worth it, even when she had to add on the bus fare to the city and a taxi from the bus depot over to the address Brant had given her.
She was glad that she had taken a taxi when she got there—it was quite a distance away from the bus depot and the crummy downtown area. Even the air here smelled different, and there were trees and beautifully kept lawns and even gardens that blazed with color. She looked up at the tall row house almost reverently after the taxi driver had left. Yeah, he'd have a place like this. Just like the kind of house that got featured in Better Homes or American Home —all the way up at the top of one of San Francisco's snobbier hills, view of the bay and all. He could have anything he wanted, she supposed, with all that money and his looks. And he wanted her —he must want her, or she wouldn't be here.
Now she wished she'd bought herself something really expensive and sexy to wear for him. But thinking about it, she suddenly giggled. Shit—what was the point? It wasn't her clothes Brant was interested in; it was her body. Still giggling, Francie rang the doorbell. A disco tune ran through her head, and she swayed to the rhythm, waiting for him to let her in.
Brant, by himself, was a perfect, polite host. Feeding her caviar and champagne out on the terrace because she'd confessed she'd always dreamed about tasting caviar and drinking champagne with it. He'd wrinkled his nose at the thought of champagne, but he'd opened a bottle for her and poured out some chilled white wine for himself. And afterward, bringing out two little pipes, he let her smoke hash with him. It was wild—the smoke made her feel kind of loose and high almost at once.
She wondered what he would do with her this time, and when he would make his move, but he was taking his time—toying with her, only occasionally, as if to remind
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