Free The Lord Won't Mind (The Peter & Charlie Trilogy) by Gordon Merrick Page A

He started the car and turned and headed back. Her sobs slowly diminished and died. He was aware of her adjusting her bodice and straightening her skirt. They continued in silence until he reached inhabited streets and pulled up in front of her house. She opened the door.
    “Don’t you ever dare speak to me again,” she said shakily. “I’ll get back at you if it’s the last thing I do.”
    “Well, if I’m not supposed to speak to you, I won’t bother to say goodnight. Go on. Get out. And don’t try stirring up any trouble. I can talk too, remember.”
    She slammed the door. He chuckled as he shot the car into gear and sped off toward the club.
    He went first to the lavatory and washed his hands thoroughly and removed a smudge of lipstick from his cheek. Then he went out to look for Peter. The dance was on the wane. There were fewer people about, which simplified his search. Peter wasn’t dancing. He wasn’t in the bar. He wasn’t in any of the public rooms. He wasn’t on the big brightly lighted porch. Charlie went down the steps that led to lawn and the tennis courts. He passed under trees into deep shadow. It occurred to him that Peter might have gone home, but even as he thought it he rejected it as extremely unlikely. Peter wouldn’t leave him unless he was sick. He heard voices off to his right, and he veered in their direction. In a moment, he recognized Peter’s voice. He slowed to approach more cautiously. He made out two forms seated on the grass under a tree. He was only a few yards from them when two heads turned, catching the light.
    Charlie swung around and started back, almost running in the direction he had come from.
    “Charlie,” Peter called. There was the peculiar tremor of delight that was always in his voice when he spoke his name. Charlie speeded up. He circled the building and leaped into the car and was off. His thoughts and feelings were in such a tumult that he couldn’t sort them out. His throat ached. His eyes were burning. He gripped the wheel, his muscles straining, as if it offered him his only hope of salvation. Even after he had parked the car in front of the house, he remained in the same position, clinging to the wheel. He had recognized Peter’s companion. The one member of the club whom everybody referred to openly as a “pervert.” A man whom mothers warned their sons against.
    He became suddenly conscious of time passing, and he flung himself out of the car and raced into the house and up the stairs to his room. He started to lock the door, but changed his mind. Not that he wanted to see Peter again. He could rot in hell. He tried to undress but couldn’t. He wanted to lie down, but the empty bed repelled him. He paced, all his body feeling stiff and unmanageable. His muscles were tensed to the breaking point. He wanted to let out a great roar of pain and fury. Nervous tension expressed itself in blinding rage. Jesus Christ. Why should this sort of thing happen to him? That goddamn girl. He had let her off too easily. He should’ve really frightened her so she wouldn’t dare talk. God knows what the bitch might accuse him of—rape, indecent exposure, anything. Nobody would pay any attention, but word might get to C. B. And Peter out on the lawn with a queer. If he discovered that they had so much as touched each other, he would kill him. Kill him. Kill him for making him feel like this.
    He heard a car below, and his heart leaped up and began to hammer painfully against his chest. He remained motionless, listening. He heard the car stop, the gentle closing of a door, footsteps on gravel, and then nothing until there was another flurry of footsteps before his door and Peter burst into the room.
    “Why did you—” he began, and then stopped as he saw Charlie’s face.
    “Did your boyfriend bring you home?” Charlie demanded with a sneer.
    “Oh darling—”
    “Stop calling me that.” He took a quick step forward and hit Peter hard across the face with his