Free Marijuana Girl by N. R. De Mexico Page A

Tony.
    "I don't know how you feel about it, but after last week, I feel that you belong to me, and it's up to me to look out for you. If you broke off with me for some other kid, that'd be all right I wouldn't be happy about it, and I'd probably make a big fuss, but it wouldn't be wrong--like this is."
    "What on earth are you talking about?"
    "Tm talking about Frank, and you know damned well I am. Joyce, you're too young to get involved with an older man, like that. He's married. He's got a wife and kid. Can't you get it through your stupid head that you'll ruin your life with that guy. Even if he loves you, he doesn't want to love you. He's--oh, hell, I don't know what he is, but he's not for you. And if I find out you're going too far with him--I'll tell your aunt. You know what she'll do."
    Then the idea came to her. She forced her voice to a calm. "Tony, you know better than what you're saying." There was only one way to convince him. And, for one blinding moment, she saw herself as a martyr, sacrificing herself at the stake for her love.
    She moved closer to Tony. "I'll show you who I love, Tony." She had to do something. If her aunt found out about Frank, she'd probably have him arrested, have him run out of town. She put her lips to Tony's and kissed him.
    Frank and Janice went to bed that night like two strangers who, by chance, have been forced together into a shipboard stateroom. Janice was troubled because of something she could not bring into the forefront of her consciousness. She knew that something had happened which threatened her; knew too that some part of her had understood it fully and was weighing it; taking measures for her protection from it--she knew, too, that whatever had happened had lowered a veil of estrangement between herself and her husband. But what, exactly, it was that had happened she did not know, could not let herself guess.
    But Frank's problem was far greater. He knew what had happened. Worse still, he knew that it would happen again and again. He loved Janice. She was his wife, the mother of his child, a capable, wonderful person on whom he could depend for everything he needed. But something about this strange kid, this seventeen-year-old femme fatale, had caught him in a terrible grip.
    She was beautiful, intelligent, sensuous--but that wasn't quite it. Nor was it the tense, passionate excitement she roused in him. That, too, was mere seasoning for the dish. No. There was something else she gave him, something not quite healthy--not for either of them. A kind of unquestioning obedience. A slavish devotion to his orders and desires which flattered him and made of him more than he was, but which at the same time gave him virtually an incestuous feeling, like that of, say, a father over-affectionate with his daughter.
    He looked across the room at Janice, brushing her soft, ash-blonde hair before the mirror. He couldn't let such a thing happen again. It must never happen again. What did a man want out of life more than Janice gave. All right, she had moods. All right, she had a mind of her own--and could raise utter hell with it, too. But he and Janice were two parts of the same whole--perfectly matched, perfectly mated. He wished she were not leaving tomorrow to be gone for the whole summer.
    She was wearing a pale, transparent gown of green nylon or silk, or something, and the soft light of the small lamp on her vanity outlined the lovely shape of her legs. He thought, how can you get excited over any woman but her, lovely Janice, his Janice.
    "Janice," he said softly. "Honey." She did not turn and he could not see her face. What was she thinking? Did she know? "Baby," he said. "Turn out the light and come here."
    There was a click, and he saw her pale figure coming to him across the room in the faint, leaf-spotted moonlight seeping through the window.
    Then she was in his arms, her lips parted and pressed to his, and he tasted the salt of her tears.
    Joyce undressed slowly, her whole