Free Randall #01 - The Best Revenge by Anne R. Allen

pocket.
    “So. When are you going to get out of that dress?” he said. “We haven’t got all night.” He reached for her breast.
    No. She’d been willing to take a stupid drug to be polite, but this was ridiculous.
    “Listen, Jon-Don,” she said, inching away. “I think you’re really cute, but you’re here with another girl and my door doesn’t lock and there’s the party out there…”
    “Are you turning me down?” Jon-Don’s face distorted with anger. “Don’t you know who I am? It’s not like I’m asking you to do anything kinky.”
    “Of course I know who you are, Lieutenant Darrell.” She added a little Marilyn Monroe breathiness to her voice. “Do you think I’d be here with anyone else? It’s just that I don’t feel comfortable about the situation tonight.” She smiled the sweet-little-girl smile that once charmed horses, cars and trips to Europe out of her dad. “Listen, Jon-Don, I’ll give you my phone number, and you can call me any time. I’m not turning you down. You make me just melt. Really.” She managed to make herself kiss his stubbly cheek, and started to stand up.
    But he grabbed her shoulders and, digging his fingers into her flesh, gave her a rough kiss—all slobber and old beer. As she pulled away, the strap of her dress ripped. She jumped up and grabbed a jacket hanging from the doorknob and threw it on to cover herself.
    “Hey bitch, you’re supposed to be taking your clothes off, not putting more on.”
    She barely avoided his second lunge by turning around toward her makeshift desk. She pretended to be looking for something.
    “A pen,” she said, “I need a pen. See?” She found one under a copy of Vogue . “And some paper. I’ll give you my phone number. I’ll be so hurt if you don’t call…”
    He wouldn’t call, of course. Men never did. She reached in the pocket of her jacket and found a scrap of paper. It had printing on it, but across the top was room for her to write “Camel—270-4571”.
    He grabbed the paper and very quickly, his expression changed from anger and lust to something like fear. And embarrassment. He gave a nervous laugh.
    “Hey, yeah. I’ll call you. Real soon. It was nice talking to you, Camel.” He started out the door. “I’ll call you,” he repeated, waving the paper scrap. “You bet.”
    As he waved, she could read the words “Have You Heard About Jesus?” printed on the torn sheet. She stifled a giggle as she reached in her jacket pocket and pulled out the remainder of the cowboy’s pamphlet.
    Jon-Don stuffed the paper in his pocket and pushed his way out the door.

 
     
     
     
     
    Chapter 8—TV Sex See Page Six (A)
     
     
    When Camilla woke the next day to the heavy Ocean Beach fog, she had a vague feeling that she had done something horribly wrong.
    But she knew it wasn’t her fault the party had ended up such a disaster.
    Not all of it.
    OK, Jon-Don leaving, all freaked out by the religious pamphlet, kind of sent the party on a downward spiral. But that was because True, the girlfriend, who was too blitzed to notice Jon-Don making his hasty exit, threw a drama queen number and accused Camilla of hiding Jon-Don in her bedroom, and after a thorough search, threatened to “cut that bitch’s tits off,” if Jon-Don turned out to be hidden anywhere on the premises. That pretty much sent the more sober guests scurrying out the door.
    But no matter how drunk they’d been, nobody could have blamed Camilla for the fact that when Jennifer’s other boyfriend, the sizable Mike, finally appeared, he was accompanied by another woman. A brunette in spandex with hair considerably larger than her brain—who made an ill-advised remark about Jennifer’s sexual habits.
    And it was certainly not Camilla’s fault that Jennifer decided to have a hissy fit and make a dramatic exit on the arm of somebody with muscles and gold chains, who might or might not have been the breast-admiring Mr. Tooter. Camilla wasn’t sure.