Blood and Oranges by James Goldsborough (latest books to read txt) 📗

of the deal. “You miss and we go over the cliffs.”

“So get out and walk if you’re scared.”

“I am not scared. I am responsible. Get me out of here! No, move over. Let me do it.”

He closed the door, she pushed him away and started the motor. It was tricky, jumping your foot from the brake to the gas pedal and coordinating with the clutch and the hand brake so the car didn’t slip back or stall, but if she could do it on Kilgore she could do it anywhere. She missed her timing, losing control as they started rolling backward down the hill with Billy screaming. After a few yards she was fortunately able to stop.

He grabbed for the hand brake. “You’ll kill us!”

She slapped his hand away. He was a twerp. His father was a Beverly Hills dentist, and she figured Billy for the same.

On the second try, she aced it, coordinating perfectly between clutch, accelerator and hand brake and jolting quickly up the hill. She parked, angled the front wheels into the curb as you’re supposed to do and cut the motor.

She smiled. “Not bad, huh?”

He was breathing fast, hyperventilating. “Last time. Give me my five bucks.”

“Don’t you want to drive home?”

“Pay me!”

He was mad—mad and humiliated, a bad male combination. She needed tact.

“Come on, Billy, I need you.”

“Like hell you do.”

“I do need you.” She patted his knee.

He grabbed her hand, holding it on his knee. “So why don’t you ever show it?”

She stared at him, trying to catch the meaning.

“Okay, you can take over. Let’s switch places.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“What?”

“Can I touch them?”

“What . . .?”

It happened a few Thursdays after that. Lizzie didn’t come again (Lizzie never did like horses), and they’d gone back on the hill after the stables. By now, Maggie knew what it took to keep Billy happy and wore a tight blouse with the top buttons already undone. She took Rindge to the sand dunes at Kilgore, turned down and cut the motor. She turned to him.

Suddenly he did something so unexpected that she slapped his face. He slapped her back and they would have gone at it right there except that she threw the car in gear, started up the hill to Rindge with a jerk, raced back to Culver heading east as fast as she’d ever driven with Billy screaming bloody murder. She forgot about the ESS turn over Ballona, somehow made it around but coming out on the far side near the train tracks by the shed where they picked up the produce from the lettuce fields south of Ballona lost control and rolled. The passenger door sprang and Billy came out head first, landing on his head in a field of lettuce.

Dazed, she crawled out but had no idea where she was or what had happened. She went to Billy and looked down, but nothing registered and so she sat down and didn’t remember anything until she was strapped down and heard someone say that the good news was that the boy was dead because his neck was broken.

When she awoke, the doctor—gray hair, white coat, horn rims, stethoscope, nametag, everything a doctor should be—was smiling down on her. He introduced himself as Dr. Lambert and told her she was in Santa Monica Hospital. She’d had a concussion, and they’d had to sedate her to make some stitches, including on her face, but everything would heal just fine. Nothing was broken. He asked if she could answer a few simple questions. She nodded. He asked her name and age, what year it was, who was president? She answered. He asked if she remembered the accident? Again, she nodded. People were waiting to see her, he said. She might still feel some effects from sedation, but did she feel up to seeing them?

“What people?”

“Your family, mostly.”

She sat up quickly, too quickly for she felt suddenly faint. “I want to get up.”

“Why not stay as you are until everyone is gone? Easier that way. Your parents are here, your sister, parents of the dead boy and—oh yes, the police want to see you first.”

The dead boy . . . the police?

He saw her stunned look. “It’s routine in something like this, Maggie, but only if you’re up to it. You do remember everything, don’t you?” Something inside her had stopped working, not her heart for she felt it thump, but something was off. She nodded.

“I ought to warn you.” He frowned. “Some questions might be awkward.”

Billy, oh, God!

He walked to the door, and Maggie saw that two people already were in the room, two men in dark suits and hats, unmistakably police, partially hidden behind a screen. One had a notebook and was writing. The door to outside was open and she heard voices.

“Hi Maggie. Just a few questions before the parents come in,” the older one said, approaching. Neither man removed his hat. “We need a little information about the accident.”

She sat up straighter, thankful the smock was tied in back. For the first time she was aware of the bandages, including one on her cheekbone. She knew her hair was a mess and would love to have washed her face, which felt icky.

“Just tell us what happened. Take your time. Tell us what you remember.”

The younger officer kept writing as she talked and after a while she thought they were done because they stopped asking questions. Strangely, they didn’t turn to leave. The older officer looked to the younger one, who shook his head. The older officer sighed.

“We found sperm in the car and on the young man’s pants,” he said, softly. “Can you tell us anything about that?”

Sperm?

“He tried to kiss me,” she said, gathering herself.

“He tried to kiss you as you were driving—is that why you lost control?”

“No, before that. We were just sitting in the car. After the riding lesson.”

“He tried to kiss you and had an orgasm, is that what you mean?”

They were practically whispering. “An orgasm?”

“You don’t know what