Page 155 of Random in Death
In daylight hours, he’d often observe old people—especially men—sitting on benches, looking out over the beach. Probably dreaming of the life they could have had if they’d had brains or luck or a whore wife who didn’t bitch and complain constantly.
They were at the end of the road anyway, so too late for them.
He was at the beginning of his road. In one year, one month, one week and three days, he’d turn eighteen. University waited, and he already had his pick there.
He’d wait until he was into his sophomore year before arranging a tragic accident for his father. Then all the money would be his, the house would be his. He’d sell the boat due to his mal de mer along with the house in the Hamptons, as he had no interest there.
He could do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. He could buy as many whores as he wanted.
And make them do whatever he wanted.
He really wanted to experience—using the inaccurate vernacular—a blow job.
But tonight, he’d experience intercourse. He’d earned it. He deserved it.
Tonight, he’d finally know what it was like to have female breasts in his hands, to slide his tongue inside a girl’s mouth, to shove his erection inside her.
To penetrate her, dominate her. To hurt her with his body while hers gave his pleasure.
As thinking of it gave him that erection, he was grateful for the trench.
The lights gleamed and flashed now and brought that—for him—false sense of excitement and a kind of tawdry glamour.
Screams streamed down from the Cyclone as its cars and passengers dived down a run, looped around a loop.
Insanity, as far as he was concerned.
Air guns popped as idiots fired at various animals or cartoon villains, all to win some cheap prize. The Wonder Wheel circled. More screams from the G-Force with its passengers strapped to a spinning wheel that twisted, inverted.
It made him feel queasy just to look at it.
He considered several possibilities. Long-legged girls in their tiny shorts and skimpy tops, so obviously asking for what he was so anxious to give them.
But most traveled in packs, and many had boys with them. Tall jocks with empty brains, slouching hoodlums with smirking mouths.
He had several options for cutting one from the herd, but preferred finding a satisfactory selection who walked alone. He kept his eye on the restrooms, though for some reason females often traveled in packs even there.
He only needed one, but he had standards. She must be pleasing to his eye, in face and figure. She must not be taller than he was.
But he grew impatient, and jittery with it, nearly settled for one who carried more weight in her hips than he liked, another whose mouth looked pinched and ears too big.
He found it frustrating that the ones who pleased his eye, met his standards so rarely walked alone. For this most important project, he couldn’t approach one who had companions.
Then he saw her, and could barely believe his luck. That is, if he believed in luck at all.
He knew her!
Delaney—she went by Del—Brooke. She attended his school, actually had a reasonably intelligent brain. Black hair that fell in waves, golden brown eyes, perfect features. Long legs, but she met his height requirement, as he had at least an inch on her.
She wore blue shorts to show off those legs, legs with excellent muscle tone, as she captained the school’s swim team. A tiny white top with skinny straps to show off those swimmer’s shoulders.
He’d been her lab partner once, and they’d worked well enough together. But when he’d suggested they meet for coffee, she’d looked at him with pity that barely disguised derision, and told him she was seeing someone.
Lies, just another lie. And he knew she’d tittered about it with her friends after.
Here, an opportunity to have all he wanted presented itself.
And though she talked on her ’link, for the moment, she walked alone.