The Losers by David Eddings Read Free Book Online Page A

nature of an obligation.
    After the movie they drove to their special spot in the country and began the customary grappling. Perhaps because the weekends had always been denied to her and this evening was somehow stolen and therefore illicit, Marilyn responded to his caresses with unusual passion, shuddering and writhing under his hands. Finally she pulled free of him for an instant, looked at him, and spoke quite simply. “Let’s,” she said, her voice thick and vibrant.
    And so they did.
    It was awkward, since they were both quite tall, and the steering wheel was horribly in the way, but they managed.
    And afterward she cried. He comforted her as best he could and later drove her home, feeling more than a little ashamed of himself. There had been some fairly convincing evidence that, until that night, Marilyn had been one of the girls one would normally take to a school dance.
    The next time they used the backseat. It was more satisfactory, and this time she did not cry. Raphael, however, was still a bit ashamed and wished they had not done it. Something rather special seemed to have been lost, and he regretted it.
    After several weeks Isabel returned, her fair skin slightly tanned and her temper improved.
    Flood accompanied Raphael to the lake on the first weekend, his eyes bright and a knowing smile on his face.
    Raphael was moody and stalked around the house, stopping now and then to stare out at the rain, and drinking more than was usual for him. It was time, he decided, to break off the affair with Isabel. She was too wise for him, too experienced, and in a way he blamed her for having planted that evil seed that had grown to its full flower that night in the front seat of his car. If it had not been for her insinuating suggestions, his relationship with Marilyn might still be relatively innocent. Beyond that, she repelled him now. Her overripe figure seemed to have taken on a faint tinge of rottenness, and the smooth sophistication that had attracted him at first seemed instead to be depravity now—even degeneracy. He continued to drink, hoping to incapacitate himself and thus avoid that inevitable and now-disgusting conclusion of the evening.
    “Our Angel has fallen, I’m afraid,” Flood said after dinner when they were all sitting in front of the crackling fireplace.
    “Why don’t you mind your own business, Damon?” Raphael said, his words slurring.
    “Has he been naughty?” Isabel asked, amused.
    “Repeatedly. He’s been coming in with claw marks on his back from shoulder to hip.”
    “Why don’t you keep your goddamn mouth shut?” Raphael snapped.
    “Be nice, dear,” Isabel chided him, “and don’t try to get muscular. My furniture’s too expensive for that sort of foolishness.”
    “I just want him to keep his mouth shut, that’s all.” Raphael’s words sounded mushy even to him.
    “All right then. You tell me. Was it that girl?”
    He glared sulkily into the fireplace.
    “This won’t be much of a conversation if you won’t talk to me. Did she really scratch you, Angel? Let me see.” She came across the room to him and tugged at his shirt.
    “Lay off, ‘Bel,” he warned, pushing her hands away. “I’m not in the mood for any of that.”
    “Oh”—she laughed—“it’s true then. I’ve never liked scratching. It’s unladylike.”
    “How the hell would you know?”
    Her eyes narrowed slightly, and her voice took on an edge. “All the usual things, I suppose? Parked car, clumsy little gropings in the dark, the steering wheel?”
    Raphael’s face flamed. She saw the flush and laughed, a deep, throaty sound that made him flush even more. “You did!” she exulted. “In a car seat! My poor Angel, I thought I’d taught you better. Are motels so expensive now? Or couldn’t you wait? Was she a virgin?”
    “Why don’t we just drop this?”
    “I think the boy’s in love, Junior,” she said to Flood.
    “Here’s to love.” Flood toasted, raising his glass. “And to