Page 20 of Sweet Savage Love
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S he had grown to hate this room that held her prisoner. It had been a week already, and Ginny felt like a caged captive in some Sultan’s harem. Even this room—her velvet cell, with its entwined figures on the ceiling, its conveniently mirrored dresser and rich plush—everything here reminded her of what she was and where she was.
He was gone all day, and sometimes for half the night as well, and she had almost lost track of the division between day and night. The whorehouse blossomed at night—during the day most of the girls slept. She knew now, of course, to what kind of place he had brought her, and she tormented herself with questions and with her own feelings of abject humiliation.
Whore—I’m his whore—his plaything, she thought. And that’s all I ever was at the beginning—a new experience, a stupid, foolish, too-willing virgin! Oh God, I flung myself at him, in a way I asked for this. So now he keeps me in a bordello for his personal pleasure. But afterwards—this was the thought that would make her shudder and grow cold with fear, afterwards, when he’s tired of me, what will he do with me? I know too much…he daren’t let me go after this, and when he’s finished with whatever business he has out here that keeps him gone so long—what then?
She had wept a lot in the beginning, planning continually how to escape. But as the days passed she became almost resigned. The room was locked—the windows were not only barred but heavily shuttered as well. Her meals were brought in by the Indian maid, but always behind her the man Manuel lounged, with his shotgun ready. Her hysterical outbursts were met with cold, blank faces, and once Lilas herself had come and had told her, in an incongruously husky, friendly voice, exactly how she treated her recalcitrant girls.
“You must understand of course, my dear, how—shall we say—fortunate you are? To have just one lover? But I can’t have trouble—it’s bad for discipline and the girls are complaining…so you see, if you can’t behave…”
Terror-struck, feeling physically sick, Ginny had managed to control her outbursts after that—confining her weeping to moments when she was alone; muffling her sobs in the pillow.
She received no sympathy at all from Steve, who for the most part seemed tense and abstracted when he forgot her presence.
To pass the time, and because she found herself almost unbearably lonely and starved for any kind of companionship, Ginny began, at first shyly, to chat desultorily with some of Lilas’ “girls,” when they came in curiously on the pretext of bringing her meals.
One of them, a vivacious French-Canadian who called herself Lorena, was more friendly than the others, and kinder, once Ginny had become used to Lorena’s frank manner and blunt speech.
As the days passed, Lorena came quite often to visit and talk in her bright satin wrapper, sitting yawning on Ginny’s bed, her black eyes bright with friendly amusement at the new girl’s obvious naiveté.
Like the other girls, Lorena talked mostly of men—their likes and dislikes in bed, and their peculiarities. They thought Ginny lucky to have a lover who wanted to keep her for himself—luckier that her lover happened to be Steve Morgan.
Lorena told Ginny bluntly that she was a fool to think constantly of escape.
“Where would you go, ma petite? Back to your papa? No—after this, I tell you it is too late! That is the trouble with being a ‘good’ woman, once a man has had you then you are bad, hein? Now me—I am a whore because I have to survive and the work is easy. Hard work—being someone’s maid, perhaps—scrubbing floors—that is not for me!” Lorena shuddered delicately. “After my man was killed in a fight with knives I learn fast that all men, they are alike. They want to be made to feel good—want something different, you comprehend? Something their good wives won’t give them.”
It did not take Lorena long to discover that Ginny did not comprehend. Laughing, she promised to teach her about men.
“For,” she said shyly, rolling her liquid black eyes, “it is possible that if a woman is very good, very clever in the bed, she can make a man wild for her, so wild that he is her slave, in fact—and me, I know this!”
Bored, with nothing else to do, Ginny found herself listening in spite of herself—learning about things she’d never dreamed of. Lorena, or one of the other girls perhaps, would stroll into her room to share a meal, and regale her with details of their lovers of the night before. Occasionally, if a man had been too rough, a girl might sport a bruise or two. Lorena admitted that once she had gone with a man who wanted to beat her, and had offered her a hundred dollar tip for herself if she would let him.
“I do it for the money, that time—but never, no, never again!” Lorena cried, shivering with the memory of pain.
“Oh God! Why are men such beasts?” Ginny burst out, horrified, and Lorena patted her hand consolingly.
“Well—maybe not all of them, yes?” Her eyes twinkled and she looked sideways, teasingly, at Ginny. “You promise you will not be jealous? Your Steve—he is magnifique in the bed, I know! Once—but very long ago, cherie, don’t hate me for it—we spend one whole night together, and not once did I ’ave to pretend. He is a stallion, that one! You’re lucky, p’tite. ”
“Lucky!” Ginny echoed bitterly, her mouth drooping. “How can you say that when you know I’m not here of my own choosing? I hate him—and I’m so afraid—Lorena, what will he do with me?”
Lorena shrugged. “Life is uncertain. Who can tell what any man will do? But I think he likes you more than he will admit, and perhaps more than you suspect too, little innocent! Why else would he run off with you? Perhaps he will even marry with you some day, who knows? You say he was the first man for you—that makes a difference to a man.”
After Lorena had gone, Ginny’s thoughts were more bitter than usual. Marry her indeed! And Lorena did not know that Steve thought there had been others after him—Carl Hoskins, and even her dear, dear Michel. She would never tell him different of course—let him think the worst, let him think that she’d taken other men and preferred them to him! And as for marriage—she knew well enough what his thoughts were on that subject.
“Women make marriage a trap for men,” he said once. “I intend to stay clear of it, and of love—another female excuse to cling, to put chains on a man and keep him in one place. Me, I’m footloose, baby—never could take staying in any one place for too long.”
She wouldn’t marry him if he begged her on his knees—not even if he was the last man on earth, Ginny vowed to herself. She’d escape from him somehow, before he tired of her and planned to discard her. Some way, she’d go back to her father’s love and protection and he’d find a way to make things right. Perhaps he would let her go back to France, and even if she never married, at least there she would have the freedom to take lovers of her own choosing. Like the famous Ninon, perhaps she too might become a courtesan. I’ll be rich, yes, and independent—a demi-mondaine, a courtesan, but never a common whore, she thought Rebelliously—never that! I won’t let him turn me into one!
Over and over she’d tell herself this, steeling herself for the time he’d return to the room, dirty and travel-stained, refusing to tell her where he had been or what he was doing.
A week passed, and another day—Ginny felt she could no longer bear it, and the unseasonable heat put her nerves on edge so that she felt like screaming, clawing at the walls that enclosed her with her nails, beating at the door until her fists were reduced to pulp.
She was not expecting Steve’s sudden return just before noon, and surprised him by the frenzied way she flung herself at him.
“Why won’t you let me go out? Can’t you see I’m dying here by slow degrees, that I’m stifling to death? For God’s sake, Steve, I feel I’ll go mad—is that what you want me to do?”
He held her away from him, looking down at her tear contorted face with a forbidding frown.
“Control yourself, Ginny! I’ve got to leave again in a minute. Maybe I’ll take you riding tonight, if I get back in time.”
“But you’ve taken me with you before—where do you go? What are you doing? Why can’t I come with you now?”
He smiled at her mirthlessly.
“I suppose I should be flattered at your eagerness for my company. But not today, Ginny. There’s a posse hunting me, and they’re too damned close right now. I’m laying a false trail for them, leading them away from here so we can leave.”
Her eyes widened. “You mean—you actually mean there’s help this close? Why won’t you let me go?”
He had turned away from her but she ran after him, pulling at his arm.
“Please! Oh, please—if you’ll only let me go I’ll see my father pays you—any ransom you name! And I’ll make him stop them from coming after you—don’t you see? Then you’ll be free too!”
He jerked his arm from her clinging grasp and caught her by the shoulders, his fingers digging cruelly into her flesh.
“I’m going to keep you with me for as long as I have to, as long as I need to. I’m sorry, Ginny, but you’re my ace in the hole, you might say. There’s a U.S. marshal leading that posse, and not even your father is going to stop them—only the fact that I have you keeps them from getting too close. They got wind of a lot of gold being exchanged for guns, you see, and so—” he laughed, suddenly, “so I’ve been running across the border, letting them get a glimpse of me now and then—leavin’ a trail they can’t resist following. It’s been like a game, baby—a pity you can’t join in.”
“You dirty, rotten bastard!” She was learning how to swear, and the word came easily to her lips.
“I’m getting tired of hearing you swear,” he said, and she shivered in spite of herself under the flat coldness of his regard. “The fact is—I’m also goddam tired of your nagging and your bitching and your hatred hitting me in the face the minute I walk in this door. I’ll be leaving you alone tonight, Ginny—so enjoy it!”
She spun her body around, staring at him fearfully. He meant it! He’d jammed his hat back on his head, was hefting one of his saddlebags to throw over his shoulder, and was already at the door.
“But you said—where are you going?” She almost screamed the words at him, and saw the lines at the corner of his mouth tauten.
“If you must know, sweet, I’m going to another room. I’m going to have a bath and change clothes and then I’m going downstairs, where I will play cards and get slightly drunk and find me a woman who’s willing and warm. Good day.” He bowed to her politely and sarcastically before he left, leaving her staring at the door.
Ginny found herself strangely restless and keyed up after Steve had gone. Ginny paced the room, her thoughts giving her no rest. Dear God—suppose he didn’t come back? Suppose he decided to keep riding, without her? Did he hate her so much in turn that he’d decide it would be a big joke to leave her here, to become one of Lilas’ whores?
Clad only in her thinnest wrapper because of the heat, Ginny alternated between pacing the floor and flinging herself on the bed to cry her rage and fear into the pillow. There was a heavy gilt clock on the nightstand by the bed and she watched it balefully as the hands moved forward pitilessly and inexorably.
She fell into a light, troubled sleep and woke up feeling herself in a kind of stupor. Mechanically, she forced herself to walk about the room, lighting the lamps. Dear God—seven o’clock already! Where was he? “Come back, damn you!” she raged into the crumpled bedcovers, “I won’t be left here, I won’t stay—you can’t do this to me!” But couldn’t he? Cold—ruthless—calculating—he was all of those things. Perhaps he had decided she was a millstone around his neck—too dangerous and too full of fight to carry around with him any longer.
Footsteps, heavy and deliberate, came down the hallway—paused at her door, hesitating, and then moved on. Ginny realized only after the man had gone that she’d held her breath with fearful anticipation. She’d heard them before—Lilas’ clients, her girls’ customers, passing her door.
The thought that she was trapped here, forced to lie here and wait for whatever fate he planned for her, was too much to bear. But what other choice had she? Ginny’s eyes went hopelessly to the window. But she had tried that before and found that the bars were thick and heavy, embedded into adobe and stone. And beyond the bars were the shutters that closed her in and were never opened to let in the light or fresh air.
Ginny began to pace again, more nervously this time, her hands clasping and unclasping before her. He had to come back, he had to!
Every time that footsteps passed the door Ginny froze, the color draining from her face and then returning as the footsteps went on. He’s making me into a whore, she thought furiously, feverishly. Yes, for I’m becoming just like one of them—waiting, listening for the footsteps of the man who—who will own me tonight. God, I can’t let him do this to me, I must be calm!
Walking over to the dresser, Ginny snatched up her hairbrush and began to pull it through her hair, tugging viciously until her scalp ached and tingled. And in some odd way, the pain helped—enabling her to think more clearly.
She saw herself in the wide, elegantly decorated mirrors that tripled her reflection—patches of color standing out on her cheekbones as if she’d used rouge—her green eyes seeming larger than ever. Footsteps passed the door again, then returned. A voice came from the other side of the door—drunken-sounding, from its thick speech.
“Hey—hey you in there? You number seven? You the li’l ole redheaded gal she promised me?”
Speechless, frozen with fear, Ginny heard the doorknob rattle.
“Hey! You gonna let me in or not? Durn you, I already paid Lilas plenty, but I’m aimin’ to pay you more if you’re as purty an’ nice as she tol’ me…”
She hadn’t even heard his footsteps, and yet, there he was! And the redhead he was looking for—surely, surely it wasn’t possible! He was rattling at the door again, swearing. All she had to do was stay quiet, and someone would come and remove him. Of course they would!
But if—if—hardly pausing to let her thoughts go further, Ginny ran to the door, clinging to the knob.
“Mister? Mister, I’m locked in, you’ll have to open the door from your side if you—if you really want to, that is.” Belatedly, she’d paused and tried to make her voice sound softer, and more appealing.
Could he have been sent up to her on purpose? But in that case—wouldn’t they have told him that the door was locked on the outside? Wouldn’t they have told him to walk right in and surprise her?
But if he hadn’t been sent, and he was drunk and had made a mistake when he looked at the room number, then—“Oh God!” she prayed silently, “let him be very drunk—so drunk I can handle him easily.”
She heard a drunken chuckle, more fumbling at the door, and wondered, almost crying with suspense, if the lock needed a key to open it. No—she couldn’t remember that Steve had ever paused to use a key, surely she would have heard one rattle in the lock. She prayed again, “Don’t let anyone come right now—not yet!”
She heard the click of the lock at last and moved back as the door swung open and a man stumbled in. Before he could utter a word she bent swiftly forward, and grabbing her hairbrush, jammed the narrowest part of its handle between the door and the jamb—just enough so that it could not lock itself again.
“If—if you let it go back all the way then you’d be locked in here too,” she explained breathlessly.
“Can’t see that it would be a bad idea, now that I seen you, little filly!”
Ginny straightened cautiously, still moving backward and away from him, hoping her actions would not prove too noticeable. Seeing the man’s loose, blubbery lips spread as he chuckled with amusement at his own sally, and catching the look he gave her, now licking his lips, she realized suddenly what a picture she must present to him.
All she wore was the thin wrapper that hid nothing from his lecherous gaze—her hair hung loosely around her shoulders and down her back. And now, suddenly, she had misgivings, and her heart began to beat heavily.
“By God, Lilas sure wan’t lyin’ to me this time! Plumb beautiful—a real little jewel you are! Come on, li’l babydoll, no reason to put on that innocent act for ole George. Come give me a big smack, huh?”
Leering, the man lurched towards her and Ginny backed away from him fearfully, not daring to take her eyes off his face.
“Please, mister—oh please, wait a minute! You have to listen to me, you must, please!”
His eyes had a glazed, animal look in them, and she was aware that he had big, beefy red hands that stretched out towards her. Dear God, had he no shame? He was older even than her own father—a gray-haired, balding man with a paunch that hung over his belt, and watery blue eyes. He was smiling, cunningly, his eyes squinting under a low, bulging forehead.
“C’mon, babydoll—George likes his young fillies wild and eager—no need to pretend, I tol’ you—gimme a kiss, a kiss first, huh?”
He laughed, and Ginny went almost sick with terror as she realized that she could back away no farther, the edge of the bed caught her against the thighs and she almost screamed.
“Mister! Will you listen to me a minute?” She licked her lips nervously, willing her voice to sound soft, wheedling. “What’s the hurry, sw-sweetheart? See, here I am, all yours, but you have to let me talk to you a little first—you have to be patient with me, you understand? Oh, please…!” He didn’t understand, she flung her hands out towards him in despair and tried again. “I—it’s my first time, please —don’t you understand that? That’s why she keeps me locked up here—so I won’t run away, but you—you look so kind, and you’re—you’re handsome—distinguished, you know?” He had stopped, swaying on his feet, to peer uncertainly at her, and Ginny felt a surge of hope. At least he was listening to her now! She put all the pleading she could muster into her voice, uncomfortably aware of the bed behind her.
“You—I could tell right away you’re a gentleman—you’ll help me, won’t you? They—they keep me here by force, but you’re going to rescue me, you will, won’t you?” Her voice broke in spite of herself, and she saw his small eyes peering at her with a kind of doubt.
“Now—now looky here! Lilas tol’ me you was a purty redheaded piece an’ would give me a ride fer my money—said you was a lot of fun. Don’t go gettin’ all teary-eyed on me now, I don’t wanna hear no problems, just came to git me some fucking…”
She saw his eyes take her in—the way his tongue snaked out to moisten his thick lips, and felt her heart sink. Oh God, he had to listen to her!
“Why don’ you shut up with that claptrap—come on here an’ gimme a kiss like I bin tellin’ yuh.”
Ginny forced herself to smile at him and toss her head coquettishly.
“You’re so big and so strong, why your arms would crush poor little me in a minute! Why don’t you…”
Grinning, he started to fumble with his belt and she said quickly, leaning forward, “You—you have to go real slow now, promise? I—really I’m new to all this and I don’t know—”
“Look, babydoll, I paid Lilas already. Don’t you try to pull no wool over George’s eyes. I know about you li’l whores, and the more innercent you look, the badder you are. No, don’t go givin’ me any more lies, now!”
“But I’m not a whore! I don’t want to be! Listen—you look like a smart man, one who wouldn’t be fooled by outward appearances. Wouldn’t you like to earn yourself a reward? A whole lot of money? Maybe as much as ten thousand dollars, mister, you’ll be able to name your price if you take me back to my father.”
Something in the frantic urgency of her voice, the fingers she kept twisting together got through to the man, as lecherous and fuddled as he was and he paused to stare at her.
“You loco? ” To her despair, she saw that his little piggy eyes had gone hard, and he was staring at her with anger starting to show on his face. “Now look, I didn’t come up here to play no games! I know the kind of gal Lilas keeps up here, and ain’t none of you tramps in this ’gainst your will.”
“My name is Virginia Brandon. Brandon! For God’s sake, won’t you just listen? My father is a Senator from California, and he’ll have rewards posted for my return, I know it! If you’ll just take me with you, please!”
“Uh—huh!” he was shaking his head, still leering at her, a cunning smile on his mouth. “Looky here, babydoll, you gimme some first, and then we’ll see, after that!”
Wild with fear she saw him loosen his belt and suspenders, still grinning at her. “Come on now, you be real nice to me an’ I’ll see whut I kin do, hear?”
He reached for her with his pants still around his ankles, and his hands brushed at her breasts.
With a cry of mingled fear and desperation, Ginny rolled sideways and backwards, across the bed, and he came after her, his hands already tearing at the wrapper.
“No—no! Take your dirty hands off me!”
“You’re the kind wants to fight, huh? Want a man to give it to you rough? Ol’ George is goin’ to get what he paid for.”
She tried to roll off the bed on the other side, but his hands, clawing for her, caught her leg and she heard him chortle. His other hand grabbed for her crotch, fingers splayed, and now, at last, she cried out. Her hands went out, and she touched the night stand—the clock!
Hardly capable of thought by now, Ginny curled her fingers around it and brought it down on the man’s head, as hard as she could.
He gave a sound that was like a croaking grunt, and she thought his heavy body jerked horribly before he lay still—fingers still clutching at her.
Sobbing, shaking with terror still, Ginny looked down at him. The dirty, greasy old bastard! He deserved it. Even if she had killed him, he deserved it. He stank of sweat and unwashed clothes, and it struck her suddenly that all this time—even while he was undressing in anticipation of having her, he had not bothered to take off his boots nor his filthy underwear.
She scrambled from the bed, tearing what remained of her wrapper off her body, and ran for the armoire. Thank God that at least she had some clothes—Lorena, taking pity on her, had brought her two dresses just two days ago. All that Steve had thought to get her so far was a cotton shirt and a riding skirt!
No time to search—Ginny took the first gown that came to hand, a green flouncy garment of lace and satin, cut very low at the neck, and dragged it over her head. Her fingers trembled as she forced herself to take the time to fasten the tiny buttons that held its bodice together. Panic—a dry fear that left her shaking like a leaf, drove her on now.
Pushing her feet into high-heeled, unsuitable slippers, Ginny rushed to the mirror and pinned her hair up carelessly, swirling some of it on the top of her head and letting the rest hang down her back. A touch of lip salve—if anyone saw her she must not look different from any of the “girls”—and then she was away from the mirror, stumbling towards the door, pausing for the merest instant to make sure the man was till unconscious. He was stirring—God, he moved! And groaned. Not wanting to see more, Ginny ran from the room, only stopping to make sure that the door was locked behind her.
She had escaped from her room, at least, but in the narrow, silent passageway outside it Ginny gave a small, despairing sob as she wondered how she would ever contrive to escape from the building itself. The back door was out of the question with Manuel stationed there, but the staircase she was facing now led downstairs—no doubt to the saloon itself.
Her ears straining, Ginny heard a door open and close somewhere downstairs—the tinkling of a piano—a woman’s voice, singing, and the sound of male laughter. Down there, there were people—bright lights and talking. Surely, among all the men who must frequent Lilas’ saloon there might be one or two with enough decency to help her? And surely downstairs and in public, they would not try to make a prisoner of her again?
Quickly, before she could think about all the risks she was about to take, Ginny walked hurriedly past the closed doors and to the head of the stairs, thankful for the dim, rose shaded lamps that Lilas kept up here.
The staircase curved slightly, and as she came downstairs as quietly as possible, her hands clinging to the railing, Ginny could see a small foyer, with swinging doors at one end that obviously led into the saloon. Her breathing quickened as she almost ran down the last few stair-treads. There had to be another door here, there just had to! But on reaching the bottom of the stairs she could have cried with disappointment, for there was only a full length mirror on one wall, reflecting her own scared-looking face back at her, and against the other wall a carved wooden stand with a bowl of wilted looking flowers on it.
She stood hesitating, and as she did the door swung open and a man and a woman, both laughing, came through it. The man was a Mexican or Spaniard, tall and slender, with dark hair and mustachios, and the girl was Lorena. He had his arm around Lorena’s waist, and they were still laughing together at some joke until Lorena saw Ginny, who stood rooted to the floor, and her mouth fell open.
“Ginny! Oh, cherie, how could you….”
“So—another pretty new one? But where does madame Lilas find you all?”
The man smiled, showing white, even teeth. “Perhaps, Lorena, this one would join us too? You know I have the money, I’ll make it all right with Madame.”
Before Lorena could say anything else, or the grinning man elaborate on his suggestion, Ginny brushed past them and ran swiftly into the saloon, driven by blind panic and desperation she was beyond controlling.
Her frightened, seeking eyes moved quickly to the right and left and noticed that there were not many people in the large room. A bartender wiped glasses behind the long, curving bar, and of the “girls,” Susie, sat on the piano with her legs defiantly crossed to show her mesh-stockinged calves and ankles as she sang some saucy new ballad.
The saloon was not as wide as it was long, and as soon as she had seen the location of the front door, Ginny picked up her skirts and fled towards it, running faster than she had ever run before.
She heard Lorena call out behind her, “Ginny, stop! You must not…” and then she had burst through the big double doors and was running blindly, hardly knowing or caring where she was fleeing—aware only that she had to run and keep running now, to escape from whatever Steve might do to her if he’d seen her.
Ginny heard the clattering of her own heels sounding monstrously loud on the uneven boardwalk, and then as other footsteps sounded behind her she turned and ran like a hunted animal out into the street, noticing only vaguely, the sound of her panting echoing in her ears, that it was narrow and dusty.
Her hair came loose and fell down over her face and shoulders, blinding her, and still she ran. She could feel the sweat pouring down her body, her breath rasped in her throat and she knew with a kind of utter despair that she was tiring, her steps starting to drag already.
Oh, God! Had she really hoped to escape? Where could she run to? One of her shoes came off and she stumbled; trying to save herself she spread out her arms and fell, sprawling ignominiously in the dust and dirt of the street.
She lay there sobbing hopelessly, feeling that all strength had left her and she could not move. What further degradation was there left?
Opening her eyes, she saw his boots, standing astraddle before her face. It would have to be him —who else would have come after her? His voice drawled mockingly from somewhere above her.
“Really, my love! You might have told me you wanted a stroll in the fresh air. Or could it be that you were pining for my company?”
Without giving her a chance to answer his gibes, he bent down, grasping her arms, and pulled her roughly to her feet.
She was still sobbing breathlessly, despairingly, and with a muffled, angry exclamation he tugged the neckerchief from around his throat and began wiping her face with it while his fingers, still holding her arm in a painful vice, held her motionless.
“You had better look a little more presentable than you do now when I take you back inside,” he said coldly.
Ginny looked around wildly and saw that in spite of her feeling that she had run for miles they were only a short distance from the lighted doorway of Lilas’ saloon. A liquid, hazy-looking half-moon hung low in the sky and by its diffused light she could see how angry he looked—the black brows meeting in a frown, lips thinned and compressed with annoyance.
“Come along now,” he said, shaking her. “You wanted an outing—some amusement, and you shall have it. But first bend down and pick up your slipper—put it on—it won’t do for you to walk in barefoot like some common Indian peasant girl, would it?”
“Please—” she murmured incoherently, but even as she began to plead with him she fell silent again, biting her lip, knowing that it was no use.
Anger, panic, hope—everything evaporated, leaving her cold with utter despair. Silently she walked beside him, hardly feeling the painful grip of his fingers on her arm, just above the elbow.