With a spray of gravel, the ’66 Chevelle Super Sport sped away from the American Legion parking lot, raced down a narrow, blacktop access road, then slowed imperceptibly before making a tire-squealing right onto the main highway. The car quickly accelerated until it was speeding through the muggy, North Louisiana night.
The cherry-red Chevy was always speeding — the only question being by how much. The better the driver's mood, the faster it traveled. According to the speedometer, the driver, Bernadette "Bebe" Boudreaux, was in a really good mood.
Windows down, her long, brown hair whipped about in the damp, evening air. While usually a fanatic about her appearance, tonight she didn't mind. It felt so sexy and uninhibited. Besides, she’d soon be home, so it didn't matter.
The radio, set to a New Orleans station, began playing an Otis Redding ballad. With an angry, “Damn nigger music,” she shoved a tape into the car’s 8-track player.
An upbeat blast of sound by the Dave Clark Five replaced the melancholy refrain. Bebe grinned and began moving with the rhythm.
Everything was going her way, she decided, while firing up her first Taryyton of the evening. Her performance at the dance had been really great. The one slip-up being when she almost said “nigger” back there in the parking lot with Mark.
Everyone knew he had this thing about that one stupid word. So it made sense to watch what she said.
The same went for not smoking around him. She didn’t know if he smoked or not. But she’d never seen him with a cigarette, so why take a chance?
The main thing is, the way Mark acted made it clear he still had it bad for her. If she kept playing her cards right, he’d soon be begging her to marry him.
And that’s just what she wanted.
By marrying into Mark's family, she could stay near her daddy working in the office and helping out with some of his Klan activities. It would also give her a secure position in the upper reaches of Pinefield’s clannish social world. And since Mark was so nuts about her, handling him after they were married should be a snap.
She swerved around a dead armadillo without losing her train of thought. Everything would be perfect, except he’s such a boring Boy Scout. Come to think of it, he really had been a Boy Scout. Still, he didn’t have to be so damn boring.
The land dipped, and she passed over a small, sluggish stream. For a moment, the air cooled slightly as oaks and cypress replaced pines. The spot resembled the bayous near her old home in south Louisiana. The short stretch of road had long been her favorite. Tonight, it went unnoticed as she reminded herself that while Mark could be boring, he was also nice, respectable, and planned on coming home after law school.
As her stepmother kept saying, those things can mean a lot in a marriage.
Over the last few weeks Bebe had decided that, for once, Martha might be right.
Bebe made a brief, half-hearted attempt at objectivity. Outside of his being a bore and having nigger friends, Mark wasn't really that bad. While no movie star, his looks were okay. He was nice and tall with a nice big body, a nice smile, nice hair, nice eyes and, except for being boring, had a nice personality. That was the problem. He was too damn nice.
And that’s a shame because nice is just what you need, Bebe girl, a nice guy from a nice family with a nice future who, after your nice wedding, will always treat you nice, someone like nice, boring, Mark Cahill.
Bebe’s foot stayed glued to the accelerator as she passed a new Cadillac with Texas license plates. Not for the first time, she wondered what her life might have been like had she been born into an old, well-to-do Pinefield family like the Cahill’s. Not that she’d ever been ashamed of her family or French heritage, far from it. Being a Cajun around all these rednecks made her feel special. Still, moving up here from south Louisiana had been such a drag and being the new kid in junior high even worse.
Those first days in school were torture. She almost died of shame the first time she overheard someone call her a ‘coon-ass.’ God, how she despised that word. It was such a rude, hateful insult. Hell, they might as well call her a nigger.
Well, "Bec mon chu, redneck," she shouted into the night. "You can all kiss my fine coon-ass."
Though a Cajun, a newcomer and no brain in the classroom, she'd won almost everything worth having in high school. Everything, that is, except Homecoming Queen. “I’d have won that, too,"” she muttered, “if it hadn’t been for that damn Amy Marshall.”
Every time she tried for anything, Amy Marshall got in the way. She was everything Bebe wanted to be: tall, elegant, smart, self-assured, a winner at everything she did, and rich.
While proud of her own family, they weren’t part of the town's little social circle, and sure as hell weren't rich. Her daddy’s business did okay. But they still owed a lot of money to the bank, the one run by Amy's father.
As for looks, Bebe knew from experience her own, in particular, her eyes and butt, could stop traffic. Her legs, however, were just passable. And they were so damn short. Of course, so was she. Being short, she had to diet all the time. Even then the best she could hope for was the cute, sexy look.
Meanwhile, that damn Amy could walk into a room wearing cut-offs and a t-shirt and look like a damn fashion model.
Speaking of Miss Perfect, where had she been tonight? Maybe decided a country-club girl like her was too high class to go to a dance at the Legion Hall. Well, she blew it by not showing up. Judging from tonight's reaction, by the end of the summer, Amy's old buddy, the nice Mr. Mark Cahill, would be the personal property of the one-and-only Bebe Boudreaux.
And after what happened this spring, that’s just what she needed, if not exactly, wanted. The dose of cold reality erased her smile. In high school, she’d been a fun loving, party girl who enjoyed skirting around the edge of the town’s social norms. For the last two years, she’d lived away from home while going to junior college. That had let her party a lot harder and in a much bigger field.
Then she missed her period. The thought of being pregnant had been terrifying. She wasn’t, thank God, but the experience left her shaken and convinced the time had come to cut back on the party scene and look for a safe nest. If possible, a comfortable one near her daddy in Pinefield.
Recalling those horrible days always made her cringe. How could she have told her daddy if she really had been pregnant? Even worse, what would she have said when he asked about the baby’s father? She wouldn’t have known, not for sure. The leading suspect, based on the number of times they'd been together, would have been Darrell Ray Sims.
Being positive he’d marry her hadn’t made Bebe feel better. She didn’t want to marry Darrell Ray, never had. Not that she didn't like him. The big, good-looking, party animal, always knew how to show her a good time. But those things, plus a new pick-up and a reputation as a fighter, were about all he had going for him.
Sure, he now worked for her daddy in the lumber yard. But odds were he’d wind up in the paper mill like the rest of his redneck, holy-roller relatives. In short, Darrell Ray might be fun, but he wasn't respectable, safe, or nice.
Memories of all the good times they'd spent together flooded back. He’d been her first, and probably still thought he'd seduced her. Bebe smiled at the idea. She knew better.
Back during her junior year, a fellow cheerleader had confided in glowing detail that she and her boyfriend had ‘gone all the way.' Her apparently unfeigned, total happiness convinced Bebe the time had come for her to join in the fun. After settling on Darrell Ray to be the one for the task, she carefully scheduled her seduction for the coming summer. For them, traditional dating was not an option. Her parents didn’t like his ‘bad boy’ reputation while his Bible-thumping Mama thought Bebe was too fast, flashy and might be Catholic. Bebe didn’t care. She wanted Darrel Ray for a lover, not a steady boyfriend. Besides, having to slip around and meet on the sly made everything feel so wicked.
The usual trip around the ‘bases of love’ had been a blast, but went by faster than expected. In her plans, it would take all summer for Darrell Ray to seduce her. But within a few weeks, they had past third and were ready for the final sprint to home plate.
That night, the moment the truck stopped in an abandoned, dead end road, they were all over each other. Neither wanted foreplay. Bebe managed a feeble protest or two while trying to hurry along her deflowering.
They didn’t pause until she was stretched out on the truck’s bench seat. The skirt to her sun dress bunched around her waist, panties gone somewhere, legs splayed apart, her small breasts and hard nipples exposed in the light from the dashboard while Darrell Ray did fantastic things with the two fingers he’d buried inside her still virgin pussy.
She’d made sure this would happen during one of her ‘safe’ periods, just in case, in all the excitement and rush, Darrell Ray forgot about using a rubber.
But even as her belly churned with anticipation, she noticed him reach into the glove box, pull out a condom and quickly fit it into place. She’d handled that cock before, of course. Last week, during her period, she’d even let herself be coaxed into giving it a blow job. But now, the latex encased cock approaching her looked impossibly large. With a mixture of fascination, anticipation plus a twinge of fear, she watched as the swollen cockhead slipped between the slippery lips of her labia, Then paused at the opening to her wet, eager pussy.
They were, finally, about to do ‘it.' Unable to breathe, much less speak, when he asked if she was ready, all she could do was nod to signal the beginning of the end of her virginity.
To her surprise and delight, doing ‘it’ had been good. In fact, after the first few uncomfortable strokes ended with every inch of Darrell Ray’s hard cock encased inside her stretched pussy,’it’ had been really good. She didn’t get off, not that time. But it did happen a few minutes later during their second go around. That had been really, really good.
In fact, it had been so good she had no hesitation about trying it again that night or in the future, and not just with him. But with all that experience, she now knew it was the stuff leading up to sex she liked most. As for sex itself, in her opinion, unless she was really horny or the guy really great, about the best it had to offer was something between okay and pretty good.
Still, Darrell Ray had been a very good lover that night. He still was. What's more, he always seemed ready, not just to screw, but to party and show her a good time. It's just a damn shame his people were such trashy, low-class rednecks.
As she sped into Pinefield, Bebe remembered it was Friday night. That meant Darrell Ray should be at his favorite hangout over in Hawthorn. The more she thought about shaking loose with him, the less she wanted to go home.
Near the turn-off to her house, she decided to change destinations. She tossed out her cigarette, rolled up the window, and switched on the air-conditioner. A quick search under the seat produced a well-used hairbrush.
The traffic light across from the Dixie Pride supermarket turned red. She stopped, turned on the car’s interior lights, checked her looks in the rearview mirror, ran the brush through her hair several times, and evaluated the results.
The traffic light turned green. She decided the reflection would do. Following a last glance in the mirror, she shoved the brush back under the seat, killed the dome light, then floored the accelerator, and raced away towards Hawthorn.
After all those slow dances with Cahill, she really, really needed some serious party time. That damn Darrell Ray just better be there, she thought, wiggling in unconscious anticipation.
###
A lighted sign with the familiar, faded red words, The Rooster, soon came into view. It had a precarious perch atop a tall, rusting pole. A large, flashing, yellow arrow directed would-be patrons toward the front door.
Once in the crowded parking lot Bebe looked for Darrell Ray’s pickup, a customized Ford that, against her protests, he’d painted a bright yellow. At least that bird-shit color made it easy to spot, she thought.
As she suspected, the pick-up occupied its usual place of honor at the right front corner of the building.
Bebe parked nearby, gave her hair and lipstick a last check in the mirror, then got out, locked the car, and began negotiating her way through the usual collection of pickups, hot rods, and worn-out family sedans toward the front door.
The building resembled, at best, a weather-beaten cigar box. A large assortment of signs covered most of the windowless front wall. Some were sheet metal painted in vivid colors. The dominant motif, however, was garish neon. Day and night, the signs extolled the virtues of beers such as Jax, Pabst, and Falstaff plus cheap bourbons and blended whiskeys. To some, these signs were just decorative. Others suspected they were all that kept the walls upright.
Even the bar’s most loyal patrons would admit it possessed little charm during the day. A few might argue that things improved after dark when the lighted signs, the constant flow of cars and trucks, the sounds of country music coming through the building’s thin walls combined with an occasional brawl to give the place a distinctive atmosphere.
The Rooster’s rundown exterior gave potential patrons fair warning about the interior. An aging Sebring jukebox held pride of place near the front door. A short bar cluttered with jars of pickled pig feet, hard-boiled eggs, and a peanut machine occupied the opposite wall. Smaller versions of the outside signs plus a string of Christmas lights provided most of the illumination around the bar. In the dim light next to the cash register, an old, printed sign announced, “You’re white today because your ancestors practiced segregation.”
This same lighting scheme extended into the large dance area. Plastic covered booths and small, scarred tables lined the walls. The place had a pervasive odor of beer, cigarette smoke, hair tonic, cheap aftershave, and testosterone.
The chief bartender and sole owner was a thin, balding man named, Sam Spillers.