Chapter 4.
“Touchdown! Allardale Wolverines!” yelled the voice over the loudspeakers. Dolores rose from her seat in the front row of the bleachers, right on the 10 yard line, and ran toward the fence between the bleachers and the bench.
“That was amazing, Lane!” she shouted over the fence to the backs of a line of jerseys.
Number 86, Lane Sherman, was jogging toward the bench after the touchdown. He tossed the ball to the referee, removed his helmet, hopped over an open space between players on the bench, and jogged to the fence, smiling and panting. “Thanks.”
“Y’know, Lane, you keep that up and you’ll be in the pros.”
“Listen, there’s a party tonight after the game over at Skeeter’s. I’ll give you a ride if you wanna.”
“I dunno. Mom’s pretty weird about me goin’ places and all. It’s taken me three years just to be able to come to a football game.”
“Sherman! You’re in.” barked the coach from a distance.
“I gotta go. Meet me at the ticket booth after the game.” And with that he slapped his helmet on over his blond hair, winked, and ran back to the field.
Dolores hurried back to her seat in the bleachers. She couldn’t help but grin. She was invited to a party… by Lane. She first saw him at a pep rally in the gym her freshman year. He was gorgeous; tall and muscular, but thin like any other wide receiver. His blonde hair slouched across his forehead like a movie star caught off-guard, and his penetrating blue eyes captivated her. She was hopelessly infatuated since that day, and by asking her to the biggest party of the year, it made her feel like Cinderella. She continued watching the game with nervous anticipation. Dolores knew her mom would never let her go to a party.
After the game, Dolores waited by the ticket booth as patiently as possible for Lane to shower and change into street clothes. He came walking across the field carrying his shoulder pads over his helmet. She thought he looked like a soldier coming home from war.
“You ready?” he asked as they began walking toward his rusty blue pickup.
“Yeah, well…it’s just that I probably need to call my mom and let her know where I’m going.” She felt embarrassed that she had to call her mother. She knew her mother would say no if she asked, so there is no point to calling her. Besides she was nearly an adult, she could make her own decisions.
“You can call her from my house. I have to stop by and get a jacket. Skeeter’s having a bonfire and all, but it feels like it’s gonna drop off cold tonight.” he said as he opened the truck door for her. He tossed his pads in the bed of the truck and walked around the back of the truck to his door.
“Tell her you’re just having fun, y’know? It’s not like we’re gonna be killin’ people or worshippin’ the devil. It’s just a bonfire.” He shut his door and turned the key, which had been in the ignition since he bought it in April from Old Man Wiley’s widow. The ignition clicked, the engine turned over, then roared, and finally settled down to a sputtering growl. The radio was playing a slow country love song. Lane smiled and winked at her as he pulled the gearshift down into drive, and they drove toward Pine Hollow where Skeeter’s parents owned a hunting cabin.
It wasn’t until they were a mile or two out of town before Dolores began wondering how far they were from Lane’s house.
“I thought you lived up on the hill by the diner.” she asked, not wanting to make him think she was some sort of goody two-shoes for wanting to call her mom. She didn’t want to upset Lane either.
He reached under the seat for a metal flask, unscrewed the cap and took a swig. “Oh, I figured I could just wear my flannel shirt in back of the seat there. You can probably use the phone at Skeeter’s place.” he said. He could tell she was still a little worried. “If you want, I can find a payphone or somethin’ but we’d have to go all the way back into town, and I don’t want to show up after all the beer’s gone.”
She figured her mom wouldn’t mind if she was only a little late coming home. She would just tell her the game went into overtime.
The ride out of town was peppered with small talk. Lane told her of the time he and Skeeter had gotten arrested for stealing a goat from the old man who lived by the sawmill. They were planning to tie the poor thing to the flag pole in the school’s front yard. A police officer happened to have been driving past when Skeeter’s 4x4 came tearing onto the school’s yard, coming to a complete stop only after knocking the flagpole over. In a drunken stupor, they both had neglected to tie the other end of the rope to the roll bars in the bed, so somewhere between the sawmill and the school, the old man’s goat was limping around after having jumped out of the bed of the truck. The officer arrested them both, but on account of the league championship game being on the line, Lane being the best wide receiver in the state, and the fact that Skeeter’s father is the Chief of Police, they were let go with a warning. It wasn’t until after winning the league championship that Skeeter’s father made them collect trash for the Sanitation Department to pay for a new flagpole.
Dolores was excited by Lane. He was handsome. He was popular. He was dangerous. He was everything her father wasn’t, and that is what turned her on the most. A sudden urge to rebel had been sparked deep inside her previously pious and proper will. She remembered speeches by her father about squelching the spark of temptation before it became an inferno of sin, but the hairs on the back of her neck and the feeling in her gut told her that tonight was the night. She was going to kiss him.
She wanted to test him to see if he was interested. She unbuckled her seat belt to scoot closer to him, and to her pleasure, he placed his strong, warm arm around her shoulder. Her heart raced as she smelled the mixed scents of fabric softener from his t-shirt and aftershave from his face. Tonight was definitely the night.
Lane pulled the truck into a gravel drive off to the right of the road. The gravel quickly disappeared, and branches began scraping the mirrors of the old, rusty pickup. The dirt road was bumpy, and Dolores had to grab hold of his leg a few times just to maintain her bearings while the truck rocked side to side. Not that she minded. The warm denim (and the strong thigh beneath it) felt good. She had never touched a boy in such a way before. She hadn’t even been kissed.
The dirt path curved sharply to the left and up a small, but steep, hill before widening into the clearing where the bonfire was. Twelve or fifteen other cars and trucks were parked along the perimeter of the clearing, and a few more had parked behind the hunting cabin, which Skeeter usually keeps locked. He passed out copies of the key to all the guys on the team so that they could bring their girlfriends out to the woods for a little bit of privacy, provided Skeeter himself wasn’t using it.
Lane drove behind the cabin and squeezed the truck between Skeeter’s truck and a propane tank which hadn’t been used since before Skeeter’s dad inherited the land a few years earlier. Dolores crawled out of Lane’s door and walked beside him toward the bonfire. Someone had brought their home stereo and ran an extension cord from the cabin to the roof of a car nearby. The music was louder than Dolores had ever heard in church.
“Touchdown! Lane Sherman!” screamed Skeeter as he approached the couple with two beer bottles in the air, mimicking a referee.
Lane grabbed one of the beers from him and slapped Skeeter’s enormous gut with the other hand. “What’s goin’ on, man?”
“Havin’ a fuckin’ party, brother! Woooo!” Skeeter belched and tossed back his sixth or seventh beer. He chugged most of it, allowing a good portion to spill from the sides of his mouth onto his chest, drenching the jersey he was still wearing. He wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his jersey and gave another belch. “Hey, Dory.”
“Hey, Skeeter.”
“Dory, ah’m traaashed. I’ve had, like twenny or thirty, but there’s more beer in the fridge in the..the, uh, belch… the cabin.”
“Keep it up, man. You earned it.” sa
id Lane as he grabbed Dolores’ hand and walked toward the cabin. “He’s usually got a couple of wine coolers in here for the girls. You want one?”
“Sure…” She hesitated. “I won’t get drunk off it will I?”
“Nah.” Lane laughed as he opened the door and walked inside. “Here.” He reached into the back of the fridge and pulled out a bottle of something pinkish.
She had never had a drop of alcohol, and her parents were strictly dry. She put the bottle to her lips and sipped a bit of it. It was fruity, and she liked it... a lot. “This is good. I've never had this kind.” She said looking at the bottle.
“Really? It's alright, I guess.” Lane said, holding up his beer. “But I prefer a good old fashioned American beer.”
“I don't really drink all that much.” she lied.
“Well me and Skeeter are usually out here with the guys after every game. Even when the season's over, we're out here on the weekends. It's nice out here. Quiet, no neighbors calling' the cops.”
“Well that shouldn't really be problem anyway, right?”
He stepped closer to her. “No, we get into trouble and all when we get caught, but I'd rather not pick up trash on the weekends. That shit sucks. I'd rather spend my time with a beautiful girl like you.” he said as he reached toward her forehead to brush a stray lock out of her face and tuck it behind her ear.
“Lane,” she blushed, “you say that to all the girls, don't you?”
“You like herein' it don't ya?” he laughed.
“It is nice to hear.”
It wasn't long before she finished the wine cooler, and Lane walked over to the fridge to get her another. With his right hand, he pulled out a wine cooler for her and another beer for himself. He tilted his head back, and with his left hand, tilted the already open beer into the sky to finish it off. He tossed the empty into the corner and twisted off the cap for her.
“So did you hear about me going to play for Brighton University next year?”
“Nuh-uh, really? That's so cool.”
“Yep, four year scholarship and all. It's gonna be cool. They won the conference championships last three years running.”
“You'll be awesome there. You'll probably have all the girls asking for your autograph and stuff.”
“Nah... well maybe. No, I'm just kiddin'. You wanna be the first to get my autograph?”
“Sure, but I ain't got nothin' to sign on. You got any paper?”
He looked at her breasts through her thin knit top. “Well then I'll just have to sign your boobs.”
She nudges his shoulder. “Oh, stop!”
“No, but seriously, you ever got anyone's autograph before?”
“No, I never met anyone famous.”
“So if I gave you my autograph, I'd be your first?”
“Yep. First.”
“So...what your saying is, you want me to be your first?”
“Stop being dirty, you perv.” She laughed.
“I can't help it, Dolores. You're so pretty, and I like you... a lot.”
“Well I like you a lot too.”
As the conversation continued, Lane worked feverishly to fit in more innuendo, and Dolores playfully dismissed each one. By the time she was halfway through her fourth bottle, she remembered what she was there to do.
“Tell me somethin'. You wouldn’t take advantage of a drunk girl, would you?” Dolores laughed as she leaned in toward his chest.
He wrapped his arms around her shoulders and pulled her in. “Why don’t we go to the other room?” he whispered into her ear. She pulled her face out of his chest and blinked two or three times. “It’s more private,” he began to say, but she interrupted him with a misplaced kiss. It landed squarely on his chin and she laughed out of nervous embarrassment. “Was this what you were trying to do?” He asked her, and leaned in to kiss her.
They kissed passionately as he walked her backward toward the bedroom. The darkness enveloped them as they passed through the doorway, and Lane nudged the door closed with his foot. The two stood in the dark, musty room kissing and groping at each others’ clothes for a few minutes. Dolores had never felt so alive. His warm, soft lips felt like a zap from a 9 volt battery which traveled from her lips to her neck and down her spine. She could feel his strong arms and chiseled abs through his shirt. Her belly felt another jolt of electricity as she felt his warm hand fumbling blindly up her shirt. She gently moved his hands down, but continued kissing him, and within a few seconds she could again feel his large, warm hands against her belly and waist.
He stopped kissing her only for as long as it took him to quickly yank his shirt off from over his head. Dolores slowly raised her hand to his cheek and leaned in to kiss him. She ran her hand down the side of his neck and onto his chest, then his abs. Her heart was racing. She giggled and wrapped her arms around her waist, grabbed the hem of her shirt and lifted it over her head. With every touch, every caress, every kiss, these new sensations were starting to make her feel light-headed. The alcohol only intensified the effect and soon Dolores started feeling sick. She was dizzy, and the smell of mildew was beginning to push the wine cooler up from her stomach. She fought it back down as they frantically began groping each other. As his right hand slid under the elastic waistband of her panties, she felt her stomach squeeze. At once, her mouth opened wide and a column of pink vomit spewed from her open mouth and splattered Lane’s chest. He stood motionless, shocked as he watched her heave again. Dolores wasn’t concerned with how embarrassing that moment was, she only wanted the heaving to end.
Lane stepped backward, snatched his t-shirt from the floor behind him and wiped off his chest. He began looking for his flannel shirt while Dolores heaved again, then fell to her hands and knees. He pulled his pants up from around his ankles and buttoned them, then he opened the door and stormed out, leaving the door open. She continued heaving until the last drop of pink, bubbly wine formed a puddle engulfing her hands, and she heaved unsuccessfully a few more times. She spit, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and slumped over onto her side. The room kept spinning as she panted. She closed her eyes, listening to the sound of her heart pounding.
She opened her eyes when she felt something warm and wet on her face. Skeeter was standing over her head, urinating on her and singing “Rain Drops Keep Falling on My Head”. Dolores panicked and tried screaming, but her mouth was covered by duct tape, and her hands were bound behind her back. From between her stinging eyelids she saw the silhouettes of Ted Belamy and Tommy Jacobs, two other football players, walking toward her from between a pair of headlights.
“She’s up, man.” yelled Tommy over his shoulder.
Dolores realized she was no longer in the hunting cabin. In fact, she was lying on her back, and she was naked... on the ground... in the woods... far from any place she immediately recognized. Shame, embarrassment, horror, and fear flooded her mind. Another silhouette came toward her from the headlights.
“Yeah, she’s up.” It was Lane.
The faces of Ted, Tommy and Skeeter were joined by Lane in a circle around her. She began kicking at them and screaming, but the duct tape only allowed the remnants of vomit in her mouth to come sputtering out of her nose. Tears started streaming across her cheek and pooled in her ears. They’re going to kill me, she thought.
“You gonna puke again, bitch?” laughed Tommy.
“No,” said Lane with a smirk, “but she’s gonna wish she could.”
Skeeter stepped on the end of her pony tail to keep her head on the ground, while Lane unbuckled his pants. “Go grab the rest of the beer out of the truck, guys. We’re gon’ be a while.”
Dolores clenched her eyes and uselessly tried to squirm her way free
“Ooh! Feisty,” Lane laughed as he pried her knees apart. “You keep fightin’ and it’s only gonna make it worse… ask whats-her-name. What was her name, Skeeter?”
> Tommy handed Skeeter another cold one. He cracked it open and said, “Uh, which one? That blonde bitch with the big ol’ titties, the hiker we picked up, or that stupid cunt who got blood all over the bed of my truck?
“The stupid cunt who got blood all over your truck.”
“Stacy…Stacy somethin’ er other. Hell, I don’t know. She was a fighter, though, wudn’t she.” Skeeter said as if he were reminiscing about an old football victory.
Dolores struggled hopelessly. Her heart and head were pounding, her muscles were aching from the cold and the exhaustion. Her gaze raced from the faces of each of the boys, to the rotten tree stump beside her, to the headlights of Skeeter’s truck, to the almost-full moon peeking through the autumn leaves. She could smell the piss and the beer, the vomit and the dirt. She felt the cold, damp leaves beneath her. Each and every facet of that moment was being permanently etched into her memory. The boys could smell her fear, and it fueled them.
“Guys,” Lane motioned to Tommy and Ted, “hold her head still and her eyes open. I want her to watch me.” He spit into his hand, and a streaking, searing pain coursed into her with a thrust of his hips. She just wanted it to end. But Skeeter was next, then Ted, then Tommy. She tried screaming, she tried kicking, she tried freeing her hands, but each attempt to get them to stop only resulted in more piss or beer in her face.
They stopped only after she quit fighting them, and when they were done, they stripped off the duct tape and tossed her clothes on the ground beside her.
“Get dressed, dumb bitch.” laughed Ted as he threw a cigarette butt at her. A cloud of smoke billowed from his nose as he exhaled. “And don’t think you can go telling anybody about this. You think Skeeter’s dad is gonna take your word over his?
It was still several hours before daybreak. After Dolores dressed, she crawled to the rotten stump beside her and waited for them to leave. She curled her knees to her chest, buried her face into them and convulsed as she cried. She couldn’t understand why they had done what they did. She felt guilty about not letting her mother know where she had gone. She thought of how disappointed her mother would be if she found out. She went through a million alternate scenarios in her mind, but thinking of what she could have done didn’t take away from what they actually did.
When the boys were done with their beers, they told her to hop in the truck. “C’mon. You can’t walk home, we’re out in B.F.E.” said Skeeter. She was reluctant, but she had no other way home, and so she crawled feebly into the bed of the truck.
Ted pushed her off the tailgate when they had stopped in the parking lot of the drug store. She could barely stand from the pain, and she needed to vomit more, but she didn’t move until the sound of Skeeter’s truck was out of range of her hearing. Then she slowly began limping home, embarrassed and broken, and wreaking of urine and vomit, beer and sweat, semen and dirt.