Author: The Weaver Atropos PM
Dallas Winston finds himself in a relationship that is neither beneficial nor detached. In Laine, he's found what ever other Greaser longs for-a broad who's not afraid to rumble, cuss, or damn near drive him mad with desire. But she's also very troubledRated: Fiction T - English - Romance - Chapters: 13 - Words: 40,804 - Reviews: 77 - Favs: 34 - Follows: 4 - Updated: 03-28-04 - Published: 03-25-03 - id: 1282901
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
By: The Weaver Atropos
Comments: A little treat. Originally meant to be a lemon—enjoy!
"Ain't you thinkin' straight, Dallas?!"
Dally eyed the woman pacing Buck Merrill's bedroom impatiently. There was a slight hunger in his eyes; hunger that would—apparently, not be satisfied any time soon if Laine continued rambling.
"It ain't you're business, doll—"
Instantly, Laine's eyes flared up. Her eyes shot to Dally, her gaze fierce and intimidating. At times, Dally forgot they came from the same place. He had become so accustomed to people taking his garbage that he had forgotten that not everyone was so compliant…especially not native New Yorkers. Especially not when the native New Yorker was Laine.
Eyes as cold as ever, Laine made a move for the door, but Dally pounced on her before she had a chance to escape.
"Let go off me, Dallas Winston," she growled, her tone more aroused than irritated.
Knowing she would give in after that, Dally immediately loosened the grip on her arm.
Laine sighed. That was what Dally liked about her—her temper. Sure, she had a short one—smaller than Steve's, he'd guess—but that wasn't it. He liked the fact that her anger would last only a few seconds then mellow out into seductive playfulness and then…
"I need a drink," Laine muttered darkly, not aggravated with Dally as much as with her sobriety.
Dally raised an interested eyebrow and produced a cigarette from his shirt's pocket. He watched Laine undress, all the while slapping his pockets for matches. His search proved quite unproductive, though whether it was because there were no cigarettes in his pocket, or because Laine's little striptease was distracting him, he didn't know.
She wasn't doing it on purpose. She never did. Laine had a natural knack for making people aroused. She could make drinking a bottle of pop into the most seductive experience for any full-functioning hormonal male in the world—himself included.
Once clad in her underwear, Laine spared Dally a glance. The young boy held her look for a minute before letting his eyes drift off. And oh! She could feel his gaze…feel his gaze on her body—searching, attesting…wanting.
Not letting Dally in on the fact that he excited her almost as much as she did he, Laine turned, glimpsing briefly into the mirror that stood atop an old, ratty bureau before reaching for the hairbrush that lay beside her hands.
"Dallas?" she questioned, closing her eyes when she felt the boy mold into her from behind. A soft grunt was all the recognition her inquiry received. Whisking around leisurely, Laine pushed Dally away by the shoulders. Dally, though surprised, did nothing but eye the blond girl curiously from behind a fringe of shaggy hair.
Laine, about to respond, was interrupted by loud rapping at the door. Dally cursed violently, shoulders tensing at the thought of being disturbed at that particular moment.
"Whadda ya want?!" he growled dangerously, fingers still taut against Laine's naked belly.
Laine glanced up, studying her reflection in the mirror, and taking the opportunity to study Dally's as well. The boy, or rather, man, was quite attractive in his own rite. He wasn't gorgeous, like Sodapop, that was true, but he had an air of recklessness that sent the hairs on her spine on end. Moreover, he was unpredictable, and as much of a turn-off as that was for other girls, his impetuosity was something she admired…and enjoyed.
There was a pause at the other side of the door—almost as if whoever had knocked hadn't been too sure about wanting to disturb Dally.
Laine drew in a lengthy breath and upturned her head, running her tongue lightly against the boy's neck, pausing only to study his reaction. She smirked then; he liked it.
Just as she turned her body to face him, another knock, a louder one, broke through the silence. Like before, Laine felt Dallas' body stiffen and the young man groaned almost dramatically.
Glancing at him as he pulled away from behind thick lashes, Laine sighed and hopped onto the polished surface of the dresser. She curled her long slender legs about themselves and tossed her bleach-blond hair out of her face.
Dally glared at her somewhat irritated and proceeded to yank open the door. There, poised to knock again, was Johnny.
Dally's contorted face relaxed ever so slightly as he took in the sight of his protected.
"Who is it?" Laine asked, coming up behind Dally, hands shamelessly tangling themselves about his lower abdomen. Needless to say, she was more than a bit shocked at finding her cousin, Johnny, staring at her with wide eyes. Laine blinked blankly for a few seconds--she hadn't been expecting Johnny to show up at Buck Merrill's place so late at night. The one she had been expecting was Tim Shepard—and that was someone she liked to tease with near nudity. Not Johnny. Definitely not Johnny.
Swallowing a bit, Laine disappeared completely behind Dally, unsure of the strange embarrassment she felt at having been found by her cousin, nearly nude, in the home of a fellow gang-member.
"La..Laine?" Johnny stammered, uncertainly stepping into the dimly lit room. He glanced around at the pile of clothing near the dresser, and at the tousled appearance of Dally's hair. His face flushed a deep red.
Pausing, Dally seemed to suddenly take in the bruised and beaten appearance of Johnny's face—not to mention his clothing. "Glory, kid! What happened?"
The small boy, shaking from what he guessed could only be fear, settled down insecurely in the middle of Dallas' creaky queen-sized bed. He opened his mouth to speak, but closed it just as quickly.
Meanwhile, Laine had disappeared into a corner of a room and begun to redress into her clothes. She studied her brooding cousin curiously, opting to stand beside the rackety bureau and let Dallas handle the situation.
"Damn it, Johnny—who the hell was it?!" Glancing up in shame, Johnny muttered two words: my father.
The moment Dally heard the name of the one responsible for his protected's current state of health, he exploded. He shoved everything within a 3-mile radius of him against the wall, and sent every curse and threat he knew against Johnny's progenitor. Then, still in the same violent and furious state of mind, he stormed out of the room, swearing upon God to take the man's life.
Laine jumped up immediately, knowing full well that if she left Dally to do his will, that threat would be carried out.
No answer. Only heavy footsteps pounding the concrete.
Laine growled as she struggled to keep up with Dallas. He, unlike her, was wearing padded sneakers; she wore high-heeled boots. "Dallas!" she called again, this time half-heartedly, deciding that even if Dally did hear her, he certainly wasn't planning on stopping.
"Hey, doll—ain't it a little past your bedtime?"
Laine ignored the comment thrown in her direction, but did spare its owner a brief glance. It was nearly 4 in the morning by then, and though the Curtis boys and the rest of the gang had taken up looking for Dallas, Laine had given up. She knew he was all right, just as she knew he would show up when he was ready too.
She was at the Dingo. Well, she wasn't really in the Dingo—no one ever really was--they just hung out around it never really going in.
"Doll—you ain't see through…ya mind movin' out the way?!"
Again, Laine turned, half expecting to see the drunken man from earlier, but found instead a slim, well-built, attractive greaser. He was young too... at the very least fifteen.
Smirking, Laine sauntered up to the young man, who she might've guessed was drunk, and sensuously sat down beside him, bending over only to 'borrow' the cigarette in his mouth. He was startled—to say the least—that she had acted so boldly. He wanted her. She knew it.
"Thanks, greaser," she breathed out, shifting so that she was facing him, arms leisurely slung about the boy's neck. He responded accordingly, and, as he was supposed to, tightened his grip on her hips. Laine curled out her lower lip in a sumptuous pout and leaned forward, achieving contact with the other man's lips in a sloppy kiss.
Somewhat slowly, Laine came to the realization that the boy wasn't really all that drunk—if drunk at all. Actually, he was pretty lucid. Lucid enough to realize he was turning her on. His hands were snaking down her chest in a downwards spiral, and he made no move of stopping anytime soon.
Closing her eyes, the young girl felt him coarsely pull on the zipper of her leather skirt, taking practically no time in tugging it down. "You've got a tattoo?" came the amused inquiry. Laine pulled away from the young man suddenly, startled at his words. She blinked, remembering where she'd heard those words before. Same words. Same tone. Same situation.
"Doll…ain't never met one with a tattoo"
Laine had glanced up into those hard, pale eyes. They had seemed amused for a moment, then become curious.
"You ain't got one?" came the inquiry.
Dallas had shaken his head no, then, glanced up at her, "Ain't it a sexy place to have it?"
His words were sincere, and from the tone, quite aroused. Laine had raised an eyebrow absently and shimmied out of her leather mini-skirt, leaving him speechless for a few seconds.
"You talk too damn much, greaser," she had finally muttered, aching for his touch, and deciding to toss the 'hard to get' and 'cool' attitudes she had been branded with as a result of being a greaser.
Dallas had smiled at her then, she remembered, it had been an amused, hungry smile—one she'd never before seen in her life.
"Well then shut ya'r trap and I won't talk."
Laine remembered a lot of things about that night. Or at least, a lot more than she normally would have—especially since she was drunk. But perhaps the thing she remembered most about Dallas had been his gentleness. Sure, they had had quite a rowdy night, but when teenage males are drunk and engaging in sex—particularly with strangers--they rarely care about whether or not they are hurting their partner.
Laine grinned a little at how sweet and out of place he had seemed.
The two had undressed each other rather savagely, eager and throbbing with desire. She had wanted to see his face, Dallas knew. As he kissed her, he could feel her tiny fingertips impatiently pushing aside the hair falling into his face. But why would she want to know him? Dally knew from personal experience that staring into the face of someone he was with and had never known before, made the situation entirely uncomfortable. A lot of times people simply didn't want to be seen—a lot of times they felt more aroused making love to a stranger…wait no, not making love—just having sex.
Dally remembered being uncharacteristically soft with the girl. He was usually not so, but she had radiated something and, unlike his usual self, he hadn't wanted to hurt her.
"Why are you stoppin'" she had asked him, fingertips curling against the skin of his shoulder. Dally had cringed, wincing at the pain that reverberated through his body at the feeling of her nails digging into him. He knew there'd be a bruise there the next day.
"Why do ya think I'm stoppin'?!"
His last comment had caused the girl to roll her eyes at him. "It's taken care of," she had muttered, arms coming about his neck and pulling him close again. Dallas had shrugged it off then, thankful he didn't have to worry about anything breaking or falling off. That definitely made things more enjoyable, that and the…
"Get over it will you?!" Laine growled at the man above her. He had been pondering over her for quite a while, studying her hip and the tiny butterfly that lay there, seeming intrigued and piquied. He glanced up at her then, almost sneering, and captured her lips in a most luscious way. He had snaked one arm down and settled it absently at her hip, outlining as best he could the image that lay there, and eliciting a few gasps from the girl.
Laine vaguely remembered his smell that night, too. Interlaced with the alcohol in his breath, she had picked up vague traces of leather and what she supposed was aftershave. Absentmindedly, she had stroked his cheek, wondering what his morning routine was and how often he shaved.
He was good in the sack, Laine had to admit. She had found her competition in this wheat-blond haired boy. He seemed to know everything she wanted, where she wanted it, and when she wanted it. He was no pure virgin.
Laine snapped out of her little reverie then, realizing she had remained stock still the lap of the greaser she had been eyeing earlier on.
"What's wrong? Scared?"
Laine drew in a sudden breath. He was mocking her. His voice was hard and mean. Just like Dally's. Just like any other greaser. This shouldn't be so hard.
Laine tossed her pale, platinum hair out of her face and pushed forward, burying her face in the neck of her prey. I'm not scared…I never was—never will be…
Just as she bit down against the man's neck, he let out a small growl, grasping more tightly onto her back; pulling her closer. Dallas…
Laine suddenly found herself sprawled on the floor, hand captured by none other than Tim Shepard. He eyed her dangerously, but not with desire—no, he was glaring at her with the rage of a person whose friend has been betrayed. Laine smirked absently.
"Find Dallas yet, Tim?"
"Get off him."
"I am off him!" Laine protested, smoothing out the wrinkles that had appeared on her skirt. "Besides," she continued, "it ain't like him and me is goin' out. Me and Dallas are two different people. He's free and so am I."
Tim seemed disgusted with Laine almost as much as he was with Curly, the man she'd nearly stifled in her attempts to get Dally off her mind.
"Yea. She's free--"
"You shut the hell up, Curly!" Tim snapped, crudely jerking Laine's wrist in the direction of the door.
"If you cared for Dallas even half as much as Sylvia did--"
Laine cut off Tim in the middle of his sentence with a wave of her hand. She had no time to hear about Dallas's past love affairs. She wasn't stupid. She knew Dally hadn't been a virgin when she had been with him, just as Dally knew she wasn't a pure, innocent girl either. At the very least he expected her and try to mess with another man while he was gone--it was just the way things were.
"We're leavin'" Tim declared, puffing out his chest in a manly manner, glancing at Laine and sneering at his lout of a brother. Laine struggled against his grip, and all but cursed hell on him, when she realized she wanted to see Dally.
"Hey, Tim," the young girl began, seductively crossing her right leg over her left, giving him ample to watch, "Anyone ever tell you to loosen up?"
"Dallas," Tim growled, "is waitin'"
Laine jumped a bit when Tim slammed hard on the brakes, head snapping in her direction. "Listen, doll—I ain't Dally, so I sure ain't got the patience to deal with you. Why don't you just shut ya're trap till we get there!"
Raising an eyebrow, Laine made to get out of the car—she would do whatever she pleased like doing. Besides, Tim was no one to tell her what to do. Hell—not even Dallas bossed her around.
"Would the fact that he's in the freakin' hospital make you stay?!"
Laine paused, then in a soft voice, "What hospital?"
"St. Vincent De Paul."