The Making of a Gigolo (14) - Erica Bradford

by Lubrican

Chapters : 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26

Chapter Two

The woman being discussed in front of Renee's child care center was, in fact, really nice looking - by almost anyone's standards.

Erica Bradford stood at five feet, three inches, which was fairly short. That shortness was exaggerated by her breasts, which were, if not monumental, at least startlingly impressive. Seeming to float like two hot-air balloons above a waist kept narrow by a daily regimen of one hundred sit-ups, as well as a number of other callisthenic exercises, her breasts seemed so large as to make her look like she might fall forward any minute. Hips three inches smaller than her thirty-eight inch bust managed to keep the perspective of her overall appearance, but all that, perched on those short little legs of hers, also made her look like an impossibly over-developed teenage girl. A lush growth of auburn hair, with golden highlights scattered throughout it, and which fell to the middle of her back, only heightened the impression of youth when she wore it in a long, flowing ponytail, which was common, because it was easier to handle that way.

In short, Erica would have been welcomed with open arms at any Playboy club in the country, and she would have been a shoo-in for the centerfold pages of at least one issue.

Not that Erica Bradford would ever have considered setting foot in such a bastion of rampant male sexism. She characterized places like that as brothels, when she was trying to be polite. And though she had been unable to participate in any bra burnings - her vast expanse of breast flesh required that she wear a bra consistently - she would have gladly used a match to set Hugh Hefner's mansion merrily aflame.

That attitude was in part because of growing up as the women's liberation movement began to take off and get noticed. Her interest in women's lib was engendered by the fact that her breasts began to develop when she was twelve, and had blossomed to staggering thirty-six inch maturity by the time she was fifteen. Nobody looked at her face. Not even women. Boys were impossible. Even her little brother leered at her.

Not wearing makeup didn't help. College was the same way. She'd hoped as males matured their response to her would, as well, but her breasts grew another two inches and that poked a stick in the spokes of her hopes. Her professors drooled as much as her male peers. Girls even came onto her. She spent so much time avoiding sexual situations that it became habit.

She'd expected her first job as a teacher to set her free ... to allow her to show that she was more than a pair of breasts. She had naturally gravitated toward social studies. She wanted to explore - and correct - certain social phenomenon, not the least of which was the sexism that seemed to infuse every facet of society, American or otherwise.

Where better to begin her task than with the teenagers who were forming the sexual attitudes that would remain with them throughout life? She'd gotten a job at a big school in Chicago, and gone forth to slay dragons.

It didn't take her long to rue the day she'd chosen to major in high school social studies. Her high school students acted like ... high school students. The boys went glassy-eyed, if they were halfway polite, and were transparently rude otherwise. The girls hated her if they had boyfriends in her class. The female teachers shunned her, and the men were as bad as the boys, staring at her. Male heads went together often, while the eyes in those heads glanced at her. The men snickered as much as the boys.

Three years of that had been all she could force herself to stomach. Big city culture was too hard a nut to crack. So she had gone in search of someplace smaller, more provincial. Not that she wanted something backwards, or restrictive ... just someplace where people might have a little of that old fashioned politeness. It didn't occur to her that there was quite a bit of irony in a modern, hard-charging woman seeking out someplace that was likely to retain old fashioned attitudes toward women as well.

Now, three months into her new job in Granger, Kansas, Erica had experienced an epiphany of sorts. She had come to the conclusion that boys were boys, and men were men - wherever they were.

Oh, they weren't as bald-faced about ogling her in Granger, that was true. And at least some of them - both boys and men - had the decency to blush when they stared at her chest. But the change in scenery, which she had to admit had been a breath of clean air, didn't seem to include a change in how males reacted to her. Perhaps that was because as she breathed in that fresh, clean air, her breasts strained against the front of whatever she was wearing.

And then there was this drama nonsense! She'd only had to see one or two musicals in her own high school to understand that they were predictably sexist. The woman always swooned over the man, who called the shots, and was forgiven his blunders and insensitivity, always in the name of love. She'd shunned that kind of crap after that.

Still, it had been clearly stated that she would have to take on the drama productions if she wanted the job. And she had agreed to it, because she just had to get out of Chicago. And, by and large, she actually liked Granger. The pace was much slower. People were more polite, with a few exceptions, even if most people just ignored her. That was fine with her. She felt like being ignored might not be such a bad thing.

Especially since her life threatened to be completely overwhelmed by the latest development.

That development was William, her little brother. There wasn't supposed to be a development involving her brother. She had thought that was all taken care of back in 1968.

He had been seventeen in 1968, and she eighteen, when their parents were killed in a car crash. She had been preparing to go off to college, to become a teacher. Suddenly, she was her brother's guardian, and college looked like it wasn't going to happen.

Will wasn't impressed with the idea that his older sister was in charge of him. His argument to get her to sign enlistment papers had seemed to solve everything. She got to go to college. He went off to be in the Army, after which he'd have money to start whatever kind of life he wanted to when he got out.

Neither of them thought that three years later he'd end up in a far off foreign land, riddled with shrapnel and burned to the degree that it would take literally years and dozens of surgeries to bring him as far back into the real world as they could get him. She was aware that he was injured, having been notified by infrequently received letters some nurse or volunteer had written for him. She knew it was bad, and when he'd told her not to visit him in the hospital, it had been easy for her to honor that request. Well ... not easy exactly. She felt guilty for not going to him. But he was in far off Washington D.C. at Walter Reed Hospital. She heard the pain in his voice as he told her on the phone that he was fine and for her not to worry about him. And he had been very insistent that she not come to visit him. Somehow not visiting him became the standard. They talked on the phone occasionally and exchanged a few letters, but that was it.

A month ago, though, another letter had come ... one of the first she had received at her little two bedroom frame house on Walnut street in Granger, Kansas. That letter said they had done all they could for him. He had a medical pension, but he needed a place to live. He'd added that he was in a wheelchair. "I hate to ask for this," he had written, "but I don't really have any other options."

She had agreed, of course. There was no way to say "No," even had she felt like it. She knew things had been impossibly tough for him. And he was all the family she had left, not counting an uncle and aunt who lived in North Dakota, and a few cousins, none of whom she had seen since she was ten.

Now, with all the other upheavals in her life, he was due to arrive on a plane in Wichita in a week. She hadn't been to Wichita yet, but that didn't worry her. She was a modern, capable woman. What worried her was that while she was in shape, she had no idea how much help he'd need to get into the car and into the house. She didn't know how much stuff he'd bring with him, or whether it would all fit into her modern and stylish AMC Pacer, the one thing she had splurged on, because she thought it announced how forward-thinking she was.

But that was a week away. Right now, she had a class to teach, and, after school, play practice. That was more than enough to deal with today.

It was lunchtime when Ted Brandywine approached her. He was one of the few men she'd met who seemed not to become tongue tied around her. It was disconcerting talking to him, though. He didn't stare at her breasts, but he also had a tendency to look past her while he was talking to her.

"I saw Bobby this morning," he said, without preamble. "He said he'd be happy to talk to you about building sets. He doesn't know how much help he can be in the art department, though."

"I think that's okay," she said. "Several of the kids insist they know how to build sets and paint them. I've just been so afraid they'll get hurt. There are all these saws, and tools, and sharp things involved in all that. All I really need is somebody I can trust to kind of keep an eye on them, or direct them or something."

Ted handed her a piece of paper.

"Here's his number," he said, looking past her right ear.

"Thank you, Ted," she said.

"Sure." He turned to hurry away.

"Ted?"

He stopped, but only turned half way around.

"How do you know this man?"

"He's my brother-in-law," said Ted. "He's a wizard at fixing just about anything."

"Oh," said Erica. "Okay."

Bobby came in the house knowing his mother wasn't there, because her car was gone. He smelled food cooking and stuck his head in the kitchen. Matilda was standing at the stove with a spatula in her hand. He walked over and put his arms around her, cupping her breasts.

"Smells good."

"Stop that!" she said, almost angrily. She pushed his hands off her breasts.

"Sorry," he said, stepping back. "Tough day?"

"Just don't touch me," she said, ignoring him.

Bobby frowned and looked at his sister's back. This wasn't like her at all. Usually, she was frisky when their mother wasn't around. Both of them were.

"Where's Betty?" he asked.

"Don't touch her either," said Matilda, her voice hard-edged.

He knew her well enough to know she wouldn't talk until she calmed down, whatever was bothering her.

"Okay," he said. "Let me know when you want to talk about it. You cooking for me too, or just you?"

"Just me," she said, still not looking at him.

"No problem," he said. "I'll get something when you're done."

He went looking for Betty, and found her in the living room. The TV was on.

"What's wrong with Matilda?" he asked.

Betty looked up at him. "Nothing," she said. "Why?"

"She just about bit my head off," he said.

"Oh," she said and turned back to the TV.

Bobby shook his head. She was obviously off her feed too. He was about to go take a shower when her voice stopped him.

"You have two phone messages," she said.

"Who from?" he asked.

"Misty and some woman I've never heard of," said Betty, still watching the tube.

It was the disinterested note in her voice that made alarm bells go off in his head. Both of the twins had been ecstatic about Misty, almost pests when she was staying with them. For her to say "Misty" in such a lackluster voice was proof that something was really wrong. He knew, though, that neither of them would talk until they were ready, so he told Betty the same thing he'd told Matilda.

"Whenever you're ready to talk about it, let me know," he said.

"What?" She looked over at him.

"Whatever's bothering you right now," he said.

"Nothing's bothering me," she said, but there was no heat in her voice then either.

"Whenever you're ready," he said, and then left.

He went to the little table in the hallway where a pad of paper was beside the phone. One piece of paper just said "Misty" and listed a phone number. The other said "Erica Bradford" and had a local number below that. He remembered Ted's discussion about the woman from that morning.

He picked up the phone and called Erica's number. There was no answer. He looked at his watch. It was six-thirty. School should be long over for the day. He left the paper there. He'd try again later. He decided to wait until after his shower to call Misty. Who knew what she wanted, but he wanted to have the time to talk a while, if that was necessary.

After he got out of the shower, the twins were in their room, with the door closed, so he fixed something to eat and then called Misty.

"Hey," he said, when she picked up the phone.

"Bobby!" she squealed loudly. He held the phone away from his ear.

"You don't have to yell," he said into the mouthpiece.

"Sorry," she said, her voice lower. "I need a favor ... a huge favor."

"If I can," he said.

"There's an awards banquet in two weeks. I got nominated for best new artist. I need an escort."

"In Nashville?" he said, incredulously.

"Of course," she said. "Will you do it?"

"I can't just come to Nashville," he said.

"Of course you can," she said. "I'll have the tickets ready for you, and you can stay at my house. I'll even pay you for your precious lost work time."

"Misty," he said. "Be reasonable. There have to be a hundred guys in Nashville who'd love to have you on their arm at some fancy thing like that."

"Of course there are," said Misty. "But I want you."

"Come on, Misty."

"No, you come on," she said. "You practically robbed me of my virtue, Bobby Dalton. You owe me! And besides, I want to create a mystery here. Nobody will know who you are. We won't tell them where you came from or anything. You'll just be the handsome stud on whose arm I drape my delicate hand. The photographers will eat it up. I might even win, Bobby!"

"I didn't rob you of anything," he snorted. "You hated me, and then suddenly you didn't hate me, and then you had your way with me, and then left me all alone." He tried to make his voice sound sad.

"Don't give me that," she laughed. "You've never been alone unless you wanted to be. Besides, if you're nice to me while you're here, I might have my way with you again. You never know."

"You're serious," he said.

"I most certainly am," she laughed. "Come on. It'll be fun. Please?"

"You really think this is a good idea?" he asked. "You really want to start rumors?"

"Of course I do," she said. "People will go crazy trying to figure out who you are. You don't have to stay long. Just a couple of days. Then you can go back to your harem in Kansas."

"I don't have a harem," he said.

"Please, Bobby? For me?"

"I have to talk to Mamma about this."

"You're a grown man, Bobby," she reminded him.

"Yeah, but if I run off to Nashville without telling her first, I might not have a place to live when I get back," he said. "She already knows what happened when you were here."

"Oh?" Her voice was high. "How did that happen?"

"She's got radar or something," he said. "She grilled me after you left. If I went down there without talking about it with her first, she'd be very disappointed."

"Well, talk to her and make her feel good about this, and then you can come down here and make me feel good too."

"When did you turn into this kind of woman?" he asked, amazed at how lightly she said that.

"When I met you," she said firmly. "Talk to your mamma and then call me back. If she gets onry then have her call me. Somebody had better call me back, Bobby!"

"I will," he said.

"Tonight, please," she said. "I need to make plans."

"Okay," he said.

He stared at the phone for fifteen seconds before hanging it up.

He was thinking about Nashville so much that he would have forgotten to try Erica Bradford again, but when he picked up Misty's number to take to his room, Erica's was right under it. He dialed it.

"Hello?" came a female voice.

"Mrs. Bradford, this is Bobby Dalton."

The immediate response was "It's Ms. Bradford, not Mrs." She pronounced it "Miz".

"I'll try to remember that," said Bobby dryly. "Ted said you need some help."

"Yes, I do. The kids want to build the sets, but I think that's too dangerous. I need someone to supervise them."

"I see," said Bobby, wondering what that might be like.

"Can you come by the school tomorrow, around four-thirty?" she asked, as if she assumed he was going to say yes. "Just come in the front doors. Anybody can tell you where the auditorium is."

"I went to school there," said Bobby. "I know where it is."

"Oh ... of course. Thank you, Mister Dalton."

He was about to reply when he realized she had hung up. It was the first evidence he had to support Ted's assessment of this woman as, "kind of hard to get along with."

If Bobby thought his mother was going to give him a hard time about going to Nashville, he was mistaken. To be fair, that was only because Mirriam had no clue that Bobby would be staying with Misty while he was there. She just assumed he'd be put up in some hotel somewhere. Misty was, no doubt, aswirl in the world of the busy music industry and would have little time for him other than the intended purpose of his visit. Besides, while he was with Misty, all the world would be watching. What could possibly happen?

"I think it's a fantastic opportunity," she said, after he had haltingly described what Misty had asked him to do. "You'll get to see interesting places and meet famous people."

To be fair again, it must be exposed that Mirriam had a somewhat ulterior motive here. She knew Bobby had been to Kansas City, and Wichita, of course, but in her mind those places seemed like cow towns by comparison with Nashville. She was quite sure that Bobby would be as out of place in a city like that, as it was possible to be. He would be overwhelmed.

He would come back to Granger ... where he would stay forever.

It wasn't that she expected Bobby to run off somewhere. It was just that she knew if he did, she'd be lost. She was quite capable of living without him. She just wouldn't want to.

And so, it only took five minutes to accomplish what Bobby expected would take hours of wrangling and pleading, to get his mother to give him her blessing.

Bobby walked into the auditorium the next afternoon to the sound of barely controlled chaos. A piano was playing, and three kids were standing there looking at sheet music and singing. Another group of about fifteen kids were on the stage, milling around, while a woman who could only be Erica Bradford, based on Ted's description of her, barked orders at them. Another group of fifteen or twenty kids were sitting in the front seats of the auditorium, talking. Lights above the stage dimmed, changed to red, then blue, then green, and then came back up brightly.

The woman on stage turned her head toward the wings.

"Mister Downs! Stop playing with the lights! That light board is an expensive piece of equipment!"

There was a banging sound from back stage. The woman stepped to one side and peered into the darkness.

"Mister Thomas! Put down that hammer! I told you we're not building sets until later!"

Tanya Fielding, a teenager who worked part time at Renee's child care center, and who had met Bobby a number of times there, was one of the kids on the stage. She saw him and waved.

"Hey, Mister D," she called out. That was her name for him. He'd tried to get her to call him Bobby, but she wouldn't. "What are you doing here? It's awesome to see you."

"Hey, Tanya. Mizz Bradford needs someone to watch over you guys and make sure you don't cut off any fingers while you're building the sets," said Bobby, smiling. He hit hard on the "Mizz." thinking to point out to Erica Bradford just how silly it sounded.

"That's not funny!" said the woman on stage, her voice strident. Bobby wasn't sure whether she was talking about what he had called her, or his comment about cutting off fingers. "Sit down. I'll be with you in a minute."

Having dismissed him, she turned back to the kids. She was trying to get them to do some kind of dance.

Bobby sat down in the fourth row of the seats, to one side, because all the kids were sitting and talking in the middle. A girl peered at him and stood up to walk toward him.

"Hey, you're that guy," she said.

"Beg your pardon?"

"You're that guy ... the one who was with Misty Compton at the concert over in Hutch. You're him!"

Bobby smiled. He didn't know what else to do.

The girl turned back toward her friends.

"Hey, dudes! This is that guy who was with that groovy Misty Compton!"

Bobby had no idea what to expect. When three more girls and a couple of boys stood up and started toward him, he couldn't think of anything to do except sit there.

"Far out!" said one of the boys. "You know Misty Compton?"

"I spent a few days with her," said Bobby.

"Man, that's bitchin'!" said the boy. "She's tubular, man."

"Yeah," said Bobby weakly, not quite sure what the boy meant. "She's pretty good," he guessed.

"Good? She's a sweet bong, man!" said the kid.

"Harry!" said the girl who had originally come over to investigate Bobby. "You sound so stupid using all that slang."

"Get real, dudette," said the boy, grinning. "That's the boss way to talk. I'm just with the plan, that's all."

The girl ignored the boy, dismissing him in the same way Erica Bradford had dismissed Bobby. She turned back to Bobby.

"Do you really know her? What's she like? She's sooo awesome!"

"She's so pretty," sighed another of the girls.

Bobby had no idea how to approach this conversation.

"I like her," he said, tentatively.

"Did you get to swap spit with her?" asked the boy who didn't seem to be able to complete a sentence in anything that actually sounded like English.

"That will be enough of that!" came a stentorian voice from the bottom of the stage. Erica Bradford was stalking toward them.

"I'll thank you not to discuss your sexual escapades with the children!" said Erica, her eyes pinned on Bobby. The kids scattered like chaff in the wind.

Bobby stood up. "I wasn't discussing anything with them," he said.

"Come with me," ordered the woman.

As Erica Bradford stalked back toward one side of the stage, where there was a set of steps, her mind was chewing away. This Bobby Dalton person was obviously an ex jock type. He had the look. He was handsome and knew it. She knew the type. She couldn't remember where his eyes had been, because she was just too upset by everything right now, but no doubt they had been on her breasts. The way he had addressed Tanya ... as if they were friends ... and that flippant, much too casual way he had suggested he was there to save the day, because a woman couldn't possibly ensure the safety of the children! The gall of this man. She didn't like him already.

But Erica Bradford was also pragmatic. If this man had the skills, all she had to do was keep an eye on him, while he kept an eye on the volunteers. She needed him. This was driving her crazy. She had no idea what she was doing, and this production was going to be a complete disaster. Mr. Hornsby, the music teacher, who had promised to work with the chorus and the kids who had solos, hadn't shown up at all, and seemed to be avoiding her. If this Bobby person could take some of the pressure off of her, it was worth putting up with his smirks.

Bobby had no idea where the woman was taking him. He was even less convinced, based on her attitude, that he belonged here, in this setting. As he followed her, his eyes went to the back of her skirt. She was walking quickly, which made it look like two bowling balls had somehow been attached to her backside, and were bouncing up and down as she stalked along.

She got to the stage and turned, but didn't address him.

"Children!!" she called out, like it was a line in the play and she was trying to project. "That's all for today. Be here tomorrow at the same time, and please try to have learned your lines by then!"

She stood as the kids who had been lounging around came to life and got up to leave. They formed themselves into small clusters, which drifted toward the back of the auditorium, noisily. Then Erica turned her attention to Bobby.

"I don't know anything about building things," she said. "Several of the children claim to know about these things, but it would be a disaster if any of them got hurt. Can you supervise them and behave in a professional manner at the same time?"

Bobby's initial urge was to say "No," and then turn around and walk out. He was reminded of Misty Compton, when he first met her. She had been spoiled, demanding, and a general pain in the ass. At the same time, his initial impressions of her had turned out to be a little skewed. She'd just been having an incredibly tough time when they met, and the stress of that situation had caused her to act in ways that weren't really who she was.

He looked at Erica, whose face was pale. She had worry lines, and they were well established.

"I don't know if I can help you or not," he decided to say.

"What? Why not?" Erica looked like she might start bouncing off walls any second.

"I've never built sets," he said. "I've seen some, but I didn't examine them to see how they were built. I can teach you basic building skills ... the kids too ... but other than that, I don't know if I can do what you want." He looked at the woman's face, to see her reaction to that. She just looked tense. He looked around. "Where are the other two men?" he asked.

She looked confused then.

"What men?"

"The ones you yelled at ... something about the lights ... and the one you told to put a hammer down?"

She blinked.

"Those weren't men. They were students," she said.

Now Bobby looked confused. "You called them 'Mister'," he said.

"I was just being professional," she said. "If we expect the children to act like adults, we should address them appropriately."

"But they're not adults," said Bobby, thinking of his twin sisters, who were out of high school and still didn't seem like adults sometimes.

"Yes," said Erica, "but we want them to be, so we address them as if they were, and build an environment in which there is the expectation that they will act like adults."

"That isn't going to work," said Bobby. What he was thinking was that she addressed them as Mister ... and probably Mizz ... one minute, but then called them children the next. If that wasn't mixed signals ... what was?

Erica almost snorted. She should have expected a jock to tell her how to do her job. Men always thought they knew everything.

"You let me worry about that," she said, as if she were talking to a six year old. "I just need you to build a village, and some boulders."

"A village," said Bobby, his eyes widening.

"Yes," said the woman. "And boulders and some trees too. Do you have any idea how to make it look foggy on stage? This production starts out with two men being lost in the mist, and finding the village. So I need trees and mist and a village."

"I don't know," said Bobby doubtfully.

"Just like a man," thought Erica. "Brag and strut and then, when somebody tosses you a bit of a challenge ... tuck tail and run!"

"I thought Ted said you were a wizard at making things," she said acidly.

Bobby wanted to take her over his knee, but he didn't.

"I repair things," he said, as patiently as he could. "I have built a few small projects, renovations and things like that ... but not an entire town."

Erica had been hoping that this man would lighten her load. It didn't look quite like that would happen now. But she didn't give up.

"How about we go through the set notes. I can tell you in more detail what the audience needs to see."

"Or think they see," said Bobby, remembering the sets of the musical he'd taken Renee to. Those had been mostly flat, but had been painted to give the illusion of three dimensions. Small things, such as a balcony and some doors and windows had actually been three dimensional. But even the windmill Don Quixote had fought had just been a painting on a big flat surface.

Erica wondered if this had been a mistake. The man was arguing with her already.

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