Holly Hope - Slut girl

Carl said we'd leave for L.A. that next night, and he'd show me around all the good spots there, and promised not to touch me "for a few days till ya heal up", which was awfully generous of him, I thought since he'd damned near ruined me for life as it was. But I just kept my own mouth shut and let him ramble on. I asked him to get me some sleeping pills, as I was so damn sore that I couldn't get a good night's rest without some help. He got them for me, and then we packed my clothing and headed out. When he asked me about any money I had, I lied and told him that Doc and Harold had managed it, so I guessed that it was down the drain. He just shrugged and said, "To hell with it – I'll give ya all ya want," and we drove leisurely to L.A.

Carl owned a fashionable high-rise 62-unit apartment building on Franklin in the Hollywood foothills, and the new and furnishings were superb, but I could only think of my plans for the immediate future. When Carl wanted me to go around with him and check on his stable of girls, I begged off as being too sore and tired from the trip to do anything except soak in a hot tub and sleep the dock around, adding that I wanted to get rested and healed so we could really get caught up on our loving, and that appeased him for the time being, so that he left cheerily, saying he'd let me sleep and not waken me when he came home.

I knew that he wouldn't waken me when he came home. As soon as he went down in the elevator, I took thirty-six of the sleeping pills and sat down at the desk in the living room and began writing. First, the letter to Carl: "Carl: There were just three things that I ever wanted out of life: sex, with everything connected to it, good and often; next, a decent life, with all the necessities, most of the comforts, and a few of the luxuries; and last, love, real love, the kind that brings comfort and laughs and warm companionship and sharing. I can never have any of those with you, and you'll finish ruining a life that I myself had almost completely ruined in my search for those three thinks. I cannot and will not be your slave, so I am taking this way out. And since you are what you are, and who you are, I have sent letters to the Chief of Police, both newspapers, and the FBI naming names and addresses and items that should put a stop to your actions. I could not do this to your face – I am too cowardly, but it needed doing. Sheri."

I put his letter in an envelope and placed it under the whiskey decanter, for I knew that he never drank before going to bed, it kept him awake, but that he started the day with a double shot even before he brushed his teeth. So he'd find it first thing in the morning, and then, when he came to waken me, I'd have found peace at last. I scribbled the other letters and went down the hall to the mail chute beside the elevator and dropped them in. They'd hit the next day, and then let Carl start running and looking over his shoulder.

I was beginning to get drowsy by this time, so I put on a new pale-blue peignoir, brushed my hair, and lay down on the bed. I know it was silly, but I've always been vain about my looks, and I wanted my last moment to be as pretty as possible. Then I drifted off.

I stared up at the nurse who hovered over me, and then when I started to ask her a question, I felt the immense raw pain in my mouth and throat.

"Shhhh, don't try to talk, honey. Your neck and throat are still pretty sore and tender from the stomach pump. You just lie back and get all the rest you can. The doctor will be along pretty soon and he'll answer any questions you have," the smiling nurse told me. I relaxed and looked around the room. It looked about the same as any hospital room, and I saw the intravenous bottle overhead and watched as drops of something trickled down the plastic tube that was taped to my left arm. Then on the far side, almost in the corner, I saw a man, fiftyish, in a rumpled suit, sitting and quietly reading a newspaper. He looked up and smiled gently as the nurse left the room.

"I'm Sergeant Squires, Miss. Until we catch Carl Watson we're keeping you under twenty-four hour guard. That was a pretty good turn you did us, and we'll protect you. All you have to do right now is get well and rest. No questions – at least not for a few days. You need anything, just ask."

He went back to reading the paper and I drifted off to a dazed sleep, my mind full of queries but too tired to ask them right now.

When I awoke again, I felt a gentle touch on my wrist, and then I focused on the doctor who was taking my puke. He sensed my movement, looked at my eyes, and smiled.

"Hey! Yon princess awakes. You're almost all right, Sheri. You're going to make it O.K. from here on out. The nurse will take the I.V. tube out in a minute, and then we can move you to a different room." He shook a finger at me waggishly. "It was touch and go there for a few hours, young lady. This afternoon I'll want to see you in my office."

As he left, I noticed his well-cut clothes and smooth manner of talking and walking. When the nurse came in shortly thereafter and removed the I.V., she stayed and brushed my hair and helped me tidy myself up. "You're lucky," she said. "Doctor Larson's the best on the staff. And he took an awful lot of extra time and care on your case – he was here forty-two straight hours working on you. But that's the way he is, conscientious as hell, in addition to being really good."

I could see that the staff liked him as well as admiring him, and I think half the nurses had crushes on him because of his warm personality and boyish good looks. That afternoon, I was escorted upstairs to his office. The name on the door jarred me: Dr. James D. Larson, Director, Psychiatric Division.

Psychiatric Division? Was I nuts? Was I in an asylum? His secretary smiled and waved when we entered. "Hi, Sheri," she said to my escort nurse, and then into the intercom, "Jim, Sheri Jackson's here." The doctor's metallic "Send her right in, please" came back from the speaker, and I was waved to the inner door.

The doctor strode from behind his desk and pulled a big chair closer for me, and extended his hand. As I took it, he held it softly in both of his, and I was amazed at the gentleness that a six-three hunk of man could display.

"Sit down and relax. I hope you're as glad to make it back safely as we all were, Sheri." He offered a cigarette. "Smoke? No? Good idea, don't ever start," he admonished as he lighted his own. "Stupid, filthy, expensive habit. Like most of the habits we all tend to get into. Well," he said as he exhaled and lounged back in his chair, "you are perfectly free to go now, young lady. Although there are some questions I believe the police want to discuss with you about Carl Watson. I think you're called a material witness, and as such the D.A.'s office will provide you with the necessities of life till the trial if you'll testify."

"So much for the sordid part," he smiled and leaned forward across the desk toward me. His bright white smile was very disarming, I couldn't help thinking. "The part I would like to discus with you, Sheri, and I'll repeat, you're under no obligation to do it, is this: I'd like you to stay here – you're at the U.C.L.A. Medical Center in Westwood, in case you were wondering – and let us help you straighten yourself out. I'm sure we can help you; we all want to, and there is sure as hell something wrong when a girl as beautiful as you tries to kill herself." He shook his head.

"I was amazed," he continued. "And I'll be very frank with you. While you were still out, I pumped you full of sodium pentothal and quizzed you. If I hadn't, the police surgeon would have, to try to corroborate your accusations against Carl Watson. But I didn't want anyone else messing with a girl as lovely and fragile as you, so I did it all. The cops had to take my word on everything, but they always do. So your entire life history is mine, and mine alone. All your secrets are locked up in here." He grinned as he tapped his forehead. "Any questions, Sheri?"