If Lyle planned to escort her, Marsha thought, she would turn him down.
Then she heard the outer door close. Stanley Dixon was standing in front of it, his hands behind him. The lock clicked.
“Hey, Marsha,” Lyle Dumaire said. “What’s the big rush?”
Marsha had known Lyle since childhood, but now there was a difference.
“I’m going home.”
“Aw, come on. Have a drink.”
“No, thank you.”
“You’re going to be a good girl, aren’t you?”
“Some of us have had a good time already. It’s made us want more of the same,” said Dixon. The other two, whose names she didn’t know, were grinning.
“I’m not interested in what you want.” Though her voice was firm, she was aware of an underlying note of fear.
“Listen, Marsha,” Lyle blustered. “We know you want to. All girls want to. Eh, fellas?”
They began to move closer.
“If you touch me I shall scream.”
Suddenly, without seeming to move, Dixon was behind her, clapping a big sweaty hand across her mouth, another holding her arms. She struggled, and tried to bite the hand, but without success.
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