She put an arm over his midsection, then draped a leg over his knee. Her skin felt smooth and warm against him. He fought not to rub her thigh.
“This is nice,” she said.
Andy didn’t reply. They laid in silence a few moments.
“I’m thinking about divorcing Danny,” she blurted.
Andy’s eyes rounded. “What?”
“I think it would be best.”
“Why all of a sudden?”
“Not all of a sudden. Sadly, it’s something I’ve been contemplating for years. I just could never bring myself to do it.”
“Honestly I’ve wondered why you haven’t yet.”
He felt her shrug. “I think I’ve just felt so sorry for him. And when he was arrested last time, he promised he would be a new person when he got out.”
Andy almost laughed.
“And, he was,” she continued, “he was the old Danny, like before he got really screwed up. He was funny, sweet.” She sighed.
Andy wondered if she regretted all the times they’d had sex while Danny was locked up. She’d practically lived here those eight months. And they were like a real couple again. She stayed here on her days off from the grocery store while he went to school. He’d come home to a clean house and dinner. He couldn’t have been happier, and she’d seemed like a different person during that stretch as well. Always smiling, her skin glowing, eyes full of life. But when Danny’s probation was approved, she’d packed up and left so quickly it was as if she hadn’t been there at all. She never told Danny about their time together. Sometimes Andy wished she had. Maybe Danny would have gone away much sooner.
Awful. You’re such a dick.
“Danny would mention you sometimes. Wondering what you were doing. He’d say things like ‘Andy is the first Raab to ever go to college. Maybe he’ll be the first one to get the hell out of Brickston.’ Believe it or not, he was proud of you.”
Why is she telling me this?
“He had a hell of a way of showing it,” said Andy, letting his anger show. “The last time he and I spoke, he punched me in the stomach and told me I was always Mom and Dad’s favorite.”
Nicole tensed against him. “Yeah…I remember. But he was high that day.”
“I’m not allowing that to be an excuse anymore. It took me a long time to convince myself that I had to stop blaming meth for the way he is. I think he always was like that and the drugs just nudged it along.”
“You’re probably right,” she admitted. “Maybe I’ve been telling myself that a lot here lately, too.”
“I hope you have, Nicole. He’s my brother, and I’ll always love him, but I don’t need him.” He hoped that hadn’t sounded as selfish to her as it had to him. The truth was since Mom died, Andy felt as if he’d lost all his family, Danny included. Because everything had been left to Andy, Danny now resented him. He could understand why, but he’d planned on giving Danny some of the insurance money if he could prove he could stay off drugs.
“Do you need me?” asked Nicole.
Andy’s heart lurched. His mouth went dry and cottony. “What?”
“I know things have always been…a little crazy between us, but do you need me?”
“You know how I feel about you. That’s never changed.”
“Will you help me through this?”
“Let me ask you something.”
“Anything.”
“If you’re really thinking about divorcing him, then why do you need to know where he is? In a couple days his probation officer will have a warrant out for his arrest and the problem will be solved.”
Nicole lifted her head, gazing at him with piteous eyes. Full of tears and red, they were swollen and puffy. Her lip trembled. She looked so vulnerable, like a little girl. “Can we not talk about it anymore?”
“It needs to be discussed.”
“I know. Just not now. Can we stop talking about for a little while and just pretend it didn’t happen?”
He wanted to know more. After all, this was his brother she was talking about. As much as he wanted to keep asking her questions, he let it go. “Okay,” he said. “We can stop for now.”
“Will you hold me, Andy?”
“I already am…holding…”
“No, I mean really hold me. With both arms.”
He should say no, but he was unable to resist. He leaned his head down on top of hers. Her hair was wet and slippery under his chin. They embraced. Nicole held him so tightly it was hard for Andy to breathe. He didn’t make her stop, allowing her to squeeze him. A few minutes passed and her hold softened. He waited a couple more minutes until he was certain she was deeply asleep. Then he squirmed his way out of her arms and climbed out of bed.
Grabbing his pillow, he paused to look at her. Her face was scrunched up, a deep crease in her brow. Even in sleep she was stressed. He shook his head on his way out of the room. He wanted to stay in bed with her, but knew where it would lead. Sometime in the night, he’d wake up to her kissing him. They’d have sex. Even though he wanted it to go there, it shouldn’t. It was better for them both if they just pretended they didn’t have feelings for each other.
He tossed his pillow on the couch, then went to the kitchen and mixed up another glass of strawberry milk. Times like these, he wished he hadn’t quit drinking beer. A cigarette would have been nice too. He carried the milk into the living room with him, and sat down on the couch. The cushions were soft and broken in, so he sank deeply into them. He saw Nicole’s pack of Pyramid Blues sitting on the end table.
Don’t do it. You’ll be no better off than Danny—all it’ll take is one to get you hooked again.
Andy guzzled his milk. When the glass was empty, he sat it on the floor next to the couch. Lying down, he stretched his legs. It wasn’t long before they started to tingle as his body relaxed. Even though he was exhausted and comfortable, he knew he wouldn’t sleep much. His conflicting mind would never allow it.
Plus, he had some planning to do.
Chapter Three
Waiting in the car, Miles Faircloth could barely keep his eyes open. They’d driven most the day and half the night. He raised his arm, squeezed his watch, and checked the time when the face started to glow.
Almost three in the morning.
Still early, compared to other nights.
He put his arm down in his lap, leaning back in the seat. He tried to see into the motel’s main office window but couldn’t see through the cloudy glass. The motel was a flat row of doors that opened on tiny rooms, with the office jutting out at the tip like an L. The sign promised double beds, which was why Hoffman had stopped here. Seeing the small rooms, their narrow gashes of glass for windows, made Miles wonder if the sign had lied.
A year had passed since Hoffman saved Miles’s life. Now twelve, his birthday had been spent at a rest area picnic table with a cake from a grocery store’s freezer. The celebration was Hoffman’s idea.
“Can’t ever disregard the opportunity to celebrate another year of life,” he’d said.
Two numeral candles put together to form a twelve had guttered wildly in the mid-spring breeze as pollen sprinkled all over them. There had even been presents: a Nintendo 3DS and some games. A way, as Hoffman had put it, to remind Miles he was still a twelve-year-old, not a boy sprung into adulthood much too early.
Three months later, Miles still didn’t understand what he’d meant. At least Hoffman had cared enough to acknowledge his birthday. It was better than his eleventh for sure. Eyes glued to the tiny screen, earbuds in his ears, helped him to overlook riding shotgun on a drive through Hell.
Hoffman had been the one to say that, too. Hoffman was very smart and eloquent words seemed to flow from his scarred lips. And, Miles had to agree with Hoffman’s statement. After going home that night and discovering what had happened to Mom while he was at The Skin Show, Miles was convinced that Hell was real.
“It was one of those things,” Hoffman had said as he covered Mom’s mangled cor
pse with the bed sheet.
Miles had seen her first, just a glimpse, but it was enough to leave an interminable memory. Insisting on making sure everything was okay when dropping Miles off at home, Hoffman had walked him to the back door. It had been busted. Jagged sections of the door clung to the frame like broken teeth.
Inside was trashed even more than usual. The couch had been overturned. Dad’s recliner had been thrown into the wall, the footrest extended and jutting as if someone had been sitting in it. The sight was almost humorous.
Glass crunched under their shoes as they moved through the mobile home, following the evidence of carnage into his parents’ bedroom.
Blood painted the walls in a sticky crimson coat. Mom was displayed on the bed. On her back, legs spread wide. The area between her thighs was devoured. Miles had never even considered his mother had one of those. He knew all girls did, but he’d never looked at Mom in that way. But, seeing her naked on the bed proved she was like all girls, and she’d been violently violated.
Her chest was shredded into pulpy mounds of meat. Dark gray branches of ribcage could be seen between the gaps in her skin. Her stomach was split open, innards spilling out—overall, a grotesque image that Miles had never been able to excise since Hoffman laid the sheet across her. It still brought him the same numbing pain as it had the first time.
“I want to go with you,” Miles had said when they’d gone back into the living room.
Hoffman stared at him gravely. “No.”
“I have nothing left here…”
“I know you think that, but coming with me is not the solution to your anger. If you become obsessed with vengeance, it’s the same as being dead on the inside. Stay here. Once you call and report this, you will probably be sent to live with a relative until you’re old enough to collect the life insurance check. Go to school. Leave this behind you.”
“We didn’t have any insurance…unless you count Medicaid.”
Hoffman frowned. “It’s better…”
“And the only relatives I have are an uncle who makes my dad look like a saint. No. I’d rather go with you and hunt all these bastards down.”
It looked as if Hoffman wanted to dispute further but instead he only nodded. “Fine. But, if you’re coming with me, you’ll have to do what I did.”
“What?”
“We have to make it look like you’re dead too.”
Miles felt a chill in his stomach. “How are we going to do that?”
“Wait here.”
Hoffman hurried out of the house while Miles struggled to get the couch set back right. Miles half expected him to take off and he supposed the man probably considered it, too; but a few minutes later he returned with two jugs of gasoline and a leather bag hanging by a strap from his shoulder. He set the jugs on the floor, and then went over to where Miles waited on the couch. Shrugging off the bag, he sat next to Miles.
“I’m giving you one more chance to change your mind.”
Miles looked at the bag, his eyes moving to the gasoline cans before returning to Hoffman. He looked to the closed bedroom door that kept his mother’s gory remains. Nothing could keep him from going with Hoffman. “I’m not changing my mind,” he said.
Hoffman nodded. He unzipped the bag and stuffed his hands inside. Miles heard the tinkling clatters of him digging around. He came back with a large bottle of some kind of booze. Passing it over, he said, “Start drinking.”
“Wha…?”
“It’s going to taste like shit and burn like acid, but you have to keep drinking until you feel numb.”
A syringe came from the bag next. Miles’s eyes widened at the sight of the needle. He hated getting shots, hated needles. This one was empty, though, sealed in a plastic sleeve that crinkled in Hoffman’s hand. Hoffman paused, watching Miles. Finally, Miles unscrewed the cap, raising the bottle to his lips. Hot vapors singed his nostrils as he breathed in the fumes. The liquor smelled nearly identical to the gasoline inside the jugs.
He took a small swig. Hoffman was right. The liquid burned when it touched his lips, leaving a searing path down his throat and into his stomach. Deep in his gut, it felt as if a fire had been ignited.
As Miles swigged from the bottle, Hoffman sat the syringe on the couch beside him. Then he took out a pair of pliers with tips that curved outward to tiny points. Miles wanted to ask what he was planning to do. Instead, he kept drinking. It didn’t take long before Hoffman’s plans no longer mattered to Miles. Nothing mattered as the alcohol soothed the trembles in his body, calmed his clamoring thoughts.
“I can tell by the hazed look in your eyes that the liquor is working, so what I’m about to say should be easier to handle. To make it look like you’re dead too, we have to leave some evidence of you behind…and the simplest way of doing that is by removing one of your teeth and some blood. Even in the ashes, the fire marshal should be able to recover the evidence of foul play.”
“Ashes?”
“We’ve got to burn the place down.”
“But…my stuff…my toys…”
“It has to be left behind. We can’t take anything of yours with us. If they were to realize some of your belongings were missing, the police will continue looking for you. If all your things burn in the fire, and all they find of you is a tooth and small traces of some blood, the search will be short-lived.”
Miles’s head was like a swirling fog. He was saddened that he’d have to lose it all. Although there wasn’t much to begin with, he still hated to let it go. “Wait…”
“Change your mind?”
“No, but there’s a picture on my dresser. I want to take that.”
“I told you…”
“Please! It’s a picture of me with my parents. Just let me take that.”
Hoffman’s mouth tightened to a narrow line. “All right. We’ll get it on our way out.”
“Thank you.”
“Let’s get started.”
Hoffman had Miles lean back on the couch and tilt back his head. He opened his mouth just as he would in the dentist’s office. Hoffman chose a tooth in the back, clamped the pliers’ mouth on the white nub and started to pull. He wiggled as he tugged. Surprisingly, there was very little pain. All he mostly felt was the pressure of Hoffman working along with some grinding sounds. Then Hoffman’s arm flew back and the pressure was gone. Clamped between the curved points of the pliers was a bloody chunk.
“Got it,” said Hoffman.
Miles’s mouth filled with slobbery blood. Hoffman flung the tooth across the room, then fished out a rag from the bag and handed it to Miles.
“Bite down,” said Hoffman.
Miles put it in his mouth, and clamped down on the rag.
Next, Hoffman tore the syringe out of its sleeve. Miles watched him nervously as he uncapped the needlepoint.
“Unfortunately, there won’t be enough blood from the extraction to use for this next step. So, instead of cutting you or anything else truly painful, I’ll withdraw some blood and sprinkle it around the trailer. Okay?”
Miles replied with a single nod.
With his skin feeling the effects of the liquor, the piercing needle felt more like a soft tap in the bend of his arm. Hoffman took a generous amount of blood, Miles observed, as the clear tube filled with murky fluid. After he’d taken enough, Hoffman stood up and walked through the trailer, squirting dabs of blood in various places. He disappeared down the hall that led to Miles’s bedroom. A few moments later, he returned, carrying the framed picture. He handed it to Miles.
“Time to go,” he said. His solid white eye seemed to stare deeper into Miles than the remaining good one.
Miles nodded. “Okay…” His legs felt useless and weak. “I can’t move.”
Hoffman scooped him up, draped him over his shoulder, and carried Miles to the car. Then he returned to the house. Minutes ticked by before Hoffman came back. There was some banging around at the rear of the car as Hoffman put the gas jugs back in the trunk. A thump
and soft vibration of the lid being slammed followed. Then Hoffman came around to the front and climbed in.
As they drove down the driveway, Miles watched the trailer in the side-view mirror. Through the windows he could see the sputtering orange shadows of a spreading fire. Before they were on the road, a window burst and scrabbling flames poured out of the open space.
Miles closed his eyes, not wanting to see anymore.
“Are you asleep?”
Miles opened his eyes. He was in the passenger seat still, but the location was different. No longer at his trailer, he was back in front of the motel. Looking left, he saw Hoffman leaning into the car, the man’s scarred face wrinkled with concern.
“Yuh-yeah,” he sighed. “Dozed off…”
Hoffman sat down. “Well, let’s get to our room, and you can lay down while I bring in our stuff.”
“I’ll help you. It’s okay.”
Hoffman studied him a moment, the concern on his face seeming to spread into his eye. After a beat, he nodded, then shut the door. “Want to talk about it?”
“About what?”
“About whatever’s on your mind.”
It was hard keeping anything from Hoffman because he could always tell when Miles was upset, scared, or sad. “Not really.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. It’s all been said before. “
“I see.”
They drove alongside the motel’s strip, passing mostly empty spaces, and parked in the slot allotted for their room. There was no light in the walkway, so when Hoffman killed the headlights, Miles could hardly see beyond the curb. The number on the door was fourteen, the brass numbers twinkling in the moonlight. This motel looked like the others they’d stayed in; the states changed, but the lodging arrangements never did.
This was North Carolina, though, and Miles hoped that at least the beds were comfortable and free of bed bugs. Their stays in South Carolina were terrible, each hotel having the worst beds. There was no way this motel could be any worse.
The thought had barely left his brain when he noticed a woman walking under the canopy that roofed the doors. She wore a skirt that adhered to her body like slick skin. It hid nothing of her body, of its curves.
The Skin Show Page 4