She looked wildly back from the flickering light outside to his face. The car stopped. Then the engine went into reverse.
There was a crashing, clattering sound. Demi lunged at the window.
Eric came up behind her and looked over her shoulder. There was a big silver Jeep in the turnaround, backing away from the barbeque on the patio, which had been knocked over. It lurched over a bed of petunias, knocked over a bird bath, and bumped, slowly and unsteadily, over a low border of shrubbery and back up onto the driveway.
It accelerated away. Not her father’s Volvo station wagon.
“That’s not my parents.” Her voice was thin. “That’s Burt Colby. The guy who knocked over the mailbox. He’s drunk again. Must have pulled in here by mistake.”
She winced at the faint crashing sound. “Ouch. There goes the mailbox again.”
They both watched the flicker of headlights as Burt Colby extricated his car from the bushes at the end of the driveway, pulled onto the main road and lurched onward.
Demi put her hands over her hot cheeks, willing her heart to slow down. “Shit,” she whispered again.
Eric stepped back, saying nothing. The silence was deafening.
Demi grabbed her robe off the hook on the bathroom door. She shrugged it over her naked body and tied the sash with sharp, angry gestures. “Well,” she said. “That was a buzzkill.”
“Pretty much,” he agreed.
“Sorry about the false alarm.”
“I wasn’t alarmed,” Eric said. “I was perfectly ready for them. Bring ‘em on. But you never answered my question. Are we together? Or not?”
She flung her hair back, making an impatient sound. “Eric, you’re stressing me out. Now is not the time for this particular conversation.”
“So by not answering me, you’re answering me, right?”
“Don’t throw an ultimatum in my face,” she snapped. “I get plenty of that from my dad, and I don’t need any more from you.”
He let out a slow, careful breath. “Okay. I guess that’s my cue.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? What cue?”
“To slink back into the hole in the wall that I came out of. Preferably without being seen by anyone respectable. Until stud services are required of me again.”
She recoiled. “Stud services…? You son of a bitch!”
“Just calling it what it is,” he said. “It’s too bad we were interrupted. I could have given you the classic dirty secret treatment. Fucked you all over the house. We’d leave red-hot, carnal memories in every room. I could give you head on the dining room table, pound you from behind while bending you over the Porsche in the garage. You could blow me while I sit in the desk chair in the study—”
“You asshole!”
“This is a big house,” he went on. “I might have to do it in two shifts. Then again, you make me rock-hard, so maybe we could cover the whole place in a single night.”
She slapped his face, then stared at her stinging hand, horrified at the sudden change between them. She’d gone from being so happy, so high. From looking down on the whole world, feeling sorry for everyone who wasn’t the two of them…to this.
Everything her father touched turned ugly. Now he’d managed to taint this, too, somehow. Without even making a big entrance.
From heaven to hell in a single blink.
Eric touched the red mark on his cheek. “I guess I deserved that,” he said, after a moment. “I was out of line.”
“Just leave. Right now.” Her lips felt numb.
Eric looked around the ravaged room. The broken bench, the sheets half pulled off the bed, the vanity dragged away from the wall, makeup and bottles scattered on the floor, the condom wrappers, the shot glasses, the wedges of lime and spilled salt everywhere.
“This place looks like it got chewed up by a tornado,” he said. “Can I help clean up? I could fix the bench, at least. Carry away the evidence.”
“No thank you, I’ll handle it,” she said. “I said to get…out.” She shoved at him, but as before, it was like pushing on the trunk of an enormous tree. No give.
Eric grabbed the tequila bottle by the neck and walked out into the corridor.
She followed him out. He turned at the bottom of the stairs to look up at her.
“Yesterday, you said it was too soon to ask you to run away with me,” he said. “You said we should wait until we’ve had our first fight.”
Demi wiped tears off your face. “What are you talking about?”
“We had our first fight,” he said. “And it was a real motherfucker.”
“You could say that.”
“It’s stupid to say this when you’re so mad at me, but I still want to run away with you. I told you that I love you, and I meant it. I just want that to be clear.”
The nerve of him staggered her. “Fuck off, Eric.”
He just stood there, gazing up at her with that bleak, faraway look in his eyes.
“You talk a good game,” he said quietly. “You act all rebellious and tough, but it’s just an act. You’re just a scared little girl shaking in your shoes. Under Daddy’s thumb.”
“Get out of this house, Eric.”
“What we have is special,” he continued, relentless. “But it comes at a price. If you ever decide to grow a pair, give me a call.”
“Don’t hold your breath.”
He nodded. “Understood. Goodbye, Demi.” He disappeared through the kitchen entryway. She heard the door open, then heard it snick shut behind him.
Demi’s legs gave out. She sank down onto the stairs and burst into tears.
15
Eric didn’t bother with all of Demi’s convoluted choreography for avoiding the security cameras once he was back outside. Fuck that. He was done slinking around.
Sure enough, the mailbox was knocked over again. This time it lay flat on the ground, but he didn’t bother hoisting it back into position. It didn’t seem appropriate this time.
He got to his car and found all four of the Monster’s tires slashed. Flat to the ground.
A fresh disaster, in his broke-ass state. He had no money for a tow. He’d have to walk down from the Heights, all the way through town, and then out to Otis’s. Over ten miles in all. Then he had to beg Anton or Otis to help him drag his piece-of-shit car home until he found a solution. Any funds that might have gone toward fixing the damage were frozen in the form of a boulder opal and diamond engagement ring.
Destined for a woman who’d just told him to fuck off.
He deserved it, pissing and moaning like a foul-mouthed little bitch. Jeremiah would have knocked his ass into next week if he heard Eric mouthing off to a lady like that. The Prophet had entertained antique, old-timey notions about women, but he had believed in being polite, protective and respectful of them.
With a few notable exceptions. Like, getting Mom a timely course of antibiotics for her cough during that last winter up at GodsAcre. Like remembering that fifteen-year-old Fiona was a person, not a thing be traded to some sleazy asshole for services rendered.
The respecting and protecting part had broken down, in the end. Along with Jeremiah’s sanity.
That was the fucking Prophet’s Curse for you. Maybe he, too, was programmed to destroy what he loved. Maybe Demi would have a healthier, happier life if she stayed far away from him and his fucking family curse.
Shut up, Trask. You’re whining again. Boo-hoo, poor fucking you.
He took off, walking fast. Disgusted at himself, he hadn’t gone more than a half a mile before he heard a car motor rumbling behind him, and the flicker of headlights in the dim glow of dawn. He shifted to the side of the road to let it go by, and was surprised and mildly alarmed to see the car slow as it passed, then pull to an abrupt stop.
Alarm bells went off. Holy shit. For real? Another Porsche GT3 991. Black, just like the one in Demi’s dad’s garage. What were the odds of seeing two of those in the space of a few hours? He walked toward the idling car,
and saw Boyd Nevins at the wheel.
Boyd leaned toward him with a weirdly friendly smile. The window hummed down. “Hey. Eric? That you?”
Eric stared at him. It made no sense. Boyd’s family was by no means poor, but they didn’t have Porsche GT3 kind of money. And it was even more strange that Boyd would speak to Eric at all, considering what a dickhead he’d been to all three of the Trask brothers during their stint at Shaw’s Crossing High School.
“You’re out early,” Boyd said.
“So are you,” Eric observed.
“What brings you out here at four-thirty in the morning?”
“Car trouble,” Eric said.
“No surprise, with that rolling turd that you drive. Need a lift?”
Eric gazed at him, perplexed. “Why the fuck would you offer me a ride?”
Boyd gave him that manic grin again. “Look, man. Sure, I was a tool to you and your brothers back in high school, but that was years ago, okay? I’m not that guy anymore. Live and learn. Everybody grows, you get me?”
Eric just stared at him, unconvinced. Boyd had never struck him as big on growth.
“You need to get out to Otis’s,” Boyd said. “That’s Vensel Road, right? For a shot of that tequila, I’ll give you a ride to the crossroads. That’ll save you six miles at least.”
Eric glanced down at the bottle in his hand. It occurred to him that he didn’t want to drink that tequila. He handed the bottle through the window to Boyd. Good riddance.
“Thanks, man.” Boyd popped out the cork and took a generous swig.
“You drink while you drive this thing?” Eric observed. “Not smart.”
Boyd laughed a little too loud. “Oh, c’mon. One sip. Stop lecturing me like a fucking Sunday school teacher and get in the damn car.”
Eric looked at Boyd, then back up toward Demi’s house. He wanted the Monster away from the Vaughan home as soon as possible, but if he was on foot, it would take over two hours just to get home. Add to that however long it took for him to enlist Otis, Anton or Mace’s assistance.
Demi’s folks would be back by then for sure. He didn’t know if he and Demi had a chance in hell of being together after pissing her off as badly as he just had. If they did, maybe there was some sense in standing his ground.
But if they didn’t, he had no business leaving his crap car right next to her house for her folks to freak out about. Making needless trouble for her.
Fuck. He had to get moving before he made things worse for everyone.
He pulled open the door of the Porsche and got in. “Thanks, man. Appreciate it.”
“No problem,” Boyd said.
The car took off with a screech. The smell of the car’s luxe interior surrounded him. Spotless cream colored leather. Boyd flung his head back, swigging tequila.
“Dude,” Eric said. “Go easy on that. Give me the bottle. I’ll hold it for you.”
“Don’t sweat it.” Boyd stuck the bottle between his legs as the car picked up still more speed, squealing around the sharp curve at the bottom of the Heights and peeling out onto the main drag toward the heart of downtown Shaw’s Crossing. “One more favor, man. Can I use your phone? I need to make a call. I left mine in the other car.”
“Who do you want to call at this hour?”
Boyd just looked at him. “You gonna give me the phone or not?”
Eric pulled out his phone. Boyd grabbed it, punched in a number and picked up still more speed as he waited for it to connect.
“Hey!” Eric protested. “Boyd! Slow the fuck down!”
“Chill,” Boyd said, the phone still held to his ear. “Everything’s under control.”
Eric put on the seatbelt. Boyd was going seventy-five right through the downtown area, the streets of which were fortunately deserted. He wondered if Boyd was high. Then wished sharply that the possibility had occurred to him before he’d gotten into the car.
What a champ. He had succeeded in packing yet another display of shitty judgment into this night. Accepting a ride not from a stranger, but from an all too familiar asshole who had now proven to be stoned out of his fucking mind.
Yep, this one was a personal best.
“Yeah, it’s me,” Boyd said into the phone. “Uh huh…yeah. I’ll be there soon… Yeah sure…okay…later.”
Boyd didn’t give Eric’s phone back when he was done. He hung onto it and accelerated. Chilly air rushed through the open windows. They were heading downhill, picking up speed as they went toward the stoplight at the crossroads. It was red.
“Boyd!” he yelled. “Slow down!”
Whoosh, they sailed through the light at ninety-five. Boyd threw his head back and let out a long, guttural howl as the car thudded and bounced onto the metal roadway of the Kettle Canyon Narrows Bridge. Wind from the open windows roared in Eric’s ears.
“Are you out of your fucking mind?” he yelled. “Stop this car! Let me out!”
“Don’t be a pussy!” Boyd yelled back. “Don’t you want to see how this baby handles when you really open her up? You need to get on the highway for that!”
“No! I have shit to do! Let me out and give me my fucking phone back!”
Boyd let out a shrill laugh, and flung Eric’s phone out the window. It sailed right over the railing of the bridge and down into the Kettle River.
Holy fuck. The guy was psychotic.
Eric leaned to look at the speedometer as they sped up onto the highway access ramp doing a hundred and five…no, one-ten…one-fifteen. Weaving madly from one side of the two-lane to the other. If he fought Boyd for the wheel, they would either hit the rock wall on one side and bounce off or else crash through the guard rail and fly off a cliff on the other.
He positioned himself to grab the wheel at the first opportunity…and then noticed that Boyd’s hands were an unearthly, plasticky white. He was wearing latex gloves.
The fuck?
No time to wonder as the car sped on at those deadly speeds, shrieking around the tight turns. They passed the sign for Peyton State Park, ten miles out of town. There was a turn-off for a parking lot and a trailhead. Eric prepared to lunge for the wheel as soon as they approached the wider spot in the road—
Boyd slammed on the brakes just short of it, sending the Porsche into a wild spin. A full three-sixty and then some. They bounced off the jagged, rocky wall with a crunch.
Boyd bumped the battered car back up onto the roadway and jerked the car onto the exit to the trailhead parking lot at the last minute.
The Porsche shuddered to a stop next to a black pickup, the only other vehicle in the lot. Boyd was panting, his lips drawn back from his teeth like a feral animal.
Pure hatred blazed out of his wild eyes as he stared at Eric.
“Boyd.” Eric kept his voice low and calm. “Are you high?”
“Fuck you, man. Just…fuck you.” Boyd shoved open the door and stumbled out. He lifted the tequila bottle high, and whipped it down against the open car door.
Glass shattered. Shards scattered over the car seat. Liquor soaked the steering wheel, the leather upholstery. Eric shoved open the door and leaped out of the car, poised to defend himself.
But Boyd didn’t attack him. He just backed up toward the black pickup, eyes so wide open, the whites showed all around his blue irises. He stumbled into the door, groping for the handle. Opened the door and climbed in.
The motor revved, the lights went on. The pickup reversed with a violent lurch. It K-turned and thudded hard over the speedbumps as it sped out of the parking lot.
Eric stared after it, his mind blank. Shocked into stillness. The sound of the pickup’s motor swelled as Boyd doubled back onto the highway, heading back toward Shaw’s Crossing. The sound faded, giving way to utter silence.
Eric dragged his wits together after a moment. Forced himself to take stock of the situation.
It sucked. He was at Peyton State Park, with a badly damaged, tequila-soaked luxury Porsche that didn’t belong to him. With no phone, an
d no clue. What the fuck had just happened?
He pulled the door open once again and opened the compartment under the dash and fished out the title and registration.
Benedict James Vaughan. Shock slowly gave way to horrified understanding.
Vaughan had set him up. He’d put Boyd up to this. Lured Eric into position by running off for the weekend and leaving Demi alone in the house, knowing that they wouldn’t be able to resist such an opportunity for privacy.
What a fucking sleaze. If Vaughan thought that Eric was such dangerous trash, then he should be sticking close to home, protecting his precious girl with a shotgun. Not using her as bait. That was nasty. Lower than dirt.
It made him sick with rage, as much for Demi as himself.
Eric walked around the car, trying to stay calm. The cops might have already been set upon him. Chief Bristol had replaced Otis as police chief when Otis retired, but Otis wasn’t going to intercede for him. He’d made that painfully clear.
Eric had to clean up his own damn messes.
He was going to face false accusations when he got back to town. One option was to walk back to town with the Porsche keys in his pocket. Go straight to the cops, tell them everything, and hope for mercy and understanding. But that would mean hours spent walking while his accuser had a head start. Reporting the car stolen. Establishing his story.
Option Two, he drove the Porsche to the nearest gas station, called the cops from the public phone and explained what happened. That option had the advantage of speed and immediacy. The faster he moved to defend his innocence, the better.
But he was being deliberately maneuvered into driving the damn thing, which was a trap in itself. Dinged up as it was, windows broken, soaked with liquor. He’d be truly fucked if he was seen or stopped driving it.
All his options looked shitty. But the more time he wasted dithering, the more poisoned against him the situation would be.
So, straight to the closest public phone. The Quik-Stop Gas-n-Go.
Move, already. Eric brushed the broken glass off the tequila-soaked leather seat and turned the key in the ignition. Accustomed as he was to the coughing, groaning, hiccupping Monster, the deep, mellow purr of the Porsche’s powerful engine vibrated through his body, but he couldn’t enjoy it.
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