Under Her Skin

by Adriana Anders

  Since it was Saturday, she packed up a basket with eggs, veggies from her garden, and quiches she’d baked earlier in the week. After a quick stop at the gas station, George made her way to her parents-in-law’s home—a brick rancher in one of Blackwood’s older, leafier neighborhoods.

  The door opened before she’d made it to the stoop.

  “Georgette, darling!” Bonnie Hadley was not her mother, strictly speaking, but the closest she still had to one. As usual, the woman hugged her hard, and George soaked it up.

  “How are you, Bonnie?”

  “Good, good!”

  “And Jim?”

  “Oh, you know, he’s the same.”

  “But not worse?”

  “No, darling, not worse. He’s in the back, weeding.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “We’re doing okay today. I managed to stop him from pulling out most of my hostas.”

  “Phew. Lucky.” George walked straight to the kitchen—eyes avoiding the school portraits and family pictures on the walls. What was essentially a shrine to their son—her wedding photo at the center of it. “I made a bunch of quiches to freeze this week and thought you might like some,” she said, forcing her voice to be breezy and light.

  “Oh, you didn’t have to do that.”

  “They’re left over from a dinner party,” she lied. George hadn’t seen the inside of a dinner party in a decade. “And the trout’s from the fish man at the market. Here, I’ll put this stuff away.”

  “Nonsense,” said Bonnie. “Leave that. I can do that anytime. Come out back and say hello to Jim. He’ll be so glad to see you.” That, George knew, probably wasn’t true. The last few Saturdays, he hadn’t known who she was. George gulped back a wave of sadness and pushed her way back out into the blinding sunlight, wishing herself somewhere else.

  “Jim,” said Bonnie, her voice loud and artificially bright. “It’s Georgette, here to visit!”

  “Mm?” came her father-in-law’s voice from somewhere beyond the edge of the blue-painted deck. The women exchanged a look and descended the stairs to find the tall man digging a hole in the dirt, up against the house. His white button-down shirt was filthy, as was his face, and George had to swallow hard to keep the melancholy at bay. Tears, she knew from experience, served no purpose but to sow more tears. If she started now, she’d never stop. Best to just get things done here and head back home. Or to work. Work would be perfect.

  “Hello, Jim!”

  He paused, glanced at his wife for confirmation, and then rose, his smile unsure.

  “Oh, oh. Hello, hello,” he said. “Hello, hello.”

  After an awkward moment where no one spoke, George said, “I’ll just…get the gas from my car and mow the lawn now, Jim. If that’s okay with you.”

  He gave a vague sort of nod, so she gassed up the mower, got it going on the third try, and started mowing the grass.

  A couple rows in, the hum of the motor dulled her conscious thoughts, and George let her mind wander. Flashes of memory—bronze skin, black lines, burn marks, vestiges of pain scattered across a body so beautiful she could cry. An unexpected shiver of excitement, another flash of sharply pebbled nipples, her own hardening sympathetically, warmth in her abdomen a pleasant weight and then… Oh crap. She was wet. Actually wet, thinking about the stranger—her patient, for God’s sake.

  George stilled, lifted her shirt, and mopped her brow, shutting her eyes hard and pulling in a ragged breath. Stop it. He needs help, not…whatever the hell this is.

  For the next hour, she battled her stubborn subconscious, shutting it down every time it fed her another drop of him, another memory, a smell, a shiver.

  An hour later, sweaty and grass-covered in the frigid living room, George accepted the usual lemonade and sat beside her mother-in-law on the sofa, feeling caught and guilty in the worst possible way.

  “You sure you don’t want me to fire up the grill?” George said. “It’s the Fourth of July, after all. We should celebra—”

  “No, no. It’s too much for Jim. Besides, didn’t you say you’d been invited to a party this afternoon?”

  Oh, right. A party. A fresh wave of dread rolled up, and George wondered, not for the first time, how upset Uma would be if she canceled. “You’re right,” she said, voice small.

  “So, how are…things?” the older woman asked, keeping it vague, but her eyes so bright and excited, she could only be referring to one thing.

  George swallowed. None of this was normal. It wasn’t normal to be a widow at her age. It wasn’t normal to be caretaker for your in-laws—though she’d never begrudge them that responsibility—and it most certainly wasn’t normal to use your dead husband’s sperm to try to get pregnant. “Good. Good. The hormones seem to have…kicked in.”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m feeling…something.”

  “So, you’ll be…” Ovulating was the word Bonnie wouldn’t say. And neither would George—not with her mother-in-law. She glanced at the door. How soon could she get out of here?

  “Soon, I think, Bonnie. Soon.”

  “That’s… It’s wonderful, George. You truly deserve this. You’ve wanted a baby for so long and—”

  “Yes. Yes, I have. Thank you, Bonnie. Thank you for supporting me.”

  “Of course, dear. Of course.” Bonnie’s eyes filled with tears.

  Though George wanted to look away, she forced herself to reach out and put her hand over the other woman’s frail, knobby one, the papery skin dry to the touch. How many times had she held this hand? Certainly more often than she’d held her husband’s. “Have you been using the cream I brought you last week? You really should—”

  “Oh, do you know, I forgot about it? I’ll have to go find where I’ve put it. I don’t want you to think that I—”

  “It’s okay, Bonnie. It’s okay,” George said, clasping the woman’s hand more tightly and wondering how soon she could escape.

  * * *

  Clay’s eyes flew open, but he couldn’t move. Fear choked him. No air. Arms like lead. They’d found him. Ape’s needle to his eyeball, his ax cleaving his head. Oh, fuck, he was bleeding out.

  His mouth opened, gaped like a fish out of water, and finally, finally, found air. With it came the flood of memories. The pain, scorching, fire, Breadthwaite—Bread—pulling him out. The rest of the team getting inside late—too fucking late. White bed, voices, fuzzy, heavy pain, blinding flashes, muddled memories. His sister, Carly, too. Clean, fresh Carly, not the bruised, battered body he’d identified in the morgue. No, wait. Not Carly. Carly was gone. Other faces. Questions, pain, always the pain.

  His moan was the sound that brought him back, his eyes slitted to see a cracked ceiling, a landscape on the wall, faded and blue.

  Mountains.

  Virginia. Blackwood, Virginia. Where the skin doctor was.

  The motel. He was in the motel. White-and-peach bedspread on the floor beneath him, blinds closed, curtains pulled, A/C set to frigid. Against his face rested an empty fifth of vodka.

  Last night, like every other night since that day, Clay had succumbed, not to sleep, but rather to a self-inflicted, booze-induced near coma, which didn’t qualify as sleep no matter how long his eyes stayed closed. It left him tired and dizzy and nauseous, with a head the size of Maryland, but at least it gave him those few hours of oblivion.

  Painfully, he creaked to standing, each joint making itself known in ways it hadn’t before the shooting. He got up, popped the usual six ibuprofen, his hands tight, and moved to the bathroom, blinking at the heaviness of his eyes. It wasn’t until he caught sight of his puffy, red face in the mirror that he remembered why this shit hurt so bad.

  After a shower, he hit the road, crawling through downtown Blackwood, which appeared to be celebrating Independence Day in style, and finally hit the open road.

 
In his Toyota. Yeah, not the quite the hum of a Harley.

  He drove three hours to the coast, where he scoured craigslist and made some phone calls and bought a truck, dented and dusty with a sprinkling of rust. He hoped to God the thing took him back to Blackwood, but it was safer to do this here or in West Virginia, and he figured he’d stand out less at the beach.

  After parking in a spot with an ocean view, he powered up his phone and hit Tyler’s name, noticing the holes in the upholstery and the missing radio knobs. Local color.

  “Hey,” he said when his friend answered.

  “Clay? Where the fuck are you, man?” Tyler asked. “I been calling you like crazy. Jayda’s asking me if you’re coming today, and I don’t even know. What the hell’s going on?”

  “I refused protection, Tyler. Left town.”

  “Seriously? You can’t do that, man! They found your house! Got your damned bike! You’ve got to—”

  “How’d they find me, Ty? No one else will say.”

  “I don’t know, man. Weird shit’s been going down.”

  “Boss tried to force me into protection, but that’s not happening. Second best choice, she said, is I get the hell outta town until trial. Got a shit-ton of PTO. It’s an extended vacation. Away.”

  “So, where you headed?” his best friend asked. The man who’d been his lifeline for two long years undercover. The last man he’d spoken to before getting shot. The only person he trusted his life with—except maybe Bread, who’d gotten him out of the burning clubhouse.

  After a long sigh, Clay said, “Can’t say.”

  “The fuck?”

  “Look, I trust you. It’s the phones and the… Yeah. Not telling anyone.”

  “You tell the boss?”

  “Not even the boss.”

  “She is gonna kill you.”

  “Yeah, well, she’ll get over it. She’s the one who told me to disappear.” He let out a long, pained groan. “This shit is bad. If they know where I live, man, who’s to say they can’t find everyone else who worked on the case? No way I’m putting you and Jayda and the kids in danger, okay? I’d rather listen to the boss—”

  “For once,” interrupted Tyler.

  “Yeah.” Clay grinned. “For once.”

  “So, it’s R & R for you, and what? Catch some waves at the beach or…”

  “Just leaving town, bro.” After a pause, he went on. “Found a dermatologist here who’ll take care of these tats. Boss wants me to lay low? Fine. I’ll goddamn disappear. Go so far off the grid it’ll be like I never existed.”

  “But you’re coming back for court, right?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  Clay heard a female voice in the background and could picture Tyler’s wife, Jayda, asking him something or calling him in to lunch. Man, things had changed since they’d gotten married and had kids. Different, but good for Tyler. Probably. Family life just didn’t hold much appeal for Clay: the house and mess and all the other stuff.

  “Any word from Bread?” he asked, knowing Breadthwaite had opted to go into witness protection, rather than hunker down on his own. Yeah, well, Bread didn’t have three bullet holes in his hide, so their trust issues might not be exactly on par.

  “He’s gone. Flew out yesterday with a couple of marshals and a bunch of fucking suits from Justice,” Tyler said, and Clay gave a sigh of relief.

  “Jesus. But good. Good.” Bread was one of those dudes you just had to like. A hippy in real life who’d done a kick-ass job of passing as a biker—a good man to have on your team. The best.

  Clay took a breath in, eyeing the slow-moving beach traffic nervously.

  “Get yourself into protection, like Bread, ma—”

  “You think they don’t have rats at DOJ, Ty? Look, I gotta go.”

  “Right, well, enjoy it for me. Laid out next to the water, drink in hand. On your own. Man, that sounds like the life. Maybe I’ll come find you, bring the boat, and we can—”

  “Jayda’d cut off your balls,” Clay said, picturing the throw down between Tyler and his wife. “Then she’d come after me.”

  “Yeah,” Tyler said, only it didn’t sound quite as light as it was probably meant to. Clay didn’t want to know about whatever trouble was in Tyler’s paradise right now.

  “I gotta go, man. Give my love to Jayda and the kids.”

  “Will do, Clay. Will do,” Tyler said, then quickly followed up. “But keep me—”

  “Thanks, Ty,” he said, ending the call and placing another.

  “McGovern,” came his boss’s gravelly response. Always on, nights and weekends, holidays. He’d never heard her be anything but curt and professional.

  “Navarro here, ma’am.”

  “Navarro.” In typical McGovern fashion, she gave nothing. Not an extra word.

  “Just checking in.”

  “Good. From where?”

  “I’d…” He paused, unsure how to go about saying it. How did you tell your boss you didn’t trust anyone, not even her? “I’d prefer not to say.”

  “Wh—Hold on.” He heard a muffled sound, then voices, followed by what was probably the door closing. Probably at home with family on this sunny Fourth of July, like everyone else in the whole goddamn nation. “Where are you, Navarro?”

  “With all due respect, ma’am, I’d rather not—”

  “Cut the crap. I told you to take time off, lay low for a while, not to drop off the face of the earth. What am I supposed to say to DOJ when they need you to—”

  “I’ll check in every week or two. This case matters to me, you know that. But my life matters even more.”

  “That’s not gonna—” She paused, cleared her throat, and appeared to change tacks. “You checking in with the shrink?”

  “I’ll be fine, Boss.”

  “Don’t mess around with PTSD, Navarro. Dr. Levitz said you need meds, therapy, and—”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’re not fine. You’re a—” She gave a harrumph, then a resigned sigh. “I understand it’s been rough, Navarro. Recovery and trying to get back into the swing of things. But you’re not undercover anymore. You’ve got to stop acting like one of those bikers and be an agent again. Just tell me where you are, and I’ll—”

  “Sorry, Boss,” Clay said before ending the call and pulling the battery out of his phone.

  There, ties cut. Clean slate.

  Sort of.

  * * *

  George took in a big, fat breath, pasted a smile on her face, and dropped the knocker on the door. The sound was full and warm, like the woman who welcomed her with a smile.

  “You came!” Uma Crane said, throwing her arms around George in a way George both loved and didn’t quite feel comfortable with.

  “I came!” she couldn’t help but blurt out with a laugh. Uma was… She pulled back, admiring the woman’s smile, her face round and glowing and so clearly happy. Her arms, nearly clear of ink, were pale for midsummer. “Thanks for inviting me.”

  “I was sure you wouldn’t come.”

  “It’s not like you gave me a choice this time, Uma,” George said, smiling.

  “No. Three times, you’ve refused me. No way you were getting away with this one.”

  “Yeah. I kind of got that.”

  From the back of the house, a child’s voice whooped and someone laughed. Down the hall, a large figure emerged, massive and intimidating, and George’s breath caught in her throat—until she recognized the man. Ive. Ive Shifflett, Uma’s boyfriend.

  Not Andrew Blane, her new project. George wasn’t sure if the big breath she expelled was more relief or disappointment, although it felt more like the latter.

  “You remember Ive, right?”

  “Yes, of course. Hi there. Good to see you again,” she said, letting her hand be eng
ulfed in the big man’s.

  “Doc.”

  “It’s George. Please call me George.”

  “Right. George.”

  “Come on in.” Uma grabbed her arm. “Let’s get you set up with a drink and introduce you around.”

  She followed the couple into the house, taking it all in and girding herself. A party. So very different from the way she managed to deal with people at work. Social situations did her in. The constant smiling, the small talk, the personal side of things was exhausting. She was so painfully bad at it. When Tom had been alive, he’d been her buffer, the social one, the guy who knew how to charm, but now…

  After a quick round of introductions, George settled into a corner of the kitchen, bottle of beer in hand, and watched.

  As they prepared things for the barbecue, her eyes kept returning to Uma and her man. Ive Shifflett smiled at his girlfriend, and anything that may have seemed scary in him disappeared, leaving George to gape for just a second at this man’s surprisingly sweet, handsome boyishness. He slid one big arm around Uma’s shoulder. She leaned into him, looking… Oh, what a transformation. The woman looked content. Unlike the first time she’d come into George’s office, almost a year ago, when she’d been so…hunted.

  Hunted and frightened and clearly in the throes of something terrible. What chilled George now, as she recalled it, was the uncanny similarity to Andrew Blane’s demeanor yesterday. That was it, wasn’t it? That was why, when it came down to it, George hadn’t kicked him out or run screaming from his presence.

  Right. She was fixating on him because he’d looked hunted. Not at all because of how he’d affected her.

  My God, she had to stop thinking about him. All morning, she’d dwelled on the man. What was wrong with her?

  A woman sidled up, beer in hand, and leaned against the wall beside George. “Don’t they just make you sick?” she said quietly.

  “Hmm?” George said, eyeing the scattered freckles over the newcomer’s sun-browned nose. She’d have to watch that.

  The woman smiled and lifted her chin at Uma and Ive canoodling on the other side of the room.

  “Oh. Yes.”

  “I’m Jessie Shifflett, sister to Ive, the massive lovesick puppy over there. I hear you’re the woman with the magic wand.”