Her aunt, she eventually decides, is a mind reader. On one of the rare mornings that both Kate and Jillian are home together, they hustle her into the car after the breakfast dishes are done. She does not ask where they are going, and they do not tell her. When they pull into the parking lot of the Buncombe County Animal Shelter, she frowns, curious, waiting. The two women up front turn in their seats, and her aunt says, “Sometimes, when you’re trying to find your way, helping another in the same situation helps you.”
When they leave the building an hour later, the dog she has rescued, a three-year-old tricolor German shepherd/border collie mix, walks calmly at her side, occasionally pushing his nose into her palm, the pale spots above his eyes so much like eyebrows that she smiles each time she looks down at him. They had expected her to choose a puppy. She knows this. But she also knows that she does not need a puppy.
What she needs is a friend.
Chapter Thirteen
Kael was her usual quiet, still self on the last leg of the journey. The only time she moved was when she reached down into her pack, removed an apple, and ate it. She tossed the core out the open window, into the ditch. Since it was organic, I said nothing. She didn’t look at me once. She kept her head averted, arms crossed loosely over her belly.
I allowed her her privacy; I had no wish or intention to intrude upon it. I couldn’t think of a single topic of conversation or line of questioning that wouldn’t do just that, and so I kept my mouth shut and just drove. I concentrated on the road, the approaching storm, the tunes from the stereo. I considered the city I was approaching, one I knew nothing about, and wouldn’t be around long enough to learn anything more than that. I deliberately did not think about the fact that Kael had yet to indicate where we were to part company. I’d already decided that wherever she chose to get off, I would acquiesce and continue on. I had to remind myself that she was a hitchhiker, after all.
We’d been driving for an hour and a half in just this manner when, approximately thirty miles from the city, Kael suddenly shifted in her seat to face me, and reached at the same time to turn down the volume of the stereo.
“Can you pull over somewhere around here?” she asked.
Surprised, I glanced at her. Her expression was as cool as ever. “Sure,” I said.
Within a minute, a suitable opening presented itself: a combination gravel and dirt track running over a metal culvert, which disappeared as it curved into the shadows of the trees. I pulled in and continued about twenty yards before braking. I looked over at Kael once more.
She sat straight, eyes forward.
“Is this…okay?” I asked, trying to read what I could see of her face.
She nodded, hands clasped in her lap. Raising my sunglasses to the top of my head, I tried to decipher her body language; she was pulled in tight and close, no frayed edges or loose ends that might give her away. Except for one thing: I could see her carotid pulse beating just beneath the point of her jaw, fast and hard. I was just about to ask her if she was all right when she suddenly turned her head in my direction. Her eyes had that impending storm appearance once more.
“What do you do now?” she asked.
I was caught off guard. “Excuse me?”
“Now that you’re not a cop,” she clarified. “What do you do now?” She enunciated her words with care, as if to ensure she would not be misunderstood.
Certain that I had answered this question already, I thought back carefully to be sure there were no misunderstandings. Perhaps my earlier response could have been construed as evading her question. I’d said I was between jobs, not careers. Had I deliberately sidestepped her question? Yes, most likely I had. Easily. Without even thinking about it. Yet she had caught it. I licked my lips, and wondered if I should evade her yet again. I took in her rigid composure, the subtle shifting darkness in her eyes, the hammering pulse beneath the flesh of her throat.
She waited patiently for my response.
I briefly weighed my options, and then shook my head. From my back pocket I withdrew my wallet, slipped my fingers into a small pocket beneath my credit cards and ID, and pulled out a business card. I held the card between my index and middle finger and extended it toward her.
“Private security,” was all I said.
Her eyes went from the card to my eyes and back to the card again. When she reached for the card, I noticed that her hand trembled a bit. I wondered what it was she was asking for, what she wanted, what she needed. I watched as she ran her thumb over the embossed letters.
“Amy Squires,” she said aloud. “Squires Security.” She fixed her storm-darkened eyes on mine. “Are you expensive?”
I studied her a moment; it was an odd question to ask, under the circumstances. I said mildly, “Yes. Very.”
She nodded, as if she wasn’t surprised.
I wondered if she had any more questions, but no, it seemed she was done. She held the card back out to me. I shook my head.
“Keep it,” I told her, and added, “You never know when you might need a little security in your life.”
She said nothing to that, just reached into her back pocket for her own wallet and tucked the card inside. Taking a deep breath, she exhaled, and faced me once more.
“If you could drop me off on the outskirts of the city, I’d appreciate that. Hopefully, I can catch a ride before the storm breaks.”
“And if you can’t?”
She shrugged. “I get wet. It wouldn’t be the first time.” Her words were blunt, her attitude blasé.
I gave the barest of nods, just a slight rise and drop of my chin. I didn’t take my eyes off her.
Her expression softened. “It’ll be fine. I’ll be fine.”
Her carotid pulse still hammered away. “I’m sure you will be,” I said. I didn’t say what I wanted to say, and what I shouldn’t say: Call me if you need to. Or want to.
Technically, she couldn’t. Not with the information on the card. Both the number provided and the email address were monitored by an outside service. Most of my clients came to me via word of mouth. Anyone who wished to contact me had to initially go through the service, which then forwarded the information to me. I rarely gave out my cell phone number or personal email address to anyone other than actual clients, friends, or well-known business acquaintances. I wasn’t about to now. If she ever did want to get hold of me, she’d have to go the same route everyone else did. If she was determined, it would happen. If not, she and I would never see each other again.
“We should go,” she said.
“Right.” I dropped my gaze, reached for the gearshift.
She touched my arm with her fingertips. “Wait,” she said. “There’s…something else.”
I said nothing, just released my foot from the clutch. But my own heart rate ratcheted up when my eyes met hers, seeing the turmoil in those pale depths. I could feel her fingertips tremble against my bare arm. She swallowed, opened her mouth to inhale, and still I said nothing, did nothing. Until I saw the resolve coalesce in her eyes, where her want came through so clear it shone. She shifted and turned in her seat, and moved toward me, and I did exactly the same, as if our moves had been choreographed. When our mouths met, it was very clear our hunger matched; we both shook with it.
Her mouth was as soft and her kiss as tender as I remembered. This time I kissed her back. She raised her hand to my shoulder, bringing me in closer; it was obvious she wanted more, and it was obvious we were both holding back, for whatever reasons. I teased my tongue across her lips, slipped inside, found hers; she moaned softly, the lightest sound, and tried to pull me closer still. My belly clenched with desire as she twisted her tongue with mine, as the kiss deepened.
Then she pulled back, her hand at my shoulder pushing me away, not forcefully, but enough to make it clear we were done. Her eyes were huge. Mine felt the same. Our breathing was ragged. She leaned back in her seat and swallowed hard.
“Please, we should go,” she said in a voice that was
barely her own.
I bit my lower lip, nodded, dropped my sunglasses down, and mechanically attended to reversing the Jeep. I headed for the outskirts of the city. I was trembling and my heart pounded in my chest while my blood throbbed through my veins and roared in my ears. Neither of us said a word.
Less than thirty minutes later we spied a cloverleaf.
“There,” she said.
Obediently, I pulled over. She gathered up her knapsack, grabbed her water bottle, and opened the passenger door. She didn’t look at me as she closed the door, nor as she turned and walked toward the back of the Jeep, and then dashed across the highway, toward the off-ramp. She didn’t look at me once.
When she was across the highway, walking resolutely away, I put the Jeep in gear and pulled away as quickly as I could, without making it seem I was in a hurry. Even though I was. If I was never going to see her again, I wanted to have her out of my sight as quickly as possible.
Chapter Fourteen
I exited the highway via the first off-ramp I came to, and drove for a few minutes in a mental fog. When I shook myself out of it, it occurred to me that I was trying to put as much distance between Kael and myself as I could. But I didn’t know the city I was on the edge of, and if I continued on as blindly as I was, I was going to get myself lost. Then again, why was it so important to put distance between us? The thought gave me pause. She was off trying to hitch another ride to who-knows-where. I was on my way to my own destination. Our paths had diverged. The likelihood of the two of us seeing each other again was probably nil. Besides, what I needed was a place to spend the night, and what I wanted was to be close to an on-ramp; the nearest was back where I had just come off the highway. It was likely I’d already passed right by a few hotels or motels; I certainly hadn’t been paying attention to any signage. Right, backtrack. I pulled a U-turn and headed back.
The storm clouds were moving in. And they were dark. Very dark. I felt a shiver of anxiety. I’ve never liked storms and I was glad I would not be out on the highway when this one hit. That thought brought Kael instantly back to mind, but I refused to dwell on any concerns for her well-being. An ominous rumble of thunder made me press just a bit harder on the gas pedal.
As I got closer to the cloverleaf and the spot where I’d dropped Kael off, I saw, just opposite, a sign for a Travelodge. As I drew nearer I saw that it was an older motel, a two-story affair with oyster-white stucco and hunter-green trim; second-floor access was gained by an outside stairway. A walkway ran the length of the upper floor, bordered by decorative white wrought-iron railing. The grounds were neatly kept. The sign I’d seen boasted an in-ground heated pool, hot tub, sauna, on-site laundry, family restaurant, a lounge, and Wi-Fi. The latter two features were really all I was interested in.
I pulled into the parking lot next to the office and headed inside to register. Minutes later, as I was returning my credit card to my wallet, several more people entered the office. I recognized the couple with the young girl from the rest stop. Small world.
“Oh crap,” muttered the desk clerk.
I turned my attention back to him, an older fellow, portly, balding, and flushed. He was frowning at the credit card reader next to him.
“I’m sorry,” he said, looking up at me. “It’s out of paper. Would it be okay if I brought your receipt to you later?”
“Yeah, sure,” I told him. I pocketed my wallet. “No problem.”
He smiled his thanks and handed me the room key. “Second floor, this side. Enjoy your stay.”
“Thank you.” I gave him a perfunctory smile and left the office. My room was at the far side of the building, at the top of the stairs. I parked close to the stairway, and quickly set about attaching the side windows of the Jeep; the storm clouds were rolling in fast. The air had freshened, and a cooler breeze that smelled of rain skated lightly over my bare arms and shoulders, creating goose bumps. Another shiver rippled through me. Inhaling deeply of the rain-scented air, I finished securing the windows in place.
Inside the Jeep, leaning between the seats, I unlocked the two padlocks on the metal compartment and turned my attention to the combination lock. Another rumble of thunder, a little louder, a little closer, made me pause for a heartbeat; I then spun through the numbers of the combination with practiced familiarity.
I hauled out a bulky black duffel bag, dropped it onto the passenger seat and quickly unzipped it. Atop a few T-shirts, a pair of jeans, cargo shorts, socks, and underwear, sat my own midsize MacBook, as well as a polymer security case that held a subcompact Glock, my gun of choice. I removed both, then dug through a side pocket, shoving aside a toiletries bag to grab the laptop’s AC cord. Reaching again into the metal compartment, I pulled out a canvas messenger bag and transferred both the laptop and the gun case to it. I shoved the messenger bag back to its original place, replaced the padlocks and spun the combination lock once.
With the duffel bag in hand, I climbed out of the Jeep, and headed for the stairs and my room. I wanted a shower, a cold beer, and a meal, in that order. I’d return for the messenger bag later.
I took in the interior of my room with one quick glance, viewing the gaudy bedspreads on both double beds with distaste. I’d always despised the bedspreads motels and hotels used, slippery, useless fabric with unsightly colors and designs. I proceeded to strip the beds of their offensive coverings and tossed both onto the floor, against the far wall. Placing my duffel bag on the bed nearest the bathroom, I pulled out a change of clothes, laid it on the bed, and headed for the shower.
Twenty minutes later, clean and refreshed, I left my room for the lounge. I tucked myself in at a tall corner table, choosing the padded bench seat instead of the stool, and reached for the menu. My server came by a few minutes after I sat down, a good-looking young woman in her early twenties, fresh-faced, sporting poker straight black hair and a genuine smile that revealed a diastema between her front teeth. I declined the ice water she brought me, ordered a Heineken and a Caesar salad topped with grilled chicken.
The beer came first and for several minutes I sat quietly enjoying it, while I watched with mindless attention the television broadcasts of the sports programs that bars and lounges always seemed to think their patrons wanted to watch. I kept my mind carefully blank while I drank, and later while I ate.
It was only as I began my second beer that I became acutely aware of my solitary state. I felt oddly uncomfortable, as if I stood out, which I certainly didn’t; I wasn’t the only singleton in the room. And then, just like that, I was annoyed. One afternoon spent in the company of an unknown girl, and suddenly I’m lonely and unhappy? It was ludicrous; I’d been single for the past four years, since my thirtieth birthday. I was perfectly fine with it. It was my choice, and I’d never doubted the wisdom of it. And yet, as soon as I lowered my defenses even that little bit, Kael’s image, her voice, the entire sense of her filled my mind. Of course, she’d been there the whole time; I couldn’t kid myself about that. How hard would it have been to ask her to join me?
I frowned at the tabletop. It would have taken no effort whatsoever to at least have asked. Granted, she’d been the one who’d decided when and where we would part company, but still I could have said something. Instead you just let her go, my inner voice accused. My annoyance grew, yet I forced myself to sit and finish my beer. I tried not to think any more unproductive thoughts; it was probably really only about sex anyway, which was hardly a compelling enough reason to lament her absence.
That last thought was immediately accompanied by a memory of the kiss in the Jeep. Instantly, my belly tumbled and my breath was driven from me in a small, sharp exhalation that was as much surprise as sexual hunger. Completely discomfited, I abruptly slid out of my seat and headed for the cashier to pay my bill. I wasn’t about to allow my thoughts to go anywhere they shouldn’t go. If I needed a distraction, I had some work to do, documents on my computer that needed tweaking…that should do the trick nicely. I also ordered a couple more Hein
ekens to be brought to my room. It was just past seven thirty, and I planned to be up for several hours yet. The beer would make the time pass a bit more pleasantly. I left the lounge feeling grateful for the sudden burst of motivation and disgusted at my need for it.
Chapter Fifteen
She is sixteen years old before she finally realizes that the anger that percolates within her, that never quite goes away, could possibly serve a purpose other than self-destruction. Her therapist, her aunt Kate, and her aunt’s partner, Jillian, have all at various times tried to get her to access her anger and provide an outlet for it, but she has instead just buried it deep, and created a façade to convince everyone, including herself, that she possesses no anger or self-hatred. It is only when she sleeps that she allows herself to see it, in particular one dream that recurs frequently since she killed the man who abused her, and which has lately taken a very different turn.
The dream is always the same: the two of them tumble off opposite sides of the bed, she gains her feet and prepares to run, but hears a sound and turns to see him rise from the floor, pulling himself up with the aid of the mattress and bedcovers. His throat is slashed and gushes blood, but his eyes are open and so is his mouth. A look of bewilderment is etched across his features, but when he sees her, his expression changes, his eyes narrow, his mouth closes and tightens. He pulls himself across the bed toward her, and she raises her hands as if to ward him off. To her complete surprise, she is now holding a gun. A huge gun, so big she has no idea how she is even able to hold it. But she does, and she points it in his direction, and she fires it. The flash and explosion eliminate the entire room, and she jerks awake.
How handy, she thinks, as she lies in her bed savoring the vestiges of the dream, a gun big enough to wipe out the entire room. If only I’d had me one of those. Her sarcasm and bitterness are matched only by the anger and self-loathing that fill her whenever the dream occurs, a dream she has told no one about. She has had enough therapy sessions to know that her dream self is searching for a way to make what actually happened a cleaner, tidier event than it actually was. To remove her scars. To make her whole. The huge gun is what her father would have referred to as “over-compensating.” She remembers he always laughed when he saw short men and women driving huge 4x4s and SUVs.
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