by J. D. Brick
“You know where his parents live, right?" Blue demands. “What's the name of the town you're from? Fort Peace? I'm going there today. I'll find the son-of-a-bitch and make him wish he'd never set foot in this house.” Blue’s all action now, sliding on a pair of jeans and zipping them while I notice this little line of dark hair that runs from his belly button into his boxers. He slips a plain white T-shirt over his head, and I think about how it felt the night before to curl up next to him and lay my face on that chest. And about how gentle he'd been. Gentle and unbelievably hot, all at the same time. That’s all I want to think about.
Stop it.
He bends down to pick up the note, and I grab his arm. “Blue.”
He places the note on the desk. “I shouldn't have crumpled it up like that.” He tries to smooth it out.
“Blue.” My hand is still on his arm. I can feel the ridges of his muscles under my fingers.
“The police are going to need this. Maybe we should go to the police in your hometown since the local police aren't doing much.”
“Blue.”
“Or maybe I'll just take care of this on my own.” He snorts, then laughs harshly. “I've dealt with characters a hell of a lot worse than this chicken-shit ex of yours.”
“Blue!” I punch his arm in frustration. He’s talking like he's almost forgotten I’m there. “You're not listening to me. His name is Tyler Adams, but he's not my ex. He's just a guy that I. . .” I don’t want to finish that sentence. I wave my hand in front of my face as if to wipe away my words and start again. “He's the son of a pastor in my hometown. But I still don't think it's Tyler. That note doesn't sound anything like Tyler. Why would he call me a socialist? I doubt Tyler even knows what a socialist is.”
“Keegan, my mug was in the kitchen last night. The note was in the mug. Tyler was here last night. Of course it's him.”
I start shaking my head before he stops speaking. “There were lots of people here last night, and a lot of them wore masks. How do we even know who all was here, who might have stuck that note in the mug?”
Blue stares at me. “But if it's somebody else, how did he know you just moved in here?”
I shake my head, tears once again brimming in my eyes. “I don't know.” Hard as I try to steady it, my voice comes out shaky. “Who knows, the guy, the stalker, could have seen me leave the dorm in the middle of the night. I'd just gotten a call from him. He knew exactly what dorm I lived in. He could have followed me here.”
Blue crosses the space between us in an instant and puts his arms around me. And I try to ignore the alarm bells ringing in my head. My chin throbs where Blue's hand squeezed it only moments ago. I fold myself into my roommate, pressing so hard it’s like I want to burrow my way into his skin. He wraps his arms around me tightly and nuzzles my forehead, then my ear, with his lips. “Don't worry,” Blue whispers. “We'll figure this out. No one's going to hurt you. I won't let anyone hurt you.”
And for a few moments while we stand there, I’m flooded with sweet relief. I’m flooded with something else too, a warm vibration that flows from Blue's body into mine, making my nipples jump to attention and setting off what feels like at least a three-alarm fire in the region down below. The loins are leaping again. I can't get this close to Blue Danube without facing a mutiny from inside, even at the most inappropriate moments. It’s ridiculous. And I want much more of it. At least my body does.
But my head’s still analyzing, processing, panicking. And I've just thought of something. I pull back away from Blue a bit. “Hey, how do we know the note was put in your mug last night?” I ask. “I mean, all I know is that Kendra showed up at your door this morning with the note in the mug.” I’m thinking of the look on Kendra's face: the anger, the unmistakable jealousy. Blue's face twitches. “You know, Kendra looked really pissed to see me standing here in your room. I mean. . .like. . .girlfriend-pissed.”
His face twitches a little more, and he looks down. “Blue.” I let his name hang there for a few seconds. “Are you and Kendra. . . ?”
“No, no.” He runs a hand over his head. The other arm is still holding me. “Not anymore. And Kendra wouldn't. . .”
I pull away from him. He frowns. “We weren't ever dating, Keegan. We were just. . . We just. . .” He sighs heavily and tries again. “She started using my shower 'cause there's not one upstairs and things just kind of happened.”
I cross my arms. I have absolutely no right to be jealous. I am jealous as hell. And that cautious, cowardly part of me that’s been silently screaming since I moved into this house has just spotted an escape hatch. “Oh,” I say sarcastically. “I see. Roommates with benefits. Is that how it is here at the Embassy? Am I supposed to be part of that too?” My voice is rising; I sound silly. But I can’t stop.
“Keegan, come on. You know it's not like that.”
“I don't know anything of the kind. Is Hunter in on this? Is he expecting 'benefits' from me too?” I actually do air quotes. A part of me is already embarrassed by my behavior. But the rest of me is just getting started.
Blue takes a deep breath. “Let's get back to what's important here,” he says in a low, controlled voice. “We need to figure out who this is and stop him. I can go meet up with this Tyler kid. I'll know if it's him after I spend a few minutes with him. Remember, I told you that I can read people? I can help you, Keegan.”
He reaches out and puts his hands on my shoulders. “Let me help you.” I stand there, torn between wanting to wipe out the last few minutes and wrap myself around his body again and wanting to tear his eyes out without even really knowing why. I am scared. Scared of that other side of Blue I glimpsed when he first woke up. Scared of my own swift, almost savage desire for him. Scared of the rush of feelings that go with that desire. It’s so much more than physical. But it’s too much, too soon.
So I do what I always do when I don't know how to handle my emotions, when I don't stop to think things through: I run away. I snatch the note off Blue's desk, grab my jeans off the floor and throw the door open. It hits the wall hard and bounces back. I pause for a fraction of a second, thinking I should turn around and apologize. But instead I turn, with my face set hard against the pleading in Blue's eyes. “Just stay out of it, Blue,” I say. “Just leave me alone.” And I run up the stairs.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Fort Peace
Blue
I hear yoga music coming from Kendra's room as soon as I start up the stairs. That means my conversation with her is probably going to be unpleasant. Anyone else would blast rock or heavy metal or, hell, even estrogen-soaked chick music like Adele or Pink. But when Kendra gets pissed, she cranks up some New Age shit and twists herself into some ridiculous position that would leave me writhing in pain. She claims it makes her feel better.
Keegan's door is closed. So’s Hunter's. He is no doubt still asleep, probably wrapped around the blonde Keegan said was her old roommate. I am pretty sure I heard Keegan rush out the front door about an hour after she ran away from me. I can usually tell who’s going up or coming down the stairs just by the sound each roomie's feet makes on the wood. Each person has a particular pattern of squeaks and thumps. Hunter’s a pounder, always skipping two or three steps at a time. Kendra's feet seem to seek out the squeakiest spot on each stair and then linger there a moment, pulling groans out of the wood like she wants to be sure everyone knows she’s there. Keegan hits the stairs at a fast pace, barely skimming them, until she reaches the landing. Then there is always a pause—like she's stopped to look out the window—then another swift series of squeaks as she moves up or down the remaining stairs.
No idea what my steps sound like to my roommates, or if they notice things like that.
Kendra doesn’t answer when I knock, but the yoga music gets louder. Typical of her to ignore me if she’s mad. I open the door and walk into her tiny room. The last of our original group to move in, Kendra was stuck with the smallest bedroom. It has a single window that looks out over the
detached garage and is directly above mine. I can always hear her moving around up there.
She has her hands and feet flat on the flowery area rug she bought at a garage sale. Her ass is up in the air, and my eyes automatically slide over it without any instructions from my brain. Kendra keeps herself in good shape, and it’s a nice ass to look at. Or to feel, for that matter. I have to admit that. Jesus, Blue, you are a pig.
Kendra twists her head to glare up at me through her arms. “Stop looking at my ass, Blue. You gave that up, remember?”
I’m not going to rehash our relationship, if you could call it that, or my clumsy attempts to end it. “Sorry to interrupt your downtown dog or whatever the hell that is,” I say, “but I really need to talk to you.”
Kendra's knees drop to the floor, and she sits up with a heavy sigh. “It's downward dog, you idiot.” She runs her fingers through her short hair and gives me a cool stare.
I met Kendra last year while I was playing at this funky coffee shop in the basement of the student union. It’s a place frequented by overwrought, angsty grad students. Most of them, like Kendra, are getting masters or doctorates in some kind of literature or something equally pointless, and they spend hours debating some esoteric point no one else cares about. I always like to try out some of my more soulful material on them, stuff I can’t get away with playing at Embassy parties. And I always throw in several of Bryson's more philosophical songs, figuring they'll go over well with the bookish crowd.
One evening last semester, I was about halfway through a Bryson set at the coffee shop when this waif of a girl in a sun dress with long, strawberry blond hair walked up and stood right in front of me with her arms folded. That close, I could tell she’s not really a girl, though. She was in her late 20s and had gone through some hard living in those years, judging by the stony look in her eyes and the bitter twist to her mouth.
When I took a break, she strode over and stood next to me, tapping her sandaled foot impatiently.Then Kendra launched into a tirade about Bryson, skewering his music, his undeserved stature at the college, his political leanings. I spent my entire break arguing with her, and we carried on the discussion for weeks, whenever she'd show up when I was playing. I actually started looking forward to debating her. She was well-informed and whip-smart, even if she was dead wrong about Bryson.
When Kendra mentioned one day her apartment lease was up, and she really wanted to move, I told her about the last empty room at the Embassy.
Now, watching her rise from the floor and switch off the music, I realize with a pang of guilt that she probably would have been better off if she'd never met me.
She crosses her arms. “What the hell do you want, Blue? You're surely not tired of Miss Mayflower already?”
“Ouch, Kendra. Why the poisonous tone?” I notice the chipped black polish on her fingernails. Right before she moved in, Kendra suddenly chopped off her hair, dyed it jet black and took to wearing black dresses with combat boots. She also got several more piercings, including one in her tongue. Not that I minded that.
She told me once she was running away from a bad marriage and an ex-husband who used her as a punching bag. Maybe the goth-girl transformation is part of her healing process. I never ask about it. That’s the thing. I don’t care enough about Kendra to ask, to even think about her much when she isn’t right in front of me. I can’t figure out exactly why. But I do feel bad about it.
“C'mon Kendra, cut the crap.” I don’t mean to sound so nasty, but I’m trying to head off more drama. We've already had a couple of knock-down, drag-out fights. “Where'd you find that cup this morning? My Army mug, with the note in it?”
“It was sitting on the kitchen table. Why?” Her lip curls. “You sure move fast, Blue. You waited ‘til I’d been living here a few months before getting me in bed. Miss Mayflower’s only been here a week, and you've already been in her pants. I guess she’s better looking than I am.”
I clench my teeth, trying not to get mad at her. “You have no idea what we've done or haven't done, Kendra.” She smirks. “And why do you keep calling her Miss Mayflower?”
She gives me the Kendra look: disgust and amusement mingling in the most annoying way possible.
“You seriously don't know who she is? Miss Hotshot Editor, Big-time Blogger? Virginia Cooke's granddaughter? The family traces its roots all the way back to the Mayflower and makes a big stinking deal out of that? Her grandmother controls everything that goes on in this goddamn state, politically anyway. Don’t you ever read a newspaper, Blue?”
For a while after we got together for the first time months ago—after Kendra asked to use my shower and left the bathroom door open so I would just happen to see her standing there naked—I thought I could maybe fall in love with her. She’s intelligent and sometimes really funny and not bad-looking, even with the short hair. But it didn't take long for the acid that seems to be eating its way through her soul to surface. It’s the same bile that soaked my mother's voice in the last years before my dad died. That was my old man's fault, but it still made me pull away from Mama. And it made me pull away from Kendra.
When she talks about Keegan, it’s like listening to someone rake fingernails across a chalkboard. I can’t stand it. I take a deep breath, then try to speak softly. “Look, Kendra, I'm sorry it didn't work out between us. I really am.” Kendra snorts, then sneers and throws her head back. But she’s not a good enough actress to mask the hurt in her eyes every time she looks at me. I try again. “Keegan. . .She's in trouble. She needs my help. She needs our help.”
Kendra's mouth trembles, and her eyes narrow. “Keegan's got some crazy guy stalking her,” I go on.
“Yeah, I read the note.” She pauses for a moment, working her lips like she’s battling with herself over what else to say. “What the hell is that all about?”
“There's this douche from her hometown who might be the one doing it. He was here at the party last night. Short, skinny guy. Nerdy looking. He had an Oklahoma Dodgers cap on backwards, but no costume.”
Kendra raises a penciled-in black eyebrow.
“Keegan doesn't think it's him, but I want to have a talk with him anyway. I'm leaving for Fort Peace in a minute. But I wanted to find out if you saw him put the note in the mug or if you saw anybody carrying around my mug or putting a piece of paper in it last night.”
Kendra's eyes search mine with a look of bitter resignation. “No, I didn't see anybody with your mug, Blue. I was busy.” She flops down on her bed. “Does Keegan know you're planning to track down Stalker Boy? And why are you going to Fort Peace? Doesn't he live here?”
“No. Keegan said he lives in Fort Peace. She doesn't know I’m going. She doesn't want me to get involved. But I need to do something. I thought maybe I could track him down there.”
“So Mr. War Hero wants to rescue the damsel in distress, even if she doesn't want to be rescued, huh?”
I've told Kendra more than I should have about my past, although I haven’t told her the terrible truth that could get me thrown into a military prison. I haven’t told anyone that.
Kendra is still staring at me. “So now you're to going to go confront this guy who might be the one stalking her, but also might not be, and then what are you going to do, huh, Blue? You going to beat the shit out of him just in case?”
I've already turned toward the door, but pause to answer. “I'm just going to talk to him, try to figure out if he’s really the guy.”
“Oh, yes. You’re going to use your famous gut instinct.”
I ignore her sarcasm, but turn around just as I step out into the hall. “Keegan's not like her grandmother, you know. You’d like her, if you got to know her.”
I see the same smirk on her face and then, that flash of pain again. “And which of your heads is telling you that? Hmmm, Blue? Which head is in charge?” Then she laughs. “Maybe you are using your brain after all. Keegan’s filthy rich. I’d take her over me, too.”
I’m already heading f
or the stairs, but I can’t let that go by unanswered. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, Kendra,” I yell as I’m going down. “You just never know when to keep your mouth shut, do you?”
I hear her door slam as I reach the living room. I run out the front door, pulling my car keys out of my pocket. Fort Peace is about 90 minutes away. There’s no Embassy party tonight since we had the Halloween party last night. So I have plenty of time to find Tyler Adams.
I turn the key in the Coupe’s ignition, wishing for the thousandth time that I hadn’t agreed to take my old man’s car after he died. His prize Mercedes is an embarrassment, even if it is a guaranteed chick magnet. Just pulling into a parking spot on campus seems to make certain girls want to straddle me right on the car’s shiny black hood. But I’m not really interested in girls like that.
Hunter, on the other hand, is very interested in girls like that, and he’s always begging me to let him drive the Coupe. I’ve only let him do it a couple of times, but each time, he’s returned the keys with a satisfied smile. “That car’s wasted on you, Danube,” he’s said more than once. “Best pussy procurement vehicle I’ve ever seen.” Hunter is an asshole. But he usually doesn’t pretend to be anything else. I, on the other hand, reek of hypocrisy every time I pull the Benz out of the driveway.
“Your dad would want you take it.” We’d been sitting at the kitchen table after the funeral when Mama pushed the keys toward me. The kitchen was one of the few rooms I felt comfortable in. It was intended to be just for servants, but I never willingly ate anywhere else in the ridiculously large mansion my dad built when I was a little kid. I’d pushed the keys right back to her.
“I don’t want it, Mama, and, considering Bill hadn’t spoken to me for six months when he managed to get himself killed, I seriously doubt he’d want me to have it.” I hated myself all over again every time I thought of my cold, sarcastic tone that day and the anguish it practically carved into my mother’s face. I hadn’t apologized to her, not then anyway. But I did take the Coupe. All I had at the time was this rattletrap car I’d spent every penny I had to buy. It was always breaking down; I needed a more reliable vehicle. I told myself I took the Benz to make Mama feel better, but who was I kidding? And five years later, I’m still driving it.