by J. D. Brick
I wrap my hand around his fingers and sit up, wiping my eyes. “You’re right, it’s a beautiful song. And a sad one. I guess that's why I'm crying.” Then my gaze falls on the words scribbled on Blue's guitar. I tilt my head and read out loud: Monti, Cunny, Hud. Heroes of Hell’s Highway. Lameass Singers. I look at Blue. “Friends of yours?”
Blue doesn’t return my smile. Instead, he stiffens and stands up quickly, setting the guitar against the wall and picking up his backpack. “We really do need to get back, Keegan. Like you said, you can’t miss that meeting.” He places the ax inside the backpack and has just picked up his shirt when I reach him. I’m confused by the sudden change in his demeanor. A little bit of panic courses through my bloodstream and pounds behind my eyes. I've screwed something good up by staying silent about my feelings, by being afraid. By asking the wrong question.
I touch Blue's bare back, pressing my lips into the puckered skin of his scars and feeling desperate. “Blue, talk to me.” I put my arms around him and squeeze. “You said we have this amazing connection, and. . .” I close my eyes. Say it now. “. . .and I feel that way too. I do. But it kind of scares me.”
He turns part way, looking over his shoulder at me.
“I want to know everything about you,” I say. “I need to know everything about you, especially the hard stuff, the bad stuff, the stuff that gives you bad dreams and. . .” I shake my head. I don’t want to start crying. “Don't you understand that? I tell you mine. You tell me yours. That's how it has to be if. . .”
He looks down while one of his hands curves into a fist on the cave wall. “What does the writing on the guitar mean?” I keep talking. “What happened to you over there? Tell me.” But he just stands, not saying a word. “Blue?” Finally, I drop my arms and step away from him, picking up the blanket and trying to stuff it into my backpack. I can barely see through the stinging tears in my eyes. It spooks me, how quickly he can push me away.
And then I feel his arms around me, and for a fraction of a second, I want to jerk my body out of his grasp. But then I turn into his embrace, and he hugs me so tightly I can barely breathe.
“Don't give up on me, Keegan,” he whispers. He sounds frightened. He sounds so unlike the Blue I think I know. You practically just met. What do you really know about him? Not a thought I want to even acknowledge. It’s true that it’s all happening ridiculously fast. But I’ve never felt such a connection with anyone before either. It is a lot more than sexual. It’s more, even, than standard boyfriend-girlfriend stuff, at least from my limited perspective it is. We’re already at romance-novel intensity. Blue is my knight, my hero, my Romeo. Silly as that sounds in my own head, it feels totally real, absolutely all-consuming. It scares me to death. But I never want to let it go.
If only I could silence this nagging alarm bell that keeps clanging somewhere in my brain.
“I need you, Keegan.” Blue is still crushing me into his body. “It's kind of crazy, how much I suddenly need you. But you've got to give me more time. There are some things I just can't tell you, not yet.”
An icy blast of wind blows right through the falling water and into the cave, cutting off my response and putting out what’s left of the fire. And at the same time, Blue’s phone, zipped into an inner pocket of his backpack, begins playing its Boy Named Sue ringtone.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
P.I.G.
Blue
I guess men really are pigs. Human history has plenty of examples already, but if you need another one, take a look at me. I’m standing there in the cave, staring at Keegan’s trembling lips and frightened face, and I’m thinking about my dick. About how it felt to have those soft lips all over said dick. About how long I’ll have to wait ‘til I can feel them there again. So yeah. P.I.G. I’m ashamed of myself. But when I force those dickhead thoughts out of my shallow brain and focus again on the lovely person in front of me, I kind of wish I could just keep rutting around in the pig pen. Because it’s a lot less painful.
Because if I’m going to be a good guy, I’m going to have to pay attention to the rage building somewhere in my chest. Could be it’s in my heart, seeping like blood from a bullet-sized hole and then oozing out, thick and coagulated, until I feel like I’m drowning. It’s not a new sensation. I’ve carried that coiled clot around ever since the day the guys died. I’ve learned how to manage since then, papering over and diluting whatever it is—rage, shame, fear, or some nasty combination of all three—with the everyday fluff of my college-boy life.
It’s only at night, in my dreams, that it explodes inside my head. Or maybe that’s my soul. Hard to tell. And the only time that suffocating feeling seems to go away? When I’m with Keegan. Something about her forces air into my lungs, plugs up the hole in my chest, staunches the bleeding. Why Keegan instead of other girls I’ve come across since I left the service? Not a clue. How could someone possibly become so important, so oxygen-ish to me in such a short time? I don’t know. But this thing I have with her is as real as anything I’ve ever experienced. As real as life. As real as death. I’m not going to let anybody get in the way of it.
But Keegan, my Keegan, is scared. I’ve just watched the color drain out of her face when I handed her my phone. Kendra called a few minutes ago.
“Hey, Blue, is Keegan with you? Yes, of course she is. . .stupid me. I'd sighed, making it loud enough for Kendra to hear. She’s just never going to let it go. “Tell Keegan somebody's done a number on her car,” Kendra went on. “This weird shit is painted all over it, same kind of stuff that was written on that note in your mug. I don’t know when it was done, maybe in the middle of the night. I hadn’t been outside until just now.”
I hadn’t even looked over at Keegan’s car when we pulled out of the driveway that morning.
“And right after I noticed the car,” Kendra continued, “this girl named Megan shows up, says she’s Keegan’s old roommate, says she’s been trying to get hold of her. She’s standing here next to me right now. Put Keegan on the phone.”
So now, Keegan is listening to Megz. “We’re at this state park, I can’t remember the name. We went rappelling.” Keegan gives me a look. “No, I didn’t take my phone with me. I was just. . .never mind. I can’t believe this.” She runs a hand through her hair. “Okay, I’ll call Jason right now. Send me the pictures.”
She hits the End Call button, then stands there staring at the cave’s moist walls. A couple seconds later, my text notification sounds. Keegan bends her head toward the screen, her thumb flipping through what must be pictures. “Oh my God! Oh. My. God.”
“Let me see.” I look at the phone. Pictures of Ikana’s student union. All across the lower exterior of one side of the building are the same spray-painted words the sick son-of-a-bitch has been using all along:
KEEGAN CRENSHAW IS A WHORE!!! A LYING SOCIALIST CUNT!!! DON'T READ HER NEWSPAPER!!!!!!!
One picture shows a newspaper page stuck to the wall, right under the word painted word WHORE. And taking up most of the page is a picture of Keegan’s smiling face, with the words DIE BITCH scribbled in marker across it.
I’m trying not to show how worried I am. The guy is getting bolder. And crazier. Keegan reaches for the phone. “I have to call Jason. Megz said the guy did something at the newsroom too.” She swallows back tears, and I want to pull her into my arms. But she’s already got the phone to her ear.
Keegan barely said a word when we hurriedly left the cave and hiked to the Coupe. I’d driven back to town like a bat out of hell, and we’d been mostly silent, each of us wrapped up in our grim thoughts. Mine were centered on how I could find the fucker who was doing this. And on how I could protect Keegan.
We made it to the newsroom just as the sun was dipping behind Walker Hall, the tallest building on campus. The newspaper offices take up most of the ground floor. And now we’re standing there with Jason, the paper’s managing editor. He runs a hand through the fingerprint powder covering the desks, then rubs his fingers together as
he watches Keegan’s eyes flit around the room, taking in the now familiar, ugly words painted on every computer and desk. The broken window has already been boarded up, and there’s police tape cordoning off the scene of the crime. Keegan’s got her arms folded, her shoulders are hunched over.
“Maybe campus police will finally be able to figure out who this asshole is,” Jason says, putting his dusty hand on Keegan’s arm and using his thumb to rub her skin like he has a right to do it. I want to break that thumb.
“How you holding up?” Jason asks her, the fucking thumb still moving up and down on her arm. Two seconds. That’s all the time it would take me to wrench it right out of its socket.
Keegan gives Jason a stiff-upper-lip kind of smile. “I’m fine. I just wish they could figure out who the hell is doing this. It’s such a distraction. And it’s embarrassing.”
“I know.” His hand finally drops away from Keegan, but not before he shoots me this brief, but unmistakably challenging look. It sends some kind of weird spike right though me. He’s into her. And he’s obviously sensed my instant hostility. I stare him down. My gut is going off big time. But I’m not sure if it’s because there’s something wrong with Jason or just because I’m crazy ass jealous over anybody touching Keegan. Even with one stupid thumb.
“I wanted to be sure everything was ready for the editorial meeting.” He speaks only to her, his tone all-business. “I, um, wasn’t sure if you’d be here or not. I know things have been rough for you lately.”
I wished Keegan had forgotten about the meeting. We were having such a good time in the cave, at least until I went all weird when she asked about the names on the guitar. I can’t seem to stop pissing all over things, just when they get good.
“I’d have let you know if I wasn’t going to be here,” Keegan says, a little sharply. She’s responding to the slight note of condescension in Mr. Thumb’s voice. Good for you, bar girl. Let him have it.
“I called campus police as soon as I found this,” Jason goes on, “and they said for you to call. . .I can’t remember his name. It’s the detective who’s working on this case?”
“Lugner,” Keegan says flatly. I can tell she’s not crazy about the detective.
“Lugner, yeah. They said for you to call him in the morning. But, um, the problem is, they said not to touch anything until Lugner and his team look it over tomorrow.” Jason looks down at his loafers and sighs heavily. “And we’ve got the sponsor visit tomorrow.”
Keegan inhales and then blows out a long, slow breath, looking around the room. “The sponsor visit. Shit. This is going to look really bad.”
I step closer to her and put my arm around her shoulders. Jason stiffens and speaks to the ceiling. “Yeah. I guess it is.”
When I glare at him, he lets his gaze slide over me and focus again on Keegan. “But,” he adds brightly, “we’ll just have to make the best of it.”
There’s a moment of awkward, heavy silence. “Well,” Jason says, turning slowly on his heel, “I’ve got to get ready for the staff meeting.” He heads for one of the offices on the other side of the room. Keegan stands there for a few seconds, a range of emotions crossing her face. Then she silently pulls me into the office next to Jason’s and closes the door.
She flings her arms around me and buries her face in my neck. I can feel her chest heaving. And yeah, that puts a picture of her tits front and center in my pig’s mind.
“Blue, what am I going to do?” Her voice is muffled, but I can still hear the anxiety in it. “This whole group of big-wig donors who give to the journalism department every year is coming in tomorrow morning. The president of Ikana is going to be with them. What are they going to think when they see what’s all over the newsroom? All this stuff about me, the editor of the paper?”
I pull her face up gently. “This is not your fault, Keegan. You don’t have anything to be ashamed of. You just tell them the truth. You can handle this.”
She nods, covering my hands with hers, then dips her forehead to my chin for a second. “You’re right.” She kisses me softly and smiles. “You make me feel strong, Blue. You make me feel like I can do anything.”
She steps over to the desk and sits down, spreading her hands in front of the keyboard. “I’ll just explain the situation and assure them it’s being investigated and will be taken care of soon. And I’ll tell them the paper is operating normally.”
“Speaking of the investigation,” I say, sitting on the edge of the desk, “I want to meet this Detective Lugner. I want to hear what exactly is being done about this.”
Keegan nods. “I’m supposed to call him tomorrow morning. I’ll tell him I want to meet with him. He wanted me to bring the note we found in your mug in anyway.” She looks up at me and smiles again. “But right now, I need to get ready for the editorial meeting. Pick me up at 7:30?”
I’m being gently dismissed. I stand up and run my hand over one of the award plaques on the wall. “I don’t really like leaving you here alone.”
“I’m not alone. Jason’s here, and the rest of the editorial staff will be here any minute.”
“Yeah. . .Jason.” I can’t keep the sourness out of my voice.
“What?” Keegan looks surprised. I move my finger to another plaque. I want to tell Keegan that her managing editor makes my gut go haywire. But I’m not sure where my gut instinct ends and plain old male jealousy takes over. If I turn out to be wrong, I’ll look like some kind of Neanderthal. Being a pig is bad enough.
I shrug. “I didn’t like him putting his hand on you.” I run my thumb over her bottom lip. “I guess I’m just jealous.” I lean down and pour my heart into kissing her. Her breath is sweet. “I wish this day had ended differently, but it was still one of the best days of my life.”
She comes out of the chair in a rush and hugs me, then kisses me full force the way she’d done on the roof. “It was for me too, Blue.”
“Careful, bar girl,” I chuckle, trying to tamp down my hard-on. “You’re going to make me have to walk out of here with. . .” I gesture down at my fatigues. No mistaking that I am turned on.
Keegan’s mouth curves up. “No matter how bad things get, you can always make me laugh, Blue.” She looks at my crotch. “Do you want to wait in here a few minutes?”
I kiss her one more time. “Nah, you’ve got work to do.” I grab a newspaper from the stack in the corner. “I’ll just hold this in front of me.” I turn back to her as I slip out the door. “I’ll be here at 7:30 sharp. Bye, beautiful.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Waltz
Keegan
A wringer washer. Climbing the stairs to my room that night, I feel as if I've been put through one of those old-fashioned washing machines like the one that sat in my dad's parents' old farmhouse for decades. Grammy insisted on using it, said it didn't waste power like the washers everyone else used. She said it reminded her of her childhood. When I was a kid, she'd let me feed the water-swollen clothes into the machine's rollers, and I used to marvel at how the clothes would emerge so flat and half-dry.
That is me, all wrung out, the day's emotions squeezed out of me. Or so I thought. Blue is right behind me, his hands on my hips, his thoughts somewhere in that area too. It's funny how easy it is to sense exactly what guys are thinking, to know exactly what they want. Not that I mind. I want to be just a physical being right now too, wild and fearless and unthinking. I want to let my body just act on its own.
But I’m not done with the emotional roller coaster. And it’s all because of Blue. He pulls me against him as I reach to turn my doorknob. His lips tickle my ear. “Hey, close your eyes. There's a surprise inside for you.”
I turn to look into his face. I’m pretty sure I’ve had enough surprises for one day. But there’s that irresistible grin. It moves through my skin and lights up every nerve ending in my body. And his eyes are twinkling, Santa Claus-style. I close my eyes and feel him reach past me to push open the door. Then I hear the light switch click
on.
When I open my eyes, I gasp as Blue sweeps his hand around the room. It’s full of furniture that wasn’t there when I left this morning. “I got to the used furniture place only 15 minutes before it closed,” Blue says, “so I had to choose fast.” He points at a funky-looking chair, covered in light yellow fabric printed with seashells and fish, and with a circular base and no arms. “Coastal print, designer. . .or so they told me, probably to justify what they charged me.”
His grin turns into something softer as he searches my face, then he walks to an antiqued white dresser, puts his hand on it and turns toward me. I stare at his backside in the dresser's mirror. Damn, he looks good in those jeans. And even better out of them. “There's also a distressed dresser and nightstand, although what the fuck a distressed dresser is, I don't even. . .” He lets out an “Oomph” when I throw myself against him.
“Blue.” My voice is muffled because my blubbering face is buried in his neck. He wraps his arms tightly around me, and his chest heaves against mine. I raise my face and kiss him. “I don't even know what to say.”
“You don't have to say anything.” He dips an arm under my knees, then lifts me off the ground. “But I know just how you can thank me.” He walks over to the bed and collapses onto it, flipping over and pinning me underneath him so fast it leaves me breathless. Not that I mind.
Blue pulls my hands above my head, then slowly runs his fingers down the exquisitely sensitive skin of my inner arms. I've just closed my eyes, reveling in the sensation, when his lips touch mine. After a few delicious minutes of kissing, he pauses, pressing into me, just letting his exhaled breath caress my cheek. He is still holding my hands above my head, and after a minute or two, I can’t help squirming, desperate for him to do more.