The Long Road Home

by H. D. Thomson

  “What do you mean, you can’t?” John’s voice lowered menacingly. He gripped the oak counter, towering over the slighter man.

  “I’m sorry, but there’s an annual dentist’s conference along with a science fiction convention. I don’t have another room available.”

  “Where’s your manager?”

  Clarisse cringed, almost feeling sorry for the clerk.

  A dull flush crept under the man’s skin. “I am the manager.” The man plucked nervously on his tie. “The room you have on reservation has a sleeper sofa in the living area that’s completely separate from the bedroom. There’s a connecting door. It’s private.”

  John swore savagely and pivoted on his heel. He strode over to the two women. “I think you’ve already heard about the problem we’ve got.”

  “This is not happening!” Vivian threw up her hands in disgust.

  For the first time, Clarisse found herself agreeing with the redhead. Her eyes were gritty and tired, her leg felt like someone else’s appendage, and the pain pills she had taken during the day had stopped working. She craved a bed with cool, clean sheets and an overstuffed pillow.

  John shoved his fingers through his hair. “We could leave and chance finding something else in the city, but the way our luck has been today, we might want to stick it out here.”

  “That’s fine,” Clarisse forced herself to say. “I’ll take the sofa. You won’t even know I’m around.”

  She turned away and blinked back tears. She found the idea of staying in the same room with her ex-lover and his girlfriend repugnant. But what could she do under the circumstances? Sleep in the Explorer? That would look extremely odd. No, she would be an adult about this.

  Straightening her slim shoulders, Clarisse swung back around. Arms crossed, Vivian stood staring at the wall with cold, glittering eyes.

  “What about you, Vivian? Can you live with sharing a room?” John arched a questioning brow. When Vivian remained silent, he frowned in exasperation and turned back to the counter.

  “I’ll get the bags,” John said, the key to their room in one hand. “Clarisse, I don’t think you’re in any condition to carry anything heavy. You’re still favoring that leg. Just tell me which ones you need. That goes for you too, Vivian.”

  John caught up to them at the elevators. The doors slid open on the fifth floor and he led the way.

  “This whole trip is turning into a nightmare,” Vivian fumed as they trudged down the hall.

  “I don’t want to hear it,” John threw over his shoulder. “We’re all tired. The last thing we need right now is a fight.”

  He opened the door with the card key and stepped aside for both women. Clarisse followed Vivian in. In the first room, a brightly stripped peach and green bedspread covered a king-sized bed, while against the facing wall, a television and ice bucket rested atop a dresser. The doorway immediately on the right led to the bathroom, and a glass partition and French door separated this room from the living area. A curtain, the same pattern as the bedspread, covered three-quarters of the partition.

  Clarisse opened the French door and stepped into what would be her room. She turned on a light hanging above a writing table, illuminating the living area in muted shades of peach and green. A second television rested on a low bureau across from a matching striped sofa.

  She turned at the sound of her bags dropping to the floor. John stood by the French door watching her with dark impenetrable eyes. For a moment neither of them moved. Deep lines of fatigue bracketed his mouth, and his longish black hair lay disheveled around his square face.

  He walked further into the room. “Here, let me give you a hand with the bed.”

  Bed. For some stupid reason the word disturbed Clarisse.

  She shook the feeling off as she pulled the cushions from the sofa and John drew the hide-a-bed from inside the frame. The mattress stood between them, huge, with a life of its own, almost like a living, breathing being.

  This was ridiculous.

  “Hey John? Can you help me here?” Vivian called.

  “Goodnight.” John searched Clarisse’s face, opened his mouth as if to say something, but decided against it. He shut the door softly behind him.

  Clarisse slid trembling fingers through the strands of her hair, pulling one rebel lock behind an ear. She rubbed the nape of her neck. Her skin felt damp and clammy. She hated the confusion and uncertainty he instigated whenever he entered the same room. He was so male, so vibrant, so... A shiver raced up her spin, and she hugged herself against the sudden chill.

  She drew the curtain across the French door, changed into her nightgown, and draped her housecoat over the chair. She hovered in the middle of the room, thinking of venturing into John and Vivian’s room to use the bathroom. Unconsciously, her hand skimmed over her hip and thigh. She decided to stay put. She could handle being a little uncomfortable.

  Clarisse slipped between the sheets and lay listening. Her ears strained to hear the least little noise from the adjacent room. After a minute, a door closed. Then nothing. Obviously the glass was like impenetrable steel, she mused with a mixture of relief and frustration. Grumbling aloud, she rolled over and snuggled deeper into the covers.

  Time and exhaustion forced her lids closed, and sleep overpowered all thought. Colors swirled, abstract and meaningless, but soon they took shape, sharpened and focused into the interior of a single engine plane.

  Seat belt snug around her middle, Clarisse smiled over at the pilot. The aircraft glided down toward Heathrow. The runway appeared, growing larger with each second.

  A roar ripped into the interior of the plane. Something crunched. The engine died, and for a second the plane stood poised, silent and deadly, then dipped and dove, careening wildly toward the ground. The plane slammed into asphalt. Clarisse catapulted forward, cutting the seat belt into her stomach. The airplane whirled like a crazed dervish, then crumbled on one side. Metal screamed, ripped apart, crashing into itself and onto Clarisse. Something smashed against her. Intense pain tore into her leg.

  “Clarisse. Clarisse,” someone called.

  A silent scream locked in her throat, Clarisse jerked to a sitting position. Air. She gulped and managed to fill her lungs with oxygen. Terror gripped her mind. She buried her head into someone’s wide shoulder.

  “It hurts. It hurts,” she whimpered. “Please stop the pain!” Sweat coated her back and brow.

  Shuddering, Clarisse came out of the dream. Slowly, she became aware of her surroundings, of John’s naked chest, of one of his hands stroking her back and another brushing her wet hair from her neck and shoulders. Her chilled body grew warm. The heat of his skin against her flattened breasts penetrated the thin material of her nightgown.

  “It’s just a dream,” John murmured. His breath ruffled the hairs along her temple

  She pushed away. “I’m all right.”

  Reluctantly, he let her go. “Are you sure? You sounded terrified.” His gaze probed her features. “Since when did you start having nightmares?”

  Clarisse didn’t think to lie. “A few years. This was the first one in the last couple months. I guess the near crash today triggered this episode.”

  “You never used to have nightmares.”

  She read the question in his words but chose to ignore it. “I didn’t scream, did I?”

  “No. Vivian’s still asleep,” John whispered. “I was awake. At first, I wasn’t sure if I heard you tossing about. Then I heard whimpering, and I decided to check.”

  She slid under the covers. John remained seated on the bed’s edge, both hands resting on either side of her waist. She sensed him studying her face before looking down over the curves of her breasts and hips.

  His hand drifted to her shoulder, the thumb caressing her skin in a circular motion. “Do you think you’ll be all right?”

  Unable to withstand his intimate touch, Clarisse pulled herself up into a sitting position and twisted to one side. It was a mistake. She found herself brushi
ng up against his naked chest. His breath, scented with peppermint, skimmed her cheek and temple, and his mouth only inches from her own, lowered till his lips grazed hers. Arching upward, she parted her lips, craving his kiss and the pressure of his mouth on her flesh. She let her head fall against the hollow between his neck and shoulder and watched him through lowered lashes. Moonlight streaming through the window illuminated the desire in his smoldering gray eyes.

  “You’re beautiful,” he sighed. His hand trailed down her arm and over her waist to rest along her hipbone.

  Clarisse froze. Though befuddled with desire, her mind sharpened as the palm of his hand glided lower. The blanket. Her leg. Her hand clamped onto John’s wrist.

  Rustling from the other room penetrated through the open French door. His smoky eyes cleared. The skin across his jaw tightened. “I—” He thrust her away and stumbled from the bed. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  Clarisse fell back against the mattress, groping for the blanket around her knees. Breathing heavily, she jerked it up around her waist. She squeezed her eyes shut and took a steadying breath. He hadn’t noticed her leg.

  She heard the pad of footsteps cross the room. The click of the door sounded hollow and final.

  “How could I have ever forgotten about Vivian?” Clarisse whispered in dismay. She clutched the sheet and twisted it around her fingers.

  Opening her eyes, she stared at the ceiling in mounting disgust and wondered how she had succumbed to her oversexed hormones with Vivian in the next room. Was she crazy or just plain stupid? John couldn’t possibly have the power to completely cloud her judgment? Or could he?

  No, she wouldn’t answer such dangerous questions. She would concentrate on more important things, like surviving this road trip with John and Vivian. The next couple of days couldn’t get worse.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The sun’s golden rays streamed through the window, waking Clarisse from a fitful sleep. Momentarily blinded, she turned on her side and blinked until she focused on her watch. A couple of minutes past seven. Still early.

  She lay listening. Only the quiet hum of the air-conditioner pervaded the room. She decided to take advantage of the bathroom before John and Vivian rose for the morning.

  Clarisse shrugged into her housecoat and pulled a pair of blue jeans, black sleeveless turtleneck, and hiking shoes from her suitcase. With her makeup case tucked beneath one arm, she knocked and waited at the French door. No one answered. Tentatively, she drew aside the drape, pushed her nose against the glass panel and peered inside the other room. No one was moving about.

  Clarisse sighed in relief. She couldn’t stomach catching the pair making love.

  She tiptoed across the carpeted floor and slipped into the bathroom. Locking the door, she turned on the shower and undressed. She glanced at her reflection in the full-length mirror. Blonde hair cascaded past her pale shoulders and curved around her upturned breasts. Her gaze slid over the flat plane of her stomach and the gentle slope of her pelvis to her scarred thigh. The limb from knee to hip appeared shrunken and mal-formed beside her healthy leg. One thick line slashed across her knee, still pink and tender from the latest surgery. The doctor had told her this would be her final operation, but then again he had told her the operation six months ago would be her last. She didn’t know what to believe anymore.

  Pale, opaque patched skin branched out from her scar and up along her thigh. She slid her fingers across the thin jagged lines that crept randomly through the discolored flesh. Clarisse flinched and pulled away. She squeezed her eyes shut and wheeled from the mirror. Tears welled and burned through her lashes.

  Would John do the same? Would he, too, turn away in disgust? Impatiently, Clarisse swiped a tear from her cheek. Of course he would. And could she really blame him if he did, when she still hated looking at her scarred body after living with it for three years?

  Stepping into the shower, she lifted her face and let the water wash away her tears. The spray pounded into her skin and eased the tension knotted along her back and shoulders. She thrust John from her thoughts. She had no business dwelling on what he would think; his life involved Vivian and a path Clarisse no longer traveled.

  After showering, she applied a liberal amount of foundation and mascara; she did not relish Vivian’s snide comments about her pallid complexion. There! She checked her appearance a final time. She looked good. The black turtleneck drew out the golden sheen of her skin and hair. And if it wasn’t for her limp, she still could compete with the best models out there.

  She gathered her belongings and walked out of the bathroom. In the doorway, she froze.

  John, bare-chested and a pair of jean shorts slung low over his hips, stood by the side of the bed. On the bed, Vivian lay propped up on one elbow, but at the sight of Clarisse, pulled the sheet over her naked breasts.

  “Sorry,” Clarisse mumbled inanely and clutched the clothes in her hands. Seeing them together like this hurt more than she could have ever imagined. And it shouldn’t. After all, no emotional tie bound John to her. Not anymore.

  John plowed his fingers into his hair, pulling the dark strands from his face. He caught and held her gaze. “It’s okay.” His hand slowly lowered to his side.

  In his gray eyes she could read that he was remembering last night. She glanced away, hugging her clothes to her chest. A sudden rush of embarrassment scalded her cheeks.

  “Excuse me,” Clarisse muttered and hurried across the room, thoroughly appalled with herself. She couldn’t remember blushing so much in the last five years as she had during this trip.

  As she closed the connecting door, something made her pause. In the chair in the corner of the room, a pillow and crumpled blanket rested. Maybe she hadn’t walked into as intimate a situation as she had imagined. And maybe their relationship wasn’t as perfect as Vivian would like Clarisse to think.

  “That’s what you’d like to believe.” She shook her head in disgust, stuffing her makeup bag and clothes into her suitcases and placing them by the door.

  She turned on the television, dropped into a chair, and blindly stared at the screen.

  After a while, John knocked and opened the door. “Are you ready?”

  She met his bland expression and matched it with one of her own. Even with Vivian in the other room he wouldn’t mention last night. Fine. Just fine. “Everything’s ready to go.”

  They paid for the room and stopped off at a nearby restaurant. Throughout breakfast, conversation was stilted and sparse. When they finally finished eating and loaded up the Explorer, she retreated into the back seat in relief.

  With the help of a map and Vivian’s instructions, John navigated through the streets, hitting one particularly rough road full of potholes. Across from Clarisse, a dress wrapped in clear plastic jiggled off its hook. Picking it up, she caught sight of the price tag. She eyed the black silk—or lack of it—and shook her head with a mixture of disgust and amusement. Vivian had managed to zero in on what was probably the most expensive outfit available. She hooked the garment up, but it fell back down.

  “Please don’t get it wrinkled.” Vivian appeared over the bucket seat. “I didn’t bring an iron.”

  “It keeps sliding off.”

  “Here, let me.” Vivian reached for the dress and hung it on the hook. When John hit a pothole and the garment stayed, she gave Clarisse an accusing look. “It’s fine now. Please don’t touch it again.”

  Clarisse’s jaw tensed. She opened her mouth to say something, then snapped it shut. She didn’t need an enemy in such close quarters.

  John turned onto the entrance ramp and entered the interstate. Clarisse sat back and stared at the passing scenery as John flipped on the radio and scanned through the static for a local station. Clarisse vaguely heard the weather announcer forecast a heat wave in the mid-west. She rose awkwardly into a semi-kneeling position and rummaged in the back between John’s photography equipment and their suitcases for another book, then sat back dow
n. A light film of perspiration covered her neck and back. It seemed to be warming up fast for so early in the day.

  “John?” Clarisse slid a finger around the top of her turtleneck.

  “Mmm?” John met her gaze in the rear-view mirror.

  “Could you put the air-conditioner on and point it this way? It’s a little stuffy back here.”

  “Sure. Just let me know if it gets too much.”

  “Thanks.” She opened her book and hoped it would be more interesting than the last. An hour later, tired of reading, she put the paperback down and reclined along the back of the seat, careful not to brush her feet against Vivian’s dress. She closed her eyes, thinking a nap might shorten the trip by an hour or two. She was almost drifting asleep, not paying attention to the sporadic conversation up front, when she heard her name spoken in a hushed tone. Clarisse tensed, but kept her eyes closed and forced herself to breath naturally.

  “I want to know why,” Vivian whispered. “It’s her, isn’t it?”

  “It has nothing to do with her,” John muttered roughly. “I don’t want to get into this right now.”

  In the back seat, Clarisse frowned, baffled at being the cause of an argument. Vivian couldn’t possibly be worrying about Clarisse’s past association with John, could she?

  “That’s what you always say,” the redhead retorted in a whisper. “You always have some excuse not to talk about it. Well, I’m tired of it.”

  “Damn it!”

  Clarisse flinched at John’s harsh tone. What in the world were they quarreling about to get him so riled?

  “If you think I’m going to talk about something so private with an audience,” he continued, “you’re mistaken. It can wait till tonight.”

  “She’s asleep.”

  “I don’t care.”

  Clarisse felt Vivian’s glare drilling into her. An itch on her nose, faint at first, grew until it became unbearable. Her hands twitched with the effort of keeping them on her lap and not her nose.

  Vivian swore savagely under her breath. “Coming on this lousy trip with you was a stupid mistake! Nothing’s working out.”