So Pretty It Hurts bwm-6

by Kate White

  “That was fast,” he said. “You must be just dying to see me.” He flicked his butt into the street. “Why don’t we go inside, and you can buy me a drink?”

  “You’ve got it,” I said. I loved the idea that the drinks would be on my tab. Maybe Tory was right—the last album had really tanked.

  The place was packed and smelled of beer, sweat, and dampish wool coats. Somehow we managed to find a space to stand at the end of the bar. The band was obviously on a break, though I could see lots of people milling around in the back room.

  Tommy asked for a Maker’s on the rocks, and I ordered a beer for myself. He gripped his drink with long, slim fingers that must have served him well on the guitar. Though we’d had a couple of brief conversations at Scott’s, this was the closest I’d ever been to him. He was way too bony and inked for my liking, but his gray eyes were compelling. Maybe that’s what had hooked Devon and Tory.

  I flashed him a friendly smile but tried not to seem too flirty, knowing that if I gave off the wrong vibe, he’d start talking about turning me into a human hot fudge sundae.

  “How do you know the band?” I asked over the din.

  “What?” he asked.

  “The band. How do you know them?”

  “The drummer is the brother of a buddy of mine. They fuckin’ stink—but I promised to show tonight.”

  “That’s nice. I mean, it must still be pretty hard for you right now—with Devon’s death and all. As you told me, Devon was your lady for a while.”

  “Yeah, I’m a big hero, aren’t I?”

  “I suppose you’ve heard the news,” I said. “That it was definitely Devon’s eating disorder that led to her death.”

  “That’s what they tell me. But like I said to you last weekend, she never pulled any of that stuff on my watch.”

  “The night she died, she was obviously suffering the side effects of losing vital nutrients—like potassium. It’s that loss of nutrients that leads to a heart failure.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” he said. “I’m not an M.D.” I almost laughed out loud. That had to be the understatement of the year.

  “When you lose potassium, it also affects your muscles,” I explained. “That was probably why she seemed dizzy before she went back to her room. And by one o’clock she would have been feeling pretty awful.”

  He drew his upper body back, as if I’d just spattered something on the bar.

  “I can tell you’ve got a point to make,” he said, the friendliness dissipating. “Why don’t you just come right out and make it.”

  “Okay. Devon was flirting with you last weekend, and she may have even invited you and Tory up there just so she could try to win you back. I think you went to her room Saturday night.”

  He smirked and shook his head.

  “Who told you that—Tory?”

  “Tory said you were missing in action for over an hour.”

  “Yeah, I was missing in action. I was sick of her bony-ass whining.”

  “So you went to Devon’s room. Why didn’t you notice how ill she was? Surely you must have seen it.”

  “Because I didn’t go to Devon’s room. I hooked up with that little redhead waitress who helped at dinner. She was giving me the eye the whole night.”

  “Laura?” I exclaimed, not able to contain my surprise.

  “Was that the chick’s name? I didn’t ask. Anyway, I’d overheard her say something to that other woman—the one with the tooth you could carve up a cow with—about staying in the garage apartment rather than driving home. I decided to pay her a little visit.”

  “Was it around one fifteen?”

  “Yeah, maybe. I don’t keep a log on my sex life.”

  My mind raced, reviewing the details Laura had shared with me that night as well as the guilty aura she’d displayed. I’d assumed at the time that she’d felt troubled about having fallen back to sleep after Devon called, but that’s not what was nudging her conscience. She’d promised to bring water to Devon, but when the visiting Rock Star had showed up—probably moments later—she decided to attend to his randy needs instead.

  “Did you call Laura’s room later—after you got back to yours?” I still had no clue who had made that second call.

  “Call her?” he said, snickering. “You mean, like, Hey, that was special, let’s do it again sometime? I don’t think so. Why all the fascination with some townie? I’ve got better stories to share than that one if you want a little fun.”

  “Why my fascination? I’m just a little surprised—I could have sworn things were starting to heat up with you and Devon again,” I said, refocusing. “I heard she’d been pretty upset when you two broke up, and it looked like she was hatching a plan to get back together again.”

  “I guess she was bummed. But I wasn’t interested in having a ball and chain wrapped around my dick.”

  “You met last February?”

  “That’s when we hooked up. But we’d actually met a few months before at some party.” He shrugged. “She told me later that it was like being hit by a thunderbolt when she met me. We got into a serious make-out session, but she was a little coy about going any farther. Then she secretly hatched this big plan to meet again, like, two and a half months later—she got friends to bring her backstage after a concert.”

  “Do you think she wanted to restart things last weekend?”

  “Like I told you before, Devon was a real mind fucker. Who knows what she was thinking?”

  “Did that make you mad?”

  “Mad? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Well, she was kind of toying with you. That couldn’t have been much fun.”

  “Maybe I wasn’t clear enough with you. I had plenty of action last weekend.”

  “By the way, did you know Devon had a miscarriage around the end of last year?”

  He narrowed his eyes, clearly taken aback.

  “Well it wasn’t mine. Like I said, we didn’t get down and dirty until February. Besides, I don’t do kids. Can’t stand the little bastards. . . . Look, I thought you wanted to have a nice friendly conversation. You’re starting to sound like a cop or something.”

  Suddenly there was the discordant sound of electric guitars being tuned in the back. Tommy craned his neck in that direction.

  “I’m sorry if I’m tossing lots of questions at you,” I said, attempting not to lose his interest. “But there’s a reason for it. I think someone might have caused Devon’s death—by aggravating the symptoms of her anorexia.”

  That had his attention. He spun back in my direction.

  “Is that what the cops are saying?”

  “No. It’s just a theory I have. Any ideas?”

  “Read my lips,” he said. “I don’t know anything about eating disorders or any shit like that. As far as I’m concerned, I’m never hooking up with another model. I want a chick with some meat on her bones. That redhead didn’t have a clue what to do in the sack, but at least there was something to hold on to.”

  “Okay, so you don’t know anything about eating disorders, but Tory might. Do you think she wanted Devon dead? Because Devon was after you again?”

  He started to do the shoulder shrug again, but I saw the idea snag in his brain. He took a long swallow of his drink, staring into the glass.

  “You’re gonna have to ask Tory that,” he said. “But keep it short so she can understand what you’re saying.”

  “I—”

  “I gotta get back there. I’d ask you to stay, but you don’t seem like the type who can just chill and listen to music.”

  “One more thing,” I said, as he slid off his stool. “Do you know Sherrie Barr?”

  “Devon’s old lady? Yeah, I had the unfortunate experience of meeting her once—and I’m really not looking forward to watching her slur her words on Saturday. Look, I really need to get back there.”

  He started off and then unexpectedly turned back to me, his gray eyes boring into me. “Be careful getting home,” he said.
“It gets a little sketchy down here late at night.”

  Oh, thanks, I thought. Mr. Chivalry. I snaked my way through the crowd and stepped outside into the cold night air.

  Though the bar had been mobbed, the street outside was deserted and most of the lights in the converted tenement buildings were off now. With no traffic at the moment and none of the usual hip crowd spilling out into the street, it wasn’t hard to imagine the pushcarts and carriages that had once rumbled along here.

  What I needed at the moment, though, was a cab, not a pushcart, and I could sense right away that it was going to be tricky to find one. I gave it a minute, though, hoping there might be some canvassing the area even at this hour, but no such luck. Stupidly, thinking I’d be out for only a short time, I hadn’t even bothered to wear gloves, and my fingers would soon be freezing.

  Just as I was about to bag the location for another, a gypsy cab pulled up, the kind that patrolled late at night when there was a scarcity of regular taxis. Gypsy cabs were unlicensed car services, but because they fulfilled a need, there was a live-and-let-live attitude toward them. I’d taken them on several occasions when I was desperate, but I didn’t feel that desperate at the moment. The driver made eye contact and raised his chin, as if asking if I needed a ride. I shook my head, stuffed my hands in my pockets, and started to walk, headed north.

  The first intersection I passed was Rivington, and there was no sign of a cab there. I walked another block north to Stanton. It was a relief to see a few more people in the area, but they seemed to be looking for cabs too. I had no choice but to head another block north to East Houston. I already had that sinking sense you get when a little voice in your head tells you that at least as far as tonight goes, there’s no way in hell you will find a taxi.

  There was a ton of traffic on Houston, but it was all just regular cars barreling along. Ten minutes passed with my hand in the air and me flicking my head left and right, searching futilely with my eyes.

  I stuck my hand back in my pockets just to warm my fingers. I could hoof it home, I realized. It would take about a half hour. But I’d be freezing cold by the time I arrived. And I didn’t feel comfortable being alone at this hour on the deserted downtown streets. I also didn’t feel like hopping on the subway this late.

  Suddenly I heard a car come up slowly behind me on Ludlow, and instinctively I spun around. It was another gypsy cab. Or, rather, the same gypsy cab I’d seen outside the Living Room. The driver was obviously having the same amount of luck as I was. He made eye contact again and cocked his head. I nodded my head in response. This time I felt desperate enough to hop in.

  “Ninth and Broadway,” I told the driver once I was in the back seat. The car, to my disgust, reeked of cigarette smoke.

  “Twelve dollars,” he told me, not bothering to turn around. Gypsy cabs didn’t have meters.

  “How about ten?” I said. Twelve seemed outrageous.

  He nodded, again without looking back, and put the car in drive. I leaned my head back, exhausted. I’d barely slept last night, and my insomnia was catching up with me now. I closed my eyes, just resting them. I heard Beau’s words from earlier echo in my head suddenly: “Something absurd is going on here. But I’m not the one responsible.” Was he going to end our relationship? I wondered.

  I opened my eyes again, feeling miserable. I was too churned up right now, and I couldn’t think any more about it. When I gazed out in the darkened Manhattan street, I realized something wasn’t right. We were back on Houston Street, headed east, not north. The driver was going the wrong way.

  Chapter 16

  “Wait,” I yelled, jerking my body forward. “I said Ninth and Broadway.”

  For one brief moment I actually thought the driver had misheard me or had arrived in America six days ago and had no freaking clue where he was going. But he never turned around, just gunned the motor so that the car sped even faster. I realized that after I’d closed my eyes in the backseat, he must have circled back to Houston. It was suddenly clear: he was abducting me! My heart hurled itself against the front of my chest, like it was trying to leap off a cliff.

  “What do you want?” I called out. My voice was squeaky from panic. “Do you want money?” But the driver ignored me.

  I glanced toward the door. The lock was still up at least. I had no choice—the only escape was for me to leap out onto the road. Yet the car was moving so fast, I couldn’t imagine how I’d pull it off.

  I reached for my handbag and searched frantically until I found my BlackBerry. My hands were shaking as I punched in 911.

  “A cabdriver kidnapped me,” I yelled to the operator. “Uh—a gypsy cab. We’re going down Houston Street. East.”

  “Miss, what is your name?” the woman asked.

  “Bailey Weggins. Please, you’ve got to help me.”

  With one swift movement the driver reached his right arm into the backseat and tried to slap the BlackBerry from my hand. I jerked away, pressing my body against the door.

  “What is the license plate of the car?” the operator asked.

  “I have no idea,” I exclaimed. “I didn’t see it.”

  “What’s the car look like? What’s the make?”

  “Uh—I don’t know. It’s dark. A four-door.” I peered into the front seat toward the glove compartment. I couldn’t see anything.

  I prayed the guy would head onto a side street, where he’d be forced to slow down. But he turned south onto the FDR Drive, which ran between the East River and the eastern edge of Manhattan. My fear ballooned. There was only a small amount of traffic, and the driver now had the car up to at least fifty miles per hour. If I jumped out, I’d kill myself.

  “We’re on the FDR now,” I yelled to the operator. “South.”

  I grabbed the window handle and rolled it down. Cold air gushed into the back of the cab.

  “Help me,” I screamed to the stream of cars to my right, but my voice was crushed by the wind. Finally a woman in the backseat of one of the cars seemed to notice me. She leaned forward, said something to the couple in the front seat, and then glanced back at me, her face scrunched in worry. But the car pulled off at the next exit.

  I felt nearly dizzy with dread. Where was he taking me? I wondered desperately. Did he want to rob me or rape me, or both? He nearly careened off the South Street exit, and then to my horror swung onto the entrance to the Manhattan Bridge. He was taking me to Brooklyn, where it would be easy to find a deserted spot. He was forced to slow down just a little on the bridge, but there was too much traffic for me to even think of jumping out. On my right a subway car hurtled by alongside us. Inside passengers dozed or stared listlessly. I tried to motion to them, but no one noticed.

  From my hand I could hear the operator calling out to me. I pressed my Blackberry to my ear.

  “Miss, please, give me your location now,” she said.

  “We’re on the bridge now,” I told her. “Manhattan Bridge.”

  “Can you signal to anyone near you?”

  “I’m trying, but they don’t see me.”

  “We are alerting the police in Brooklyn to your location.”

  Get control, I told myself. I had to think of a plan. When we left the bridge, the driver would have to slow down. That would be my chance to leap from the car. I pressed myself against the door and gripped the handle tightly.

  Finally we came off the bridge, rolling into a dark, deserted part of Brooklyn. I could tell the driver was trying his best not to lose speed, but he had no choice but to ease off the gas. The traffic light ahead had just turned from yellow to red and he zoomed right through it. I’d never have a chance to jump if he refused to ever stop the freaking car.

  There were only stop signs at the next two intersections and the driver just barreled through. He was about to do the same with the next one, but miraculously a delivery van came lumbering through the intersection. The driver touched the brake, slowing the car. I jerked the handle down. At the same moment the driver shot hi
s right arm into the backseat and tried to grab hold of my jacket, but I was faster than he was. I shoved open the door, propelled myself out, and rolled onto the sidewalk.

  I scrambled to my feet, veered right, and started to run. I was on a dark and empty street, lined with old warehouses and storefronts with their metal gates pulled down. Behind me I heard tires squeal as the driver jerked the wheel. Oh God, I thought. He was going to come after me, even though he’d be headed the wrong way down a one-way street.

  “I’m out now,” I yelled into the BlackBerry. “On, uh—I can’t see.”

  I couldn’t take the time to see. I just had to move. Running as fast as I could, I screamed for help a couple of times, but there wasn’t a soul in sight, just darkened or boarded-up windows everywhere I could see. In a minute I could hear the car coming up behind me. I propelled myself even faster, trying not to trip in my damn riding boots. My lungs seemed ready to explode.

  I heard the driver gun the engine. He was almost parallel to me, just off to my left. I didn’t look over, just kept my eyes straight ahead, focusing on a point in the distance. About two blocks ahead I could see a big halo of light at an intersection, as if there were businesses and traffic there. Go! I screamed to myself. I only had to make it two long blocks. I yelled for help a few more times, just to let the guy know it would be a bitch to stop the car and try to get me inside again without a fuss.

  We were coming to a stretch of the street where there weren’t even any parked cars along the sidewalk, and I wondered, horrified, if the driver might try to jump the car up onto the sidewalk and mow me down. And then it was like he’d read my mind. I heard the thud as he yanked the car up over the curb. Without even processing what I was about to do, I dropped my phone into my pocket and grabbed a garbage can near a doorway. I spun around and hurled it right at the hood of the car.

  It didn’t do any damage, but it stayed on the hood. As I started running again, my lungs nearly screaming, I heard the driver curse through an open window and put the car in reverse, making the can roll off the hood. Within seconds, though, he was in pursuit again.