by Theresa Weir
“Do you ever wonder what we’re doing here?” she asked him one night.
Her question took him by surprise. They were just getting started. They were just beginning the adventure. “No,” he said.
“Not at all?”
“No.”
She grew very still and very quiet.
And then she began to cry. She was homesick, she told him. She wanted to go back to Missouri.
“I can’t go back there,” he said. “Not now. Maybe never. What’s in Egypt?”
“My family. My friends. I miss my mom, my dad. Even my brothers. I don’t know what I’m doing here.”
“I’m here,” he said, hurt to discover that his company wasn’t enough, hurt to discover that while he’d been thinking they were having the greatest time of their young lives, she’d been miserable.
Maybe he didn’t love her enough. Because he couldn’t make himself leave, not after getting a taste of the world. He couldn’t make himself go back to Egypt.
They sold his stereo to buy her a bus ticket home. After she left, Daniel could no longer afford the tiny apartment they’d rented together. His boss let him move his few belongings into the cramped sleeping quarters of one of his boats, and that became Daniel’s home. The room was stuffy and claustrophobic, so most of the time he slept on the deck, with the moon overhead and the water gently lapping under his ear.
That kind of nomadic life was okay for a kid just out of high school, but Daniel began to feel sickened by the carnage. He began to look to the future, and what he saw was a Coast Guard cutter.
Three years after joining the Coast Guard, he gave up his sea legs and took a position with the San Diego police. He somehow ended up in a couple of hostage situations and before he knew it, his life of freedom had turned into one of high stress and fearsome responsibility. He started drinking and smoking-and became damn good at both.
The front door slammed, bringing Daniel back to the present, to the patio, the cigarette, his unfinished beer, and Beau’s return from work.
It was weird, Beau having a job. Daniel still wasn’t quite sure what to make of it.
“I’m out here,” Daniel yelled through the screen door.
As soon as Premonition saw Beau, the dog jumped to his feet and started whining and running around in circles.
Beau tried to pet him, but Premonition was too excited to hold still. It took several minutes for them to calm down. As soon as they did, Beau spotted the cigarette butt in the grass.
His face fell. “You’re smoking,” he said in shock. “Why?”
Daniel silently cursed himself. He should have tossed the butt in the flowers where Beau wouldn’t find it.
“It was a rough day. I needed a cigarette.”
“No, no, no.” Beau grabbed the open pack and squeezed them in his fist.
Daniel jumped to his feet, almost knocking over the beer bottle. He tried to wrestle the pack from Beau, but Beau took off across the yard, Premonition at his heels. Daniel tackled him, both men flying to the ground. “Damn it, Beau,” Daniel said, trying to pry Beau’s hand open to get the cigarettes.
“You’re not getting them, you’re not getting them,” Beau yelled. “I turn my back on you a minute and this is what happens.”
Daniel laughed, recognizing their mother’s famous line.
The dog was on top of them, thinking it was a great game.
“Premonition!” Beau yelled, getting the dog’s attention. “Here!” He gave the cigarette pack a heave. The dog went after it, catching it before it hit the ground.
Daniel got to his feet, with Beau following. “Ha, ha,” Beau said, delighted. “Now they’re full of dog slobber.” Then he saw the grass stain on the front of his shirt and immediately went into a panic. “My shirt. It’s dirty. I have to wear it tomorrow. Look what you did.” He was close to tears.
“It’s okay. We’ll wash it. We’ll use that presoak stuff on it, like you see on TV. It’ll get out a grass stain,” Daniel said with a confidence he didn’t feel. Would it? He hoped so. Otherwise Beau would be up all night worrying about the shirt. “We’ll do it right now. Come on. Get the shirt off.”
They had to go to the store to find something for grass stains. By the time they got home, it was getting dark. Inside, the message light on the answering machine was on.
It was Cleo, wondering why he hadn’t come to pick her up so she could get her dog.
“Premonition?” Beau asked, fresh panic setting in on top of an already fragile state of mind.
Daniel rubbed the gooey stain stick across the front of Beau’s shirt, wondering how in the hell it would get rid of the stain. “Yeah, I was going to tell you, but then I forgot, what with all the shirt business.”
He brought the two sides of the shirt together, trying to grind in the stain remover.
Beau and Premonition followed him to the laundry room where Daniel stepped over piles of dirty clothes, tossed the shirt in the washer, poured in some liquid soap, and turned the machine on, dropping the lid with a bang.
This was exactly what he’d feared would happen, that Beau would become attached to the dog. It had just happened a little faster than Daniel had expected. He turned to Beau, all set to explain that Beau couldn’t keep the dog, but then his words tangled in his throat.
Beau was crying.
At that very moment, someone pounded on the front door.
Chapter Fifteen
Cleo knocked on the door again, then stepped back and tucked the plastic straw in the corner of her mouth, sucking the last bit of Tastee Delight vanilla shake from the bottom of the cup.
The door opened. Daniel stood there looking at her through the screen.
“Remember me?” she asked. “You were supposed to give me a ride so I could get my dog.”
He scratched his head. “Yeah,” he admitted with a distracted air. “I’ve been a little busy.”
“I walked, if you’re worried about how I got here. I can see you are.” In truth, she hadn’t been able to stay in the motel room one more second.
Since he wasn’t going to ask, she had to. “Can I come in?”
He pushed the screen door open. “Sure.” He didn’t sound sure at all.
She stepped inside the cool, welcoming room. “Where’s Premonition?”
In the distance, beyond the kitchen, she heard a washing machine. It was a homey sound.
Daniel crossed his arms high over his chest. “Listen…about your dog.”
The empty paper cup she was holding fell from nerveless fingers, hitting the floor with a hollow sound. “Oh, my God. Something’s happened. He’s been hit by a car!”
“No, no,” Daniel quickly assured her. “He’s fine. It’s just that, well, Beau’s become attached to him. Really attached, and I was wondering if you’d sell him to us. After all, you were going to leave him here, anyway. So what would it matter? This way you can actually get something out of it.”
Sell her dog?
Sell Premonition?
Earlier she’d planned to leave him with Beau, but that was because she’d thought it would be best for everyone. Selling him had never been part of the equation.
Cup forgotten, she strode past Daniel, intent on stepping into the backyard to get her dog. But when she reached the screen door, she stopped.
In the semidarkness just beyond the illuminated circle cast by the porch light, Beau knelt on the ground, his arms around Premonition. And he was crying. There he was, a man who was getting gray at the temples, hugging her dog, sobbing his heart out.
She should never have come to this place.
Everything was wrong. It had been wrong from the beginning.
“I’ll sell the dog.”
The words were out of her mouth before she’d even assessed them. Why had she said that? She would give Premonition to Beau, but she would never, ever sell him.
Without appearing to give Cleo a second thought, Daniel cut in front of her, slid open the screen door, and stepped outside.
“Beau!” he shouted, moving toward his brother at a half run. “Good news. You can keep the dog.”
Beau looked up and said something Cleo couldn’t hear.
Daniel nodded.
Beau’s smile, when it came, was brilliant. Dazzling. He jumped to his feet, laughing, Premonition dancing around him, letting out a couple of excited barks.
Tightness gripped Cleo’s throat, grief was coming on.
Moving with a jerky awkwardness, she turned and walked across the living room to the front door. Blindly she groped for the handle, found it, and tumbled onto the porch, almost falling to her knees. Recalling the way Daniel had come after her before, she hurried down the steps. Instead of taking the sidewalk, she ran across the street, disappearing into the darkness between two houses. She kept running. Past houses casting warm light, past barking dogs, through backyards and front yards, until her side ached and her lungs were raw. She stopped, her breathing harsh in her ears, hands braced on her knees. Then, with a palm pressed to her side, she walked.
She couldn’t go back to the motel room. Not yet.
She passed an old cemetery. The iron gate was open. She took that as an invitation, and was soon wandering among the moss-covered tombstones. Gradually her lungs began to feel better. She collapsed in an open area, the grass cool under her cheek, the ground beneath her smelling like a mysterious concoction of things old and new.
In the peacefulness of the cemetery, she drifted off to sleep…
Daniel Sinclair was lying on the grass beside her. He pulled her into his arms, pressing his mouth to hers. Somehow their clothes disappeared, and his body touched hers, hot skin to hot skin. As she looked into his eyes, he filled her, a confident smile on his face, a man in total control. Let go, he told her without verbal communication. Just let go.
She felt herself letting go, falling away, while he continued to smile at her, cool as could be.
She woke up with a start, the slanted, erotic mood of the dream still upon her. It took her a moment to realize she was still in the cemetery. She groaned, her body stiff, her clothes and skin covered with dew. How long had she been there? She pushed herself to a half-sitting position. It had to be late. There were no lights in the nearby houses. There was not a single sound of a vehicle anywhere.
Off in the distance, sounding miles and miles away, a dog barked.
She got stiffly to her feet and began moving in the direction of the motel. By the time she reached the highway that led to The Palms, she still hadn’t seen any sign of life. Rather than walk next to the highway, she clung to the ditch. At one point, a lone semi moved in her direction, the headlights cutting through fog she hadn’t realized was there until that moment. She jumped behind a tree, waited for the vehicle to pass, then continued to the motel.
No welcoming beacon lit the way. The neon sign that announced the name of the motel had long ago ceased to work, and, like everything else around the place, no one had bothered to fix it.
Gravel crunched under her feet as she approached her room. Suddenly she spotted a dark form uncurling itself from her door, then a voice came to her out of the darkness.
“Get lost?” The voice and shape belonged to Daniel Sinclair. She was too tired to deal with him now.
“What do you want, Sinclair?”
“Jo would like you to come in for another reading tomorrow.”
He could have called to tell her that.
“And to find out what you want for your dog. How about a hundred bucks?”
She couldn’t talk about Premonition. If she did, she’d start crying. “I don’t want anything.” She bowed her head over her bag, acting extremely interested in finding her key. Her fingers came in contact with the slice of plastic, but she continued the pretense of a search.
“Oh, come on. I know better than that. You always want something.”
She unlocked the door and flipped on the wall switch, revealing the room in all its squalid glory. Nothing looked out of place, and yet she got the impression someone had been there.
She dropped her bag on the bed. Daniel was right behind her, closing the door with a solid click, sliding the chain lock. He tossed something beside her bag. A packet of rubbers.
“I want you.”
She had to admire his directness. And yet she knew the words were a confession, something that came with reluctance, something he wasn’t proud of.
Remnants of her dream still lingered in her mind. The next day she was going to leave, money or no money. She’d had it with this town. She’d had it with Daniel Sinclair. But there was something so enticing, so decadent, about making love with someone you hated. There would be no worry over whether she measured up, because what difference did it make? She didn’t care what he thought. She knew what he thought. That she was trash. That she was devious. That she existed only for herself.
Let him think it.
She hated him.
She picked up the packet he’d dropped on the bed. She waved it a little, as though she were shaking down a packet of sugar. “I hope you brought more than one.”
He reached into the front pocket of his jeans and tossed two more on the bed. “I’ve had a hard-on ever since I had my fingers inside you.”
She swallowed, her hands hovering over her top. Should she just strip? He solved that problem by reaching for her jeans. He unbuttoned and unzipped them. They dropped to the floor. “Wait,” she whispered, slipping out of her sandals, then kicking free of the pants. “The light.”
Instead of turning off the light, he said, “I’ve waited too long.” He unzipped his own pants, freed his erection, grabbed a packet, opened it, and slipped on a condom, all in a flurry and whirling and heart-racing breath. With one hand, he tugged at the front of her underwear, practically ripping them from her. She fell to the bed, her feet still on the floor. He followed her down. Then, without removing any of his clothing, without kissing her or touching her, he entered her, his arms braced on either side of her head.
If not for the night in the other hotel, she might have given him the benefit of the doubt. But he knew how to bring a woman pleasure. He just wasn’t bothering.
She hated him. Oh, God, she hated him.
She stared at him, at his face, her anger shimmering around her. He thrust his hips against her, his eyes closed, his breath hard and fast, a lock of hair hanging over his forehead.
“Pig,” she said, calmly, clearly.
He hesitated.
“I hate you,” she added, as he drove into her one final time before collapsing on top of her.
“Was that supposed to be like a vaccination?” she asked while he was still inside her, his chest rising and falling, his breathing ragged. He was hot and sweaty, while she felt cold everywhere except where their bodies touched. “An unpleasant job you had to do in order to get me out of your system?”
She shoved his shoulders, pushing him away. Scrambling from the bed, she grabbed her pants and put them on. She heard the strike of a match then smelled cigarette smoke.
She swung around and grabbed the cigarette from his mouth. It was bent and smashed, as if he’d found it under a sofa cushion. Thinking about it made her feel sick. Thinking about what they’d just done made her feel sicker.
Before he had a chance to get the cigarette back, she ran to the bathroom and tossed it in the toilet. It hit the water with a sizzle, the paper becoming transparent, the tobacco seeping out, turning the water a yellow-brown.
She reached for the lever to flush the toilet. She had to get rid of the slimy cigarette. Her stomach heaved. She squeezed her eyes shut, but that wasn’t any better. With her eyes closed, she could see the cigarette butt as if it were still there.
In the bedroom, Daniel ran shaking fingers through his sweat-soaked hair. What the hell was the matter with him? He’d wanted to get back at her for her stinging insults to his manhood and sexual prowess. He hadn’t wanted her to think he was softening toward her. And she was right, he’d wanted to get her out of his system.
Sure, she’d come there with the intent of taking the town of Egypt for a ride, but that didn’t justify his treating her like that. No woman should be treated like that.
She’d been in the bathroom quite a while. Probably waiting for him to leave. Instead of leaving, he got to his feet, knocked softly on the bathroom door, then pushed it open.
She stood with her back against the wall, her eyes closed. In the weird light cast by the small fluorescent bulb, her face looked colorless, except for bruises beneath her eyes. He started to reach for her, but his hand stopped a few inches from her arm. She’d probably prefer he didn’t touch her.
“Listen,” he began. How had this happened? What a hell of a day it had been. Or two days-it would be morning soon. “I’m sorry.”
“Go.” The word came on an exhalation of air, as if she hardly had the energy to get it out.
He frowned. How many days had she been in Egypt? Three? Four? It looked as if she’d lost weight in the short time she’d been there. He thought back to that first day, when she’d eaten with them. She’d thrown up.
Yeah, but she ate breakfast at the hotel, he told himself.
But had she? Really? Had he seen her eat anything? No.
His stomach plunged. Was there something wrong with her?
He reached for her again, and this time he touched her, his fingers wrapping lightly around her arm. “You’ve got to get some sleep.”
Surprisingly, she didn’t argue. Like a zombie, she let him lead her from the bathroom to the bed. Once there, she sat down, then rolled away, her face to the wall, her back to him, her knees drawn close.
He pulled the sheet over her, then looked around for a spread and spotted a piece of orange fabric protruding from under the bed. He pulled it out and started to drape in over her when she said quite clearly, “Nothing orange. I don’t want anything orange.”
He looked at the spread clutched in his hands. You couldn’t get much more orange than that. He turned on the lamp, turned off the overhead light, and sat down on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees.