On Best Behavior (C3)

by Jennifer Lane

  “Makes sense,” Sophie said.

  “Exactly. But I only find a significant difference in help-seeking behavior when I compare the top and bottom thirds—and David told me it was ridiculous to throw out the middle third of my sample.”

  She frowned. “David?”

  “David Alton,” Tanya confessed with a wince.

  “Why are you taking advice from him?” she asked. “How did he even find out about your study?”

  “Oh, Nora let it slip in class when they were arguing about the performance of minorities on intelligence tests. She’s apologized to me about twenty times now.”

  She laughed. “Poor Nora. I’m so glad she knows what David’s really like.”

  “Yes, and she’s keeping tabs on him. So far he hasn’t hit on any of the ladies in this year’s class.”

  “I’m glad he no longer thinks he’s God’s gift to female psychology students.”

  Tanya leaned in. “Speaking of God’s gift, have you met Nora’s boyfriend?”

  She shook her head.

  “Ay yi yi. That man is hot. Smokin’ hot.”

  She nudged her shoulder. “We need to get you a man.”

  “Is it so terrible I want my own McSailor?”

  “No, not at all. He’s pretty nice to have around. That’s what I’m saying!” She suppressed a yawn.

  “Did McSailor keep you up late with kinky sex?”

  “Jeez, you need to get laid. He got home late from his gig, that’s all.”

  “And then you had sex.”

  “Our relationship is more than just sex, Tanya.”

  “I don’t know why,” she said. “If I had a man like that I’d sex him up one side and down the other.”

  “Knock, knock.”

  They looked up to see Kirsten standing in the office doorway, looking like she’d swallowed a canary. “I see you two are engaged in quite the academic discussion. You do know I can hear your porno talk all the way in the hallway, right?”

  Sophie’s cheeks flushed as Tanya stood and shooed Kirsten inside before shutting the door.

  “Please tell me David wasn’t in the hallway,” Tanya said.

  Kirsten took a seat. “Luckily, no.” She turned to Sophie. “Hey, roomie.”

  “Roomie?” Tanya asked. “Still living in the past, Kirsten?”

  “Oh, uh, yeah,” Kirsten stammered. “Life hasn’t been complete since Sophie moved out. At least I get to be in the same building as her, though.”

  “So what brings you over to the psych building, Dr. Holland?” Sophie asked quickly.

  Kirsten rolled her eyes. “Had a no-show at the counseling center. Stupid students.”

  “But now you get paid whether or not the clients show, right?” Sophie asked.

  A dazzling smile from Kirsten. “One benefit of working for a university counseling center. Though the salary is crap.”

  “Maybe you need a sugar daddy to pay the bills,” Tanya suggested.

  Sophie laughed. “Aaaand we’re back to sex.”

  “I don’t know, guys,” Kirsten said. “I just read this article in Psychology Today about being single at heart. I think that’s me.” She shrugged. “I’ve always been this weird, nonlinear thinker…”

  Tanya nodded. “I saw that article. I can’t believe forty-five percent of American adults are unmarried. Where are all the single men? And more importantly, what do these people do for sex?”

  “I got it!” Sophie shot out of her chair.

  “You got what?” Tanya eyed her. “The way for single people to gain unfettered access to sex?”

  “No. The answer to your stats question.” Sophie yanked the paper out of Tanya’s hand. “The reason the significant difference isn’t showing up with the whole sample? Your data are nonlinear. Only by looking at the top and bottom thirds are you finding the truth.”

  Tanya absorbed that for a few seconds. “Holy Oprah Winfrey—you’re right! So if I follow David’s advice, I’ll have non-significant results. My study will be loserville.”

  “Suck it, David,” Sophie crowed.

  “He wishes.” Tanya smirked.

  “I’m brilliant,” Sophie said, with a toss of her hair.

  “No,” Kirsten countered. “You’re a nerd.”

  ***

  Tank winced at the lingering sting of the knife wound in his shoulder. The prison doc had removed his stitches yesterday, but the gash still felt tender. He arranged his face in a mask of stone before approaching the wiry blond men hovering over the bench press.

  “We got company, boss,” the elfin one hissed as Tank neared.

  There was a loud clang of metal as Ricker dropped the weighted bar on the clips and popped off the bench in one fluid motion. He pushed aside his ponytailed minion and stepped right up to Tank, who gave him a perplexed look as he barked a few words in guttural German.

  “I don’t speak Nazi,” Tank said.

  Ricker inched closer. “This bench is taken.”

  Tank nodded. “Not interested in the bench.”

  “You can’t lift the weight,” Elf sneered. “And it’s only sir’s warm-up.”

  Peering around the boy’s shoulder at the fifty-pound plates on the bar, Tank chuckled. “One forty-five?” He stared at Elf. “That’s about what you weigh, isn’t it?” He stooped down and clutched the boy’s knee with one hand while the other seized his neck. He scooped Elf off his feet and hoisted him above his head.

  Elf flailed wildly. “Mr. Mullens!” His free leg bicycled as he tried to liberate himself.

  Tank felt burning in his biceps and a searing pain in his shoulder as he heaved Elf up and down in a human bench press. He’d expected Ricker would intervene, but instead the blond sported a fat grin, and Ponytail giggled like a girl.

  “Put me down!” Elf wailed.

  He felt the boy slap his wrist like a bothersome gnat. His grip on Elf’s neck tightened as he completed his tenth rep.

  “Sirrr!” Elf cried. “Why don’t you make him…put me down?”

  Ricker shook his head. “Enjoying the show too much, powder puff.”

  Finding human weight far more unwieldy than metal plates on a bar, Tank finished his fifteenth rep hoping he hadn’t busted open the knife wound. He heaved Elf back to the gym floor, not so gently. The minion scurried away, at first looking as if he’d hide behind Ricker but instead heading to the door.

  “Steven!” Ricker boomed, halting the boy in his tracks. Evidently Elf had a name. “Get back here.”

  The boy swiveled and gingerly stepped back to his master, his eyes growing wider with each step. As soon as he was within striking distance, Ricker backhanded him across the face. Steven sprawled on the rubber floor.

  Tank looked over to the two guards by the wall. They continued chatting, apparently uninterested in intervening.

  “You never leave without permission,” Ricker fumed.

  Little Stevie cradled his injured cheek as he sat up. “But…but I was mad at you. You didn’t protect me. You said you’d always protect me.”

  Ricker leaned down, glanced up at Tank, then looked back at Steven as he offered the boy a hand and pulled him to his feet. “He didn’t drop you. I knew you were safe, sweetie.” He pressed a soft kiss to the boy’s crimson cheek.

  What’s the deal with this guy? Tank wondered.

  “Rack up the weights for my main set,” Ricker ordered, slapping Steven’s butt.

  Steven sashayed to the rack, and he and Ponytail struggled together to hoist a fifty-pound plate from its place.

  “Nice little show,” Ricker said, honing his icy gaze back on Tank. “You will not do so well with two forty-five.” His eyes flitted down to Tank’s crotch. “But I will cooperate much better when you lift me.” A grin spread as he extended an arm and leg, offering himself as a human barbell.

  Tank shook his head. “Like I said, I’m not here to lift.” He lowered his voice. “Mr. Barberi’s got a job for you when you get out.”

  Ricker straightened. “
Then he needs to talk to me himself.”

  “Don’t work that way.”

  When Ricker sidled closer, Tank caught a whiff of his rank odor. “He only sends his bitches to deliver the message, eh?”

  Tank glared.

  “So why were you in the infirmary?” Ricker asked, his eyes dancing.

  “Speaking of bitches…” Tank looked over to the two butterflies standing by the bar. “Mr. Barberi wants this conversation to be private.”

  The German considered this request, then turned to his boys. “You two, give me ten laps.”

  Ponytail opened his mouth to protest, but when Ricker took a menacing step toward him, he grabbed Steven’s hand and sprinted to the corner of the gym.

  “What will they do without you?” Tank mused.

  “Already sold them. They will be good.” Ricker’s face darkened. “But if you touch them, you’ll pay.” He spat on the ground, centimeters from Tank’s scuffed black prison boot. “I don’t care if Enzo protects you.”

  “You should,” he countered. “He still has a lot of money. Money you could get if you help us.”

  “I only listen to your offer if you tell me why you were in the infirmary.”

  “Forget it, you manipulative prick.” He shook his head and turned to leave.

  “Enzo will not be happy you failed with the offer.”

  “I’ll tell Mr. Barberi you weren’t interested,” he tossed over his shoulder. “Too bad, too. Money could’ve set you up good on the outside. Lots of boys for your pleasure.” He hid his grin when he felt Ricker move up behind him.

  “I never pay for boys,” Ricker said.

  Tank turned around.

  “But I need to hear this from Enzo. Not from you.”

  “You don’t listen too well, do you?” Tank stepped closer, happy to have the slight height advantage. “I told you this goes through me.”

  Ricker’s arms folded across his barrel chest. “You are the one who cannot listen. Tell me why you were down for the count.”

  “Listen, shithead—” His words wilted into a hiss as Ricker’s thumb gouged into his knife wound through his shirt. How the hell did he know Enzo had stabbed him there? His eyes shot up to meet the guards’ sharp gazes.

  Feeling like he might vomit or pass out, he struggled to swallow. He blinked until the black spots faded from his vision and raised his shaking hands to push Ricker off him. But the man’s vice grip was too strong.

  “Oh,” Tank managed. “I did tell you this was…about Grant, right?” A glint of interest lit up Ricker’s eyes, and the thumb lifted.

  “You did not.” Ricker’s voice sounded strained, like he was fighting for control. “All right, I will listen. But Enzo cannot afford my services.”

  “Oh, I think he can,” Tank said. He stood up straighter. “Here’s what he needs you to do…”

  ***

  “Mom?” Ben pocketed his keys and stepped into the warm apartment. He was surprised to find his mother shivering on the sofa, despite two heavy blankets piled on top of her. “Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”

  “I’m sick.” Her voice scratched, and sweat plastered her blond bangs to her forehead.

  He set down his swim bag. “That sucks.”

  She sniffed. “How was practice?”

  “Good. We’re starting taper.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s when the coaches stop killing us every day, to rest us for the big meet.” He smiled. “Sophie said taper’s the best part of swimming.”

  His mother nodded. They stared at each other for a moment before she looked down. “I don’t think I can pay your meet entry fees. I’m missing out on tips tonight, and I’ll probably have to call in sick tomorrow too. Sorry.”

  She looked miserable, and he wished he could help her feel better. “It’s okay. Sophie gave me some money.”

  “Oh.” She reached for a tissue. “Good, that’s a relief.”

  She didn’t sound relieved. “Want, um, do you want some hot chocolate or something…tea, I guess?”

  “That’s sweet. How ’bout you dry your hair first, so you don’t get sick like me?”

  “It’s okay, Mom.” He shrugged off his coat as he headed into the kitchen. “Sophie said that’s a myth. Germs cause sickness, not wet hair. Besides, it’s like ninety degrees in here.” He thought he heard her say something in reply, but the drone of the microwave drowned out her voice.

  The cup rattled on the plate as he set the hot water on the coffee table. “I could only find this old black tea in the cupboard. It looks kinda ancient—we need to go shopping.”

  She mumbled, and all he caught was Sophie’s name.

  “What’d you say?”

  His mother sat up a bit and stirred some honey into the steaming water. Greasy hair framed her face as she stared at her spoon. “Sounds like Sophie takes good care of you.”

  “Well, yeah, I mean, I only see her once or twice a week…” As he sat down in a side chair, it dawned on him what was bothering her. “But, you know, she’s not my mom or anything.”

  When she glanced over at him, he noticed a glassy look in her eyes—caused by her sickness, he hoped, and not because she was about to cry. He couldn’t handle that. After she took a sip, she closed her eyes. “Ah, this feels so good on my throat. Thank you, Benji.”

  “Mom…” He felt his cheeks warm.

  “Sorry. It just seems like yesterday when you were…three or four, I think…and you were all snuggled on the sofa with the flu—God, you had the worst diarrhea—”

  “Gross.”

  “Anyway, I brought some soda over to you. After you drank some, you looked up at me with those big blue eyes, and said, ‘You’re the best, babe.’”

  His forehead creased as his mother laughed. “Why did I say that?”

  “Well…” Her smile faded. “I bet you heard your father say it once or twice.”

  “He used to call you babe?”

  Her mouth tightened. “When he wanted something from me.”

  He chewed his lip.

  “I’m so proud of you.”

  “Why?”

  “Your grades are excellent, and Dr. Hayes told me you’re doing really well.”

  “Did he tell you anything else?” He heard his voice rise like a girl’s.

  “No.” Her head cocked to the side. “Like what?”

  “Nothing.” He swallowed.

  “Ben, honey?” Her stare was intense. “What is it?”

  “It’s nothing.” He looked over to the kitchen. “I’m hungry. Want some dinner?”

  She continued looking at him. “C’mon, you can tell me.” The corner of her mouth quirked up. “Tell me, babe.”

  Forcing a swallow, he slowly met her eyes. He felt his fingertips tapping a rapid beat on his knee, and he compelled his hand to lie flat on his jeans. “Mom?”

  She nodded.

  “Dr. Hayes…he said I should tell you something.”

  “Okay?”

  “You, uh…you shouldn’t be proud of me.”

  She sniffed. “Well, I am. No matter what you’ve done, you’re my pride and joy.”

  He winced. She was making this harder. Dr. Hunter’s words swam through his mind as he scrubbed his hand through his hair. Confession can make you feel better—it’s a means of moving forward and making repairs. “Mom?”

  She nodded.

  “I used to, well, one time I, um…I sold drugs.”

  Her face fell, and her eyes welled up in tears.

  So much for Dr. Hunter’s promise. “I’m sorry—I only did it once! And it was just ecstasy pills.”

  “Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Red blotches marred her face.

  He squirmed as his mother began to sob. “Sorry! I shouldn’t have told you.” He leaned forward to get up, but she grasped his wrist.

  “Stay.” She sniffed as she wiped her cheek. “We need to talk about this.”

  He closed his eyes, motionless for a moment, then
scooted back on the cushion. His hands curled over the arms of the chair as he braced himself for the onslaught.

  “I’m sorry I’m crying,” she rasped, snatching a tissue from the box. “I know you don’t like it when I cry.” Her eyes found his after she blew her nose. “But, Ben, I’m terrified of you becoming like your father.”

  He shot out of his chair. “I’m not like him!”

  “All right.” She blinked up at him, and more tears leaked down her cheeks. “Sit down, okay?”

  Looking away, he blew out a breath. Finally his butt found the cushion again.

  “What did Dr. Hayes say when you told him?”

  “He said I needed to tell you, for some stupid reason. Wonderful idea that turned out to be.”

  “Did he call the police?”

  “No! He can’t do that.” Ben felt a shot of panic rifle up his spine. “You won’t do that, will you? You’re not gonna turn in your own son!”

  She was quiet for a moment then said, “No. I wouldn’t do that. But there should be some consequence for this. Dr. Hayes told me I’m supposed to give you consequences.”

  “Awesome,” he huffed. “I’m never talking to him again.”

  “Ben, calm down. You’re just mad right now.”

  “Shouldn’t I be?”

  Her tears stopped. “No, I should be the mad one, with you breaking the law. It was bad enough when I found out you were using drugs, but selling them? Do you know how serious that is?”

  “Of course! That’s why I didn’t want to tell you. I’m not stupid, you know.”

  “That’s why I can’t believe this. You’re getting straight As—I never got grades that good—yet you go and do something incredibly risky and dangerous like that? Why? Why did you sell drugs?”

  That last question threw him off guard. Why had he been such a dumbass? He unclenched his fists as he slumped in the chair. “Dunno,” he finally mumbled, looking down.

  He heard his mother stir her tea then take a sip. She set the cup down. “Were you mad at your dad?”

  When he looked up, the anger had drained from her face. She just looked tired now. “Maybe.”

  “I know the feeling. He could drive me crazy sometimes.”

  He smirked. “Yeah.”

  “You’re not like him, Benji. You know that? You’re stronger than him. You don’t need drugs…or gambling. Okay?”