by Neliza Drew
“Now I get it.”
I ignored him and watched the shadow. It didn’t move. Just waited. I felt bored with waiting.
A cloud moved and moonlight lit the shadow and I could see it wasn’t a gun he had but a hunting knife. The face belonged to a teenager I’d yet to meet.
I handed the gun to Craig. “Don’t shoot me.” To the teenager, I said, “Don’t stab me.”
He didn’t answer. He lunged forward like he’d seen one too many drunken Civil War reenactments.
I shoved Craig backward and sidestepped the attack, deflecting the knife and catching his wrist. Drove a knee into his ribs and twisted his wrist until I heard the clatter of the knife on the wood floor.
I kicked his legs out from under him and landed with one knee in his back. With the hand that wasn’t still holding his wrist behind him, I grabbed an ear and yanked his head an inch off the floor. “What are you doing in here?”
“Fuck you.” He meant to sound tough. It came out whiny.
“Spill it.” I hadn’t really hurt him yet. But I would.
“Man, that bitch ain’t worth this.”
I waited.
“Sylvia. She said if I hurt you, she’d sleep with me. That girl likes it rough.”
I bounced his face off the hardwood. “About that rough?”
“Man, fuck you. She said Lane was still holding. That she had a stash before she got popped.”
I hauled him to his feet and shoved him toward the stairs. Craig trained the gun on him inexpertly until he’d rounded the corner. Thirty seconds later we heard the front door slam.
Craig crumpled against the wall and let the gun hang at his side. “What the hell are you?”
I rubbed a kink out of my neck and rolled my shoulder. “Pissed. Think you can fix whatever I’ve fucked up?”
He followed me downstairs, looked at my shoulder and walked toward the door.
“Hey, what’d I say?”
“I’m going to get my gear.”
“Oh.”
I watched him walk out the door and felt stupid. It wasn’t like me to ask for help. Or accept help. It wasn’t like me to find people other than Nik gluing and sewing me back together unless circumstances were dire. Or to care if stitches had come loose.
It wasn’t like me to forget the douchebag who’d just run out the front door. The douchebag with nowhere to go, who probably still wanted a fix.
I ran out the door too fast. Dumb move. Amateur.
The first thing I saw was Craig lying prone next to his truck, the door open, light on. The next thing I saw was a fist coming at my face.
I dodged too late, taking the hit on the side of my head instead of the nose. I immediately turned defensive to block a second incoming blow, head still a little full of starbursts. Getting my bearings on the fight, I blocked a third hit with my left arm and brought an uppercut into his ribs with my right, then rolled my elbow into his neck. Hard.
He wasn’t a fighter by training, just a guy playing tough like he’d done on a schoolyard. I had more experience there. By which, I mean I should have just knocked the asshole out, but I was pissed. I wanted to hurt him. I wanted him to hurt me, balance out the mess in my head.
He caught himself on the rusty railing, kept from landing on his ass or his head. Instead, he swung himself onto the patch of mud and dead leaves Charley called a yard. I swung myself over the railing, planting my feet in his ear.
He went down to his knees. I landed on one of mine, but quickly recovered.
He came low, a small black survival knife clenched in his fist. He swung the point at my knees.
I spun out of his arc and thrust-kicked his shoulder.
On the driveway, Craig stirred and sat up, rubbing the back of his head.
The teenager ran toward Craig.
I ran after him.
Craig stood, slowly, not noticing us in the darkness. We were out of the range of the truck’s glow and beneath too many trees for the moon to reach us. He heard the movement and turned as the teenager swung the knife for his midsection.
I was behind him, about seven feet away. I bent my knees and sprang, colliding with the kid’s left hip. I jammed my shoulder into his kidney and caught his wrist mid-swing.
His head hit the edge of the truck’s doorframe with a horrible crack and he went limp. We landed in a heap. Blood was smeared down the side of the truck, visible in the light from the dome inside.
“Ow.”
I disentangled myself and stumbled backward, glancing over at the “ow.”
Craig sat, leaning against the side of the truck, feet splayed, on the other side of the door. Through the window I could see him holding his stomach. He looked stunned and pale.
“Fuck.” I reached down and checked the teenager’s pulse. He still had one. “Craig, you okay?”
I shoved the kid out of the way and closed the truck door enough that I could keep my eye on the teenager while I checked on Craig.
“Craig?”
He looked up at me and smiled. “Damn.”
I bent and put my hand over his. “How bad is it?”
“Just a scratch.”
“If you move the hand, will anything fall out?”
“Just blood.”
“Where’s your box?”
“You think I’m a wuss.”
“Not now, Craig. Where’s the box?”
He looked sullen. “It fell under the truck.”
I crawled under after it, scooped up what I could see had fallen out, and shimmied back out.
“Can you walk?”
He nodded. “I’m not dead.”
“Good to know.” I jerked my head at the teenager. “I’ll meet you at the door.”
Chapter thirty-eight
I dumped the kid on the couch. He’d split his lip and knocked out a tooth. I rolled him over, pulled his shirt over his head, and used the sleeves to tie his arms behind his back. Having him run off again didn’t seem like a good idea, so I pulled off my pants and used the legs to tie his together.
Craig perched himself on the arm of the loveseat, clutching his tackle box of medical supplies and his abs. “You don’t have rope?”
“Have you seen how Charley keeps house?”
“I’d forgotten how beautiful your body is.”
I glanced down, realized my shirt was bloody, muddy, and ripped. “He hit you that hard?” I yanked the shirt off and threw it at the kid.
Craig shrugged and winced.
“Sit down. Get comfortable.” I motioned for him to put his ass on a seat cushion and pulled his shirt over his head, balling it up over the cut. I dug a flashlight out of the purse I’d dropped on the loveseat when we’d first walked in. “Look at me.” I checked his pupils.
“You do that often?”
“More Nik’s thing, actually.” I opened his tackle box and pawed around for a gauze pad to use on his scraped chin.
He traced a scar on my upper arm. “This one wasn’t here when we were kids.”
I found a packet of alcohol swabs and opened one. “I kind of got hit by a car.” I dabbed his chin.
He tried not to wince.
Once clean, the scrape didn’t look too big, so I dug around for a Band-Aid and ointment.
“Let me see the back of your head.” I got up and pointed the flashlight at the knot. “It’s stopped bleeding.”
He touched the scar that ran halfway my thigh.
I pulled his hand away from his belly and stared at the cut. It was long, but not deep. “Probably leave a nasty scar.” I reached over with my right hand and rummaged for sutures or glue.
When I looked back I caught him staring at my right hand.
I glanced at it like it wasn’t part of me and nodded. “I lost some fine motor skills, but I was never going to be a surgeon anyway. It might work better if I’d quit punching things with it.” I took out some gauze and another alcohol pad to clean him up with. “They really did an amazing job. Modern miracle, I guess, considering
there’s still bits of it in the doorframe upstairs.”
The blood flow had slowed, but was still too heavy to get tape to stick. I found a tube of super glue and ran a bead along the edge. “Knife wounds are usually pretty clean.” I tossed the glue back in the box. Once dry, I taped a strip of gauze over the cut and stood. “I’ll go see if there’s anything in Charley’s freezer you can put on your head.”
He caught my hand and stared at the web of scars on my palm, some surgical, some not.
I stopped and stared at the wall. “She’s not sane, Craig. You can’t blame her.”
He searched my face. “She should’ve been aiming for him.”
I jerked my head. My jaw clenched. “It was my fault. I left the .22 out. I should’ve known better.”
He looked like he might cry.
“Don’t give me that shit. I don’t need your pity.” I jerked my hand free and went to the kitchen to find some frozen food that had likely expired before I’d moved out.
He followed me. I heard him, but refused to look back. Instead, I opened the old freezer and stared into it like I could see a point in the future when the conversation would be over and he wouldn’t be giving me that look.
I slammed the freezer door shut and turned. “I can’t find anything to put on your head.”
He put his hands on my shoulders and rubbed the tops of my deltoids, trying to caress away the hurt, I supposed. “I’ll be okay.”
“I don’t want you looking at me differently. But then, I guess you already do.” I shrugged out of his arms and started pulling open drawers, looking for a plastic bag to put ice into. I found an ice cream scoop that looked like Charley had tried to cook heroin in it at some point. I tossed it on the counter. “It wasn’t like I was some little waif who ran off to slay a giant. He was bigger, but he wasn’t exactly Mike Tyson.” I found a sandwich bag that still had bits of weed in it.
I turned, holding the bag in one hand and the scooper in the other. “I’m a better fighter now than I was then. More training, more practice. It still only takes one missed block, one wrong move, one little error and a whole fight can turn.”
He hovered, but refrained from touching me while I scraped frost into the bag.
I handed him the bag and tossed the scooper on the counter. “Don’t eat the ice.”
He stuck it on the back of his head. He still looked like a puppy.
I went back to the living room long enough to grab my purse. He stayed on my heels, but said nothing.
“She caught him.” I crossed the kitchen toward the back stairs to find some clothes.
He followed, oddly quiet.
I turned halfway up the stairs and pointed at a hole in the slanting ceiling. “She missed the first time. Second one broke the window. Third hit the wall in the hallway. Nik put a poster over it when she visited. That’s the fourth.” I held up my hand. “Fifth. Went through and through.” I pointed at another hole, in the wall. “Sixth.”
I ignored the younger version of myself I could see at the top of the stairs, screaming for Charley to stop, to listen to reason. “She probably would’ve done a better job if she hadn’t been high as a fucking satellite.”
I went to my old bedroom, found some jeans from high school.
He followed. “Do you wish she’d killed you?”
I pulled on a sweatshirt. I had no idea how to answer him.
Chapter thirty-nine
Downstairs, I sat on a chair next to my houseguest. According to the ID in his wallet, his name was Anderson Wallace. I thought it was stupid to have two last names, but apparently his mother and mine had been having a mind meld so I couldn’t fault him that.
Craig perched on the arm of the sofa. “At least I know why you weren’t scared of him.”
I jerked the kid into a semi-upright position and slapped him as hard as I could.
“Smelling salts might be easier.”
“Maybe I just felt like slapping him.” The kid didn’t stir. I pulled up an eyelid and checked his pulse. “Fucking drug addicts.”
“Do you do drugs?” His voice held innocent curiosity.
“I had beer with you at dinner.”
“No, I mean have you ever done drugs? Like Charley? Like Lane?”
I bit my lip and thought.
“I’d understand. Believe me.” He rested a hand on my shoulder.
I turned to face him. “I smoked a little pot in high school, middle school. Not a lot. Not often. Every now and then, I’d have a beer.”
“While you were working?”
“It’s not safe if you’re fucked up, even if it makes it easier. If you’re gonna make hard choices, you should know what you’ve done afterward.” I shook my head. “I don’t want to talk about that anymore. I wasn’t like Charley. I got a firsthand look how that turned out.”
He pulled me into him and I got the feeling he needed the hug more than I did.
“This isn’t how I wanted this night to turn out.” His voice was low.
“Ditto.” I stood.
“I didn’t really realize a night could turn out like this, frankly. I mean…is this normal to you?”
“Not anymore.” I looked in his eyes. “You want to know how I was hoping this night would end?”
He nodded.
“I was hoping you wouldn’t ask too many questions, that there’d be no fights, no one would cry, and that I’d forget I’m supposed to have a boyfriend in Florida and get you out of your pants.”
“You have a boyfriend?”
“Only because I haven’t had a chance to break up with him.” I tossed the kid’s wallet at his face and watched it bounce into his lap.
“Any reason why?”
“I thought that’s what I wanted. I thought that’s who I was.” I stood and headed for the stairs.
He followed. “What does that mean?”
I stopped at the foot of the stairs. “You know, you’re the first guy I ever had sex with because I wanted to. The first guy who didn’t know I was a whore.”
“You weren’t a whore to me.”
I shut my eyes. Let him hold me.
“I’ve never seen you that way. I never will.”
“Matt never saw me like that either. He’s the only other one, Matt. That never paid. Never took.” I kept my eyes shut, but I was all cried out.
“So, why break up with him?”
I pulled away and walked up the stairs. At the top of the landing, I stopped. “Because of this.” I pulled my shirt off.
Craig followed and ran his finger along the line running from my clavicle to my bra strap.
I turned and walked up the rest of the way. When I stopped at the top, Craig stood behind me. “He’s normal. I’m not. And every time we make love he closes his eyes.”
Craig’s fingers danced along the webbed white lines tangled in knots on my back.
“He turns out the lights.”
Craig unhooked my bra, pausing to plant kisses behind my ear, along the curve of my neck.
“He thinks I was in an accident. And he still can’t bear to look.” Craig’s fingers caressed the exit wound above my shoulder blade. “He acts like he’s afraid he’ll hurt me.”
“You’re beautiful. Incredible.” Craig pulled back and let my bra fall to the floor.
I reached for the buttons on his jeans. “I don’t believe that.”
He dropped his pants and followed me in his boxers. The chill in the air left goose pimples on his pale winter flesh. “Why would you be with someone who doesn’t appreciate who you are?”
“I forgot who I was.” I stepped out of my jeans and pulled him up the last step of the stairs. “I thought I wanted to be someone else. Someone regular.”
I leaned in and nibbled his lower lip. My hands trailed the lines of his sinewy muscles, toyed with the elastic of his boxer shorts, traced the faded Invader Zim head on his taut ass.
He pulled away. “Do you still want to be someone else?”
“You want to kn
ow if you’re making out with your high school girlfriend or about to fuck a hooker?”
He looked down and I felt his erection shrink against my thigh. “Is this what you really want? I don’t want to be someone else who uses you.”
“I’ve wanted to do this since Wednesday.” I kissed him and tasted the remnants of calamari and beer on his breath. “You’re the only person I’ve… You’re the closest I’ve ever felt to… Please don’t make me try to explain it.”
He burrowed his face in my neck and followed the scar down to my chest. I ran my hands through his wavy brown hair and kissed him.
He was out of breath when he broke free. “Just tell me you want this.”
I looked into his caramel-sauce eyes and pulled him toward Charley’s room. “I want this.”
“What about your room?”
“Somebody stabbed the mattress.”
He raised an eyebrow.
I dropped his boxers, pushed him backward on the bed, and reached for my purse.
“You have a condom?” He pushed up on his elbows.
“Yeah.” I showed him.
“You keep those on you?”
I reached for him. “Call it an old habit.”
He lay back again, let me roll it on, and wrap my lips around him over it. “I remember you had the condom in high school, too.”
I climbed on top of him and put a finger to his lips. “Sh. Enough old times.”
As soon as he was inside me, the years melted away and I was sixteen again, a horny girl with an impossibly cute boyfriend who thought I was just another junior. But I rode him like a grown woman who needed to release a terrible week, pounded against him like a woman who needed to get just to the edge of hurt. And bit and clawed at him like someone who needed the two of us to reach the screaming together.
Chapter forty
Saturday, February 11
I’d dozed off for a while, but it hadn’t kept. I watched Craig sleep and thought about our first time. Gentle. Awkward.
His hand lifted my shirt slowly and set it on his pillow. I leaned in for another kiss. His lips parted and our tongues found each other again, like desperate lovers kept apart. Or teenagers in heat. His fingers fumbled with the knots on my bikini top. Mine explored the contours of his skinny torso, the way the sheen of sweat left behind goose pimples in his parents’ chilly house. His delicate fingers cupped my breasts and he stroked my nipples with his thumbs, his eyes full of lust and amazement.