by Joy Fielding
“I mind very much,” Jamie said now, staring at the hateful woman as she slept. “The earrings are in her dresser,” she told Brad. “Top drawer, at the back.”
EIGHTEEN
Brad traversed the plush, white broadloom to the dresser in one graceful arc, almost like a dancer, Jamie thought. As if his entire life he’d been breaking into people’s homes as they slept. As if rifling through their belongings and stealing their most prized possessions was something with which he was intimately familiar. As if it was all in a night’s work. He was a little too comfortable with the situation, she thought, as he seized the ornate brass handle of the polished wood dresser and pulled open its top drawer, exposing its contents to the scrutiny of the night. Just as he’d looked a little too comfortable with a knife in his hands last night in Tifton.
Jamie’s eyes had grown slowly more used to the darkness, and she had no trouble making out even the smallest details of the room: the myriad shapes of the glass perfume bottles that lined the top of the dresser; the silver-embossed title of the softcover book on the night table beside the bed; the small crack in the pale blue-and-white wallpaper between the door frame and the ceiling. Although maybe she was just remembering this last detail. She couldn’t be sure. She’d worked so hard to blot out everything about her time here.
And now here she was, right back in the middle of it.
And what else? What else had she gotten herself into?
Beside her, Mrs. Dennison stirred, made a slight munching sound with her mouth. For a second, Jamie feared she was about to wake up. Nature giving her a middle-of-the-night wake-up call. But she only flipped onto her left side, her right arm reflexively reaching out to pull the comforter back up around her shoulders. What would she do if Mrs. Dennison were to wake up right now? Or maybe she was already awake. Maybe she was just pretending to be asleep.
“You’d like to kill her, wouldn’t you?” Brad said from beside the dresser, fistfuls of the woman’s intimate apparel overflowing his cupped hands.
“What? No! Of course not.” A line of sweat suddenly materialized across Jamie’s forehead, like a fever breaking. She was thinking of the switchblade in his pocket.
“Bullshit,” Brad countered. “It’s written all over your face.” He laughed. “Your hatred for this woman glows in the dark.” He laughed again, although this time the laugh was silent.
Jamie was about to protest but stopped when she realized he was right. She did hate Laura Dennison.
“You could do it, you know,” Brad continued, his voice a seductive whisper. “All you’d have to do is grab that pillow next to her head and hold it over her face for a couple of minutes. It’d be so easy.”
Jamie stared down at her former mother-in-law. Was Brad seriously trying to encourage her to commit murder? Would he really have slit that boy’s throat? Don’t be ridiculous, she told herself, forcing the troublesome thought from her brain. “Let’s just get the earrings and get out of here.”
Brad dropped the bras and panties in his hands to the top of the dresser, his hand sweeping soundlessly across the inside of the top drawer. “There’s nothing here.”
“There’s no jewelry box?”
“See for yourself.”
Jamie tiptoed to his side, knowing even before she reached her hand inside the drawer she’d find nothing. “She must have moved it,” she muttered, hating the sleeping woman even more. You couldn’t let anything be easy, could you? she was thinking as she returned the underwear to its former position. Silently, she searched through the bureau’s second drawer, and then the third, coming up empty. “Okay, it’s not here. Let’s just leave.”
“Nah. It’s gotta be somewhere. Where would she keep it?”
“I don’t know. My heart is racing; my head is pounding. I think I’m going to be sick,” Jamie rattled off, her body suddenly acutely aware of her predicament. You’ve overstayed your welcome, her body was telling her. You’re pushing your luck, courting disaster.
Get out while you still can.
Brad’s arms were immediately around her, his voice soft in her ear, advising her to calm down, take deep breaths, pull herself together.
“I’m going to be sick,” Jamie repeated forcefully, feeling the bile rise in her throat. She tore out of his arms and vaulted toward the en suite bathroom, pulling the door closed after her and flipping on the light, temporarily blinded by the eight spotlights framing the tall, rectangular-shaped mirror over the sink. “Oh, God,” she said to the terrified young woman trapped inside the glass, gasping for air. “What the hell are you doing?”
And then she saw it. The ivory-inlaid, red enamel jewel box that housed the so-called family heirlooms. It was sitting on the bathroom counter at right angles to the sink, beside a plethora of antiwrinkle creams and expensive moisturizers. A large bottle of hair spray stood on its other side, like a sentinel, and beside it a round, glass bowl stuffed with cotton balls. An impressive collection of makeup brushes, foundations, lipsticks, and blushes occupied the balance of the counter space. This from a woman who’d once criticized her for wearing too much mascara. “Jealous old bat,” Jamie whispered now, her fear of being sick suddenly subsiding. She opened the door a crack, wincing when she saw a streak of light cut across Mrs. Dennison’s face, like the blade of Brad’s knife. “Brad,” she whispered. “It’s here. I found it.”
There was no response.
Jamie stepped back into the bedroom, closing the bathroom door behind her, her eyes quickly readjusting to the dark. “Brad?” Was he hiding? She braced herself for his sudden reappearance, her shoulders hunching around her ears in anticipation of his popping up like a jack-in-the-box and slicing at her hair. But nobody jumped out at her, and the only sound she heard was the steady hum of Mrs. Dennison’s breathing.
Where was he?
She heard a noise and she froze, sensing Mrs. Dennison leave her bed to inch up behind her. Dear God, what could she say to the woman? How could she even begin to explain what she was doing here? But when she glanced over at the bed, she saw that her former mother-in-law was still sleeping soundly. She spun around just as Brad appeared in the doorway.
“Where the hell have you been?” she demanded angrily.
“Ssh,” Brad cautioned, moving back into the room and nodding toward the sleeping figure.
“Where did you go?”
He shrugged, pulled a tall, brass candlestick holder out from behind his back. “Thought we’d have some fun.”
“Fun? What are you talking about?”
He put the candlestick holder on the dresser. “That ought to freak her out pretty good when she wakes up.”
“Then she’ll know for sure someone was here. She’ll realize her earrings were stolen.”
“You found them?” Brad asked, smiling in anticipation.
Jamie looked toward the bathroom.
“In there?” Already he was walking toward the small room, pulling open the door.
Light flooded the bedroom.
“Brad, for God’s sake, close the door.”
“Stop worrying,” he said, leaving it open. “Zorro’s sound asleep. Where are the earrings?”
Jamie hurried to the bathroom, deliberately closing the door after her and grabbing the enamel box from the counter, lifting its lid.
“Wow,” Brad said with a low whistle. “Ain’t this a pretty sight.”
Ain’t this a pretty sight, Jamie repeated in silent disbelief, wondering when the southern good old boy had replaced the sophisticated computer programmer and software designer she’d run away with. She forced her eyes to the small but impressive collection of jewelry in the box. Several gold bracelets, a delicate necklace made up of tiny diamond flowers, a star sapphire ring, a pair of diamond studs, some silver hoops, the gold-and-pearl earrings, a wide, antique, gold, wedding band. Her wedding band, she found herself thinking. Her gold-and-pearl earrings.
“Take them,” Brad said, as if her thoughts were etched across her forehead in bright fl
uorescent letters. “They’re yours.”
With trembling fingers, Jamie lifted the earrings out of the box, before returning the box to the counter. What in God’s name was she doing?
“Put them on,” Brad directed.
Jamie brushed her hair away from her ears, pushing first one earring, and then the other, through the tiny holes in her lobes, then admiring the result in the mirror.
“Back where they belong,” Brad said, and Jamie couldn’t help but smile.
He was right. The earrings were back where they belonged. She’d paid for them with two years of her life. She’d earned the right to wear them.
“They suit you.” He came up behind her and kissed the side of her neck, his arms wrapping tightly around her rib cage. “You look beautiful.”
She did look beautiful, Jamie thought. The sad little girl who wore her fear like a heavy veil had disappeared. In her place stood a confident young woman wearing gold and pearls. “We should get out of here.”
“You’re not going to leave those diamonds behind, are you?”
“Those were never mine,” Jamie explained.
“They are now.” Brad dropped the diamond studs into the palm of her hand.
“No. I can’t. I don’t want them.”
“Sure you do.”
The cold stones felt strangely warm against her skin. She felt them burning holes in her flesh, like tiny drops of acid, and quickly returned them to the jewelry box. “No. I don’t. Please. Let’s just get out of here.”
Brad shrugged. “Okay. If you’re sure.…”
“I’m sure.” Jamie started from the room, turning back to see Brad stuff something into the pocket of his jeans. She quickly switched off the light so that she couldn’t see any more.
“Good night, Mrs. Dennison,” Brad whispered as they passed by her bed. “Sleep tight, you old witch.”
He’s taken on my anger as if it were his own, Jamie thought, wondering why, and realizing that under different circumstances, she might have felt flattered. She stepped into the hall, relief struggling to replace the terror in her lungs, to allow her enough space to breathe. Another minute and they would be out of here. They could put this Bonnie and Clyde act behind them, go back to the people they really were.
Except, who were they?
Who was she?
“Show me your old room,” Brad said suddenly, his voice a cold glass of water dripping down her back.
“What?”
“Show me your old room,” he repeated, tugging on her arm.
“No. Let’s just get out of here.”
“Not until you show me your room.” He plopped down in the middle of the beige carpeted hall, crossed one leg over the other.
“What are you doing? Get up, for God’s sake.”
“Not till you promise you’ll show me your room.”
“It’s just a room,” Jamie insisted. Then when it became obvious he wasn’t going to budge until she complied, “Okay. Fine. I’ll show it to you.”
Instantly he was on his feet, following her down the hall, grinning from ear to ear.
This is all a big game to him, Jamie realized. He’s enjoying himself. “You think this is fun?” she asked incredulously, stopping in front of her old bedroom.
“Don’t you?” Brad stepped inside.
“No. I just want to get out of here.”
“Come on, Jamie. It’s a kick. Admit it.” He grabbed her hand, pulled her inside the room, stopping at the foot of the queen-size bed. “Is this where you used to do it?” He bounced down on top of the quilted brown-and-black patterned bedspread.
Jamie would have laughed had she had enough breath. “Yeah, right,” she scoffed as her eyes swept across the room. A boy’s room really, with its heavy, dark furniture, its dull, beige walls and slightly darker broadloom, the modern stereo equipment propped against one wall, a large flat-screen TV on the wall across from the bed. No frills or soft touches anywhere in sight. She’d tried to soften it once by buying a Klimt reproduction she’d seen in an upscale poster shop. Even though she’d never formally studied art, she found the painting of a young couple both passionate and tender, and hoped it would inspire some of that in her marriage. She’d hung it over the bed. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” she’d asked her husband, and he’d nodded, but the next day the poster was gone.
“Come sit beside me,” Brad said softly now.
Jamie shook her head. She just wanted to get out of here. Seeing this room again made her queasy with unwanted memories: the times she’d spent reaching for her husband in the dark, only to be rejected; the nights she’d spent crying herself to sleep; the mornings she’d awakened to find him already finishing breakfast with his mother. Was she truly so unlovable, so unworthy of even the slightest sign of affection?
Brad patted the space beside him on the bed. “Come on, Jamie. Sit with me.”
Tears filled Jamie’s eyes as she allowed the tenderness in Brad’s voice to seduce her. She sank down beside him on the bed, felt the comfort of his arm as it snaked across her shoulder. He drew her to him, kissed her forehead, cradled her hands inside his own.
“Poor Jamie,” he was saying as she buried her face in his chest, crying into the dark cotton of his T-shirt. “Poor little Jamie-girl.” And then he was kissing her hair and the side of her face, her forehead and her eyelids, her nose, her cheeks, and finally her mouth, the kisses becoming more urgent, more insistent, his hands leaving hers to caress her breasts. What was he doing? What was she doing?
“Brad, no. Don’t do that.”
“It’s okay, Jamie. Relax.”
“No. What are you doing?”
“You know what I’m doing.” One hand reached between her legs.
“No. Stop.”
“Why?”
“Why?” Why? “Because it’s not right.”
“It feels right to me.”
Jamie tried to push him away, but his arms were like vines that had grown wild and entrapped her, his mouth a pesky insect that wouldn’t go away. “We can’t do this here.”
“Of course we can.”
“No. What if she hears us? What if she wakes up?”
“She won’t hear us. Not if you stop making such a fuss.” He was pulling at her T-shirt, tugging at her pants.
“Brad, stop it.”
“Tell me what you did with him in this bed, Jamie,” he was saying, ignoring her protests.
“Brad, I don’t like this. I want you to stop.”
“No, you don’t. You’re enjoying this as much as I am.” He pushed her back on the bed, climbed on top of her, pinned her arms above her head. “Tell me if you sucked his cock.”
Jamie shook her head, torn between screaming and going limp. Dear God, how had she gotten herself into this mess? Just let me out of here in one piece, she prayed. I promise I’ll never do anything stupid again.
“Tell me if you sucked his cock,” Brad repeated, pulling her T-shirt up over her breasts and kissing her nipples.
“I sucked his cock,” Jamie said dully, hoping it would be enough to satisfy him, to get him off her. The touch of Brad’s tongue on her bare skin was starting to nauseate her. For the second time that night, she felt she might throw up.
“And did he like it?”
“I don’t think so, no.”
“But you liked doing it, didn’t you?” Brad unzipped the zipper of her jeans, pulled them down over her hips, quickly burying several fingers deep inside her. It hurt and she cried out. “Ssh,” he warned, forcing his fingers higher still. “You like this, don’t you?”
“No. I don’t like it,” she said truthfully, crying now.
“Sure you do. I know you do. You like it rough and dirty.”
“No, I don’t. Please, stop.” She heard his zipper opening, felt him tugging at his clothing.
“You like the danger. Admit it. You loved last night in the parking lot, didn’t you? Those guys looking at you the way they did.” He withdrew his fingers, only to for
ce himself inside her, pounding into her relentlessly, whispering in her ear the whole time. “You like the threat of being discovered. You like doing it in this bed, leaving your scent, your juices all over the bedspread. You love picturing that old bat coming in here tomorrow and sniffing her nose in the air, and saying, ‘What’s that smell?’ ” Brad laughed. “Hey, Jamie-girl,” he said, continuing to ride her—SAVE A HORSE, RIDE A COWBOY, she thought as a fresh flood of tears sprung from her eyes—“you think she still remembers what sex smells like?”
Jamie turned her head to one side, closed her eyes, and tried to pretend she was on a beach somewhere, buried up to her neck in sand, numb from the neck down, but every time she tried to convince herself this wasn’t happening, Brad picked up the tempo of his pounding, the ferocity of his thrusts, and she was forced to acknowledge the truth of her situation, that she was in her former mother-in-law’s house, in her ex-husband’s bed, being raped by a man she’d willingly run away with only days before, a man with whom she’d made love in every possible position in every possible place, a man with whom she’d actually thought she might be falling in love. It would be funny if it weren’t so pathetic. So damned pathetic, she thought, as once again his mouth returned to her breasts. He bit her nipple, and she cried out.
“Ready?” he asked, as if mistaking her pain for passion.
Was that possible? Could he really think she was enjoying this?
Jamie held her breath as Brad suddenly pulled out of her and flipped her onto her stomach, spreading the cheeks of her buttocks apart with his fingers and forcing himself inside her, drilling a hole through her body clear up to her heart. She felt as if she were being split in two, as if someone had lit a torch to her insides, and fire was racing through her, burning up everything in its path. The pain was unbelievable, and she chewed on the bedspread in an effort to silence her screams.
And suddenly he was collapsing on top of her, laughing with satisfaction. “It’s your fault for having such a great ass,” he told her as he slipped out of her, slapping playfully at her rear end. The tips of his fingers stung like a whip, and she whimpered. “Hey, Jamie. You all right? I didn’t realize I was invading virgin territory.”