When he opens his eyes, they meet John’s, looking up at him from the floor, stunned.
“Your wife’s all right,” Stanley says quickly.
“Where is she?”
“She’s all right.”
“I want to see her.” John tries to rise to his feet but forgets that his wrists are bound and ends up face-planting on the tile.
“Please, just wait.” Keeping one hand on the sink, Stanley squats down low enough to grab John’s shoulder and help him off the floor. “She’s fine. I gave her the gun.”
“What?”
“I gave her Dresden’s gun, to keep it on him while I got you in here.”
John’s eyes dart between Stanley and the door.
“Don’t do it, Doc.”
John scrambles to his feet and launches for the door. Stanley stiff-arms him, wrestling him back down to the floor, bright starbursts of pain exploding in his back. It’s almost visible now, the pain. He can taste it, smell it, hear it—flakes of iron on his tongue, bells chiming in his ears. It’s taken over all his senses.
“Stop it!” Stanley says. “Just stop! Look… I’m… we’re…” He grunts, his hand going back to his spine. He’s too distracted by the pain now to finish his thought. “You got any Advil, anything like that?”
John nods at the medicine cabinet. “Second shelf.”
Stanley grabs the sink and hoists himself up. He opens the medicine cabinet and pulls out the bottle of Advil. He dumps a half-dozen pills in his mouth.
“You ought to be careful with those,” John says. “They can cause stomach bleeding.”
Stanley turns on the sink and cups a handful of water into his mouth. He swallows the pills and wipes his chin. “I don’t drink, and I don’t eat fried food,” he says, “so I’m willing to take my chances with the NSAIDs.” John looks surprised by this.
“Now listen,” Stanley continues, willing the pain killer to dissolve quickly, “I’m gonna leave you here. Hopefully not too long. I just gotta figure out what the next step is.”
He pulls the last zip tie from his pocket, rests the rifle against the side of the sink, and goes down on one knee. John wheels around as best he can and starts to kick at him. Stanley circles his arms around John’s thrashing legs and hugs them in tight, laying his knee into John’s torso.
His phone buzzes in the pocket of his coveralls. “Shit.”
Holding John’s legs with one arm, he pulls the phone out and flips it open. John bucks. His foot strikes Stanley’s hand. The phone spins wildly in a high arc and plops into the toilet bowl.
“God damn it…” Stanley gets the tie over John’s feet and cinches it up tight around his ankles. He tries to hoist John up over the edge of the tub, but between the man’s writhing and the incandescent pain in his back, it’s a lost cause. He’s got John more or less hog-tied. That’ll have to do.
He takes the gun and goes over to the toilet. He plunges his hand in and pulls out the phone. The display has gone dark. Even if it isn’t ruined, he’ll have to dry it out and charge it before it’ll work. He sighs and goes to the door, flipping the phone closed. He looks back at John, lying on the floor, as helpless as an upturned tortoise.
“I’m sorry,” Stanley tells him. “I wish I didn’t have to leave you like this. But I gotta figure out what to do.”
Out in the hallway, he pulls some loose change from his pocket and penny locks the door, jamming the coins one-by-one into the frame until the pressure makes it impossible to turn the latch. It’s a trick he learned from his cousin, Nate, who used to lock his dad and stepmom in their bedroom this way, leaving them there for hours on end, too damned amused by their hollering and pounding to worry about the beating that was coming when they finally got out.
He trots as quickly as he can to the study and recovers the roll of duct tape from beneath the desk (yet another insult to his back). Then he goes back into the hallway. He raises the rifle to his shoulder, looking just over the sight as he steps quietly back toward the guest room. This is the riskiest part of the whole maneuver. He doesn’t know what Val is going to do. She could be drawing a bead on the door, ready to pop him the moment he comes through.
If he had half a brain, he’d head down the stairs and take off, just go home and hope he hasn’t spread enough DNA around the place for them to track him down. What is he thinking? Of course he has. His blood is on the floor of the kitchen and the guest room, maybe on the stairs as well.
But they would have to know who they were looking for. He’s never been arrested, never had his prints taken. He’s not in the system. If he steers clear of suspicion, he could get out of this. As long as frogger13 is reeling in the footage and doesn’t leak it to the authorities—and why would he?—the only lead they’ll have to track him down is John and Val’s description. The stitches on his head are kind of a giveaway, but if he lays low, maybe goes out of town for a few weeks…
It’s miles away from being a foolproof plan, but if he stays here in the house he’s got no game plan at all, other than—what? Try to get his phone running and wait for orders? Wait for the sun to rise on a new society, for them to be ushered out of the house as heroes by the throngs of citizens they’ve liberated from their debts?
It’s all bullshit. The whole deal. He can see that now, as clear as day. He only went in for it because he was sick and tired of waiting—waiting for something to happen that would bring meaning to his days, that would at last reclaim the endless hours spent straining under the unbearable weight of his life. He was so sick of waiting, and now his only option if he stays here is to wait it out and hope that things don’t get any worse.
If he runs, at least he’ll have a shot at getting out of this thing, a shot at a life, however unsatisfactory it may be. Why not go for it, have that at least?
The answer, of course, is the loose canon lying on the floor in the guest bedroom, the cowboy he was thrown into an uncomfortable partnership with. When Dresden wakes up from the blow Stanley gave him, he’s gonna be mad as hell and liable to do something crazy. John and Val have gone from being his prisoners to being his wards. He can’t leave them here with that maniac; he’s got to protect them.
There’s a thudding on the bathroom door, but he doesn’t look back. He’s confident the penny lock will hold. His attention is needed in front of him, with the two people in the guest bedroom—both of whom, no doubt, have all kinds of wrong ideas about his intentions.
Pasting himself against the wall, he reaches out and pushes the door open with the tip of the rifle.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN: On the Road
1:43 a.m.
“Thanks for the ride,” says Tess, a smile flickering in one corner of her lips.
Matthew exhales. His hands run an arc along the steering wheel, like he’s thinking about buying the car. The sweat on his palms slickens the leather. He can barely glance at Tess.
Jesus. He’s nervous. He hasn’t felt this way around a woman in ages. Not the French woman, nor any of the girls he dated at Swarthmore. Why her—why now, when he’s on his way home, all geared up to tell his parents about his impending departure from the realm of human affairs, dancing on light as if he’s just awoken from a bad dream, more sure of this than he’s ever been about anything? What is he doing here, sitting in the parking lot of a low-income housing unit outside of Portsmouth, New Hampshire, reluctant to get back on the road, waylaid by a school-kid crush on a sort of pretty possible con artist sitting in the passenger seat of his rental car?
“Sorry I couldn’t help with the gas,” she says. Then, “Matthew?”
He looks at her. “What?”
“Gas. Sorry.”
He shakes his head. “Oh no, don’t worry about it. I still have a little bit left over from my travel budget. I’m actually saving money being back here.” Well, that was the wrong thing to say. Is he like out to prove to her that he is exactly the kind of coddled rich kid that she thinks he is? Is he the kind of coddled rich kid she thinks he is?
> It doesn’t matter. Money is immaterial to him now. He won’t even have a bank account going forward. He won’t need one. The lilies of the field don’t ask for stock options and 401(k)s.
“Well, anyway… thank you,” she says.
He meets her gaze. After a breathless moment, she looks away, blinking and half-smiling. Is she blushing? What is this? What’s going on here?
Temptation. That’s what this is. Not the moralistic nonsense that nuns and priests rap themselves over the knuckles about. This is the real McCoy, the kind of temptation that tests one’s mettle, that challenges an aspirant’s commitment to his path. This is an honest-to-god trial. Like Jesus in the desert, the Buddha sitting under the Bodhi tree. This is his call back to the world, back into the endless cycle of temporary satiation, pleasure and pain, birth and death. This is the test of his resolve, his certainty about the liberation he’s tasted.
But god, why should it come in a form like this? Why would the devil be dressed in overalls, her lips glistening with cheap Bath & Body Works lip gloss? Why not something sexier—a fashion model offering him endless lines of coke, a seven-figure job offer—something really difficult to turn down, like Wolf of Wall Street-type stuff? This girl, Tess, she seems so harmless.
But that’s the trick, isn’t it? Temptation catches you off-guard. Forget dominion over all the earth. Never mind Mara’s daughters. The real danger comes at you in pale-ish skin and worn-out Converse sneakers. That way, you don’t even see it coming.
“Are you all right?” Tess asks.
“What? Oh, yeah. I’m fine.”
“You seem distracted or something.”
“It’s just that it’s late. We’ve been driving for a while.”
“What time is it?”
He looks at his phone. “Almost one AM,” he says.
Her eyes widen. “Oh God,” she says, “I guess I ought to let you get back on the road then.”
He feels his head nodding without conviction. “Yeah, I guess so.”
“Unless… I mean, if you’re not in too much of a hurry, you could get a little shut-eye here. My mom’s not home, so there’s an extra bed…”
The nodding continues. “I should probably just…”
Tess sighs. “All right.”
“I mean, thanks and all, but…”
“I just thought I’d offer.” A long pause. Tess’s hand dangles off the side of the gear shift, so close to Matthew’s leg that he can almost feel the breath of hair on the back of her fingers. She shifts in her seat and opens the door. “Could you pop the trunk for me?”
The sound of the toilet flushing fills the whole apartment. Not much of a task, given the lack of square footage and the papier-mâché-like walls separating the place’s three and a half rooms. The bartender—whose name, Jacob has learned, is Declan—comes back into the bedroom, cinching up his boxers and clearing some drops of water from his mustache. He stands in front of the bed, looking at Jacob, who lies half-covered by the comforter, one arm crooked over his head, his exposed skin tickled by a draft from the nearby window.
“You want something to drink,” says Declan, hand drifting over his package. “Beer? Tequila?”
“No, thanks,” says Jacob. “I need to be at least somewhat functional in the morning.”
“I’m surprised you can even talk after that,” Declan says and laughs. Jacob chuckles, not amused but not really minding. “I’ll get you some water.” Declan goes off to the kitchen, and once again Jacob can hear every move—the clang of the glasses, the rush of water from the sink.
He looks around. The apartment looks like a halfway house, a place not intended for permanent habitation. The walls are stained with shadows of long-gone picture frames, nails driven in with nothing hanging from them, or yanked out, leaving divots in the drywall that no one has bothered to fill. The only decorations are a Sigur Ros poster here, a deeply resinated bong there, moth-eaten blankets serving indiscriminately as curtains and carpets and slipcovers.
At least the bed is soft. And he won’t have to hoof it back to the motel.
Declan comes back in with a glass of water for Jacob and a tumbler of reposado for himself. He sits on the bed. Jacob reaches over, tracing a finger over one of Declan’s tattoos as they drink. He feels goose bumps forming on Declan’s arm, sees his chest rising as he inhales.
“You know,” says Declan, “that was kind of a first for me.”
Jacob squints, confused. There’s no way this dude has never been with a guy before. He had known pretty well what to do and—perhaps more importantly—what not to do. He probably knows better than Jacob, who hasn’t done much with anyone other than Caleb.
“What do you mean?” Jacob says.
Declan grins. “You know… it was my first time with a black guy.”
Oh, Jesus. So that’s what this is. Jacob is a trophy to this guy, a token marking his entry into some kind of club, giving him bragging rights or street cred with friends and future hook-ups (“Yeah, sure I’ve bagged a black dude. Haven’t you?”). Might as well stuff him and mount him on the wall next to the knock-off Warhol print. He’s been warned about this by the few queer brothers he’s met, but he never took their warnings seriously until now.
“Well,” says Jacob, mustering up a response, “that makes two of us.”
“What,” says Declan, “you’ve never been with a white guy before?”
“No, I’ve never been with a black guy. Maybe you can tell me what it’s like. Is it true… you know… what they say?”
Declan laughs and leans down to kiss Jacob’s neck. But it feels different now—tainted. It feels more invasive than the things they were up to minutes ago. It feels wrong. He wriggles away from the kiss, pretending to be ticklish. The whole thing—the apartment, the way-too-fast hook-up, Declan’s tequila breath and tactless words—it all begins to make him feel ill and alone. He doesn’t want to stay. But if he has to hoof it back to the motel, there’s no telling what time he’ll hit the road tomorrow, and he wants more than anything to get home.
“Look,” he says, “do you mind if I just crash? I’m pretty tired, and I’m hoping to get on the road early.”
Declan backs off. “Oh yeah, that’s cool. I might stay up a while, though. I’m still kind of wired from my shift. I had like eight shots of espresso.” He takes a sip of tequila and picks up his pack of American Spirits from the nightstand.
The sound of someone struggling with a doorknob. Then a knock at the front door. Declan looks up, startled.
“Declan?” comes a voice from outside of the apartment.
“Oh, shit!” Declan whispers, setting the tumbler and the cigarettes down on the nightstand. He scrambles to get dressed. He trips on the leg of his jeans and falls to the floor.
“Who is that?” says Jacob.
“Declan?” comes the voice again. “Are you in there?”
“Don’t tell me you have a boyfriend.”
“No,” says Declan, lying on the floor, struggling to pull on his skinny jeans. “It’s my roommate. I mean… this is technically his place. I’ve been staying on the couch the past few weeks.”
“This isn’t your bed?!”
Declan gives him a what-do-you-want-from-me look. “He’s supposed to be out of town. Get dressed!”
Twenty seconds later, Jacob is standing in the living room, trying to work out the rumple in his boxers through the pocket of his pants without being too obvious about it. Declan gives himself a quick once over, takes a deep breath, and opens the front door. His ‘roommate’—a short, doughy guy with wavy blond hair—comes in, carrying a small duffel bag and looking more than a bit miffed.
“I told you not to lock the bolt when I’m out,” the roommate says.
“Sorry,” says Declan, standing aside.
The roommate looks over at Jacob, then turns back to Declan. “You’ve got company.”
“Yeah,” says Declan. An awkward silence ensues.
“Care to introduce me?” says th
e roommate.
“Of course. This is…” Declan hesitates.
Oh, Jesus. He’s forgotten Jacob’s name.
Jacob steps forward. “I’m Jacob,” he says, reaching out a hand, realizing a moment too late that he hasn’t washed it since they finished their business in the other room. It’s still a bit gamy. Thankfully, the guy doesn’t have a free hand, and Jacob withdraws the offer.
“Charmed to meet you, Jacob,” the roommate says. “Declan, would you mind coming into the other room with me for a moment?”
They go into the bedroom. Amidst the escalating complaints about Declan’s lack of consideration and inadequate sense of boundaries, Jacob hears the apartment’s legal tenant ask, with some irritation, “Why is there a glass of tequila on my nightstand?” Jacob takes this as a sign that it’s time for him to skedaddle.
Thomas’s Audi is a smooth ride, even at night, on back roads she’s never taken, with the car’s hopped-up owner refusing to stay buckled in the passenger seat. He seems so impatient, so restless, it’s almost like he’s on something other than the ecstasy. She’s never seen anybody rolling before, but from what she’s heard it’s not like this.
He is, however, still focused on her. Apparently sensing through his declining intoxication that his apologies have all rung hollow, he’s switched tactics.
“You sure you don’t want to head back?” he says.
“No.”
“No, you’re not sure?”
“No. Yes, I’m sure that, no, I don’t want to go back.”
“But you’re so beautiful.”
Eye roll. “Like that would even be relevant—even if you meant it,” she says.
“I do!”
Clara is pretty sure that she’ll be content never to hear words to that effect ever again. She imagines herself on her wedding day, wearing a sedate summer dress, checking that the guest packet includes instructions not to use the ‘b’ word (beautiful) in her presence. Forget her nose. May it grow another two inches. May she make Pinocchio her goddamn patron saint. To hell with trying to look good for Thomas or any other a-hole like him who’s more interested in communing with the f’ing universe than deflowering his very willing girlfriend.
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