Nowhere Safe

by Bush, Nancy

  Like him, she now stared through her own window at the swinging feeder, its red plastic bottom nearly touching her pane. She was kinda embarrassed she’d run like such a girl. They weren’t going to catch her yet. She still had too much to do. Fear wasn’t going to stop her from completing her mission.

  She was going to get a few more of the sick bastards before she went.

  That was a promise.

  Chapter Seven

  Wenches Night at Gulliver’s. Graham looked around the room and his eyes settled on a young woman in a wench costume—a loose white blouse cut low at the neck and a full red and brown and orange skirt stuffed with petticoats—and he immediately grew hard. She was the youngest-looking one at the bar, with thick, straight, dark hair—maybe a wig?—and soft pink lips. She wore white stockings with bouncing red tassels that just covered her knees, allowing a tantalizing peek of smooth, taut thigh skin every time her short skirt flipped up and gave him a glimpse of kingdom come. Oh, mama. He could burst.

  She didn’t look old enough to be there, but he wasn’t going to complain. She didn’t have much of a bosom, which was a bonus. He hated that matronly cow look. Liked the lithe, tight bodies of adolescents . . . preadolescents, actually, but he COULD NOT GO THERE. Nope. He wasn’t a pedophile. They were sick fucks who didn’t know how to stay inside the lines. He liked them young, sure, but, well, there were rules in society and he needed to abide by them. He did abide by them. Hadn’t he hooked up with HER just for that reason? He didn’t love HER. Didn’t even really like her, if he were really being honest—and he was an honest man. Maybe too honest. Too real. She was middle-aged—well, late forties—and had short kind of spiked hair that was bleached and gelled and reminded him of someone trying to look younger, though it wasn’t working. She might be mistaken for a school teacher with twenty years under her belt, but actually she was a motivational speaker, one he’d met while attending one of her seminars—How to Beat the Recession and Not Let It Beat You! He’d signed up for other reasons, hadn’t really planned on listening to her, but she’d commanded the room with a strong voice and penetrating stare. He’d immediately known she thought she was all that and more. Like she knew jack shit about anything. Ha!

  He’d gone to the seminar to meet young women and he’d met her instead. She was as hot for him as he was lukewarm for her. She’d thought their first round of sex was mind blowing; he’d thought it was passable. But he’d needed a place to live away from his father with his wandering mind, so he’d moved in with HER about a month earlier and now the arrangement was about to choke him. From passable, his sex drive had nose-dived and now at bedtime it was all he could do to get it up. He had to dig deep into his secret-most fantasies to replace HER with a nubile youngster and even then it was difficult to perform.

  But now, looking at the sweet wench with the childlike body, he felt things were coming together pretty good. He was alone for the next few nights. SHE was on the road for the first time since they’d moved in together, sending him texts from Phoenix, and then she was on to San Antonio, and possibly Louisville. And though she’d said in that whiny way of hers he found particularly irritating, “I just don’t want to be away from you so long,” he’d managed to placate her.

  “I’ll be right here,” he told her, hiding his jubilation.

  She’d laid a hand on his chest and looked at him through limpid eyes.

  It was enough to make him gag, and he’d turned away a little sharper than he’d intended and asked, “Want some coffee?” as he walked to the good old Mr. Coffee.

  “Graham . . .”

  “You won’t be gone that long. A few days. Absence always makes the heart grow fonder, you know.”

  She hadn’t bought it. She’d pouted, which really was an ugly expression for a woman of her age. Shouldn’t be allowed. In fact, her whole shtick had given him the heebie-jeebies and he’d felt a shiver go right down his spine as he poured them each a cup of coffee. He’d managed to make himself turn back to her as she’d taken the cup and checked her watch. Her flight was coming up, so she added a liberal dose of cream (which was going right to her hips) and then she slurped down half the cup as he sipped his own—dark, black, and strong—and waited. He thought he’d go crazy with the waiting and then finally, finally, she sighed, poured the rest of her coffee into the sink, leaned up and kissed him on the lips. Then, after making a huge fuss about her bag and ticket and laptop and God knew what else, she’d headed through the mudroom and out the back door to the detached garage and the waiting taxi. She had never taken her car to the airport since the time she’d returned from a trip and found there was a long scratch in the paint on her baby.

  He’d waited and watched the taxi turn the corner of the long driveway, then made himself wait a full ten minutes longer, just in case she came shooting back for some forgotten item. But she was truly gone.

  He spent the first night alone masturbating to porno flicks. When she called from Phoenix he asked where she was staying and when she gave him the name of her hotel he called it up and asked to be connected to Daria Johannsen’s room. He was put through immediately but he hung up before she answered. He would call later again, just to be sure, even though he believed she was there.

  You just couldn’t be too careful.

  “Want something to drink?” the bartender asked him, breaking into his thoughts. The guy was wearing a white shirt with blousy sleeves, pirate style.

  “Black coffee.” He never drank alcohol if he could help it. Dulled the senses whereas caffeine sharpened everything.

  “Okay.” The bartender’s tone was slightly skeptical. The crowd on Wenches Night was always in a party mood and nobody, but nobody, stayed sober. The sexier the wench outfit worn by the women, the lower the cost of their beer and drinks. If they played their cards right, sometimes they even got them for free. The little one he had his eye on should be given a damn gallon pitcher for the way she looked.

  She was over by the door, one hand on the suit of armor standing at attention by the exit, which was what everyone did for luck—but my, oh, my, this lass was actively stroking the metal and what was that? Did she dare to dart a hand between its legs?

  She was laughing when she caught his eye. Looked at him hard and sashayed over. For a brief moment he wondered if she were a professional, but no, there was just something too innocent about her. He could already imagine himself hard inside her, pounding away.

  His coffee came and he slid the cup toward him, sensing his hands were trembling slightly.

  “Hey, there,” the girl said. “I recognize you.”

  His heart lurched hard, hurt. “What?”

  “You’re the man of my dreams.” She smiled coquettishly.

  He was a lot older than she was. A lot older. But women liked him. They liked the way he looked—he knew that. And he liked the game she was playing. “Would that be a wet dream?”

  “The only kind that matters.” She leaned forward and he could look right down the front of her blouse to her navel. He lifted his hand and almost ran it inside the bodice. Would have liked to grab one of her tiny tits. She was goddamn perfect. “What the hell are you drinking, sugar?” she asked, seeing the coffee.

  “Want to be at my sharpest for you.”

  “A little of the good stuff can do it better.” She lifted her empty martini glass. “And look at me, without a drink.”

  “You should be getting yours free.”

  “So I keep telling them, but no one’s paying any attention. I could really use some more vodka . . . maybe a little cranberry. . . .”

  He tried to get the bartender’s attention. Someone had called him Mark, so he yelled, “Mark, over here! Gotta wet the lady’s whistle.” Mark was either ignoring him or it was simply too loud to hear. “Hey, MARK!”

  Mark pointed a finger at him without looking up from the drink he was mixing. “Gotcha.”

  “Pooh,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “Maybe I should just get on top of the bar and str
ip.”

  No. He didn’t want that. Didn’t want anyone to see her but him. “I wouldn’t mind a private dance,” he said.

  She eyed him, and there was something mysterious in her look that did things to his gut. He was shocked when she laid a hand over his on the bar and wrapped her little thumb inside, stroking the inside of his palm.

  “Can you put your thumb in your mouth?” he asked, the words wrenched from him before he could stop himself.

  She smiled silkily, pulled back her hand and plopped her thumb between those pink lips, making little sucking motions. “I’m kind of little,” she said. “Barely old enough to be by myself.”

  He was half turned-on, half horrified. She was into the game and he wasn’t sure he wanted it so blatant. “Don’t act,” he said. “Just be.”

  “Wanna fuck me, Daddy?” she whispered in his ear in a sweet voice that was nearly the end of his sanity.

  Mark appeared at that moment. Gave the girl a dirty look and said, “What do you want?”

  “Vodka and cranberry, for my girl, here,” Graham told him.

  “Watch yourself, Jilly,” Mark said to her before turning away.

  She stuck out her tongue at him, then whispered in Graham’s ear, “He only gives free beers to the girls with big tits. I’m gonna just have to buy me a pair, I guess.” She cupped her tiny breasts and thrust them forward.

  “Don’t do that.” The wave of revulsion that swept through him damn near knocked him off his stool. “Keep the ones you’ve got.”

  “You like ’em?” she purred, sliding up against him. Her small body was warm and tight.

  “Yes.”

  The vodka drink came and Graham pulled out his wallet. It was HER money. She had a cache in the closet that she didn’t know he knew about. He’d discovered it one day while she was on a conference call in the den and couldn’t be interrupted. Bored, he’d decided to explore and when he’d found the cache he’d lifted a few hundreds just to see if she noticed. If she did, he would play dumb and never do it again. If she didn’t . . . which was how it had turned out . . . he would keep lifting a few bills every week . . . which was also how it had turned out.

  So now, that was how he paid for Jilly’s drink, with a Benjamin. It hurt a little. He hated to part with cash, but his wide-eyed date raised her brows at the sight of the money. “Oh, sweetie . . .” Her mouth curved upward.

  She downed the drink so fast it worried him a bit. “One more,” she said, “and I’ll be ready.” So he signaled Mark again and with a dark scowl the bartender brought another cranberry and vodka. Graham finished his coffee, feeling the caffeine run through his veins like a hot drug, while his “date” took a little more time with her second martini.

  “Gotta go tinkle,” she said, swishing away with a half-hitch stumble.

  Mark sidled over as soon as she was out of sight. “She’s a vodka whore,” he said in an aside. “Will do whatever you want for some alcohol. She’s legal. Barely. But she’s got a big problem.”

  “Thanks.” Graham was chilly. He didn’t need this fucker’s advice.

  Mark inclined his head and moved away, duty done.

  The bartender’s intervention cooled Graham’s ardor a bit. He needed to get out of here without the girl. Didn’t want to be remembered later. If SHE ever found out his dick would be in a vise. Couldn’t have that. He was just getting used to the lifestyle she provided and though having sex with her was getting tougher, maybe he could get some of those little blue pills, just for the times with her. As they said on TV: an erection lasting more than four hours was a problem—no shit—but he’d be lucky to get one to last four minutes. He just needed to be able to get it up for HER without trying, that’s all.

  Other times, like tonight, he could indulge his fantasies, and the little blue pills could go fuck themselves.

  So thinking, he climbed off his seat and straightened his jacket. Mark looked over and he nodded and left, acting as if he were taking the bartender’s advice. But he had no intention of leaving the hot little bitch. Vodka whore, huh? Well, then he was going to ply her with it until she was damn near unconscious, if that’s what she wanted, and then he was going to plunge inside her over and over again. That’s what he wanted. That’s what he had to have.

  He went back out to HER car, the Lexus that smelled like cinnamon Altoids; she always popped them like candy before a meeting. Had to have that fresh, fresh breath. Now, he did the same, crunching on the spicy, cinnamon flat circles as he sat in his car and waited.

  A steady line of people went in and out of the bar. It took another couple of hours before Jilly came out on the arm of some douche bag with spiky hair and a blue jacket over an aqua T-shirt, Miami Vice–style. She was staggering; the douche bag had to keep pulling her up by her arms to keep Jilly on her feet. Then suddenly she doubled over and puked lustily into the bushes beside the front door beneath the tableau of corn stalks and jack-o’-lanterns, which gave the douche bag pause. Still, he waited, and while she wiped the back of her hand over her mouth, he led her to a silver BMW, dropped her in the passenger seat and tore out of the parking lot. Graham had already switched on his ignition, and now he smoothly followed them onto the road.

  He didn’t know what he was doing. He was in a heightened state of arousal and he had the flagpole to prove it. He’d never done anything like this before, except in his dreams. In those, he was always riding some sweet piece of ass—an image of lovely Molly instantly popped into his head, though she was off limits and he fought it back—and she was moaning and crying and he was telling her to shush, that he loved her, that everything was going to be perfect but she just couldn’t tell.

  He followed Jilly and the douche bag to a swank apartment complex with open wrought iron gates and a glass workout room where he could see men and women in sleek workout gear, running on treadmills in front of the windows. So Douche had some money, maybe. Graham would bet there was some illegal enterprise in there somewhere.

  He pulled into the lot and parked in a visitor’s spot. Across the way, he could see Douche getting out of the BMW and Jilly staggering out of the passenger side. Douche yelled something at her, and Graham realized they knew each other this was more than a single night’s hookup. “I’m not carrying you!” he snapped at her, and turned on his heel toward the door to the stairs. In a moment he was gone, but the girl was kneeling down at the side of the car, her ruffled colored skirts a bright sun around her.

  His heart started a dull pounding. For a few moments he sat with his hands on the wheel, telling himself not to go there. But she was irresistible, and feeling like he was in a dream, he slid open the driver’s door and moved toward her, his eyes scanning the surrounding area. Were there cameras? He didn’t see any, and he was pretty careful about those things. He didn’t want HER car, or anything he was about to do, captured on film.

  “Hey,” he said, kneeling down to her.

  She was half crying, and when she looked up, her mascara was streaked. It was a complete turnoff, but Graham wasn’t ready to give up, so he reached over and rubbed off the smudge with his thumb. “What are you doing here?” she mumbled.

  “Who’s the guy you’re with?”

  “Oh . . . Thomas. He’s an ass.” She sniffled some more.

  “Do you live here?”

  “No . . .” She waved an arm and let it slap down to her side.

  “Can I give you a ride?”

  She gazed up at him and blinked a couple of times. “Would you?”

  For an answer he helped her to her feet.

  “What’s this?” Jake asked, picking up the quilt with its blocks framed in lavender from where September had laid it across the back of his couch.

  “It’s mine,” she said, narrowing her eyes at the way he held it away from himself and snatching it away from him. “My Meemaw made it for me.”

  “Your Meemaw?”

  “My grandmother.”

  He held up his hands in surrender at her militant tone, t
hen slid a look at the colorful blanket that September had folded over her arms. “Did she choose those colors?”

  September looked at the lavender and smiled. “No, that was all me. Third grade I wanted everything lavender, so Meemaw used it as the main color.”

  “Hmm.”

  “What are you, an interior designer?”

  “I just can’t picture you with such girlish tastes.” Jake’s gray eyes sparked with amusement. “You were always a tomboy with scraped knees and a bad attitude.”

  “Untrue! I didn’t have a bad attitude. I just was competitive with my brother, and as an extension, all boys. But I liked lavender. And hot pink.”

  “And now all you wear is black and gray.”

  “Lavender and hot pink just don’t scream authority, if you know what I mean. Besides, by fourth grade I was totally into my tomboy persona and liking army green.”

  “Ah, yes. That’s what I remember.”

  He drew her into his arms and she closed her eyes and inhaled his scent. They’d shared hamburgers and fries he’d picked up from a local burger spot and had just finished cleaning up the kitchen together. She’d told him Auggie and Liv were on for Saturday’s move, and that’s when he’d looked around and noticed that she’d done some minor redecorating.

  As they were settling down on the couch to watch television, his cell phone rang. It was on the counter and September was nearest to it, so she picked it up and looked down at the screen. “Loni,” she read, trying to keep her tone neutral as she handed him the cell.

  Jake had been reaching for the phone but now his hand stopped in midair.

  “You don’t want to talk to her?”