by Bush, Nancy
She spun the stem of her glass meditatively on the bar and he watched her with such craving that she had to look away, toward the television, just to break the intensity. “My name’s Lucky,” she said.
He sucked in air and laughed silently, loving it. “I’m Graham.”
Her mind was racing. She could probably get him to leave with her right now. But how to finagle him to some rendezvous where she was in control? He might be unaware of her plans for him, but he was still dangerous and unpredictable.
And then a picture came on the television. A drawing of, oh God, herself! The volume was turned down and the noise from the bar was too loud to hear, but she knew that was her.
How? How did they know?
The teenagers.
His hand had stolen around the small of her back, resting lightly there. Was it her imagination or was the bouncer staring at her again? Had he seen the picture? Did he know?
She had to leave. Immediately. Had to get out of the spotlight.
Leaning into Ugh, making sure she kept his attention off the television until the bulletin passed, she whispered, “I’ll be right back.”
“Where are you going?”
She put a finger to his lips to stay any more questions, then she swept up her coat and sauntered toward the front door, giving him a good look at her swishing ass, hoping that was what imprinted on his memory, not her face.
Once outside she sprinted toward her car. Leaping inside, she jammed the key into the ignition and threw the Sentra into gear. She slammed hard into the bumper of the car ahead of hers, but managed to get out without further incident. Then she drove as fast as she dared, little trills of anxiety running up and down her spine, and when she got to the Creekside Inn she buried herself inside, shoving a nightstand in front of the door, shaking and gasping from exertion and fear.
What if the desk manager saw the sketch and knew it was her?
She switched on the television in the room and chewed on her nails as she waited for another news break. God. She needed more time.
What if Ugh saw it later and remembered?
Graham waited forty-five minutes and when the girl didn’t return rage boiled up inside him. “Lucky, my ass,” he muttered, stomping out of the bar and turning around in the parking lot, seeing if by some chance she was outside, waiting for him.
But no. The bitch was gone.
He went back into the bar, his mood black, but no one else caught his eye. He’d liked the look of the girl with the guy who’d been seated near him, but they’d left shortly after Lucky did and he’d never really had a chance with her anyway.
He wanted to cry with frustration. He knew he should be lying low after what had happened with Claudia, but instead of slaking his desire, her death just made him want more of the same.
He had to leave. Head to his father’s basement. He couldn’t be under Daria’s thumb any longer. She was cramping his style. Worse, she seemed to think she owned him, like they were meant to be together forever and ever.
But could he leave the bodies at her place? There were two of them now. Claudia had finally stopped making that ugly rasping sound, but if she hadn’t, he would have put her in the ground anyway.
No. He had to move them to his father’s. Maybe he should head over there now and start digging into the earthen floor. He couldn’t just take the bodies there if the ground wasn’t prepared. His father, though nutty and weak, was still ambulatory and could take it into his head to have a peek in the basement if he sensed Graham were there.
But he didn’t want to move them tonight. He wanted to fuck that tight piece of ass that had walked out on him.
Damn!
Trying to calm himself, he thought about his collection of porn and drove home with his mind on his favorite videos. But even so, he couldn’t get the chick in the little skirt out of his head. He could already hear her cooing his name as he slipped his hand up between her legs.
Bitch! Where did she go?
Around midnight he fell asleep in a chair in front of the TV, paying no attention to the “actors” groaning and screwing and screaming on screen. In the wee hours he heard something that sent him bolt upright, instantly awake: a door opening. Immediately he switched off the television, though the DVD was long over. It was still in the player, but he didn’t have time to remove it and stash it away.
Instead he looked around for a weapon. Nothing.
Creeping toward the hall, he thought he saw movement in the mudroom. Darting quickly, he grabbed the Maori figurine and then jumped into view, holding it high over his head.
Daria snapped on a light at the same moment, her mouth opening and closing like a fish. “Graham!” she shrieked.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw, through a gap in the curtained window, the glow of red taillights from the departing cab, lights that winked out as the vehicle turned the bend in the driveway.
“Fuck, Daria. What’s with this sneaking in? You trying to get yourself killed? Give me a goddamn heads-up next time!”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” She looked ready to cry. “I wanted to surprise you.”
“I hate surprises! GODDAMN HATE THEM,” he roared.
“I know. It’s my fault. I’m so sorry.”
It took everything he had—everything!—for him to put down the figurine and slam back into the den. Quickly, he ejected the DVD and slipped it into a nondescript jewel case, stuffing it behind one of the tomes in her bookcase temporarily.
About a half hour later, he heard her tentative knock on the den door.
“What?” he barked.
“Are you coming to bed? It’s really late.”
“I’m sleeping on the couch,” he said through his teeth.
“Okay.”
Sneaky old hag, he thought, hearing her footsteps head back to the bedroom. No consideration for the fact that he had to get up in the morning and teach those fucking whiny brats. Maybe Molly would be back; that would be a plus. But probably not, he thought, falling into despair.
It was all Daria’s fault. He hated HER. He wondered if he could keep sleeping in the den until he made the move to his father’s. But he hated his dad’s place, too. Hated the old, musty, broken down wreck of a house, hated his father’s constant throat clearing and whining.
But he couldn’t stand being with Daria anymore at all. He loved her house, the grounds, the whole place. If it were his, he could be happy here. He wouldn’t need anyone. He could maybe keep his thoughts away from the dangerous paths they wanted to follow and just live.
Daria had money socked away in bank accounts, too. There was online access. All he had to do was learn the codes and maybe he could wheedle those out of her. If there was enough money, maybe he could even quit his job.
He just had to get rid of her. That was all.
Staring into the dark, he let himself fall asleep again and was dead to the world until his eyes suddenly flew open, attuned to his internal clock. It was early morning and he needed to get ready for school.
He’d barely gotten any sleep and that made him cross. It was still dark outside so he had a little time, but he was sick to death of the daily grind, sick to death of everything.
The idea of walking through HER bedroom to use the en suite bathroom made his stomach turn. He had to think about that for a while, so instead he pushed the button on the coffee maker that he’d already prepared for the morning. His full strength stuff. She could just make a face when she drank it or not drink it at all.
Swallowing down his first cup, he felt better, more resolved. All he needed was a solid plan and then he would be good to go. The next time Daria went on a trip—and he sure as hell hoped it was going to be soon—he would move the bodies. In the meantime, he would figure out how to access her accounts and then he would decide what to do about her. He couldn’t get rid of her yet, much as he might want to. He would have to wait until everything was in order.
“Graham?”
She came out of the bedroom
in her bathrobe, looking worn and tired, and there were smudges of leftover makeup beneath her eyes.
Play nice, play nice, play nice.
“Good morning,” was all he could croak out.
He could see the relief cross her face and she sighed and came over to him, wrapping her arms around his waist. He was still in his clothes from the night before and he suddenly wanted to rip them off and get in the shower. But she gazed up at him with that look on her face, the one that sent warning bells off in the back of his head. She wanted to make love and he was not in the mood. Would never be in the mood again.
“I can’t,” he said. “I’ve got to get ready for work.”
“Oh, come on. It won’t take long.”
“Yes, it will.” Seeing her hurt, he added, “You know how we are when we get going.”
She smiled. “Yes, I do.” Her hands started unbuttoning his shirt and he wanted to clamp down on those old fingers and rip them away from him. Instead, he allowed her to pull his shirt free of his pants, take the coffee cup from his hand, and set it deliberately on the counter, then grab his hand and tug him a step forward. “Come on,” she whispered.
No. He couldn’t do it. It wasn’t in him. There was nothing there.
But you need her. Just a little while longer. Turn your mind around. Think of something else....
His mind flew to Molly. Her shining hair. Her sweet ways. But that was no good. No. He needed to quash that and think of something else. Something he could have.
Lucky.
In his mind’s eye he saw the way her short skirt flipped when she walked, the little anklets, the tight ass.
He let Daria walk him to the bedroom, blind to everything but the scenario running through his head. Where the fuck had Lucky gone? Why had she left?
Daria was taking her robe off, but Graham was lost in another world. He had Lucky down and she was fighting him. He felt her hands on him and he threw her down on the bed and pinned her wrists. She was pretending to want him, making all the right noises, her hands roaming his body, but he knew she was playing some kind of game.
Well, fine. He could play that game, too.
He spread her legs with a hard knee and slammed into her, pounding as hard as he could, loud growls issuing from his throat, the sound of his burning frustration. She was going to pay for walking out, pay for leaving him hard and dissatisfied, pay for playing a game that only he could win!
“Ulysses! Goddammit. Ulysses! Graham!” He came to slowly to realize Daria was pounding on his back with impotent fists. “What the fuck was that about?” she demanded.
His heart was racing. He felt completely amped up. “You didn’t like it?”
“No, I didn’t like it! What’s going on with you? That’s the second time you’ve been too rough.”
Conversely, now that she didn’t want him, he wanted to take her again. Grabbing her shoulders, he held her down and she twisted and tried to jerk a knee up to hit him in the balls.
“Don’t,” he said through tight teeth, and then abruptly he was done with her.
He hated her too much to take her again.
She scrambled around and grabbed up her robe, breathing hard, half mad, half scared. “I really don’t like where this is going,” she told him, slamming out of the bedroom and stalking down the hall.
Well, fuck her. Graham headed into the shower and turned his face into the hot spray. His black mood from the night before had returned. How long could he keep this up? Not much longer. All he really wanted to do was grab her by the neck and smack her head into the wall until it was a bloody pulp.
He dressed in slacks and an open-collared shirt. He had no enthusiasm for the job, but until Daria was out of the picture he had to keep going.
Walking into the kitchen, he saw that she was staring out toward the garden, a cup of coffee in her hand, her face set. To his shock, she suddenly went to the kitchen drawer that held her business supplies, rooted around inside and came up with a handgun.
“Whoa, Daria! What are you doing?”
“I’m just going to scare him,” she said tautly.
His gaze followed hers out the window and he saw the coyote tugging on something under the raspberry vines. Holy shit!
She ran outside, yelling at the top of her lungs, the bathrobe tie tearing loose and exposing her white sagging skin. As Graham watched in shock, the animal dropped the human hand that was in its mouth, unable to pull the whole corpse from the ground.
“Get out!” Daria screamed after him as he loped away.
She turned back, too mad at the coyote to look at what he’d uncovered. “Beasts,” she snapped as she came back inside and pulled the French door shut behind her.
“You scared him away. I didn’t know about the gun. Wow. But you scared him off.”
He was babbling and he had to stop himself. He felt high and weird. For a moment he thought he had gotten away with it, but then she glanced back through the window toward the raspberry vines.
The Maori statue was still on the kitchen counter where he’d left it the night before. He didn’t wait for her to think too hard. He snatched it up and swung it at her head with all his might. She half lifted the gun, some inherent last sense of self-preservation, but he caught her in the temple hard. She went down to her knees and pitched forward.
It felt great. Powerful. Better than sex.
“Daria?” he asked after a few moments.
She just lay there, face down.
Then he looked at the statue in his hand. He couldn’t believe he’d done it.
But you needed those access codes!
“Daria?” he tried again. She wasn’t dead yet, but she was as good as, he thought. “Damn!”
Well, there was nothing to do now but bury her with the others. Jesus. What a lot of work. He would barely have time before school to bury her, he thought as he headed to the garage for the shovel and rake. What time was it? He was going to be late. There was no getting around it.
He took off his shoes and donned his boots, then looked down at his pants. He would ruin them but, Christ, he had to get moving.
As he was coming out of the garage he thought he heard something. A sharp noise from inside the house. He glanced around wildly. Was someone here? He took several steps toward the front of the house, then turned back to the job. He had to hurry.
He went through the breezeway to the garden and shuddered when he saw Claudia’s hand and arm poking through the mud. Fucking coyote. He slammed the shovel into the ground beside the body, deepening the hole, shoving the body down in it with the toe of his boot, then covering up his ministrations. He’d already worked up a sweat even in the cool morning air, and he hadn’t even started on Daria’s grave. He was going to have to move all of these bodies and soon and it pissed him off.
He glanced at his watch. He couldn’t go to school. He couldn’t. He was going to have to call in. Dropping the shovel, he stalked back to the house, yanked off his boots and padded sock-foot through the mudroom.
Immediately he saw that Daria had dragged herself around the counter and into the center of the kitchen. There was blood on the floor, blood on the cabinets, blood on the counters, and the knife drawer was open. Bending down, he grabbed her hands, searching for the weapon. A small knife clattered to the floor.
Her glassy eyes stared at him.
“Trying to kill me?” he snarled.
When she didn’t answer, he picked up her limp wrist and tested her pulse.
A moment later he flung it back down.
“Too late, bitch.”
Hurrying to the den, he snatched up his cell and called the school. He’d hardly started in with his excuses when that ugly woman with the bad knees, Maryanne, insisted she was putting him through to Lazenby, who answered flatly, “Mr. Harding.”
“I can’t come in today,” he snapped at her.
“Are you sick?” she challenged him.
“I’m not feeling well, that’s true,” he said, surprised
that she would dare to talk to him in that tone.
“I’ve asked for someone from the police to come and speak with us, and I’d like you to be here. You have Molly Masterson in your class and you know Claudia Livesay. I think it’s important you attend.”
“I just told you I can’t.” Should he manufacture a cough? No. Might sound too forced.
“Try to find a way,” she said unreasonably, and then hung up.
Graham was incensed. How dare she! She couldn’t do that. He would report her to the union. See how she liked that. High and mighty bitch.
But then he thought how everyone else on staff would be there, kowtowing to Lazenby’s wishes, sucking up for all they were worth. And if he wasn’t there, it would be noted, and not just by Lazenby.
He had to go. Had to.
In a flurry of fear and indignation, he grabbed a tarp from the garage and wrapped Daria’s body in it, then hauled her across the breezeway and into the garage, laying her on the concrete in front of the Lexus. The burying would have to wait.
He returned to the kitchen, scrubbing up the streaks of blood on the floor, wiping down the Maori statue, setting it back on the mantel. He poured the rest of his coffee down the sink and automatically filled up the coffee maker with water, replaced the filter in the basket and measured out tomorrow’s grounds, then put the carafe back in its slot.
He went into the bedroom and made the bed, then cleaned up Daria’s toiletries in the bathroom. His heart jolted when he saw her bag still half filled with her clothes and he ripped out the remaining items and threw them in the wash. Then he stowed the bag in the hall closet. He wanted no evidence that she’d recently come home from a trip.
Satisfied with the bedroom, he went to the den, found his porn CD and tidied up the couch. He took the CD into the spare bedroom and shoved it behind the knickknack shelf she had filled with collectibles. They were probably worthless but he would look at them later, when he had time to sort through and sell them.
Finally, he glanced down at his clothes—drops of blood and splattered mud were everywhere. Ripping off his shirt and pants, he threw them into the already running wash that held Daria’s clothes, not caring if they were ruined forever. Then he redressed, adding the touch of a tie this time, just to up his game. He practiced in the mirror until he’d perfected a somber expression. His color was still high from the physical exertion and he looked damn good.