Beautiful Disaster

by Laura Spinella

  “I . . . I was going to change,” she said from a distance. “I didn’t want you to see me like—”

  “Rox, are you . . . ? God, there’s so much blood,” she said, shuffling a few steps closer. She gulped hard and forced her stare onto Roxanne’s face. “He’s alive? He’s in there?” she asked, pointing.

  Roxanne nodded. But her gaze kept flicking past Mia’s head, like she was looking for someone. “Listen, I don’t know if I did the right thing. Michael, he—”

  “Michael’s at a concert clear across town,” she said. “You know that.” Then, in a smaller voice, “I . . . I can’t think about that right now.” Mia closed the remaining space, ready to push right past Roxanne and go see for herself. And she would have if she could just get her mind around it, get her feet to move. Stepping off the end of the earth would require less mental preparation. For twelve years she had wondered. Gotten up and gone to bed with the same question. Thought maybe she’d dreamed him up, thought he was dead. She thought he’d be better off that way if she ever caught up with him. More than anything, Mia thought that this was the moment that came after insanity. “Answer me, Roxanne. Are you sure it’s Flynn?”

  Chapter 2

  ATHENS, GEORGIA THIRTEEN YEARS EARLIER

  A motorcycle eased through three lanes of backed-up traffic. Some drivers leaned on their horns in frustration, while others honked to cheer on the rider, pumping their fists at the highway-turned-parking lot. Twelve miles later he finally saw the problem: two automobiles involved in what had to be a fatal crash.

  Emergency vehicles were scattered across the interstate, dispatched to mend the situation. In the distance, fire trucks dotted a cloudless sky. The intense June Georgia sun caught their flashing lights, absorbing the ruins of shiny metal objects fanning out into a sparkling kaleidoscope of carnage. A ninety-degree day had to break one hundred on that scorched pavement. Even breathing required effort. Wavy fumes of heat seemed to be the only things moving with urgency, while the humid air stood unmotivated, hanging around like a disinterested bystander.

  Only a few yards away, the rider eased over to the breakdown lane as a tow truck prepared to move the first vehicle. The mangled minivan looked as though it had been delivered there from the jaws of a vehicle compactor. The second car sat in the median. It hadn’t fared much better, with a smashed windshield and the driver’s door crushed through to the passenger side. The bike idled and the rider took off his helmet, shaking out a sweaty mane of hair. With the eye of a seasoned rider he surveyed the parts strewn across the sweltering blacktop. Surrounding him were the remnants of a motorcycle. It was in more pieces than it ever had been in on the assembly line. The rear sprocket and drive, the primary chain cover, a speedometer crunched inside its shell, the ignition coil, and a mangled front fender skirt. Unique to the Harley Davidson and no bigger than his fist was a black motor housing. Aside from the tires, it was the largest piece left. The drama played out further when the tow truck pulled away and revealed the worst of the tragedy—a body covered with a bloodied sheet. Behind mirrored sunglasses, the rider’s pale, careful eyes reconstructed the accident. On second thought, the two cars didn’t look so bad. At least the parts wouldn’t have to be collected in a bucket with a pair of tweezers.

  He looked over the car in the median, noted its proximity to the body and the point of impact. “Jesus,” he mumbled. The biker had been the meat in the collision, the two vehicles sandwiching him in between. He gave a dry swallow and offered up a token prayer for the deceased.

  A grim-faced state trooper began to redirect traffic around the site. The biker looked over the scene once more, realizing that something was missing. He revved the engine and took his place in line. “Stupid bastard,” he whispered as he passed. “Wasn’t even wearing a helmet.”

  The bike rumbled up to the curb in downtown Athens, announcing his arrival like a lion advancing on new territory. Goddamn, but it was hot. He was used to hot places. Not that he had ever learned to like them. Rural Indiana, where he grew up; Parris Island; the bottom of hell—he always ended up in places where sweat was part of the dress code. The sidewalk was thick with college kids; they kept the place going, from what he had heard. College towns were a handy place to hang for a while. Nobody asked too many questions. If anything, people encouraged a come-as-you-are attitude. The casualness appealed to him. Conforming would never work out—ask any Marine.

  An eternity on the bike coupled by hours in a traffic jam had left his long legs cramped and a little wobbly. Food would be a good idea. He tugged at the sweaty jeans that were seared to his skin and pulled a red bandana from his pocket, blotting his grimy brow. Stepping to the curb, he attempted to blend in with the crowds of backpacks and portable CD players. He felt the staring eyes as he moved among them. Girls mostly. Girls always looked at him. He wasn’t the typical fare, with hair as long as theirs and the scruffy beard. On most days it led to the Jesus remark before lunch. He didn’t care, but sometimes he wanted to lean in toward their probing, dewy eyes and whisper, “Yeah, just think what your old man would do if you brought me home.” He liked college towns, but he wasn’t interested in college girls. Despite their glances, they weren’t really looking for a guy like him either.

  Even with his sunglasses on, he had to squint past scalding rays to read the sign for Mike’s Burgers. From the look of it, he wondered if grease came à la carte on the menu. Hell, it was air-conditioned, there was food, and he was hungry. Forty-five minutes later he had downed the last of Mike’s famous cheddar burger, a double order of fries, a beer, and two ice waters. All the while he watched a group of young men joke and carry on, betting their afternoon beers on a game of darts. He crunched down on the ice, curious if at their age he would have enjoyed spending daddy’s money quite so much. He couldn’t relate, but it sure did seem like fun. Finished with the water, he dunked the end of the bandana into the glass, then rubbed it along the back of his neck. The rolling tide of sweat had subsided, leaving what felt like a gritty coat of pavement over damp, dirty skin. In between the sailing darts, his mind wandered back to the accident. He couldn’t shake it. Motorcycles could be dangerous things. You had to take care, follow the rules. Even a rogue like him understood that. He paid the tab and decided to walk the town. The hottest part of the day had passed; his jeans had relented their stranglehold on his thighs. At the door he caught the dart-playing boys gawking—okay, sometimes guys looked too.

  The accident hung with him, provoking a sense of loneliness, maybe a whisper of fear. Who would have given a damn if he had been the dead rider? He cleared his throat as if to dislodge the thought. Vulnerability was a luxury, not an instinct—and he couldn’t afford it. It didn’t mesh well with a life that ran like some feral animal in search of its next warm hole and raw piece of meat.

  A few doors away from the restaurant he dropped onto a sidewalk bench. He felt only marginally out of place, sitting next to an overflowing urn of potted petunias meant to beautify the downtown. He removed his sunglasses and cleaned them on his sweat-dampened T-shirt, then propped them on his head. The waning sun dipped behind the foliage of a curbside maple offering welcome shade. He tapped a Marlboro Light from its pack and lit it, further alienating himself from the picturesque scene. Taking up the length of the bench, he stretched out the achy, locked muscles of his arms. Three straight days through the Deep South had taken its toll. A cheap motel with a decent bed and a shower, that’s what he should be thinking about, not death’s random grasp, or mattering to someone.

  He was ready to head back to his bike when a group of college girls drew his attention. They were a giggling lot, crowded around the window of a small boutique across the street. He had noticed the shop earlier. The window was filled with delicate bobbles and trinkets—girl stuff, for sure. He imagined the clerk’s startled expression if a guy like him were to wander into a place like that. There would be an internal struggle: Should she offer assistance or go straight for the can of mace? He found himself lau
ghing aloud at the mental picture as the girls walked away. They moved in one simultaneous cloud of honey blond hair, perfumed bodies, and sensual drawls. All except one. She stepped in the opposite direction, calling out, “Save me a seat, Rox. I’ll be there in a few.”

  “Don’t be too long, Mia. We’ll get ahead of you,” one of the blondes answered. Mia waved to her friends and headed toward him.

  He stopped laughing, but the smile widened and now he wasn’t looking, he was staring. It was impossible not to; she was beautiful. A brunette, an odd sight in this sweet cavity of the South, a place where blond belles were more abundant than magnolia leaves. She passed by, smiling at him or smiling from before—he wasn’t sure which. But he grabbed the chance to get a closer look. Beautiful was a pedestrian description. She was astonishing, stunning, hot . . . all of them. Huge wide-set eyes; even from the distance he could see them sparkle—not green, not blue, but something in between. Wispy bangs framed her face with hair longer than his, falling midway down her back. She wore it down. Heat tolerant, he thought. Impressive. And the smile, it was probably more invitation than she intended. His body rotated around, taking in the rear view. No words, just a hollow gulp and a grin that turned a little sly. He untwisted his body and looked back at the empty sidewalk. “Ah, shit, what the hell,” he murmured, tossing the cigarette into the urn of petunias and popping up from the bench. He had seen death today. Might as well see what life had to offer. His long, eager strides easily caught up to her. “Um, miss, excuse me.”

  She turned, clearly looking for the other girl he must be talking to. Mia’s eyes settled on him and the smile faded to uneasiness. “Who, me? You’re talking to me?”

  “Ah, yeah.” He stepped back, giving her plenty of space, his hands shoved in his back pockets. Still, she took a step of her own. “I was wondering . . . Well, I saw you with your friends over there. I just got into town.” Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea. She looks ready to scream. “Could I buy you a beer?”

  “A beer?” she questioned, as if alcohol were unheard of, as if there wasn’t a bar on every corner.

  “Yeah, a beer,” he said, rubbing a hand over his bearded chin. “It’s hot. I was thirsty. Thought maybe you’d like to join me . . .”

  “You? You want me to have a beer with you?” she repeated, her hand darting back and forth between the two of them in a nervous fit.

  “Yeah. Are we not speaking the same language here? It’s not that difficult of a question.” That went well. Not only did I scare her, I insulted her too. Doll’s eyes. That’s what they were, tremendous doll’s eyes, crystal clear hazel in the middle, gray around the edges, and if they opened any wider they’d probably pop right out of her head. “I mean, if you’re not doing anything, that is.” His voice trailed away, his Adam’s apple bobbing with faded enthusiasm.

  Mia pointed in the direction of the friends who had long disappeared, raking a hand through her hair. “I . . . Well, it’s very nice of you to ask, but I have to, um . . .”

  She was struggling for politeness. Unbelievable. Good manners even when accosted by long-haired strangers. He had the sudden urge to ask her what was the matter with her. Didn’t her mother warn her not to talk to strangers, especially ones who looked like him? “Hey, that’s okay,” he said. “It was just a spur-of-the-moment idea. And probably not a very smart one.”

  “Oh, no, like I said, it’s nice of you to offer.” But her head was nodding in agreement. “It’s just that I’m meeting my friends.”

  “Right, your friends.” Friends. She probably had dozens, and boyfriends too.

  “Well, maybe some other time.” Feeling as if he’d somehow violated her with the conversation, he turned to walk away. To his amazement, she called after him.

  “Hey, um, what’s your name? You know, in case I see you around town.”

  He turned, but kept walking backward. She probably wanted to know should she need to file a police report anytime soon. He hesitated, his eyes streaming over her figure. God, but she had incredible legs. Ah, what could it hurt? He’d probably never see her again. “Flynn. Name’s Flynn.” He never missed a stride, spinning back around.

  “I’m Mia,” she replied, as if surprised that he was retreating.

  He spun on the heels of his weathered black boots once more. “Yeah, I know.” He turned and disappeared around the corner.

  Chapter 3

  “Hey, Mia. What took you so long?” asked a well-decorated blonde whose wary glance darted toward her. She scooted over in the booth to make room and Mia sat. “Walking the streets alone isn’t safe. They found another girl at Alabama today,” she said, plucking skewered cherries from a plastic sword. “This one beaten senseless and drowned in the bathtub.”

  “Did they really? How awful,” Mia said, putting a hand to her mouth. “That’s nothing to be flip about and you know it.” Roxanne Burke finding sarcasm in serial killings—for her it was a natural train of thought.

  “I’m not,” she insisted. “But I heard it was some random guy she picked up at a party—invited him back to her place. How often have I said,” she cautioned, pointing the sword at the table of girls, “it’s what that kind of behavior will get you?”

  “So how many girls does that make?” asked another blonde, this one bleached platinum and also attractive, though not in Roxanne’s league.

  “Six, I think. And Roxanne wasn’t being flip,” offered a third blonde. “She’s just ridiculously paranoid. ’Bama’s like a zillion miles from here.” Roxanne frowned as Sara blathered on, chasing her beer with a clear shot of something that certainly wasn’t water. “Hey, Lanie, what do you call a pretty girl at ’Bama anyway?”

  “Dead, apparently,” Roxanne mumbled, sipping her fruity concoction.

  “A visitor,” Lanie offered, gulping her beer. “Come on, Sara, that joke is older than the Arch,” she said, referring to the centuries-old University of Georgia entrance.

  “I know, but it’s so true,” Sara said with a shrug.

  The four girls broke into instantaneous giggles. With the first pitcher nearly empty, Mia ordered a beer from the passing waitress. The Odyssey was one of those offbeat college haunts where the floor was terminally sticky and the beer sometimes warm. But it was a short walk back to campus and the refreshments were dirt cheap.

  “So did you find the paintbrush you were looking for?” asked Roxanne before she tossed popcorn into her mouth, taking meticulous care not to smudge her lipstick.

  Roxanne Burke was the true debutante of the group and an utter contradiction. Plantation raised and cotillion bound, she was so beautiful it dripped off her like sweet icing over warm sticky buns. Heavenly blue eyes, beauty-contestant legs, and a face that had surely been kissed by the angels made Roxanne’s looks her cross to bear, at least outwardly. She was actually more brilliant than beautiful—a fact that simply wasn’t the first thing that struck most people. It amazed Mia, the assumptions people made about a girl who looked like that and sounded like that. And from what she had witnessed, it never dulled. Roxanne, on the other hand, couldn’t be bothered—which wasn’t to say it didn’t bother her at all. But her focus was elsewhere, letting speculation roll on by like water over a stone.

  “Mia, are you listening? Hello? The paintbrush? A half hour ago a number nine feather edge was a life-or-death matter,” she said, snapping open a compact and applying a fresh coat of powder. Roxanne would never venture beyond the mailbox without a proper face. It was an integral part of the contradiction.

  “The brush? Oh, right, the art store. No, I suppose I didn’t. I got distracted.” She was going to explain, but she didn’t know what to say about her encounter with the denim-clad, long-haired stranger. Mia wasn’t sure what she thought about him. Only that he was distracting, causing her to get halfway down the street, no longer interested in where she was going. Any explanation and Roxanne would arrive at a firm opinion that would quickly become her own.

  “You’re hopeless.” Roxanne laughed, pokin
g her with the plastic sword. “Can’t even send you off down the street without a note reminding you where you’re going.”

  The laughter and chatty banter rolled on and eventually a group of young men joined their small party. Lanie and Sara knew two of them, frat boys with a reputation for snagging the date of their choice. They naturally gravitated to Roxanne. She paid them no more attention than a pesky insect, plucking off their post-adolescent wings because, well, what else would she do with them? The night wore on and the boys soon tired of trying to impress the beautiful but socially awkward Roxanne. They took turns dancing with the other girls while she watched.

  Mia stumbled back to her seat, having surpassed her usual cutoff point of three beers. It was a rule she and Roxanne invoked after a near-disastrous freshman year. College life and its no-holds-barred shot of freedom was a challenge to most fresh-men, but more so for Mia, a girl who had a knack for being attracted to the wrong choice, like the tide to the moon.

  Her father had been a prominent district attorney who’d measured himself by the number of criminals he convicted. He died during Mia’s last year of high school, leaving her a sizable trust and a landslide of free will, which turned out to be more enticing than the cash. While the money provided the means, it was the opportunity to make choices that motivated Mia most. It was a big learning curve for a girl who had been happy making art her focus, and whose father was happier still making all the decisions. Consumed by her social calendar—a way of life that Mia never could appreciate—her mother, Clarice Montgomery, wasn’t much help. Actually, she seemed rather accepting, if not downright pleased, when her Bohemian-edged, artsy daughter took her father’s last known advice and attended his alma mater—six hundred miles from home. This would make it difficult for Mia to stumble in on one of her mother’s cocktail parties—one she’d been forewarned about—barefoot, wearing paint-splattered jeans, and eating cold pizza.