by Rob Pierce
I walked back to the living room and grabbed my drink, stood next to the couch and waited for her. I waited half a minute. She stayed in the kitchen, her back to the counter, her hand next to that knife drawer. I picked up her glass and walked back to the kitchen, held it out to her. Her hands didn’t move.
I stepped toward her and she grabbed the drawer handle. I set her glass down and took a couple steps back. “So now you won’t even drink with me?”
“I never knew you, Dust. Now I’m scared of what I know.”
“You knew me when we were together. You know I care about you and Jeremy.”
“You cared so much you left us for some whore.” She slid over a couple steps, moved so her left hand was the one at the drawer handle, grabbed her glass and took a drink. “You used to be exciting. Since you got hurt, you’re just dark.”
I nodded, I drank.
“And,” she went on, “you always drank, but now you’re always drunk.”
“You used to drink with me.”
“You’re drunk and you’re dark. I don’t want to go there.”
I nodded at her scotch glass. “You gonna go there?”
She grabbed the glass. “Now I think I need it.”
I finished my drink. I’d left the bottle on the other side of her. I pointed at it. “This time I’m going over there.”
I stepped forward and poured my glass, pretty sure she knew she didn’t have to open the knife drawer.
She kept a hand on it anyway, raised her glass with the other hand as I screwed the cap back on the bottle. It looked like a toast but it felt like goodbye. “You need to go,” she said.
I wouldn’t talk her out of this, her face and voice were clear. “But Jeremy…”
Her voice hushed. “You hurt him when you left. Now you give a shit. And if he finds out Dave’s dead…” Her eyes drilled through me. “Get the fuck out.”
I stepped out of the kitchen and the front door opened. Jeremy staggered in. He was drunk. He was ten. I knew how that went.
Theresa rushed past me. “Jeremy?” She knelt to scoop up the drunk boy but he scooted past her.
I stepped that way too and bent down and he met my chest with inept fists.
“You,” he said, and hit me weakly. “Shithead.” He cried and he punched and I put my arms around his back.
He ducked and got away from me. “You killed him.”
“No,” I said, soft. I could hardly talk, scared of what he thought. “It was an accident.”
He stepped farther to one side and yelled. “You killed him!”
“I didn’t,” I said, my voice barely there.
“They said your name on TV!” Jeremy ran past me, down the hall to his room. Oh God, he loved me, I saw it when he ran. But I also heard what he said. I turned to follow but Theresa stood in front of me.
“Don’t,” she said.
“I—”
“You fucked us enough already. It doesn’t matter if you’re the killer. You touch people and they die. You’re out of Jeremy’s life.”
I’m out of everyone's life, I thought. There were tears in Theresa’s eyes but they didn’t drop. She didn’t need to see the tears in mine. If I was on TV I had to get the fuck out.
***
It was dark outside. I got in the stolen Maxima and drove.
It was fucking cold in the car so I turned on the heater. It took forever to warm up. I drove fast down backstreets, made it to the highway and drove faster. I checked my rear view but no one followed. I gripped the wheel tight, clenched my teeth.
I drove farther, out of town then out of the county. Hours away, almost out of state. Away from the cops, away from the world. I checked my mileage as the sun came up. Only the first half of the drive was in the dark. It was easy to see the empty road.
I took the empty road and kept going. I’d left everyone behind but I had my money and my memories. If I could just stay alive, if I could just get out of this world and into another, I’d never be along. I’d always have money, booze, and demons.
About the Author
Rob Pierce has been nominated for a Derringer Award for short crime fiction, and has had his stories published in Flash Fiction Offensive, Pulp Modern, Plots With Guns, Revolt Daily, Near To The Knuckle, and Shotgun Honey. The editor of Swill Magazine, he lives in Oakland, California, with his wife and two children. He is equally comfortable taking romantic walks on the beach or dumping the body elsewhere.
Acknowledgement
This novel would not exist in its current form, or likely in any publishable form, if not for the editorial suggestions of the homework club, Sean Craven and Warren Lutz. In the words of Lawrence Welk, “Thank you, boys.”