She dreamed in nightmares, half-remembered upon waking, scenes of dark eyes and bloodied hands. It felt as though she was falling, plummeting as the rest of the world stood still, watching Jack and Danny disappear up over the horizon, into the distance and away. She was the one lost in darkness as the light swallowed them whole. It was sort of like burning, just the opposite way around, and she could never watch. She would wake with sweat on her face and soaking through her shirts, completely unhinged with her throat clogged tight.
Danny was starting to itch. She could tell, see his glances at the road, fingers twitching over an imaginary wheel. She’d wake up to maps spread over the kitchen counter, one oil-stained finger tracing over routes that could take them the fastest and farthest away.
Jack never seemed to care.
Sandra was just surprised he hadn’t somehow been picked up by the police.
He was fast, but no one was that good, and his shirts were beginning to resemble Rorschach inkblots, old blood spots darkening the fabric until Sandra didn’t even try soaking and scrubbing.
Jack didn’t try, period.
For all of Daniel’s faults, at least he hadn’t picked fights with over half the town. He hadn’t left a line of black eyes and broken noses behind.
He’d probably left some broken hearts.
She knew he’d left hers trodden in the dust.
Sandra rubbed a sheen of clear gloss across her lips, made sure she had her money and her knife, and headed out the door. She wasn’t going to the pub. She didn’t want to sit and wonder if the reason Thomas hadn’t stopped by was because of exams or tests, or something a whole hell of a lot worse.
There weren’t many places willing to let her inside without looking at her ID. But there was one. It reminded her of a saloon; old-time atmosphere, weary and worn, no dance floor, and half a dozen grungy tables full of pock-marks and scars. The lighting was dim, benches and stools tear-worn. There was a pool table in the back, taken over by a couple of quiet friends who jostled each other good naturedly as they placed their bets, forking over quarters and nickels when their bills ran out. Sandra wondered if they were regulars. She wondered if Danny had been by and given them a run for their money – had probably drained them dry.
The bartender wasn’t anything like Keith Liston.
His face was scarred like the bar, fingers thick and strong as he poured. His hair was salt and pepper gray and he didn’t smile once.
He gave Sandra a beer, eyeing her a little but letting it be. She imaged Keith would’ve had some words to say. This one just looked at her like she needed that drink. She had to be pretty bad off if a guy with half his ear missing was feeling sorry for her.
Sandra sipped, getting foam on her lip and trying to hunch her shoulders into her spine. She stuck out, even with her old clothes and ripped jeans, like they could smell the young blood in her. She didn’t belong and she felt like everybody knew it.
The beer was bitter and tasted like ashes going down.
Everything tasted like ashes.
Sandra didn’t want to know why.
The man in the corner had dark eyes and she didn’t know if that was because he’d been born that way or because he had something inside of him.
A glass thumped down, slow slosh of coke and rum at her elbow. “What are you doing here?”
Danny wasn’t angry, not really, but he didn’t give much away, either. Sandra hadn’t been able to read him for weeks. He wore his old canvas jacket, smelling of cigarettes and alcohol and girls, dirt on the elbows and a day’s worth of stubble on his chin. There was a new scar on his cheek. Sandra wanted to rub her thumb over it, that angry red line, and clenched her bottle tight instead.
Danny sighed something, brought his glass up, nearly drained it dry. Sandra’s throat felt bruised, ripped up like she’d been swallowing glass instead of beer. She pushed her bottle over. He only hesitated a moment before taking it up, using a finger to pull the top toward him. He tipped it back and ordered another.
Sandra wondered if getting him drunk was wise.
Halfway through his third beer, his hand settled heavy on her neck, a loose curl of fingers and thumb. It made her shoulders come down. Made her eyes burn. She stared down at the bar counter and hoped he didn’t see, wishing she knew how to make things right.
Sandra smelled his shampoo on his neck.
Then Sandra was falling, a rip of something like reality that scorched her skin, tore at her cheek and left her gagging blood. Her teeth sunk into the soft insides of her mouth. She felt the man’s fist again, saw the cold of his eyes as he swelled her own shut.
She made a sound, and this time Daniel was holding her close to keep her on the stool as she gripped his wrist until her fingers went numb.
“What?” she whispered. “What?” Because she wasn’t touching anyone or anything and the only one there was Danny and it just didn’t happen like this anymore—
“Hey,” Danny whispered into her hair, little shake to the shoulder like he wasn’t sure she was with him. “Hey, you okay?”
No, she wanted to say. “Yes.” Her voice shook, little tremor that matched her body.
They’d sat in this chair. They all had. And they had thought that he was nice.
But they were wrong. And he had hurt them. She thought he had killed them, deep scaring of knuckles and rings and— This was the sort of thing she’d have brought to Lem, once, watched him take care of it from a distance, demon growing in his eyes even if it was the right thing to do. And now – what now? What did she do? She couldn’t tell Jack and certainly not Daniel because they’d—
“What’d you see?” he asked, voice quiet and intent, as though the bartender wasn’t looking over like she wasn’t quite right, maybe regretting that beer he’d sold her, maybe itching to see her gone even if no one else in the bar had noticed her episode.
She recognized the rings.
He’d sat beside her how many nights ago, persistent and ugly with Keith Liston getting in his way.
But he always returned to this place.
“Sandra?” Danny’s voice cut in, fingers curled close, breath in her ear and tone low-sharp. “What’d you see?” Sandra shook her head, turned her face away, but Daniel wouldn’t let her go. “Tell me,” he said, and she wanted to – oh, she did.
But she’d promised and she didn’t know what Daniel would do. She didn’t know what either of those boys would do anymore. They might as well have both been strangers.
Daniel was more like his father than he would ever believe.
She suspected he’d be pleased to hear that.
Lem wouldn’t.
“C’mon,” Daniel sighed, pulling her up off the stool with one hand and grabbing his beer with the other. He led her to the booths near the back. The light above the table was burnt out. Just shy of them, the friends at the pool table piled their winnings together, a bundle of paper bills and dull-shined coins. One kept razing the other, elbow jutting out and finding ribs. They’d both be on the floor if they were Jack and Daniel, scuffling around until they were either out of breath from laughing or had given each other bloodied lips and noses.
Danny took his jacket off, pushing her into the booth. Sandra both hoped and feared that he’d sit across from her, maybe give her some room. He didn’t. Sliding in right beside her, he pressed close enough that she could feel the heat of his thigh, feel the long-lined press of his arm as he leaned over, asking again, “What did you see?”
His jacket lay bunched behind them and Sandra could feel the bulge of fabric as she leaned back, sighing, “Danny…”
“Can I help?” he asked, and it sounded like a concession, like he wouldn’t press even if Sandra knew better.
“I don’t know,” she said, but her head shook no and her heart said yes. The man wasn’t here now. That was the only thing that kept her mouth shut.
If he came in … she could possibly deal with him herself. Rings didn’t mean anything, when you got down to it. And just because she didn’t like someone didn’t mean he was a murderer.
Maybe he wouldn’t come in at all.
Danny was on his fifth beer, hadn’t left her side, waving over the long-legged waitress with bedroom eyes. She’d switched out with the tired mom at half past nine, and kept throwing looks Danny’s way, like Sandra didn’t exist, making her wonder if they’d gotten together sometime before. Danny could have taken her out back, pressed her to the cold brick, watched them print her skin as he pushed inside. She was coy and, Sandra bet, willing like a heartbeat.
At ten, the man came in.
Danny didn’t feel her stiffen, she was sure of it. He was looking at the waitress, considering on taking up her offer, one more beer under his belt and feeling pretty good about himself.
Sandra recognized him right away – the dark burn of hair, the sharp eyes, and gleaming rings. She wasn’t close enough to see the scars on his knuckles, but she knew they were there – knew how they probably got there, too.
He didn’t see her – the darkness and Danny hid her. He might recognize her, she thought, though she expected he wouldn’t care. This bartender wouldn’t save her from the man’s not-so-tender mercies. Probably why he always came back.
He was hunting.
Danny swiped his fingers through the condensation under his bottle, water drops settling in the cigarette burns on the table as the waitress sauntered past, putting an extra sway into her step and a fetching grin on her face. The man’s eyes at the bar followed her, but he turned away. Too risky, likely. Maybe he knew her. Maybe she knew him and would never let him get close.
It might be obvious if a waitress went missing. Only a matter of time before she was linked back to the bar, back to him and his rings and the scars on his hands and nail-scuffs marking up his arms. But not soon enough.
Can I do this? Sandra asked. Can I?
Danny shifted beside her, restlessly following the waitress with his eyes. Then his beer was gone and Sandra wondered how much of a push he’d need, if he’d be suspicious, not want to leave her alone… Daniel clapped a hand onto her shoulder. “I’ll be right back,” he said, leaving his jacket behind and heading for the back hall, bathroom and backdoor all close together and she wondered if he’d lie when he returned, say he’d been in one when he’d actually been out the other.
The waitress took a minute to follow.
Sandra gathered up Daniel’s jacket and moved toward the bar. She might have ten minutes, fifteen at the most. The stool creaked beneath her, air heavy, and she would’ve shivered if her limbs weren’t so tight. Her spine hurt, jaw and face. His middle ring had a design on it – a low etch of curves that she couldn’t quite make out. She hadn’t noticed last time; hadn’t wanted to.
Would she be okay if he touched her?
“Hey,” she said.
His eyes slid over, the slow curl of his grin made her sick. He was handsome. He looked like the boy next door and he felt absolutely awful and those girls must’ve had absolutely no idea.
“I know you.”
Sandra tried to look confused, like she didn’t remember, and his eyes slid down to the jacket, knew it was too big to be hers. “Brother,” she said, and he nodded, bringing his beer closer and raising a brow.
Sandra shook her head.
“I remember now. You don’t drink.” There was something challenging in his tone, almost a sneer and Sandra bit her tongue to stop from getting up and walking away. “I’m surprised you sat down.”
“Yeah, well, you were persistent. Maybe I’ve decided another shot can’t hurt.”
He grinned and it was so charming Sandra wanted to slap it off his face. “Huh.” He brought his drink up again. “Can I get you anything?”
I bet you love them drunk. They can’t fight back when they’re that way, can they?
“You don’t like me,” he said, giving a surprised laugh. “Why are you here?”
“Did you like me, the night you were trying to pick me up in the pub?”
That grin twisted back. “I saw you take up with that young guy – leave with him. What are you doing here, with me, when you could be laying somewhere with him? He not good enough for you?”
“You’re really trying to burn all your bridges, aren’t you?”
He laughed. Sandra wanted to walk away. Five minutes had passed and she wasn’t sure when Danny would be back.
“Well, hell, if you’ve stayed around…” he shrugged, offered his hand. “Roger.” Trent, Arthur, Stuart flashed across her mind when she took the offered palm, fingers too firm and too long on hers. The rings were cold and felt wet with blood, felt full of teeth and glass.
“Sarah,” she said, because that was close enough and she just wanted his hand off of hers.
“Sarah,” he repeated, and she had to force a smile. “Yeah,” he laughed, “you don’t like me.”
“Who said I had to like you?”
He drew the bottle close with two fingers, took a slow drink, the smile never fading. “You’re screwed up, lady.”
“Maybe.” She shrugged. “I bet you like it that way.” He sputtered a little, coughed, turned back around to stare at her. Sandra raised a brow, hoped it made her look alluring, challenging, rather than stupid.
His laugh was real this time, more honest, and just as vicious. He ran a thumb over his rings, looked her up and down and inched just that bit closer. “Maybe I do.”
A fake-pleased sound and Sandra’s gaze slipped sideways, Danny not back yet and slipped her leg off the stool, nudge of knee and thigh. The so-called Roger smiled wide, tipped the rest of his beer back, and rested one hand on her leg when he was done. The touch spread out like oil, greasy and cold, dripping through the fabric and into her skin.
“You’re a fucking tease,” he said, and she wasn’t sure if that was good or bad, a grating edge to his voice that made her almost jerk away, a trembling surge of adrenaline that made her want to rabbit and run.
She forced her eyes up, tilted her head, showed some neck. C’mon, she wanted to say. C’mon. C’mon. What was it going to take?
“Where’s your brother now?” he checked, just enough force to convince any other girl he was worried about getting hit, afraid of some tomcat coming up to defend his little sis’ honor.
But a brother couldn’t sketch his face if he never saw him leave.
“Out back. Getting lucky.” A closer lean and, “Like you could be. What d’you say?”
He stilled, tilted his head to match hers, too close and too closed off. “You sure about that?”
“Hell, of course not. But I’m offering anyway.”
“Got somewhere to go?”
“Sure.” Sandra smiled, pulled back, and waited for not-Roger to finish his beer, stand up and offer his hand. She took it, made it look like she wanted to, and grabbed Danny’s jacket.
He’d miss her first. And she didn’t think he’d care about his jacket’s absence if he didn’t even care about hers.
“You’re something else, Sarah,” so-called Roger said, on the way out the bar, and she just tugged her hand from his, using the excuse to catch the swing of the door before the wood grazed her shoulder.
Chapter Fifteen
He had a car.
“There’s this motel. On the corner.” Sandra flicked her hair back, tucked it in behind her ear.
Not-named-Roger clenched his keys, made the metal rattle and Sandra could already feel the bite, feel the rip and the drip as they crashed into skin and teeth. “What? You asking me to pay?” The anger was dangerously close, and she quickly shook her head, pretending to be mortified and angry right back.
“Just don’t want to take you home. I want to fuck,” she forced out the word, “not invite you to breakfast.”
The keys jingled again, a threatening clash, and then disappeared back into his pocket.
Those girls must’ve been so dumb.
“Fine then,” he said, little nod and smile back, the one that poked not-so-nice fun. “How could I resist?”
“Don’t pretend you don’t love it.” She was just glad she didn’t have to pretend to be kind.
“Yes ma’am,” he said, and fell into step beside her. Even his footsteps were heavy, like he was dragging the whole world down.
Wasn’t he worried she’d scream? She wasn’t drunk or dumb. He just thought she was easy and had to know she could scream and scream.
“You’re more forward than anyone I’ve met in a while,” he said.
Sandra glanced at him, hummed, wondered if he had a point.
“I like it.”
“I bet you like sex more.”
There was that laugh again and, god, it just made her skin crawl. “That, too,” he said. But he liked hurting people much more than that. It was a wonder his eyes weren’t completely onyx-black like his soul.
“You get a room here often?” fake-Roger asked, and Sandra rolled her eyes.
“I’m not a slut.”
He snorted, like he didn’t believe her, and Sandra quickly clenched her teeth. Antagonizing the psychopath probably wasn’t the best way to go about things.
She almost wished she had her gun. Even if she already knew all his moves.
But she had her knife.
They were almost at the edge of the lot when a large hand grabbed Sandra’s shoulder and jerked her around. Roger stopped, stance stiff like he was ready to swing, not nearly loose enough to have been taught how to do it properly.
She had to wonder if Roger and Danny recognized each other from the bar. They’d both been there multiple times.
“What’s going on?” Daniel’s eyes flickering to the motel and back, between her and him and, damn it, Danny must have seen them leave from the alley, must’ve followed. Now not-Roger was going to walk; Sandra could see the panic in his eyes. Everything was becoming too complicated. He was no longer in control. As it was, Roger turned into the shadows, face all blues and indescribable shapes, unrecognizable in case she did turn up dead. She hoped it had been enough. She was easy and didn’t like him and he didn’t like her. She bet he just itched to get his fingers around her stupid little throat.
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