Sticks and Stones

by Angèle Gougeon

  “Why don’t you get a room,” she said to Roger, and Danny’s fingers bit in deep.

  “Just a brother, huh?” Roger reiterated, like he didn’t believe it, and Danny’s face went harsh.

  “Just a brother. Go get a room.” Sandra said.

  Finally Roger turned away, and Daniel waited until he was gone before pushing her close to the building, almost up into the wall, hissing down into her face. “What the hell are you doing?”

  Sandra didn’t think he deserved an answer.

  “You’re taking him here?” Danny hissed. “And what – you’re going to let him fuck you in some dirty motel, listening to men and their cheap dates through the walls?”

  “Is that what they’re calling it these days?”

  He shook her, her back pressed flat to the wall. “What are you doing?”

  Tilting her head, she was glad to have his jacket in her arms, glad it concealed the press of the knife in her pocket, made him feel not so real against her. “You keep acting like you have a say. Why’d you follow me, Danny? Are you gonna watch me as I fuck someone?”

  He drew back. Then, throat working, he said, “He’s bad news.”

  “Well, yeah. That still doesn’t explain why you followed.”

  Danny looked away, fingers dragging up into his jean pockets. She felt cold without him there, felt scared that he would leave and absolutely terrified that he wouldn’t.

  “I don’t say anything about your girls, Daniel. I don’t harp about the waitresses and back alleys and late night returns. Hell, I haven’t even said a thing about that girl you fucked against the house wall while I watched. Which was a pretty awful goddamned thing for you to do.”

  This time there was a definite flinch. “Sandra, I—”

  “I’m not stupid, Daniel,” her voice was full of venom and she watched it take root in his pale skin, watched it push him a little further. “I know where you and Jack go at night, what you go off to do. I have the right to do the same.”

  His eyes caught hers, held fast. “Are you doing this because we—”

  “Don’t get a big head now.” Her grin was cutting. And she didn’t mind one bit. “This has nothing to do with you.” And maybe that made it worse, because his jaw looked about ready to crack. “I don’t get a say about the girls you take … and you certainly don’t get a say about mine.”

  “San…”

  “I’m here for me. I want this.” And, oh, that lie came easy.

  He breathed deep, looked like he wanted to drag her away but didn’t dare. “This isn’t you,” he whispered.

  “How would you know that?”

  The silence lasted so long that she was sorely tempted to walk away. But Danny looked so tortured. Somewhere, deep down, Sandra felt glad, absolutely ecstatic, that he knew how it felt. But an even stronger part felt horrible, because she knew she’d made him give in and he was going to walk away and she was going to go into that room and shove her knife in between that cold-hearted bastard’s ribs.

  She let her hand fall onto his shoulder. “It’s okay, Danny. I know what I’m doing.”

  His sigh rattled the air. “Okay,” he said. “Okay.” One last lingering look, and she wanted to say, he’s waiting for me, but Danny had already turned away, onto the sidewalk and down the street. She wanted to call him back, give him the knife or let him use his own, hidden and well-used in his right boot, its handle grooved and blade sharp-smooth. But she’d promised Lem. So Sandra turned away and followed the wall of the motel to the corner.

  Fake-Roger had the door of their room open, was leaning against the frame, only the light from the parking lot illuminating his face, shadows at his back as his hand dangled down low beside his leg. He straightened when he saw her, eyes flickering all over the place as he tried to spot Danny. Or anyone, maybe. The motel looked vacant, only one other car at the far end, windows lit behind sun-bleached curtains.

  She could imagine him hiding his face, pitching his voice deep and different as he paid for the room and accepted the key.

  He still wanted to kill her.

  God, he was stupid.

  “Didn’t think you’d show,” he said when she was close enough. She forced herself to take those last few feet, crowd right up against him until he stepped back, pushing him into the dark and letting her smile fade right along with it.

  She closed the door.

  Danny’s jacket fell to the floor. The only light came from the window, faded and brittle through the crack in the curtains. Roger’s face was a mask of blues and purples, faint highlights on his cheeks and nose. His eyes gleamed dark, a white glare around his pupils that followed her, hid his thoughts and drew attention away from his knuckles and hands.

  She didn’t think he ever got far with the women.

  The dark would hide the reach of her hand, the blade she’d bring out and push forward and… Sandra trembled – felt cold.

  “Come on,” Roger murmured, hand outstretched, and Sandra stepped into him, kept her one arm at her side, let his fingers wrap tight around her closest wrist.

  And Roger was Lewis and David and John. He was Kenneth and Mathew and Mike and he introduced himself to Heather and made her laugh. He took Katherine home and made her feel special. He took Alice outside and punched her in the gut, cracked her ribs and strangled her dead. The next one was drunk and didn’t fight, and he liked that, but he liked the ones who did much, much better. They made it interesting, made his adrenaline surge and his breath come quick, and it was so good, so good that he had to do it again. Katherine tried to scream and Ellie screamed and Mary-Anne tried until her throat was bloody. And Aaron James Anderson loved it more than anything else in the world.

  He couldn’t see her face – a slip of shape and bone – and Sandra was glad. His free hand came up, pressed against her cheek, a cold burn of metal rings and the catching glide of the etched design. Shifting her arm, Sandra dragged the blade forward.

  It didn’t do more than scratch.

  Immediately, Aaron sprung back. She couldn’t see his expression, but his arm moved up, pressed against his stomach, air hissing out hard. “You bitch,” he said. She hardly felt the blow before she was forced back. Her one wrist was gripped so tight it felt as though bones broke. She couldn’t keep hold of the knife. She felt the air move as the knife landed somewhere by her foot, an unlucky sting and a hole in her sneakered toe when she stepped on it. A shove, and she stumbled, the wall too close. Aaron’s fist got her in the chest. Sandra tried to curl her arms, protect herself, because she’d seen what came next.

  His rings left blood on her face.

  He didn’t speak. He’d been quiet in the memories as well. His other hand was on her jaw and it put his fingers close to her neck. Just one little slip and she’d be breathless. Her nails bit deep, left bloody furrows as she tangled her hands against his. She got one fist away, held it tight until her fingers went numb. But his other hand was still at her jaw, and all he had to do was nudge his arm in, snag it right up against her throat and press.

  In her head, Meredith Bakerly passed out. Emily Titus died before he had finished, and Leora Flint held on for much too long. All their throats were squeezed tight and Sandra’s head hit the wall, bounced too hard, and hit again. She couldn’t breathe. Aaron’s caught hand got away. She thought he hit her cheek again. Maybe her ribs. All the girls were in her head – god, there was at least fifteen. She didn’t know anything anymore. Everything hurt. Breathing felt like swallowing stones.

  “You bitch,” he repeated, voice very quiet over the pounding in her skull.

  His blood would be in the carpet, she knew. Hers as well. And maybe someone would find her after she was gone. Though, in a place like this, it was likely no one would care. But Danny would know. He’d know and Aaron James Anderson wouldn’t be safe. Not even if it took Danny the rest of his life.

 
; His arm pressed tighter and she realized he hadn’t quit saying it. “You bitch,” he repeated over and over, pressing his arm tighter each time. She couldn’t get air at all anymore. Her body floated. Her legs didn’t hurt when she crashed to the floor.

  The oxygen rushing back in did.

  The world roared. Someone yelled. The voice was loud and angry as the walls rushed by. Sandra was inside the room and another one and this one and that one and her cheek was busted and her lips bled, but not for real. His rings cut deep, like his fingers and like the fingers on his own throat. There was a swear and a thump and Danny had him on the ground. Aaron snarled, tried to catch Danny’s wrist, but he hadn’t been trained like them. He hadn’t been trained at all. He was angry, and Daniel was cold, calm, thinking clearly, and Aaron was not.

  He was bleeding all over the hotel’s dirty carpet floor.

  The dark twisted over their writhing forms. Sandra wasn’t sure who was on top and who was throwing the punches and her legs didn’t want to work. She could feel Aaron Anderson’s hands, his hands and Danny’s hands, ghost touches all in her head, and they were both leaving blood, leaving her gasping, falling, with words stuck sharp behind her teeth.

  Daniel didn’t hold back. His fists were like Roger’s fists, unrelenting and cruel. He didn’t have a ring but he had a knife. Sandra wanted to get up on her feet – but she wasn’t herself. She was that woman again; she was another woman, all those women until there was nothing of her left. Then it was over and she was alone. Sandra was on the ground.

  Get up, she told herself.

  Her knees wobbled, legs shaking, and she had to use the wall to climb to her feet. The wallpaper had a gritty texture, embossed paper, and she stumbled against the carpet, felt the pain in her toe, smashed her hip against the television stand, before finally finding the door. Her hands fumbled for the light switch.

  It left her blind.

  She blinked and found her sight just in time to see Daniel pick up her knife. And then he brought it down. When he looked up there was blood spattered all over his face.

  Sandra breathed, feeling like she was falling all over again.

  Daniel climbed to his feet, knuckles scraped, hands and arms red. There was blood on his neck and Sandra didn’t know where else to look. The jacket she’d dropped was near her feet. The sleeve had been soaked. There was too much blood, more than the dark carpet could hide.

  What had she been thinking?

  “Hey.” Her face was in Danny’s hands. She wanted to pull away. They were freezing and dripping wet but she couldn’t pull her gaze from his. “San,” he said, mere breath of air, and she closed her eyes. “Look at me. Better me. Better me than you,” he said.

  She shook her head, or tried to. His fingers slip-slid against her skin, leaving streaks of red behind.

  “What do we do?” Fingers twitching at her side, Sandra couldn’t quite make herself move. She was going to hurt, she knew, very soon. But now she was numb, bones rooted through down to the floor. “Why did you …?”

  “Better me than you,” he repeated, fingers finally sliding free.

  “You knew.” And it felt like the air had been completely punched out of her all over again.

  “You don’t let anybody close. Not ever.” Danny bent and retrieved his jacket, using the clean sleeve to wipe the worst from his face. Sandra wanted to tell him about Jonah Miles, about how he and Jack didn’t know everything, but she couldn’t read Danny, couldn’t really think, and confusion made her stumble as he pushed her closer to the door, reached past her to get it open, letting in a fast rush of cool air.

  “But the room—” she protested.

  “We’ll never get it clean.”

  He left her on the lot corner, hiding in the shadows and body beginning to ache as Daniel fetched the car. He wrapped his jacket around him to hide most of the blood, loping off fast through the dark. Sandra’s hands were shaking by the time he returned. Sliding into the car, she tucked her hands between her knees, keeping her eyes away from him and the bloody fingers on the steering wheel. He’d tried to clean them, rub them off on the grass meridian and a blade had stuck to his right knuckle.

  Sandra could feel the blood drying on her cheeks.

  She wanted to scratch her skin right off.

  The radio wasn’t on and the silence enveloped them horribly until the tires rumbled with the change of pavement to gravel. Her body hurt. Her cheek felt swollen and her throat was raw, aching every time she swallowed.

  Danny looked better, at least from the face up.

  The drive leading up to the house held huge ruts, mud and gravel pushed up from tractor tires and their own car from when it had rained a week earlier. Sandra bit her lip, didn’t let herself moan, and held on tight to her knees. Daniel stopped the car, turned the key and stepped out. Slowly, Sandra climbed free, using the siding of the house to steady herself when she was close enough. Danny had waited at the milk crates and she was glad, because lifting her foot made her thighs and foot burn. She swayed and Daniel steadied her.

  They made it up the front steps and into the main landing. Almost immediately, Danny let her go and began to climb the stairs leading to the second floor.

  She wanted to call him back, apologize, say, I’m so sorry.

  Danny had killed a man. For her.

  “What the hell happened?” Jack was out of his room, sounding horrified and voice so loud that Sandra flinched, trying not to look at Danny and the red smear behind his left ear. He slammed into the bathroom and she didn’t look forward to going in there after, bucket full of pink, trying to scrub skin clean that would never be.

  “Sandra?” Jack asked, voice a little panicked. He flew down the steps, feet slapping hard and threatening to send the whole staircase through the floor. He grabbed her shoulders, let go when she gasped and winced, and took hold of her face again. It was too like Danny and she had to close her eyes. She felt his fingers trace her cheeks anyway, run over the flaking blood and find the bruise there. She wondered if her neck looked just as bad. Maybe all the damage was on the inside.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  Shaking her head, she gestured to the stairs instead, got him to help her. Leaning against his side, they slowly made it to her room, then her bed. Jack carefully climbed up beside her, trying not to jostle the mattress as he lay one arm loose across her chest, his hand tracing down her ribs and studying the bruises rising up strong underneath her skin. Slowly, Sandra rolled onto her side, leaning close to hide her face in his shirt, soft and warm and smelling of him.

  “Sandra,” he whispered. “What happened? Did Danny—?”

  “No,” Sandra cut him off quickly. Her lips tasted like blood. “You know he would never… I was dumb,” she said. “I was just dumb.” Jack’s hand pressed to the back of her head and she choked on a sigh. “So, so dumb.”

  “Shhh,” he said. She had to take a moment, breathe deep.

  “There was a man and he – he’d killed women. He was going to kill more. I saw them a-and he came into the bar…” She couldn’t finish. “Danny followed me. The man, h-his fingers were around my throat, but Danny came in and—” and she couldn’t say the words, but by the way Jack hissed and held her close she imagined he had figured it out.

  “Why didn’t you tell us?” Jack’s fingers wound deep into her hair. “You should’ve told us.”

  “Can’t tell the police, right? And then what would we have done?” She was breathing hard and Jack pressed his lips tight.

  “I’ve been an asshole,” he said, as though it was an excuse as to why she’d kept it to herself. Maybe it was. Sandra didn’t agree, but she didn’t say no either, just laid still and quiet. Jack’s fingers gripped her chin, made her look at him. “I know I haven’t been here. But you can’t – you… You’re not alone. You don’t have to do this by yourself.”

  Y
es I do, she thought, thinking of them and Lem and the future.

  Jack bundled her up inside his arms and held on until it hurt.

  The truth of it was Danny had scared her. But she’d scared herself even more.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Sandra was alone the next morning.

  She woke stiff, barely able to turn. Her skin felt dirty, branded, despite commandeering the bathroom the night before not long after Danny, washing twice and using most of the stored water. She kept waking during the night, sure her skin was still covered in blood. She dreamed Daniel crept into her room and ran dripping fingers down her cheeks. She dreamed Aaron wasn’t really dead and crawled through her window. She dreamed of Thomas asking why didn’t you save me, too?

  The room was cold, autumn on its way, and there was no electricity for heat, colder without the worn quilt, and it took a while to get the courage to leave the bed. The wooden floor seared ice into her soles, shivers traveling all the way to her aching bones and through her bruised skin.

  Her ribs twinged as she inched down the stairs. Daniel sat in the kitchen, and Sandra nearly turned back. But there were circles under his eyes, face pale like she’d only seen in the hospital, layered in shirts and sweaters and sitting at the table with his hands resting between his knees. With his head down he didn’t see her, shoulders so slumped that she would’ve thought he was sleeping if not for his opened eyes.

  His head didn’t rise when she stepped close, not even when he saw her stocking feet. The floor was hard on her knees, made everything protest all over again, but she didn’t regret it, didn’t try to get back up as she pulled Danny’s face down and pressed a kiss to his forehead. His whole body shuddered, and he didn’t make a sound, but he leaned into her, one arm coming up and fitting around her neck until he pressed too much on her bruises and she had to move away. “I’m sorry,” she said. Such inadequate words, but he seemed to understand.