Interlude

by Anna Cruise

  “Hello?”

  “Why didn’t you pick up?” she asks. No hello, no good morning. “Were you still asleep?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s almost ten o’clock.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ve been at work for two hours and you’re just getting up?”

  The judgment in her voice doesn’t go unnoticed. “I couldn’t sleep,” I tell her.

  “Why?”

  Because I had sex with a stranger. Because three guys barged into my house and beat the shit out of me. Because my ex-roommate is dead.

  But I don’t tell her any of this. Because that’s not why she’s calling. “I dunno. I guess I just felt bad about last night…”

  “Oh.” Her voice softens. She sighs. “Me, too. That’s why I’m calling. I…I was unfair last night. Said some things that – that weren’t cool.”

  She doesn’t apologize. She never does. But it’s as close as she’s going to get to giving one.

  “That’s okay,” I mumble. “We all do things that are uncool sometimes.” Like fuck random chicks.

  “I just…I just worry about you. You know? I mean, you’re just drifting through life with no purpose.” Her voice is low, like she doesn’t want her co-workers to hear what she’s saying. “You’re capable of so much more, Nash. More than running lights at parties and concerts, and renting out rooms to drug dealers so you can make rent.”

  “It’s not rent.”

  “You know what I mean,” she says impatiently. “I know, I know. Your mom left you the house. That’s not the point.”

  “Then what is?” My lip cracks and I feel a trickle of blood run down my chin.

  She sighs. “I don’t know. I really don’t. I just thought…”

  I wipe at the blood. “Look, can we talk about this another time? I need to go shower.”

  I don’t want to talk about any of this now. I don’t want a recap of our conversation from the night before. Not after what has happened.

  “What?” She sounds miffed. Then, “Yeah, okay. Fine. Call me when you get things figured out.”

  The line goes dead.

  I stare at the blank screen for a minute. And then I hurl the phone across the room, shattering it against the wall. It feels like a fitting way to vent my frustration. Not just with the conversation I just had, but with the shit life has sent my way over the last twelve hours.

  “Hello?”

  This voice isn’t coming from the phone.

  I freeze.

  Loud pounding on the door sends my heart into overdrive.

  “San Diego Police Department! Open up!”

  In five quick seconds, I debate my options. Wonder what the fuck they’re doing there. And then realize that if I don’t open the door, they’re probably gonna bust through on their own.

  I move as fast as my stiff body can carry me and open the door.

  Two police officers are on my steps, their hands on their holsters.

  “Sir?” The younger one, a slim guy with a buzz cut, gives me the once over. “You alright?”

  I force a smile. “Not really.” I wave a hand at my face. “I got jumped last night on my way home from the beach.”

  “We heard a commotion,” the older officer says, frowning.

  “That was me,” I tell him. I open the door a little wider and point to my phone, which is now laying in a dozen pieces on the floor. “Just had a fight with my girlfriend.”

  They both give slight nods but I can tell they don’t believe me.

  “The bruises on your face,” the older one asks. “Those from your girlfriend? Or...what did you say happened?”

  They’re getting it all wrong. “I was jumped. And I fought with my girlfriend over the phone.”

  He looks me up and down, then gives me the slight nod again.

  “What can I do for you?” I ask with as much calm as I can muster. I’m sure they can hear my heart pounding.

  “We have this house listed as the last known residence of Joseph Armstrong. Is that correct?” the older officer asks.

  I swallow the bile rising in my throat. “Yes and no,” I tell him. “He moved out a few days ago. I’m…I’m not sure where he is now.”

  “When did you see him last?”

  “When he moved out. I haven't talked to him since. I actually just tried to leave him a message.”

  The officers exchange a look. “Why?”

  “I...I had a question about...where to forward his mail,” I say. I wonder if it sounds as lame to them as it does to me. “I don't have his new address.”

  They exchange another look, and the older one's hand drifts away from his holster. “Then you were not aware that Mr. Armstrong is deceased?”

  I feign surprise. “Excuse me?”

  “His body was found last night.”

  “Oh my God.”

  The older cop studies me, his eyes cool, assessing. “When was the last time you talked to him again? Exactly?”

  “Three days ago, I think. I…I ended our rental agreement.”

  “Oh?” The older cop lifts his brows. “Why is that?”

  “It wasn’t working out,” I say evasively.

  “What wasn’t working out?”

  “Our living arrangement.”

  “Would you care to elaborate?”

  “Not really. We just didn't get along.”

  He stares at me and I hold his gaze, unflinching. Finally, he says, “If you remember anything you think might be of interest, would you mind calling SDPD? We’re investigating his death as a homicide.”

  Considering the news said he died of a gunshot wound, I sure as shit hope that’s how they’re investigating it.

  “Sure,” I say instead.

  The older cop nods. “Thank you.” They turn to go but he stops and looks at me. “I assume you can account for your whereabouts last night?”

  “Of course.” I offer nothing more.

  “You file a report about your assault?”

  I shake my head. “No. I didn’t get a good look at them.”

  “Did they take anything off your person?” he asks.

  I shake my head again. “No. I managed to fight him off and he took off running.”

  The older cop isn’t buying it. He doesn’t say as much, but I can tell.

  “We may need you to come down and make a statement,” the younger cop tells me. “Regarding Mr. Armstrong. We’ll be in touch.”

  I watch as they leave, then close the door. I lean back against it and try not to hyperventilate.

  A statement. I’ve never been arrested, never watched much crime TV, but I know what that means.

  And I don’t have an alibi. What I have is a girlfriend who threw me out of her apartment, a dead ex-roommate, a mysterious girl I slept with and who then disappeared, and three guys who beat the shit out of me.

  I’m fucked.

  I limp into my room and collapse on my bed. My stomach hurts and my head hurts and I think I might be sick.

  I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t know what happened to Joey. But I need to find out. Not to solve or avenge my roommate’s murder but to save my own ass.

  Lydia is the key. She came here looking for Joey. And Gino came here looking for her.

  I close my eyes.

  I need to find her.

  Today.

  six

  Showering doesn’t feel good. The water hurts my skin, my scalp, my lips, and visions of Lydia, wet and naked, droplets of water cascading down her body, fill my head. I rinse off as fast as I can, then pat myself down gingerly, wincing as the nubby fabric grazes the bruises on my torso. Christ, I hurt.

  I slip on a pair of old basketball shorts – the elastic is loose and doesn’t press against my bruised kidney – and sit down on my bed. I have no clue what to do, who to talk to. Joey is dead. Sara and I are fighting. Mom is halfway around the world. I could call Chase. Zach. I should call them – they’re my best friends. They would want to know what happened; t
hey should know.

  I call them both. Give them the quick rundown about Joey, and about Gino and his fuckwad friends. I don’t tell them about the cops. And I definitely don’t tell them about Lydia. She’s top secret for now, especially since the last thing I need is for one of them to screw up and drop details when Sara is around. If Sara is around again.

  I sit some more and think about what to do. Chase and Zach weren’t particularly helpful – not that I really expected them to be. Because the one thing I need help with, the one thing that might offer more answers than questions, is the one thing I didn’t tell them about.

  Lydia.

  I reach for my laptop and power it on. I have no idea what to look for, but figure Google is my best chance for figuring out what the hell is going on.

  I start with Joey. I think about what I know about him and feel like an ass when I realize it’s not much. He answered a roommate ad I put on Craigslist. He seemed cool, paid first and last month’s rent, plus a $300 security deposit, in cash. Told me upfront that he made his living under the radar. I’d nodded, looking him over, trying to decide if he was worth the risk. I had a house with an empty room, a house that I was responsible for while Mom was off living in Guam with her new husband, and I needed some extra cash to cover expenses.

  I didn’t ask what he did. Hookers, drugs, credit card fraud, running guns to Mexico – the possibilities were endless. “Don’t bring it in my house,” I told him. “That’s the rule.”

  He agreed and that was that.

  We’d settled into an acquaintanceship. He was barely around, and I spent a lot of time at Sara’s. On the odd occasion we were in the house together, we’d sometimes watch TV, but usually one of us was either coming or going.

  What I know about Joey. The obvious, of course: medium-height, black hair, brown eyes, heavy beard that required daily shaving – the stubble in the sink always pissed me off. The not-so-obvious, the stuff I found out through our limited conversations: originally from the Bay Area. Took some classes at some community college up there before coming to San Diego. Sold weed down on Mission. And, as of last week, in my house. I remember the guy in the living room, some burnout surfer with a stash of cash in his hand.

  It’s not a great start.

  I type his full name into the search engine and wait. Lawyers and dentists with the same name as him pop up, along with a small news story about his death. I click on that, but there are few details. I try again, this time adding Bay Area. I scroll through images and web pages, but it’s like looking for a gold needle in a pile of brass ones. I have no clue what I think I’m gonna find.

  I switch tactics and add Lydia’s name to his in the search field. I don’t know her last name, don’t even know if the name she used is real, but I give it a go.

  Nada.

  I type in Gino’s name. Add “drugs, gangs” but that’s a miss, too.

  “Shit.”

  I shove the computer to the side. I’ve spent an hour scrolling through links. My eyes hurt, my face hurts, my side hurts. I’m hungry, tired, depressed. And worried.

  I close my eyes.

  Think, Nash, think.

  I drift off instead.

  ***

  Someone’s hands are on my shoulders. Shaking me. Hard.

  I bolt upright, arms flailing. It’s Gino. I know it is. Back to beat the shit out of me, finish me off. But this time, I’m not going down without a fight.

  “Get the fuck off me!” I yell, trying to land a punch.

  “Nash! Stop it! It’s me!”

  The voice stills my hands. I focus my gaze.

  Sara is standing next to my bed, her eyes huge. Scared shitless. Her chest heaves up and down, and her fists are clenched at her sides.

  “Oh my God.” I fall back on to the bed and squeeze my eyes shut. “I’m sorry.”

  “What the hell happened to you?”

  She doesn’t sound pissed. She sounds concerned, and tears well up in my eyes. I need someone to care about me, about what happened.

  “Nash,” she whispers when I don’t answer. She kneels and brings her face almost level with mine. “Tell me. Talk to me. Did…did someone beat you up?”

  I open my mouth to tell her, then quickly close it. Telling her about Gino would open the door to Lydia. And even though we’re fighting, even though she thinks I’m a loser and I need to get my life together, and even though I threw my phone across the room after my last conversation with her, I’m not quite ready to lay all the cards on the table yet.

  “Yeah,” I tell her.

  “Who? How? When?”

  I tell her the only thing I can.

  The same story I told the cops.

  “I took a walk last night. Got jumped.”

  She frowns. “You were with me last night.”

  “Until you kicked me out.”

  A deeper frown. “I didn’t kick you out. I…I asked you to leave.”

  “Same thing.” She starts to protest but I hold up my hand. “It doesn’t matter. Really.”

  She accepts this. “Why didn’t you tell me when I called earlier?”

  “I don’t know. Getting my ass kicked isn’t something I want to go around broadcasting.”

  “Where were you? Just walking into your house?”

  She sounds doubtful and I don’t blame her. I live in a safe neighborhood. No bars on windows, no sirens in the middle of the night. The worst I usually worry about is punk kids breaking into my car to steal loose change or the stereo.

  “I took a walk,” I tell her. “To cool off. Went down to the beach for a bit. Was coming home and these guys jumped me.”

  “Did they rob you?”

  “They tried.” Christ, the lies come so easily. “I didn’t have my wallet with me.”

  It’s a lame excuse but she buys it, just like the police did when I told them I fought the imaginary mugger off.

  “You look terrible,” she says.

  There is no judgment in her voice, which surprises me. She lays a finger on my cheek, then shifts it to my lips. It is reminiscent of Gino’s maneuver the night before and I will myself not to cringe. She moves closer to me, close enough so that I can smell the scented soap she used, something coconut-y, and drops a kiss on my lips. Gentle, soft as a feather.

  “I’m still mad at you,” she whispers. “I still want you to get your life together. Go back to school. Get a regular job. Grow up.” She kisses me again. “But I still love you.”

  My heart wrenches. She can be a pretentious, uppity bitch sometimes, but damn if I love her. At least, I think I do. I'm not sure what the word means, so I usually respond like a robot, parroting the words back to her. If I think too hard about it, I start doubting it because I don't feel connected to her in a way I thought I was supposed to be. So I just say I love you, and hope it's true.

  But I do know one thing that’s true. I need her. Especially now.

  I ignore the sting in my lip as I crush my mouth to hers. She moans and lifts herself up so she’s half on the bed, half off. I pull her close, stifling the groan as her body connects with my bruises. She’s wearing a skirt, a tiny, black, stretchy thing, and I lift it up, running my hands along her ass.

  “Yes,” she murmurs.

  I’m throbbing. We fight a lot, which means we have make-up sex a lot. She likes it rough, hard – it’s the only time she likes to be dominated. And I don’t want to miss it. I need to feel powerful, in control, especially since my life seems to be spiraling in some random, fucked up direction.

  I shove her up against the wall and yank her skirt and panties off in one quick motion. It’s my turn to drop to my knees and I do. I pull her toward the edge of the bed and bury my face in her pussy. I inhale her scent, run my tongue along her folds, and she moans and writhes underneath me. I lift off and drop kisses on her thighs, her shins. Her skin is smooth, soft, and I want to taste all of her, every last inch.

  She tugs on me, wanting to bring me up, wanting to substitute my cock for my ton
gue – she’s always impatient – but I’m not ready. I nip at her ankles, digging my teeth into her flesh and she inhales sharply, at the exact same moment I do.

  Because there, crouched near the floor, my mouth attached to Sara, my eyes open, I see what’s stashed under my bed. Not the dirty sock, not the wads of cat hair, not the Econ textbook from the last college course I took – those aren’t the things I zero in on.

  A crumpled black tank top. A pair of women’s jeans. With something peeking out of the pocket.

  Lydia’s clothes.

  I straighten.

  Sara is looking at me, her brown eyes hooded, her cheeks flushed with desire. She eyes me eagerly, reaches for my shorts.

  I pull away.

  She frowns. “What—?”

  I make a face, trying to look like I’m in pain. It isn’t hard to fake. “I don’t know if I can. Everything just…hurts.”

  If I’m expecting sympathy, I don’t get it. “What?” she repeats, dumbfounded.

  I motion to my bruised stomach and the scratch near my lip that sorta looks like a bad impersonation of The Joker. “All this.”

  “But…but you seemed to be okay when...” I know what she’s thinking – I seemed to be okay when I was devouring her pussy.

  “I know. I’m sorry. I just…can’t.”

  She sits up. A new flush stains her skin. “Fine,” she says curtly. She reaches for her skirt and panties, tugs them on. “I just came by to…”

  She stops. We both know why she came by. To have sex. To make up and have hard, angry sex. It’s not always a given, and I wasn’t expecting it, given the finality of our conversation from the night before, but it wasn’t exactly a surprise, either.

  “Can I take a rain check?” I ask, offering a smile that I try to pass off as genuine.

  “Sure.” But her voice is flat, emotionless. She stands, then runs a hand through her long dark hair. It’s barely mussed. “So you’re okay? You don’t, like, need a doctor or anything?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t think so. Just bruised up. Should be back to normal in no time.”

  She nods slowly. Her eyes are on mine. She’s not looking at my bruises, my scrapes, and I wonder if she can tell what I’m hiding.