by Amy Harmon
“You look different without the shag.” She was talking to him now, perched on the edge of his bed, enjoying her pizza. Clyde pulled his attention from her pretty face and settled his eyes back on the fascinating sport of curling on the screen in front of him.
“Shag?” he asked. Wasn’t shag another term for sex? God help him.
“You know, the scruff,” Bonnie reached out and touched his clean-shaven cheek with the knuckles of her left hand, and the Olympics didn’t stand a chance. “You look younger. And I’m jealous. You have more hair than I do.” Finn saw the slight quiver of her bottom lip and then watched her take a huge bite of pizza as if to make it stop.
Finn ran his hands through his damp, shoulder-length hair and shrugged. “It’s coming off when I get to Vegas. It just felt good to let it grow.” Dangerous territory here. He stopped talking.
“You haven’t always worn it long?”
“Nah. It’s been short my whole life, up until the last couple of years, or so.” He fidgeted, pretending he was interested in a commercial for car insurance, but mostly he was hoping she would change the subject.
“I look like a boy, don’t I?” Bonnie burst out suddenly, the quivering of her lower lip back in full force. She set her pizza down abruptly and grabbed a napkin, wiping her hands and face with agitated motions.
“What?” Finn asked, stupefied.
“I was getting in the shower . . . and I caught my reflection from the corner of my eye, and I screamed! I screamed ‘cause I look like my brother Hank! I look like Hank, and I always thought he was the homely one in the family.”
“What the . . .? Is that why you were crying? Because you think you look like Hank?” Finn tried not laugh. He did. He tried. But he was not successful.
“It’s not funny, Clyde! I didn’t want angel curls anymore, but I didn’t think about the consequences of short, brown hair on this square, Shelby face. But now I know.” Bonnie hung her head and her shoulders shook as she dissolved into noisy sobs. She seemed almost as alarmed by her tears as he was, and she shot from the bed and into her room without another word
He didn’t go after her. He wasn’t her mother, her twin sister, or the guy she was sleeping with. He was just . . . Clyde. And he didn’t have a clue what to say. He could say she didn’t look like a boy. Because she didn’t. At all. Her hair was short and that was where the similarity ended. But he didn’t think he could support his argument without pointing out her more womanly attributes, which was a very bad idea. So he stayed on his side of the door and worried. He had no wisdom where women were concerned, especially a woman he hardly knew, who had literally fallen into his lap, and who he now felt strangely, infuriatingly, responsible for.
He scrubbed his hand down his jaw, immediately missing the feel of whiskers against his palm. The friction against his fingers eased the friction in his head, and he wondered what he’d been thinking when he’d shaved it off. Stupid. He knew what he’d been thinking. He’d been thinking that he should show Bonnie more of Finn and less of Clyde. He’d been thinking maybe he could shed some of the old skin and become a little more suitable for someone like her.
She didn’t come back through his door, though he left it open, just like he’d said he would. He ended up turning off the television and staring up at the ceiling in the dark, the way he’d done a million times in his young life. He wished he had some colored chalk. He wanted to write on all that empty white space. His fingers clenched and stretched, imagining how it would feel to scribble an equation across the expanse, something he could stare at and puzzle over until the numbers blurred and sleep lifted him up and away, where he could merge with the universe, a place rife with endless formulas and figures transcribed across the heavens.
But he was in a motel room, and writing on walls was frowned upon. When he had lived at home, he and Fish had shared a room. Fish’s two walls were covered with posters and pictures, and his parents had finally given in—his dad even encouraged it—and let Finn cover his two walls with numbers. When they were full he would paint over one wall and start over. His next apartment was going to have walls covered in chalkboards.
But the numbers were forced to remain in his head, crowded, irritable, and hot . . . or maybe that was just Finn. He sat up in frustration and threw off his covers. He had turned off his heater when he’d turned off his TV, but Bonnie had hers cranking in the next room, and the heat billowed through their adjoining door. He pulled his shirt off, wadded it up, and threw it toward his duffle bag. He lasted all of five seconds before he stalked over and retrieved it, knowing he needed to put it back on.
“Finn?”
Finn jolted, bumping his head against the wall as he shot up from a crouch. The sudden light from Bonnie’s room sent a fat streak of light shooting across his floor, pinning him against the wall like an inmate caught trying to scale the prison fence. Bonnie was outlined in the opening. He immediately turned back around, facing the wall.
“Finn?”
“Yeah.” He felt like an imbecile, his back bare, his eyes to the wall, unable to move.
“I’m sorry. For crying like that . . . over something so stupid. I’m embarrassed.”
“Don’t be. Hank sounds hideous. I would cry too.” He wished she would go.
She giggled. She sounded like a sad, little girl, and he winced at his predicament. The giggle died when he remained motionless.
“Finn . . . are you okay?”
“Yeah. Fine. Just . . . uh. Yeah.”
“Oh. Okay. Goodnight.” Seconds later the light was gone, and Finn heard Bonnie’s bed creak and the headboard jostle the slightest bit. He stayed where he was and lifted his hand to his chest, and the twisted black cross etched into his skin. Maybe she hadn’t seen it. But she’d seen the ink on his back. No doubt about that.
He had only been eighteen. And he had been terrified. Terror makes a man do things he would not otherwise do. Finn pressed his hand over his heart once more, covering the ugly tattoo. Then he crossed the room to his bed and willed himself to sleep, his hand curled against his chest.
He remembered the feel of the needle in his skin, the weight and the smell of Grayson sitting across his shoulders and head, suffocating him, his arms stretched out to the sides, his legs similarly pinned, a man on each limb, Maurice straddling his back. He had eventually lain motionless, allowing the indignity of being marked and branded against his will, the pain of resisting—the blows, the stabbing needle skittering across his skin—greater than the humiliation of holding still. And when they were done, the blood had welled and seeped from the messy outline of three playing cards on the center of his back. One card had a big diamond on its face, a symbol that Finn was a cheat. One card was decorated with a spade, a symbol that he was a thief—and both were stamped on his skin for everyone to see. But it was the third card, the one with a heart on it that made Finn’s blood run cold. The heart was a symbol to the population that he welcomed romantic attention. And that was the one thing he didn’t think he would survive. Not that.
It had all started with a card game. He’d thought if he ingratiated himself with Cavaro he would be safe. So he’d taken a chance.
“Don’t go all in,” he had said.
The play stopped, and eyes were leveled at him in outrage.
“What did you say?” The response was laced with equal parts anger and curiosity.
“He’s got to be holding the ace of clubs. You’ll lose.”
The table erupted, and Finn was brought down, the long point of a sharpened bolt nicking the skin beneath his right eye, drawing a line of blood before a sudden command demanded his release. The bolt disappeared, and Finn was pulled upward by a hand in his collar and a hand in his hair. His hair was released as he straightened, his height making it difficult to keep a good grip.
“Let me see your cards,” Cavaro demanded, looking across the table at the only man left in the game.
Without argument, the man laid his cards down, revealing them.
“I know all the cards that have been played. Three aces have been played, and I can see your cards. You don’t have it, he must.
“You know all the cards that have been played,” Cavaro had repeated, not questioning, but mocking.
“Yes. And the order that they were played.”
The laughter had risen around the table and from the men lining the walls, watching the play.
“Prove it.” With a look, one of Cavaro’s men had sat at the table and pulled the pile of cards toward him.
“Turn around, kid.”
Clyde had turned his back on the table. Behind him, he could hear the rustling of cards and knew they wouldn’t be in the order they had been played. But maybe they would be close enough, and all he could do was tell them the order they had been lain down. Whether they believed him or not was beyond his control.
He’d proceeded to lay it out, from the first card played to the players who laid down what, replaying it all in clear monotone, interrupting when someone disagreed, correcting them and moving on quickly until he described the cards that Cavaro’s opponent was left holding.
The silence in the room had felt like razors against his skin and it had been all he could do not to move, to run from the slicing stares and the sharp doubt cutting away at his courage. But he hadn’t turned. He hadn’t run. He’d waited, nervous sweat pooling in his hands hanging loosely at his sides.
“How did you do that?” Cavaro had asked. The mockery was gone.
“I’m good with numbers.”
THERE WAS A big, black swastika on Clyde’s chest. I lay awake in the hard, double bed, gripping the covers, my mind churning, my thoughts racing. The door between our rooms stood wide, like the gates to hell, and I wanted to run and fling it closed and bolt it for good measure. But I didn’t dare. I’d surprised him, it was clear. But I’d seen the mark before he’d turned away. What kind of man put a swastika on his chest?
Not a good man. Not a man I should be riding with, across the country, going on a trip that had no destination or purpose. I had grabbed on to Finn Clyde like he was a lifeline, but I was suddenly realizing his raft might have a big leak. Served me right. It wasn’t like he’d invited me to jump in, to attach myself to him. I’d done that all on my own.
It was strange. I had trusted him immediately. I had liked him immediately. The music industry had made me suspicious of everyone. But Clyde hadn’t known who I was. And he’d put himself out there for me, simply because . . . because, as he said, he’d seen a kid about to jump off a bridge. Still, there had been something about him that had felt right to me, something that made me feel anchored and safe. Gran always said I didn’t have much sense. Gran was obviously right.
I lay perfectly still for a long time, my ears straining in the dark until I thought I was going to lose my mind . . .or what was left of it. He was shirtless, and the bare skin had drawn my eyes, but instead of seeing the well-muscled contours of his arms and chest, the ripples of abdominals, or the width of his shoulders, my gaze had narrowed in on the tattoo. He’d turned, allowing me to hide my reaction, to play it cool, to doubt my eyes and pretend I hadn’t seen a thing. His back was decorated in various black, poorly executed tattoos, as well. Playing cards and numbers, from what I could tell before I dropped my eyes and turned away.
Finally, when I’d figured I had given Clyde plenty of time to fall asleep, I eased out of bed, inch by inch, and crept toward the door on my side of the adjoining rooms.
What if it squealed or moaned and gave me away? I held my breath and carefully swung the door closed. It was silent on its hinges, and I almost whimpered in gratitude. Then I turned the lock. It cracked loudly as the bolt shot home and my heart echoed the thunderous report. If Finn was still awake he would have heard it. And he wouldn’t have misinterpreted what it meant, especially after I’d made such a big deal about leaving the doors between us open.
In the morning, I would get up early and check out. Then I would check into a different room, safe from the stranger on the other side of the door, and I would call Bear and wait in the motel until he could come and get me. Adventure over.
REPORTS OF A Bonnie Rae Shelby sighting at a Quik Clips hair salon have been confirmed. Brittney Gunnerson, an employee at the business, said Bonnie Rae Shelby got a cut and color and left in a hurry out the back entrance with a tall, white male, approximately 6’1 or 6’2, in his mid-twenties, wearing a black, knit cap and a worn, jean jacket. The employee said Miss Shelby addressed the stranger as Clyde, although there are no further clues as to his identity. Gunnerson is considering pressing assault charges against the unknown man, claiming he pushed her and struck her across the face when she asked him and the singer to leave through the front entrance. Bonnie and Clyde? Folks, you can’t make this stuff up.
SHE WAS GONE. Fine by him. He’d known as soon as he’d heard the lock being engaged last night that he’d scared her off. Good. It was better that way. He’d knocked on her door this morning just to make sure. He’d called her name and even waited around until the maid had entered her room to clean it, just to make sure she wasn’t still in there, fast asleep, or worse. With Bonnie, he didn’t know. She hadn’t seemed suicidal. But she had been less than forty-eight hours before. But the maid bustled in and out, and obviously there was no sleeping guest or dead body in room 241.
He had lost over an hour waiting for the confirmation. He grabbed up his bags, angry at himself and at her, and left his own room, taking the stairs instead of the elevator, and headed for the parking lot. Snow had fallen overnight, and a sloppy, wet mess met him as he shot through the exit and out into the parking lot, hoisting his bags over his shoulder. His eyes shot to the gunmetal grey sky, trying to gauge what was coming. Winter weather wasn’t fun to drive in, but winter weather was February’s best girl, and unless he wanted to wait until April to head to Vegas, he was stuck with her.
Finn’s eyes swung back down and settled on his rusted Blazer. Speaking of getting stuck with a girl, the parking lot had cleared out while he’d waited upstairs. The clientele of the Motel 6 were travelers, and no one hung around for the in-room movies or the accommodations. Only two cars remained in the entire lot, and sitting next to the Blazer, perched on a plastic bag spread over the curb, ostensibly to keep her butt from getting wet, was his own little pain in the ass. She wore the puffy, pink coat and the stocking cap she’d purchased from Walmart the day before. The hood was pulled up over her cap, and her hands were pressed between her knees. Her nose was as red as her boots, and she looked miserable. She’d seen him before he’d seen her, and her eyes were locked on his face. She didn’t smile, didn’t greet him, didn’t try to explain herself. She just watched him walk toward her.
He bit back a curse and strode to the driver’s side. Unlocking the door, he tossed his bags in the back, climbed in, and slammed the door. He turned the key and backed out resolutely, trying to ignore that she had risen, her hands on her bags, and that her hood had slipped from her head. She didn’t move forward, didn’t call out to him to wait. She just stood there, watching him go. He shifted into drive and made it a hundred feet before he let his eyes find her figure in the rearview mirror.
“Unbelievable,” Finn ground out, and slammed the wheel with the palm of his hand. He slowed to a stop. “UNBELIEVABLE!” He reprimanded himself even as he engaged the brake, pushed the door open, and lurched out of the idling vehicle. Bonnie still stood with her two duffle bags in her hands, but now her lips were slightly parted, clearly stunned that he’d stopped.
And she wasn’t the only one. Finn felt like he was split right down the middle. The rational part of his brain, the side that ensured his survival and his sanity, was outraged, demanding that he keep driving, while the side of his brain that was connected to his heart and his nether regions was breathing a sigh of relief that he hadn’t let her get away.
It wasn’t a soft kiss or a sweet kiss. It was a “you-scared-me-and-messed-with-me-and-I’m-mad-and-relieved-and-frustrated-as-hell” kind of kiss. It was teeth and lips and nipping and bruising, and Finn couldn’t make himself stop, even when Bonnie’s teeth tugged at his lower lip, and her hands pulled at his hair. Especially then. And when she wrapped her arms around his neck and stepped up onto his toes so that she could press herself flush against him, he decided revenge really was sweet, and enjoyed the feel of her face against his, the wet heat of her mouth making him forget he was standing in the middle of a Motel 6 parking lot with his car rumbling behind him, the driver side door still hanging wide open. The rational part of his brain was stunned into peaceful silence . . . for all of ten seconds.
“I don’t know what I’m doing, Bonnie Rae,” he gasped, pulling away abruptly. He took a deep breath and pushed her gently back, releasing his toes from beneath her boots and his clenched hands from her coat. The thin nylon stayed wadded and crinkled in two big circles above her breasts. Her hands fell from his shoulders to her heaving chest to smooth the wrinkles, and he looked away to give them both a moment.