Nothing.
I looked at his profile, while he looked out of the windshield across the dark blue hood and tried again. "Bad starter?" I asked, not too worried.
"She's a bit temperamental, aren't ya girl?" And he gave the car an encouraging rub along the cracked dashboard. Then he tried again, twisting the key in the ignition with slightly more intention than the last casual try.
Rrrrrrrrrrr. Rrrrr. Rrrr.
Nothing again.
"Hm," he said and peered into the ignition hole. He blew a couple of times. "Sometimes you have to wiggle the key a little bit,"—which he commenced to do—"it can be a little tricky."
He tried again, but the car didn't even reward him with a half-hearted rumble. He flicked on the headlights. We both looked over the hood with interest, noting a weak beam of light that barely touched the wild shrubbery a few feet from the front bumper.
"Is that normal?" I asked, honestly unable to tell. "I mean, for your car?" I didn't know much about motorized transport, other than the fact that mine always worked, the headlights were always bright, and it required only a twice yearly trip to Midas for the usual spurt of pampering and up-selling. I'd never even looked under the hood.
He smiled, but it wasn't the usual light-hearted, devil-may-care grin. There was a flicker of concern in his eyes that carried down to his mouth. "Vintage cars have a lot personality," he said with some authority. "That's what makes them so charming."
He must have meant the personality trait of unreliability, which I didn't find to be too charming. My mind had already raced home and pictured Ben and I sitting rather cozily on my Chesterfield, faux-fur blankets draped over our laps, luxuriating in warm companionship as we gazed at the fire snapping in my fireplace. I planned on showing him my stupendous safe room too, but that delicious version of my future evening turned sour against the personality quirk of Ben's Mustang.
"Maybe there's a loose wire or something." He reached down, chin resting on the steering wheel, and groped around for the hood release latch. "I'll go check."
"I'm coming too," I said, opening my door and following him out. I wanted to see what a car engine looked like, and how in the world he'd be able to find one lone derelict wire.
The sun had set. The wind blew sharper, colder, and more cutting. I shivered and tucked my hands into my armpits. "Do you have a flashlight?"
"In the back." We went to the truck and opened it. I peered inside, and worry set in. He was far too prepared for a one-off occurrence.
He'd stocked the trunk with an emergency kit that contained a flashlight, batteries (far more than were strictly necessary), a folded piece of foil that served as an emergency blanket, some jugs of water, and energy bars. He fished out the toolbox and handed it to me.
"This isn't your first time getting stranded, is it . . ." I said with mounting dismay, as my cozy nightcap slipped further out of reach.
"Nope. Don't worry though, she won't let us down."
I wanted to remind him that she had already let us down, but didn't want to point out the depressingly obvious state of affairs. He slammed the trunk shut with a heavy thunk that stood in contrast to the hollow click! of modern cars.
Then we went to the front of the car to peruse its innards. Ben fished around under the hood for a latch, released it, and propped the hood up with a little metal stick. Thus complete, we both leaned in like a pair of brain surgeons.
He took the flashlight from the box and beamed the light into the dark workings of the engine, following lines and wires a few inches from his nose. He zeroed in on a few dirty wires and wiggled them.
"Phillips screwdriver, please." I fished around the toolbox and handed over the item. I may be not a mechanical genius, but I knew the different between a flathead and a Phillips.
"Have you found the problem?" I asked, leaning in next to him and peering down into the beam of light that illuminated blooms of rust, dirt, grime, and a hornet's nest of identical wiring.
"Still looking." He fiddled around for a few minutes, wiggling wires, blowing here and there, and prodding around with the screwdriver, until he stopped and peered down at a black circular cap with six good-sized and relatively organized wires snaking out of the top. "Aha. Ok, gotcha. Crescent wrench number thirteen."
Over went the tool. And shortly thereafter, he asked me to try again. Shivering, I rushed over to the driver’s side, slid in to his seat, held fast to the steering wheel, and with encouraging words on my lips, and hope flickering in my heart, turned the key.
Rrrr. Rrrrrrrrrrrrr.
My heart sank. I leaned out, shivering. "What now?"
Ben stuck his head out from behind the hood. "Try it again!"
And I did.
Rrrr. RRRRRRrrrrr.
"Again!"
Again I tried, this time grumpily cursing under my breath. And then she burst into life like an exuberant puppy: happy and exhilarated beyond all reason. VRRRRooooommm!
Scared that she'd die on us again, I stomped on the gas petal. VRRROOOM! VROM!—a happy healthy sound that instantly restored my faith in the car and my hopes of a cozy evening spent fireside.
"Hey take it easy, Jensen Button!" Ben cried, poking his head out from behind the hood. With the car idling nicely, I climbed out, while he pushed the hood down. Then he turned, dusted his hands off, and leaned against the car, pulling me close. "We need to let her run for a little bit, charge up the alternator."
"Right," I mumbled, resting my cheek against the warm folds of his flannel shirt.
A gust of wind blasted over the sand dune just then, biting through my thin hoodie. I shivered against the delicious warmth of Ben’s body. He wasn't particularly muscular, but his five foot ten frame fit my body perfectly.
I could feel warm runnels of his breath against my cheek, searing my cold skin with each exhalation. I shivered, grateful that the cold wind gave me a good excuse to press closer against him.
I didn't really know how to do this romance thing. So when he shifted his weight and leaned back, signaling something momentous, I missed the cue and leaned in with him, still clinging to his warm body.
But I didn't miss my galloping heart when he ran his hand up my back. Nor did I miss the dizzy sensation when he pressed his chilly cheek against mine, angling his mouth towards mine.
Then he pulled away and looked at me. Against the soft moonlight, his eyes glowed hot. With one hand, he stroked the back of my neck with his thumb, with the other he tucked a lock of fly away hair behind my ear, bringing me slowly toward his lips, gently as if handling a spooked horse.
I felt like a spooked horse. I felt nervous and giddy, unsure what to do, except yield to the riptide that swirled under my feet, threatening to sweep me away.
I put my hands on his waist and tried to meet his eyes that burned as bright as a celestial event, but looked away, shy, afraid of the intensity burning from them.
Instead I focused on his mouth, a safer place to rest my gaze. I focused on the shape of his full lower lip and the delicious depression in the middle, while my heart hammered hard. I closed my eyes.
He touched his forehead to mine, placed both hands on my ruddy cheeks, and pressed his lips to mine.
I pulled him close, my hands roaming the expanse of his back, and tilted my head up to meet him. I moved to his rhythm, and clung to him as a tidal wave swept me away, so much larger than me, or Amy Mathews, or Rhenn and Friends, or "Rebecca," so much larger than life.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The lion food arrived in the form of two cow carcasses and one pig (all helpfully quartered). I'd done some preliminary math and determined that my stash of animal bodies would last about two weeks, three if I was feeling stingy, but one look at the lion made me rethink my numbers.
He was starving. He'd been starving for probably most of his adult life. Virginia and Dillon certainly hadn't done enough to ease his suffering. And the goodies from our coffin freezer proved to be just a snack for him. So today, I decided, would be Lion Thank
sgiving.
I went into the garage and started up the loader. Feeling like a Construction Jonny, I backed it out and narrowly missed sideswiping my car. Then I motored on over to the heap of dead animal parts, which took a while. The loader was preset to move at sluggish speeds so as to protect humans from their own stupidity.
Finally, I arrived. Slowly, after much levering, I managed to scoop up a body part and dump it inside. After two hours or so, I managed to get everything over the tall fence and into the lion enclosure. Then I watched, pleased and happy, as he gorged himself.
I stood a few paces from the fence, still afraid, but captivated. He growled and dragged a meaty hind leg away from the pile.
"It’s okay boy," I said mostly to myself. "You eat as much as you want. Nobody is going to take it away from you. I’ll make you fat and shiny if it kills me."
He stopped and looked up at me just then. Did he understand that last part? His glowing yellow eyes fixed on mine. I stepped back, scanned the fence line for any weakness, heart beating fast. I expected him to lunge. He was a killing machine after all, driven by sheer instinct. I expected him to kill me, or as least try, if given the opportunity.
But he rose from his feast and walked toward me, his giant paws landing on the ground, his shoulder blades rising and falling. He was so beautiful. I almost felt honored that his care had fallen to me. What a stunning creature.
I stepped back further though. He was a killer, after all. He arrived at the fence and pressed his nose against the chain link. His mouth hung open, showing his enormous teeth. He seemed to be interested in me, interested in something other than eating me. Maybe he remembered me and all my frozen snacks. Maybe he was grateful for Lion Thanksgiving. His eyes met mine, and the deep irrational part of myself that I try not to ignore, told me that he wouldn’t hurt me.
I went to the fence. He rubbed his face against the chain link, his course yellow fur poking through the holes. Pet me, he seemed to say. So I reached out and pressed the back of my fingers against his soft furry cheek. He closed his eyes, and walked on, scraping his rump against the fence, which I dared to scratch.
Then he turned away and returned to his meal. As I got in the loader and drove it back to the garage, a strange feeling of happiness came over me, as if I’d just made a new friend.
Good to my word, I took Ben to Benihana. Our chef was an enthusiastic young man with a flair for throwing food, cracking eggs in any number of odd ways, and fancy spatula work. Ben was right. It was expensive, but luckily for us Amy Mathews offered to pay.
"All in the name of research," I said, with a smile as the night drew to a close, memorizing the lines of his mouth, the shape of his lips, and the clean straight slope of his nose, all attributes that would all end up on some future character—maybe even, Maxim himself.
He leaned back in his chair and patted his belly. "Are you writing a book about overeating?"
"I'm sure that's a very popular topic, but I hadn’t planned on it."
"I think you're missing out," Ben said. "You should write about a fat vampire that overeats, or maybe eats at Benihana for the first time. Maybe it's his first date and he doesn't want his girl to know he's got other . . . unsavory tastes . . . so he gorges on raw fish and bento boxes, and then suddenly he starts to violently throw up, and maybe spontaneously combusts right then and there."
I grimaced. "Sounds like a compelling storyline. Bestseller material, for sure."
"I'll take my fifteen percent ideation fee up front, thanks."
"Fifteen? You drive a hard bargain. My agent only takes ten."
"That because he just pushes paper and yammers on the phone. But me? I'm your idea man." He leaned close and put his hand over mine. "Ideas are worth millions of dollars, but I'll help you out. Just because I like you."
"Like?" I feigned dismay. "How disappointing."
"Isn't that enough?"
When he persisted along these lines, genuine disappointment smote my heart. Of course, we hadn't ever said those three fabled words, the three words that make the world turn on its axis, the three simple words that can tear mankind apart and brings us back together.
He used only the bastard cousin of the real thing, the unwanted step-child, the dreaded mutant with one too many sets of chromosomes: like.
Well, that was his business. What did Pewgenia expect? A passionate declaration of love on our third date? Or even on our fiftieth date? No, that was distinctly out of my realm of possibility. I was amazed that we'd made it this far, declaration of love, or no. But I had to wonder: was I flitting haplessly into the perilous land of Unrequited Love?
I grinned bravely. "More than enough," I said. And I paid the bill.
I couldn't think of much to say on the way home, and for once, neither could he. He kept a watchful eye on me, glancing over at me every so often, the silence between us growing more awkward.
Finally, he spoke up. "Hey, is everything okay? You seem a little distant." I watched the dark forest scamper past the car window.
"Hm?" I asked, trying to act very cool and casual. I was busy trying to figure out his intentions, and how to protect my heart, which lay woefully open for him to plunder.
"Did I say something wrong?" he asked.
"No, not at all. Sorry, I was just—I’m really full, that's all." A terrible, flimsy excuse that made absolutely no sense whatsoever. I looked at his reflection in the window. I could see that he kept glancing my way.
Finally, we arrived at my house. He drove up the driveway slowly. I wasn't sure how to get us out of this mess, and for the first time, Ben seemed at a loss too.
"Thanks for the ride," I said, as he slowed to a stop, and reached for the door handle.
"Wait," he said, putting his hand on my knee. I sat back, heart thumping unevenly in my chest. Is this it? Is this the part where Piss Drinker hears about what a great girl she is, but . . . I stared at the cracked dashboard, trying not to cry.
"I know we haven't known each other very long, but . . ."
Yes, this is it, I thought, blood rushing to my face, setting my cheeks on fire. This is where he uses the dreaded mutant word: friend.
"Look, I'm really bad with stuff like this, but I've never met anyone like you before. Sometimes, I feel like—I feel like maybe I say the wrong thing or maybe you hear me wrong or something." I heard him just fine. "I really like you, Eugenia."
There it was again, the unwanted step-child.
"I like you too, Ben," I mumbled, trying to buttress my splintering heart.
He ran his hand through his golden hair, bright supernova eyes searching mine. "Don't make this too easy on me, okay?"
I didn't know what he was talking about. Was he trying to let me down easy or something? My fingers gripped the handles of my purse, blood draining away from my face. He looked just about as scared as I felt. Is this it? Is this the end?
"C'mon, I want to tell you something," he said and climbed out of the car.
Yes, this was it. I'd never been dumped before, but it seemed to me that something momentous was about to happen, something that required a change of locale. I wanted to cry. I wanted to run inside. I wanted to dump him first. That's what girls did to get the guys, didn't they? I didn't know. What would I know?
He sat down on the hood of his car, put his feet on the bumper, reached for my hands and drew me between his legs. Whatever he says, I lectured myself: Don't cry.
I looked at his face, obscured in the shadows. It was a moonless night. I felt like I was sinking to the bottom of the cold dark sea. A light from the house switched on, casting weak rays across his features. I could see his eyes, bright and glimmering.
"I don't really know what how to say this because I've never felt this way about anyone before, but . . ."
I watched his mouth as he spoke, his beautiful lush lips that I wanted to keep kissing until the day I died, but would settle for this one last, sad blissful time.
"Just say it, Ben," I whispered, heart breaking.
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"I think . . . I think I love you."
My world went still. My hands, resting on his knees, flexed involuntarily as if grabbing onto an anchor in this strange swirling world. And I felt myself falling—falling into him, grasping for him through a blurry veil of emotion and elation.
And when he kissed me, I realized I was crying after all. Crying with joy.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The clouds were back, floating under my feet. But this was different. This was a whole new level of cloud walking. There was a buoyancy in my heart that I had never felt before, carrying me up to dizzying heights. I could actually feel the membranes in my eyes bulging with little love hearts every time I looked at Ben. I was exhilarated. I was nervous. And I was scared.
Things were going so well for me. I almost wanted to knock on wood or whatever you’re supposed to do keep the good times rolling. Throw some salt over my shoulder?
But what bad thing could possibly happen to me? Ben loved me. The lion was filling out. The second installment was coming along. Okay, sputtering, but nobody needed to know that.
I tried not to think too much about how I'd written much of After The End on a clunky Dell laptop with sticky keys, sitting on uncomfortable hospital chairs next to Mom as she slipped further and further away from me.
I tried not to think about how much I looked to Rhenn and Madeline to carry me far away from the hunting fear of losing Mom. I tried not to that about that at all, otherwise, panic would set in.
Writing was my therapy back then, my exorcism, and my savior.
Writing would always be my savior, but the river seemed to be carrying me towards my own identity that I wanted to claim. With Ben behind me, I felt that perhaps I could do my own interviews and, maybe even, meet some fans.
It’s all academic, I thought to myself. Right now, I had to figure out what to do about Rhenn. Return him to his eternal slumber and resurrect myself? Or jolly him along for Virginia’s sake . . .
I Am The Lion: A Riveting Psychological Thriller Page 10