Instinct

by Mattie Dunman

  I twitch back in surprise, my heart pounding with a blend of terror and fascination. The black fades from his eyes and he looks almost as astonished as I am.

  “Why…why did I just say that? I’m sorry, I don’t know why I just…”

  But I do. It’s strange that I’ve never really considered before just how easily people confess things to me. Like the time I got that city councilman to tell me about his underhanded dealings with contractors for the city’s utilities, the news story with which I made my name. I had known from the start he was hiding something, and pumped him with leading questions, but even I had been shocked at how freely he gave up the dirty details. Almost as though he couldn’t help himself.

  I think about yesterday, how much of himself Cole had revealed to me, so much more than he had planned. And today, Nicole shared her secrets and insecurities with me. Even Cathy succumbed to my questions with little resistance, and we’ve had precisely two conversations.

  With a sick, dizzy feeling, as though the world slipped off its axis for a moment, I am forced to accept that there is more to my gift than I knew. Not only do I see and hear the truth when I first encounter someone’s words, not only can I sense with my entire body when someone is lying, it seems the more I want to know something, the more others are compelled to reveal to me.

  The danger of this ability astounds me for an instant, and I almost forget Jake’s presence, feeling ashamed on so deep a level that my bones ache. The unfairness of my situation staggers me. Every question I have ever asked, ever will ask is morally unacceptable. If people have no choice but to answer me, how can I ever ask for the truth again?

  “I have to go,” I say abruptly, jumping to my feet, and reel unseeing toward the door, bumping into desks as I try to escape from the suffocating guilt that grips me. I am nearly to the door when Jake grabs my arm, his fingers falling almost precisely on the bruises he has already given me, swinging me around to face him, pulling me so close we are barely an inch apart. He glares down at me with fevered intensity, such fervor in his expression that I quiver with unexpected pleasure, nearly drowning in the sensation, almost wishing he would pull me under.

  “Don’t walk away from me,” he growls and his lips are suddenly crushing mine, savaging my mouth with all the unspent fury of the moment before. His body is huge, towering, as he crushes me against the wall with enough force to knock out my breath, and for a moment I can do nothing but tremble beneath him, every nerve ending screaming for me to run even as a dark heat spreads through me, settling in my core almost painfully. My knees give way, and it is only the pressure of his body against mine that keeps me upright. His hands tangle my hair as he deepens his kiss, and everything about him is as hard and unyielding as the wall behind me.

  Dark spots float before my eyes and I tear my lips from his, gasping for air. He gives me only a moment’s reprieve before he renews his assault, and I can taste the anger and passion on his tongue like burnt cinnamon. With my breath returns sanity and I begin to struggle, shoving against his immovable chest with the panicked flailing of a trapped bird. When he doesn’t release me, but thrusts his tongue into my mouth, I fight in earnest and land a kick on his shin.

  With a shuddering gasp he lets me free, breathing heavily, his eyes black with arousal. I ram as hard as I can against his chest and he staggers back enough for me to break away. My mouth is throbbing from the harshness of his kiss and as I fling myself through the door, not daring to look back or to stop, I hear him give a hoarse cry.

  My heart is pounding so hard it hurts as I run at top speed down the hall and slam my way out the door to the student parking lot, whipped into lucidity by the frigid air that blasts into me with the force of physical blow. I stumble over to the wall and lean against it, sinking to the ground, sucking in the cold air as though my life depends on it.

  I am too stunned to do anything but drink the air in great gulps, trying to slow my heartbeat down to something other than a rib-shattering pace. Several minutes pass before I am able to think straight, and as feeling returns, pain springs up all over my body. My arm aches, the bruises imprinted deeper in my skin from Jake’s grip. A spot on my shoulder-blade begins to complain from being struck against the wall, and my mouth is a raw wound, even the edges of my lips pulsing cruelly from the force of Jake’s onslaught.

  I put my fingers over my mouth and am startled by wetness. Pulling them away, I look down in horror at a plump drop of red resting on my fingertip and lick my lip, tasting the coppery bitterness of my own blood.

  Tears stream down my face, burning my skin in contrast to the iciness of the wind lashing against me, and I hug myself against the wall, trembling from the cold and the crash of adrenaline.

  The squeal of a door startles me and I freeze. Jake rounds the corner, his face aghast as he takes me in. Panic and rage fight for dominance in my chest and I rise shakily to my feet, forcing myself to meet his eyes. He takes a step forward, his arm outstretched, but I dart out of his reach, relieved to find that rage is winning the day.

  “Derry, I…”

  “Don’t. Don’t speak to me. Don’t touch me. Don’t even look at me,” I hiss, my voice a threat. “Don’t ever come near me again, do you understand? I don’t exist for you.”

  Pain is etched on his face and for a moment I almost relent, but I taste the blood on my lips and firm my resolution.

  “Please, Derry. I’m so sorry…” he begs, taking another step toward me. I hold my ground, but I can feel my pulse picking up again, knowing only too well that it doesn’t take much for his remorse to turn to mania.

  “Stop it. Or I’ll scream,” I promise, and he halts, his entire body limp from the rejection. “Sorry doesn’t cut it, Jake. Don’t come near me again. I mean it. I want nothing to do with you.”

  Finally recognizing the sincerity in my voice, Jake just nods and turns away, limping faintly from my well-placed kick. He pauses at the door and looks at me pleadingly over his shoulder, but I keep my expression stony, and he nods again and disappears into the building.

  The moment he is gone, I sag to the ground and shake uncontrollably. It is nearly ten minutes before I am able to drag myself to my feet and contemplate returning to class. Underneath the slowly fading terror and anger is a deep well of confusion. I cannot understand what has just happened, how someone so much a stranger to me could act like that, could possess me so completely even for a moment; and even more baffling is how I let it happen. And why it took me so long to fight back.

  And how, for just a moment, it felt better than anything I’ve ever known.

  Chapter 7

  When I finally reenter the journalism lab, Jake hasn’t returned. It took me nearly fifteen minutes to get myself looking presentable again and stop my lip from bleeding. It is swollen and my eyes are still puffy from crying, so I pull my hair over my face as much as possible and keep my head down as I make a beeline for my computer. The room is dead silent for a moment, and then a snicker explodes behind me. I am pretty sure it’s Megan, but I don’t turn around to confirm, instead keeping my eyes locked on the computer screen as though my life depends on it. After a minute a hand rests lightly on my shoulder and I am forced to look around.

  Shane is looking down at me with his usually impish expression clouded by concern. His eyes survey my face, pausing on my split lip, and his lips press together tightly.

  “My dad abused my mom.”

  I just blink at him and he frowns.

  “C’mon, Derry. What happened?” he demands quietly but firmly.

  I just shake my head and try to turn back around, but he tightens his grip on my shoulder. His thumb presses into a nascent bruise and I wince. Immediately he releases me, but a discerning look is in his eyes.

  “That son of a bitch,” he whispers and spins around, headed for the door. Acting on instinct, I lunge and grab his t-shirt, dragging him back. With a sigh, he halts and drops to one knee next to me. “What happened?” he asks in a gentler tone.

&n
bsp; I just shake my head, knowing beyond a doubt that Shane is the kind of guy who will confront someone he thinks has hurt a woman, which is a wonderful quality, but one that might get him really hurt with someone like Jake. Recalling how Cole mentioned a link between Jake’s rage and increased strength, I am convinced that if Shane goes looking for him now, he may get more than he bargains for.

  “Nothing,” I lie. “I…tripped. Don’t worry about it.” I try to put some real conviction in my voice, but I know I am failing.

  “Derry, please. It was Jake wasn’t it?” His voice is a sibilant whisper, full of menace, and I realize with blinding certainty that Shane knows that Jake hurt Miranda.

  “It was an accident, Shane. I promise. He didn’t hit me. Just let it go.” Technically this is true, if not a complete picture of what happened. Shane reads my eyes for sincerity and is apparently somewhat satisfied.

  “Look, I know everyone worships the ground he walks on, and most of the time he’s a decent guy. But I’ve seen him when he’s angry and I know what he’s like. If he does anything like this again, you tell me. I’ll look out for you,” he promises and unbidden tears spring to my eyes at his willingness to protect someone he barely knows.

  “Thanks, Shane. But why? You just met me,” I ask, curious.

  Shane rolls his eyes and a little of his usual humor makes an appearance. “Well, first, you’re hot and I want to get in your pants.” He wiggles his eyebrows lasciviously and I can’t help the snort of laughter that escapes me. A grin stretches his wide mouth before his expression grows serious. “And anyway, I don’t like seeing girls getting roughed up. Period.”

  I just nod and give him a weak smile, trying not to wince when my lip protests. The door swings open to my left and I look up with a sense of dread, expecting Jake, and it’s not exactly a relief when Shockey saunters in, his gaze instantly fastening on my swollen mouth. His tongue darts out to moisten his lower lip and a frantic gleam touches his eyes before he clears his expression.

  “Seeing you injured is a turn on,” he says, voice filled with concern. Nausea digs at my insides and the back of my tongue burns with bile.

  “She just tripped, Mr. Shockey. She’ll be alright.”

  I am grateful Shane answers since I am too busy trying to hold back blistering revulsion. Shockey just nods, his eyes lingering on me before he turns to address the others.

  “I need your stories by the end of class tomorrow so we can go to press Friday. Make sure Jake gets a chance to look them over first. Any questions?”

  Megan raises her hand and he strides over to her, his hand clenching and unclenching restlessly. I am stunned that this man has been let anywhere near children, finding it hard to believe that no one else notices his deviant behavior. While they are busy talking I force myself to smile at Cathy.

  “Did you get a chance to look over my story?” I ask, pleased to note that my voice has regained its normal tone.

  “I hate you,” she says quietly and I blink in surprise. Her normally sweet expression is petulant and sharp as she glares at me.

  “Sorry?” I say, stunned by her unconscious admission.

  “I think it’s fine. But you should get Jake to look at it, since you two get along so well.” There is no missing the edge in her tone and it occurs to me that she must believe Jake and I snuck away for some kind of romantic rendezvous. Right after she told me he turned her down. Irritation flares at her incredibly off-base assumption, but I keep my voice steady as I answer.

  “I don’t think that will work. Jake and I…I don’t think we’ll be working together much.”

  Cathy’s eyes narrow, but she doesn’t answer, just shrugs and spins back around to her computer, presenting me with a cold shoulder. I sigh, abruptly worn out with trying to get along with everyone, particularly when no one but me is interested in the truth.

  Shane stands up and pats me on the shoulder, giving me a sympathetic look. My heart swells with gratitude, glad to know that at least one person doesn’t hate me.

  By the time the tone signals the end of the school day, I am hard pressed to remember why I wanted to come here in the first place, thinking maybe my mom was right about me dropping out and just working with her until college. Only the thought of my budding friendship with Nicole prevents me from stopping by the main office to get the paperwork.

  I get into my mom’s clunker of a car feeling like I’ve been given a stay of execution. When she asks, I try to answer her questions about my appearance reasonably. Since most of the time Mom isn’t terribly concerned with how I’m feeling apart from if I’m capable of working or not, she accepts with aplomb my lame explanation about getting hit in the face with the locker door. Instead she fills our conversation with talk about the vintage flapper dress she sold to a buyer from D.C. this afternoon, and how the woman promised to return over the weekend with her other well-to-do friends. I am happy for Mom, but there is too much on my mind to settle on something so trivial just now.

  She drops me off at the newspaper office, which sits at the top of the hill all the shops and restaurants are on. The Daily Holler office is small and cramped, one open room with a receptionist’s desk and a bevy of shoddily constructed cubicles. I greet the receptionist, telling her I have an appointment with Derek, and she points back toward the left without taking her eyes off the computer screen or opening her mouth. I swallow my nervousness like a too-large vitamin and head in the right direction, glancing in each haphazard cubicle until I find a plaque on one reading Derek Wise, Community.

  “Hi, I’m Derry MacKenna, from the high school. You told me to drop by today,” I say, and the man in the cubicle swings around on his swivel chair with a grim smile. I have to school myself not to take a step back, he looks so much like Jake. I give him a shaky smile and take his outstretched hand.

  “I’m going to give you a hard time,” he says pleasantly, and I repress a sigh. I could really stand to have the rest of the day go without any other challenges or difficulties.

  “Is now a good time?” I ask, hoping he didn’t say anything that required a different response.

  He shrugs and gives me a quick once-over. I return the favor, noting that while he looks similar to Jake at first glance, his face is longer, his jaw more pronounced, and he’s about fifteen years older and thirty pounds heavier. Something inside me relaxes as I notice the dissimilarities.

  “As good as any. Jake told me about you. You’re some kind of hot-shot, right?” His crooked brow indicates he believes otherwise.

  With a struggle, I smother all my other worries for the moment and focus on my newest adversary. “I think that’s an exaggeration. I’ve been fortunate enough to freelance for several papers in Virginia over the past few years. One of my stories was picked up by the AP.” I dig through my bag and hand him the portfolio I’ve been carrying around for days. He takes it with a skeptical look and glances through it perfunctorily. I can tell he isn’t reading any of the material. He’s going to be tricky to work with.

  We talk for another five minutes, while he gives me a rundown of what’s happening in the community, limiting his information to church bake sales and the closing of the “Old Tyme Christmas Festival.” I take notes, all the while thinking that I’m going to have to find a more forthcoming source if I want to get any good stories. Derek’s phone rings and he doesn’t even glance at the caller ID before he tells me he has to take it, and to email him if I have any questions. Biting back a snippy retort, I smile and thank him for his time.

  Instead of walking back the way I came, I round the corner of cubicles and stroll down the next aisle, looking for someone more affable to connect with. I halt by the third cubicle down, recognizing the name plaque as the same byline from the story about Miranda.

  “Mr. Householder?” I query the slouched figure of the older man in front of an outdated computer.

  He jerks slightly, and spins around to greet me.

  “I’m undervalued here and tired of it,” he says gruff
ly, his bushy snow-white brows drawn together. Householder looks to be in his sixties, with thick white hair topped by a round bald spot that reminds me of a monk’s. He brushes crumbs from a well-worn green plaid shirt hanging loose over wrinkled khakis and squints muddy brown eyes at me before he puts on the glasses that hang on a chain around his neck. He is comfortably overweight, a man who enjoys his donuts in the morning and his fried chicken in the evening, and his clothes are sloppy; but there is a canny look in his eyes, and I have a feeling he is good at seeking out the truth too.

  “Hello, sir. I’m Derry MacKenna, from the high school newspaper. I just took over the community beat and wanted to acquaint myself with the town’s paper. I’ve read several of your stories and really enjoyed them.”

  He narrows his eyes at me and then his thin lips twist into a grudging smile. “Oh you did, did you? Well, you’d be the only one.”

  It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that this is a discontented journalist who just needs someone to ask him the right questions.

  My specialty.

  “Is there any advice you can give me on covering the news in Harpers Ferry? I could really use a professional’s perspective,” I ask, pulling out my notebook, pen poised as though prepared to take down every word.

  Householder laughs, a deep guttural sound that makes me think of cigars. “You’re a sharp one, aren’t you? Playing on my ego. Alright, Miss…”

  “Derry.”

  “Derry. You can call me Simon. What do you want to know?” he asks jovially, clearly amused by me. I’m not entirely sure why, but I do know not to look a gift horse in the mouth.

  “I just wanted to find out about some of the major news events in town. In particular, I heard that a girl from the school died last semester. I’m new here, but I believe you covered it?”

  His smile fades and he sighs, looking off to the side. “Yes I did. Sad thing. Everybody thinks she killed herself.”