Jagger

by Kristopher Rufty

  He headed for the back door, ready to eat.

  Chapter Nine

  Clayton slipped out of Teresa’s bed, leaving her sleeping. She hugged the sheet to her chest and had a long dark leg sticking out and draped across the mattress. She wore an anklet made out of string that she might have created herself. He hadn’t noticed it before, but liked how it was all she had on her smooth skin.

  He looked around for his clothes. They were thrown all over the room. When they’d come back to Teresa’s apartment, she’d eagerly torn the borrowed wardrobe off his body.

  Clayton found his socks near her dresser underneath Teresa’s panties, and picked them up. Standing, he caught a glimpse of his bruises in the vanity mirror. They were sore and made his skin feel tight behind each purple blotch. Some were ruddy around the dark edges where Teresa had kissed him.

  “Too make them better,” she’d said, rolling her tongue over the dark blots.

  Where’s the flannel shirt?

  It took a moment to locate it, but he finally found it under the bed. With the clothes collected, he snuck out of the room and walked down the very short hall to the bathroom. He went inside, closing the door behind him.

  He stood in front of the mirror. His hair was still knotted with blood, and now stuck out on the sides and in the back from Teresa’s gripping hands.

  She’d invited him over to take a shower. And he planned on doing so. Because of their detour into her bedroom, he really needed one now.

  He cut the water on, twisting the dial all the way to the H. He pulled the tab on the faucet. Water sprayed down, pelting the tub. He knew it was going to make the bruises and scrapes hurt, but he didn’t care.

  Clayton turned away from the tub. He stepped up to the toilet. Bending slightly, he lifted the lid. Angling his penis down with a fingertip, he felt the dried crust of Teresa’s release coating him. He began to urinate. It was thick and gloppy as it sputtered out. The tip was a little sore and burned some from so much rubbing.

  Finished, he returned to the tub and stepped inside. He pulled the pastel-checkered curtain behind him.

  The inside of the shower was stocked full of shampoos, conditioners, lotions, and skin treatments. It looked as if she ran a beauty supply store from her bathtub. He didn’t know where to begin. His shower was simple. A bottle of shampoo with the conditioner already added and some soap. Nothing to it.

  This...this was a nightmare.

  There were different types of shampoos, each with a matching conditioner. Not knowing what to choose, he randomly selected a yellow bottle.

  Cleans your hair without the fuss!

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  He didn’t know. If it would get the blood out of his hair, it would be fine.

  He lowered his head into the spray, his hair falling around his face as it became soaked. The water hammered his scalp, feeling good while also aggravating the soreness there.

  He was gentle but washed in a rush. He was out of the shower and on the bath mat drying off with a towel he found hanging from a bar within five minutes.

  He put Mitch’s clothes back on. He noticed how soft his skin felt now under the heavy garments.

  Using Teresa’s overly large hairbrush, he ran it through his lengthy hair. It moved through without difficulty. As he brushed, he studied his hair in the mirror and noted how much more it shined under the bulbs above the glass.

  Looks good. And healthy.

  And he wasn’t fussing, just as the bottle claimed he wouldn’t.

  When he was done, he hung the towel over the curtain rod so it would dry. Then he stepped to the door, quietly pulling it open.

  He stuck his head out. Steam drifted out, feeling like a warm moist breeze on his face. He turned one way and didn’t see Teresa anywhere. He looked in the other direction and jumped.

  Teresa stood there, naked, holding a can of Coke out to him. “Thirsty?”

  “Damn it, Teresa!” He leaned against the frame, holding a hand to his heart. “Scared me to death!”

  Teresa pretended to pout. “I’m saw-wee.”

  Heart pounding, Clayton breathed heavily. He took the Coke, glimpsing her great body. He really was thirsty, and was glad she’d offered. “Thanks,” he muttered.

  She leaned forward, sniffed. “Somebody smells like a hot woman.”

  Clayton closed his eyes, sighed. He heard Teresa laugh and opened his eyes to see the white of her teeth through her big smile. It brought one out of him as well.

  He popped the tab and raised the can to his mouth, guzzling a couple heavy swigs. The soda burned his throat as it went down, but was cold and tasted wonderful.

  He lowered the can, belched softly, and sighed.

  “Hit the spot?” she asked.

  “Big time.”

  “Too bad you’re already done. I was going to join you.”

  “Yeah, well...I was about to leave.”

  The good humor on her face fell away. “Leave? Where were you going?”

  While he was lying in bed with Teresa snuggled up to him, he’d been on the verge of falling asleep when he’d suddenly seen his skull packed with dog shit, just as Ralph’s had supposedly been. It had shocked him away from being cozy. He’d begun to think more about his options.

  And he’d concluded once again that he had none.

  There were no rich relatives he could borrow the money from, and he wasn’t about to start robbing liquor stores in hopes of raising enough funds. Really, all he could do was get another dog so Brock could win back his losses, maybe even a little extra.

  And the dog had to be good.

  “I going to Clancy,” he said.

  Teresa made a face. “You’ve got to be out of your mind.”

  “Nope. Just hanging from the end of my rope.”

  “Why are you going there?”

  “To see a guy about a dog.”

  ****

  Compared to Clancy, Brickston was like Paris. Low income housing made up the majority of the small town. Without proper funding, the roads weren’t kept up and had tar-sealed cracks spreading across like black varicose veins. Holes peppered the blacktop like acne and Teresa nearly ran off the road to avoid hitting them.

  Clayton hadn’t wanted her to come, and now that she was here, she wished she hadn’t.

  She hit the auto-lock button on the door. There was no deep thump, so they were already engaged.

  “They’re locked,” said Clayton, confirming.

  “Just being sure.”

  “That’s your third time checking,” he said.

  “And it probably won’t be the last.”

  Teresa gave a glance out her window. Shoddy, abandoned-looking houses sat close together with only a narrow path of yard separating them. The backyards looked as if they were conjoined into one long track. Some were intersected by rusted fencing, but most were not.

  Teresa felt her lungs tighten as she looked around, making it hard to breath.

  They came to a stop sign. She slowed the car down. Before it had come to a complete stop, a man in a tan tank top and cargo pants full of holes reeled to her window.

  “Oh, shit,” Teresa said through a gasp.

  Clayton leaned over. “Oh, don’t worry. That’s just Rosco. He’s harmless.”

  He didn’t look it. His bugged eyes were wide and frantic. He had sand-colored hair that stuck up in spikes around parts that were flat and matted as if he’d added gel to just those pointed areas.

  “Hey!” he shouted through the window. “Hey!”

  Teresa drove off. She looked in the rearview mirror and saw him standing in the road with his arms held out. He was shouting something she couldn’t understand.

  “Are we almost there?” she asked.

  “Yeah.” Clayton pointed to Teresa’s left. “It’s right up there. See the white house?”

  Teresa saw it. The house sat atop a small hill. A small driveway angled up, nearly reaching the house, and was crowded with old cars.

>   She parked behind an old Fairlane that was raised on cinder blocks. Its hood was up, but nobody seemed to be outside working on it. The white body had faded to the color of stone. Dark spots peppered the rear end and the fender was marked with tarnished streaks the color of caramel.

  Teresa left the engine running. “Are you sure we should be here?”

  Clayton seemed nervous, but his voice was calm when he said, “It’s fine.”

  “There has to be another way of going about this.”

  “I can’t think of any.”

  “Why this guy?”

  “Stan’s the only person I can really turn to at this point. Everyone else is in Brock’s pocket.”

  “And Stan’s not?”

  “Nope. People think he’s too crazy to be trusted.”

  Teresa felt a tingling pop in her stomach. “Great. And you think you can trust him?”

  “What choice do I have? We knew each other in high school, so I can probably trust him more than most.”

  Teresa tried to come up with an idea that would solve all his problems. Her mind was blank. She couldn’t improvise anything for him. If only she had more time to think, she might be able to figure something out.

  “Since you insisted on coming along,” said Clayton, “I should warn you about Stan.”

  “Warn me?”

  “He’s very strange.”

  “Define ‘strange’.”

  “The drugs have really fucked his head up. Made him crazy. He’s extremely paranoid, so just go with whatever he says. If you disagree with him, he might think you’re an enemy.”

  “An enemy? Are you serious?”

  Clayton nodded. “He’s completely bat-shit, but he’s very smart. He went to medical school or something and actually graduated. He could have been a doctor, but...”

  “But now he’s bat-shit crazy?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Just wonderful.” Teresa sighed.

  “You can wait out here, if you want.”

  “Are you kidding me? I’m a sitting duck out here. I’d rather be with you.”

  Clayton smiled. “Really?”

  His reaction was genuine. She’d only experienced his true personality on a few occasions. This was one of them. Her comment had really made him feel good.

  “Yes, really. Why else would I be here with you?”

  Continuing to smile, Clayton nodded.

  I’m such an idiot.

  She could have been eating waffles with Amy and yet here she was. In Clancy, with a guy she wasn’t sure was still her boyfriend. She wasn’t sure she wanted him to be, either. But she knew she cared an awfully lot about him. And that made her feel even more stupid.

  Stan isn’t the only one who’s bat-shit crazy.

  Chapter Ten

  A scrawny young guy with a bald head and a long goatee that hung down his throat answered the door. His eyes looked tired and lazy, rimmed with red. The purple bags underneath were puffy and swollen. Teresa would guess he wasn't much older than thirty, but his haggard face made it hard to tell for sure.

  He greeted them with a, “Huh?”

  Clayton, leaning against the glass storm door, cleared his throat. “Hey, Hap. Is—uh—Stan here?”

  How does Clayton know these people?

  Hap was opening his mouth to reply when he suddenly flew back. Another man appeared in his spot, taller, with oily bangs that hung in his purple-shaded eyes.

  His arm shot out, hand gripped Clayton's shirt, and yanked him inside.

  Teresa, gasping, reached for Clayton's back, but he was already gone. The storm door slowly closed.

  “My, God!”

  Teresa didn’t know whether to dash inside to save Clayton or call the police. She was reaching into her purse for her cell phone when the storm door opened again.

  A woman stood there, smiling. It was a lovely smile that stretched wide on her mouth to reveal her teeth. She still had them all, though they were stained. Her cheeks were pushed up to her eyes, making them squint around the glistening blue colors.

  “Well, hi there,” she said.

  Teresa stood frozen, one hand inside her purse. The woman continued to smile. Her hair was the color of fire and hung to her shoulders in straight lengths.

  “Um...”

  The woman’s eyebrows rose. “Want to come in?”

  “Um...”

  She waved a hand. “Don’t mind, Stan. That’s just how he greets people.”

  What the hell kind of place is this?

  “Is Clayton...?”

  “He’s sitting on the couch,” assured the woman. “Come on in. Or you can wait outside. No skin off my tits.” She stepped away from the door, letting it slowly swing shut.

  Before the latch snicked, Teresa stuck her fingers into the gap and caught it.

  Was she really going in there?

  Yes.

  Removing her hand from her purse, she adjusted the strap, then the front of her dress, and went inside.

  The room smelled like a combination of cigarette and weed-smoke mixed with something that made Teresa think of tacos. She saw a sectional couch before her. Clayton was sitting on the end closest to her, with the tall guy right next to him. His arm was thrown around Clayton’s shoulders, pushing his neck down and making his head lower.

  Clayton turned to her. “Hi. Teresa, this is Stan.”

  Stan slowly leaned his head forward, appearing on the other side of Clayton’s face. “Greetings,” he said.

  “Huh-hi.”

  “Please, sit down.” He gestured toward the opposite end of the couch.

  Teresa looked around. The room was a mess. The coffee table was covered in clutter that had spilled onto the floor. Old fast-food bags, some burger cartons, a couple pizza boxes, and what looked like several empty rolls of aluminum foil.

  A loveseat that matched the couch was to her right. Hap laid on it, his arm extended above his head and hanging over the arm of the couch. He looked asleep.

  The woman who’d invited her in sat where the sections of the long couch connected. She wore denim cut-offs that looked more like briefs. She crossed a leg over her knee. Her pale shin was marked with scabs and scratches. Seeing Teresa was looking, she patted the empty cushion beside her. “Take a load off.”

  “O-okay. Sure…why not?”

  Teresa walked on legs that felt filled with warm jelly. She expected them to give out at any moment. Thankfully, they didn’t. She reached the couch, turned around, and dropped down beside the woman. She made sure there was space between them.

  Teresa looked at Clayton. His eyes rose, mouth twisting upward as if to apologize.

  Teresa shook her head, hoping he understood she would not easily forget this.

  “Teresa, is it?” asked the woman from beside her. She put her hand on Teresa’s knee and gave it a soft squeeze.

  Teresa’s reflex went off, making her leg jerk. The woman kept her hand there. “Um...yes.”

  “Hi, Teresa. I’m Daisy. That sleeping sack of uselessness over there is Hap. And you’ve already met Stan.”

  Teresa’s eyes landed on Stan. He wore blue athletic pants that looked too big for him and a bright yellow T-shirt that was dark with stains. His hair was parted down the middle and hung in his eyes in greasy strands. Stubble painted his cheeks dark. It looked as if he hadn’t bathed—or slept—in weeks.

  He probably hasn’t.

  Daisy smelled nice, though. Being so close to her, she was thankful she didn’t smell stale and dank. Her scent was like a mixture of flowers and soap, how the woods smelled after it rained.

  “Want to watch TV?” asked Daisy.

  “Huh?”

  “TV.” She pointed past Teresa.

  Turning, she allowed Daisy’s finger to guide her to the flat screen TV on a stand across the room. It was nicer than the one she had at home. Looked at least fifty-five inches, maybe even bigger.

  How’d they afford that?

  Drug money.

  No doubt
they operated some kind of drug business from here. Judging Daisy’s wardrobe of cut-off and nearly translucent white shirt, Teresa figured she was probably a prostitute of some kind.

  “No TV,” said Stan. “I’m talking to Clayton. Don’t need the distraction.”

  Since she’d come in here, Teresa hadn’t heard Stan say even one word to Clayton. He just sat leaned close to him, his arm around Clayton’s shoulders. They looked like buddies about to pose for a picture.

  She’d never seen Clayton so uncomfortable. And it broke her heart knowing what he was going through just to try and make things right where he’d screwed up.

  She realized she would have to help him through it.

  He doesn’t have anybody else to turn to.

  Teresa decided she would be that person.

  “St-Stan?” said Clayton.

  “Yyyyeah?”

  “I have a bit of a strange question to ask you.”

  “There are no strange questions, Clayton. Only strange intentions.”

  Clayton’s brow creased. “Um...okay.”

  “Ask your question, man. Quick.”

  “Can I buy a dog off you?”

  Stan jerked his arm away and shoved Clayton. He threw his arm up as if he was about to block a punch from Stan.

  “What’d you ask me?” said Stan, voice rising. His eyes seemed to grow unnaturally wider than humanly possible.

  “Stan?” said Daisy. “Be civil. Clayton’s a friend.”

  Stan’s head whipped toward Daisy. Though Teresa didn’t see how it was possible, his glassy eyes stretched even wider. The shimmering orbs flicked as if he were a puppet, by fingers crammed inside his skull to operate them.

  “Friend?”

  Daisy nodded, still smiling. “Yes. Friend.”

  “Friend good?”

  “Yes, honey.”

  “Okay...” Stan nodded as if reassuring himself. “Good. Clayton friend of Stan?”

  “That’s right,” said Daisy.

  Hap still slept, oblivious to the insanity Teresa and Clayton were witnessing.

  What the hell’s going on here?

  Stan scooted away from Clayton, turning so he could hang a leg on the couch. Knee bent, he pulled his foot against the other leg. When he spoke, his voice was very calm and friendly. “A dog you say?”