“Tatum said he was with Sophia now, and that I needed to get out of the picture. Your dad stepped in and Tatum threw down on him. Started really beating on him. My father backed up my truck, trying to knock the guy away from your dad. But it knocked Tatum on his head, and he hit whatever it is that you shouldn’t hit.
“But our dads didn’t know Tatum died. They were in a hurry to get away from him and thought he was just knocked out. That was bad enough. Considering my dad’s business and professional reputation, even knocking the guy out would’ve probably triggered a huge media scandal. It was reported on the morning news that Tatum was dead. The reporters are saying the guy died, and the cops are calling it a hit-and-run. They don’t have any suspects yet, because the bar’s security cameras have been busted for a long time, and there were no identifying tire marks or anything. There’s not even a scratch on my truck either. Tatum wasn’t even found until the bartenders went home, so no one knows exactly when it happened. No one knows and no one ever can. Nobody, but our fathers and us, Hale.”
Oscar, in the moonlit park, looks almost iridescently pale. I’m sure I look the same. I remember my dad walking in last night, the black eye, the way Otto shushed him. They thought the guy was just knocked out. My dad got a lawn service and a married daughter, not to tell. But now the guy’s dead. I can see how things are not only not going to change, but they just got a whole lot more serious.
“So this guy, this Rick, he was after you?” I say. Oscar nods. “Sophia was cheating on you?”
“It’s not such a nice name after all,” Oscar says.
“Why didn’t she just break up with you?”
“No idea,” Oscar shrugs.
“This can still come back on you,” I say. “If the guy told anyone where he was going, or Sophia...she would have to know.”
“I don’t think she does,” Oscar says. “She called me before I spoke to you tonight. She wanted to know if we were still going to my dad’s beach house. We were going to take a long weekend for Landon’s birthday bash.”
“Eww,” I say with a wince.
“But even if the guy told anyone he was going to the bar to get me, I wasn’t there. And Modo, the owner, is one of my dad’s friends. He wouldn’t say anything, even if he knew something.”
“What does your dad do exactly?”
“Investments. Financial planning. He’s a Merlin in his field,” Oscar says. “You’ve never heard of Otto Maree Investments?”
I shake my head. “I don’t have any money.”
“My dad’s been responsible for the financial development of several Fortune 500 companies. The media would kick into a frenzy just over the fact that my dad was out drunk and there was any kind of altercation at the bar, but it would be an absolute scandal if they knew he was responsible for Tatum. It would total him out. Clients would run for the hills and the business would hemorrhage. But a death? It doesn’t matter that it was accidental, and it wouldn’t matter if it was provoked. The possibility of a conviction would likely bankrupt my family...and yours. If my dad goes under, it means yours probably would too.”
“Holy shit,” I say. Oscar turns his eyes back to mine.
“Hale,” he says. “I don’t know you, but now you know everything I do. I trust you with it and I want you to trust me too. I want to know you do. Our fathers talked to me about what needs to happen and I think it’s the right thing to do under the circumstances. I think that if we are married, both sides have a lot to lose, so we’ll all make sure to keep it together. So, I’m asking you, Hale. Will you show us that we can trust you? Will you marry me?”
My brain is gaping as I stare at him.
“Hell no,” I say, as I jump to my feet.
#
I run like I’m being chased by a rapist with a full can of mace. I don’t think my lungs have ever tolerated that much running, but tonight, they seem to get that they shouldn’t let me down.
Oscar shouts my name behind me, but, this time, he doesn’t follow me. I brace to be tackled for the first hundred feet and, when I’m not, I unfold and go at a full sprint, darting into the trees.
I get that giving in might sound like a great Godfather kind of deal to them, but the one part of the equation they forgot is that I have everything to lose. I’m a financial aid case right now, but I’ve always assumed I could land a scholarship, get a student loan, and become a success story at some point. I’ve never thought of my life as a slow decent down an even darker toilet drain. All my plans have always been aimed at hitting the glass ceiling with a titanium helmet. I want to graduate, to live in a dorm, to date ten guys at once, and break up and make up and, someday, marry a guy who I know loves me. I want to marry someone I know.
When I finally hit the lights of a gas station, I stop a pony-tailed guy who is exiting the store, checking something on his phone as he sucks down a gallon-sized slushy.
“’Scuse me,” I pant. The hippy guy looks up like I’m about to ruin his day. “I’m really sorry to bother you, but can I use your phone? It’s important.”
One edge of the hippy’s lip twitches up, as he says, “No.”
“C’mon,” I huff. “This is serious. I’m trying to get away from...”
“Forget it. I’m not giving you my phone.” Hippy says, as Oscar’s truck pulls into the gas station.
“Dude! I need help!” I shriek, grabbing for the hippy’s phone. He twists away and I end up with my fingertips on his drink cup instead. I yank it from him, but the lid pops, dousing me in cherry slushy just as Oscar rolls up beside us. Oscar leans over and pops open the passenger side door.
“What the hell!” The hippy shouts at me. “What the fuck is your problem?”
Oscar’s out of the truck. He rounds the grill and wedges himself between the hippy and I.
“Sorry about the slushy, man,” Oscar says. He fishes out his wallet and hands the guy a five-dollar bill. “No harm, no foul, okay?”
The hippy still frowns as he snatches the bill out of Oscar’s hand and stalks away. Oscar turns back to me, putting his hand on his open truck door.
“Get in,” he says. “I’ll take you home.”
I shake my head and Oscar groans.
“If you don’t, I’m going to follow you in my truck the whole way there,” he says. He wobbles the door. “C’mon.”
Cherry slushy is dripping into my shoes. He reaches into the back seat and pulls a towel out of a gym bag.
“It’s clean,” he says. I take it, wipe off, and slide into the passenger seat, defeated. He closes the door and in seconds, he’s behind the wheel. He swings an arm over my seat as he backs up the truck. It feels like he’s putting his arm around me and I glance over, tracing his arm back to his face. Without moving it, he shoots me a small grin and says, “By the way, I forgive you.”
I scowl. “For what?”
“For that moment when you thought I was just like everyone else.”
#
He puts the heat on, so the slushy will dry, but rolls down the windows too, because it’s June and, technically, too warm to be running the heater. The breeze that comes in is cool, but the warm air from the vents blows right up the legs of my shorts. I finally reach over and turn off the heat.
“Is it making you sticky?” he asks. I squint at his profile, thinking of about fifty ways to tell him what a douchebag he is, when he looks back with such a sincere question peaking his brow that I realize I’m being the douchebag.
“Cherry slushy will do that,” I say. My cheeks burn as if I’ve just laid my face on a stove burner. He turns on the music, so we don’t have to talk, and I’m taken off guard at how I’m a little bit touched by how gracious he is. I steal another look at his profile. It’s frustrating too, that his looks leave little to complain about. He’s textbook tall-dark-and-handsome, right out of a department store box. I can tell from the way his muscles flex, as he steps on the brake and moves the wheel, that this is a boy who does his push ups. I’m sure any girl would be happy t
o be sticky in his truck. At least, that’s how I try to explain away the sparks shooting down so low in my belly. I think a blind chick couldn’t help being a little turned on by how Oscar looks. It doesn’t overrule the fact that I’m still freaked out by the whole marriage proposal thing, but I can’t help how a glance at his face numbs it a tiny bit. Or, how the numb hits the exact place that makes me forget why I’m here, and what Oscar really wants from me.
“How old are you, Hale?” His voice startles me as he turns down the radio.
“Eighteen.”
“Do you have a boyfriend right now?”
“No.”
“Hard to believe,” he murmurs. “How long has it been?”
The way he asks, the douchebag thoughts come streaming back to me. “Since what?” His question mark brows shoot up again. “Since you’ve had a boyfriend.”
“Oh, a while,” I say. I don’t want to tell him that it’s been never. My dad’s not just an alcoholic, but a racist too, and I pretty much go to school with 99% not-my-race boys. I’ve been kissed a couple times, but there was never anyone that I wanted to go out with so badly that I’d risk my father’s wrath. Sher’s my only friend at school, and she’s not that successful in the guy department either. Being two skinny, little white girls in a school full of curvy, chocolate goddesses who guard their men closely, we’ve learned to keep our heads down and stay off the radar. It hasn’t left me with good odds.
“A while,” he repeats, as he pulls into the parking lot of my apartment building.
“How old are you?” I ask.
“Twenty three,” he says, finding a spot and turning off the engine. Two and three. I could tell he was older than me, because he wasn’t nervous or goofy, but I would never have guessed he was five digits older. Then, like it will change anything, he says, “Well, I’ll be twenty-four next month.”
It doesn’t matter. I wouldn’t have guessed six numbers older, either.
“I’ll walk you in,” he says.
“You don’t need to,” I say, but as I get out of the truck, so does he. He does a lingering look up and down the lot, surveying the cars on blocks, the duct-taped windows, and the clunkers that haven’t moved off their flat tires in months. Our parking lot looks like a scrap yard, but I never noticed it as much as I do now, standing with tall-dark-and-immaculate Oscar and his scratch-free silver truck.
“But I am,” he says.
“You’re in more danger here than I am,” I tell him.
“You really think that, don’t you?” The chuckle he adds to it irritates me. We climb the stairs to my apartment door.
“Good night,” I say.
“Aren’t you going to open the door?”
“I will, when you’re gone,” I say. Oscar’s eyes fix on mine, and I try to hold his intense gaze, but can’t. I glance away, taking a step back as he takes one forward, pining me between him and the door.
“Open it now,” he says softly. “While I’m here, so I know you got in safe.”
When I don’t move, he adds, “You don’t have anything in there that I haven’t seen before, Hale. Open the door.”
I turn away, his breath in my hair and his cologne in my nose, as I slide the key from my pocket into the lock. It should be a relief to step inside, but the minute the door opens, I see two of my gym bags and a paper bag full of my belongings, heaped on the floor. My dad looks up from his seat at the table, a half-empty bottle of Jack near his elbow. This is my Whiskey Drunk dad, even though he shoots Oscar and I a wry smile as we come in.
“There’s your stuff,” he says, motioning to my bags with a sloshing glass. “Go on and go.”
“Where do you want me to go?” I ask.
“Somewhere else. Anyplace. Just let it all blow down here. You know. Right, Oscar? Let it all blow down.”
Oscar walks over and picks up my two bags, throwing one over his shoulder. I know I shouldn’t rock the boat with my dad being full of whiskey, but I don’t know what he’s expecting me to do. I’m not going to just go live with Oscar. I’m not leaving even the little I have behind.
“Dad, I’m not leaving...”
“To hell you’re not!” he slams his drink down, and the amber liquid jumps up like lighter fluid in a fire. “Get out of here! I don’t know what’s going to happen! But if somethin’ does, what’ll happen to you, Hale? You wanna know? I’ll tell you. You’ll be livin’ on the street and I’ll be servin’ life in jail.”
“I’ll go live with Sher until you’re out!”
“You’ll go with this kid,” my father roars. “That’s what you’ll do. You’ll go and do what he says, and you’ll have a good life, dammit! LISTEN TO ME!”
My father picks up the whiskey bottle by the neck and throws it. It slams against the wall beside me and shatters, the whiskey splashing on me, some of the splintered glass sticking in my skin. I stare at my father as he collapses at the table, dropping his head into his folded arms. Sobs come out of him like emergency sirens.
Rick Whoever is dead and this is the only protection my father can give me—a near miss with a whiskey bottle—to scare me away.
“Come on,” Oscar says, hefting up the paper bag and handing it to me. I take it and follow him out the door, empty. My father’s wails follow me down the stairs and trail behind me as I walk toward everything that scares me most.
CHAPTER FOUR
I DON’T ASK AND OSCAR DOESN’T say.
We drive through town to the enormous mansion where I first saw him. He leaves me in the truck, but takes the keys and disappears through the front door. I listen to the tires settle into the gravel as I rub dabs of my own spit on the tiny wounds that came from the shattered bottle. Luckily, there is no glass in my skin, no cuts that need attention. I have enough to worry about already, as I stare at Oscar’s empty seat and wonder what the hell I’m going to do next.
He returns quickly, flipping down the tailgate and shoving in another two bags. When he slides into the driver’s seat, he does look a little surprised that I’m still sitting there, but it’s not like I have anywhere to go. My insides feel caved in, but I won’t let one tear slip out of me. I don’t have a phone, I don’t have any money, and I’m screwed. The deal is done. My father sold me out with a busted whiskey bottle. I get that I’m at Oscar’s mercy now, and I figure it’s just better to be quiet, and wait for a moment that I can take advantage of.
“How are you doing?” he asks.
“Seriously?” I say with a frown. “I’m doing ‘trapped’ like a champ.”
He puts the truck in drive and even though I assume we’re enroute to either a hotel or an all-night wedding chapel, I don’t bother to ask. But he still tells me.
“We’re heading out to my father’s beach house. It’s a beautiful place,” he says. So, I re-phrase it to myself, we’re going to a free hotel. I try to play it cool inside my head, but the thoughts of what will probably happen at his father’s beach house, keeps scurrying through my mind, their sharp claws digging into my growing anxiety. It doesn’t matter how good-looking Oscar is, he just looks like a rapist to me now. I stay frozen on my seat.
“You don’t talk much,” Oscar says, when we’ve driven far enough that I don’t recognize anything anymore. The suburbs are fading to countryside, covered in trees.
“I don’t know you,” I say. “What’s there to talk about?”
“Let’s start with the easy stuff. Tell me all your favorites. Colors, movies, food? What do you like?”
“I like to be at home,” I tell him. “My favorite is not being married to strangers, and I don’t care about movies. I actually know how to read books.”
“I like books.”
“Books aren’t Playboy magazine articles.”
“Where did that come from?” he asks. The tone in his voice reminds me that I don’t know who he is at all and have no business talking to him like that. I remain frozen, my head twisted toward the window till my neck aches. “Hale, this is going to be a lot harder
on both of us if either of us decides not to try, so how about we start again?”
“I don’t know what you want from me,” I say. Thank God, my voice doesn’t crack as I say it, but at least it feels like I’ve taken the elephant off my shoulders.
“Okay, good, I can answer that,” Oscar says. I keep my eyes out the window. “I want you to be a loyal wife. I want you to cook for me, and keep up our house, and I want you to be good in bed.”
There is a playful smirk in his tone. I almost gag.
“You’re a pig,” I say. I don’t care if he shoves me out of the moving vehicle. He just laughs.
“Because I want you to be good in bed? That’s a problem?” He laughs again. “Don’t you want that from me?”
“I don’t want anything from you,” my voice cracks this time, a big jagged crack right down the middle. Oscar’s laugh suddenly cuts off.
“Wait,” he says and all I can think is here it comes. And I’m not wrong. “Have you ever been with a man before?”
When I don’t answer him, he clears his throat.
“My favorite author is Steinbeck,” he begins softly.
#
Oscar fills up the silence by telling me things about himself. He loves movies, especially comedies, and he tells me he was vegan for a week, but it didn’t work out. He says that although he doesn’t own any shirts or cars, or even a room in his house that is yellow, it is still his favorite color. I don’t want to care, but I listen to every word he says, because his voice soothes me somehow. When he tells me about the music he likes, he turns on the radio and, eventually, it takes over the whole conversation. I’m almost disappointed when he stops talking, but I finally lean my head against the headrest, close my eyes, and drift off to the sound of a nightclub piano.
“Hale?”
There’s a hand on my arm, a voice I don’t recognize, and a truck all around me when I jolt back to consciousness.
Hale Maree Page 4