by Kara Storti
“You’re a liar,” she says as she pounces, so I fall against the thick comforter. Her irises are a darker brown than mine; her nose comes to a sharp point. She tears off my shirt, bites my chest, holy eager beaver. I make a noise through my clenched teeth and try to get my act together.
“Why do you say that?” I ask, trying to push her off me and trying to fight against my dick that’s giving orders like a drill sergeant. It’s too bad that every guy’s got a Mrs. Robinson fantasy. Consequences. Think of the consequences. I can’t, my body’s on overload, and her hand is squeezing me where it counts. I pull her head down so that her lips meet mine. Her tongue is surprisingly cool. It’s not too late to back out. You should probably back out, Finn. Like now. I try to think about the shadow I felt in the living room, even though her mouth is all over me, and she’s grinding against my junk.
“You said that I would have clarity,” she says, her voice raspy. She’s yanking off her black dress to reveal a pink lacy bra. I notice she tied the blue ribbon around her wrist, her wrist that I grab and twist, I’m on top of her now. The bed groans under our weight, and her breath is hot against my cheek.
“You did have clarity,” I say caressing the side of her waist, running my tongue up her neck. “I didn’t promise the clarity would last.”
She smirks, she kisses me, and I feel her hard, probably personally-trained body against mine. I’ve never done it with an older woman. It’s already feeling different. Darker. Angrier. Or maybe it’s just her.
“I relived the first time I met my husband,” she says, dragging her teeth along my shoulder, which sends jolts down my spine. I’m searching for a scent, every girl has a scent, but hers is absent, and that’s a scent itself.
“He was so nice in the beginning. So charming. Like you.” She touches my nose and then pulls off my pants. Then it’s a mad rush to undo the rest of our clothes, there’s ripping involved, tossing, pulling, pressing against each other, tangled tongues, hot skin, and her teeth, all the time.
She continues murmuring, “When I met him I had cut my foot on a piece of glass when I was walking on the beach. He was the first to come help me. He wrapped my foot with his beach towel. I had sand in my pockets for days.” She swipes her short hair out of her face and goes in for another tongue-heavy kiss.
“We should stop,” I try to say though it comes out garbled; I don’t really mean it. My mouth is still filled with hers. Is she doing this because of the drug or because I’m so damn irresistible? I’d like to wager on the latter, but no, you douche, it’s the drug and middle-age rebellion. Indigo makes you temporarily loony bin–worthy, and there’s no red Corvette around for her to buy.
“You’re cute, kid. Now shut up.”
There’s joy, on her face, all over her, she’s drenched in it, and she starts to laugh, and it’s contagious, a pretty laugh that flutters, butterfly style. I shouldn’t be so worried, this is just a fling, and indigo is fun and darkness doesn’t exist in this room.
Our bodies move against each other, as the sunshine streams through a gap in the floral-printed curtains, and her mouth tastes sweeter, and her body turns softer. Her eyes widen as I’m about to slide off her underwear, when I feel big, heavy hands on my back.
I’m thrown on the ground, pants around my ankles, shock, shock, and more shock.
And then even more.
Because Stacey’s dad, Sergeant Braggs, is standing over me, screaming in my face, teeth surprisingly white, screaming at Rory who’s covering herself up with a pillow, and she’s saying, Dan, Dan, Dan, I didn’t mean to do it, I don’t know, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—
He’s off duty, but I see he’s packing heat, and by the way, WTF? I have no idea what’s going on, and he’s yelling, she’s turning crybaby, and his green eyes are scorched with fury. Pointing at me, pointing at her, it’s mass chaos and confusing as all get-out.
“I know exactly what came over you, that drug came over you, and him . . . him.” He barges forward into my face. “I should arrest you right here,” he says, out of breath, inhaling aggressively through his nose. By then my boxers are back up, but I’m floundering on the ground, fish-out-of-water Finn, dragging my pants over my legs, they seem to have shrunk about twenty sizes.
Rory follows suit and fumbles to put on her bra, hiding behind the other side of the bed. Modesty kicks in at the weirdest times.
“You can’t arrest me on account of indigo,” I say, trying to find my T-shirt, patting the bed behind me without breaking sight from him. He’s bigger than I remember. Tanned, built, a quintessential cop. “It’s not even registered as an illegal drug.”
Dan wrenches me by my upper arm toward him and searches me. Fuckity fuck fuck. He finds the eight ball of coke in my back pocket, something I thought I’d need, I wanted to have my fun as the ladies had theirs.
“I could throw you in jail right now,” Dan says, waving the bag in front of me, a cocaine pendulum, his face twisted with repulsion. “Or kick the living shit out of you.” But he does neither.
He runs his eyes over Rory, the how-could-you glare bearing down on her. I see him trying to pull himself together, hands close to his sides, mouth a tight line, shoulders no longer scrunched up. So . . . they’re lovers.
“Dan?” Rory says, quivering mouth, watery eyes. Oh, thank God, there’s my shirt. I tug it on as quickly as I can. She pleads with him to stay, to talk it through, let’s be adults about this, yeah sure.
He glares at her, disgusted. “Not right now. I can’t talk to you right now. I can’t look at you right now.” He squeezes the bridge of his nose that looks like it’s been broken more than once.
“You’re coming with me,” Dan says, pointing at the space between my eyes.
I scoff. “I’m not going anywhere with you. I could totally expose you, say that you’re fucking the mayor’s wife. Ruin your career, man, in a heartbeat.” I bump my fist two times against my chest. Thump, thump, my heart says. Dumb, dumb, my mind says, but it’s too late to take back the threat of blackmail.
Intake of breath from them both. She’s fuming, Dan’s hands are clenched so hard I bet his fingernails are drawing blood, he’s looking at me, looking at her, the vertical creases of her aging chest now visible in unforgiving light.
“I’m sure Stacey wouldn’t be thrilled if she knew. And the mayor . . . sheesh,” I say, wondering why I don’t just shut up.
“Punk,” he says, grabbing me toward him and then slamming me into the wall, forearm pressed against my Adam’s apple. Hard to breath, am I really going to jail? I try to remember the law, but it varies county by county. I’m hoping I’ll just get probation and be stuck with community service. He draws back from me and picks up Rory’s dress and holds it out with his thumb and forefinger. Contaminated, radioactive.
“Get dressed,” he barks as she grabs the dress from him. Then he turns to me. “You. My car. Now.” Rory’s murmuring his name. He tells her shut the hell up, this is unbelievable, a kid? A dumb, cokehead, good-for-nothing kid?
Then Dan pushes me out of the room, his huge paw clamped around my neck. When I glance behind me, I see Rory standing in the door frame, clutching her dress close to her chest, biting her lips that were bitten by me.
As we pass through the living room, the women are flying so high they barely notice us. My foreboding was on the mark. The darkness isn’t creeping in, the darkness is already here, and has been for a while. My predicament with Faith, my conundrum with Mike and Early, and now my fuck-up with Dan—it’s all intertwined and very real, and I’m unable to neatly package each situation, tie it with a bow and hope for the best. There’s no compartmentalizing. Indigo is turning from dark blue to a night without stars, a tar-black raven, the blackest of black ribbons.
Chapter Thirty-eight
We drive for what seems like eons in Dan’s black Jeep Cherokee out to the back roads where it’s not Dammertown, it’s just goddamn country town, cows, pastures, silos, haystacks that are so part of the landscape they m
ight as well be trees. Dan says nothing, I say nothing, I’m not sure if I’m supposed to out-silence him or what. Part of me wants to rage against all of it; another part of me wants to behave because of Stacey. Play nice with Daddy. Like that would really make much of a difference anyway. I’m thinking about the backpack full of money from the party—I’ll have to pick that up later. I’m wondering if my message will be delivered to Early loud and clear. Finally I can’t take it anymore.
“We taking the long way to the police station or what?” I ask finally. He looks at me; his emerald eyes are like Stacey’s—eyelashes way too lush. “I don’t want to cause any more—”
He slaps me on the arm and snaps, “Shut up and listen. You have done nothing but make a mess. And you’re quite good at drawing attention to yourself. It only took me overhearing someone at the diner talk about an indigo party to find you.”
I scrunch myself down low on the seat. The interior of the car looks brand new, but judging by the mileage it most certainly is not. He has a few CDs visible in the storage compartment between us. Tupac and Guns N’ Roses. Celine Dion and Jimmy Buffet. Um, okay. No comment.
“It’s all coming together for me now,” he says. “I don’t understand why my mother-in-law is helping you, but she must have taken a shining . . . you do look a little like my son.” He taps his finger on his chin, mulling over how much to share with douchebag Finn. I wonder if he knows I’m in love with his daughter.
“How could I be so stupid? When he asked me about it, I didn’t think for a second that my mother-in-law was your drug supplier.”
“Who are you referring to, when you say ‘he’?” I ask. “Are you talking about Mario Coletti?”
His face twitches at the name, prompts him to squeal over to the side of the road and turn off the car; I’m fully expecting him to ax murder me. I’m not sure if there is a way to finesse this situation, I’m not sure that my mouth is going to be my ally this time. At Claire’s house I felt like a king; now I feel like a punk-ass bitch.
Dan’s shoulders are bigger than the width of the seat. When he shifts his weight, the car moves under it. “Yes, Mario Coletti. I thought for a second it was Billy, but it’s not. It never occurred to me it was Orah. I really thought she’d quit her habit since we moved here. I don’t even know where she’s getting it from. You know what? I don’t even want to know.” Dan looks down at his hands, trying to collect himself. So he really isn’t aware of the crypt. He then eyeballs me. “How dare you put my entire family in danger?”
And how dare I almost fuck his mistress. And be in love with his daughter. Wow, the points are stacked up against me. I start constructing my most stellar argument in my head, I consider telling him that I’ve got something worked out, I have a message out to Early, but he interrupts me before I begin.
“I could put quite the case against you,” he says flatly. “I’d start with this coke ball, but I know that it won’t take me long to find more evidence to put you away for a while. I’ve got the mayor’s wife, who can convince him of anything. I’m backed by a team that is just as passionate as me to get rid of the drug problem around here. Now you’re on our list.” His palms rub the top of the steering wheel.
But he’s not saying he’s going to do this, only that he could. “What do you want from me?” I ask.
His I will fuck you up expression is a blast in my face. “Stop. Dealing. Indigo. You’re done.” He slashes the air with a flat hand. “With all of it—your dirt weed, coke, whatever else you got your stinking hands on. Done.”
I consider telling him off just on principle, I got some beef, some words. However, I feel like a kid again, Pop scolding me, bullying me, treating me like I’m of the lowest caste. My blood is boiling hot and rancid, not at Dan, but from my stupidity. I actually thought that I would be successful. Competent. Pop was right. I’m nothing. But part of me wants to do what he says, to stop, to get out of this.
“Do you hear me? Everything is taken care of. All you need to do is stop,” he demands. Loud and clear. There’s a shift in my brain. Wait—wait just a minute.
“Everything is taken care of?” I ask, anxious, not quite believing.
He eyes me, green grass irises of passion and toughness, his energy gritted up from years of battle against the drug war. There isn’t an ounce of Stacey in him, besides the intense green of his stare; how can such grace come from such a brute?
“Yes. That is why you need to stop dealing, or I’ll throw your ass in jail.”
“What do you mean everything is taken care of?” I repeat, panic coursing through my body, my fingers clamped around my knees.
Dan considers me, gauging what to disclose. “Early—Mario—and I have a relationship, and this is a delicate relationship that has taken years to forge, years of bargaining to stay out of each other’s business. We struck an agreement about the drug a while back, and he agreed to stop harassing my family. But then one of his guys came to me less than a week ago about this new strain called indigo. It came out of left field. I thought I had solved that problem long ago. I told him I would find the dealer and scare him away. First I figured it was another distributor—a weed grower in Vermont—but I can’t make the connection to him. I had never thought it was you until I saw you with . . . Rory.” He can barely say her name.
Early, Mike, and Dan are all connected, and Orah is drawn in by default. And now Finn, idiot of the century, is added to the mix. Aren’t we one big, happy family?
“Why are you looking so pale?” Dan asks. “I’ll tell Mario this is over. You’ll drop it, Finn, leave it alone. Start fresh.”
“I—” is all I can muster. I highly doubt that it’ll be that simple. I’m at a loss on whether or not I tell him I reached out to Early. On the one hand, I could tell him, have him tell Early I’m out of the game, and it’s all over. Everyone is safe. On the other hand, how do I help Faith?
The evening is closing in, the sun is low, murmuring its good-bye with light pinks and purples. Freaking. Out.
“It’ll be okay, Finn.” Dan saying my name makes an undeniable impact. Some people just know how to say names right, with a firmness, with authority. I respect that. Though I don’t like how it makes me feel two inches tall.
But he doesn’t know. The note I sent to Early could be interpreted as a threat. I just threatened a gangster. There was no reason to talk to Early in the first place, and there was no reason to work out a compromise, because he and Dan had already done so only days ago. I could have shut my mouth and bowed out of the indigo business gracefully, and Early would never have known about me. Dammit, Jason, for once in your life you were right. Now the note’s going to draw attention. It’s going to look like I called Early out.
I don’t tell Dan this. It’s my instinct that saying something is only going to make the situation more complicated, because that’s what happens when I open my damn mouth. Dan drops me off at the trailer without a good-bye, without a word. There aren’t any lights on inside. Coming home to a dark, empty house reminds me too much of a crypt visit. Don’t need to see any bones to know that ghosts are near.
Thursday, May 30
Chapter Thirty-nine
I carry out a tray holding a teapot, cups and saucers, creamer and sugar bowl, miniature spoons too, all matching with red and yellow roses. Orah and I sit in the morning room, and I pour hers first. This time we’re both having chamomile. What a sight I must be, big hands, little cups. Smoker’s voice, silver clicking against porcelain. Don’t feel like a girl, not even close, but I pour without a tremble and set the cup down without spillage. I’m surprised, considering what I put in my body and my current state of mind. I left school early, around eleven a.m. so I could be here—with her. It was the only thing I could think to do to calm myself down after the horrible string of events. It’s good to be in a quiet house; it’s good to be in a room that was made for sun to sweep through. Dan’s at work; Bryce was the one who dropped me off here—I don’t want anyone seeing my car parked
at the Braggs’. I need to see Orah, but I don’t want to bring any more trouble to her.
“People can make tea out of poppy seeds and get high off it,” I tell her. She doesn’t look that surprised. Seriously, nothing fazes this woman. If I told her I just gave birth, she’d be like, oh, is that so?
“Sorry I don’t have any poppy seeds to offer you. I could dig up a bagel in the pantry though,” she says, chuckling.
“It’s nothing to joke about,” I say. “It’s true.”
“When was the last time the truth wasn’t something to joke about?” Her response is quick and deadpan.
I smile all over the place, not hiding it, it’s the first time in a while my teeth have seen so much air. I’m beyond worry right now—I just want to be here, forgetting. I reassure myself: Early might not even take the bait, he might not even get the message, kind of counting on that actually—that delivery kid didn’t look like an ace at anything or like he wanted anything to do with Early. He was downright scared that I even mentioned him.
“Billy and I used to have teatime,” Orah says, taking a sip. The steam moistens the tip of her nose. “Up at the lake house, we tried all different kinds. Blueberry, raspberry, vanilla honey, passion fruit, green tea, black tea, yippee—”
“Indeed,” I say.
We clink our teacups together as we sit on the same blue sofa, the one with the lion’s feet. It faces the window; the books are on all sides of us, and they feel like friends.
“I never drank tea before I met you,” I said.
“Well, good then,” she says, setting her tea cup down gently. “I try to be useful. Tea can be relaxing, and Billy—he, well he was such a worrywart. That boy . . .” She shakes her head and smiles down at her feet.
“There’s a name for the fear of everything,” I say, sipping, it burns my tongue, but I drink it anyway. A little bit of pain hurts no one, plus it’s tea, and it’s comforting and gentle, pretty much like nothing in my life right now.