by Jenna Rae
She handed it to him. “Sorry I don’t have the right kind of glasses.”
“Doesn’t matter. Got a corkscrew?”
“A corkscrew?” She turned the word over and over in her mind, unable to form an image.
Marco laughed.
“What?”
“Honey, when you say you don’t drink you ain’t kidding, huh?”
“Sorry,” she mumbled, embarrassed.
“We’re going to my house. Don’t mention Ray, okay? But I have glasses and a corkscrew, and Phil can either join us or go pout in his office.” He plunked the bottle of wine on the counter.
“Don’t you want to take that with?”
“Let’s leave it here for an emergency. I have an open bottle at home.”
“Aren’t you telling Phil about Ray?”
“Wine first, then talk.”
She faked the laugh he expected and received an equally fake smile in return.
Phil wasn’t home when they got there, and this seemed to make Marco even more upset. “Can you believe this? He didn’t want to go. He said he wanted to stay home and relax when he finished work. But he isn’t even here!”
Lola didn’t know what to say. She watched helplessly as Marco stormed around the kitchen and put together a tray of wine, fruit, cheeses and crackers. When he started to pour a glass for her she shook her head.
“Have you really never drunk wine?”
She shook her head. “Once, a bit, a long time ago. I didn’t like it.”
“People’s tastes change as they grow up, Lola. Try it. If you don’t like it, fine. But don’t you think it’s time to at least know if you like it?”
She shrugged. “I think you need it more than I do.”
It was over an hour later that they heard Phil’s car pull into the garage, and by then Marco was fuming. He shook his head when Lola asked if she should leave.
“Please stay. I need someone who actually cares about me.”
“You know he cares about you! Are you really sure you want to stay mad at him without even hearing what he has to say?”
Marco shrugged. “I do a lot for him. I go to these stupid dinners where nobody talks to me. I clean up after him, I cook ninety percent of our meals, I eat at Delfina’s two, three times a week because it’s the only restaurant he likes, and I sit home night after night and watch TV because he doesn’t like it when I go out. I hardly ever ask him to do anything with me, because he’ll make it miserable even if he does actually say yes. But I asked him to this because it was important, and I thought he could maybe, just once, do one thing for me. But it was too much to ask. You didn’t even hesitate, Lola. You didn’t want to go, but you came to support me. He’s my husband. He should want to support me!” Marco’s control broke, and he pulled away to rub at his face. “God, I’m not going to cry. If I cry he thinks I’m an idiot.”
“I could never think you were an idiot.” Phil’s voice was soft, but it carried from the hallway. “But I sure felt like one when I got to the gallery.”
Marco stared at him. “You went?”
“It seemed important to you. I just wasn’t sure I could get out of the meeting in time. But you weren’t there.” Phil’s face was tense and he seemed wary. Lola eased toward the front door, glad that she’d stuck her keys in her pocket instead of lugging over her purse.
“I was there.” Marco looked like a child whose parents have remembered his birthday a day too late.
“I—”
“We,” Marco croaked, waving his arm in Lola’s direction. “We were there.”
“But you left.” Phil peered at Marco. “Everybody said you just disappeared all of a sudden.”
“He was there.” Marco’s words were hollow, and Lola chewed her lip and eased closer to the door, trying not to draw attention to her exit.
“Who?”
“Ray Stowe.”
Phil’s face fell. “Lola, thanks for going with Marco. Can you get home okay?”
She nodded and backed toward the door as Phil took Marco in his arms and whispered something. Sudden tears clouded Lola’s vision, and she stopped spying to fumble her way outside and sprint across the street. She got home before the sobs broke through and left her curled up on the couch she’d had delivered—to replace the one destroyed by Christopher James—ragged and breathless from crying. Her body ached. She missed Del with a longing that she hadn’t allowed herself to acknowledge until just this moment.
She was glad, wasn’t she, that Marco had Phil? She was glad that when Marco was scared and hurt Phil immediately wanted to comfort him.
“I’m glad Marco has that love and support. I’m not jealous.” She laughed. “Not much.”
She hugged herself, looking around her empty house.
“But I would give anything to have someone who loves me—someone who’d wrap her arms around me when I’m sad or scared. But I don’t get that, do I?”
Orrin’s low chuckle and its echo, Tami’s shrill cackling, filled Lola’s head. Oh, good, now Orrin’s girlfriend is chiming in, thought Lola, that’s all I need.
“Because you’re right. You were right all along, Orrin. I was always the girl nobody could love.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The pain had become a thing separate from her, an enemy that struck over and over without mercy. She could see it, a large, gray beast with tendrils. It was smoky and sneaky, evil and insidious. It woke her up when she tried to sleep, pulled her concentration from her and made her feel weak and helpless and angry. Most of all, angry. Del wondered sometimes if she would ever again experience a moment free of bitterness, anger and regret. She watched the last dim rays of the sun disappear into the darkness of night and despair washed over her. She felt completely alone and lost.
The doorbell rang, and she peered out to see a drawn-looking Phil tapping his fingers on the doorframe.
She yanked the door open. “What’s wrong?”
“Ray.”
“Here, now?”
He shook his head.
“Give me ten minutes.”
Del washed up, trying to regain some of her professional demeanor. She hadn’t really looked in the mirror in days and was surprised to see how much weight she’d lost. Her face looked ten years older. She showered, brushing her teeth at the same time.
By the time she was locking her front door, she felt almost like herself again. She had on her duty weapon, a button-down and jeans. She’d had to use the old belt from her patrol uniform to keep her jeans up, and she felt a little like a kid wearing a grown-up’s clothes. But she had her fancy new phone and her weapon, and what she had would have to be enough.
Phil let her in with a nod of thanks, and Del was again struck by the stress etched on his face. Marco looked even worse. He was sitting in a corner of the couch, curled up under a blanket. His eyes were ringed with dark circles.
“Tell me,” Del ordered, her voice low and, she hoped, warm.
“Oh, Del,” Marco’s voice was a hoarse croak. “I should have called you days ago.”
Del masked her worry. “Tell me what’s happened.”
“I went to a gallery show, Lola came with me. Ray was there. He went up to Lola, told her to give me a message. Something about how I couldn’t have a show because I pissed him off.”
“Did you talk to him?”
“No. We left right away and I haven’t seen him since.”
“When was this?”
“A week ago. He’s been emailing, calling, leaving me messages, texting every day since then.”
“Saying what?”
“I’m what’s wrong with the art world. I’m going to hell because I’m a bad, queer liar.”
“Just like before.” Del stood up. “Call me, text me, whatever, anytime you hear from him. Forward every email to me. If you see him, call or text me right away. I’ll check it out. I’ll get back to you with anything I find. He has a record in two other states and may have racked up more charges in the meantime.”
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“Why isn’t he in jail?”
Del made a face. “Listen, I know it sucks. But he’s smart enough to know what’s a misdemeanor and what’s a felony, and the reality is that misdemeanors just don’t get prosecuted unless the DA has something to gain by pursuing it. Or something to lose by not doing so. He’s got friends in high places. He’s a deacon in some fancy church, and he’s ridiculously rich.” She sighed. “I’ll see what I can do to make this right.”
“We both know there’s nothing anyone can really do.”
“It feels like that but listen to me.” Del grabbed his foot and tugged it playfully. “I will always protect you, okay?”
Marco smiled. “I appreciate that, but—”
“But nothing.”
Phil’s voice was a low rumble. “If you’re going to protect people maybe you should include Lola.”
Del turned to him in surprise.
“What do you mean?”
Phil gestured, but it was Marco who answered. Del turned around again.
“Remember that woman I told you about? She’s still stalking Lola and she’s as scary as Ray.”
Del shook her head. “Lola said it was taken care of.”
Marco’s laugh was loud and humorless. “Don’t you know anything about women?”
Del crinkled her eyes. “Considering I am one, uh, yeah.”
“She was lying. You just dumped her for your ex. She wasn’t going to ask you for help.”
“I didn’t dump her. Is that what she said?” Del bristled.
Phil’s hand clamped onto her bad shoulder, and she stifled an urge to punch him.
“Shut up and listen,” Phil barked. “The point is she’s scared.”
Del shook off his hand, wincing at the pain this caused. “I’ll get back to you about Ray. Thanks for the heads-up on Lola.”
When Lola didn’t answer the door, Del hesitated only a moment before using her key. She went in to find Lola sprawled on the floor, a wine bottle next to her. Del was so surprised by this that she stood and gaped for a full minute before she could speak.
“You started drinking now?”
“Yes, I did. Not very well, apparently. It tastes disgusting and have you smelled it? Gross.” Lola gestured at the bottle, laughed and tried to sit up, with no success.
“Whoa there.” Del grabbed her and eased her onto the couch, using her right arm as much as possible. No lifting, the physical therapist had said, but Lola was too wobbly to get up on her own.
Del surveyed the scene. There was a pretty floral hatbox on the floor, overflowing with bits of paper, and she grabbed the one on top. It was a note she’d written to Lola, saying she was going to work. A nothing, a throwaway. But Lola had saved it and, it looked like, every other note Del had ever written her. There were dozens. Del rifled through them, her breath coming quicker with each second.
“Why did you save these?”
“I think I’m going to be sick.”
Lola was a noxious green. Del tried to get her to walk up the stairs, but she was too shaky. Finally she picked Lola up and carried her. Del’s shoulder felt like someone had shoved a few hot pokers into it, but it held, and she tried to shift as much of Lola’s weight to her right as she could.
Lola moaned at the movement.
“You’ve lost weight,” Del murmured. “Dear God, you smell like you’re wearing more wine than you drank.”
“I drank it once before. When Dr. Beckett took me out to dinner for my birthday.” Lola was crying. “I thought he was my friend.”
Del laid her on the bed, ignoring her burning shoulder, and turned on the bathroom light.
“Maybe you can just rest for a while. Do you still think you need to throw up?”
“I don’t like drinking. It’s yucky.”
Del shook her head. She went downstairs and made tea. How many times had she carried a drunk Janet to bed? At least a dozen. Of course drunk Janet was usually loud, argumentative, seductive and volatile. Weepy once. And of course there was Momma. Del had been big enough to drag Momma to bed for a few years but had rarely tried. She’d felt guilty about it, of course, but drunk Momma was even more volatile than drunk Janet and a lot less likely to calm down and pass out. Was Lola heading down that road now? Surely Momma hadn’t been a drunk her whole life. Maybe she’d been a perfectly nice woman until Daddy fucked her over enough times to turn her into an angry, bitter alcoholic. Maybe Del had turned Lola into an alcoholic too. Del shook her head. The woman had a little wine, one time, and I think she’s a drunk? She grabbed a couple of aspirin, dry swallowing three of them herself, and snagged a large, deep basin—Nana would have called it a barf bowl—to put by the bed just in case. Lola was out cold and Del covered her, careful not to touch her.
She searched all over and found a cordless phone, but she couldn’t find Lola’s cell. She called the number but it went straight to voice mail.
“Where’s your cell?”
Silence.
“I need to know where your cell phone is. Lola? Honey? Come on, sweetheart.” There was a long pause and Del shook Lola’s arm through the blanket.
“What?” Lola opened one eye.
“Cell phone.”
“Bathroom.”
“What? Where in the bathroom? Why is it in there?”
But Lola was out again. Del looked on the counter, in the drawers, on the back of the toilet. Finally she found it in the medicine cabinet. The battery was dead. Del plugged in the charger and got herself a glass of water and a couple more aspirin. Lola had added a small armchair to the sparse furniture in her bedroom, and Del sat in it, grateful for the chance to rest. Her shoulder was on fire, but she ignored it.
She picked up the phone and started scrolling through dozens of texts, many of which were downloading. Apparently several had been sent after the battery had died. Waiting for the messages to download took several minutes, and Del scrolled through the ones from before that. They were clearly menacing. She eyed Lola. After everything she’d been through, meeting the craziest lesbian in the whole city was the last thing Lola needed.
“I know you’re tired, sweetheart, but we need to talk about this.”
There was no movement from Lola. Her eyes were closed and she appeared to be asleep. Del took a deep breath and closed her eyes.
You can’t just go after this creep. Work within the system. That was going to be hard.
“Sterling, huh? I wonder if that’s your real name?”
Del should have been tired as midnight struck, but she was getting agitated, picturing Lola scared and thinking she couldn’t come to Del for help. She pulled out her own phone and logged in to the department’s website. Sure enough, Lola had filed a harassment complaint weeks before. Nothing had happened, but at least the groundwork had been laid. Del started tapping out notes in her phone, struck by the fact that it had replaced her notebook and even her laptop. Hadn’t she written on note cards just a day or two before? She sent a copy of her notes and a link to the report in an email to Phan and tried to decide what to do next.
Janet. Del had avoided thinking about her, hadn’t she? A spasm of pain cut her breath short. Everyone was having trouble. Janet was in some kind of crisis, though it was hard to know what the details were. A stalker was harassing Marco. A stalker was harassing Lola. Phan’s kid was going through something, who knew what? And Del was a wreck over her messed-up shoulder because she snuck off to Janet’s to—what? Ostensibly to help her but at least partly to see her again. To get tangled up with her again. Del pictured herself lunging at Janet, kissing and fondling her.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, not even looking at Lola’s sleeping form. “I fucked everything up.”
There wasn’t any other way to look at it, was there?
“God, I was such an asshole.” She buried her face in her hands, feeling a pull in her left shoulder. The pain was almost welcome. It provided a distraction from everything else.
“I keep going over everything I d
id wrong, but it doesn’t make it better. I don’t know how to make it right!”
She fell asleep trying to decide whether she should leave or stay. Lola’s sudden cry of terror woke Del, and she stumbled to her knees scrambling over to the bed. She managed not to gather Lola in her arms only because her shoulder froze up. She sat next to Lola, stroking her forehead and soothing her with nonsense words. Lola was weeping, begging, terrified.
“I almost forgot how horrible this is,” Del whispered.
Lola’s eyes fluttered open. “Del?”
“Are you awake?”
Lola nodded.
“You okay?”
“I was drinking wine. Bad idea. I’m sorry, did I call you?” Lola awkwardly pulled herself to a sitting position.
“No, I came because of Marco. Because of Ray, that guy? I let myself in. I hope that’s okay.”
“Did something happen?” Lola eased past Del to stand. She leaned against the wall to steady herself, and Del followed her sluggish progress down to the kitchen. She had to fight the urge to help Lola, to carry or at least hold her.
She’s not mine anymore. I don’t have the right to touch her.
“I mean, something else? Is Marco okay?”
“Yeah, no. Nothing else happened. Phone calls, texts, that’s it.”
“I remember you came here. Sorry for being such a mess. I’m not usually—”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Coffee?”
“No. I didn’t mean to wake you up. I’ll take off.”
“No, stay. I feel yucky. I don’t think I like drinking.” Lola started the coffeemaker and pulled out cookies.
“What made you try it tonight?” Del regretted asking the question as soon as the words had left her mouth, but they were out there.
Lola shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Your stalker or Marco’s?” Del pretended not to watch Lola. She might shut down if she felt cornered. “Or me? Or—”
“Oh, Del.” Lola turned away.
“I’ve been an asshole and I’m sorry. We need to talk about it. But right now we need to focus on your stalker and Marco’s.”
“Marco’s.”
“Yeah.” Del watched Lola pour coffee, put together a tray, lead the way to the living room.