Gun Shy

by Lili St. Germain

  THE NIGHT JENNIFER THOMAS disappears is like all the rest. I go to the diner. Order nachos and a Coke. I’m surprised Jennifer is working. It’s Thanksgiving, and the place is deserted. Even Amanda is nowhere to be seen.

  “Working on Thanksgiving?” I ask Jennifer, as she slides my food in front of me. She shrugs, that glitter lipgloss catching the light as she moves. “It’s just another day, isn’t it?”

  I nod.

  “Besides,” she says, “It pisses my dad off. I asked for this shift.”

  At ten, I help her to turn out all the lights. I wait beside her as she locks the front doors of the diner, feeling vaguely worried about the fact that somebody left a sixteen year old cheerleader alone to lock up this late at night. I note the lack of video surveillance, the remote location, the fact that everyone is tucked safely inside their houses while Jennifer is alone with a convicted criminal in the dead of night.

  Jennifer offers me a ride home, which I accept. Except, instead of driving me straight home like she has done for the past six nights in a row, Jennifer pulls her Range Rover off the road into an uncleared section of pine trees that tower over us. The track is narrow and winding and she doesn’t answer me when I ask her where she’s taking us.

  She stops in a small clearing and cuts the lights. The engine is still running. Bits of snow fall outside, slow and bloated in their trajectory toward the ground. Jennifer’s hands are small as they grip the steering wheel; her eyes lit up by the red illumination of the dashboard, making her look almost demonic.

  “What are we doing here?” I ask her again.

  “I don’t want to go home,” she says staring straight ahead.

  “Fair enough,” I reply. I watch her as she struggles to find words. She squirms in her heated leather seat, her nails shiny and perfect, her shoulders sagging under the weight of something I cannot see.

  “Do you think I’m pretty?” she asks me in a tiny voice, and she sounds so mouse-like and weak that I almost laugh.

  “Do I think you’re pretty?” I echo, feeling a smirk cut its way across my face. “Jennifer, you’re so pretty I could die just from looking at you.”

  She rolls her eyes. “You think I’m stupid. You’re just here because you feel sorry for me, Leo.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t think you’re stupid. And I’m not here because I feel sorry for you.”

  She swallows thickly; I can see the pulse beat nervously in her throat. “Then why are you here?”

  “Well, I guess I’m here right now because you just drove us off the road and into the woods.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  Do, I, though? I sigh. “Because you’re the only person in this town worth talking to who will even look at me.”

  She bites her lip and I have the sudden, piercing urge inside my skull to wrap my hands around her throat and drag her onto my lap. That’s some messed up shit. She’s sixteen. Six. TEEN. I’m repeating the number in my head over and over, willing my dick to settle down. I can feel the throb of wanting her in my cock, in the thunderous rush of blood that makes my heart hit my ribcage like the firing of a gun, bang, bang, bang. My need eclipses my rationality. So what if she’s sixteen? She drove into this fucking clearing and licked her lips and asked me if I thought she was pretty.

  “Why have you been back to the diner every single night, just as I’m about to get off shift?”

  “Umm,” I try. “It’s the only decent place in town?”

  She narrows her eyes at me and there’s a fire inside her pupils; it might be below freezing outside, but it’s a billion degrees in here. We’re already fogging up the windows with our breath, and I haven’t even laid a finger on her.

  “Liar,” she says. “I want the real reason.”

  You’re about to get the real reason, sweetheart. I grip the armrest. I grip it so hard my fingernails ache.

  “I’m here because I’m a bad guy, Jennifer.”

  “And?”

  “Because you’re so pretty I can’t think about anybody else. Because I want to do things to you… that would probably frighten you. Things that might hurt you.”

  Her cheeks are flush; her breathing quickens. I haven’t even touched her, and she’s already excited. Or scared. Or both. I want to reach between her thighs and see if it’s lust I’m reading on her face.

  “What kinds of things?” she asks.

  I cover my face with my hands.

  “What kinds of things?” she repeats, a hand on my shoulder. I let my hands fall into my lap and fix my stare on this girl who should be home with her family, not out here in the dark in the woods and snow with a criminal. I watch in awe as she slides her seat back and reaches her hands up underneath her skirt, tugging a pair of panties down her legs and unhooking them from her heels. She can’t look at me as she hands me a pair of baby blue silk panties with a bow on the front. I grip the underwear in my fist so tight I could tear it to shreds with a single pull, but I don’t rip it. I find the damp spot of arousal in the center of the material and bring it up to my face. I close my eyes. I breathe Jennifer in.

  I shouldn’t be here. Not with her. Not like this. I will get out of the car, I decide. I will walk home. I will not touch this girl.

  But then, “I promise I won’t tell anyone,” she whispers.

  Fuck.

  I grab her. I drown her shock out with my mouth. I squeeze her slender neck with my prison-rough palms. I keep my promise and I hurt Jennifer Thomas until I’m sated.

  It’s only after when I’m looking at the blank expression on her face, the odd tilt of her neck, the bruises blossoming on her spread thighs, that I understand what I have done.

  By then, it’s too late.

  The night Jennifer Thomas disappears is like all the rest.

  Apart from the way it ends.

  CHAPTER TEN

  CASSIE

  Damon’s brother Ray comes over for dinner every Thursday night. And since Thanksgiving is on a Thursday, we’re lucky enough to be graced by his presence. It’s a two-hour trip from Reno in good traffic. He must really miss his brother to come all this way for some conversation and a few beers every week.

  I don’t like Ray. There is something about him that gives me the creeps. Something about the way his eyes linger on me for too long whenever we’re left alone together that makes my skin itch. So much so, that I make sure we’re never left together alone.

  I serve dinner and everything seems to be okay. Damon’s in a strangely quiet mood, but Ray’s presence sometimes has that effect on him. I half listen to their conversation as they talk about the weather and Ray’s job. He can be pretty funny when he tells stories about the casino where he works security. I make sure to laugh at the appropriate points in the conversation to keep from pissing anybody off. Life with people is just one big act for me these days.

  After dinner, I’m exhausted. I’ve eaten far more than normal, just shoveled in turkey and potato casserole mindlessly while Ray talked and talked. Usually it’s just Damon and me, and we talk about other things, and I’m too busy talking to binge eat half a turkey. I desperately need to empty my stomach.

  I go upstairs and vomit up as much as I can, and then I clear the table and wash and dry every dish, and they’re still talking at the table. Damon looks distracted, and I can’t help wondering if he’s bored by Ray, too. I sit back at the table, the damp dishtowel in my hands.

  Damon raises his eyebrows at me as if to say, ‘Are you okay?’ I nod. “I’m tired,” I announce to the table, as soon as there’s a gap wide enough in the conversation to interrupt. “Mind if I turn in?”

  “Go,” Damon murmurs, standing at the same time as me. “Sleep in tomorrow. I’ll fix breakfast.”

  Jekyll and Hyde is being nice to me, for now. I wonder if that mood will last long enough for me to sleep in, or if he’ll conveniently forget what he said and berate me for being lazy in the morning.

  I’m too tired to think about it. I say goodnight, get a super a
wkward hug and cheek kiss from Ray (shudder), and then I pass out upstairs, face down across my bed, without even so much as taking my shoes off.

  I’m awoken by a creaking noise. I’ve been sleeping deeply, so deeply that I have drool on my cheek. I sit up with a start, wiping my face as a shadow moves in the slightly cracked doorway.

  “Damon?”

  The door swings open, and illuminated in the hallway light is Ray.

  He steps into the room, smiling like a fucking creep. “Forgot to thank you for the dinner,” he says, walking himself over and sitting next to me on my bed. He’s close enough that I can smell the beer on his breath.

  “You’re welcome,” I say, moving away. If he tries anything, I will claw his goddamned eyes out.

  The light snaps on. I’m blinded momentarily.

  “Thought you were waiting in the car,” Damon says tightly, talking to Ray but looking me over. “I miss anything?”

  Ray laughs, messing my hair up with his hand as he stands up. “Nothing worth writing home over,” he says. “C’mon. Let’s go.”

  “Go where?” I ask, fixing my hair and thinking I need a shower to get rid of Ray’s touch.

  “We ran out of beer,” Damon says. “Back in five.”

  I wait until they’re gone, watching the taillights out the window. Once I’m sure I’m alone, I check all the locks in the house before jumping into the shower. With a kitchen knife on the shower sill and a chair up against the door, I shampoo my hair, using every bit of hot water in the tank. Then, after I’m dressed and warm, I get into my bed, pull the covers over my head, and pass out.

  I dream about Leo. About the dog barking and dirty well water and Karen. About a snowstorm and two cars and death.

  I wake with a start again around three. The dog is going crazy outside, barking up at my window. I go downstairs and let her in even though Damon forbids animals in the house with his allergies. I let her sleep on the end of my bed until morning, when I sneak her back outside.

  IN THE MORNING I’m up early to sneak Rox outside. Damon despises the dog, makes her stay out in the yard. In winter he (very begrudgingly) lets her sleep in the garage, but the poor dog just wants to be with me. Sometimes she disappears for a day or two, back down to Leo’s I suppose, and when she comes back she smells of campfire and rain.

  Downstairs, Ray is passed out on the couch. I almost shit my pants when I stumble into the living room and see him there. I hurry Rox outside and close the door again, making sure it’s locked.

  “Morning, sweetheart,” Ray says, sitting up on the couch. He’s still wearing his jeans and sweatshirt, his shoes neatly placed beside the couch end, his dark hair mussed up at the sides.

  “Morning,” I reply, suddenly feeling self-conscious in my thin cotton pajamas and the way my nipples are poking out against the fabric, bemoaning the cold. I cross my arms over my chest, smiling briefly. “I’ll make some coffee.”

  I brace myself for more awkwardness with Ray, but he simply asks to borrow a towel and takes himself off to the bathroom. I hear the shower start a moment later and breathe a sigh of relief. The coffee starts to drip into the pot, a reassuring sound to my sleep-addled brain. I’m flicking through the local newspaper when I spy something on the kitchen table, amongst a bunch of empty beer bottles.

  A milk carton. I don’t remember leaving it there after I cleaned up. Maybe the guys had some milk after they finished their beers. Damon occasionally likes that rum that you mix with milk.

  Glancing around to make sure I’m still alone, I cross the kitchen, picking up the carton. It feels strange in my hand. Waxy. Old.

  It is old, I realize, as I turn it over in my hand. It’s barely held together by the plastic coating that’s started to peel away from it. I put it to my nose and sniff it. It smells unbelievably sour. I make a face.

  “Whatcha got there?” A voice calls out behind me. I drop the carton, turning around to face the noise.

  It’s Ray, dripping wet, a towel wrapped around his waist as he makes a puddle on the floor I just mopped yesterday.

  He has a kitchen knife in his hand. “Which one of you showers with a weapon?” he asks, clearly amused. Oh, shit. The same one I took into the bathroom last night. I laugh it off, pretend like it’s no big deal, going back to the counter and pouring the now-finished coffee with a steady hand. Three cups, one for each of us, and then I pray that Ray goes home. I push one of the mugs toward Ray and he smiles, “Thank you, sweetie pie,” as he places the kitchen knife down on the counter between us.

  “I’ll just take this up to Damon,” I say, picking up the third coffee and going to walk past Ray. He catches my wrist, and some of the hot coffee splashes onto my hand. I wince but don’t move. It’s the hand that got burned in the accident. The nerves have never really settled and it hurts like a bitch.

  “He’s getting something from the attic for me,” Ray says. “What’s for breakfast?”

  I put the coffee down on the counter and start pulling plates full of leftovers out of the refrigerator. When I turn back to the table, Ray and the milk carton are gone.

  DAMON KNOWS his brother is a creep just as much as I do. So when he comes down from the attic, a black trash bag in his hand, he makes a beeline for me. I can tell he’s looking for Ray at the same time.

  “Morning,” I say, handing him fresh coffee. When he’s nice to me, I’m nice to him. We get into a rhythm like this, and we can go for weeks without him turning into a demanding asshole. The only good thing about Ray coming to visit is that it makes Damon and I get along. I know how much he wishes he could ‘divorce’ his brother and never see him again — he tells me every Thursday night after Ray leaves. Every Thursday night, for the past almost-decade, we’ve had the same conversation. But not this week. Because this Thursday night, Ray didn’t leave.

  Ray’s never stayed overnight before. It’s weird. He’s never worried about drinking and driving before — ironic since his brother is a police officer. Still. Our delicate schedule has been altered, and it makes my skin crawl. I like predictability. I like routine. I like not having a fucking creep on my sofa in the morning.

  “Where’s Ray?” Damon asks, sipping at the coffee. His blue eyes close when he takes that first sip, like he’s in heaven or something, and it makes me unreasonably satisfied that my coffee-making skills do that to somebody. At least I’m good for something.

  “Smoking,” I say, pointing at the back door that leads from the kitchen off to the backyard.

  Damon nods, leaning against the counter beside me. He’s dressed in his tan-colored sheriff’s uniform, gun holstered snugly on his hip. All he’s missing is the hat.

  “He give you any grief?” Damon asks quietly.

  I shake my head. “No. He was fine.”

  No use upsetting Damon unless his brother actually does something. Being born creepy in itself isn’t a crime. Should be in his case, but still.

  “He’ll leave, soon,” Damon says, and I’m not sure if he’s trying to reassure me, or himself.

  Ray swaggers back into the kitchen, reeking of burnt tobacco.

  “You should put on a bra, young lady,” he says, staring at my chest. “Somebody might get the wrong idea.”

  I feel blood rise in my cheeks, my arms crossed as tightly as possible. “OhmyGod,” I mutter under my breath. Seriously?

  “Ray!” Damon says. He glances at me before fixing his eyes on his oblivious brother.

  “If I had a daughter like Cassie, I sure as hell wouldn’t let her run around like that.” He sips his coffee like talking about my tits is the most casual thing in the world. I look down at my pajamas, then at Damon, with a look that says ‘HELP ME.’ “I didn’t know you were here,” I say slowly.

  Ray chuckles. “So if I wasn’t here, you’d be fine wearing a see-through shirt with your titties on display for my poor brother here to try not to stare at?”

  “Ray!” Damon yells.

  An edge develops across Ray’s expression. “What. Sh
e’s the spitting image of her poor mother. What do you want me to say?”

  Jesus Christ. I need to get out of here. I back up until I’m at the base of the stairs. “You’re absolutely right. I should get dressed.”

  “And we should get going,” Damon says tightly.

  “See you next week, Ray,” I call over my shoulder, climbing the stairs to my bedroom and closing myself in there. Fuck you, Ray! I take my shirt off, my eye catching movement in the yard at the same time. Ray’s back outside, smoking again as he stands by his truck. He’s looking up at the house, though I doubt he can see anything from this angle. I close the curtains properly and then flip him the bird through the thick drapes as I get naked and search for something clean to wear. He can’t see it, but somehow it makes me feel better.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  LEO

  On Friday, the day after Thanksgiving, Pike and I load the kids up in the backseat of his shitty Honda and drive into town. I don’t want anyone seeing me, but in this podunk town, that’s easier said than done.

  Especially when Pike is driving around slowly, almost leisurely, with me in the passenger seat. Like a fucking Sunday drive with Miss Daisy.

  “Dude, step on it,” I hiss.

  “Dude, this is as fast as we go with five of us,” Pike replies. “Fix your fucking Mustang and we can talk about stepping on it.”

  I glare at him. “I crashed the Mustang, you idiot. Remember?”

  “It’s in Lawrence’s yard, bro. You’re a mechanic. Figure it out.”

  My chest tightens as I remember the corner of Lawrence’s Auto Lot where old cars go to die. I guess I’ve never really thought about where my car went after. I’ve blocked it from my memory, just like the accident itself. Suddenly I’m antsy, wondering if the wreck might be salvageable. I could never drive it around here, but maybe one day, when I finally get my license back and leave Gun Creek…