Sam stopped and took an immediate step back, his eyes cold and hard, aimed like daggers at the man behind them.
Ali put her back to Sam quickly, as if to form a wall between the two men. “Hey, Grant.”
“Hey.” He leaned in and kissed her cheek, keeping his eyes on Sam the entire time. “Sorry I’m late.”
“Late?” Sam said, looking at Ali for confirmation.
“I invited him.”
Sam swallowed hard, taking a breath to scold Ali for not telling him. But how could she have known? Unless Grant told her, how could she have known what had passed between them?
Taking the high road, Sam simply turned and, with fists tight as rocks, stormed up to his house, shut the door, and turned out the porch light.
Ali became hyperaware of the eyes taking in the scene. The band read the situation and quickly changed tempo, starting up the song they’d been playing before. As if they refused to let gossip ruin their evening, the people from Hamilton Street quietly went back to having fun, and there seemed to be a mutual understanding that all of this could be discussed tomorrow in private little huddles.
“Geez,” said Grant, watching Sam’s house. “Was it something I said?”
Ali smiled, trying to laugh it off. But she was worried for Sam and, as much as she liked Grant, Ali wished he hadn’t come.
“So, are you friends with him now?” Grant asked accusingly.
“Do you have a problem with that?” Ali challenged.
“No. I don’t.” He shook his head, but Ali could see the concern in his eyes. “Just be careful, okay? I know he can be a real charmer when he wants to, but… It’s been a long time since we’ve had a nice girl in town, and I’d hate to see you get hurt.”
“Hurt?”
Grant shook his head. “It doesn't matter. I just… if I have no other influence in your life other than to offer you this advice, just please don’t let yourself get too close to him, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Okay.” He forced a smile and offered his hand. “Dance?”
“Love to.”
* * *
Ali spent the morning throwing up. Her stomach twisted and curdled, hurling the contents of her dinner and everything she drank into the toilet bowl. She was desperate for a glass of water and some aspirin but wasn’t keen on either walking downstairs or driving into town when she felt this sick.
With her back to the cold wall, feet pressed firmly onto the tiles by the toilet, the hungover mind tried to recall the look on Sam’s face last night when Grant showed up. It was obvious Grant hated Sam, but she hadn't yet asked why. Assuming it was something to do with Sarah dying wasn't enough anymore. Grant’s behavior wasn’t justified by the anger of a caring townsperson that lost a friend fifteen years ago. There was bad blood between those two, and Ali was determined to get to the bottom of it.
After she threw up again.
Or maybe in a few days when Sam had time to cool off.
By the time she felt steady enough to go downstairs and eat, the midday sun was settling into place high above the red hills. Many of the trees closer to the stream had started losing their leaves already, making Ali panic. Her novel still had a ways to go and she needed the fall colors to inspire her. Sick or not sick, she needed to work on it today.
With a glass of water and a banana that did nothing to settle her tummy, Ali sat at the typewriter in her bedroom, tired and dizzy, typing late into the night. For some reason, Ali always wrote better when she was tired, but certainly edited better when focused and rested. She knew these pages would be a mess, but she also knew they would be a brilliant mess.
Next day, she hacked at the terrible grammar and purple prose, so engrossed in work she barely noticed the headache and the dry throat. In the back of her mind, she knew what it meant though. The vomiting appeared to have been from the alcohol or maybe some bad food, but that, combined with the sore throat, was always the start of the flu.
Since she hadn't spoken to anyone in two days, when her phone rang a few minutes later, her voice was husky and dry as she said hello.
“Hey babe,” Grant said. “What’ve you been up to? I haven't heard from you.”
“I’ve been writing.” Ali rubbed at her head, wishing she had some of those awesome cold and flu pills.
“You don't sound right,” Grant said, concerned. “Are you okay?”
“Bit of a flu, I think.”
“You want me to bring you some medicine?”
“Would you?” Her heart shone with relief.
“Of course. On one condition.”
“Anything.”
“You pop the pills, and if you feel better, come out to dinner with me.”
“When?”
“Tonight.”
“Does it have to be tonight?” she groaned, resting her head in her hand. “I’m really—”
“It has to be, I’m afraid. It’s a business dinner and I want to show you off.”
Ali smiled, flattered. Flattered enough to say yes. “What would I need to wear?”
“Something sexy.”
Her mind ran over and ripped open the closet, sorting through her best dresses. A little black one with a flowing skirt and spaghetti straps. Perfect. “Okay. Bring me medicine and I’ll think about it.”
“You’re amazing. I’ll see you soon.”
Ali hung up the phone and looked at the wall, wishing she had X-ray vision so she could see Sam. It wasn't until that moment that she realized how upset he’d truly been to see Grant there, and in the haze of setting up for the party and planning out her costume, she hadn't realized just how bad it was that she’d asked Grant to come—or that she’d technically, even if accidentally, invited Sam as her date too.
Sick, and shaky with cold that wasn’t necessarily there, she wrapped her gray cardigan around her and slipped on her UGG boots, marching across the grass to Sam’s. The wind screamed at her as she went, and the mile-high tree outside her bedroom window fought with the fall to hold on to its dignity, tipping and swaying as if trying to come inside where it was warm. Rain clouds leered overhead, sneaking lower and lower to the rooftops where they might pierce open on the coned turrets and bleed water all over her.
All Ali wanted was to be inside away from the growing storm, taking it as a sign of things to come, but she rapped loudly on Sam’s door and stood back, watching through the decorative glass panel as he stepped around from the parlor.
It opened and almost instantly closed on her face, but she got her foot in there and two crushed toes for her efforts. “Sam.”
“Go away,” he said, but walked inside without trying to slam the door again. Ali took that as an invitation—a Sam-style invitation. That was the trick with Sam: take everything he said, and do the opposite. She could see now that the rude man she met in the cold that first night would have let her inside if she’d just followed him anyway.
“Sam, I need to talk to you.”
He spun around and stalked toward her, bending slightly to make himself look more menacing. “There’s nothing to talk about.”
“And yet you’re angry at me, so there must be.”
Sam shook his head, biting his teeth together.
“You don’t like Grant?” she asked, standing in the foyer, halfway between in and out.
“No. And there have been multiple complaints ag—” A hard shot of air came out through his nostrils as he rethought that warning. “Look, you just shouldn’t be hanging around him, okay?”
“Why? We’re just—”
“I don't want to know what you are ‘just’ doing,” he yelled. “I thought you were smarter than this, Ali.”
“Than what?”
“Than to associate with a… with that kind of a man!”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“If you can't see that, babe,” he said mockingly, making a point of the last word, “then you’re an idiot, and nothing I say is going to protect you.”
“What are you
talking about, Sam? Where is this coming from?” She wanted to walk all the way in and shut the door, her arms stinging from the tight goosebumps that were slowly smothering her, but she needed to go home. This was a bad idea. The fever under her skin was raging as she stood there and she just had no energy left to fight with Sam, no matter how bad things were.
Sam sighed, taking her in with a look of pity. “Are you okay?”
“I’m… I’m getting sick. I think,” she said, but knew for certain that she was. “Look, Sam…”
“Please don’t.” He put his hand up to stop her. “I can’t do this again, Ali. You need to go.”
“Can't do what?”
“Just…” He flattened away the obvious pain on his face with a hard look, and took her by the arm, pushing her out of his house. “Just go, okay. Don’t come around here again.”
Ali stepped back as the door slammed hard in her face, and for a moment, as the fever claimed her head and made her dizzy, she was sure she saw a woman standing behind Sam, but when she blinked, it was gone.
The Danger in Trusting Somebody
Two magic pills, a hot shower, and a cup of tea later—a terrible cup made by Grant—Ali felt human again. She slipped into her slinky black dress, transparent pantyhose, and strappy black shoes. It wasn't the right outfit for this weather, but with her knee-length black coat and scarf, it would be fine. The restaurant would be warm, Grant had told her, and after a few drinks she wouldn't feel the cold. Ali wasn't sure she’d be drinking tonight, not on cold and flu pills, but the temptation of not feeling shivery would probably drive her to have one or two.
The evening went by fast, and Ali actually enjoyed the company of Grant’s clients and colleagues. She spent the night laughing and was undoubtedly the life of the dinner party, which she knew was owed solely to the drugs she was on. They made her super excited and energetic. But on the way home, with the quiet classical music playing low on the stereo and the gentle sway of Grant’s fancy car, the medicine wore off and Ali just wanted to fall asleep.
“I had a good night.” Grant reached across and firmly placed his hand on her knee.
Ali cupped it, welcoming the soft touch. “Me too.”
“And you were great,” he added with a hint of surprise in his tone. “Remind me to take you to those stuffy dinners more often. Might actually make them bearable.”
“Hm.” Ali smiled, nodding softly.
“So, here we are,” Grant announced, removing his hand as he pulled up a steep driveway.
The headlights beamed over the single-story frontage and Ali sat up in her seat. “Where are we?”
“My house, of course.” He shut the engine off and hopped out, coming around to open her door before she could protest.
“Grant,” she started. “I really—”
“Say no more. One drink,” he said, shutting her door behind her. “And then I’ll take you home.”
“I don't feel good, Grant—”
“I’ve got some more of that flu medicine here,” he promised. “Come on in. You’ll feel better in no time.”
Hesitantly, wishing she could just tell him to take her home, Ali walked inside with her hand in his. The storm raged around them, pulling and pushing the giant trees as though it couldn’t decide whether to stay or go, bringing a chill with it that ripped through her flimsy coat. A heavy roll of thunder revealed the slopes and rises of the hills in the distance and a man without a nose could smell that was it about to rain.
Grant pressed a button on his keychain and the front door opened, lights coming on all over the house as though a ghost lived there—or his mother was home.
“Impressed?” Grant asked, but Ali felt he wanted her to be impressed in a different kind of way. Technologically speaking, it was cool that his house was so… push-button, but it didn't make him any cooler for having such a system installed, as much as he might like to think it did.
Ali’s rose-colored glasses had slipped off on the drive here—or maybe it was when Grant insulted the pregnant waitress at dinner tonight and then tipped her poorly—but at some point between then and now, Ali had begun to see Grant for what he truly was: charming and attractive, smart and switched-on, but so much of what he sold was just a facade, and she wasn’t buying it anymore. He was like a car salesman. A sleazy one.
“It’s cool,” she replied, a little too late though. But Grant wasn't offended by her moment of silence. He took it to mean she was lost in awe.
Ali decided there and then that she would stay for one polite drink and ask Grant to take her home.
He led her to the sterile kitchen, through a room of black leather and glossy tables with absolutely no personality, and sat her on the chrome bar stool. A glass of water and two pink pills landed on the counter in front of her, and Grant moved away, asking what she’d like to drink. As she picked one up and studied the strange lozenge, Ali thought about the two glasses of wine he’d heavily persuaded her to drink tonight at dinner and how, after she returned from the bathroom, her glass had been fuller than she thought it should be.
A red flag went up in her head and Grant’s voice, as he made three remarks to his colleagues about how Ali couldn't hold her liquor, circled loudly around Ali. She’d thought they were odd comments, since they weren't true, and put it down at the time to Grant being playful. But now, looking at the two pills in front of her, unable to recall a time in her life when cold and flu pills were ever this kind of bright pink, she started thinking about every newspaper article she’d ever read on girls whose dates went horribly wrong.
“I need to see the packet,” she said, softly at first. When Grant looked up as if he hadn’t heard her, she said it more forcefully. “I never take medicine without seeing the packet first.”
“Is that so?” He shook his head and continued sorting through CDs, keeping his back to her. Since he made no move to get the packet from the cupboard where he’d put it, Ali got down off the stool and walked around there herself.
“What are you doing?” Grant swept in and stood between her and the cupboard. “Do you really think I’d give you anything to hurt you?”
“Show me the packet and it won’t be an issue what I think.”
He held her gaze firmly, eyes shaped loosely around hurt and anger, and opened the door. Ali hoped to God he hadn't given her a date rape drug, but she also hoped he had, because if she accused him of it and it wasn't true, then she was the biggest asshole in the world.
Grant placed a packet of cold and flu pills in her hands and she closed her eyes, dying inside a little.
“I’m hurt, Ali,” he said, walking away. “But you're a smart girl and you don't know me so well, so I’ll forgive you.”
Ali nodded, unable to look at him. She reached up to place the pills back and then stopped, checking over her shoulder to see Grant pouring two glasses of amber liquid. In a moment of pure curiosity, she opened the box and drew out the blister pack, finding a set of blue pills for night and white ones for day. No pink. None missing.
Her eyes went to the cupboard, and though she was too short to see inside it, reached up blindly and felt around.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Grant screeched, yanking her back by the waist.
“These pills are white, Grant!” She showed him the packet.
“They're the new pack—”
“Then why hand me this pack. Why not hand me the pack my pills came from?”
“Ali,” he said with a laugh, taking on the same pose her ex would take when he told her she was being ridiculous—that he hadn’t been out with other girls and the lipstick on his neck was just his mother’s kiss. “Come on, do you really think I’d—”
“Take me home,” she said coldly, grabbing her coat off the bar stool and scooping up the pills as she went.
“Ali, please.” Grant followed her to the front door.
“Just take me home!” she yelled, whipping around to face him, her fist squeezing the pills so tightly one of them crumbl
ed, but it didn't matter. She’d show them to the pharmacist tomorrow and find out for sure.
Grant’s eyes moved down her arm to her fist, and his eyes narrowed. “Give me the pills, Ali,” he warned, hand out.
“No.”
“Ali, give me the damn pills.”
“Why?”
He darted forward and they got into a scuffle as he gripped her hand hard and pried the pills from it, bending her finger back painfully as he did.
“If they're just cold and flu pills, what’s the issue, Grant?” she yelled.
“The issue is, if you're going to accuse me of trying to drug you, then I’m not wasting my medicine on you. Get out!”
Ali scoffed. “You can’t kick me out. I came here in your car.”
“Call a cab.”
“I don’t have my phone. You told me I wouldn't need it—”
“Then walk.” He gave her a hard shove and sent her wheeling out the door. It slammed hard behind her and all the lights went out, leaving her in perfect darkness on a foreign street. “Oh, and don’t bother telling anyone what you think happened here,” he called through the window. “By the time you get down the street there’ll be no proof and you’ll just look like a liar.”
“Asshole!” She kicked his door, doing little else than bruising her own toe. She wanted to cry—freezing and sick, her throat and now her toes aching—but she wouldn't give him the satisfaction. She’d dodged a bullet there and whether he admitted it or not, she knew what he had planned tonight. She knew he’d use the quips about her drinking to explain why she uncharacteristically fell asleep at his house, and Ali would have woken up in his strange bed, probably still dressed, none the wiser about what happened to her. And with all that in mind, Ali decided to run home, taking a path through the small gathering of trees between the houses down here and the road up there, hoping she wouldn’t be seen by Grant if he decided to chase her down. She had no idea where she was or how to get home, and without street lights or anything to guide her, was certain this walk home in the brewing storm with a nasty flu would be horrific. But not as horrific as staying with Grant or being found by him if he decided to silence her. The only regret now was not holding on tighter to those pills so she had proof.
Dead and Gone Page 9