by Debra Lynch
He jabbed his pointer finger at me. “Provided you don’t get caught.”
We laughed at that one, me cracking up like I was his best freaking friend.
The stars danced above in a twinkling display as the forceful ocean crashed on the shore. If I hadn’t been sitting here with Dennis but instead relaxing with Levi, this could’ve been an enjoyable high. “Dennis?”
“What’s up, my princess?”
Princess? He’d get an extra dose of knockout drops for that one. “There’s still that thing.”
“What thing?” He took another toke. Jeez. Bogart that joint, why don’t you?
“The thumb drive. How can we be friends with that hanging over us?”
“We’re friends. Close friends.”
I sat up, enthusiasm shooting through every fiber of my good-little-actresses body. “Why don’t we go to your place? Destroy it?”
“I don’t think—”
“Don’t you trust me?”
He shook his head. “Not a good idea. I’m keeping the thumb drive for your safety.”
I stuck out my lower lip. “Please?”
He laughed. “Look at you pouting just like a little girl who can’t get her way. I like this side of you.”
“But my … mistake … is on there.”
He slapped his thigh. “Mistake? Is that what they’re calling it these days? Rachel, I think you and I both know that felony grand theft in the state of California isn’t a mistake. A mistake is when you buy the wrong brand of soap. You’re safe. You’ll be fine. Life will continue for you just like always.”
A fire erupted in my belly and worked its way like a hurricane up my esophagus until I nearly screamed at Dennis to quit playing these goddamn games! But I kept quiet.
Okay, fine. Dennis wouldn’t go along with phase one of my plan? Time to move along to phase two on the agenda for tonight’s festivities. I snapped into a sitting position, smiled, and smoothed my hair back with one hand. “I trust you. I say we drink to that. I’ve got some kombucha from the place we went to on our first date. Want some?” I just hoped that my knockout drops were strong enough. Sometimes they didn’t have the desired effect.
His eyes lit up when I used the word date. “Love some.”
My hand shook, but I forced myself to pat his knee. “You just lie here and enjoy this gorgeous evening and I’ll wait on you.”
He relaxed his head back and smiled. “You really are the sweetest. Has anyone ever told you that?”
“Not lately.”
Have it your way, Dennis. You want to play? We can play. But you might not like the games your beloved knows how to play.
Seven
I swept out of the deck and into the kitchen. My heart sped up at the excitement of what I was about to do. I placed two glasses on the counter, filled them with ice-cold kombucha, and pulled the baggie with my crushed-up Ambien out of the drawer. I figured four ten-milligram sedatives would do the trick. Just to be on the safe side, I crushed up one more pill. Not that I had extensive experience with drugging cruel men, but the foster father who tried to have his way with me might tell the story differently.
And if Dennis overdosed and ended up on a coroner’s table? Where was the fun in that? I stirred Dennis’s kombucha briskly, a happy smile taped on my face to belie my shaking hands, and floated back out to my tormentor.
“Here you go.” He accepted the drink with a smile, and I held mine aloft. “I say we make a toast. To new friends.” I winked. “Good friends.”
“Great friends. And more.”
“Bottoms up! Let’s see who can finish first.”
I drank mine down in six long gulps, the fizzy drink tickling my tongue, and slammed the glass down with a hearty sigh. “Ah! That’s great.”
Dennis’s head tipped back as he tried to keep pace, finishing right behind me. “Whoa. Stuff’s strong.” He eyed the empty glass. “What do they put in it?”
“It does have a small bit of alcohol.”
“But I told you I don’t drink.”
I laughed. “Don’t go getting your panties all in a bunch. It’s a tiny percentage. Don’t worry, you won’t get a DUI. Do you really think I’d feed you something with poison?”
“If you say it’s okay.”
“It is. Chill out.” I stretched out on the lounge and watched Dennis’s gaze stray to my pedicure. Jesus, God and Mother Mary. Let’s pray he didn’t have a foot fetish to add to his overly messed up vibe. “What a beautiful night.” I pointed to the sky. “The moon’s nearly full.”
Dennis’s head lolled onto the cushion. Now all I had to do was wait. Beethoven’s sonata mingled with the gentle rumble of the ocean as our conversation meandered over small talk topics. Who had the best green drink, Nektar or Juice it Up, and whether Whole Foods really cared about the environment or just their bottom line.
Finally, Dennis’s eyes began to shut. His voice was a slur. “I’m so sleepy.”
“I’ll get you a blanket,” I said, my voice sweet and angelic.
“That’d be great.”
I retrieved one of my luxury throws from the sofa and tucked it around Dennis. “There you go. Rachel will be here when you wake up.”
He reached out to touch me, and I jerked back. “If you’re sure.”
“There, there. You must’ve had a long day.”
Dennis closed his eyes, and within ten minutes, he was snoring loudly, a dribble of spittle trickling down his chin and into his creepy hipster beard.
I stood up and paced the deck. Where to start? I could grab a butcher knife from the kitchen and disembowel Dennis. No. Too messy. The blood would be a bitch to clean up unless I laid down a shower curtain first, and I didn’t have a shower curtain. I could shave his entire head, slather honey on his bald pate and set some fire ants loose. No. That might wake him up. I could inject a lethal dose of cyanide into his arm and watch while his body went into convulsions as he died a slow, tortuous death. Nah. His scrawny body—all one hundred-thirty pounds of it—would be too much for me to remove from my deck. I could nail his hand to a wooden table, the hammer coming down with satisfying blows, his screams drowned out by the roar of the ocean, and make him see things my way when he woke up. Scratch that one. Way too ineffectual.
I sighed and went back to my original plan. But dang, a girl can dream, can’t she?
I yanked the blanket off Dennis. He barely flinched, his head moving to the side as he mumbled out some sleepy nonsense. I gingerly reached into his pants pocket. Let’s see what my new friend has up his sleeve. His wallet had seen better days, as cracked and weather-beaten as it was. I sat on my chaise and took my sweet time going through Dennis’s belongings. Twenty-six dollars in cash. One ATM card, no credit cards. Dennis’s driver’s license with an address in Costa Mesa which matched the address I’d discovered earlier.
And will you look at this? An official-looking business card that bore the California State seal with the name and phone number of one Tom Sanders, Dennis’s parole officer.
I pawed through Dennis’s other pocket and discovered a vial of blue liquid. What the hell is this? Not that I was exactly surprised to find contraband on Dennis’s person. It only made me realize I needed to up my game, to be hyper-vigilant about any drink Dennis offered. I held it up to the moonlight and swirled it around. Now, what exactly had you planned to do with this, my new friend? I made a tutting sound. I’ve a feeling that Dennis’s intentions for me this evening were not honorable. Not honorable at all. Whatever this stuff was, I’d pour it down the drain.
I hummed along with the delightful classical music as I trotted into my kitchen. I set my laptop on the kitchen island and fired it up as I kept an eye on Dennis. For the third time since he caught me shoplifting, I maneuvered my trackpad to Google and typed in his name.
Would I ever tire of reading about Dennis’s manslaughter charge? Evidently not. The Los Angeles Times detailed the account of the fight Dennis had been involved in that resulted in him slicing
the vic to death with a sharp knife. Yes, Dennis, I know what a “vic” is. I may not be the most honest person in the world, but I’m no dimwit.
I slammed the laptop shut and stood over Dennis’s sleeping body.
Time to indulge in a bit of fun. Of course, there was the possibility that Dennis would wake up and be disoriented, maybe even attack me. My mind shrieked back to the man on the beach and the manslaughter charge. Murder is what they need to call it. But now that I had him immobilized, I’d be damned if I’d let this evening be for naught.
All those years in foster care hadn’t been a total waste. My foster siblings and I entertained ourselves late into the night with harmless pranks that would undoubtedly come in handy tonight.
I talked a big game, but my insides shook anyway. Asleep as he was, I’d still have to touch Dennis.
I cranked up the Beethoven, padded into the kitchen, and found the Blair’s Ultra Death Hot Sauce I’d purchased while on retreat in Sedona. Made with habanero, cayenne, and serrano: 800,000 scoville units. Nine hundred times hotter than jalapeño! boasted the label.
I dabbed a generous amount onto a cotton ball and wiped the mess on Dennis’s mouth. He mumbled and licked his lips.
Next, I removed his shoes and socks and—wearing latex gloves—I smeared baby oil between his toes so he’d be up all night rubbing his digits, then replaced the shoes and vile socks. The things I do for you, Dennis.
For my next trick, I roughly rubbed the fingers of both his hands on a black ink pad.
Next, I trotted outside. Using my iPhone flashlight and feeling for the metal part, I affixed the tracking device to the rear wheel well of Dennis’s car. It snapped into place with a satisfying click.
I took my time sashaying back into the house and relaxed on the lounge chair, crossing my legs, enjoying the ocean air, and the Beethoven. I stared at Dennis and yearned with every cell in my body to stride into the kitchen, sharpen my paring knife, and carefully gouge his beady eyes out.
Dennis was so damn easy to control. Yeah, right, Rachel. All it took was fifty milligrams of a powerful sleeping drug, and the man was wrapped around my finger. Easy as pie to control a murderer. Just pray he doesn’t wake up and go ballistic. Fat chance. I could see him trying to attack me while his heart stopped from the sedative.
For my last trick, I turned Dennis’s head to one side and placed an ice cube in his ear. Had to time this one just right because the melting ice in his inner ear would cause him to barf. Couldn’t have him destroying the fabric on my designer chaise lounge.
As the ice melted, I quickly grabbed his phone, scrolled through his music playlist, found his Ramones album, placed the earbuds in his ear, and blasted the screaming music. “Wake up, sleepyhead.”
“What? What?” His unfocused eyes looked especially comical behind his ridiculous hipster glasses as he yanked them off and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. I held my hand over my mouth and suppressed a laugh as his eyelids turned black with ink.
I shook his shoulders until he came further around. “Wake up!”
He jerked to a sitting position and gripped his stomach, a look of panic crossing his skeletal face. “I’m gonna be sick.”
I wouldn’t have much time, so I helped him to stand and roughly hustled him to the side of the deck. “Not on the furniture. Over the side.”
I gained a small amount of pleasure, watching Dennis’s hands clench the railing as his body heaved with sick.
“Must not react well to the weed. Sorry about that.” I handed him a glass of water. “Drink up. I’ll order you an Uber.”
He poured the water down his throat and yelled, “Holy mother of … my mouth burns like hell.”
I addressed him calmly. “Dennis. What did you eat tonight?”
“Huh? I don’t remember. Taco Bell?” Dennis looked decidedly sleepwalk-ish, and I wondered if I’d overdone the Ambien.
I curled an arm around him, and we drunk-walked out front. I held up my phone. “What’s your address?”
He mumbled out the address I’d found on his driver’s license, and I typed it into my Uber app.
Dennis swayed on his feet. “What happened?”
I gave him a broad smile. “Best night of my life.”
He gave me a sloppy grin. When the Uber arrived, I shoved Dennis in the back seat. “He’s okay. Just had a bit too much. Make sure he gets home safe.”
The driver saluted me, and I strolled into my house, leaning against the closed door and heaving out a long breath.
I got part of what I wanted, so it would have to do for now. Dennis’s trust—that was the most crucial part of a successful con—and a shitload of fun at his expense. I made sure he didn’t have any weapons on him. I lojacked his ass, I confirmed that the address I’d previously verified still showed as current—parole officers were sticklers about that.
The thumb drive was as good as mine.
One meager point to Rachel. I should’ve known Dennis wouldn’t take me to his house to destroy the thumb drive. No way would he give up that easily.
And what the hell was that blue liquid?
I searched through memory banks, and believe me, I’d seen plenty of drugs in foster care. I couldn’t think of one that turned the water blue, but that didn’t mean it was mouthwash. Not if it resided in Dennis’s pocket. It could be a thousand chemicals, including the blue meth from Breaking Bad. But that was probably a Hollywood fabrication.
When I dozed off that night, I thought about the contents of Dennis’s wallet and the name of his parole officer.
Tom Sanders. I knew that man.
Eight
The morning after my ridiculous date with Dennis, I woke with the familiar tug of excitement that always came with the resolution of a con well executed.
Dennis had refused to take me to his house so we could destroy the thumb drive. Now I got to move to plan B. And I have to say, plan B was enough to make this famous YouTuber nearly jump for joy.
I was certain that my therapist wouldn’t agree with the scheme, and that’s why I decided not to tell her. Retrieving the thumb drive wasn’t stealing, was it? Not if the item was mine. Hey, denial ain’t just a river in Egypt.
I needed to make sure Dennis wasn’t home tonight because plan B required the dark of night. But what if he didn’t go for it? That’s where my acting skills came in. Okay, let’s get real here. What else did the freakshow have to do at night other than sit in his rattrap?
My insides flooded with an adrenaline rush from thinking about what I’d planned, so I pulled out my yoga mat to ease my nerves.
I took my time luxuriating through my sun salutation routine on the deck. Inhaling the glorious sea air, I watched the surfers hit the lineup, and the seagulls swooped and dove for their early morning breakfast. Moving into the final pose, hands in prayer position, I spotted an osprey sailing through the blue sky with a live fish flailing in its sharp beak. The bird carried the fish to a telephone pole and began the process of eviscerating the live animal. I took it as a fortuitous sign of things to come.
Inhaling the sharp, salty air, I pulled up Dennis’s number with the hopes of waking him out of his drugged slumber. “H’lo?”
I made my voice low and sultry. “Well good morning.”
His voice rapidly shifted to excitement. “Hey you!”
I let out a deep, sexy laugh. “That was some party last night. You sure know how to match me toke for toke.”
A beat. “Sorry I fell asleep and got sick.”
“No worries. Indica’s relaxing.”
“I was hoping we could … you know, talk a little more.”
“Plenty more time for talking. Hey, the reason I called is I was wondering what you’re doing tonight.”
“Why? What’s up?”
“Ever been to hot yoga?”
“I have.”
I made my voice as cheery as possible. “Well you, my friend, are in for a treat because I teach the seven-thirty class in Laguna tonight. Can you m
ake it?”
“Yes! I mean yes.” And then Dennis went into babble mode. “I’ll Uber it there after work. Seeing as I left my car in Laguna anyway, I need to be there. I mean I need to come your way. I mean—”
Poor Dennis was getting himself all flustered, and it wasn’t even eight in the morning. I laughed and ran a hand through my hair, as I gazed at the sparkling blue ocean. “Great! I’ll see you tonight. Oh, and don’t forget. Seeing as you’ve been to hot yoga you probably remember their silly little rule.”
“What’s that?”
“Once you’re in the room, you’re in for the whole ninety minutes.”
“Umm, okay. Got it.”
“It’s all about the discipline. I’ll make sure you get the most out of the practice. No flitting around. No in and out of the room. For ninety minutes we focus.”
The drugs must’ve been wearing off because it sounded like the man nearly saluted. “Focus!”
“I’ll text you the address. See you tonight.”
I had no intention of teaching class that night. Nope. My plans for the evening were way more exciting.
After we hung up, it didn’t take ground-brain-Dennis long at all to come through with a photo text. I shook my head. Let’s see what shallowness emerged from Dennis’s creative mind this morning.
It was the selfie of the two of us with the caption: Don’t we look great! I made this my screensaver and you need to do the same. I saw yours. You and Levi? Seriously? Change it now.
Screw you, Mr. Freakshow.
My plan for that night was risky, but if Dennis stayed away from home for a couple hours, I had a fighting chance.
I looked up at the telephone pole. If the osprey kills that fish right now, it’ll be a sign that all will go well.
The tight grip in which I held my phone eased, and I sat down as the osprey extinguished the life of its writhing prey, the sun glittering on the ocean. A smile spread across my face.
I wasn’t a child anymore who believed in tooth fairies and silly little things like luck. But seeing the dead fish gave me a strange kind of hope.