Small-town life was boring as hell. Well, it was if you had nowhere to go, nothing to do. Clay had never been very good at just sitting around, waiting. He’d awakened early that morning, wishing he had a job to go to. A job. He had a fucking job, but he couldn’t actually do it right now.
In his room, the vodka bottle shone, half-full, from the bathroom counter like a clean, white obelisk, offering blissful oblivion.
But Clay knew better. He didn’t need that shit, he decided. Beneath the ink and the scars, his body was his best tool. My temple, he thought wryly. The last thing he needed to do right then was ruin it any more than he already had.
Hunger beyond what he could satisfy with his collection of local farm fruit finally got him outside, where he’d spotted a diner just off the main strip.
It was early afternoon, and the place was pretty empty, for which he was thankful, because the stares were over the top. Yeah, he felt like saying, not your usual small-town fare. Well, don’t worry, all you innocent people—I’ll be gone as soon as I can.
He sat in the far booth, back to the wall, and snagged a menu along with the newspaper spread across the middle of the table.
“What can I get ya?” asked a line cook from behind the counter.
“Burger. Provolone. Bacon. Whatever else you got to put on it.” Anything to give it flavor.
“Drink?”
“Coffee.”
“Be right up.”
The whole exchange had been done in the relative silence of the place, with an unabashedly interested audience and Clay’s irritation ramped up a notch.
It wasn’t until another customer came in, with a repeat of the whole rigamarole, that he realized he wasn’t as special as he thought. Everybody got stared at.
The coffee, when he tasted it, was bland. Like everything he’d put it in his mouth these last couple of months. Even with the ten sugar packets he added, it tasted like nothing, which didn’t bode well for his lunch. He reached for the paper.
Giving it a good shake, Clay skimmed a sports page to see that the World Cup had trumped baseball in the headlines. Not that there was much going on for the Orioles, but he could give a shit about what the U.S. team did in th—
His gaze caught on a photo and a headline at the bottom of the metro section:
ATF AGENT DIES IN FATAL CRASH
The few lines beneath gave zero details, mentioning only that Breadthwaite was dead—not where or how. Clay sat up, the coffee cup clattering to the Formica with a dull thud. Tunnel vision, heart beating visible wumps in the corner of his eyes. Tightness in his chest. Shit. Heart attack.
He stood, head wavering but feet slow, stuck in this morass with fuzzy blinders on his eyes making everything too far away.
“Take the check,” he managed, mouth moving, voice emerging in a rush, like water. No, not water. Hot puffs. Hot lips, dry mouth. More like lava. Magma? Was that the word? Was that even a word?
“All right, son?”
“Fine.”
“You want yer burger wrapped up?”
“Sure.” The path of least resistance. Outside. Get outside.
Clay pulled his wallet from his pocket, set a twenty carefully on the table, and picked up the paper.
“Here.” The guy handed Clay a Styrofoam box, eyeing him carefully. “You sure you’re—”
“Good.”
“I’ll get your change.”
“Forget it,” Clay said as he walked to the door, stiff and straight with ten pairs of eyes heavy on his back. It wasn’t until he made it outside that he remembered he didn’t have the truck. He’d have to walk back through town to his motel.
This didn’t bode well. Not at all, with the heaviness in his limbs and what looked like dust motes dancing in front of his eyes. His chest was tight, too tight.
He set off, breaths like hard little bullets in his lungs, hands grasping the box and the paper but feeling nothing.
Nothing.
He passed the coffee shop, then backtracked, blinking. Internet.
A look around showed no public computers.
At the counter, he asked one of those pierced kids, “Got computers here?”
“Um…” The girl stared thoughtfully at him, twisting one of those tunnel things below her bottom lip. In a surreal flash-forward, Clay pictured how that’d look in a few years, if she ever decided to take it out—skeletal teeth and gums a grisly peekaboo. The weird shit people did to their bodies. He almost laughed out loud at that—hysterical laughter. Not good. “Library, I guess?”
“Thanks,” he said, already halfway to the door.
“Nice tattoo, du—”
He walked outside, letting the door shut on her words. Stupid kid. Stupid, stupid kid.
And who would make sure nothing happened to that kid? Huh? A kid like that, stupid enough to put one of those things in her lip, wouldn’t know how to take care of herself.
Focus.
The library. He turned a half circle, noticed the to-go box of food in his hand, got a whiff of greasy steam, and dropped it in the nearest trash can on a wave of nausea. The library was in a tiny building that looked old, he remembered, over by the tracks on Railroad Avenue. He headed that way, feeling sharper. On a mission.
Inside, the woman behind the counter lifted her brows at him but didn’t say a word when he settled in front of one of the computers.
ATF Agent Nikolai Breadthwaite, he typed into the Google search bar, his shoulders and back tense to the point of pain.
Only a few hits appeared, all recent news pieces covering Bread’s accident. Clay tried to loosen his shoulders, but it felt like the tension was the only thing holding his bones together.
There was one photo, the same one over and over, released only after his death, no doubt. It was his official ATF ID shot. Bread was like him—eternally undercover. Had been like him. Clay had seen that badge. He’d made fun of Bread in the shot, called him a googly-eyed motherfucker. There wouldn’t be any more photos now. Because Bread was dead.
Clay stifled a laugh. Not the time to lose his shit. Again.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
Only an insider could’ve figured out where Bread had been placed as he awaited trial. Only an insider could’ve gotten to him. Somebody with links to DOJ at the very least.
After half an hour spent sifting through articles that all said pretty much the same thing, he leaned back.
An accident, they said. But Clay knew it was bullshit. He pulled out his phone, ready to call Tyler, but stopped when the woman behind the counter cleared her throat.
Right. Library.
After shutting everything down and deleting the browsing history, he limped back outside, into the too-bright day. He wouldn’t call Tyler. He couldn’t do that, couldn’t reach out at all, especially now that the only other guy who’d known what Clay knew was dead. The only other person who could testify. His safety depended on no one finding out where the hell he was. He was supposed to check in with McGovern, but he wouldn’t. Not if shit was going down like this.
Fuck. Maybe he should leave, go farther south?
No. He wasn’t running. He’d stay here, get these piece-of-shit tattoos removed, and wait. Because fuck if he’d become a fugitive. He was the law, for Christ’s sake, not the one on the run.
He stood up straighter, pulled his glasses back down over his eyes, and turned in a half circle.
The town sat, quiet and quaint. Hot and humid as hell. The buzz of summer insects tickled the back of his brain.
What should he do now? Get in touch with Tyler after all? No, Tyler might have a tap on his line. They might be watching him. What about McGovern? Could she be the rat? Weirder things had happened. She had family, which made her prime picking for ruthless bastards like the Sultans.
But no, she was the biggest stick-in-the-mud, straight-arrow agent he’d ever seen. He didn’t believe she could turn for a moment. Besides, she’d been the one who’d fought for him with the big guys, the one who’d understood that to be truly undercover, you had to live like your quarry. She got that. Not her.
Who the fuck was it?
Someone had given them his name the night of the raid. Some fucker had told the Sultans he was a cop and set them on his ass in ways nobody could’ve fucking imagined. Ape calling him in back, Jam and the others watching as Ape did his eyes, then knuckles, branding him.
Handles’s out, but when he gets back, you’re a dead man. Those fucking words.
Then the needle against his face, his lids screwed shut against Ape’s threat of popping his eyeballs with it.
Here, in sweet, innocent Blackwood, Clay stood and breathed, waited, watched as a couple in pink and white emerged from an antique place, arm in arm, and moved along the sidewalk to the ladies’ dress shop next door.
Leafy green trees lined both sides of the street, shading the red brick and white clapboard facades of one cutesy place after another—coffee shop, more goddamned antiques, the diner he’d always associate with Bread’s death. Beyond that, an indent and that pub—the Nook.
A drink. Yeah. He’d go for a drink. Anything to obliterate the guilt at being the last one standing—and the knowledge that if he fell, there’d be nobody left to make those bastards pay.
Clay Navarro had never in his life felt quite so alone.
* * *
George waited for Andrew Blane to show up for an hour and a half that evening. She would probably have stayed even longer if the animals hadn’t needed her. That and she’d caught up on every bit of paperwork she could find, so no more excuses. No reason to stay at the clinic.
As she locked up and made her way to her car alone, she realized two things—both pathetic. One, she’d been looking forward to seeing the big man again. And two, his absence made her feel jilted, which was patently ridiculous.
Great. I need to feel needed. And then, when I’m not needed… Lord, did she truly have no life at all?
As she pulled into her driveway, rather than continue thinking about Andrew Blane, she decided to concentrate on home. Home, where things didn’t go smoothly unless she was there.
Which wasn’t entirely true, either.
Her place was all moving parts. No, not moving parts, but bits and pieces that, together, made up an ecosystem. Almost self-contained, her garden depended on three things from the outside: sunlight, rain, and George.
She liked that dependence. She liked being needed.
When she found a bright-purple sticky note stuck to her front door, she initially assumed it was some erroneous delivery—because no one ever visited.
She read it. Come over for dinner! I got wine! ;) Something inside her did a strange, unexpected flip-flop.
George rushed guiltily through feeding the animals. She should have watered the garden too, since the leaves were yellowing and there was no hint of rain on the horizon, but who had time when you had a dinner invite stuck to your door? Out back, she locked the chickens up, spared thirty seconds for Leonard’s belly rub, and paused on the steps.
Laughter drifted over the other side of the fence and then words. “Hey, George!”
“Gabe?”
“Yeah! Mom says you might come over for dinner.”
“Yes. I’m on my way.”
“Good! I wanna show you my egg baby. Maybe you can tell Mom to get me a puppy.”
“Oh, I’m not—”
“I can hear you, you know!” Jessie yelled from somewhere inside her house.
“I’ll be right over!” George said in return. “Need me to bring anything?”
“No. I’m defrosting a bunch of crap from the store. That’s as fancy as we get around here.”
George smiled.
* * *
“’Nother one, mate?” the British bartender asked, and Clay nodded. Nodding and drinking—about all he’d done for the past couple of hours. Or… He looked around for a clock.
“Time is it?” he asked.
“Half eight.”
“Seriously? Shit. Cancel that. What do I owe you?”
“Sure you don’t want something to eat?” The guy’s eyes narrowed strangely on him, and Clay had a moment of clarity—I must be drunk.
“Nah. Thanks.”
“Here,” the guy said, sliding his tab onto the bar in front of him. Jesus, this place was cheap. He’d been drinking for hours, and the check was just around twenty bucks. He threw a couple of bills onto the bar and got off the stool, catching his foot in one of the legs before righting it. Too loud. Clumsy.
“You all right?”
“Good.”
“I’ll get your change.”
“Keep it.”
The guy’s brows raised. “Thank you.” He smiled and did one of those half-bow things dudes like that could pull off. Clay turned. Another step, and Clay stiffened when a hand landed on his shoulder. The Brit had come around the bar, apparently. “You all right to drive, mate?”
“Not driving.”
A nod, and Clay walked to the door, then outside into the oppressive heat. He turned toward the skin clinic. Dark. She was gone. Fuck. He’d missed his appointment, which meant… He swallowed. Had she waited for him?
Nah. She wouldn’t do that. She was nice, but she had a life, a job. Not like him, whose sole purpose right now was those fucking appointments.
Right. And then I go and miss one.
At the clinic, he tried the door, just in case, but there was no point, was there? He knocked a couple of times, pounded the door for good measure.
“Doc left a while ago,” a deep, lazy voice drawled from somewhere behind him.
Clay turned, squinting until he saw a man—the sheriff who’d pulled him over his second day here. Small but strong-looking—sitting on a bench right in front of the MMA school. Fuck if he hadn’t just passed right by him and not seen him in the night.
“Yeah. Figured.”
For a few silent seconds, the two men sized each other up. Whatever he saw, the other man decided to keep the conversation going.
“See you’re still here, son.”
“Yep.”
Clay sucked in a lungful of thick, heavy air, which didn’t even begin to clear the booze from his head.
“Blane, right?”
“S’ right, Sheriff.”
“You hidin’ out in Blackwood, Mr. Blane, or you come to make trouble?” Clay opened his mouth, and Sheriff Mullen shushed him. “Nah. Don’t say it. Don’t need to hear whatever story you’ve cooked up. I’m in charge here, though, and I’d rather you keep your brand of trouble outside of my town.”
Clay nodded, with a quick look around. Where were the TV cameras filming this ridiculous cowboy banter? “Not looking for trouble…sir.”
“Good.”
He sucked in a few breaths and felt his back loosen when the other man stood up and turned to walk away. Clay watched him go a few steps, then swing back around.
“Noticed you doing that limping jog around town.” He indicated the gym behind him with a thumb. “If you’re looking for a workout, you should check out the gym. Wouldn’t be so hard on that bum leg as all that running.”
Clay’s brows rose. His eyes flicked to the glow of lights coming from the gym.
“Don’t think you’d like my kind of fighting in there.”
The sheriff did a scoffing laugh, managing to come off as both wise and condescending, which was really a pretty good trick.
“Don’t worry. We’ve got our share of assholes who think they’re tougher than they are. You sober up and come on in tomorrow, son. We’ll see what kinda fighter you are. Tell whoever’s at the door you’re my guest.”
“Why?”
“Hmm?”
“Why are you inviting me?”
“It’s like I tell the parents around here: know where your kids are. They’re gonna get shit-faced no matter what you do, so you might as well keep them at home.” He smirked. “Or at least in the field out back. And, I mean, look at you.” He waved at Clay’s face, taking in the rest of him with a lazy move. “Don’t know when you got out, no idea why you’ve got 5–0 inked onto your face, but I’d say you belong where someone can keep an eye on you.” The man’s smile widened again, revealing a perfect, artificial-looking line of bright-white teeth. “’Course, a little birdie told me two of my favorite local meth heads showed up in the hospital Saturday night all broken to bits, tripping their asses off and spouting some bull about how a tattooed giant tore ’em apart.”
Clay felt a wave of respect for this small, tough-looking man. “Better the devil you know.”
“Exactly. You clean us out of weekend entertainment, and there won’t be a damn thing left for the sheriff’s office to do anymore. So, you see I might be a little confused as to just who the hell you are, with your prison tattoos and that death sentence on your face. And I’m curious as to what you might be doing in my town. But I’m not entirely sure I want you gone just yet.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
The sheriff’s eyes flicked up to the clinic sign and back down to Clay; his smile turned smaller, sly. “Figured as much. Anyway, you come on in and show us some of those fancy moves you might or might not have used on our local cranksters, and I’ll give you something to occupy yourself with while you squat in my town—keep you from breaking a nail trying to hold off my other local troublemakers. Mutually beneficial.”
Jesus, the man had attitude. Old and small, but showing absolutely no fear. Clay smiled, his first one of the day—or was it year?—and, surprising even himself, nodded. “What time?”
“Come in at noon,” the old dude said before starting off. “You can kick my ass for lunch.”
* * *
On her way to Jessie’s, George grabbed a jar of homemade strawberry jam, some brown paper, and raffia, then ran outside to pick a few zinnias from the back of the garden.
You didn’t go anywhere empty-handed. That was something her mother had taught her early on. Hastily wrapped gifts in hand, she rounded the house from the side and headed over.
Inside, the place was sparsely furnished—short, brown coffee table, its veneer cracked; a fat, tan sofa, with worn patches on the arms and stains on the cushions. The floor was covered with carpeting, which she wouldn’t have guessed before coming inside, and the fireplace appeared to be sealed shut. Too bad. Pull up the rug and open up the chimney, and the place could actually be quite picturesque.
“Happy new house!” George said, handing the jam and bouquet to Jessie.
“Oh. Wow. You didn’t have to do this. Thank you!”
“Don’t be ridiculous. So, you’re all moved in!”
“Yeah.” Jessie looked around, lips compressed. “We don’t have all that much.”
“Better clean and neat than a hoarder like me.”
“You’re not a hoarder.”
George raised a brow at Jessie.
“Seriously, your place is awesome. It’s got character.”
“Yeah!” Gabe chimed in. “Candles and cushions and rocking chairs and stuff. You’ve got all those blankets and those owl statues and the lamp of the Chinese woman and those paintings and—”
“Okay, G. Let’s get you in pj’s.”
“But George just got here.”
“Yes, well, remember our deal? Pj’s first, then dinner, then teeth.”
“And a game?”
“I don’t believe video games were ever mentioned.”
“Aww, Mom!”
“Look,” Jessie said with a sigh. “I’ll read you a story, okay?”
“George can read to me tonight.” The child looked at George, and she could do nothing but smile. He was adorable. Really, truly adorable, with his sprinkling of freckles and amber eyes, just like his mom’s. He may be manipulating her, but she loved it.
I want what they have, she thought, pushing back a rogue wave of envy. “I’ll read to you.”
“No. No, actually, I want you to tell me a story.”
“Tell you one?”
“Yeah, like from your head, not from a book.”
George blinked. She didn’t think she had any stories in her. Did she?
“Um.” She cleared her throat, caught Jessie’s eye roll, and went on with a laugh. “Sure.”
Dinner was an odd assortment of appetizers, all thrown together on a platter, with a bottle of cheap white wine. Unfamiliar though it all was, George loved it—every second of it.
“All right, G, you gotta get those teeth brushed.”
“Come on, Mom. You said I could stay up and—”
“No way! Brush your teeth and—”
“Fine. But I want that story.”
George smiled. “Just come get me when you’re ready.”
She watched mother and son traipse off down the hall, her heart a little tight in her chest as she listened to the arguments, brushing, and splashing. Finally, a door opened, and Jessie came back up the hall to whisper, “Not sure what’s going on. Usually, he reads to himself, but…maybe it’s the new house? Anyway, you don’t have to do this.”
“It’s fine,” said George, meaning it. “I want to.”
Gabe’s room was the only fully furnished room in the house. This was where money had been spent. Kid stuff all over, bright colors, comic book characters. Spider-Man sheets and Pixar posters.
George hesitated in the doorway, unsure where she was supposed to sit, until Gabe patted the spot next to him on his bed. She walked over and settled carefully beside him. Little boys were not something she knew much about, but this one seemed to like her, which was strange in and of itself.
“Okay. I’m ready,” he said.
George had no idea what she was going to say. Crap. She hadn’t planned for this. “Um, so what kind of story do you want?”
“A monster.”
“A monster?”
“Yeah, you know. Maybe a monster nobody wants.”
“Oh. Okay.”
She thought about it for a few seconds, ignoring the image that rose up out of nowhere—Andrew Blane, haunting her mind’s eye, again.
“So, um…Bob. Bob is a monster. And he arrives one day in a small monster town.” She paused, cleared her throat.
“Wait. They’re all monsters?”
“Yeah. And nobody wants to be friends with him. He’s just another monster, but he looks different. He looks scarier.”
“How? What does he look like?”
Oh. God, George wasn’t good at this. No imagination. At all. “He has paint all over him.”
“Paint.”
“You know, like…tattoos. His paint tells bad monster stories.” She groaned inwardly.
“Ooh,” said the child, apparently understanding something that George didn’t quite get herself.
“Yes. He’s got these marks all over his skin. They tell a story about him, where he’s been, who he is, what he’s lived through. And Bob wants those marks gone.”
“Why?”
“Because he doesn’t want anybody to know his story. He wants them to think he’s just like them.”
She paused, waiting for another question, and when none came, she went on. “The thing is, monsters like other monsters who look like them. They don’t always accept different-looking monsters.”
“Yeah,” Gabe whispered, his warm, little body curled up into George’s. “Sometimes monsters are alone. With no friends.”
“So, Bob came to Monsterton, looked around, and then found one monster who knew how to take the monster paint off.”
“The monster-toos.”
“Yes. And slowly, Bob’s monster paint starts to disappear, leaving him with perfect, clear-blue monster skin.”
“Do the other monsters like Bob now?”
George sighed, snuggled deeper into the bed, despite the heat, and wondered, Do they? Good, good question.
“I mean.” Gabe turned onto his side and looked up at her. “Does Bob have friends now?”
“No. No friends. Because they all saw him before, and they don’t trust Bob,” George said. But then her forehead wrinkled with worry. What kind of story was she telling this child? This wasn’t a lesson she should be teaching. “But then something happened.”
He sucked in a breath. “What?”
“One day, one of the monsters from Monsterton falls into the lake, and she can’t swim.”
“Monsters can’t swim?”
“Only some.”
“And Bob? Can Bob swim?”
“Yes. So he dives in after the monster and saves her.” George paused, waiting for Gabe to interject. Nothing. “And they throw him a party.”
“To thank him.”
“Yes.”
“Bob’s a hero.”
“Yes. He’s a hero.”
Gabe yawned, his mouth creaking. “Bob’s gonna be like a superhero now, isn’t he?”
With a smile, George reached out and turned off the lamp. “Pretty much.”
“Yeah, superheroes are always different from everyone else, like freaks. But they save people, and then everyone loves them.”
“Right.” She put a hand on Gabe’s soft hair, looked up, and saw Jessie silhouetted in the doorway. “Good night, Gabe.”
“Night, George. That was a pretty good story.”
“Glad you liked it.”
“Superheroes always look like bad guys first,” he said, turned over, and snuggled into his pillow, leaving George in a sort of dull shock. What on earth was she doing, telling a story like that? She’d had no idea where it was going, no idea that she was, in fact, giving her version of someone else’s true story.
And good Lord, what was wrong with her that she couldn’t, even for a minute, stop thinking about Andrew Blane?
* * *
Funny how Clay had assumed he was just randomly walking. He’d started off with the idea that he needed to clear the booze from his brain—especially after that run-in with the law. It had taken maybe two hundred feet of blind walking before he’d started noticing things like the night sky above, with its wide scattering of stars, interrupted by the craggy dark peaks to the west. It shouldn’t be so clear, this sky, not with the clogged feel of the air—it was hot, stiflingly heavy, although nothing like the motel walls. He had the urge to open his mouth the way you might in a rainstorm and drink it. A rainstorm. Fuck, that would be good. So good. It would clear the atmosphere, and maybe his brain too.
More steps, more distance from the lights of Main Street, his feet crunching the dry road in a gritty, lopsided counterpoint to the moist, alive chorus of the Virginia night. Crunch, scrape, crunch, scrape, his limp all too apparent.
Crunch, scrape, crunch, scrape. Not a car in sight as he trudged on, stars above, bug noise all around him, almost electric in its continuity. Crickets. Goddamned crickets. Every once in a while, one of the creatures would surprise him, its voice popping out from the wall of sound, separating itself from this unholy hum.
How the hell did they know to sing that same damned note? Maybe it was the only one they could sing. One-hit wonders, all of them.
Crunch, scrape, crunch scrape.
Clay made it a game, to even out his steps against the pavement, drawing his knee as close to the other as possible, ignoring the sharper ache and shortening his stride until he made a crunch-crunch, crunch-crunch. Never quite perfect, but almost. Almost.
He focused on the road ahead of him, devoid of buildings and houses now, and blinked when he realized where he was, where he’d been going this whole time. Her street—the doctor’s—a tunnel of wilderness on both sides, with her place at the end, the glow of her windows already there.
A light at the end of the tunnel.
He almost turned around. Almost, but not really.
The rhythm of his soles changed, faltered, as he approached. He hesitated for a moment, nearly tripped. Should he knock? What would she do? She’d call the goddamned cops if she had any sense.
His steps stopped right across the street from her house, where the woods were thick and dark and loud as hell. As soon as he stilled there, the bugs took over, mosquitoes feasting on his skin, others buzzing around his ears. He ignored them, fixing his eyes on the lamp lit in her front window, the curtains drawn back, inviting his gaze farther inside. Didn’t she know? Didn’t she get how vulnerable she was alone in that house? Anyone could walk up and watch her, stalk her and—
Fuck. I’m the sick bastard doing it. I’m the person she should worry about.
But he knew that wasn’t true. Because he’d seen exactly how bad the world could be—for men, certainly—but even worse for women like her. For girls like his sister, Carly, who’d trusted the wrong guys, for the club hangers-on, those women who had no choice but to align themselves with fucked-up assholes who’d end up hurting them. And even for women like George Hadley, who saw the good in people, who worked so hard to spread her special brand of warmth. The world beyond the fuzzy, golden glow she’d surrounded herself with was a treacherous, stinking, dangerous place.
Clay was the last line of resistance between her and the hell that lay out there in the wilderness of real life. He’d be damned if he’d leave her to its mercy.
At least that’s what he told himself as he took raw comfort—comfort he needed more than anything right now—just knowing she was nearby.
* * *
Back in the living room, George made as if to go, but Jessie threw a you’ve gotta be kidding me look and held up the half-full bottle of wine. “Please don’t leave me to kill this by myself. I’m pathetic enough as it is.”
“You’re not pathetic.”
“Wanna bet?” One brow raised, Jessie poured out two full glasses and held hers up in a toast. “I just realized that I haven’t gotten laid in two years. How’s that for pathetic?”
George’s giggle stopped short. “Oh. I…” Her eyes lost focus as she tried to latch on to a memory.
“What?”
“I’ve got you beat,” George admitted.
“What? No way.”
“Yes, way.” Her eyes blurred over with tears. It was the wine. She really wasn’t used to drinking. “Haven’t in…” Another gulp, another swallow, a memory of the last time she’d done it. Done it wasn’t even the right word. It had been…a good-bye. “Almost a decade.”
Jessie spat out a mouthful of wine at that. “What the effing hell? Are you kidding me?”
George shook her head, embarrassed, teary-eyed, but laughing nonetheless.
“You, George, are a born-again virgin. You realize that?”
“What?”
“Yeah. Oh man.” With a conspiratorial look over her shoulder, Jessie asked, “Should we, like, hire a pro or something? Just to get us out of our dry spells?”
After a fit of giggling that nearly ended in actual sobs, George leaned back, wiped her eyes, and hiccupped. Her breathing was shaky, and she tried hard to get it back. It was hilarious, really. Wasn’t it? Not having sex in that long and the born-again virgin thing—it was funny. But, for a few seconds, it was all too unbearably sad to laugh at. So sad that she had to fight back the tears and force a tight smile.
“We really have to do something about this, though. You do get that, right, George? Find you a man and…” She sat up straight and wiped the grin off her face. “Are you, like, a lesbian or something?” One hand out. “That’s okay too. I mean—”
“No. Not a lesbian. I’m just… I was married once. To a man. A long time ago and…” George sucked in a big breath of air, forcing the tears back. Funny how the laughter and the crying were so close, so wrapped up inside her, so intertwined and interchangeable. When had she so lost control of herself that she couldn’t talk about her past without opening the floodgates to an emotional deluge?
Never. She’d never talked about it. Any of it. To anyone. She couldn’t start now.
Rather than go on, she cut it short, nipped it in the bud, clammed right up. “I don’t like to talk about it.”
“Oh.” Jessie looked taken aback, and George’s skin heated with embarrassment.
“I’m sorry. I’m really bad at this.”
“At what?”
“Friendships. With women. With anyone, I guess.” The words tripped George up, but they kept coming despite her mortification. “I’m not good at it. I always say the wrong things and don’t say the right ones. I’m really—”
“Girl, do you have any idea how hard it is to have friends when you have a kid?” Jessie shook her head ruefully. “I had Gabe young. Nobody, I mean nobody, could be bothered to hang out once he was born. And then, as a mother? I’ve always been the wrong kind of mother, you know? Couldn’t do playdates ’cause I was in school and then waiting tables and then constantly working. I had a big, scary brother in prison. Not exactly conducive to developing close ties with other young moms, you know?” She paused, leaned forward, and grabbed George’s hand. “You’re doing fine, George. Trust me.”
“Thanks.”
“So.” Jessie refilled their glasses and lifted hers in a toast. “Now that we’ve both established how bad we are at friendships… Here’s to new friendships.” They clinked glasses and drank. “And to better dates than the ones I’ve been on in the past few years.”
“Here, here,” said George.
“I mean how unsexy is it when dudes are like, ‘May I touch your breast, please, ma’am?’ and I’m like, ‘Seriously? Shall I have you fill out an authorization form first?’”
“I had the opposite,” George replied. “I went out with a man once, only once, who pushed me against my car, trying to make out in a parking lot after a crappy, boring date.”
“D’you deck him in the balls?”
“No,” replied George with regret. “I wish I had, now that you mention it. He had this cold, wet tongue, and he kept sort of swiping it over my mouth.”
“Ew!”
“Oh Lord, I can’t believe I’m telling you this, but… You know what he said to me? I’d forgotten all about this.” George giggled, happy to share with someone—finally. The words emerged through the laughter. “He kept saying, ‘I want to lick you, George. I want to lick you.’”
“Oh gross. In that accent?”
“Yes, he was a visiting professor from Oxford or Cambridge or… I don’t remember. But, it gets better. Listen to this. I said, ‘You want to lick me? You are licking me!’ because the way he did it, he had this big, flat, rough cat tongue, and he was licking my mouth and my face, but when I said that to him, you know what he said?”
“What?”
“‘I want to lick your clit, George.’” She could barely get the words past the hilarity now, and Jessie had joined her, groaning, laughing. “I…want…to lick…your clit.”
“Eww, oh my effing God, that is gross!” Jessie leaned back, wiped the tears from the corners of her eyes, and slapped her hand down on George’s knee. “Lady, there is no doubt about it. You’ve got me beat. Thank you for that.”
“Anytime,” said George.
“So, new objective: get George laid.”
With a grimace, George said, “No. Not really. I mean, yes, I wouldn’t mind, I guess, but I’ve given up.” She glanced at Jessie before letting herself talk. “I’m doing IUI.” Saying the words out loud to someone who wasn’t a medical professional was weirdly liberating.
“What’s that?”
“Intrauterine insemination. Like in vitro, except more…natural, I guess.”
Jessie’s eyes opened wide. “So, turkey baster but no petri dish?”
“Kind of. Yes. I want babies.” George glanced down the hall to where Gabe was fast asleep. “One. One baby. A kid like him would be great.”
“Wow. Well, I’d give you mine, except…”
“Yeah. Except he’s your baby, and you’re crazy about him.”
“I am.” After a few minutes of silent sipping, Jessie spoke again, her eyes wide on George’s. “You got any family?”
“No,” George said, then felt guilty enough to change her answer. “Well, kind of. I’m still close with my in-laws.”
“Yeah?” Jessie’s expression told her just how weird that sounded, and George didn’t bother to add that her husband had died and left her—left them—alone. With each other.
“I’m not very social, I suppose.”
“That probably explains how we’ve managed to not run into each other more often.” After a pause, Jessie went on. “I get it, though. All the fear and the crap I go through as a single mother. It’s hard, but I know one thing for sure: I’ve got a family. Forever, unless something goes wrong.” Her knuckles knocked on the hollow-sounding coffee table.
“God forbid.”
“Yeah.”
George nodded, looking away. “I want that too.”
“Wow, George, I guess we really do need to get you laid, then. ’Cause that’s got to be more fun than a turkey baster.”
* * *
A sound drew Clay’s eyes to the left, where what looked like a pile of dark bushes hid another house, smaller than Doctor Hadley’s. Voices, a door slamming, and he stepped deeper into the woods, his feet crunching on dry leaves and sticks. A vine or a root nearly tripped him in the process, but he wouldn’t look down, couldn’t, because there she was. Oh God, she was twenty feet away, fifteen, walking slowly and humming to herself in the middle of the dead-end road. His pulse went wild, working hard to drown out the night sounds.
From somewhere close by—maybe her yard—a small, dark shadow slithered out, its movements slightly off, and met her, wrapping itself around her legs; she cooed. The woman actually cooed, the sound high and sweet and almost as singsongy as her humming had been. She bent and grabbed the animal—a cat, he surmised, from the noises it made—and cuddled it close. They gave each other a head butt, and in the most unnatural reaction of all time, his dick hardened, just a little. The sensation was so unfamiliar he was tempted to reach down to check.
He wanted to step forward, to wrap himself around them both, or maybe to let himself be wrapped up in her, the way she’d enveloped that lucky little cat. Instead, he took a deep, painful breath and watched, eyes big and dry and incapable of blinking. If she glanced into the woods now, she’d see the dull shine of his eyeballs, fixed on her like his life depended on it. Like that creepy dude from The Lord of the Rings, obsessed with his Precious. Only Clay wasn’t doing it to have her, but rather to save her.
Or to save himself. It was all mixed-up inside.
She didn’t look his way. She turned to the house, walking and humming again, her hips as fluid as water, and he wanted to feel the coolness of her hands on his skin again, wanted to grab those hips and change the tide of their sway. Oh, he wanted to dive into her, to sink in, to lose himself in her pale, soft efficiency.
Oh, fuck. He stumbled back, stilled awkwardly with one hand on a trunk, a fuzzy vine prickling his palm. He wanted to take his hand away, but he couldn’t. She’d turned at the sound, and though her eyes were in shadow, the cat’s weren’t. They were two bright diamonds in the night, fixed right on him, pointing out his location like a beacon. His breath was fast and heavy in his ears, and for once, he was glad for the goddamned incessant drone of the insects.
The few seconds she searched the woods were unbearably long, but finally she turned to slip through the open gate—even that she didn’t fucking close—up the sweet, overgrown flagstones of her walkway, then onto her porch and through the front door, without even a hint of the jingle of keys. He stood unmoving as she made her way down the hall to the back room. She didn’t lock the front door behind her and still hadn’t done so by the time he watched her turn off lights and disappear up the big staircase.
Guiltily, he took in the upstairs lights switching on, her shadow moving through an interior door, another light on, in the front of the house—the bathroom, wide open, like the rest of the place. He stared, hating himself, as she pulled off her skirt, too low for him to see, which was both a disappointment and a relief. She reached for the bottom hem of her shirt and paused, turned her head, and took two steps to close a set of wooden shutters, which masked the lower half of the window entirely and, therefore, his view.
Good, he thought with a sigh. Good, she’d cut him loose, absolved him of guilt by removing the element of choice, which was good, because he couldn’t have looked away, even if he’d wanted to. Which he hadn’t. No, he’d wanted to—
Something bumped his leg, and he almost shouted with surprise until he saw what it was: the cat. The darned thing was back outside. It had come to find him, to chase him off, or… No, not chase him, apparently, because it rubbed him in the same way it had rubbed her. Pushy figure eights around his legs, designed to influence. He bent and picked the creature up, pulling it into his chest the way she’d done just minutes before.
With a jolt of surprise, he felt the odd space where one of the animal’s legs was missing. It didn’t seem too hampered by the shortage as it clawed its way up to his face, embracing him with its one remaining front paw, and sniffed his mouth with its tiny, cold, wet nose.
Awkwardly, Clay stood for long minutes, holding this purring creature, waiting to see what it wanted. After a while, it settled deeper into his arms, with apparently no intention of taking off. With a sigh and a look around, Clay made his way to what appeared to be a downed log and sat, leaning against a tree, letting the animal’s warmth and engine-like rumble cover up the buzzing in his brain.
It was strangely comfortable, despite the heat and humidity and the prick of mosquitoes eating at his skin. Possibly because, for once, he didn’t feel quite so alone.