“What’s in there?” I asked, getting to my feet. When Beck didn’t answer, I moved tentatively toward her, brushing myself off and listening to the strange, heavy clinking sounds that got louder as I stepped closer.
“Metal.” Her voice was almost reverent.
I peered in where the swath of fading light illuminated the area. Two or three lengths of thick iron chain swayed gently from the rafters, and what looked to be pieces of cars—bodies and engine parts and things I couldn’t possibly identify—were scattered around the space. “Was this some kind of repair facility?”
She didn’t answer, stepping inside and running her hands over a discarded fender. “I wonder…” Her voice trailed off as she looked around slowly, her eyes taking inventory. She bent and picked something up.
“Wonder what?” It was getting hard to keep the hint of annoyance from my voice. She was acting unusually goofy, as if we’d discovered hidden gold or something. Plus, I was hungry and becoming concerned our dinner was going to be overcooked.
She focused on me. “Would you mind if I asked Mama to speak to Mr. Guest about this? Maybe he’d be willing to sell me a few pieces for a reasonable price.”
I shook my head. “This is junk, Beck. What could you possibly want with it?”
She motioned me outside and pulled the door shut, wincing at the screech. “WD-40,” she said. I wasn’t going to guess what that meant. I simply looked at her until she added, “That will fix the squeak.”
She started toward the front of the house, but I put my hand on her arm. “You haven’t answered my question. Why are you interested in that scrap?”
Her expression was difficult to read. The sunset was all but gone. “Well, uh, it has to do with what the people in town were talking about.”
My annoyance vanished, and I took a step closer. “Good. Tell me.”
Her gaze lowered, but the corner of her mouth turned up in a tiny, shy smile. “I’m a finalist for the Presidential Arts Foundation Award.”
I blinked. “In what field?”
Her head wagged side to side as if she was embarrassed to tell me. “I do metalwork.”
“Like sculpture?”
“Yeah, sometimes. Or hangings or series and sometimes kinetic pieces. A little of everything, I guess.”
I slid my hand down her arm and took hold of her fingers, turning them toward what fading light remained. Two had small, healing cuts on them, and the roughness I’d thought was from her cleaning work could very well be from her artwork instead. “So you’re an artist,” I said, a new insight falling into place about her. No wonder I couldn’t see her cleaning vacation houses for the rest of her life. Now my imagination jumped to envisioning her name all over the art world, her work for sale in fine galleries and displayed outside of skyscrapers or in parks.
“Well, I—”
“How did you learn to do metalwork?”
“Remember Mr. Howell? You met him at the diner that first time?” I nodded, remembering the aged man and his comment about “Becka” being one of his best ever. “He’s my teacher, my mentor, and he’s taught me everything I know about metal. The man is an incredible talent and one of the best people I’ve ever met. I started taking classes from him a couple of years ago and—”
“A couple of years ago? And you’re already a finalist for PAFA?” Anyone remotely connected to the arts knew of this prestigious award. It was intended to encourage and reward those who had graduated high school but were not yet out of college. There was a category for literature, but by the time my first book was done, I’d been much too old to apply. My voice rose. “I can’t believe you’ve been with me all day, and you’re just now telling me.” Something else clicked. “Is this why you unexpectedly got today off?”
She shifted uneasily. “Yeah, ’cause the thing is, for your final entry, you have to submit something brand-new. You can’t use stuff from your existing portfolio. So Mama gave me today to work on some ideas, but I haven’t been able to think of anything. Plus, metal is expensive. But that stuff in there? I think I could figure a way to use it that might be really cool.”
“Do you have any pictures of your work? Like on your phone?”
She shook her head. “Nah. The camera on my phone doesn’t work.” She held out what looked to be a well-used second-generation iPhone. “Mama used to take pictures of my early stuff, but she had to sell her camera a couple of years ago. She’s not real good at using her phone. Plus, she’s always busy with work or taking care of things at home. I had to use Peyton’s phone to send in my portfolio for the PAFA entry.”
I wondered if the troubled expression that had settled on her face was because she’d made reference to her family’s financial state or from her mention of Peyton. Ignoring that, I started up the stairs, pulling her behind me. “I want to see them. Would you show me your entry?”
She shook her head, her tone as glum as her appearance. “Emily. You don’t have to pretend like you’re interested.”
I rounded on her. “I’m not pretending. I’m…I’m absolutely thrilled for you, and I…I like knowing this about you. It’s really, truly extraordinary, Beck.”
A full-on smile returned. “You think so, huh? And you haven’t tasted my cooking yet.”
I swatted her arm. “Maybe if you’ll talk to me some more about your work while we eat, I’ll be doubly impressed.”
Dinner was delicious, and while she put off showing me her submission—or maybe she simply had a hard time believing I genuinely wanted to know—once she began to talk about metalwork, I was more than impressed. I was enthralled. It was shallow of me to let the fact that I now saw her as an artist alter my opinion of her this way. But maybe it simply confirmed what I’d suspected—there was much more to her than first appearances would suggest. Before I knew it, she had me talking about my work, about writing and the joys and challenges it had brought me. We’d finished dinner and pushed the plates aside, leaning toward each other as we spoke, the intimacy between us growing.
Beck gestured animatedly over my description of “finding the zone” when I wrote. “That’s it exactly,” she said. “It’s like a whole other place and this world…” She trailed off.
“Doesn’t even exist,” I finished.
We nodded at each other in complete understanding, and I wondered if this was what I heard people describe as meeting someone with whom they clicked. I looked away, breaking the connection. This wasn’t a date, and click or no click, there couldn’t be any more to our relationship than casual friendship. When I looked back, her eyes had filled with tears.
“What’s the matter?” I asked, reaching for her hand.
She held her other hand over her mouth as if she didn’t want me to hear what she said. “I’m not going to win that award, and everyone’s going to be so disappointed.”
I shook my head. “You can’t say that, Beck. I’m sure your work is excellent. But in any case, you have to wait for the judges to decide.”
“It’s not that,” she whispered, eyes downcast. “I won’t have a chance. There’s a big problem.”
Footsteps thumped on the staircase, and Mel burst in the door. “I’ve been calling you for hours. You’re going to miss the fireworks.”
I frowned, trying to recall if I’d taken my phone off mute after my nap. Windsom Edge offered Saturday-night fireworks as a regular summer thing at the beach. They were brief and singularly unimpressive, in my opinion.
Mel’s head tilted in our direction. “Why are you holding hands with that cleaning chick?”
Beck flinched as if she’d been slapped and moved into the kitchen where she started clearing our dishes.
“Damn it, Mel.” I snarled. “Don’t you ever knock? And I’ll have you know—”
Beck cleared her throat, and when I looked over, she shook her head slightly. “Would you like me to put this in the refrigerator?”
Mel strode into the kitchen, sniffing at our leftovers with interest. “Whatcha got there, Spike?”
I groaned, not sure how to explain Mel’s annoying practice of calling other butch women by names like Spike or Mack or Jake.
“I made this for dinner,” Beck said coolly. “Would you like some?”
“Sure.” Mel rarely refused a meal, though it was too early for her to have eaten dinner. She and June maintained a New York dining schedule no matter where they were. “It smells great. And I love poor folks’ food like this. Reminds me of Maydee, the first family cook I remember.” She grinned at me. “So you found a dyke who cooks and cleans too? No wonder you were holding her hand.”
“God, just shut up, will you?” I was embarrassed for myself and for Beck, whose expression gave nothing away. I joined them in the kitchen. “Look, she can warm this herself,” I told her as she prepared a generous portion for Mel. “It’s getting late, and you probably need to go home.”
She shrugged. “Yeah.” I watched her move away. At the door, she turned. “Three hundred degrees for about fifteen minutes or until it bubbles.”
“Got it,” Mel answered, fiddling with the oven.
Beck’s light steps descended the stairs. I fought the urge to catch her before she left and say…what? How much I’d enjoyed the evening? Or the whole day? How sorry I was that Mel was such a jerk? That I wondered why she was so shy about her nomination for the PAFA and mostly, what was the problem that had her this upset? My gaze fell on the coffee table. There were two new things in the found jar—a silver bolt and a terribly rusted piece of engine—both obviously contributed by Beck from her junk metal find.
Mel’s voice broke into my thoughts. “I know you like lowballing, but this is pretty far down, even for you. But hey, go kiss her good-bye if you want to.”
Although I resented her description of both of us, what bothered me most was that my mind went immediately to what kissing Beck would be like. “Fuck off, Mel.”
* * *
My nightmare that night was different. It was better, in the sense that it wasn’t based on something real. Plus, I didn’t wake up screaming, though I was sweating and shocked. Beck and I had been in a workroom of sorts, filled with all kinds of tools and indistinguishable materials. It could have been the garage downstairs, but it was different in the way that dreams are. She was closer to the door, pulling on something when a large pile of sand and debris showered onto her, and she was trapped and struggling. It was all too heavy to move, and I was desperate to find anything that would free her. She was trying to tell me something, but as her breathing became labored, her voice became softer and softer, as if she was moving away from me. I was terrified she was dying, and I wasn’t doing enough to help her.
Then Mel was beside me, saying, “You’d better kiss her good-bye now, for sure.”
Wide awake, I made my way to the bathroom before wandering restlessly around the living area. On a whim, I went out on the deck. The night was warm, and there was no moon, making the stars seem unusually bright. I sat in a chair and listened to the ocean, not thinking of anything in particular, which was nice. Big city living had been my choice since adulthood, and it had always suited me, but I hadn’t missed my small apartment yet, because the Guest House was a lovely, comfortable place. At home, the air could be filled with the noise of horns and sirens and people’s voices at all hours, but the charm of this quiet life in more natural surroundings was easy to see. I could go to the beach sometime, not that I would swim, but maybe to walk along the shore. It was silly to be so close and not experience sand between my toes at least once.
I closed my eyes to imagine my seaside exploration and was struck by a surge of apprehension. Who was I kidding? Unlike Abby, I wasn’t the adventurous type. I’d never been to the ocean before and had no idea of what to avoid or what to look for. Didn’t people drown in rogue waves or get stung by venomous creatures? I knew it wasn’t wise to spend time researching the various dangers of coastal regions because I’d seek out the most frightening, gruesome events that could happen. I needed a relaxed, knowledgeable, local guide. Beck’s face came into my mind, and for once, I lingered in the vision.
Beck had a sweetness about her I found almost irresistible, and her lack of sophistication made her seem authentic, rather than inelegant. Her enthusiasm about taking me to the beach would be contagious. Would she take my hand again? I chided myself for such a silly thought. The important thing was, a walk would give us time to talk privately about whatever was bothering her about the PAFA. Smiling to myself, I resolved to plan it at the next opportunity. When dawn woke me, still on my chair on the deck, I was amazed to find myself completely unharmed by a portion of the night spent out-of-doors. I took it as an omen that trying something new might be a good thing.
* * *
For each of the following days, I only heard Beck downstairs briefly, and each time, she was gone before I could catch her. Finally, I hurried to the deck after she arrived and called to her as she left the garage. Head tilted up, face partially covered by sunglasses, she looked much like she had on the first day we’d met.
“Come up for some coffee,” I offered, but she shook her head.
“Thank you, Emily, but I can’t stop. I’m working extra hard for the next few weeks.”
“Are you working on your project for PAFA?”
When I saw her head droop, I anticipated not liking her reply. “No. The thing is, I need to make some money first.”
I didn’t want to ask why from such a distance when she was in a hurry. “Please wait there for one second,” I called as an idea came to me. I could pay her to be my beach guide. Not a lot but hopefully enough to make it worth her while. I slipped into my sandals and rushed downstairs. “I have a proposition for you,” I panted when I reached her.
She’d tucked the shades into her T-shirt again, and despite the weariness and stress on her face, I also saw open admiration. “It’s nice to see you,” she said. I’d forgotten I was wearing only a T-shirt and underwear, and she smiled as her gaze made its way down my legs and back to my braless breasts. “Especially so much of you.” I blushed, tugging ineffectively at my shirt. “And if your proposition includes you wearing that outfit again, my answer is yes.”
“Beck!” I acted shocked, though I was secretly pleased. “What would your mother say?”
“My mother likes you,” Beck said. “She’d probably ask what I was waiting for.”
Not sure what disconcerted me most, her continued flirting or the idea that her mother liked me, I chose to go with the latter. “She does?”
“Uh-huh. She says you must be a very nice person to put up with me and a bunch of squalling felines.”
I’d never been crazy about the cat idea, true, but I didn’t like hearing that her mother put her in the same league. I put my hand on her arm. “Can you come for dinner some time? I’ve missed talking to you.”
She covered my hand with hers and took a step nearer, her expression wistful. “I’ve missed you too, Emily. I can’t tell you how much.”
Clearly, I’d gone overboard in trying to convince her. I carefully pulled my hand free, using a more offhand tone. “But look, I understand you’re busy. I am too, so I don’t want to keep you. Just, you know, think about a day and tell me what works. It could be next week, if that’s what you need to do.”
“Or the week after that? Or the next? Or next month?” she asked in a voice that almost choked.
I nodded. “Sure. It’s no big deal,” and she looked away.
“Yeah. Of course it isn’t.”
She went to her scooter without another word, put on her specs and helmet and rode away. Well, shit. Was she being moody, or had I been unthinking in how I amended my invitation?
* * *
A week later, I was working on a short story to go in a fundraising anthology for one of my favorite book events. Normally, I didn’t take time for smaller scale jobs, but I was restless and between projects, waiting to hear about the last round of edits. It seemed like Beck was coming and going more quickly than before. Sometimes I didn’t even hear her scooter, and I wondered if she was walking here like before. I fretted over it—debating whether she was angry or simply rushed—but I was determined not to seek her out again. I’d begun running out of food, so I’d bummed dinner with the gang at Reefside twice before I finally convinced June to make a grocery store trip with me.
As we drove past the diner, she asked, “What do you think that place is like? A typical greasy spoon?”
“No, it’s pretty good. I’ve been there twice.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Really? By yourself?”
I felt my face redden. “Uh, no. With Beck.”
“Who’s Beck?”
Either she and Mel didn’t communicate much, or she was trying to play dumb. Or not playing. “She’s the daughter of Mrs. Janser, the one who cleans for the rental company. The one who came by Reefside to talk to us after we got here.”
“Wait. The daughter you’re supposed to stay away from?”
I laughed. “Yeah, but I think we’re over that now. Beck said her mother likes me.” What was wrong with me? I never spilled my business like this and certainly not to June who was the newest addition to our group and the one I knew the least.
“So you’re seeing her now?” June asked as we pulled into the grocery store parking lot.
“I’m definitely not seeing her.” I waved and reached for my door handle. “It’s a long story involving kittens.”
“Kittens!” June practically squealed. “I love kittens.” She turned to face me. “Tell me everything.”
I didn’t argue. Mel had told me dozens of times how June was the most stubborn woman she’d ever met once her mind was made up about something. As I talked, I felt increasingly bad about not having been much of a friend to Beck, certain that she would have sought me out if the situation was reversed. “Let’s hurry and get our shopping done. I want to be there in case she comes by tonight.”
We were on the last aisle when a familiar figure stacking cans on an endcap caught my attention. I grabbed June’s shoulder. “That’s her,” I whispered urgently. “That’s Beck.”
She pulled the cart away from me. “Tell me what else you need. I’ll head toward the checkout when I’m done. You go talk to her.” She peered down the aisle. “I love her hair. She’s so cute, Emily. Are you sure—”
I handed her my list and pushed her none too gently in the opposite direction. “I’ll see you outside.”
Beck’s face was set with concentration, but her movements were sluggish with fatigue. As I approached, she misjudged the angle of a can, and it toppled to the ground, rolling away from her. She lunged to catch it, tripping on the box she was pulling from. Her shoulder hit the ground, and she groaned aloud, rolling onto her back.
“Beck,” I called, moving quickly to kneel beside her. “Don’t try to move yet. Rest a minute.”
She peered up at me. “Emily? What are you doing here?”
“I should ask you the same thing,” I said, smiling. “This is about the last place I thought I’d see you working.”
She closed her eyes, reaching over to rub the injury with her other hand. “I know. But they pay fairly well just for stocking.”
“How much?” I asked.
“How much what?”
“How much do they pay?”
“Nearly ten dollars an hour.”
Her voice was lethargic, her eyes still closed. I was pretty sure she was falling asleep right there on the floor. The store intercom crackled to life. “Rebekah Reynolds, report to Mr. Dirkens’s office immediately.”
Beck sighed and looked up. “I have to go. I’m sure he wants to tell me how much he’s going to deduct from my pay for that dented can.”
I looked at my watch, doing some quick calculations. “I’ll pay you fifty dollars to take the rest of the day off.”
She struggled to a sitting position. “What?”
“Fifty dollars if you’ll come back to my place and talk to me until dinner. I won’t make you cook if you think you could stand a pizza.” I wasn’t about to make one from scratch, but I’d seen June put three frozen ones in her buggy, and I was hoping I could beg one from her.
She frowned at me as if trying to work out a complicated problem. “Why would you do that?” I hesitated, not sure how much more to say. There weren’t many shoppers in the store, but those who passed were giving us second and third looks. Beck struggled to her feet when I faltered. “It doesn’t matter. I can’t take your money, Emily. It wouldn’t be right.”
“Yes, it would. Because I should have found you sooner and straightened this all out. Friends are people you can count on, remember? And you’re my friend.”
She looked away. “Am I? Even if it isn’t time for our no-big-deal dinner yet?”
I ran my hand across the close-cut side of her hair, and her eyes closed again. “You know that wasn’t what I meant. I was trying to make things easier for you. It sounded wrong because you’re tired and upset. I’ll tell Mr. Dirkens you’ve injured yourself, and you won’t file for workman’s comp if he gives you the rest of the afternoon off. But only if you’ll come home with me. Please say yes.”
She took a breath, and her fatigue seemed to lift slightly. “Okay. I don’t want your money, though.”
“Don’t worry, I’m going to make you earn it,” I suggested, and she smiled tiredly.
* * *
June was remarkably restrained as I guided Beck to the car. After introductions, she offered to let Beck sit between us. She declined, though, and stretched out across the back seat. She might have been asleep before we got through town.
I drove to Reefside, assisting June with her groceries and getting a frozen pizza for my trouble. The fact that Beck didn’t wake and insist on helping was further evidence of her exhaustion. When we reached the Guest House, she slept until I had everything put away and returned to the car to wake her gently.
“What time is it?” she asked, rubbing her face.
“Time to come inside,” I said, helping her up the stairs. I led her into the guest bedroom as if that had been my plan all along. It wasn’t, but I could see she was in no condition to talk. She lay on top of the covers with a groan, and I slipped her tennis shoes off before I left the room. At my desk, I worked on my short story with more success than I’d had since I started. Four hours later, I put the pizza in the oven and made a salad before going to wake her.
“How about some dinner, Beck?” I asked, touching her cheek. “We’ve got pizza.”
“I had the best dream,” she rasped, eyes still closed. “I dreamed Emily came into the store and made me go home with her.”
“That wasn’t a dream, sweetheart.” I stopped abruptly, shocked by the endearment. I’d never called anyone those kinds of names. They always sounded stupid and fake. But maybe not this time, as I imagined Beck’s heart really was sweet, not absent like mine.
Her eyes opened, and her lips stretched into a cool, lazy smile that made my pulse jump. “I actually knew that.” She stretched languidly and spoke through a yawn as she glanced out the window. “I’m sorry I slept so long. I sure haven’t been earning my salary.”
June’s earlier admiration of Beck had reinforced what I’d thought for some time, but seeing her relaxed and unguarded like this, I was reminded she was quite an attractive package. Despite the signs of fatigue, her pale brown eyes were warm, and the sight of her body stretched out on the bed sent my mind in decidedly inappropriate directions. I forced myself to look away, though I didn’t want to. “It’s fine. We won’t start you on the clock until after you eat.” I gestured. “You know there’s the small bathroom in case…” I stood, making my way to the door. I heard the bed creak, and Beck’s soft voice was right behind me.
“Emily.” I turned and was drawn into a close embrace. With her face against my ear, she whispered. “Thank you.”
It had been months since someone touched me like that, maybe longer. And then, in all likelihood, it was only Mel. I generally didn’t go in for hugging, or kissing for that matter. In the quick jumble of my sex life, it was more about getting to the point. I knew I should pull away, but I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. I wanted her to feel comfortable enough to talk to me. So I let myself unwind a bit, let my body soften against hers. I put my hands at the indention of her waist, aware of the slight swell of her hips below my touch and murmured, “You’re welcome.” We stood like that for a few more seconds before I added, “I should get the pizza before it burns.”
She let go without a word, and like the first time she’d held my hand, I felt the loss of contact acutely. I should ask Mel if she’d discovered any gay bars in the area. I definitely needed to work off some tension.
We discussed the merits of various pizza toppings during dinner, and she assured me there was a local pie that was “absolutely the best there was.” I reminded her that my wide samplings of New York pizza meant her selection would have a lot to live up to. We both had a beer, and Beck told me something I’d already surmised: she rarely drank. She looked away and muttered something about “him” drinking enough for all of them, and I supposed she was talking about her stepfather. After a few seconds, she cleared her throat and stood, reaching for the empty plates. I surprised her by taking her arm and pulling her out to the deck.
“I can deal with those later,” I said as we sat. “We need to talk.”
She didn’t pull away, but I could feel her tense. “About what?”
“About whatever the problem is that has you in such a state that you’re not working on your PAFA entry. Instead, you’re running around like a chicken with your head cut off, doing menial jobs and worrying us all while you risk your health.” Her head dropped. “Beck, look at me.” Slowly, reluctantly, she did. “I know we haven’t been friends for very long, but I care about you. And whatever it is, you can tell me.”
“But I don’t want to,” she whispered. “I don’t want anyone to know.”
“I understand how that feels. I absolutely do.” Something in my voice must have made her look over at me. Disregarding her scrutiny, I waved away my revealing remark. “But sometimes, talking to someone makes it better. Or clearer, at least.”
She lowered her gaze again. “It’s probably too clear. That’s the problem.”
I turned in my chair to face her. “Tell me, Beck. I’ll do anything I can to help.”
She sighed. I waited. After a minute, she stood and walked to the railing. I gave her a long minute before I joined her. We looked out at the water, almost black under the starlight. She sighed again. “Here’s the thing. You know there are pages and pages of rules in the PAFA contest?” I nodded. This was government related, after all, so a long, complicated form made sense. “Well, Mama and I had been going over them, and I left the papers in my room. Peyton came over later that night, and I guess she read them when I was in the bathroom. She…she made a video of us, you know, having sex.” She turned to me, a pleading expression on her face. “I didn’t know, Emily. I swear I didn’t.”
I put my arm around her shoulder. “I believe you, Beck.”
She shuddered and leaned into me. “One of those rules is about not having ‘inappropriate, lurid, or illegal material’ out on social media. When the news came about me being a finalist, my mama was real excited, telling everyone in town, and naturally, Peyton got wind of it. Now’s she threatening to post the video all over the internet.”
I took in a breath, trying to work through the scenario from Peyton’s side. Why I was able to identify with the villain in any situation was an easy answer but not the most important thing now. That Peyton must be a petty, small-minded bitch was the starting point. The question was, why would she not be satisfied by being on the arm of the PAFA winner? Perhaps she thought Beck had no likelihood of winning. No, she presumably saw it as being like the lottery; at least they had a chance, right? And she could claim the status of the muse—or if she was too stupid to know what that was, the inspiration—for Beck’s work. True or not, Beck wouldn’t correct her. I was missing something. “Why would she do that?”
Beck turned away from me, staring out at the water again. “She’s mad at me,” she said after a few seconds.
“Why?”
“Because we haven’t been spending time together recently.”
I’d become accustomed to these kinds of conversations with Beck. Normally, pulling every little detail out of someone would make me crazy, or I simply wouldn’t care enough to try, but somehow, I didn’t mind with her. “Why not?”
I felt her hand cover mine, though she was still looking away. “I haven’t felt like being with her. Because I’d rather spend time here.”
I felt a warm surge of pleasure at the unspoken “with you,” but pushed it aside. So Peyton was angry. Hell hath no fury, and all that. I sighed but didn’t move my hand. “And what does she want?”
“She wants a thousand dollars.” Her voice had been quietly resigned, but it rose as she ran her free hand over her face. “A thousand dollars? She might as well say a million. I’ve been working like crazy for nearly a week, and I barely have two hundred saved up. At this rate, it won’t matter if she posts it because I won’t have an entry ready by the deadline, and everyone will wonder why. I don’t know what to do, Emily.”
In the starlight, I could see tears shining in her eyes. I hurt for her. “Listen, we’ll figure something out. I just need some time to think.” Her shoulders slumped. I suspected she was hoping for an instant solution. “Have you seen this video?”
“No, she wouldn’t let me see it. She only played it over the phone, but I could hear the sound.”
“Did she…uh…say your name?”
“Yeah, a lot. And there was more to it than that.”
“Like what?”
She looked out at the water. “I really don’t want to say.”
“Look, if I’m going to help, I need to know everything. I don’t want to start on a plan and get blindsided by something I didn’t expect.”
She put her head in her hands. “Sometimes she like to pretend things. Like she’s my teacher or we’re hostages somewhere.” I hid my smile. That didn’t sound so bad. “But that time she wanted to act like she didn’t want to have sex, and I was…like, forcing her.” Shit. I could see where this was going. “I told her I didn’t like that game, but she swore…she said she’d get me off this time if I would.”
Wait, what? This time? I blinked, confused. “You mean, she doesn’t usually, uh, reciprocate?”
Beck sniffed, looking up. “She says I’m the butch, and butches aren’t supposed to want that.”
“Oh, Beck. You know that’s not true, don’t you?” I was getting madder and madder at this Peyton chick, and I was going to make damn sure she got her due.
“When you’re with someone, do you always—” She broke off, rubbing her face again.
“Assuming they want to, yes.” I needed to change the subject. “All right. Peyton recorded you acting like you were forcing her? And in the end, she gave in?”
Beck ducked her head. “After she was, you know, finished, she said she’d never been so turned on.”
I thought some more. What she’d likely do was cut her final admission and post only the pretend rape. “Maybe we need a lawyer,” I mused, thinking of getting a sworn affidavit that the video was false.
“What?” Her eyes went wide. “Why? Am I in trouble?” Her voice shook with fear. “I can’t afford…Emily, I’m scared of going to jail. I couldn’t, I won’t—”
I grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her to me, worried she was going into a full panic. “Listen to me, Beck. Are you listening?” I felt her nod against me. “No one’s going to jail, understand?” I paused, the nucleus of an idea forming. “Unless it’s Peyton.”
* * *
I didn’t have to explain much to get the Reefside gang on board with my plan. I didn’t go into the details of why, only that my young friend was being blackmailed by this horrible person, and I wanted to help. Ultimately, they all confessed to a degree of boredom and readily agreed to take part. I set my other writing aside as I worked on our script, doing everything I could think of to ensure the outcome I wanted, plus maximum embarrassment for Peyton. Other than asking Beck about Peyton’s class schedule, I was careful not to involve her in any way.
Mel’s narcissistic streak meant that while she wouldn’t have simply loaned Beck eight hundred dollars, having a part in our plot meant she’d gladly spend a chunk of that amount on official-looking documents, badges, and uniform rentals. Her Halloween parties were the stuff of legends, and this crazy scheme was just her style.
“I think this is the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard of someone doing,” June said after our last rehearsal. I think she meant it was the sweetest thing she’d ever heard of me doing. “And don’t forget, you’re bringing her for dinner when this is over.” I couldn’t ever see that happening, but I smiled and nodded.
We put our hands together like some sort of randomly dressed athletic team and chanted, “Don’t let the bitch win.”