Summer Session (29 page)

‘I didn’t mean to take the stuff – I just – at the last minute grabbed it.’

Grabbed what? ‘What stuff?’

‘I’m in big trouble, Gwen. My room-mate had to pay two hundred and fifty dollars to bail me out of jail.’

Jail?

‘I needed some of those sticky things, you know, to hang posters, so I went to the hardware store. Next thing I know, a cop is looking in my bag, and I’m handcuffed, and I have all kinds of shit in there. Tape and a screwdriver and tools I don’t even know what they’re for, let alone how they got there. I’m in so much trouble, Gwen. If my parents find out, I swear I’m dead.’

Gwen didn’t know what to say. Shoplifting? Really? Shaundra was sophisticated, glamorous, dramatic and very cool. Who’d have guessed she was a shoplifter?

‘And did you hear about Jeremy and Esoso?’

Gwen’s mouth was dry. She almost didn’t want to hear.

‘They got arrested, too. I saw them at the station. Jeremy’s nose is broken, and Esoso’s got a huge black eye. They were in College Town outside Johnny’s Big Red and started some kind of brawl. I don’t know anything else.’

Again, Gwen ached for La Crosse where nobody she knew ever brawled or stole. Or jumped out of windows. Or got murdered. She missed her golden retriever, Athena.

Alone, Gwen wandered through town. It was hot; suddenly, she realized she’d feel a lot better if she had a cold beer. She’d rarely been to a bar, never by herself. And, while she’d had her share of liquor at fraternity parties, she’d never had a drink so early in the day. Even so, she really craved a tall one, could almost taste it. Throat parched, she hunted for a bar, finally smelled one from half a block away and stepped inside.

Willy’s was dark, air-conditioned. It had an old-fashioned juke box, a dartboard, a pool table. But Gwen didn’t care about any of that; she just wanted a beer. Cold clean beer would wash away the sweltering heat and her morbid mood. Maybe she’d get wasted. All by herself.

She climbed on to a stool; rows of well-lit booze bottles greeted her from the wall behind the bar, offering themselves in consolation and partnership. Gwen was tempted, but she didn’t have enough cash for hard liquor. Beer would have to do.

The bar was empty except for a shapeless middle-aged guy with frameless glasses who was jawing with the bartender. She sat for a while as they both ignored her. Finally, she called out, ‘Hey, can anybody get a beer in here?’

The bartender eyed her and slowly ambled over. ‘ID?’ He had slick dark hair and a toothpick in his mouth.

Gwen handed him her ID. He took it with thick, stubby fingers, turned it around and over, smirked, looked at her and shook his head, wiggling his toothpick.

‘I don’t think so, baby girl.’ He tossed it on to the bar, returning to the middle-aged guy who was watching her now with open contempt. Who did he think he was? Did they think they were better than her just because they were old? Look at them. Lardy old turds.

Two guys sauntered in, biker wannabes. Tattoos and piercings; one with a shaved head, the other with a mullet and obscene little goatee. Tank tops.

‘It’s a valid ID.’ Gwen didn’t give up. ‘What’s your problem?’

Without even looking at her, the bartender answered, ‘You ain’t the babe in the photo. You got red hair and freckles. She don’t.’

Well, he was right. The photo in the ID was her cousin. But they looked alike. ‘I dyed my hair and wore make-up in the picture. You’re blind. Look again.’

‘Honey, you want a drink? I’ll get you a glass of milk. Otherwise, take a hike.’ He turned to the new guys. ‘What’ll it be?’

Gwen wasn’t going to be dismissed. She wanted a beer and she was going to get it. Maybe the bikers would help. She approached them; the bald one checked her out over his shoulder. The other got up to put money in the jukebox; music blared, loud and electrifying. Country? He chose Johnny Cash? But Johnny Cash moved her; she’d never noticed how deeply. She started to dance. Couldn’t help it; the music pulled her from inside, moved her body without her help. The mullet guy watched her.

‘She’s a minor,’ the barkeep warned.

‘No, I’m not,’ Gwen insisted. She was, after all, eighteen. And a half.

Mullet put an arm around her, led her to a booth in the corner. The bald one brought the pitcher. Gwen didn’t mind sharing a glass. Before long, she drank straight from the pitcher.

And not long after that, only mildly amazed at herself, she was on a table in the back room, bones vibrating to the music, her hair flying, spirit soaring. She hooted along with the small appreciative crowd, spinning, twirling, tossing her bra into the air, reveling first in the cheers, then in the arms of her enthusiastic fans.

Vicki was still moaning on the kitchen floor when Harper headed toward the clinic to see Hank, determined to confront him, as well. She felt energized, empowered. She didn’t know if Leslie’s eye movement techniques had ended her flashbacks, but they certainly seemed to have restored her self-confidence. She thought about what she’d do when she got to the clinic. Burst into Hank’s room and pop him in the nose, too? What would he do? But picturing the clinic made her think of Ron. Of running into him there. Of kissing him.

Wait. Didn’t she need to talk to Ron? Yes. She still needed to tell him about the numbers, that whoever had them was the killer. She pulled the Ninja to the side of the road, pulled out her phone to call him, but by the time he answered, she’d realized it would be better to tell him about the numbers in person, at her house, and she told him to meet her there. Right away. He asked why she sounded so urgent. Was she all right? Had she found out something about the drugs? Harper gave no answers. She simply told him to meet her and turned her Ninja toward home.

When she got there, she whooshed around, straightening the bedroom, changing into some loose lounging pajamas, spraying herself with jasmine body scent, going downstairs to brush her teeth and check herself in the mirror, putting on lip gloss for the first time in half a year. Finally, Ron’s car pulled into the driveway.

Harper met him at the front door. Without a word, she pulled him to her, pressing her mouth against his, wrapping her limbs around him, taking him by surprise.

Except that Ron didn’t seem all that surprised. He half-carried Harper up the steps to the bedroom, his shoes abandoned at the front door, his shirt on the stairs, his khakis on the floor beside the bed. He let her claw at him, marking his back, chewing his lips, and he responded in kind, tossing her roughly on to the mattress.

Harper climbed on to him, rolled on top and under him, nipping and clutching, releasing weeks of pent-up frustration, allowing stifled needs and suppressed desires to erupt. For Harper, reality blurred; her life seemed far away, out of reach. Unimportant. This moment and this man were all that mattered; the rest faded, and she held Ron tightly as if he were her only tether to the world. Her entire body yearned; each cell ached to connect with Ron. Her legs encircled him, her arms clung, her torso pressed, attempting to merge. Sex had never felt as desperate, as consuming. As dangerous.

Afterward, Ron slept instantly, noiselessly. He didn’t snore the way Hank did, didn’t toss. He just slept. Harper lay still, listening to his silence, thinking. Parts of her body that had been dormant for months still tingled from Ron’s touch. And his scent was now everywhere, on her skin, her sheets. In her mouth. Oh God. His skin was smooth, almost hairless. The whole time they’d made love, his eyes had been open, watching her. Conscious of her every reaction, each pant or moan. Sex with Ron had been athletic. Tensions had been wrested from her body; she was lighter, freer. And afterwards, lying beside him in the bed that belonged to Hank, she wondered at how easy it had been to break her vows.

Did she feel guilty? Was she sorry? She wasn’t sure. After all, Hank had cheated on her, hadn’t he? And, until now, she’d been a celibate, faithful chump. Ron’s arm lifted, rearranged itself, landing on her belly. He’d told her he cared for her. That it was easy for him to be with her. That he could look at her face forever. He wasn’t shy about expressing his feelings. Unlike Hank. Even before the accident, he hadn’t often articulated his affection. No, Ron wasn’t like Hank. Not his easy words or his agile movements. Not his silent climax.

Oh God. What was she doing, rolling around in bed with this man, comparing him to her husband? Sorrow washed over her; she missed Hank, longed for him. Stop it, she scolded. Don’t punish yourself. Hank isn’t here. Can’t be here. Hank is not available. He probably never will be.

No, she had nothing to feel guilty about; she’d done nothing wrong. She’d only tried to find some comfort so she could survive. Harper turned over and propped herself on an elbow, watching Ron sleep, confronting the undeniable truth that another man’s head was on her husband’s pillow. No question, the man was beautiful. Not just handsome; he was aesthetically exquisite. His features were symmetrical, chiseled. Not quite strange to her anymore. Becoming familiar.

Harper lay back again, but the movement disturbed him. His eyes opened, and he turned to look at her. Smiled.

‘You OK?’ He touched her face.

Harper smiled back, kissed his fingers. Yes, she was fine. He sat up, getting out of bed, pulling on his khakis. Harper sat up, blinking. Was he leaving? All of a sudden?

‘Going to the john.’ He headed into the hall and down the stairs.

Oh, just going to the john. No big deal. Wondering vaguely why he needed pants for that, Harper fluffed her pillow, turned over, snuggled down. And then, suddenly, her eyes opened.

Wide.

Before she could fully process the reasons, she dashed out of bed, pulling on a T-shirt, stepping into panties. Oh God. Ron had gone downstairs to the john. Oh God.

Cool down, she told herself. You’re overreacting. There had to be a reasonable explanation. But, if there was, she couldn’t think of it.

How, on the first time she’d invited him into her home, had Ron known not to use the bathroom adjacent to the bedroom? How come he hadn’t even glanced inside to see that it was being renovated? And how had he known where the other bathroom was?

There was only one explanation: Ron had been there before. Inside her house. Without Harper’s knowledge.

But when? And why? Obviously, to look for the stolen drugs. Had it been Ron who’d ransacked her home? And if so, had Ron killed Monique and Larry? She pictured it. Ron prowling the house; Larry and Monique finding him. A confrontation. Murders.

Heart pounding, jabbing her legs into cut-offs, she told herself that she was wrong. Ron was not – could not be – a murderer; even so, she hurried down the hall to the stairway. She took the steps gently, avoiding the creaky parts, trying to balance on her weaker leg, the scarred one that, just minutes ago, Ron had kissed. Damn. Ron’s touch still echoed on her skin, tingling like the shadow of a killer.

At the foot of the stairs, Harper glanced down the hall at the bathroom, hoping Ron wouldn’t hear her. That he wouldn’t realize his mistake until she was gone. What would happen when he found out she knew? Would he kill her, too?

Harper wasn’t going to risk it. She edged toward the front door. Before Ron got out of the bathroom, she needed to get out of the house. Just a few seconds and she’d be on her Ninja, riding away.

‘Hey, Harper?’

She froze. His voice was close. Not coming from the bathroom down the hall, but from the kitchen. He’d heard her, knew she was downstairs. Maybe she could bolt past the kitchen to the front door and get out before he caught her. Maybe. She crept to the kitchen doorway, peeked in. The refrigerator was open. Ron was leaning inside, looking for something.

‘Hey, got any beer?’

Harper held her breath, still considering a dash to the front door. ‘Bottom shelf. Way in the back.’ She edged toward the front door.

‘Want one?’

‘No, I’m good.’ Her voice sounded thin, and she moved unsteadily, off balance, her weak leg wobbling.

Ron stepped out of the kitchen. ‘Harper? What’s up? Where are you going?’ He moved toward her, holding a bottle of beer. His smile was baffled, kind of wounded.

Harper kept moving back, watching him; he matched his steps with hers. ‘Don’t come closer, Ron.’

Or what? She’d cry? She had no weapon.

‘“Don’t come closer”? Seriously?’ His free hand rumpled his hair. ‘Wait, sorry. I must have missed something. Are you the same lady who was upstairs with me? Because I don’t think there
is
any closer than we just got.’

He moved towards her, still hadn’t realized his error.

‘I figured it out, Ron. What you did. So step back.’

But he didn’t. He kept coming. ‘What I did? What did I do?’

‘You used the bathroom.’

Ron tilted his head, not getting it. ‘You’re mad that I took a leak?’

‘How did you know where my bathroom was, Ron?’

A jolt of realization flickered in Ron’s eyes. He glanced toward the bathroom and drew a breath, wincing, taking yet another step. And another. Forgetting that Harper had been trained for combat.

‘Come on, Harper. What’s the big deal?’ Another step. A charming smile.

‘When were you here before, Ron? Was it when Larry and Monique were in the house? Did they see you here? Is that why you had to kill them?’

‘Kill them? Come on, Harper. You can’t be serious.’ He began to reach for her.

Quickly, Harper turned, twisting her torso, balancing on her damaged leg just long enough to launch a sidekick with her strong one. Her heel landed on Ron’s chest, knocking him, stunned, to the ground, his bottle of beer clattering, rolling, spilling on to the wooden floor.

His smile vanished as he scrambled to his feet, coming after Harper. ‘Damn,’ he coughed.

Harper’s weak leg had collapsed with the kick. Pushing herself up, she ran for the door, had her hand on the knob when Ron lunged, grabbing her ankle from behind, pulling her down. She reached out to break her fall, but her knees slammed the floor. Jagged pain roared through her, reverberated in her head, the shock of the impact momentarily blinding her. Even so, she kept moving, trying to crawl, but Ron had her ankle, so she spun around to face him, snarling.