The Last One (5 page)

“Well, that doesn’t surprise me. He helped get you to the truck and then carried you to the Chevette. You were semi-awake then.”

I bit the side of my lip. “His name is Sam, you said?”

“Yeah. Why?” I heard her curiosity.

“No reason. I just want to know who has my car.”

“No, that would be Boomer, remember? Sam just drove us there. I don’t think you’ll see him again.”

I closed my eyes against the remainder of the headache still pinging under my forehead and stomped down the feeling of disappointment. Why would I care about not seeing a man I’d been nearly too drunk to remember? What did it matter if it felt like those brown eyes had seen deep into me, maybe the first guy ever to look beyond the surface? It meant nothing. He was just another male, one more in a world full of men I didn’t need.

I BEGAN TO FEEL more alive around two that afternoon. When Laura suggested that we log some studio time, I put on some yoga pants and a T-shirt and walked the few blocks to a tall brick building that used to be a department store but now housed classrooms and practice rooms. We had access to the art studios twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, but the weekends were still the busiest times. I was surprised to see the day’s sign-in list was virtually untouched when Laura and I arrived.

“Geez, are we the only losers who care about their craft today?” I printed my name on the line and handed the pen to Laura.

“Or maybe we’re among the few who didn’t hit the party of the year last night. Could be the rest of campus is still sleeping it off.” She smiled and handed the pen back to the security attendant. I followed her down the hall and into a nearly empty room.

The studios were divided between the different disciplines. Laura’s major was drawing, with a concentration in pen and ink. Mine was painting. Those two disciplines shared a room, although Laura didn’t come down here as often as I did. She could draw virtually any place, and most of her homework and projects could be finished in our living room as well as anywhere else. I, on the other hand, had to be in the studio at least three to four times a week. I was pretty sure she’d suggested us coming down today as a distraction for me, to take my mind off my hangover, but that was all right; I was willing to play along if it gave me some time on the easel.

The room was a study in chaos. There were canvases in the process of drying propped against the walls, half-finished three-dimensional sculptures scattered on tables and windowsills, and boxes of paints and brushes piled here and there. I felt perfectly at home.

“Meghan! Hey!”

I turned my head to glance down the haphazard row of easels, where a tall, skinny boy in chino shorts and a paint-splattered T-shirt was waving his brush at me. Forcing a smile, I returned the wave and clenched Laura’s arm. “Don’t leave me alone.”

“Why?” She followed my gaze. “Oh, shit.” As he approached us, her phony grin matched mine. “Hey, Preston. How are you?”

“I’m awesome, just like always.” He slung an arm over my neck, pulling me close. I stood perfectly still, trying not to stiffen my body. “What’re you ladies doing down here? Gettin’ your paint on?” He laughed at his own lame joke.

“Yeah, just putting in some time down here before it gets too intense.” Laura slid her eyes to mine. “You know, with finals and everything coming up.”

“I hear you. So Meghan ...” He bent his arm, forcing me to look up at him. “I looked for you last night at Oswald’s. Where were you hiding, girl?”

I clamped down my lips to hold back a wince. Some guys could pull off calling me ‘girl’. Preston couldn’t.

“We didn’t go. I just got back from Florida last night, and I was tired.” It was the truth. He didn’t need to know about our adventure into the wilds of Georgia.

“Florida, huh? Rockin’ a little spring break action? Wet T-shirt contests? Niiiice.”

I ducked from beneath his arm and took a step back. “No, actually, I went home because it would have been my dad’s birthday. I wanted to be with my mom and my brother. The closest I got to a wet shirt was when my nephew spilled his juice down his onesie.”

Preston had the good grace to look abashed. “Oh ... yeah. Sorry. I forgot that’s where you’re from.” He gave me all of thirty seconds to absorb that apology before he plunged ahead. “So listen, want to go out with me tonight? I thought we could head back to that coffee shop you liked, down on Broughton. Get a cappuccino, and then you know ...” He trailed one finger down my arm, from shoulder to elbow. “See where things go.”

“Thanks, but no.” I was suddenly nauseated again. “I’m staying in tonight.”

“Aw, c’mon, sugar.” Preston closed his hand around my upper arm. “We had a good time last fall.”

“Sure we did.” I pried his fingers off me. “That was then. I’m not interested now. Thanks.” I walked away, looking for an open easel, preferably far away from wherever Preston was working.

I picked up a blank canvas on my way and set it up in a quiet section near the windows. The light was good, and I could keep my back to the rest of the room, making it easier to ignore assholes like Preston Riker.

“Meghan.” He was behind me, and I closed my eyes, counting to ten.

“Preston, I’m sorry, I really am, but I’m here to work, not to socialize. I don’t mean to be rude, but I said no, and I meant no. I’m not interested in going out with you again.”

“Don’t be a bitch.” His tone lost some of its honey. “I like playing the game as much as anyone, but you don’t want to mess with me too long. I might get ...” He leaned to speak into my ear. “Impatient.”

“I hope you’re not threatening me.” I unrolled my brush kit. “I’d hate to have to turn you in for sexual harassment, Pres. Though I’m pretty sure I’d find some corroborating witnesses.”

“It’s not harassment when you want it, too.” He slid an arm around my ribs, snugging me against his body. His thumb brushed against the lower swell of my breast.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I grabbed his hand, squeezing it tight and moving it away from me. I pivoted to face him and, keeping him off-balance, I twisted his arm behind his back. “I don’t want to make a scene here. But if you don’t step away now, you’re going to be curled up on the floor, clutching at your dick and crying like a little baby. Get the message. I’m not going out with you. I don’t want to see you now or ever. Now go away.” I released his hand and pushed him away.

“Fucking ice bitch.” Rubbing his elbow, Preston snarled the words, but he stepped away from me and stalked across the room and out the door.

I turned back to my easel and concentrated on taking out my paints and other supplies. My hands didn’t shake, but my jaw was tight and my teeth clenched.

“You okay?” There was a hint of sympathy in Laura’s voice.

“Yeah.” I set the paint tray and brushes on a nearby table. “He’s just ...” I shook my head. “You know. Preston. He’s harmless.”

“Just another of your conquests.” This time there wasn’t as much sympathy as there was resignation.

I glared at her over my shoulder. “That’s not it. I went out with him a few times, and it was fun, but he wanted more than I did. Same old, same old.” I picked up a glass tumbler. “I’m going to get some water and start working. Just let me know when you’re finished.”

Once I was set up with brushes, palette and water, I put on my ear buds and plugged them into my phone. A few seconds later, Bastille flooded through my head, and for the next three hours, nothing existed except music and paint.

LAURA LEFT THE STUDIO before I did, and by the time I got outside, it was dark. Tourists and residents were still wandering the streets of Savannah, and as always, I felt safe as I made my way back to our apartment. I stopped on a corner to give a couple of older ladies directions to The Pirates House restaurant, and I smiled at a group of teenage girls sitting at a sidewalk table.

We ordered in salads from the deli around the corner for dinner and watched our favorite black and white movies, this time making our theme for the evening Claudette Colbert. I went to bed early, slept hard and woke up in time for my eight-thirty Narrative Painting course.

All of my morning classes were within walking distance, but in the afternoon, I had to drive to the other side of town for Conceptual Art Practices. I made a face at the ugly Chevette as I opened it and slid in, but I had to admit that it got me where I needed to go. I just hoped no one saw me behind the wheel.

My phone buzzed after class as I walked toward the parking lot. It was a text message from Laura.

Your car is ready. Sending you address to go get it.

I sighed. I wanted my Honda back, but the idea of driving all the way to that backwater town was not appealing.

Want to ride out with me? I can pick you up.

I opened up the Chevette and climbed into the driver’s seat, waiting for Laura’s reply.

Nice try, Megs. You’re on your own.

I typed in one last message before I started up the car.

Can’t blame a girl for trying. I’ll call on my way back. If I don’t get kidnapped by the rednecks.

I plugged the address Laura had texted into my phone’s map program and aimed the car out of town. It was a pretty afternoon; only a hint of intense heat that would hit in a month or so floated on the breeze. The old Chevy didn’t have air conditioning, so I rolled down all four windows, blasted the rock station and made the most of the ride.

The majority of the landscape on the way to Burton consisted of grassy swampland, dotted by small copses of trees now and then. It looked a little different in the daylight than it had on Saturday when Laura and I had driven to the bar, which I passed a few miles before I turned onto the main street of the town. In the late afternoon sunshine, empty, it looked less exciting than it had under neon and moonlight with a parking lot full of cowboys.

I found Boomer’s without any trouble, even though the sign that hung near the curb was faded and rusting. An old tow truck sat in front of the garage, and a rag-tag assortment of vehicles surrounded the building. I pulled in and found an empty spot to leave the Chevette. I didn’t see the Honda anywhere, but surely there could only be one Boomer’s in a town this small.

Slamming the car door, I walked toward the building. There was an entrance with the word OFFICE stenciled on the window. I didn’t see anyone inside, but I could hear music and the sound of machines coming from the garage. I gave the door an experimental push, and it opened with a loud squeak and a ringing bell.

A chest-high counter took up most of the room. There were a few worn paper signs advertising products and services that were foreign to me. I stepped closer and saw a desk below the counter, covered with piles of papers, some of them edged with grease stains. An old rotary telephone was parked off to the side next to an equally ancient adding machine. Pushed under the desk was a rolling office chair that had been patched in spots with duct tape.

Another door led into the garage itself, and I spied a few men in coveralls bent over an open hood. A piece of notebook paper had been torn out and taped up on the window. It read,
Employees Only. No Admittance.

I rapped on the glass, hoping to catch the attention of one of the men. But they were running some kind of loud drill, and neither of them even glanced my way. I looked over the counter, in case I’d missed a hidden bell or button. Nothing. I glanced around the room, at a loss. It looked like I was going to have to wait for Boomer to find me.

Tucked back in a corner on the far side of a counter was a cracked brown leather couch. A wooden coffee table showcased a number of what I was sure were the finest in automobile magazines. I maneuvered my way between the two and perched on the edge of the sofa. Taking out my phone, I was about to blast Laura with a text about leaving my car in the middle of nowhere when I heard the squeak and bell of the door again.

I stood up fast, smiling in expectation. When I saw the man in the threshold, my heart thudded against my ribs.

I remembered those brown eyes, though in my memory, they were softer and full of warmth. Now they were wide in surprise.

“You—” I cleared my throat. “Are you—Boomer?”