by Dan Lawton
The truth was, he did not know. He could make up a story to get her off his back, but he thought she would see right through it. He had to be upfront with her.
His pocket vibrated. It bought him a few seconds, which he was thankful for. He fished for it, reached his fingers inside his pocket, and pulled out the phone. It was a text message. He tapped the screen and the phone came to life.
It was Shay.
He knew his face lit with excitement but he tried to rein it in because he also knew Cheyenne watched him too. Further questions were not something he wanted, so he tried to be as casual as he could as he read it.
Hey! Sorry I missed your messages. My phone died. Something came up, so don’t worry. I’ll tell you all about it when I see you. Everything is fine.
Benji felt fifty pounds lighter, energized. He exhaled and could not help but smile. He knew she would have an explanation. He knew it! He loved that girl. They would be okay.
“Well?” Cheyenne said.
Benji looked at her. “Just trust me, okay?”
“Why should I?”
“We’ve made it this far, haven’t we?”
She did not respond.
“Speaking of fine,” he said, eyeing her now. “Why don’t you bring that ass over here and show me how much you missed me?”
She stood up and huffed, then walked toward the door.
“Where are you going?”
She stopped and faced him when she got to the door. “You don’t just get a piece of ass anytime you want it, you know.”
He smiled until he realized she was serious.
“You better be handling this.”
“Don’t worry about it. It’s under control.”
“I hope that’s true. Goodbye, lover.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
The side of a fist pounding on a door woke him. At first he ignored it, thought it was meant for someone else, but then it happened again. And again. His eyes were so heavy he wondered if they were sewn shut. Blind, he managed to drag himself from the bed and planted his bare feet on the raggedy carpet and pushed himself toward where he thought the door was. His toes instinctively scrunched to protect themselves from whatever lingered that the eye could not see. He reminded himself to wash well.
Another knock.
By now, his eyes were open, though his vision was crusty. Irritation rose. Then annoyance. The clock said it was just before eight o’clock. With each toe-scrunching step he took, the more aware he became. And with it, he realized his headache had not gone away, though it dulled. He had not had that much to drink in many years, and now he regretted it. Even if it led to that luscious kiss.
Another knock, this one farther away. Then came a squeak and a voice, then another voice. A door closed. Randolph took one final step and blinked away the blur, then he closed one eye and pressed the other against the hole in the door. It was like looking down a long tunnel, through multiple layers of glass and past the scratches and particles of debris that covered them. No one was on the other side.
He moved to the left. The curtain was stained and smelled like mildew, but it was bulky enough to block the light from outside. His nose suddenly congested, he gripped the curtain and swung it open and gave his eyes a few more seconds to adjust to the brightness that now overwhelmed them.
Two pickup trucks were in the parking lot outside the window—one Randolph’s, another he did not recognize with its large tires and jet-black paint and what looked like tinted windows. It had not been there last night when they arrived. Gray clouds covered the backdrop. Rain lingered on the horizon. It looked cold. What day of the week was it?
The voices came again—both inaudible but distinctly two. Outside the window to the left was the vending machine he used last night, to the right a post that held up the canopy over the walkway. After he stepped farther left, the post gave way to people, two of them—the sources of the voices.
A man’s back faced him. He knew it was a man by the short haircut and the way he lacked any figure at all—flat hips, a droop under where his backside should have been, a bulky frame no woman he had ever seen could support. A brown jacket covered the man’s back—one, Randolph imagined, of those zip front types—and gave way to pleated brown pants. Facing him was Sheila, whose lips occasionally moved then stopped. She did not smile.
Randolph stepped back toward the door and unlatched the chain and reached for the handle. The brass stuck to his palm as is if it were covered in adhesive, but he tore it away once the morning entered the musty room. He popped his head outside. Sheila’s eyes darted toward him. The conversation with the mystery man halted. The man turned then too, and Randolph saw his face.
O’Reilly.
“Look who it is,” O’Reilly said.
“Nice to see you again, Gary,” Randolph said, though it was not.
O’Reilly smiled. “I’m impressed you remember. After such a long night, especially.”
Randolph froze. Words were stripped.
“How do you two know each other?” Sheila said.
“We go way back. Isn’t that right, Randolph?”
Randolph said nothing. He was shook.
Was he watching us?
Silence.
“So glad you could join us,” O’Reilly said, his attention still on Randolph. “Sheila and I were just talking about—”
“I don’t think he cares,” Sheila said.
“If you’re old friends, which I’ve been led to believe you are, then I disagree.”
“Randolph,”—Shelia looked at him, her angry eyes full of intention—”will you go back inside, please?”
“Why don’t you stay?” O’Reilly said.
“Everything is okay,” Sheila said. “Please go back inside. This doesn’t involve you.”
Randolph looked at her. While her complexion had become pale, her eyes were focused on him, and the tension around her creased lips indicated she meant it. He scanned back to O’Reilly, who looked amused with a pointed grin like the Joker’s, then back to Sheila. She nodded at him, urged him to do as she asked. He kept his attention on her for a beat longer, just to make sure he had not missed something—a clue or a sign she was in trouble—then retreated. He backed into the room and closed the door.
His chest pounded.
With his back pressed against the door, he listened. The voices were inaudible still, the volume low. The pulsing in his ears overwhelmed his auditory awareness, and everything blurred together. He could not focus. He crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed and dropped the bowling ball that still replaced his skull into a basket made of his hands.
Was he doing the right thing?
There was something about O’Reilly he did not like—whether it was his smugness or the way he attempted to hijack the two conversations they had or the way he domineered Sheila just now. Or worse, the way he subtly indicated he knew Randolph and Sheila were out late the night before—Randolph found that distressing. Who was this man?
The way Sheila acted toward him unsettled Randolph too. She was not afraid—Randolph determined as much in that regard—but he sensed there was something deeply personal she and O’Reilly shared. Their relationship had a history, maybe emotions were involved. How did the document O’Reilly had at the hospital play into it, if at all?
A knock on the door startled him, caused his shoulders to leap. The reflection against the window cast a shadow behind the curtain which gave the illusion of an intruder in the room. Randolph tensed and clutched onto the edge of the mattress. But then the shadow passed and the illusion disappeared, and he felt foolish. Another knock on the door came.
He stood and crossed the room again, peeked into the glass hole on the door. Sheila was alone. She looked down at her feet, and she knocked once more as he watched. Without hesitation, he opened the door, stood to the side, and let her in. She walked past him and closed the curtains and leaned against the window. Her breaths were heavy. Randolph kept by the door and debated whether he should flip the deadbolt.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“About what?”
“About that.”
Randolph nodded. “Is everything all right?”
She looked away, did not respond.
He flipped the deadbolt. There was no harm in not. The table on the opposite wall still held the extra sleeve of cookies from the vending machine, so he went to it and grabbed them.
“You hungry?” he said. “You must be hungry.” He walked toward her and handed her the sleeve.
She took it and thanked him.
Now what?
His lips parted. As they did, so did Sheila’s, and her words came out first, “Can we get out of this place?” Unfledged, pleading eyes looked at him.
Without hesitation, he said, “I’ll get changed.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
He splashed water on his face and used a towel to clean his feet and combed his hair and brushed his teeth and quickly shaved, then he changed clothes. Sheila met him outside under the canopy. Her hands were empty, his question from the night before answered. The clothes on her back were the same as they had been.
Randolph returned the keys and joined Sheila in the truck. The black one from earlier was gone from the parking lot—O’Reilly’s, he figured now. The west ramp was not far from the no-tell. The rain that spat against the windshield was the only sound for a while. Suddenly, there was nothing to say. Randolph merged onto the freeway and got in line with the other vehicles, hovered steadily around the posted speed limit.
“Ex-boyfriend?” he said.
“Who? Gary?”
“Am I wrong?”
“Why would you assume that?”
“Just because of the way he acted around you. And you around him. It felt like he tried to intimidate you. Yet, you looked comfortable enough, like you know him.”
She looked at him.
“I was glad to see you didn’t back down. Is he someone to worry about?”
“He’s a pompous ass, if that’s what you mean.”
It was not, but he left it.
“Tell me again how you know him,” she said.
He told her about their chance meeting at the hospital.
She nodded but did not comment.
“What did he mean by that?” Randolph said. “That I don’t want to get involved.”
Her gaze was straight ahead, disengaged. “You’d have to ask him yourself, I guess.”
“What about the document he had? He said he was investigating something and wanted to ask you some questions. What’s that about?”
“It’s nothing.”
He grunted in frustration. His face warmed and he sensed the anger boiling within him. The vagueness in which she spoke told him nothing. While her mysterious persona was attractive at first, it had worn thin. He needed answers from her—real answers, not these superficial responses that did nothing but heighten the mystery and raise more questions. He wondered if she was not who she claimed to be, though when he thought about it further, she had not claimed to be anyone. Which was the problem. He still knew nothing about her.
The mirrors were clear, so he flicked his wrist and changed lanes. Droplets of water spat against the glass and smudged underneath the squelch of the wipers. The interstate sign indicated lodging and food and gas were accessible off the next exit which was a half of a mile ahead. He merged onto the ramp as it came upon them.
“Why are you getting off?” Sheila asked.
He ignored her.
A red light turned green, then another. A half-empty municipal parking lot lingered up ahead, across from an IHOP. Randolph pulled into the lot and parked, then killed the engine.
“What are you doing?” Sheila said.
He unbuckled and faced her. “I’ve been patient with you. You experienced a traumatic event at the supermarket and we hardly know each other, I get it. But I’ve been forthcoming with you. I told you my story. Yet, I know nothing about you. I’m the one who’s gone out of my way here. I could easily turn back at any time, you know, and forget this whole thing.
“Your phone’s attached to you. You won’t tell me who this O’Reilly guy is. You don’t even have a change of clothes or a bag. You have nothing. I want answers, Sheila. You owe it to me.”
He exhaled. He felt bad about going off on her, but had to let his feelings be known. Whatever their situation was, it was unfair for her to remain so closed off. He put himself out there to her, for her, and she had not reciprocated.
Sheila unbuckled and reached for the door handle and pushed the door open.
“Where are you going?”
“You want answers? Fine. But I’m starved.”—she pointed to the ginormous blue sign across the street—”If you want answers, follow me.”
. . . . .
“We dated for a while,” Sheila said, referring to O’Reilly. She forked a buttery buttermilk pancake into her mouth. Syrup dripped and landed on the edge of the plate. Powdered sugar kissed her lips.
Randolph picked at a spinach omelet between sips of hot coffee, black, but hardly ate. “What happened?”
“I broke it off. It just wasn’t working anymore.”
He sipped.
“But that was a couple of years ago. He still pops up in my life from time to time.”
“Is he dangerous?”
“I’m not sure. I mean, I don’t think so. He never hit me or anything.”
“What does he want with you?”
“Beats me. It was only a fling, nothing too serious.”
“What did he say this morning?”
“Just that he misses me. I told him off and he left.”
Randolph leaned back in the booth. The cushion squeaked against his back. The tiny potatoes on his plate were bland and the omelet was mediocre at best, but he was not hungry anyway. His stomach was still queasy from last night. “Have you informed the police?”
“About what?”
“About Gary. About him stalking you.”
She laughed. “I wouldn’t go that far. And no, I haven’t.”
“Why not? If he’s bothering you.”
“They wouldn’t do anything anyway.”
“Why do you say that?”
“He’s buddy-buddy with them. I’d stand no chance.”
“He told me he’s not a cop. Is that true?”
“No, he’s not. More like a private investigator.”
“He’s a PI?”
“He’s like one, not exactly.”
“What does that mean?”
“I really don’t know. He never would share many details with me. But that was how he phrased it: ‘like a private investigator.’”
It did explain a few things—the paper he showed to the receptionist at the hospital, how guarded he was when they first met, how he kept popping up into Sheila’s life; he would have the means and resources to do such things. The reasons for why, though, were worrisome. Randolph thought Sheila was being naïve about it, though he did not tell her that was how he felt. She was blinded by innocence. Maybe it was an age thing. Young people trusted too much.
Randolph grabbed the mug
and slid a finger through the loop. The steam billowed into his face. “So let me see if I have this straight. Your ex-boyfriend—the not exactly a private investigator, but kind of a private investigator—watches you and follows you, and yet, you’re not concerned. Is that right?”
She forked a bite and let the question sit. “When you put it that way, it sounds worse than it is. He’s just a lovesick puppy dog of a man, if you ask me.”
Randolph considered that, but something did not add up. “Okay.”
“Okay? That’s your response? Okay?”
“I just don’t get it, I guess.”
“It’s because you’re sheltered, is why.”
He was not amused.
She forced a smile and dropped a hand on his. “I’m just teasing you.”
He smiled back because he thought that was the right thing to do. But he still did not buy it.
“Full disclosure, though,” she said, “Gary does have a bit of a jealous streak.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Back on the interstate, the rain tapered off. Gray clouds threatened to give way to white ones and open blue sky was ahead. There was hope, it seemed, for the day to turn around. Sheila was curled up with Randolph’s jacket and asleep next to him. Her rhythmic breaths offered him relaxation while he drove, an opportunity to clear his mind. The NPR radio host chatted with a guest with an east coast accent about the state of the world. Randolph did not pay much attention to the conversation, though; it was just noise. His head finally felt better.
The hum of the open road gave him time to think, without interruption, about all that had happened. He tried to analyze his conflicted emotions. The quest with Sheila had been more adventurous than he imagined. His expectations were high going in, and now he wondered if that was naïve of him. He imagined an instant connection, a tryst, something easy. While there was a flicker of romanticism between them, it was anything but easy—probably more of the spirits talking last night than anything else, if he was honest with himself—and it was a reminder of how long he had been out of the game.
