She swallowed. “If you’ve—”
Wilson popped to his feet, swung a fist past his stomach. “‘Get a fire going, Wilson. Dust those shelves!’”
He was taller than she remembered, broader. His ponytail pendulumed as his gesticulations grew wilder.
She edged toward the door. “I’m going to my room.”
He brayed laughter, hands on knees. “Going to your room? What are you, a child?”
Her teeth ground together. “I don’t think Mr. Wells would appreciate his help being rude.”
“Oh, we’re going there, are we? ‘The help’?”
She made to move past him, but he stepped with her. “Is that anger I see?” He bent toward her. “My goodness, so it is!” He threw back his head, arms spread. “Hallelujah! Lucy has a backbone!”
“Shut up,” she growled, elbowing past him.
“My Lawd yes,” he crooned, “there’s life in her yet! And here I thought I made a mistake.”
Her hesitation was infinitesimal, but she knew he’d marked it. Lucy hurried out the door and veered toward the staircase. She was starting down when Wilson called after her, “Best embrace it, Miss Lucy! Best get it down on paper before the fear creeps back!”
She descended the stairs in a wild clatter, reached the second floor, and halfway between the landing and her room there was Rick, whose smile died when he saw the ferocity of her expression.
“Everything okay?” he asked.
“What do you think?” she answered, knowing she’d hate herself later for being rude. But writing was like a sieve, she knew, the magic sifting out if you carried it around too long. She couldn’t let this idea slip away.
She entered her room, knowing Rick was where she left him, watching after her. Firing up the laptop would take too long. Teeth bared, she hastened to the desk, fetched a pencil, but the lead was broken. Heart sinking, she cast about for something else, found a pen, but the ink wouldn’t come, and though it helped nothing, she flung the pen aside, ripped open the middle drawer, more pens and pencils rattling around in there. She grabbed a pencil, found an unblemished page, scrawled out a word or two and realized she was too distraught to write, had nothing to say anyway. There was nothing, only a formless idea she’d smothered with rage and desperation, and she clenched a fist around the pencil, pounded it into the desk, stabbing the wood, aware she was growling, cursing, and the whole desk jumped with her blows.
“Goddammit, Goddammit, GODDAMMIT!” she roared, objects tumbling off the desk. She slammed her forehead on the wood, reveled in the pain, repeated it. She became aware of a knocking on her door, and she lunged over to it, whipped it open, and glowered at Rick, whose eyes flicked to her forehead.
“What?” she snapped.
A bemused smile. “Thought I’d check on you.”
“Is that all?” She felt the blood trickling down the bridge of her nose.
He nodded at the cut in her forehead. “Want me to take care of that?”
Unaccountably, she found herself grinning. “I’ll take care of me.”
“Okay. If you need me, I’ll be around.”
She nodded, flung shut the door, turned and regarded herself in the mirror. Hair disheveled, rivulets of blood striping the middle of her face, she reminded herself of a savage, some demonically possessed woman in a movie.
She decided the look was an improvement.
Chapter Eight
Evan crept toward the forest. He loathed insects, had an atavistic fear of small creatures, snakes most of all, and any time his mother had taken him and his sisters on what she deemed a ‘nature walk’, he’d been gripped by a superstitious certainty one of the fork-tongued monsters would dart at him from the shadows. Snakes did that, he knew, slithered along branches and attacked unwary victims from above as well as below.
But his story involved a forest setting. He had to experience it firsthand.
Evan moved from trail to trail, dismissing each for one reason or another. Some veered suddenly into darkness, and Evan preferred to see where he was heading. Others he bypassed because of suspicious-looking weeds. His skin, his mother had informed him, was susceptible to rashes. She’d taken great pains to educate him about the number of leaves on poison ivy, the devastating effects of poison oak. The only lesson Evan’s young mind had taken from these tutorials was that plants, in general, were to be feared.
After thirty minutes of scouring the meadow’s perimeter for a suitable point of entry, Evan found one. The mouth of the trail was perhaps six feet wide, broad enough for even a person of Evan’s girth to pass through. Further, the corridor seemed a straight shot – no sudden turnings or tumbles into an abyss. Likewise there were no weeds that threatened to inject his bare knees with their insidious poisons. Most importantly of all, he didn’t spy a single hanging branch, which meant that any snakes would have to approach from the ground.
Glad he’d chosen the high-reaching tube socks to cover his calves, Evan entered the forest. A minute’s walk reassured him he’d chosen the correct trail, for though he did glimpse the occasional bird, he’d heard no secretive rustlings among the dead leaves.
Something tickled at his shoulder.
Evan gasped and stumbled away, his arms thrown out in a warding-off gesture.
Just a branch, he now realized, broken but not snapped completely. How had he not seen it? What thoughts had possessed him so utterly that he’d failed to spot the very thing he was so vigilant about noticing? Like a spear, the branch tapered to a wicked point, almost as though someone had arranged it there, a snare meant to impale its victim.
The Sword of Damocles, he thought.
Evan smiled wryly. Now where had that come from? He’d heard the tale a long time ago and remembered liking it. Something about a servant named Damocles telling the king he wanted to switch places. The king told him yes, he would switch places with the servant. Only there was one stipulation: a deadly sword would hang by a single horsehair over the servant while he sat upon the throne.
It was, Evan remembered his teacher explaining, a lesson about the responsibilities of leadership and the constant shadow of fear a leader must endure.
Evan continued down the trail. It was Roderick Wells who occupied the throne in this strange kingdom. What was it like to be the most celebrated author on the planet? Did Wells feel pressure to—
A dull crack sounded behind him.
He spun, mouth open in a soundless scream, and saw the long branch pierce the path exactly where he had just stood. The branch remained upright for a moment, like a javelin. Then, it listed slowly to the side and came to rest on the soft humus.
If you’d been standing there… a voice whispered.
Enough! Evan’s mind cried. I came here to find my muse, not to frighten myself into a tizzy over a falling branch.
Still…Evan found himself inclining his head, eyeing the overhanging trees with suspicion.
Time to go back, the voice told him.
No, he answered. Time to stop being a coward.
Resolutely, Evan continued into the forest.
Chapter Nine
Someone was following him.
Evan spun around, skin tingling. Maybe he should turn back. Though he could still pass untrammeled, the trail had narrowed markedly, so that several times he had to draw his arms in to prevent them from scraping some hoary-looking shrub. The vegetation had grown larger and denser, so that it now seemed to surround him like the forest in some macabre fairy tale.
Evan brushed off the thought, his mouth fixed in a grim line. He’d lived his life in fear, and at age twenty-seven it was long past time for him to mature, to do something rather than remaining cloistered in his room. Alone.
Exploring the woods wasn’t the same as lying with a woman, he knew, but it was a start. If he could tap into his well of creativity, maybe he could write something
salable. And if he did that, the professors at Columbia would reward him with offers of assistantships. Then he could teach part- time and write. Oh, the first book might not be a bestseller, but it would garner attention. With his second and third books his audience would swell, and he’d begin to make money, money that hadn’t come from his parents, and then he could afford nice things, and with better clothes and a sleek new car, he would attract women.
Yes.…
Evan trudged up a hill and ruminated. Men got good jobs and lifted weights and did things to make themselves handsome because they wanted to attract women. Why should women be any different? They exercised and picked out sultry dresses that displayed their breasts and hugged their buttocks so that the electrifying lines of their panties showed through…and they did this to attract men. And why hadn’t Evan enjoyed, up close, the fairer sex? Very simply, because he hadn’t done anything to make himself attractive. That’s what it came down to, wasn’t it?
The heat of the day permeated the forest. Evan’s light blue shirt clung to his skin, so he unbuttoned it and peeled it off his shoulders. He endeavored to tie it around his midriff the way he thought men sometimes did, but no matter how he bundled it, the fabric wouldn’t stretch far enough around his middle to tie a knot. Evan decided to stuff one end of the shirt into the front of his waistband.
He set off again, not liking the way the shirt dangled between his legs. He felt ridiculously like a little boy who’s picked up some long object and pretended it’s his penis.
He angled toward a dark valley and thought about women. They’d be amazed at his ability to use words – all his professors commented on his word choice – and ask him questions at book signings.
Evan chuckled, no longer bothered by the foliage. He imagined a cocktail party at an old house. It would be located in a venerable – Evan smiled at the adjective – neighborhood in the Hamptons, and would belong to his editor. There he’d meet the long-legged blond woman. Her skin would have that tawny glow, her hair that just-cut-and-styled look that made him ill with longing.
He would half turn to her – he’d be leaning over the rail of some balcony – and with the breeze attractively stirring his hair, he’d say hello.
She’d be giggly, and he’d put her at ease and permit her to ask questions:
What made you become a writer?
Oh, it’s just in me, I suppose.
She’d smile. Pearly teeth. Full, pink lips. Where do you get your ideas?
Mostly – he’d tap his head – they come from in here.
That’s amazing. Her tongue flicking out and playing over her teeth. What do you do when you’re not writing?
A self-deprecating laugh. Oh, I like to read, explore nature. I’m very much at peace in the forest.
Her face becoming earnest, a coyness in her blue eyes. Maybe you’ll take me with you some time.
Oh yeah? A sideways look from him. Cool. No trace of eagerness.
She’d nod, the offer plain in her sensual expression.
He’d say, How about tonight? Take some wine, a blanket.
She’d shiver, lean into him, grip the elbow patch of his tweed sports coat. Her sweet, citrus breath close to his lips. I’d love that.
And they’d go.
Evan was semi-erect. He imagined the spot in the forest to which he’d take her, the bluegrass still matted from the last woman. But the leggy blonde wouldn’t know that. She’d think they had a future together and she would be a rich author’s wife. But she’d be wrong. And they’d lie together in the starshine. He would lick at her round, ethereal breasts and bury his face between her splayed legs, make her moan, make her howl.
Evan was stroking himself through his shorts, but it was no good, too many layers of fabric. It made it better in a way, a filthy, itching unrequited heat, but he longed so badly for that sweet release that he tore open the zipper and yanked his shorts down.
He shed his boxers and staggered forward, the divine heat of the forest making his nudity seem natural rather than something vulgar. It occurred to him he’d never been naked outdoors before. He’d never gone skinny-dipping, never made love in a bluegrass dale, and despite his autoerotic addiction, he’d never masturbated in the forest.
But he was doing it now, by God. He diddled himself expertly, taking his time about it, and he discovered something that made him pause.
The trail had come to an abrupt end.
He stood there, breath coming in torrid waves, and studied the semicircle of shrubs, the density of the palmated leaves.
A corner of his mouth rose. Rather than disappointing him, this sudden terminus pleased him. He had followed the trail to its conclusion.
And that meant his fear hadn’t vanquished him! The poison and the bugs and the prowling snakes hadn’t done a thing to him, nor would they, he suspected, anymore. If he could master this forest, he could meet any challenge.
Exultant, Evan faced the bullet-shaped end of the path and took himself in hand. He would finish his fantasy here, would spurt his seed on the soil.
He detected a furtive rasp in the brush to his left, but that no longer mattered. No animal would bother him. He was Evan Laydon, future famous author, and the women would genuflect at his feet. His body trembled, the exquisite pain razoring higher, deeper, and his fist pistoned up and down his short length, which wouldn’t matter to the women he bedded because of who he was. The gorgeous blonde arched her back and bucked her hips, and Evan let loose inside her, a white geyser lifting her body in a perfect bright explosion.…
Evan opened his eyes. Turned.
Discovered Bryan Clayton watching him.
Bryan’s olive-green shirt hugged his hard muscles, his camouflage pants stretched tight over powerful quadriceps. Something jutted behind Bryan’s head, but Evan couldn’t quite see what it was. Nor did it matter. What mattered was how naked Evan was and the bundle of clothing Bryan clutched at his side.
Evan tried to swallow but couldn’t. He hadn’t realized how thirsty he was until now. Upon spotting Bryan he’d cupped both hands over his privates, but he was painfully aware of his droopy breasts – titties the jerks in his P.E. class had called them – and the pitiful tufts of hair reefing his nipples.
Take it easy, he told himself. Bryan’s probably just as embarrassed as you are.
“Hey,” Evan said and tried a smile.
Bryan watched him impassively.
“I didn’t hear you,” Evan said.
“Spanking your monkey too hard,” Bryan said.
Evan cleared his throat. “I don’t know what came over me.”
“Were you thinking of Anna?” Bryan asked. “Or Lucy?”
He recognized the hectoring note in Bryan’s voice, but there was something else there that bothered him a good deal more.
“Elaine maybe?” Bryan persisted. When Evan shook his head, Bryan’s eyebrows rose. “Me?”
It acted on Evan like a slap. “I’d like my clothes back.”
“You have to earn them.”
“Give me—”
“Tell me something juicy.”
Evan heaved a sigh, looked around at the unbroken wall of foliage.
“No fine print, Evan. Just tell me a secret and I’ll give you your clothes back. One secret for every article of clothing.”
Disgusted, Evan started to turn away, but he didn’t like the idea of exposing his bare buttocks. He glanced at his laced fingers and saw the milky semen dribbling over his knuckles.
“Maybe this’ll jar your memory,” Bryan said, reaching back and pulling something long and slender from his back. It was a branch Bryan had fashioned into a spear, Evan now saw. One end of it glittered. Dangling from its opposite tip was a length of coiled rope.
“You know what this is?” Bryan asked, untying the knot that encircled the coil.
“A spear,” E
van said, his throat dry.
“A rope spear,” Bryan corrected. “The ancient Chinese used it as a weapon. African and South American tribes have fished with rope spears for millennia. Back where I grew up, in Carlsbad, we used to fashion these out of birch. It’s a good, flexible wood. Hard enough it won’t crack if you hit a rock, but with enough give you can haul up anything you gig with it. A friend and I, we frequented this hidden enclave over in Loma Point.” He fingered the barbed steel tip. “We made four of these spearheads. Only one of them got lost. My friend Barry, he spotted a tuna that had caught itself in a tide pool. Barry harpooned it and reared back. The force of the spear had stunned the tuna, but when it felt Barry tugging, it went wild. The next thing we know, the spear is jerked right out of Barry’s hands, and the tuna’s swishing its tail at us as it disappears into the Pacific.”
Evan took a step forward.
“A secret,” Bryan demanded.
“That’s absurd.”
“I just shared something. Spear fishing is outlawed in California. Barry and I could have gotten into a lot of trouble.”
Just say something, a voice insisted. Just make something up so you can get your clothes back.
“I.…” Evan licked his lips. “I…uh, one time I cheated on a math test.”
“How old were you?”
“Fifteen.”
“What class?”
“Algebra.”
“Why didn’t you say ‘algebra test’?”
Evan stared at him.
“You don’t call them math tests when you’re in high school,” Bryan explained. “You say algebra or geometry, not math.”
Evan shook his head. “I’m—”
“—lying,” Bryan finished for him. “But I’ll play nice.”
Bryan reached down and pulled Evan’s boxers out of the bundle.
“Here you go,” Bryan said and lobbed the boxers at Evan. The air caught them and made them fall. Still covering himself with one hand, Evan shuffled forward and stooped. He turned the boxers around and was about to step into them when Bryan said, “Not yet.”
The Dark Game Page 10
