by S. D. Perry
Amanda seemed to enjoy his reaction, initially, but she began to fidget after a few moments. She seemed restless.
“You doing all right?”
“Food’s here,” she muttered.
He listened, hearing nothing over the sound of the movie—and then a car door slamming at the side of the house.
“Pause it if I’m going to miss anything good,” he said, and stood up.
The .38 was in the back office, but the timing was right for it to be dinner. He walked toward the front door. Amanda paused the movie, and when he looked back she was watching him, her face suddenly paler than usual.
“Wait,” she said, as he stepped to the door. She half rose from her seat.
Cautiously, Bob looked through the peephole. The young man on John’s front step held up two laden plastic bags, knotted at the top. He was the regular delivery guy, a townie in his early twenties.
“Uncle Chan’s,” the guy said.
“Yeah, hang on,” Bob said. He raised his eyebrows at Amanda. “It’s fine, I recognize him.”
She didn’t respond, only stood all the way up as he opened the door, reaching for his wallet. The kid smiled. “Hey, Mr. Sweet and Sour Chicken!”
“Great, that’s great,” Bob said. “Hear that, Amanda? I’ve got a reputation.”
She looked relieved. Bob had paid for the food over the phone, but he always kept a couple of fives in his wallet. He fished one out now after signing the receipt, and the kid’s face lit up.
“Hey, thanks.”
Amanda had come to the door, and she took one of the bags of food, Bob the other. He closed the door, locked it, and nodded toward the kitchen.
“You get the plates and forks, I’ll get drinks. What’ll you have?”
“Whiskey, neat,” she said, and grinned back at him as they walked. “Or Snapple, whatever.”
A knock on the door. John handed the food to Amanda.
“He must’ve given me the wrong copy or something,” he said. At her worried expression, he chuckled, shooing her toward the kitchen.
“What are the chances,” he said, unlocking the deadbolt, opening the door even as he heard delivery kid’s car door slam at the house’s far side.
Eric was holding a gun, a small semiautomatic, pointing it at Bob’s face.
“Ah, shit,” Bob said, rearing back—and before he could consider the action, lunging forward, pushing the gun up and away as Eric’s face registered surprise. Eric wheeled back, jerking the gun down, and it seemed to explode in his hand, and a burning fist slammed into Bob’s left side accompanied by a deafening roar.
Bob fell down.
Amanda had just stepped into the kitchen when she heard the gun, so loud that her ears rang immediately. She heard her own shriek, though, and dropped the takeout. The bags split open, an order of fried noodles spilling across the floor in a pea-specked, greasy mass.
Eric.
For what seemed like an hour she froze, so terrified that she didn’t know if she could move; he was here, he’d shot Bob, he was going to come in and kill her, put a bullet through her skull, and she’d be dead. She was still staring down at the spilled noodles, and they were still spilling, settling to the floor, and she realized only a breath had passed, there was still time, and she ran.
Through the kitchen to the back door that let out next to the porch, fumbled with the deadbolt, got it, outside, the shot still echoing in her head, she could feel her heartbeat in every part of her body and adrenaline charging her muscles, delivery guy! Plan, she had a plan.
She tore left, around to the front of the house, bare feet thumping on the warm ground. The delivery guy was stopped halfway down the block, brake lights shining, a pickup of some light color. In the last of the day’s light, she could see the driver craning to look back, his eyes wide.
She took a single running step toward him, and then the truck screeched away, blowing the stop sign at the corner. She turned and saw Eric on the front steps, saw that he was pointing a gun at the retreating truck.
“Call the cops!” she screamed after him, screamed to anyone listening. Her plan hadn’t gone past escape with delivery guy. She was at sea. “Call nine one one! Rape! Fire! Fire!”
Her next words were muffled as he clasped a hand over her mouth, his body pressing into hers from behind. He used his gun arm to pin her arms to her body. She struggled for a second, felt his strength, and went still.
“Shhh,” he hissed, his voice hot in her ear. “Stop it. I didn’t mean to shoot; he grabbed the gun. It was an accident. He’ll be fine. Come inside with me, I’ll show you.”
She shook her head violently, trying to get her mouth free from his fingers. They tasted like salt, like dirty sweat. Some fucking psychic.
“Just come inside. You’ll understand, I can explain everything.”
Amanda caught hold of her stuttering thoughts, focused on keeping her body still. She took a deep breath and understood what was happening because she’d known that they would meet again, and she knew how to play it from a hundred movies about girls being terrorized by estranged boyfriends. The best, the only option was to convince him that she wasn’t going to run or fight, that they were pals, still an “us,” and she wasn’t going to blow it too fucking soon like the stupid chicks in the movies, she was going to use her head.
She sighed, leaning her head against his arm, and he hesitated, his breathing rough, and he totally had a hard-on, she could feel it against the small of her back. He took his hand away and relaxed his grip.
Do what you have to do.
“We have to take care of Bob,” she said. Firmly. “Right now. First.”
He hesitated again. Then stepped back, letting her go. She turned and walked past him, making her face blank, letting him read whatever he wanted. She’d had years of practice, and it often calmed her mother down. She had to focus; Bob, first priority, and she knew that Eric wanted her, wanted to be with her, and she would play it as hard as she could, as real as she could until the police came, the delivery guy would call them, someone would call.
Bob, then stall. Bob. The front door was standing open, but she didn’t see him, only saw—
“Oh,” she said, and realized she saw Bob’s feet, that was all, he was down. She hurried, her body desperate to move anyway, to run, and she had a horrible fear that he was dead—and knew that he wasn’t, even before she ran up the front steps, the welcome mat scraping her feet, and dropped to her knees, to his side. She could feel him, fighting against the pain. He was lying flat on the floor. He held his right hand to his chest, just under his left armpit—his left arm wasn’t moving at all—and was pale and breathing shallowly. His shirt was dark, but she could also see that the fabric was wet all around his fingers, and of course there was blood on them, there was that, but his eyes were also open, and he was looking at her.
“Hold still,” she said, trying to think; stop the bleeding, that was first—
Bandages, fucking move!
She stood and ran to the kitchen; there were clean dishtowels in the drawer under the silverware. She stepped over the greasy fried noodles, she remembered seeing them ooze out like the Blob, already that was, like, ten years ago, but really only two minutes, three, maybe. Her hearing was still mostly just a high-pitched whine from the gunshot that had started this nightmare.
She grabbed all of the towels and stumbled back to Bob. Eric was standing in the open doorway, a look of misery and anger on his face as he stared down at Bob. At least he wasn’t pointing the gun; his arm was lax at his side, but she was aware of it, she couldn’t help being aware of it, the control that he was wielding.
Don’t fuck this up, don’t let him see you afraid, don’t look him in the eye…no, that was dogs. She felt a little dizzy. She’d thought that things were coming to a head, and she’d known that she would see Eric again, and that it was going to be a bad thing. But she hadn’t expected anything to happen so soon, or involve Bob being shot.
Everything’s
going to happen, she thought from nowhere. No more waiting.
“I’m going to press a cloth over it,” Amanda said. She folded the dishtowel and folded it again. “Stop the bleeding. Can you move your hand? When I count to three.”
Bob nodded, then winced at the movement.
“One—two—three.”
He pulled his hand away, and she could see the hole in his shirt and bright blood underneath. She promptly pushed the makeshift bandage over it, pressing down…he let out a groan through clenched teeth, but then started taking deep breaths, ragged, careful. Eric stood there.
“It was an accident,” Amanda said, catching his gaze. “He just wants to talk, that’s all. I can talk to him, OK? While we’re waiting for the ambulance. We’ll be fine. Eric doesn’t want to hurt me.”
“OK,” Bob said, although the look he shot at Eric was an extremely black one.
“I didn’t mean to shoot him,” Eric said. His tone was defensive. “I was going to make him leave us alone for a few minutes.”
She ignored him. “How bad is it? What hurts?”
“My left arm,” Bob said. “It hurts like hell to move it at all. Tore a muscle, maybe. Maybe one of my ribs, too.”
“Can you hold this one on, tight?” Amanda asked. “I have to see if—if there’s another place. Uh, exit wound. Underneath.”
Bob took another breath and was careful not to move his head again. His right hand crept to cover hers.
“Yeah. Go ahead.”
She slipped her hand out from beneath his, his fingers were cold, and he pushed down on the dishtowel.
“I need to talk to you,” Eric said. He stepped over Bob’s feet, moving around him until he was at Amanda’s side. He crouched next to her.
“Kind of busy at the moment,” Amanda said.
“You know what? Fuck him. He’s trying to make you crazy. You think you got scared, but it’s him, him and that fucking pervert doctor, they’re trying to make you crazy. He grabbed for the gun. I didn’t pull the trigger, even.”
He looked hard at Bob. “Maybe he meant to get shot.”
“Oh, that’s brilliant,” Bob said, panting. “What a great plan.”
“You shut the fuck up, or next time won’t be an accident. And if you hurt her, if I find out you hurt her, you’re dead…”
Amanda pulled gently on Bob’s skinny hip and leaned down to look, saw fresh blood on the other side.
“Shit,” she said, because there was more bleeding to stop, but that was good, too, that meant there wasn’t a bullet inside him, and there weren’t any major organs right at the surface right there, were there?
She folded and pressed a second cloth to where the new blood seemed to be coming from, pushing up, and quickly stuffed the other cloths underneath, holding it in place, feeling more freaked by the second.
“You’re going to be OK if you hold still,” she said, meeting Bob’s eyes again. “Seriously. Don’t move. I have to go talk to Eric now.”
“Stay in here,” Bob said. He looked dazed but coherent.
“Hey, fuck you,” Eric said. “You caused enough fucking trouble, you know that?”
Amanda stood up, drawing his attention away from Bob, and Eric rose with her. “We’ll be in the kitchen,” she said. “We call an ambulance, then we can talk. Bob, don’t fucking move.”
Before either could respond, she turned and walked into the kitchen, walked away from Bob. She’d told him clearly that she could handle it, and why she thought she could; she hoped he’d been able to read her, she hoped she’d be able to pull off acting like she knew what she was doing. Eric was upset and confused, and she thought that if she took the lead, he’d follow.
Eric walked in behind her. There was a little fifties-style Formica table tucked at the end of the sink’s counter, where the kitchen window overlooked the side yard, and there was a phone on the cabinet over it, a landline. She went straight for it, picked it up, dialed 911.
“We don’t need any interruptions,” Eric started, half raising the gun, and she glared at him.
“Could you wait one minute? God!” She let a measure of her anger out, enough that he could see it was real. Enough to make him forget that he was holding a gun. “It was an accident, fine, I got it. You want to talk, OK, great, we’ll talk. But first I’m going to call an ambulance so you don’t go to jail for fucking murder, and then I will talk to you, do you—hello?”
Medical, she said, in answer to the query stated by a woman with a mechanical voice, maybe a million miles away for all she knew, and she made up a story, fast. Her uncle accidentally shot himself, they were at—shit, she didn’t know the address, the very last house on Eleanor, before the park. West? West of the park? She didn’t know, the side facing the bay, top of the hill, please hurry, he was in a lot of pain. She punched one of the numbers as though she was turning the phone off and set it the counter, leaving the line open.
“Don’t shoot me,” she said. If the robot woman was listening, she’d advise the police accordingly.
“No, never,” Eric said, oblivious to the phone. He tucked the gun in his belt. “Where’s your bedroom?”
“Upstairs.”
“Show me.”
He stepped aside, let her walk past, and she turned left, climbed the stairs, still feeling the pump of adrenaline through her body. He wanted privacy because he wanted her; the lust coming off him was even stronger than his anger, and she couldn’t imagine having sex with him but thought she might have to. Fucking was what was driving his obsession, and that was her fault; she’d been all over him for weeks…if she had to put out now so that no one else died, she’d do it; she felt like she deserved as much. A few minutes of acting, of invasion, and it would be over, and the cops would be right behind the paramedics, wouldn’t they? They’d bust his ass for shooting Bob, and he’d go off to jail, and his rich father would see to it that he got help, finally. The hoped-for outcome was in direct contrast to how she felt, to what she suspected was going to happen, but she was afraid to think any further in that direction, afraid that her growing dread meant the very worst thing.
They walked to the bedroom she’d been using, which had a nice double bed with a fluffy duvet thing on it and two overflowing bags of her clothes and stuff on the floor. There were no chairs in the room, just the bed to sit on, and she didn’t bother trying to evade the inevitable. She sat down at the head of the bed, and he at the foot, facing her. He held the gun in his lap.
“I want you to look at me,” he said. He stood up, moving closer so that their knees were touching, so she could smell his breath. “I want you to look inside, so you can see that I would never hurt you, ever…like you did with that doctor.”
He made the word sound insulting. “Are you kidding? You think I can concentrate? You just shot Bob.”
“You have to see. Take some deep breaths, calm yourself down. I love you. Just let yourself be still and feel how much I love you.”
He was serious. She was deeply embarrassed for both of them.
“If I do that, will you put the gun down? Like, away?”
He nodded solemnly.
She closed her eyes, humoring him, taking a deep breath, blowing it out…and then found herself reaching for him with her thoughts as he put his free hand on her leg. She covered his fingers with her own, breathing deeper, Bob was going to be OK, this was recon, she should be welcoming the chance to find out how to manipulate him into doing no further harm, keeping him out of her pants, his fingers were as cold as Bob’s had been and she didn’t see anything but she heard—
—drop your weapon—
Stop
freeze I’m gonna shoot if you don’t drop it now drop it now
She didn’t recognize the voices, but that didn’t matter. She opened her eyes, slightly astounded at what she’d just done. “You have to get out of here. Seriously. Cops are coming; if they see you with a gun, they’re going to shoot you.”
Shit, and they’ll be expecting a hostage situ
ation. She’d thought she’d been so clever with the whole don’t-shoot-me bit, wanting to make sure no one got hurt.
Maybe this wasn’t something that could be changed.
His hand slid farther up her leg. “I’ll put the gun down. Tell me that you want me, I’ll put the gun down.”
Oh Jesus. “Would you listen to me?” She enunciated each word clearly. “They—are—going—to—fucking—shoot—you.”
His breathing had gone husky. She made her legs relax, and his cold hand slipped between her thighs.
“I thought you wanted to talk.”
“I do,” he said. “I just, I ache, looking at you and not touching, you know?”
“Uh-huh,” she agreed. “You really want to be caught by the cops while you’re fucking?”
“At least I wouldn’t be holding a gun,” he said, and then his hand was pushing against her. She was wearing pajama bottoms and a tee, not the slightest bit sexy, but he thought she was beautiful, she could feel him, hot heavy tits pressing against my chest and her dilated eyes open mouth tongue—
She felt a flush travel through her, a shadow of his want, and pulled away, disturbed by the sensation. Bob was still bleeding on the floor downstairs.
“You say you love me, stop trying to fuck me for like two seconds,” she said. “What is it you want me to see?”
“I do love you,” he said. He met her gaze, and she saw the flat, self-absorbed shine of mania in his; he looked like he hadn’t slept in days. “I know how I feel, and I know what makes you feel good. What do they want, have you asked yourself that? A divorced shrink and a guy old enough to be your grandfather? All this shit they’re telling you—I don’t know why they’d want to fuck with your head, but that’s what they’re doing. I’m here, I’m real…we’re real, together, all the rest of this, whatever they told you, it’s not reality.”
Amanda nodded. “Right; no way I’d be scared of you. You have a gun, you shoot my friend, you flip out totally like we’re star-crossed lovers or some shit, and now you’re my reality. Not the slightest bit nuts.”
