by Robbi McCoy
Jackie could hear Stef’s dog barking from inside as she drove up to the boat. The same black and silver motorcycle stood directly in front of the vessel. She took her offering up the creaky wooden steps. At the top, a brass bell hung at the edge of the deck, so Jackie rang it. Deuce appeared at the sliding glass door, looking anxiously out at her. A few seconds later, Stef appeared and slid open the door, her feet bare, wearing shorts and a tank top as before, and a yellow towel around her neck. Her hair was wet. The expression on her face was a mixture of confusion and annoyance. Not happy to see me, Jackie realized with dismay.
“Hi,” she said, more cheerfully than she ordinarily would have, her response to Stef’s less than welcoming demeanor. She held up the basket. “I brought you a few things. Some local produce.”
Stef stared and said nothing.
“Invite me in?” Jackie asked, pretending to be undaunted, but remembering her father’s assessment of Stef as somebody who could easily slit your throat. She didn’t strike Jackie that way, but the gritty part, yeah, she could see that.
Stef shrugged and withdrew into the cabin. Jackie followed into a wood-paneled interior with scant light. The pressboard furniture was all built-in, well-organized and simple. No extravagance. This room was twelve feet across and about the same lengthwise. A long bench lined one wall. A table, bolted to the floor, stood in front of that. A dark, narrow passage led from the back of the room and a steep staircase led up to the top deck. Along the other wall were rows of closed cupboards. On one plain section of paneling, a map of the Delta was pinned up. On the other side of the room was the galley, an efficient space with several cupboards, a midsized refrigerator, a sink, three-burner gas cooktop, oven below that, a microwave oven mounted under a cupboard, a short counter with a toaster and coffeemaker, and an under-cabinet row of hooks holding mismatched mugs. The layout was typical of older houseboats of this size. The carpet, Jackie noticed, was worn and stained. In contrast, the ceiling looked bright and clean, testifying to Stef’s recent repairs.
Jackie put the basket on the table as Deuce came up and invited her to pet him. “It looks like it has everything you need,” she said.
“Uh-huh. Seems to. I don’t see any problem with full-time living here. There are a few things I want to change. Maybe get some new furniture and replace a couple light fixtures. And take down some of this dark paneling, eventually, and update it with light colored walls.”
“That’ll brighten it up.”
“That’s the idea.”
“This is nice,” Jackie said, petting Deuce. “Nicer than I expected.”
“All the comforts of home,” Stef said, rubbing her hair with the towel. “Hot water, heat, air-conditioning, fully-equipped kitchen. The guy who owns this land wants to build a house here. He got as far as bringing in utilities and sinking a well a few years ago, then he ran out of money, but he wants to start up again.”
“So you have to move the boat one way or another.”
Stef smiled, a brief, ironic smile. “Right. One way or another.”
“That’s your bike out front, right?”
Stef nodded, her mouth hinting that was a stupid question.
“Do you have a car?” Jackie asked.
“No, that’s it.”
“Does Deuce ride on that?”
“I have a pet trailer.”
“Good. Those are nice. And a lot safer. There’s a dude around here who rides with a Maltese on the seat between his legs. A chopper. He puts this contraption on the dog’s head, a homemade type of dog helmet and goggles, like some old World War I pilot type of thing. It’s funny to see, but I always cringe, imagining that dog jumping off into traffic.”
Stef smiled and her face looked dazzling. Jackie noticed an acoustic guitar propped against the living room wall. “Do you play?”
Stef nodded.
“Me too. I can play guitar, but it isn’t my main instrument. I play the banjo, mainly.”
“Banjo?” Stef looked taken aback.
“I know, it’s an unusual instrument, but not for bluegrass.”
“Bluegrass,” Stef stated with a flicker of interest. “So you’re into hillbilly music?”
Jackie was used to this sort of reaction from people who were unfamiliar with bluegrass, thinking it was a simple and haphazard barn dance phenomenon or, even worse, the same as country western. “Bluegrass is a legitimate music style,” she objected, “and not just a bunch of yahoos banging on a wash basin.”
Stef started to speak, but Jackie, having started, cut her off. Stef seemed to resign herself to Jackie’s impassioned defense of bluegrass by leaning casually against a wall and giving her complete attention.
“It’s just as important and varied as jazz,” Jackie continued, “an entirely American style of music with roots in the traditions of the Scots and Irish immigrants, with some African-American influences, gospel and blues. It has very specific elements, a truly unique character, and is appreciated all over the world. To call it hillbilly music is to completely dismiss it as trivial.”
Stef regarded Jackie with a look of wry appreciation. She leaned over, picked up her guitar, put the strap over her shoulder and produced a pick. She held it between her thumb and forefinger to show Jackie before launching into a thoroughly bluegrass version of “Rocky Top.” She played through the first chorus, flatpicking in true bluegrass style, looking up once to grin and wink at Jackie, then finished with a short, improvisational breakdown.
Realizing Stef had been teasing with the hillbilly music remark, Jackie nodded apologetically and said, “That was great.”
“I’m more of a classic rock fan,” Stef said, “but I like a good hillbilly stomp now and then.” She put the guitar down and pointed to the basket. “What’d you bring me?”
“I thought you might like a taste of Stillwater Bay. You can really get to know a place through its produce, the local specialties.”
“Who says I want to get to know the place?” Stef asked.
“It can’t hurt.” Undaunted, Jackie pulled a bundle of asparagus from the basket. “This grows all around here. One of our major crops. And these strawberries, I picked these myself.” She put a box of berries on the table.
Stef approached and picked up one of the berries, putting it between her lips to take a bite. She ate slowly, her eyes locked on Jackie’s. Stef said a lot with her eyes. Or maybe it just felt that way because she said so little with her mouth, so you were forced to read her some other way.
“That’s good,” she said. “Really good.”
Jackie pulled a plastic bag full of ice out of the basket. “I also brought you some crawdads. Our claim to fame. You can’t live here and not eat an occasional crawdad.”
“Crawdads? They seem to be like a local mascot or something.”
“Have you ever eaten one?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Just grill or boil them and eat the tail meat like a lobster.”
“Did you catch those too?” Stef smiled, creating dimples in her cheeks.
“No. I’ve caught them plenty of times, but I got these from a local guy who supplies the restaurants.”
Jackie felt quivery all over just standing in the same room with Stef. She did her best to appear casual, to keep her flustered thoughts to herself, but the way Stef cocked her head to the side, regarding Jackie with cool amusement, took her completely off her game and left her defenseless. The woman was projecting “come here” and “get lost” all at the same time. In her experience, some lesbians had a way of looking at other women, directly into their eyes with a merciless penetration. That was Stef. For that reason, and a few other subtle indicators, Jackie was certain she was gay. At the moment, she didn’t know if she was glad or sorry about that.
Stef tossed her towel on the bench. “It’s nice of you to bring me this stuff, but what are you doing? Why do you keep showing up here?”
“Just trying to be friendly.”
Stef hesitated, the
n frowned. “You’re one of those annoying, perpetually cheerful types, aren’t you?”
“And you’re one of those moody, sarcastic types,” Jackie shot back, defensively.
This wasn’t going as planned. Jackie had been hoping to improve on their first meeting. Instead, she was now trading insults.
Standing with her shoulders slack, her hair unruly, looking smug and impudent, Stef looked incredibly hot. Her sulking lips were parted slightly, asking for trouble. Jackie tried to ignore all the signals going off in her brain: ping-ping-pinging like a pinball machine.
“I was just trying to make you feel welcome,” she said. “Since you’re new around here and don’t know anybody.”
“So you’re the self-appointed Welcome Wagon? Should I make a pot of coffee and we can sit down and have a nice chat?”
Being mocked rankled Jackie. “Look, I just thought you might be lonely out here by yourself all the time.”
“I’ve got Deuce.”
Jackie glanced at the dog lying on a throw rug. “You know, so far I haven’t heard enough out of him to get what a fascinating conversationalist he is.”
“What I really like about his company is how little he has to say,” countered Stef. “And how little he expects me to say in return. We’re very casual and undemanding here, and that’s the way I like it.”
“People have things to offer that dogs just can’t. Essential things.”
“Like crawdads?” Stef chuckled.
“Like humor,” Jackie returned. “Like culture. Understanding. Humans are a highly social species. We need each other.”
Stef took a step closer, her gaze making the rounds of Jackie’s face. “I’ll admit there are needs only another human can satisfy.” Stef’s voice was soft and deep, incredibly alluring. “Is that why you’re here?” she taunted. “To satisfy my needs?”
Excited and nervous, Jackie took a step backward, backing up against the table. Stef came closer, her eyes full of amusement. She’s teasing me, Jackie decided. Though that realization angered her, she still wanted Stef to touch her.
“I was just trying to be friendly,” Jackie whispered, acutely aware of Stef’s body so close to hers. Their mouths were only inches apart.
“Okay, then” said Stef quietly, raising her hand to Jackie’s face, letting the backs of her fingers graze her temple. “Be friendly.”
Stef’s hand slid to the base of Jackie’s skull, holding her head stationary as she leaned in to press her lips to Jackie’s, briefly. She pulled a couple of inches away and Jackie saw a cloud of uncertainty pass through her eyes before she kissed her again, lingering, urging Jackie’s lips apart. As her kiss deepened, their bodies moved closer, solidly against one another, overwhelming Jackie with the sensation of heat and pressure and a delicate smell of shampoo or shower gel. Her arms went around Stef’s neck, letting her deeper into her mouth. Stef’s arms circled her waist and pulled her in tighter as her mouth grew hungrier. Desire sprang up in waves in Jackie’s body, rising and falling as the tabletop pressed into the back of her thighs. Stef’s mouth moved to her neck and Jackie let her head fall back, melting, as Stef planted breathy kisses in a line down to the base of her collarbone.
The grip around her waist unexpectedly relaxed.
“You’d better get outta here,” Stef whispered, “before your Welcome Wagon makes an unscheduled delivery.”
Stef released her and stepped away. Her eyes were smoldering, but her expression was disdainful. She shook her head in a mildly disapproving way, as if disappointed.
Jackie recovered her footing, feeling foolish. Stef was playing with her. Like a cat with a bird. Everybody knows a cat loses interest in the bird when it stops struggling. Had Stef been expecting, hoping for, a struggle?
“You’re right,” Jackie said with as much composure and dignity as she could manage. “I should go. I’m sure you and Deuce have a lot to talk about.”
She swept past Stef and out the door, stumbling on the deck before skipping down the stairs and out to her pickup. She was sure Stef was laughing at her, if not aloud, then at least in her mind. How humiliating! Why had she been so compliant? She didn’t usually go around letting strange women kiss her. At least not without going on a couple of dates, having a few conversations, getting to know her and finding out if there was the promise of some genuine feeling between them. This was so primal. The way she’d felt, so helpless, overcome by physical desire. The woman touched her and she collapsed, devoid of will and embarrassingly passive. Like an old-fashioned heroine in a romantic movie, swooning and breathless.
Jackie slammed the door of her pickup and spun out of the driveway in a cloud of dust.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Molina rounded the corner two seconds behind Needham, his shoes hitting asphalt as sharp slaps that echoed down the street. Stef lagged behind. She was having trouble breathing, gasping to take in each breath. She didn’t know why. Something was wrong with her. Heart attack? she wondered, as she labored to catch up.
As she rounded the corner, she saw Molina slam Needham face down onto the road, a knee in his back. She stopped and trained her gun on Needham as Molina cuffed him.
No longer running, Stef still couldn’t catch her breath. She felt like she was drowning.
Out of nowhere, somebody jumped her, knocking her sideways and grabbing for her gun. As she lost her balance, her body went into slow motion. She took her left hand off her gun to fight off the attacker, catching him under the chin and pushing his face back as hard as she could.
Why hadn’t she heard him coming?
She fell to the ground under the weight of her assailant, desperately trying to hold onto her gun as he tried to wrench it from her. She managed to get her finger on the trigger, and fought to turn the barrel toward her attacker. His face, now directly beside hers, was sweaty, his teeth were bared, his breath was hot on her cheek. The gun barrel was facing his body. All she had to do was squeeze the trigger and it would be over. Just one muscle contracting. That’s all that was required to kill a man.
He grabbed her wrist and slammed her hand down hard on the pavement, trying to knock the gun loose.
As her index finger pulled the trigger, she knew it was too late. He’d deflected her in time and now had her pinned down. She wouldn’t have another chance.
She looked toward Molina to see if he was coming to her aid. He was! He was on his feet, running her way, but his boots made no sound on the road.
Then she saw the bullet sailing toward him, sailing straight and slow, the bullet from her gun, misfired and heading for her partner. Molina, still coming, didn’t see it. She tried to yell a warning, but her tongue was like stone. She tried to stop the bullet with her mind. She could call it back if she tried. Try harder, she urged herself. This time she would stop it. She had to stop it!
But once again, like every time before, the bullet continued determinedly on its way. As it struck Molina in the forehead, time returned to normal. Blood poured down his face. He looked confused, reeled backward. His gun slipped from his grasp. He fell to his knees.
Stef’s attacker was momentarily distracted by Molina. She took the opportunity to shove the barrel of her gun into his gut. She squeezed the trigger. The gun jerked. The man jerked. She squeezed again and he went limp. She shoved him off. Blood covered her hands and stomach. She stared at her hands until she heard the sound of shoes clicking out a rhythm on the asphalt. Looking up, she saw that Needham was on his feet and running away, his hands still cuffed behind him. She could hear again, she realized, as the screaming of sirens overwhelmed her.
Molina lay on his side in the alley, his eyes staring unblinking at her.
“You’re not dead,” she asserted forcefully. “You’re not dead! You’re not dead!”
Suddenly he lifted his head, then got up and walked over to her. He reached down to help her up, his forehead smooth and unmarred. He smiled his cocky smile, his thin mustache stretched out straight across his upper lip.
&
nbsp; “Course I’m not dead,” he said. “How many times have I told you, I’m indestructible?”
She threw her arms around him, holding tightly and squeezing with all her strength. But she couldn’t hold him up. He slid from her grasp and fell at her feet like a car crash dummy, limp and lifeless.
Again she couldn’t breathe. Then she knew, suddenly, that she was awake, gasping for air, her body covered in sweat.
The room was dark. She looked at the glowing red numbers on the clock: 4:00 a.m. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and sat up. Deuce appeared at her side. She put her arm around him and patted him reassuringly, as if he were the one needing comforting.
There was no point trying to go back to sleep. Besides, there was plenty of work to do, so an early start to the day wouldn’t go to waste. She got up and washed her face with cold water in the cramped bathroom, with its white molded plastic shower stall and two square feet of open floor between the toilet, sink and the wall. She stood with her hands on either side of the sink, looking at herself in the mirror. Her thin face looked tired. She tried to smile reassuringly at herself, but it came out false.
Three months and she was still having this nightmare several times a week. At first she hadn’t been able to sleep at all and the department shrink had given her sleeping pills. Erin had said they made her snore and she felt drugged in the morning, so she quit taking them. Erin didn’t mind the snoring, she said, if Stef was able to sleep. But Stef didn’t like drugs, not even painkillers. They always cost you something. In addition to side effects, they cost you strength and independence. She’d flatly refused the antidepressants she was offered. It was better to find other ways to cope with illness or pain or sorrow…if you could. In the long run, it was better to rely on your own mind and body to heal themselves. That was her opinion, but she realized there were times your mind and body weren’t up to the task. She hadn’t decided yet if that was true in this case. She still had hope that she could get her life back. Not the same life, obviously, but some kind of life that didn’t hurt so much so often.
