by Deek Rhew
After they’d come back to her place, she’d put on a good show, laughing and chatting, then later she’d been very vocal in her passions. Not that all of it had been for display. She felt better, freer than she had in years. Plus, Peter had certain skills and talents that she appreciated.
She’d imagined Crew Cut listening to their antics, jotting down notes in a large yellow legal pad, which he would then turn over to Jon. The little prick would file a report full of her moans and gasps of pleasure. But she’d been doing that for months; if they really wanted something to talk about, she’d give it to them.
“I killed a man,” she said.
“Ummm, what? Really?” Peter appeared startled. “What happened?”
“That’s what the dream is about.” The sadness still haunted her. After all these years, it still gnawed on her bones as if it had happened the day before. “After my dad died, mom decided to drink the county dry and screw every lowlife on the western seaboard. One night, she passed out, and the bastard she’d brought home decided to pay me a little visit.”
“Oh shit.”
“Yeah. I was only twelve, but the perv wanted some more action. I disagreed and sent him to the big bar in the sky.”
“How’d you do that?” Peter asked.
“He was drunk, and I had gotten a Louisville Slugger for my eleventh birthday. He came at me, and I nailed him instead of the other way around.” Did Crew Cut already know all of this? He had access to her files, so probably. Still, it might sound a little different coming from her instead of the pages of a police report.
“So the dream isn’t a dream at all, but memories of that night.”
“Yes. I spent a bit of time in Juvie. I was found innocent of any wrongdoing, and they released me after my mom kinda got her shit together, but I never forgave her. After that, she did her thing, I did mine. You know how it is when you can be together but not really.”
Peter nodded. Something in his eyes—a sadness—told her he might understand.
“She didn’t show up when I graduated high school, top of my class, I might add.” She spat the words as if that could remove their bitter tang.
“Congrats. That’s not easy in the best of circumstances. Sorry about your mom, though.”
“Yeah, I wasn’t surprised or really disappointed. My best friend, Angel, her mom more or less adopted me. They were the only ones that I cared were there.”
“Still, it had to sting.”
“Well, that’s life, isn’t it? Things don’t always work out the way you want.” Monica traced the deep pattern of scars on Peter’s leg with her fingertip. “What about you? Why are you here?”
“Since my wife left me, I’ve been a bit lost. I’d planned out my life with her: kids, a house, a dog, the whole American dream. But plans are just that, and it turned out she had something different in mind...with someone different. So after she left, I finished my stint in the military with a small vacation over in sand land. I dedicated my future to the Marines, but my career got cut short when I got that parting gift from the grateful people of the Afghanistan nation.”
She frowned. “That’s not really an answer.”
“Fair enough, counselor. After I recovered, I got lost. I don’t have any family. My folks are gone, and most of the people I knew that were my friends before the divorce, sort of drifted away. When you split up, it gets a bit awkward for them. They have to choose sides, and I guess I was the less popular option. I’ve only had a few people in my life I truly cared about; the first was my wife.”
“And the second?” she prompted.
“My brother. He was my absolute best friend.”
“Was? What happened? Can you go stay with him?”
“He’s dead.”
She knew loss and longing better than anyone, so she didn’t say anything, letting him gather his thoughts.
“So anyway, after I finished physical therapy, I tried to figure out where I was going and what I wanted to do with my life. I got a little money because of my injury, not a lot, just enough to get by for a while. Started traveling the country—Chicago, D.C., New York, California, all the big exciting places everyone always says they want to see—but so far, no place has struck me as home. So, here I am, trying the opposite of everything else.”
“The opposite being small, remote, and decrepit, with no hope of a job or future?”
He laughed. “Suppose so. I actually didn’t know anything about the town before I got here. I was driving and found this wide patch in the road. My bike took the off ramp, and here I am. My life has been turned upside down so many times I don’t know which way is which. So, I thought, ‘why the hell not?’” He fell silent for a while, then asked, “So you graduated top of your high school class, then followed your dreams to be a lawyer?”
A stab of anger pierced her heart. Not at Peter, who also seemed to be one of life’s misfits, but at Crew Cut, Granite, Driver, Jon, Bad Facelift, Laven—all of the bastards that had taken her life from her. She’d told them the truth and cooperated, but they had presumed her guilty and given her no chance to prove otherwise. The FBI had locked her up and treated her like a criminal trying to skirt her punishment, while they got their witness. They always seemed to be one step ahead… Only, perhaps not. Maybe she could finally get a leg up, make them pay and hurt, if only a little. Crew Cut needed something to put in his report, so she’d give him something that would really make his life interesting. “Well, that was the plan.”
Peter hesitated. “But it didn’t work out? Looks to me like you’re living the dream.”
“Well, looks can be deceiving. I went to NYU on a full scholarship and was all set to be a big shot lawyer. But then I overheard a conversation I wasn’t supposed to.” She envisioned Crew Cut sitting up straight, frantic to call his boss. The image gave her a glimmer of glee, and she just managed to contain the laughter threatening to burst from her lips.
“What kind of conversation? Who was it?”
“It was between a drug lord and his hitman. Maybe you’ve heard of the Laven Michaels case?”
“Oh yeah. Who hasn’t? It’s all over the headlines and on every news channel. They have some star witness though that doesn’t seem to be enough because, by all accounts, the case seems to be falling apart.” He looked closer at her in the weak light. “Wait. Is that you? You’re the witness?”
“One and the same. They wanted to ‘protect’ me, so here I am in witness protection, though I think witness prison is a better name for it. They locked me away, using me when they wanted and forgetting about me the rest of the time.”
“So what happens when the case is over?”
“Well, they promised me an education and that I could continue with my life. Instead they gave me a certificate of paralegal, stole my identity, and sent me away to this little shithole of a town.”
She turned towards the hidden microphone so that it would pick up her words clearly. “There’s this bastard, Hale Lenski, who is supposed to be protecting me, but basically he’s a demented dictator with all the charm of asparagus. I call him Crew Cut, because he looks like he has his hair done at a lawn and garden store. He’s locked me up, and jumps on my ass the second I do anything, so I’m more prisoner than the guy they’re trying to convict. Other than Crew’s remarkable lack of personality and snow-shovel good looks, there isn’t anything attractive about him.”
“No love lost there,” Peter remarked. “So, they stole your identity?”
She turned back to him. “Witness Protection, baby.”
“Wait, so you’re saying your name isn’t Susan?”
“Nope. Monica Sable, star witness and slave to the system.” She held out her hand. Peter looked stunned as he took it, and they did an awkward lying-in-bed-naked shake. “Pleased to re-meet you.” Pleasure rippled through her body at the thought of Crew Cut and the galley shitting monkeys and making angry phone calls.
“Wow. I don’t know what to
say to that,” Peter said.
She laughed. “You don’t say anything.” She rolled over on top of him. She kissed him, the smoke in her lungs passing to his. She took another hit off of her cigarette then stamped it out in the tray. They shared this last breath from a dead cancer stick as Monica ground her hips against his. She adjusted her pelvis, and he slid inside of her. She lay down flat against his chest as she continued to rotate her hips, setting a slow and deliberate tempo.
As they moved together, their rhythm and intensity increasing, she let out little moans and gasps. As she neared orgasm, she sat up, leaned back, and put her hands on his chest, riding him harder. A cry emanated from deep in her throat as her release went on and on, and she felt him push up as he followed her.
She lay down on top on top of him, not releasing him but instead holding tight. She drifted off to sleep with a smile in the stuffy little room.
* * *
The next morning, Susan woke at her normal time, donned her robe, and padded barefoot to the kitchen. A half hour later, she returned to her room with two steaming mugs of coffee and a small plate of cinnamon rolls from a tube she’d found in back of the fridge.
“Good morning,” Peter said, sitting up.
“Good morning to you. Hungry?” she asked, irritated he hadn’t gotten dressed and, in fact, continued to linger in her bed.
“Starving.”
She handed him the coffee, a pastry, and a napkin.
“Thank you.” He took a sip.
She nodded, disrobed, and started pulling on her office clothes. Take the clue, boy. Time for you to go.
He watched her for a minute. “What’s on your agenda for the day?” he asked around a mouthful of pastry.
“I need to go to work.”
“You work on Saturdays?”
Crap. Duh. It’s Saturday. Okay, no problem. That makes perfect sense; we’ve got a busy office and lots of pressing matters. “Yep, and though I’ve had fun, you need to go. Here.” She tossed the stack of documents she’d reviewed for him onto the bed.
“Oh, sure. No problem.”
“There are a few notes you should pay attention to, but overall it looks good. May I give you a little advice?”
He took another sip of his coffee. “Sure.”
“Leave town.”
“Pardon?”
“Leave. This place is a cesspool. The town is dying. The economy’s in the toilet. There’re no jobs and no prospects. It would be impossible to build a life here. Save your money and save yourself. Get out before it drags you down and sucks out your soul.”
“What if one has a romantic prospect?” He gave her his warm and inviting smile.
She’d considered it. Thought about it at great lengths while the rolls baked and the coffee brewed. Thought about asking him to take her for another ride on his bike, but this time, they would leave town and never come back. But no matter how much she’d laughed at his jokes and gave herself to him in bed, she couldn’t see them sharing a life on the run. He had a reserved, rule-following nature about him, that wouldn’t meld itself to life with a fugitive. She’d had her fun, given the FBI the finger, but now she needed to seriously consider getting out of town, and she couldn’t do that with this man around.
“No. That’s not going to happen. I had fun, but this was a one-time deal. I have to stay here, but you shouldn’t.”
To his credit, Peter’s expression did not falter when he nodded. “Okay, I understand. I’ll get dressed and get out of your hair.” He stood and pulled on his clothes. Finishing his coffee, he headed towards the front of the house.
She opened the door for him, grateful to be almost done. “Thank you. I had a nice time.”
He turned on the stoop, touched her chin, and kissed her gently. “Thank you. If I don’t see you again, I hope things work out. I really do.”
Goosebumps broke out on her body at the touch of his lips and the earnest pain in his eyes. The thought of asking him back into the house flashed through her mind. Something about the moment had touched her deeper than she could have ever imagined, and she longed to talk to him about it. She wanted to know what he felt at that instant. But before she could even consider formulating the words, he donned his helmet, climbed on his bike, and drove away.
She watched him until he dwindled from view.
11
The Monday after Peter Morrell stopped by their office, Lisa Bunder arrived at work anxious for date-night details. Susan filled her in on her clandestine evening with the dark stranger. Lisa’s mouth literally dropped open in astonishment at Peter’s abrupt departure. She’d always known her friend to be cool and levelheaded, but she couldn’t have predicted such an outcome simply because she couldn’t fathom herself ever being so bold.
“Wow. Yeah, you’re right to ask him to leave. But wow… Maybe that’s for the best. You don’t need the complication of a man in your life.” Lisa shook her head. “They ain’t nothing but trouble. Speakin’ of which, since you’re alone again, I was wondering if I could stay for a spell? Me ‘n’ Jeb been fightin’. Just ’til things blow over.”
“Yes, of course,” Susan said, as she always did.
“We’ve just been going through a rough patch.” Lisa began a long, rattling monologue on dramatic events that would have rivaled the best of daytime television.
* * *
While the two women filed briefs and discussed the intricacies of Lisa’s marriage at the office, a white telephone company van pulled up in front of Susan’s little bungalow.
No one had heard of this particular company before, but later witnesses would remark this unworthy of note. In the depressed economy, even the utility companies struggled and often changed hands.
The man wore blue coveralls, work boots, a baseball cap, and a utility belt. Descriptions of him varied from five-and-a-half feet with blonde hair to over six-feet tall with a long, shaggy mane and a mustache. No one got a good look at his face, and after several frustrating attempts, the sketch artist gave up, exasperated.
He carried a clipboard and a small toolbox when he walked around Susan’s humble dwelling to the point where the phone line veered off the main cable and met the side of the house. He disappeared around back, perhaps to go do some technical telephone maintenance task. A few minutes later, he put his tools back in the truck, wrote something on the clipboard, climbed into the driver’s seat, and drove off.
No record could be found in the local telephone company’s system of any maintenance ordered for that address, or any other in the area.
* * *
Long after the sun had set, Lisa locked the office doors, still prattling about her husband and their life. How, Susan wondered, could there be so much to say? She tuned out, thinking instead about a simple dinner and a hot bath. She really wanted some alone time. It had been an emotional few days, but she could see no quiet moments in her near future.
Susan placed her hand on Lisa’s shoulder, interrupting the monotonous monologue. “I’m going to run to the store and pick up something to eat. Need anything?”
Lisa halted mid-sentence and seemed to think it over. “No thank you, love. I’m going home.” By “home,” Susan’s boss did not mean the one she shared with her husband. “I’ll read a book and drink myself to sleep.”
* * *
Lisa drove the four miles to Susan’s modest, single-story house. She parked on the street and sat in her car listening to a sappy love song and mooning over her marriage to Jeb.
They’d had a rocky time of it lately, and she had started to wonder if they would “make it.” Having Susan as a friend had been a godsend. She loved how the girl listened—almost never giving advice—and helped her pick through the details, ad nauseam, of the fights with her husband. Their arguments had become far too frequent.
Despite encouraging Susan to form a relationship with the dark-haired stranger, Lisa had been more than a little relieved when she found out he’d lef
t town. She had encouraged Susan to have a fling, but it hadn’t taken Lisa long to realize she needed her friend single and attentive, not tied down with obligations and a life of her own.
* * *
FBI Investigative Report
Entry #0908.3
Reporting Agent: Hale Lenski
Subject, Susan Rosenberg, remained at work until approximately 6:43 PM when she left in her 1992 Subaru wagon, heading east on Desert Scape Avenue (see town map, entry #19). She entered the grocery store, “Quickie Mart,” where she purchased beer: Michelob Light; cheese: cheddar; and a loaf of day-old French bread. At 7:05 PM, according to interview with cashier, Erin Trusk, she exited the store. Presumably driving home.
* * *
When Susan pulled into the driveway, Lisa got out of her car and headed across the street. Lisa often sat and listened to music while thinking about her wreck of a home life, so it didn’t surprise Susan to see her boss hadn’t yet made it into the house.
Susan got out a bag of groceries in one hand and the six pack in the other.
Lisa unlocked the front door then turned. “Hey, be a dear and grab the files from the back of my car.” She tossed the keys.
Having both hands full, Susan had no way to catch them, and they slid under the Subaru.
“Oops, sorry,” Lisa said but made no move to help.
Susan swore under breath. Lisa could not transition between personal and professional, telling Susan what to do and making her run errands—getting the files from the damned car for instance—as though they were still at the office.
Sighing, Susan set the groceries down and knelt behind her car, reaching under it for the keys. Her fingers searched and came up empty, so she crawled further under the Subaru until only her feet stuck out. Finally, her fingers grasped the fob to Lisa’s Audi.
“Gotcha!” she said as the front door of her house clicked shut.
