by Merry Jones
The bartender eyed her and slowly ambled over. ‘ID?’ He had slick dark hair and a toothpick in his mouth.
Gwen handed him her ID. He took it with thick, stubby fingers, turned it around and over, smirked, looked at her and shook his head, wiggling his toothpick.
‘I don’t think so, baby girl.’ He tossed it on to the bar, returning to the middle-aged guy who was watching her now with open contempt. Who did he think he was? Did they think they were better than her just because they were old? Look at them. Lardy old turds.
Two guys sauntered in, biker wannabes. Tattoos and piercings; one with a shaved head, the other with a mullet and obscene little goatee. Tank tops.
‘It’s a valid ID.’ Gwen didn’t give up. ‘What’s your problem?’
Without even looking at her, the bartender answered, ‘You ain’t the babe in the photo. You got red hair and freckles. She don’t.’
Well, he was right. The photo in the ID was her cousin. But they looked alike. ‘I dyed my hair and wore make-up in the picture. You’re blind. Look again.’
‘Honey, you want a drink? I’ll get you a glass of milk. Otherwise, take a hike.’ He turned to the new guys. ‘What’ll it be?’
Gwen wasn’t going to be dismissed. She wanted a beer and she was going to get it. Maybe the bikers would help. She approached them; the bald one checked her out over his shoulder. The other got up to put money in the jukebox; music blared, loud and electrifying. Country? He chose Johnny Cash? But Johnny Cash moved her; she’d never noticed how deeply. She started to dance. Couldn’t help it; the music pulled her from inside, moved her body without her help. The mullet guy watched her.
‘She’s a minor,’ the barkeep warned.
‘No, I’m not,’ Gwen insisted. She was, after all, eighteen. And a half.
Mullet put an arm around her, led her to a booth in the corner. The bald one brought the pitcher. Gwen didn’t mind sharing a glass. Before long, she drank straight from the pitcher.
And not long after that, only mildly amazed at herself, she was on a table in the back room, bones vibrating to the music, her hair flying, spirit soaring. She hooted along with the small appreciative crowd, spinning, twirling, tossing her bra into the air, reveling first in the cheers, then in the arms of her enthusiastic fans.
Vicki was still moaning on the kitchen floor when Harper headed toward the clinic to see Hank, determined to confront him, as well. She felt energized, empowered. She didn’t know if Leslie’s eye movement techniques had ended her flashbacks, but they certainly seemed to have restored her self-confidence. She thought about what she’d do when she got to the clinic. Burst into Hank’s room and pop him in the nose, too? What would he do? But picturing the clinic made her think of Ron. Of running into him there. Of kissing him.
Wait. Didn’t she need to talk to Ron? Yes. She still needed to tell him about the numbers, that whoever had them was the killer. She pulled the Ninja to the side of the road, pulled out her phone to call him, but by the time he answered, she’d realized it would be better to tell him about the numbers in person, at her house, and she told him to meet her there. Right away. He asked why she sounded so urgent. Was she all right? Had she found out something about the drugs? Harper gave no answers. She simply told him to meet her and turned her Ninja toward home.
When she got there, she whooshed around, straightening the bedroom, changing into some loose lounging pajamas, spraying herself with jasmine body scent, going downstairs to brush her teeth and check herself in the mirror, putting on lip gloss for the first time in half a year. Finally, Ron’s car pulled into the driveway.
Harper met him at the front door. Without a word, she pulled him to her, pressing her mouth against his, wrapping her limbs around him, taking him by surprise.
Except that Ron didn’t seem all that surprised. He half-carried Harper up the steps to the bedroom, his shoes abandoned at the front door, his shirt on the stairs, his khakis on the floor beside the bed. He let her claw at him, marking his back, chewing his lips, and he responded in kind, tossing her roughly on to the mattress.
Harper climbed on to him, rolled on top and under him, nipping and clutching, releasing weeks of pent-up frustration, allowing stifled needs and suppressed desires to erupt. For Harper, reality blurred; her life seemed far away, out of reach. Unimportant. This moment and this man were all that mattered; the rest faded, and she held Ron tightly as if he were her only tether to the world. Her entire body yearned; each cell ached to connect with Ron. Her legs encircled him, her arms clung, her torso pressed, attempting to merge. Sex had never felt as desperate, as consuming. As dangerous.
Afterward, Ron slept instantly, noiselessly. He didn’t snore the way Hank did, didn’t toss. He just slept. Harper lay still, listening to his silence, thinking. Parts of her body that had been dormant for months still tingled from Ron’s touch. And his scent was now everywhere, on her skin, her sheets. In her mouth. Oh God. His skin was smooth, almost hairless. The whole time they’d made love, his eyes had been open, watching her. Conscious of her every reaction, each pant or moan. Sex with Ron had been athletic. Tensions had been wrested from her body; she was lighter, freer. And afterwards, lying beside him in the bed that belonged to Hank, she wondered at how easy it had been to break her vows.
Did she feel guilty? Was she sorry? She wasn’t sure. After all, Hank had cheated on her, hadn’t he? And, until now, she’d been a celibate, faithful chump. Ron’s arm lifted, rearranged itself, landing on her belly. He’d told her he cared for her. That it was easy for him to be with her. That he could look at her face forever. He wasn’t shy about expressing his feelings. Unlike Hank. Even before the accident, he hadn’t often articulated his affection. No, Ron wasn’t like Hank. Not his easy words or his agile movements. Not his silent climax.
Oh God. What was she doing, rolling around in bed with this man, comparing him to her husband? Sorrow washed over her; she missed Hank, longed for him. Stop it, she scolded. Don’t punish yourself. Hank isn’t here. Can’t be here. Hank is not available. He probably never will be.
No, she had nothing to feel guilty about; she’d done nothing wrong. She’d only tried to find some comfort so she could survive. Harper turned over and propped herself on an elbow, watching Ron sleep, confronting the undeniable truth that another man’s head was on her husband’s pillow. No question, the man was beautiful. Not just handsome; he was aesthetically exquisite. His features were symmetrical, chiseled. Not quite strange to her anymore. Becoming familiar.
Harper lay back again, but the movement disturbed him. His eyes opened, and he turned to look at her. Smiled.
‘You OK?’ He touched her face.
Harper smiled back, kissed his fingers. Yes, she was fine. He sat up, getting out of bed, pulling on his khakis. Harper sat up, blinking. Was he leaving? All of a sudden?
‘Going to the john.’ He headed into the hall and down the stairs.
Oh, just going to the john. No big deal. Wondering vaguely why he needed pants for that, Harper fluffed her pillow, turned over, snuggled down. And then, suddenly, her eyes opened.
Wide.
Before she could fully process the reasons, she dashed out of bed, pulling on a T-shirt, stepping into panties. Oh God. Ron had gone downstairs to the john. Oh God.
Cool down, she told herself. You’re overreacting. There had to be a reasonable explanation. But, if there was, she couldn’t think of it.
How, on the first time she’d invited him into her home, had Ron known not to use the bathroom adjacent to the bedroom? How come he hadn’t even glanced inside to see that it was being renovated? And how had he known where the other bathroom was?
There was only one explanation: Ron had been there before. Inside her house. Without Harper’s knowledge.
But when? And why? Obviously, to look for the stolen drugs. Had it been Ron who’d ransacked her home? And if so, had Ron killed Monique and Larry? She pictured it. Ron prowling the house; Larry and Monique finding him. A confrontation. Murd
ers.
Heart pounding, jabbing her legs into cut-offs, she told herself that she was wrong. Ron was not – could not be – a murderer; even so, she hurried down the hall to the stairway. She took the steps gently, avoiding the creaky parts, trying to balance on her weaker leg, the scarred one that, just minutes ago, Ron had kissed. Damn. Ron’s touch still echoed on her skin, tingling like the shadow of a killer.
At the foot of the stairs, Harper glanced down the hall at the bathroom, hoping Ron wouldn’t hear her. That he wouldn’t realize his mistake until she was gone. What would happen when he found out she knew? Would he kill her, too?
Harper wasn’t going to risk it. She edged toward the front door. Before Ron got out of the bathroom, she needed to get out of the house. Just a few seconds and she’d be on her Ninja, riding away.
‘Hey, Harper?’
She froze. His voice was close. Not coming from the bathroom down the hall, but from the kitchen. He’d heard her, knew she was downstairs. Maybe she could bolt past the kitchen to the front door and get out before he caught her. Maybe. She crept to the kitchen doorway, peeked in. The refrigerator was open. Ron was leaning inside, looking for something.
‘Hey, got any beer?’
Harper held her breath, still considering a dash to the front door. ‘Bottom shelf. Way in the back.’ She edged toward the front door.
‘Want one?’
‘No, I’m good.’ Her voice sounded thin, and she moved unsteadily, off balance, her weak leg wobbling.
Ron stepped out of the kitchen. ‘Harper? What’s up? Where are you going?’ He moved toward her, holding a bottle of beer. His smile was baffled, kind of wounded.
Harper kept moving back, watching him; he matched his steps with hers. ‘Don’t come closer, Ron.’
Or what? She’d cry? She had no weapon.
‘“Don’t come closer”? Seriously?’ His free hand rumpled his hair. ‘Wait, sorry. I must have missed something. Are you the same lady who was upstairs with me? Because I don’t think there is any closer than we just got.’
He moved towards her, still hadn’t realized his error.
‘I figured it out, Ron. What you did. So step back.’
But he didn’t. He kept coming. ‘What I did? What did I do?’
‘You used the bathroom.’
Ron tilted his head, not getting it. ‘You’re mad that I took a leak?’
‘How did you know where my bathroom was, Ron?’
A jolt of realization flickered in Ron’s eyes. He glanced toward the bathroom and drew a breath, wincing, taking yet another step. And another. Forgetting that Harper had been trained for combat.
‘Come on, Harper. What’s the big deal?’ Another step. A charming smile.
‘When were you here before, Ron? Was it when Larry and Monique were in the house? Did they see you here? Is that why you had to kill them?’
‘Kill them? Come on, Harper. You can’t be serious.’ He began to reach for her.
Quickly, Harper turned, twisting her torso, balancing on her damaged leg just long enough to launch a sidekick with her strong one. Her heel landed on Ron’s chest, knocking him, stunned, to the ground, his bottle of beer clattering, rolling, spilling on to the wooden floor.
His smile vanished as he scrambled to his feet, coming after Harper. ‘Damn,’ he coughed.
Harper’s weak leg had collapsed with the kick. Pushing herself up, she ran for the door, had her hand on the knob when Ron lunged, grabbing her ankle from behind, pulling her down. She reached out to break her fall, but her knees slammed the floor. Jagged pain roared through her, reverberated in her head, the shock of the impact momentarily blinding her. Even so, she kept moving, trying to crawl, but Ron had her ankle, so she spun around to face him, snarling.
‘Christ, Harper. Stop. What are you doing?’ Ron was winded, his eyes glowing and angry. He pounced and knocked her back to the floor, leaned on her shoulders, holding her down.
Harper lay still, panting. Noticing the beer bottle lying at her side.
‘Are you crazy? All this is because I knew where your bathroom was? Do you really believe I killed those kids? Really?’ His eyes riveted hers, intense and golden. Reminding her of sex. ‘Come on. You’ve got to trust me at least a little bit. If I let you up, will you stop fighting?’
Ron leaned over her, watching her, panting on her face. Moments ago – maybe five minutes – she’d have reached up and caressed his cheek, inhaled his breath. Now she tightened her hands into fists and searched his eyes for lies. At the very least, Ron had trespassed and hidden the truth. At the worst, he’d committed a double murder. And he wanted her to trust him? His eyes showed no signs of guilt or remorse, only fiery indignation, and he glared at her, waiting for an answer.
Harper waited, too. But not to answer. As soon as she could move her arm, she reached for the beer bottle, quietly closed her fingers around its neck.
Ron’s eyes narrowed, and he started to lower his face to hers, probably to kiss her. But he never had a chance; as soon as he was off balance, Harper struck as hard as she could, shattering the bottle against the back of his head.
The warm night air ruffled Harper’s hair as she sped across campus and north to the clinic. No way was she going to let Hank stay at a place run by Ron, not one more night, not one more hour. The faster she rode, the faster her mind worked, and she reached conclusions with unaccustomed speed and clarity. She was convinced that Ron had a hand in the deaths of her students – might have killed two of them himself. All three – Larry, Monique and Graham – had been research subjects at the Neurological Center and must have been involved with the drug theft. It was obvious: Ron had worked his way into her life just after Graham’s suicide; that couldn’t be a coincidence. He’d been using her to find the drugs.
A light turned red; Harper saw no cross traffic, kept going. She wondered how long Ron would be unconscious, how badly she’d hurt him. His gash had bled a lot. She thought of him lying in the hallway, out cold. When she’d rolled him off of her, his face had been relaxed, his chiseled features no longer beautiful, but sharp and predatory. Oh God. What had she done? She’d cheated on Hank. She’d jumped into bed with another man. And then, minutes later, she’d bashed that same man in the head. When had she become so rash? And so violent?
Well, it didn’t matter. She was done with the damned drugs, the damned Neurological Center and its damned clinic. She was going to rescue her husband from those crooked, shady doctors and their crooked, shady drug trials. She’d been wrong to entrust Hank to the care of strangers. He’d happier at home; might make more progress there.
She continued uphill. Ran another red light. Rounded the corner on to Dryden Avenue. Couldn’t stop thinking of Ron, the feeling of climbing on top of him, bodies linked. Of rolling on to her back and feeling his lips tracing the scars of her knee, her thigh. What had come over her? She was no better than Vicki now. Oh God – Vicki. Harper wondered if her nose had stopped bleeding. If it was broken. If she’d press charges.
Never mind. The task at hand was to rescue Hank. Harper turned on to Hoy and pulled into the clinic parking lot, realizing that Hank might not be able to ride the Ninja. She might need a car. Damn. But one thing at a time. She hurried into the building, signed in, greeting the receptionist who gawked at her. Uh oh. What now? Was she bleeding? Never mind. Harper kept going, past the coffee shop, the Sleep Clinic. Up the elevator, along the hall, past nursing stations and patient rooms, until finally, she thrust open the door and ran straight to the only person in the world with whom, God help them both, she truly felt safe.
Wordlessly, Harper went to the bed and climbed in beside him. Hank opened his eyes, turned his head. He didn’t seem surprised to see her. Not even a little.
‘Hoppa.’ He smiled, kissing her forehead, apparently not noticing the scent of another man. He stroked her hair with his strong arm, waking up, focusing. Then, squinting under the night-light, he looked at her more closely.
‘Face hurt?’ H
e frowned, waiting, while Harper realized the cut she’d gotten on the Suspension Bridge had opened, probably in her fall. It was bleeding. Must be why the receptionist had gaped at her. Well, no matter. She wiped it with Hank’s sheet, smearing blood across her face.
Harper wanted to stay there, clinging to Hank. Hiding behind his broad shoulders and beefy body, escaping the truth of what she’d done. She’d hit Vicki, then Ron. Soon, the police would come for her. Would they believe that she’d hit Ron in self-defense? Lord, why had she hit him so hard? And then she remembered why: Ron had known about the upstairs bathroom. He had snuck into her house to search for his damned stolen drugs, had likely killed her students. But, the fact was, she couldn’t prove any of that. She had not one iota of evidence. Which meant she was in big trouble.
‘Hoppa?’
They had to go. Now. But Harper held on to Hank, kissed his shoulder, allowing herself just one more moment in his arms. She pressed against him, wanting to dissolve into his body. Hank. Her Hank. What had happened to their lives?
But she couldn’t afford the luxury of cuddling. Any minute, the police might rush in. She and Hank had to move. Fast.
‘Happened?’ Hank asked again. He touched her face, still waiting for her to explain.
‘It’s OK.’ She pulled away, sitting up. There was no time for explanations. ‘Hank, get up. We’ve got to go.’
Hank scowled. ‘Face. Happened. Blood.’
Oh my God, Harper thought. Of all times, Hank had picked this moment to hold an actual conversation. She got out of bed, pulled the sheets off of him, turned on the light. ‘Get up. Hurry.’ She tugged at him.
Hank sat up, puzzled. ‘Because?’ Slowly, he swung his weak leg over the side of the bed.
‘Because we’re leaving.’
Hank’s eyebrows lifted, eyes twinkling. ‘Home?’
Well, not exactly. ‘Let’s go.’ She guided him toward the door.
He wore only underwear. ‘My.’ Hank pointed to his jockeys.
Oh God. Harper didn’t have time to go through closets and dressers, find his clothes, help him into them.
