Running Scared

by Lisa Jackson

  “What’re you doin’…?” Tommy Shoenborn, a needle-nosed little kid with a big mouth and dirty fingernails who was still praying he’d go through puberty someday, had come searching for his parka and found them panting and groping on the floor of the closet. “Oh, my God, oh my God, oh my God! Sister Clare! Sister Clare!” Tommy, a suck-up from day one, stared down at them. “Daegan and Tracy are fornicating!”

  Daegan scrambled to his feet, grabbing Tommy by his collar and shoving him up against the wall. “Shh! Say a word and I swear I’ll kill you.”

  Tracy, red-faced and mortified, slapped Daegan soundly, her boobs swaying deliciously before she reached under her sweater, hooked her bra deftly, and tossed her hair away from her face. “Stay away from me, Daegan O’Rourke,” she said. “If you ever try that again, I’ll send my brother after you!” She shouldered her way past the coats and a gaped-faced Tommy and Daegan.

  His first sexual experience had cost him. Pitying, reproachful looks from the nuns, extra homework, his hands whipped with the pointer until they bled, and about a million whispered rosaries, all acts of contrition to seek forgiveness for his sins, but with each “Hail Mary” he uttered, he sent up a silent prayer of thanks to God for allowing him a chance to touch the spectacular Hancock breasts.

  In a vain attempt to restore her tattered reputation, Tracy had never even glanced his way again, but the girls at St. Mark’s had been intrigued. Already a curiosity because he was a bastard, Daegan had gained a certain fascination. The girls had all thought he was naughty and seductive, and with his new prestige as a nasty boy interested in sex, he’d become suddenly popular. Only a few prim and proper girls hadn’t openly wanted to experiment with him.

  The boys had been awed that he’d actually touched Tracy’s nubile body and wanted intimate accounts of the size, shape, and texture of her boobs. Derrick Cawfield, a kid with freckles the color of his short hair, swore that he beat off every night just thinking about the twin pleasure mounds. Even Sandy Kavenaugh, older and the most sexually advanced of all the boys Daegan knew, was impressed. Sandy made it his personal mission to try and feel Tracy up and give her a hickey on one of those incredible tits.

  Daegan’s teachers were concerned, and the flashes of insight he caught from them told him that they thought he’d never amount to anything. Beneath Sister Clare’s patient smile was a thought that bothered him. Poor dear. He can’t help himself. Its a shame he was born to such a loose woman. Such a smart boy, but so willful.

  Sister Evangeline was worse. Should never have agreed to let him enroll. A bad seed if there ever was one. Devil child, born to a slut who sleeps with a married man. If it weren’t for the money Frank Sullivan offered for a new gymnasium, I’d expel him on the spot. God would understand. This one, Daegan O’Rourke, is a child of Satan.

  And Tracy Hancock was no better. Though she never outwardly gave him the time of day again, he saw a glimmer in her mind as she wondered what it would be like to go all the way with him.

  Daegan’s teachers began advising his mother that he was wandering down the treacherous and painful road of sin.

  Sister Mae glowered at him—though he thought she had a curious twinkle in her eyes; priests, after punishing him with a paddle, counseled him on the temptations of the flesh and gave him extra duties around the school, along with long prayer sessions where, on bent knees, he was supposed to be begging the Father’s forgiveness, but Daegan had never regretted his experience with Tracy for one second.

  As Daegan entered high school and fought against his ever-present lust, the entire situation with his father became too much to bear. He saw Frank Sullivan for the useless son of a bitch he was—a spineless coward who made him sick. Too old to pretend that he didn’t know what was going on in the bedroom, Daegan left before each of Frank’s visits. His mother always protested violently, having some screwed-up idea that they—the three of them—were some kind of pathetic family, but he just grabbed his worn leather jacket and ignored her pleas as he slipped outside, turned up his collar, and climbed down the stairs past the back entrance to the Cat O’Nine Tails Tavern. He’d rather hang out at pool halls and beer joints even though he was underage than listen to his mother and his jack-off of a father go at it.

  Those years he worked a little, stole a lot, and swore that if he ever met Frank Sullivan in the light of day, he’d beat the living shit out of him.

  Matter of fact, he looked forward to the opportunity.

  Daegan met his cousins for the first time when he was just shy of eighteen. Though he’d known of them for years, seen them from a distance, he wasn’t certain that they’d been told about him when one night, out of the blue, Beatrice approached him.

  It was near Christmas and he was hanging out at one of the pool halls in South Boston, smoking and telling disgusting jokes, wishing the owner, Shorty O’Donnell, didn’t know he was underage so that he could order a beer. The heater rattled as it pumped hot air from vents dark with smoke and grime.

  Above the sounds of laughter and scratchy Christmas music coming from a tiny radio near the window, he heard the door open. A bell jangled announcing a new player—a potential patsy. A whoosh of cold air rushed into the room, and even though he was poised over the shot, he swore he heard, How could anyone stand to be in here for more than two seconds?

  He missed the shot and looked up.

  “Would ya look at that?” one man whispered.

  Another, the guy with the droopy eye and tattoo of a skull on his arm, let out a long, appreciative whistle. Heads all around him swiveled. Eyes slitted.

  Beatrice didn’t fit in the cavernous room. Wearing a fur-lined jacket, kid gloves, and matching boots, she didn’t look a thing like the rest of the few women who frequented Shorty’s. They usually hung around their boyfriends, wore short leather skirts or jeans, sucked on suds, and smoked silently. Their hair was teased, their makeup on the thick side, their teeth not close to being even for the most part.

  Beatrice Sullivan’s patrician looks reeked of blue blood and money. She spied her cousin and sauntered up to him. “So you’re Daegan O’Rourke,” she said as he leaned over a pool table marred by neglected cigarettes left burning throughout the years.

  “That’s right.” He made the shot indifferently though his heart was really racing. Why had she come looking for him? The spit in his mouth dried up. The cue ball smacked into the number seven ball, which ricocheted into the corner pocket. He moved around the table, using the chalk, never meeting her eyes, as if he didn’t give a damn that she’d obviously followed him. What did he care?

  A lot, he realized with a sick jolt. He cared a whole lot more than he should have.

  “I’m Beatrice. Everyone calls me Bibi.”

  “I know.” He was starting to sweat. The pool cue slipped in his hands.

  “We’re related.”

  He made a deprecating sound in the back of his throat. “Not really. Look, I’ve got a game to play. There’s money involved. You want something?”

  “How much?”

  “What?”

  “How much money’s involved?”

  For the first time in his life he tried to look into someone’s mind and failed miserably. As he’d matured, his ability, the one he’d cursed so violently, had weakened. “Why?”

  “I’ve got something more interesting to do.”

  “I’ll bet, baby,” a thick-headed guy with a flattop yelled.

  “How much?”

  Daegan thought about the five bucks he had riding on this game. Nothing to her. A fortune to him. “Enough.”

  “Leave it.”

  “Sure,” he said sarcastically. As he tried to make his next shot, she leaned her hip against the table, directly in his line of view. Her skirt was wool, her legs long, and she looked as out of place here as a five-carat diamond in a bucket of gravel. “I think we should talk.”

  “Why?”

  “Family matters.”

  He raised an eyebrow, cast her a drop-d
ead glance, and said, “I don’t have much family.”

  “You’ll have less if you don’t lose the attitude.”

  He straightened and folded his arms over his chest, pinning his cue stick between his T-shirt and forearms. “I’m busy.”

  She laughed. “This is how you spend your nights?”

  “I’m asking again. Just what is it you want?”

  Her gaze slid around the room, to the other men who were gawking at her openly, like hungry wolves around a wounded lamb. “We should talk in private.”

  “This is as private as I get.”

  “That’s not what I heard.” A wicked little smile played upon lips that glistened a soft shade of pink.

  A chorus of “Whoas” swelled around him.

  “Maybe you heard wrong.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Look, Beatrice—”

  “Bibi.”

  “I don’t see any reason to—”

  “Have it your way. I’ll be in the car.” She checked her watch and Lefty O’Riley, a pickpocket at the next table, greedily eyed all seventeen jewels. “You’ve got ten minutes.” Leaving a cloud of perfume in her wake, she strolled out of the pool hall and the clicking of cue balls stopped. Everyone in the building watched her rump sway as she made her way outside.

  “Hell,” Daegan growled, glancing at the bills laid flat against the corner of the table, then tossed his stick to the guy he’d been playing and followed her.

  “Hey, you can’t walk out on a game!” Bill Schubert called.

  He didn’t reply, just snagged his beat-up leather jacket off a hook near the door and swung outside, where the winter wind ripped through him like a chain saw. His boots crunched on snow that had fallen, half melted, and refrozen. Several men had gathered near a fire that crackled in a trash can, warming fingers that poked through tattered gloves, their bodies wrapped in long coats, their collective breath fogging the air.

  A car, a big black Cadillac with smoky windows, was idling in the loading zone. The back door was open. Waiting. Exhaust clouded from the tail pipe and strains of “The Little Drummer Boy” floated from the interior.

  I knew he’d come, she said without speaking.

  He jabbed his hands into his pockets and crossed the sidewalk.

  The distinct impression that he was going to make the single worst decision of his life tonight and there wasn’t much he could do about it nagged at him.

  Bibi and whatever she had planned was waiting. For him. About to change his life.

  Daegan took a deep breath, decided he didn’t have much to lose anyway, and ducked in the buttery soft interior of the Cadillac.

  Chapter 7

  Bibi wasn’t alone. Stuart, her older brother, the golden child of the Sullivan family, sat in the driver’s seat of the luxury car, drumming his fingers impatiently on the top of the steering wheel. She sat beside him, couched in soft leather and fur.

  Already second-guessing himself, Daegan slid into the backseat.

  The heir-apparent turned and looked over his shoulder. “I’m Stu.” Close-cropped brown hair and piercing blue eyes.

  “Daegan.”

  “I know. Close the door.” As Daegan yanked the door shut, Stuart stepped on the accelerator. Tires squealed, slush sprayed, and Daegan began to feel as if he were in a trap—one of those rooms where the walls ever so slowly begin to move closer together, promising to squeeze the living breath out of anyone in their steady, relentless path.

  “I suppose you wondered why we came looking for you,” Stu said in a voice that sounded as if he were modulating the debate team. He was a lot older than Daegan, over twenty, and smooth as expensive glass. He’d been wearing a tie but it had been tossed carelessly over the seat. His wool sports jacket was navy herringbone, his features definably patrician, and he drove with his hands barely on the wheel, as if by the sheer power of his will the Cadillac responded to him.

  Through the city streets they sped, past the tenements and warehouses of Daegan’s neighborhood. “You are curious, right?” Stuart prompted when Daegan didn’t answer his question. Sullivan’s blue eyes met his in the rearview mirror. “You’d like to know why we’d bother looking you up.”

  “It crossed my mind.”

  Stu glanced over his shoulder, flashing a thousand-watt smile. “We—Bibi and I—thought it was time you met the family.”

  Daegan felt a tic stirring in the corner of his jaw. “What if I don’t want to?”

  Stuart slammed on the brakes. Daegan flew against the front seat. The big car skidded on the ice, nearly turning sideways near an old boarded-up warehouse and fish cannery. “Then you can get out,” Stuart said in that same near-bored voice.

  “Oh, don’t!” Bibi interjected. She pushed on the lighter and was fiddling with a tape in the dash. “And stop driving like a maniac, you’re going to kill us all.” She placed an arm over the back of her seat and twisted to face Daegan. “It’s going to be fun.”

  “Fun?” Daegan repeated, mentally kicking himself.

  “Sure. Collin’s going to be there and…” Music drifted from hidden speakers. Rolling Stones. Not really an upper-crust band. “Let’s spend the night together. Now I need you more than ever…”

  “Collin?” Daegan’s throat threatened to close. His half brother. The boy Mary Ellen had always compared to Daegan. Collin, of course, had always come up short every time in Mary Ellen O’Rourke’s biased opinion. He was thin, blond, and pale like his mother, not strapping. Often sick. In her words, “a snot-nosed wimp.”

  Bibi found a cigarette in her purse. “Yeah, and Bonnie and Alicia, too.”

  “Your choice,” Stuart said as he glanced at Daegan in the rearview mirror with those placid eyes. But in the blue depths, Daegan saw something else, a bit of evil. He didn’t have a glimmer into Stuart’s mind, but there was just a hint of a smile on his face, a wicked little ghost of a grin that indicated he anticipated a great sport, one in which Daegan would be a primary player.

  “Where are we going?”

  “As I said, to a party—a very private party.” Stuart’s eyes, in the mirror, narrowed just a fraction.

  “What kind of party?” he asked, more nervous than ever though he’d never admit it.

  “One for all the cousins,” Stuart said. “Kind of a coming out party. For you.”

  “Oh, Stu, stop it.” Bibi lit her cigarette and took a long drag. “You know, I was wrong. This was a shitty idea.”

  “Whose was it?” Stu asked.

  “It was just a joke,” she said, smoke sifting from her nose. “I had no idea you’d actually go for it.”

  “But it’s brilliant, darling,” he said and touched her lightly on the cheek.

  So they’d cooked this up together, whatever it was, and already Bibi was regretting her part. Not good; not good at all. Get out, Daegan, get out now while you still have some pride.

  “Where is this party?”

  “Out of town. At the lake.”

  “Daddy’s summer house,” Bibi said, frowning.

  “What’s it gonna be, O’Rourke?” Stu demanded. “You think you’re man enough to face the family?”

  In the deep cushions, Daegan bristled. He’d never been one to turn down a dare, even when he knew he was going to regret it. “As long as my old man’s not there.”

  “Frank?” Stu snorted the name in disgust. “Don’t worry. This is a closed party. Invitation only. Uncle Frank didn’t make the cut.”

  “But I did.”

  “Yeah.” There was a smile in Stu’s voice. “You definitely did.” He twisted the wheel, and they were off again, the smooth engine of the Caddie purring through the night. Daegan had ridden in his share of cars, even though his mother didn’t own one, but this was the best. The lights of the city swirled past the shaded glass windows. Music and smoke drifted through the warm interior. He started to relax and listen to the Stones. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.

  Daegan changed his mind when the e
lectronic gates of some obscure piece of Sullivan real estate parted and Stuart nosed the Caddie along a snow-crusted lane. Several other cars had passed through the wrought-iron fencing and left deep ruts in the otherwise pristine drifts. Fir trees, their boughs laden with a heavy blanket of white, were overburdened compared to their naked counterparts—stark, leafless maple and oak trees that seemed to lift their black skeletal arms to the sky.

  Daegan’s mouth was dry and he’d kill for one of the cigarettes that Bibi so carelessly smoked, but he didn’t say a word, not even when the forest parted and a house the likes of which he’d never seen before came into view. Sprawled upon the banks of a vast lake, three stories of red Sullivan brick rose upward. On either side, single-storied wings swept away from the tall center. White stone edged each corner, and six or seven chimneys, one of which spewed smoke into the clear evening air, stood like sentinels on the roof. Tall windows glowed in the night, the panes shimmering with ice, black shutters open. A behemoth of a house.

  Daegan bit his tongue. So this was how the Sullivans lived. It was enough to make him sick when he thought of the hours his mother put in at the textile mill, how her feet and back ached each night, how she rubbed the knots from her fingers and the back of her neck after getting off her shift, how she waited by the phone, smoking silently, hoping he would call.

  Stuart parked near the porch behind a new Jaguar. Smoothing the sides of his hair, he flashed Daegan one of his killer smiles. “Show time.”

  “Oh, Christ,” Bibi groaned as she jabbed out what had to have been her third cigarette. Pursing her lips, she offered Daegan a look of apology as they climbed out of the car, then, as if embarrassed, wouldn’t glance his way again. The air was crisp, cold, and clear, the night silent. No noise of city, no smell of exhaust, no ever-present throngs of people bustling around. No, this place, in its mantle of white, was serene and stately.

  Stuart reached the door and flung it open, motioning gallantly for Daegan to enter. Impulsively Bibi took Daegan’s fingers in her hand and squeezed. “If this gets too hairy, let me know. I’ll get you out of here.”