by Mary Frame
“Well, we don’t have many options. Lucy’s still trying to get information from the police files. Other than that, we’ll have to wait it out, for now. Either someone else will end up dead, and you’ll be cleared since you won’t be involved, or no one ends up dead and the rumors die down and you’ll be back in business. Either way, if you get a call from any chicks asking to beat up their exes, let me know.”
“Why? What are you going to do?”
“We,” she points at me and then herself, “will stake it out.”
Stake it out?
“You know,” she continues at my perplexed expression. “Wait around after you do the deed, and follow your victim to see if anyone else shows up to take it to the next level.”
“That’s a good idea,” I say slowly, “but I don’t think you should come with me.”
“What do you mean? Why not?”
I shake my head. “Too dangerous.”
“Look, buddy.” She points a finger at me. “I’m either in or I’m out. Besides, I’ll just be there to observe. You’ll need a witness if the shit hits the fan. I promise to be on my best behavior and stay completely out of your way.”
I don’t like it, but she’s right. “Fine.”
She grins at me. I don’t know what it is about her smiles, they’re like everything else she does. She’s fully invested in the expression and it fills her face and shines on everything around her.
“You’re such a pushover,” she says.
I try to hold it back, but I can’t control it. It pushes at the top of my throat and I laugh out loud.
Chapter Twelve
Freya
I know, my dear Watson, that you share my love of all that is bizarre and outside the conventions and humdrum routine of daily life.
―Arthur Conan Doyle
A week passes. Dean doesn’t receive any calls, and we don’t come up with any more leads. I put Lucy to task, but the firewall into the police computer records is locked tighter than a jar of pickles when you have lotion on your hands. She’s still working on it, though.
I can tell Dean’s getting antsy when I talk to him on the phone.
I spend most of the week recovering from the weekend and absorbed in classes. Spring break is rapidly approaching and I think my professors are trying to make up for the brain cells that will be lost with binge drinking by cramming as much work as possible into the next two weeks.
Bethany comes over one night. She brings me a bunch of my favorite foods and spends most of the night groveling about the night of the roofie incident. She thought I had gone home when she came back to the table and I was gone.
I assure her that it’s fine, there was no way for her to know with her phone dead and all, but apparently Lucy read her the riot act.
“She was all calm and monotone.” Bethany shakes her head. “It was the creepiest lecture I’ve ever received. Then she started asking all these questions about my family and upbringing and past. It was like she was trying to get into my brain!”
“She’s a psychotherapist.”
Bethany shrugs. “I know, but I’m not ready to be fixed yet.”
On Thursday, I get the call from Dean. He’s finally been approached by a vengeful ex.
“This one’s really angry. She said she hopes I am a killer. She asked me to cut out his eyeballs and shove them in interesting places.”
“That’s adorable.”
“Right? They broke up last week and he’s got another girlfriend already, and she lives in Lincoln Hall.”
Lincoln Hall is one of the fancier dorm buildings with private rooms and giant communal kitchens.
“Another girlfriend already, or someone he’d been seeing on the side?” I ask.
“I don’t really care. My client seems to believe that he’ll be exiting the building tonight at lights out. You ready?”
“As a virgin on prom night.”
There’s a pause and then he asks, “What does that mean? Does that mean you’re nervous or excited?”
“I’m not sure exactly. Sometimes things just come out.”
“I’ve noticed.”
We plan to meet at my place at nine to get ready and set up since lights out is at ten.
When he gets to my place, I’m already dressed in all black from head to toe.
He walks in and raises an eyebrow at my outfit. “Why do you look like a football player?”
Maybe the black grease under my eyes is a bit over the top.
“So, you know, people can’t see my face as much and stuff.”
“Athletes use the black stripes under their eyes to avoid glare from the stadium lights, so they can see the ball easier.”
“Oh.” I was not aware of that. “Well, it looks cool, right?” I grin and blink my eyes up at him.
He shakes his head with a chuckle. “Are you ready to go?”
“Yep!” I’m really way too excited about this whole espionage thing.
We get in his car and he pulls out of my parking lot and heads towards campus.
“Did you bring walkie-talkies?” I ask.
“Why would I bring walkie-talkies?”
“Uh, duh, because they’re fun.”
“We don’t need them, and you aren’t going to be out of my sight for any longer than it takes for me to do the deed.”
“Hmph.”
He’s a very conscientious driver. We pull up at a four-way stop and he allows the other driver to go, even though we got there first, before carefully pulling into the intersection.
His hands haven’t left the 10-and-2 positions on the steering wheel since we got in the car.
“You drive like my grandmother,” I observe.
“What?” He twists his head in my direction, a bewildered expression on his face, and then quickly looks back at the road. “I do not.”
“Yes, you do.”
“Well, you drive like a blind speed freak.”
“No I don’t!”
I do. I totally do.
“I’m just, you know, aggressive,” I say.
He snorts. “Suicidal.”
We’re silent for a moment, the only sound is the tires humming against the pavement.
“Slowpoke,” I say in low voice out of the corner of my mouth.
“Crazy person,” he returns so quickly I wonder if he had the insult waiting.
“Snail,” I say, louder.
“Weirdo.”
I watch him, waiting for his rejoinder.
His gaze is still fixed firmly in front of him, but then he glances over and we both laugh.
It’s one of those things that’s not that funny, but for some reason it is. By the time we reach the lot at the far end of campus, we’ve managed to pull ourselves together. After he parks, he pulls out a picture of our victim, printed in color on an eight by ten piece of paper and hands it to me.
Our fingers brush and instead of freaking me out, a zing of electricity runs up my arm and down my chest, making butterflies take flight in my stomach.
That’s not normal.
“This is the guy we’re looking for. Tommy Boone,” he says.
I ignore the zings and focus on the picture. It’s a guy playing beer pong. He’s fairly average-looking, skinny with dark hair and a hoodie. I hand the picture back to him and look around the desolate lot.
“Why are we parking all the way over here?” I ask.
“We’re trying to be inconspicuous. It would probably be a bad idea to roll up in my very identifiable vehicle anywhere near where we plan on being.”
“But now we have to walk forever. In the dark.”
“You can stay in the car if you want,” he says with a smirk. He grabs a small bag out of the backseat before pushing his door open and climbing out.
I clamber out of the car after him and walk quickly to catch up with him.
He’s got long legs, and I practically have to run to keep up. When I nearly trip over my own feet, he grabs my hand.
“Be careful!” he whispers. I’m
sure he’s glaring at me, but it’s too dark to make out his expression. We move hand in hand through a silent and dark campus, then through the quad, keeping to the edges, and wherever it’s darkest.
His large hand is gripping mine in a warm grasp and the zings are flying all over the place. I’m not freaking out from the contact like I normally would, and I feel like freaking out because I’m not freaking out.
Shit. My palms are getting sweaty. How gross. Should I pull away? Would it be weird if I did?
I don’t want him to think that I’m thinking too much about it, because then it would get weird. Screw it, I’m already weird.
We finally stop outside the dorms, behind a hedge of bushes that are just starting to get their spring bloom. He releases my hand.
“Now what?” I ask him in a whisper.
“Now we wait for Tommy to leave. When he does, we’ll follow. The ex told me he lives in Granger, so he’ll be walking back. You’ll have to stay out of sight while I do the deed. Then we’ll follow him,” he whispers back.
We’re silent for a moment.
“Are you really going to shove his balls up his ass or whatever?” I ask.
“What kind of question is that?” He sounds offended. “Of course not.”
“Then what are you going to do?”
He opens the small bag he brought with him from the car and pulls out a clown mask. He holds it up a little so I can see it in the light shining from the nearby dorm building. It’s one of those big rubber faces that you pull over your head. It’s got white skin, giant red lips, red nose and curly rainbow hair.
“That’s fucking creepy,” I say.
“Right?” He sounds way too excited.
“You like that thing,” I accuse.
He shrugs. “I love this kind of stuff. No violence, pure entertainment. You’ll see.”
“You’re not going to hurt him?”
“I’m not even going to touch him.”
A few minutes later, the doors open and a small group of people exits, talking and laughing. We have to wait and watch a few more stragglers leave before our target emerges.
I recognize Tommy from the photo, although his hair is a bit longer now and it’s mussed like he and his new girlfriend have been doing something naughty, naughty.
He heads down the sidewalk path, whistling, and moving past our hiding spot, blissfully unaware of our presence or malicious intentions.
“Let’s go this way,” Dean whispers.
He grabs my hand again and we head quickly in the opposite direction, rounding the next building by moving through the trees and grass to cut our victim off where his path will turn to take him to his dorm building.
We reach the corner of a large brick building and Dean stops. “Stay here.” He squeezes my hand slightly, hands me the empty bag that previously held the mask, and then he runs over to where the sidewalk path makes a sharp turn. I peek around the corner of the wall and watch while he stops directly underneath an arching street light.
I can hear Tommy, still whistling as his path moves to intercept where Dean is.
Peeking around the corner of the building at Dean, I shake my head in amazement. It’s the perfect spot, really. Tommy won’t see him until he rounds the corner about fifteen feet away, and when he does, he’s going to shit his pants. Dean is standing eerily still in the dome of the light, staring in the direction Tommy is approaching. He’s wearing the clown mask, and this total Freddie Krueger outfit—black pants and a blue and red striped shirt.
Suddenly, the whistling stops. From my vantage point, I have a clear view of Dean, but I would have to move into view to get a good shot of Tommy.
“Holy shit,” I hear Tommy murmur.
Dean still doesn’t move.
The silence extends, and then Dean clenches his fists and cocks his head.
The movement is subtle, but he was so motionless before that he might as well leap around snapping and snarling.
I hear a shuffling movement from Tommy’s direction, followed by a thud. If I had to guess, I would say he just fell on his ass.
Dean’s clown face turns in my direction and then he shrugs. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and takes a picture in Tommy’s direction.
I creep out a little further to see what’s going on. Tommy is passed out on the ground.
Dean creeps closer to him and stares for a long moment before taking another picture and walking quickly and quietly away, back towards me, pulling the mask off his head.
“That was easier than I expected,” he whispers, once he’s leaning next to me against the wall.
“Is he okay?” I ask in a low voice.
He takes the bag that I’m still holding and shoves the mask back inside of it. “He’s good, just fainted. And pissed his pants. I sent the picture to my client to use as she pleases.”
“Vengeful.”
“It is the business you started.”
“I guess.”
He’s craning around the corner of the building to keep an eye on Tommy, and at my words, he turns his head back around.
“What?” He looks at me and I can tell he’s trying to see my eyes, but it’s fairly dark in the shadow of the building. “You regret making me beat up Christian?”
“Cameron,” I correct. “And no. I don’t regret it. It was gratifying at the time, but…”
“But what?”
I shrug. “I’ve changed. If I knew then what I know now, I wouldn’t have done it.”
“Why?”
“Revenge is fleeting. Moving on with your life is forever.”
“Wise words from the girl who impersonated a lawyer on behalf of some guy she hardly knows.”
I chuckle at that. “Yep, I’m a regular philosopher.”
“Why are you helping me?” he asks suddenly. “You were dead set against it, and then you changed your mind. What changed it?”
“Well, in addition to philosophizing, I’m a real bleeding heart,” I say. “Feeder of starving children, helper of the homeless, fighter of the man.” I’m really getting into this now. “Supporter of the underdog, savior of the weak.”
“I’m hardly weak,” he scoffs. “And I’m serious. Why are you helping me?”
I really don’t want to tell him I’m using him as a means to get over personal trauma, but I’m not really sure what else to say. I already tried the bleeding heart bit.
A moan emanates from Tommy’s general vicinity, interrupting our conversation, and Dean curses under his breath.
Saved by the victim. Nice.
Dean peeps around the corner, and I have no clue what’s going on.
“He’s getting up,” Dean whispers to me after a moment.
I watch Tommy stumble into our line of vision. His back is to us, as he walks down the sidewalk to his dorm, head whipping all around, probably searching for the psycho clown killer that was there moments ago.
His footsteps quicken and Dean grabs my hand again. “Come on,” he says, “don’t want to lose sight of him.”
We follow at a discreet distance, ducking around bushes and buildings until we’re just outside Granger Hall.
Dean stops us behind a tree. He has my back against the trunk, and he’s facing me, his hands resting on my shoulders. He peers occasionally around me to watch Tommy go inside.
He’s touching me, and I’m not freaking out.
He’s standing so close, my nose brushes his shirt and he smells amazing, like citrus and cinnamon, and for a brief glorious moment I want to lean into his muscular chest, and wrap my arms around him. Then maybe he’d pick me up and I would wrap my legs around his waist, and he would stick his tongue—
“Freya,” he says, jarring me from my fantasy.
“Dean,” I say, a bit too breathlessly.
“He’s inside now,” he says.
“Okay.”
“I guess we should stay here and wait a little bit? What do you think?”
“That sounds good.” I’m gazing up at him, o
nly half listening. I can barely make out his face in the dark. There’s a few street lamps nearby, but they are all behind him, casting his face in shadow.
“He’s probably going to be okay,” Dean whispers.
I really wish he would whisper something a little sexier.
“I mean, you need a key to get into the dorm,” he continues. “And they’ve got cameras and stuff.”
That’s…not really what I had in mind.
“Right,” I whisper back.
He doesn’t seem to notice the lusty turmoil raging inside of me.
He sighs and peeks around the tree again. His hands are still on my shoulders and he moves them down my arms, rubbing gently up and down, like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it.
But then his face tilts down towards mine. “You’re arms are really soft.”
He stops rubbing them, but his hands are still cupping my upper arms gently.
“I make a salt scrub,” I say.
“What?”
“Yeah, with kosher salt and coconut oil.” Stupid. Why am I telling him this? He doesn’t care!
“Oh.”
He’s still looking down at me and I’m still looking up at him, and he starts to lean forward, his mouth approaching mine, and all I can think is, yes, but then we’re interrupted.
By my cell phone.
The ringtone is Kristina Debarge’s “Goodbye,” specially input under Cameron’s number, and the music is emanating from the vicinity of my bosom. I forgot I stuffed my phone in my bra when I was getting dressed.
Oops.
I pull it out and silence it, right after making a face at Cameron’s name. Gross. I stick it back down my shirt.
At some point, Dean removed his hands from me, and now his arms are crossed over his chest and I think I’m getting the ultra-death glare, level ten. I can’t see it, but I can feel it.
“You brought your cell phone?” he whispers angrily.
“I forgot I—”
“And you didn’t even think to put it on silent? We’re lucky it didn’t go off before, you could have compromised this whole thing!”
“Listen, I’m sorry, I—”
“Sorry? You’re sorry?”
Okay. He is way too pissed off over one tiny little mistake.
“You know what? Fuck you!” I’m trying to whisper, but it’s difficult when I’m angry. I push against his chest, an exercise in futility, but he steps back far enough for me to stomp away from him.
