Under Her Skin

by Adriana Anders

  Holy shit. That knocked the air out of Uma, the image of the man from the wedding photo, his glassy eyes staring blindly out from the wall.

  “Men. Filthy, disgusting animals.” Cookie turned to them with a sweet smile. “Lucky for me, I got my house back. Your uncle, Jessie, never touched a thing here. Let me move back in after I got out and left it to me when he died. Killing Leon could have ruined my life, but I was lucky. Not all of us are that lucky, though.”

  Her face sobered, and she moved quickly to the bottom of the stairs. “Old Gus and Ive are the best men I’ve ever met in my life. The best. You need to know that. That boy is one in a million, and what he’s willing to do for you… Don’t you stop him, Uma. Let him do it.”

  “Don’t you regret what you did?” Uma asked, knowing the answer. Too shocked to deal with the rest.

  “Not once. Not for one single second do I regret killing that man and putting us both out of our misery.”

  She didn’t think she could do that, and she knew she couldn’t let Ivan do it for her. “I’ve got to go, Ms. Lloyd. I can’t stand here and—”

  “Yeah? Well, if you don’t let him take care of this problem, the problem’ll still be out there, won’t it? You might want to think long and hard about what you want for the rest of your life. You tired of running now? How you think you’ll feel when you’re my age?”

  * * *

  Justice. The word beat its rhythm in Ive’s mind, his dead muscles, his aching heart. Justice, the letters screamed out from the statue right there, in front of the Fairfax County Courthouse.

  What a joke.

  He glanced, for the millionth time, at the paper crumpled in his fist. The picture he’d printed of the bastard he’d come here to kill. Deputy Commonwealth Attorney Joseph Chisholm. Just thinking the name sent another one of those furious tremors through his body, so strong it should have shaken his truck, should have unbalanced the statue’s fucking scales.

  Swallowing back another mouthful of bile, he sat in this parking spot and watched the comings and goings of every pathetic cog in the system. Finally, too taut to stay folded up in his seat a moment longer, he got out and slammed the door.

  Fuck, he hated courthouses. Hated lawyers. Hated this goddamned joke of a justice system that let bad people get away with so much evil.

  He hadn’t eaten all day, but the hunger felt like strength—a fire in his gut mixed with the fury and this aching need.

  He’d stay here, at the front of the building, where he was bound to see the fucker sooner or later. Unless he hadn’t come to work. Ive paced back and forth, up and down, eyes searching, skittering from one person to the next. The lulls were the worst, because there was nowhere to focus. Nowhere to put this…this…this fucking thing, this illness or whatever the fuck it was trying to tear itself free from his gut.

  Jesus, what if he didn’t come to work today?

  Running a hand over his hot, sweaty brow, he turned to squint at the building’s front door, then headed inside.

  “’Scuse me,” he rasped out to one of the guys at security.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Yeah.” Fuck, his chest hurt. “Supposed to meet someone. Uh, Joseph Chisholm. He here today?”

  The man looked at his colleague, his face squinted in a way that would have been comical if in a different situation—a different world. Slow, too slow. Ive wanted to take him by the throat. To shake the memory out of the man’s brain and into his mouth and—

  “Hey, Sid. You seen Joey C. today?”

  “Nope.”

  Fuck no.

  “He have an office someplace or—”

  “Wait, hold on. I’n’t he on the Seilheimer trial? Judge Herndon? Yeah, they’re in there. He musta got in early, before we came on.” The man looked at his watch. “Should be out in a bit.”

  Ive wasn’t sure if he managed a thanks before he turned and headed for the door. He was here. The man was right here in this building, and the anger was eating Ive up alive.

  “You could sign in and wait right—”

  He spun back, so fast his vision blurred, and he had to shake it clear again.

  “There another way out of this place? Another exit?”

  After a pause, the first man responded, “No, sir,” and Ivan shoved back outside, where he’d try to breathe. If only he could get some fucking air.

  This was it. Today. Joey Chisholm would die today.

  Uma wouldn’t need to spend another night afraid.

  26

  “Ivan’s still not answering.” Jessie ended the call again, phone clutched in her hand. They stood on Cookie’s front porch with no idea what to do next.

  “Shit. Shit! Okay, do it. Call the sheriff again. Call Steve. I’ll turn myself in. Whatever I have to do.”

  “What if it’s too late? If we don’t get the cops involved, we can—” Jessie stopped, closed her eyes, and shook her head. “You’re right. We have to call.”

  She started to make the call when Uma stopped her, suddenly calm. So completely calm.

  “I’ll call him.”

  “He’s not answering.”

  “Not Ivan. I mean Joey. I’ll call him and—”

  “Oh, hell no. What are you—”

  “I can talk to him, convince him to come here to…I don’t know, get me. If I do it fast enough, Ivan can’t get to him.” The idea was nauseating, but it made sense.

  “You think it could work?”

  Emotion screwed up her face, made it tight with fear and the memories of that day, but she had to. How could she not do this?

  “It’ll work. Come on. Give me the phone before I change my mind.”

  After only a brief hesitation, Jessie handed it over, and Uma started dialing. Nobody picked up, so she tried again and again. All the while, Jessie beside her, visibly anxious. Finally, third time was the charm.

  “This is Joey Chisholm.”

  Oh fuck. His voice. Uma swallowed, choking on the memories. A hand landed on her arm, and she opened her eyes, hadn’t even noticed they’d closed.

  “Hello? Who is this? Listen, I don’t have time to—”

  “Joey?” Inhale. He can’t hurt me. Jessie squeezed her arm, and Uma met her eyes and held them, steady. “It’s me. I mean, Uma.”

  No sound. No sound at all. Not here, not on the other end of the line.

  “I…” Say it. Just say it. Jessie nodded, biting her lip, looking nervous as hell. “How are you?”

  “Oh…oh.” He was all gaspy, surprised, and…happy? “Oh, I knew you’d come to your senses, sweetheart.”

  Trying her best to sound natural, she went on. “So, uh… How would you like to come get me?”

  “That would be…Yes. Of course I’ll come, Uma. You know I want to see you. I’ve been waiting for you to call.”

  “Can you come now?” she asked, feeling utterly unafraid somehow—calm, strong, and ready for whatever happened.

  Jessie nodded encouragement.

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m in Blackwood, Virginia,” she said, taking in the landscape around them before raising her eyes back to Jessie’s and holding them. “How soon can you get here?”

  * * *

  Back and forth, Ive paced the sidewalk, his eyes glued to that door, waiting. Every time it opened, he lost a breath and a heartbeat, and every time, it took him a while to get it back. A dude bumped him on his way out, clearly not happy and in a hurry, and with a look, Ive knew his story: he or someone in his family in trouble. Dealing with the courts, working shit out by the letter of the law, which was the worst fucking way possible. He could relate to that man. He was that man.

  The thought brought him up short. His body stilled, and his eyes focused, for the first time, not on what lay past those dark glass doors or what would come out next, but on the pers
on reflected in them: him.

  The guy looking back at him in filthy jeans, ratty button-down plaid shirt, and scuffed work boots looked rough. He looked like a convict. Like he deserved to be here, getting his sentence handed to him on one the scales of justice.

  A sudden curiosity drove him to edge closer to the glass and see what it revealed. It showed a face that was well worn, his experiences etched into his face like every other bad guy there. He looked like exactly what he was: an ex-convict up to no good.

  He watched his brow wrinkle up with his first whisper of a doubt. So, what was the plan, anyway? Come up here and tear some shit up? Kill a guy? With what? He looked down. His bare hands?

  Jesus. Had he truly evolved so little since his youth? Another glance in the glass showed lines carved into his cheekbones, circles under his eyes. He looked tired and worn. Like a guy who’d lived.

  But have I? Have I really lived?

  Immediately, his mind went back to that morning and everything that had happened between him and Uma in his workshop. Then back to last night, before he’d found out about her skin, when he’d just known the goodness of her, without all the bad shit.

  He wanted to go back. To that perfect evening spent in the bed of his truck, beneath the stars.

  He wanted a do-over. And not just for now, but for before too. For her: he wanted her not to have lived through hell. He wanted to meet a younger, happier Uma, whose life hadn’t been destroyed by that son of a bitch. And for himself too. Who would he be if he turned back time to before prison, before the biggest mistake of his life?

  Suddenly, he wished the woman he wanted could look at him like he was one of those normal, straight-backed citizens, rather than one of the losers slinking their way out of the courthouse.

  In an unconscious gesture, he reached down, expecting warm fur and finding only air.

  Shit. He was so used to having Squeak by his side. What the hell would she do if he went back to prison? Jessie’d take her, but what about everyone else? Ornery, the mean cat, and Gertie, the rug cat, and all the others. And what about Pepe, the baby skunk? Not to mention any animals that were bound to show up some day in the future, looking for help. Ah hell. He couldn’t leave them.

  Not only that, but he didn’t want to.

  He realized with a jolt that he liked the guy he’d become. This man whose experiences were etched into his face, the way Uma’s were etched into her body. By that same token, he understood that what was between them—this intense, unexpected caring between two near strangers—would never have happened if they hadn’t been exactly who they were today. They were united by their histories as much as their chemistry.

  And he liked that fucked-up quality people got when they’d survived the shit life threw at them. They came through the other side stronger, maybe less whole, but with more grit. He liked Ms. Lloyd’s crazy limp and the notch in Squeak’s ear. He liked that Ornery was, well, ornery. And hell, he liked how Uma’s sweet, soft core was covered in an exoskeleton of pure fucking titanium.

  I promised not to do this. I solemnly swore. The thought rose up, like a vengeful phoenix from the ashes of his idiocy. If I do it anyway, I’m betraying her just like Joey did.

  He had to go back. Now. Before it was too late, he had to go back and—

  “Excuse me, sir?”

  Ive blinked before turning to face a pair of police officers who’d approached him from the sidewalk. Behind them, a squad car sat quiet, its blue lights on.

  “Yeah?”

  “We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  “Um, sure.” He blinked again. Sweat, he realized, sweat in his eyes on this cold fucking day.

  Beside him, the door to the building opened, and a man strutted out.

  Holy shit. It’s him.

  He squinted at the loud blue shirt and tie beneath the guy’s expensive-looking gray suit, then let his eyes move back to the face. Joseph fucking Chisholm.

  Ive had no trouble recognizing him from his picture, even with the phone pressed to the man’s ear. He stalled by the door, engrossed in his conversation.

  One of the cops spoke, and Ive had to unglue his eyes from the man to focus on this new problem.

  “Uh, sorry. What’s that?”

  “What’s your business here today, sir?”

  “I, um…” He swallowed, brain divided, eyes flicking from them to the man on the phone.

  “I knew you’d come to your senses, sweetheart,” Joey said, his voice slimy and pleased.

  The cops again, talking, and Ive swung back, feeling weird. Wrong.

  “Wait, wait, I need…”

  “Of course I’ll come. You know I want to see you. I’ve been waiting for you to call.”

  A hand clamped onto Ive’s arm, and he almost shook it off before remembering where he was, who he was with. Just in time, he stopped, stilled, held his breath.

  “Sir, we need you to come with us.”

  “Stop that man,” he said, wanting to struggle. “He hurt a woman. That was her on the phone. He’s—”

  “Sir, you need to calm down. Now.”

  Fuck, he wanted to tear his arm away and roar, to tackle that fucking bastard to the ground, but he didn’t. What stopped him was his own profile, reflected in the glass. What would it look like if he fucked this up? Was he willing to gamble it all away? Willing to waste more years and months and those precious lost hours?

  It took more strength than he knew he possessed to relax his arms, calm his voice, and let the officers lead him aside while Joseph Chisholm drove happily toward the woman he loved.

  He’d find a way to get to her first, before it was too late. He could love her, and protect her, and respect her enough to listen to her wishes—even if fear for her was rattling like mad in his chest, ticking like a bomb waiting to go off.

  * * *

  Uma sat in Blackwood’s coffee shop for an hour and a half before finally giving up. Joey wasn’t coming. It was time to go. She didn’t know whether to feel relieved or disappointed. A little of both, probably. Although the relief was currently winning.

  Why hadn’t he come? It didn’t make sense.

  She seesawed back to fear. Did Ivan get to him after all? After the phone call? No. No way. The sheriff would have heard it on his…thing by now. They’d know.

  But, God…she thought of the call. How Joey’d surprised her by sounding eager. Through the fear, she’d had a flash of why she’d gone out with him to begin with. It was strange to be reminded that not everything had been bad. It made her feel like less of a loser for staying with the guy. It had also calmed her, grounded her, made her more decisive, sucked away some of her terror.

  He’d sounded gleeful when they’d talked. Mentioned a surprise he had for her and said “I love you” before hanging up. How weird that she used to repeat those words back to him. Today, they left her cold.

  And now he hadn’t shown. She’d given him more than enough time to drive down from Northern Virginia and locate the coffee shop.

  She pulled out Jessie’s phone again and called. No answer. What was he playing at?

  “Think it’s a no go?” Steve said from the table beside hers, and she nodded.

  She stood and stretched, eyeing the coffee shop’s dark window. Something wasn’t quite right.

  Oh God, Ivan. Please, please, please don’t have done anything stupid.

  Steve and Jessie walked her to her car.

  “Let me know if you hear from him, and we’ll try this again. Keep the phone open so he can call you back. Speaker phone. Witnesses. Be safe.”

  She glanced at Jessie, who lifted a hand. “Keep the phone. It’s yours.”

  “Okay. Thank you. Thank you both.”

  “No problem,” said Steve. “Call my direct line or 911 if you need anything. Give ’em my name.”

  Jes
sie hugged Uma tightly and closed her car door once she was inside.

  She turned the ignition and set off back home, hoping against hope that she’d see a big, white truck in the drive next door.

  Instead, she saw Joey Chisholm’s red Audi and felt it like an anvil to the chest.

  This wasn’t the plan. How’d he find the house? He’d known. He must have known.

  Shaking, she pulled over and put the car into Park, tugged on the emergency brake, and turned off the ignition—normal, everyday things, but it took all her concentration not to forget a step. She kept her eyes on his car, adjusting to the sight from the safety of her own, and once the shaking settled down, she dialed.

  “This is Sheriff Steve Mullen.”

  “He’s here.”

  “Lloyd place?”

  “Yeah. What should I do?”

  “Get out of there. Now.”

  Breathing hard, she shook her head, more for herself than for him. “Would a recording get him in court? If he admits to what he did?”

  “Wouldn’t hurt. But a witness’d probably do just as well. Come on now.”

  “Can you record this call?”

  “Don’t do that, Uma. Get out of there.”

  “What about 911 calls? They’re always recorded, right?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “All right. Thanks.”

  She ended the call and dialed before getting out and walking across the yard.

  “Hey, sweetie pie. You miss us?”

  Joey Chisholm stood on Ms. Lloyd’s front porch, smiling that white-toothed grin and looking ten years older than the last time Uma had seen him.

  Beside him stood her mother.

  “You were supposed to meet me at the coffee shop.”

  “I like this better,” he said, looking around. “All this rustic charm. It’s so much more personal, don’t you think?”

  “You need to leave now.”

  “I don’t think so, sweetie. You called me, remember? And here I am.” He threw his arms out and lifted an eyebrow in a move that was pure Joey. His self-deprecating charmer shtick stolen directly from Frank Sinatra.