Under Her Skin

by Adriana Anders

  “This is me.”

  “What’re you up to? Wanna come over for pizza? We can sit on the porch and watch it not rain.”

  “Well, I…” George searched for something to say, some reason to refuse. And then, suddenly, it occurred to her that she didn’t have to. Jessie was nice. This could be good. A friend. A wish come true. “Why don’t you come over here, instead? I imagine you’re not all unpacked and… Oh, hey, I’ve got cider!”

  “Cider?”

  “Hard cider. Like beer, only”—George shrugged—“for lightweights.”

  “Can I bring my monster?” Jessie asked.

  “Of course!” George said through a bubble of excitement.

  Inside, her eyes took in her house, wondering what someone like Jessie would think of the bright-colored, barely controlled chaos. It’s fine, she decided, ignoring the self-doubt. Her house was hers, and if people didn’t like it, they didn’t have to come over. On that thought, she pulled out a cider, searched frantically for a good minute and a half for something with which to open it before realizing that her can opener had the right attachment, and took a calming swig.

  Okay. You can do this. You can have someone in your house. You can be friendly. It doesn’t have to be a big deal.

  No big deal, she thought, throwing seed packs into drawers, straightening up random piles of catalogues and medical journals, in a frenzy of last-minute activity. No big deal having actual friends and an actual life after so many years without. Only it was a big deal.

  Having a life—being alive, in fact—was a very big deal when you’d put a husband in the ground and had assumed you’d live the rest of your days alone.

  * * *

  The liquor store was still open. Clay breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Can I help you?” the cashier asked when he made his way inside, and Clay tried his hardest to appear innocent.

  “Vodka?”

  “Sure. Back corner,” she said in a voice that was friendlier than he’d expected.

  He grabbed the biggest, midgrade bottle he could find—just one bottle, he decided; he’d stop after this one—and headed back up front, head low and cap down to shield him from the cameras above the register.

  “That it, baby?”

  Baby? Clay glanced up in surprise. Nothing, just mild friendliness. Christ, he’d never get used to the South.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Thirteen oh seven.”

  He handed her a twenty and watched her chubby hands deftly handle the change, despite the half-inch false nails tipping her fingers. He’d never understand stuff like that—why someone would purposely handicap themselves. His eyes flicked to her face, round and bland-looking, then up to sprayed-up blond bangs, then back down over a lumpy body. So, decoration. A little peacocking from a woman who hadn’t been dealt the best hand. With a mental shrug, he took his change and gave her a smile.

  Making the most of what you had. Yeah, he could relate.

  “Night, baby.”

  “Good night, ma’am,” he responded, waving in response to her bright “Take care” before pushing back out into the night.

  Back at the motel, his room stank of mold, despite the frigid temperature. He checked the A/C, which he’d left on low but which appeared to have a mind of its own and had taken the room to glacial. Damned thing.

  Hit by a sudden wave of uncontrollable…something…he punched it, hard, his knuckles still suffering from Friday’s laser removal. It didn’t dent the machine, of course, which looked like a throwback to those prehistoric units he remembered from elementary school, but it felt good to hurt.

  Am I fuckin’ crazy? he wondered as the burn all over his front throbbed in time with his knuckles. Not to mention the rest—his thigh, his back. Those hurt pretty much all the time. Especially with this humidity, although it was nothing compared to the way he ached before a storm.

  “Goddamn weather vane,” he muttered as he grabbed the vodka on his way to the bathroom. Shit, he should have bought bleach. This place was gross, the grout black with fuzzy mold. He glanced at the booze, considered using that to clean with, and decided he was better off using it for its God-given purpose. Fuck all that Valium crap the shrink had given him. Vodka worked just fine.

  It didn’t matter what the shit tasted like anyway, did it? As long as it did the trick. In fact, he’d taken to drinking the clear stuff because it didn’t hide behind smoke and caramel or any of those other cushioning screens. No, he drank the closest thing to rubbing alcohol that he could find—it wasn’t about pleasure, after all. Far from it.

  Take your meds, Clay.

  Girding himself for what he’d see, Clay unbuttoned his shirt before pulling it off and peeling away the T-shirt beneath. Oh fuck, it hurt as the cotton unstuck. Not at all like a fresh tattoo. Hot and raw. More like a burn. Which was pretty appropriate, considering what that friggin’ laser had done to him. He stretched his hand at the ache there, ignoring the pain on his eyelid, and stared at himself, hard. He’d put another coat of Vaseline on in a second.

  Every fucking inch of the man before him was ruined—by experience, by life, by choice. Yeah, I chose this.

  He’d chosen some of the ink, at least. The arms, the story they told of his family tree, stunted by the early death of his baby sister. Then there was the Santa Muerte, symbol of a vengeance he was close to reaping. Farther along was the Inca death mask, in honor of his dad’s people in Peru, whom he’d never get to meet, and their ancestors. Then there was the first tattoo he’d gotten—the one he’d never let anybody touch. MERCY, it said, and he stared at it to hold on to the good parts of his life. Carly—whose spirit had kept him going all these years. After a couple of seconds, he had to look away from it and return to the shit he’d done to avenge her.

  He’d have done anything. Anything. To get her back? Fuck, he’d sell his soul.

  * * *

  “Oh my God, I can’t believe you punched him!”

  “Punched him? Are you kidding me, George? I bitch-slap—” Jessie broke off, hand to her mouth, before noticing her son’s closed eyes, where he lay in the corner of the wicker sofa.

  “He’s down,” said George. She sat back with a sigh, reached for her bottle, and was surprised to find it empty. “Oh my God, I never drink. This is…”

  “Fun?” finished Jessie. “This is fun. Thank you for having us over. And…I don’t think he’s fallen asleep that easily in ages. Not to mention the fact that he ate carrots and salad without argument, which is a minor miracle. We’re coming over every night.”

  “I wish you would.”

  “Once a week, at least, just to get his veggies in. The pediatrician said that’s all you need, really. I’ll be golden.” They smiled at each other for a second or two, a little dorky, a little embarrassed, until Jessie went on. “No, but seriously. He’d be lucky to have someone more like you for a mother,” she said, her face losing all trace of humor.

  “He’s a wonderful kid, but you’re a good mom.”

  “Nope. Can’t take credit for that. That’s all him.”

  It was loud where they sat out on the porch, night creatures chirping from the dark garden beyond the screens. In here, they were enveloped in a warm, orange candle glow, with the occasional tap of insects trying to get in. Funny. George must have had those candles for years, and this was the first time she’d lit more than one or two—the first occasion special enough to warrant a larger glow. Geez. It felt almost ceremonial and was most decidedly silly.

  “Of course you can, Jessie. You’re his mother.”

  Jessie sighed loudly, unapologetically, dramatically.

  “You’ve built a life for the two of you. I’m impressed by how together you are, after…everything.”

  “So, you’ve heard my story?”

  “Not really. Uma admires you. She told me you’d had it r
ough. I remember she said you were a fighter.” George giggled, lifted her empty bottle, and reached across the coffee table to clank it against Jessie’s. “Which appears to be true.”

  “Yeah, literally!”

  George stood. “One more for the road?”

  “What the hell. Why not?”

  George walked inside to the kitchen for another pair of ciders, her bare feet avoiding the squeaky boards out of habit, but the rest of her floating on an unfamiliar cloud of happiness.

  She opened the bottles and stepped back out, handing one to Jessie—her new friend.

  “You wanna know what she said about you, George?”

  “I don’t know. Do I?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. Go on, then.”

  “She said you’re a…vampire.”

  “Wh—”

  “Just kidding.” Jessie lost her smile and caught George’s eye, held it. “She said you saved her life. Ive was there for her, too, I know, but she says you’re like this rock, and she couldn’t have done it without you.” George lost a bit of her breath on a dry huff of air. “She said you’re the kindest, most selfless person she’s ever met and—”

  Jessie stopped herself, and George waited before prompting. “And?”

  “And she’s worried.”

  That hit George in the gut. A hard little weight in her middle that tried to fold her in half. “W-worried?”

  “She wants you to be happy and doesn’t think you are.”

  Something occurred to George. “Is that why you came to get me at the party?”

  “No! Jesus, George. You’re delightful. It’s been awesome hanging out with you.” She looked around. “But this place…man.”

  “What about it?”

  “It’s…” Jessie opened her arms to encompass the house behind them, the dark garden beyond the screen door. “I guess… Don’t take this the wrong way, but I figured some old lady lived here, you know? The chickens and all the furniture and the garden and the cats and… Geez, how do you even have time to do all this with your job?”

  George shrugged, feeling the truth of it all—the weight of her existence. Add to it the baby she was going to make and—

  Overwhelming. It was overwhelming.

  Jessie leaned forward but turned to look at the snoring boy beside her. “I don’t get out much, either, you know. Nine-year-olds aren’t exactly conducive to active socializing.”

  “Yeah. So what’s my excuse?”

  Jessie lowered her brows at her and leaned even farther. “Uma said you switched to dermatology halfway through med school. She also mentioned why.”

  George gulped. She didn’t realize Uma knew. How did she know about Tom?

  “Pediatric oncology? I can’t believe you were even considering that.”

  “Oh.” George gulped, unsure if she was more relieved or disappointed. “I couldn’t take all the babies dying. After seeing my husband go that way.”

  “And yet you’re offering your services free to people in need. You can’t help but do good.”

  George shrugged at that. “My parents were old. They had old-fashioned values or something.”

  “Yeah. Not mine.” Jessie smiled. “That’s probably how I ended up in my job—I was brought up kicking and fighting, so I figured I’d continue my rampage by fighting for the underdog.”

  “You’re the first probation officer I’ve ever met, Officer Shifflett. Do you carry a badge and gun and all that?”

  “A badge, yes. Don’t carry a weapon, though. I own a handgun, but…”

  “Oh, I thought—”

  “Some people choose to. That’s not the type of probation officer I want to be. Less force, more psychology.”

  “So you’re more of a hand-to-hand combat kind of gal.”

  “Indeed.” Jessie narrowed her eyes at George and cocked her head. “Wanna take my class?”

  “Self-defense?”

  “Yeah. Monday nights. You should come. You can close up shop and just swing by next door. I know you don’t wanna talk about those bruises, George, but…whatever happened to your face is—”

  “Independence Day insanity,” George replied. “A couple of kids. I thought they were hurting each other and got in the middle and…” She pointed at her black eye. “Well, this happened. Anyway,” she went on, thinking of Andrew Blane in her office earlier. She wouldn’t have been able to see him tonight if she’d done the class. Stupid, stupid thought, since it wasn’t like they were “seeing” each other anyway. He was a patient. A patient, George. “I don’t think self-defense is really my thing.”

  “You sure?” Jessie tipped her bottle to her mouth with a wicked little smile. “You’d get to kick my brother’s ass.”

  With a laugh, George sat back and soaked in this woman’s company and conversation, the back of her mind still caught up on a memory of fathomless dark eyes, heartbreakingly battle-scarred skin, and the way his hand hadn’t wanted to let go.

  * * *

  There was nothing better, as far as Ape was concerned, than the wind in your face, the hot rays of the sun setting on your back, and the highway under your tires. Especially when you added all that to the satisfaction of a job well done.

  Tying up loose ends felt good. Better than good. It felt right, like this was exactly what he’d been born to do. Him on the road, taking care of business with a few good brothers behind him. Guys like Jam. Brothers you could count on.

  He shoved back that itch of irritation at Handles. The guy’d had everything, as president, and he’d gone and let cops into the club.

  No way that would have happened on my watch.

  Ape hadn’t trusted either Indian or Candyland from the moment they’d started showing up at the bar.

  Man, Handles had fucked up. A lot. It made Ape wonder, once Handles got out, what other mistakes he might make. What if Handles wasn’t the right guy to head up a club like the Sultans? Maybe it took someone a little harder, a little more decisive.

  Someone like me.

  He glanced back at the two guys behind him and gave a nod before pulling back on the throttle and passing the row of slow-moving cars hunkered down in the right lane, like sheep. Man, it felt good to leave those fuckers in the dust.

  Things would feel even better once he’d taken care of Agent Clay Navarro. And they were close. So close he could smell it.

  7

  Small-town life was boring as hell. Well, it was if you had nowhere to go, nothing to do. Clay had never been very good at just sitting around, waiting. He’d awakened early that morning, wishing he had a job to go to. A job. He had a fucking job, but he couldn’t actually do it right now.

  In his room, the vodka bottle shone, half-full, from the bathroom counter like a clean, white obelisk, offering blissful oblivion.

  But Clay knew better. He didn’t need that shit, he decided. Beneath the ink and the scars, his body was his best tool. My temple, he thought wryly. The last thing he needed to do right then was ruin it any more than he already had.

  Hunger beyond what he could satisfy with his collection of local farm fruit finally got him outside, where he’d spotted a diner just off the main strip.

  It was early afternoon, and the place was pretty empty, for which he was thankful, because the stares were over the top. Yeah, he felt like saying, not your usual small-town fare. Well, don’t worry, all you innocent little people—I’ll be gone soon as I can.

  He sat in the far booth, back to the wall, and snagged a menu along with the newspaper spread across the middle of the table.

  “What can I get ya?” asked a line cook from behind the counter.

  “Burger. Provolone. Bacon. Whatever else you got to put on it.” Anything to give it flavor.

  “Drink?”

  “Coffee.”

  “Be right up.”
>
  The whole exchange had been done in the relative silence of the place, with an unabashedly interested audience and Clay’s irritation ramped up a notch.

  It wasn’t until another customer came in, with a repeat of the whole rigamarole, that he realized he wasn’t as special as he liked to think. Everybody got stared at.

  The coffee, when he tasted it, was bland. Like everything he’d put it in his mouth these last couple of months. Even with the ten sugar packets he added, it tasted like nothing, which didn’t bode well for his lunch. He reached for the paper.

  Giving it a good shake, Clay skimmed a sports page to see that the World Cup had trumped baseball in the headlines. Not that there was much going on for the Orioles, but he could give a shit about what the U.S. team did in th—

  His gaze caught on a photo and a headline at the bottom of the metro section:

  ATF AGENT DIES IN FATAL CRASH

  The few lines beneath gave zero details, mentioning only that the man was dead—not where or how. Clay sat up, the coffee cup clattering to the Formica with a dull thud. Tunnel vision, heart beating visible wumps in the corner of his eyes. Tightness in his chest. Shit. Heart attack.

  He stood, head wavering but feet slow, stuck in this morass with fuzzy blinders on his eyes still, making everything too far away.

  “Take the check,” he managed, mouth moving, voice emerging in a rush, like water. No, not water. Hot puffs. Hot lips, dry mouth. More like lava. Magma? Was that the word? Was that even a word?

  “All right, son?”

  “Fine.”

  “You want yer burger wrapped up?”

  “Sure.” The path of least resistance. Outside. Get outside.

  Clay pulled his wallet from his pocket, set a twenty carefully on the table, and picked up the paper.

  “Here.” The guy handed Clay a Styrofoam box, eyeing him carefully. “You sure you’re—”

  “Good.”

  “I’ll get your change.”

  “Forget it,” Clay said as he walked to the door, stiff and straight with ten pairs of eyes heavy on his back. It wasn’t until he made it outside that he remembered he didn’t have the truck. He’d have to walk back through town to his motel.