Burning Darkness

by Jaime Rush

  Chapter 15

  Fonda felt a heaviness as they neared her father’s. The neighborhood wasn’t bad, not compared to where she’d grown up. It was more of a forlornness that oozed from the small houses with peeling paint and mold, the people sitting in plastic chairs on their front lawns.

  Eric was checking it out, though she couldn’t tell what he thought of the area. He looked at her. “We don’t have to come here.”

  She pulled up to a small house, parking on the curb. After cutting the engine, she stared at the house. “No, it’s okay.”

  “You looked completely different when we pulled up to Pastimes.”

  She turned to him. “How did I look?”

  “Happy. You look far from those now.”

  “I was just thinking, this is the first time I’ll see my father knowing that he isn’t. I wonder if he ever suspected.”

  “My father did. There was always something missing, something different in the way he treated my sister and me.”

  She could see his pain, just a brief flash. She didn’t want to see that, so she opened the door and stepped out.

  “I’ve got the bags,” he said, grabbing them out of the back.

  She shored up her shoulders and faced the house. One night, where she might feel safe.

  He came up beside her. “If you feel this way about being here, why did you come before?”

  “I wanted to feel comfortably numb. Like that Pink Floyd song. That’s how I lived my life for a long time.”

  “How bad was it?”

  She glanced at him, and his expression was grave. “It could have been worse. But you know, I can’t really blame my father. He was needy, lost, after my mother’s suicide. I have vague memories of different women being in and out of our lives. I was ten when he met Connie. I think she kept the darker side of herself from him while they dated; at least I’d like to think he didn’t marry her knowing she was an addict. Maybe her drug use became more than occasional after they married.

  “She was nice to me then, but not affectionate. They partied a lot, and then it wasn’t only on weekends but during the week. People hanging around and drinking and getting high. I got a bad feeling about them, so I hid in my room a lot. I remember coming out to ask my dad a question about my homework and caught him shooting up. It scared and disgusted me.

  “Things got worse when I was about thirteen. I’d wake up and find him and Connie and sometimes other people sprawled about the living room. I had a hard time waking him up in the mornings.” She remembered the first time she’d thought he was dead. “Connie was spending money like crazy, buying clothes and shoes. I heard them fighting about it, but I still saw bags and bags. Dad lost his job. Then one day the police told us we had to leave our house. I thought it was the worst thing that had ever happened, but he didn’t even seem to care.”

  She turned to him, and he was listening so intently his jaw was rigid. She continued. “The good thing that came out of that life was it helped me astral project. I was fifteen when I first ‘left’ my body. Dad and Connie were having a huge fight. I was locked in my room, lying on my bed wishing I was somewhere else. And then . . . I was. I was at Pastimes. I saw the women who worked there, but I stayed out of sight. It was so bizarre, I snapped out of it. The next time I went somewhere I’d never been before: Hollywood. That’s when I knew it was real.”

  “I still don’t understand why you’d want to come back here. I wouldn’t go to my father, not if his house was the only safe place in the world.”

  “See, we are different.” She forced a smile. She hadn’t told him everything, but some part of her wanted him to know. “Connie won’t be here, thank God. And it’s only for a night.”

  She walked to the front door and rang the bell. Her dad had fixed the house up some since he’d been clean. He had a job. It was a start, but not one she was counting on sticking. He’d failed too many times.

  To her surprise, Connie opened the door, her long, narrow face made even longer by thick, dirty-blond hair. She wrinkled her nose. “What are you doing back?” Of course she’d heard about Fonda’s stay. She looked back into the house. “Bruce, the slut’s back! And she’s got a friend.”

  Eric took a step forward, leaning down into Connie’s face even though he was one step lower than she. “Don’t talk about her like that.”

  Fonda put her hand on his arm. “It’s no big deal. That’s just the way she is.”

  Anger flared in his eyes, and he kept that gaze on Connie. “It is a big deal. It’s disrespectful, mean, and says a lot more about you than her.” He raked her up and down with that fiery gaze. “Don’t let me hear you call her that again, or anything like that.”

  Connie’s eyes widened. She wasn’t much bigger than Fonda, and was stick thin, and Eric towered over her. “I didn’t mean it.”

  “Then don’t say it,” he ground out.

  Her father, Bruce, walked up to the scene, looking confused. “What’s going on?” He took Fonda in and then Eric. “Who are you?”

  “You let this woman call your daughter ugly names?”

  Bruce bristled, but a shadow of guilt crossed his face. “It’s her way of joking around. She does that to everyone.” He even managed a nervous laugh. “That’s just Connie.”

  “Well, Connie needs to learn manners, and you need to stand up for your daughter.”

  Fonda’s face flushed, but not in embarrassment. What Eric was saying, doing . . . in the place where she always felt so small and inconsequential, he was standing up for her.

  Her father’s expression told her he knew Eric was right, but his ego clicked into place and his shame hardened. He looked at Fonda. “Who is this?”

  “This is Eric. He’s my boyfriend.” She linked her arm around his, as she’d seen Natalie do earlier. “We’re heading east, and I wanted him to meet you.” She shifted her gaze to Connie, narrowing her eyes. “I didn’t know you were out of jail.”

  “I got out a couple of days early,” she said with a sneer.

  Okay, it was awkward as hell, and Eric’s bluster had thrown her off her course. “Eric, this is my father, Bruce Raine. And my stepmother, Connie.”

  She hmphed and stepped back. “I do not want them in my home.”

  Fonda was about to back down, to leave, but stopped herself. Eric had stood up for her. She could damn well stand up for herself. She looked at her father. “We need to stay the night.”

  Would he take Connie’s side, as he had from the beginning? Normally he was too cowardly to take a side. He’d always ignored Connie’s vicious barbs, and anything else he didn’t want to deal with.

  Her father looked at Eric and then at her. “All right.”

  She released a breath, feeling warmth flow through her.

  “Bruce!” Connie whined. “Did you hear how her boyfriend talked to me?”

  “It’s just a night, Connie. Let it go.”

  “Some guy who’s only authority is screwing your daughter bullies me, and that’s all you have to say?”

  Eric shook his head, his mouth in a snarl. “I’m not sleeping with her, you clueless b—” He took a deep breath, pulling back the word with every bit of his strength. Oh, how wonderful it would have been to hear him call her that!

  He nailed her with a look. “It’s about respecting people, especially your family. By blood or not, she is your family. Show some decency. And some self-respect.”

  Connie looked at Bruce, who shrugged. “Please, let’s put this aside,” he said. “Fonda, I told you if you needed to come back, you could.” He turned to Connie. “Let’s not burn the house down.”

  Fonda gave Eric a knowing smile at that turn of phrasing. She stepped inside, ignoring Connie but feeling her hatred as though it were a laser beam. She looked at her father and mouthed Thank you. His eyes were still clear. He wasn’t using yet.

  “Did you get my message?” he asked her. “I called after you left.”

  She nodded. “I’ve been kind of busy.”

/>   He flicked a glance to Eric and gave her a tentative smile. “Well, you look more alive than the last time I saw you.”

  She wanted to laugh at the irony of that but tempered it into a smile.

  “Do you want something to eat? We’ve already had dinner, but I can throw something together.”

  He was trying. She’d give him that. “We’ve eaten, thank you.” She’d planned that on purpose, not wanting to sit through a meal and answer awkward questions. “Mostly we’re just beat. I’m going to get a shower.” She swung a look at Eric as she led him down the short hall to the bedroom she’d slept in before and whispered, “Dare I leave you alone with them?”

  His mouth quirked. “Probably.”

  She pulled out the pajamas she’d bought at the store, new panties, and the bottle of shampoo.

  “I noticed your father didn’t ask where I was sleeping. Considering I’m your boyfriend and all.”

  “It was easier to call you that than explain the situation. And I’m sure he assumes we’ll be sleeping together, despite your claim.”

  “I’ll sleep on the floor. It’s not right to share a bed”—he glanced at the bed, which was only a double—“in your father’s house. I’d sleep on the couch, except it’s too far away from you. Sayre, Westerfield, we just don’t know when they’ll turn up next.”

  He kept surprising her, and she didn’t like it. She wanted him to be what she’d been told he was. He’d stood up for her. Defended her. Now he was showing respect. Dammit, he’d made her like him a little.

  “Thanks,” she said, unable to say anything more because her throat felt tight. Don’t make a big deal out of it. She went into the bathroom and took a quick shower.

  The pajamas clung to her body, but they weren’t tight or risqué. That’s the last thing she needed, to give Connie ammunition. Then again, Connie had been calling her a whore before she was even kissed.

  It hit her then, that those words were empty. As Eric had said, they reflected Connie, not her. They had nothing to do with her. Even though she’d never been promiscuous, she had felt, deep in her cells, that she was a whore. With a rush of relief, she released that old belief, one she didn’t even know she’d held.

  Here, with her father and Connie, she had always been the mouse. It was outside in the ’hood that she was tough. Now, for the first time, she felt strong here. She walked out, finding the bedroom empty. Uh-oh. Voices drew her to the kitchen, where she heard Eric and her father talking. She slowed, curious about what they were saying.

  Her father: “Connie would kill me if she heard me say this, but . . . I appreciate what you said. You’re right. I never said what needed to be said.”

  “My father was the same way,” Eric said. “I guess a man gets so lonely, he’ll put up with anything just to have company. Even at the expense of his children.”

  She knew he spoke from his own pain, but she heard no bitterness in his voice. No judgment. Just the facts. His stepmother wanted to ship him and his sister away. It hit her then that they’d both grown up with men who weren’t their biological fathers, stepmothers who resented them, and the legacy of a mother who’d died too young. They had so much in common.

  “It says a lot about you . . . that you had the balls to say that to both of us,” her father said. “My daughter, she deserves a lot more than she’s ever gotten. I hope you’re that man.”

  Her eyes prickled, a sure sign she was going to cry. No, not here.

  Eric’s voice: “Yes, she does. I’ll take care of your daughter. She’s safe with me.”

  Holy crap. She felt the first tear well up, slide down her cheek. Dummy, he’s only playing the role of your boyfriend. She swiped it away but couldn’t erase how those words made her feel.

  “I need to know something.” Eric’s voice had an edge to it. “She’s got scars from cuts on her arms and legs. Did you make those cuts? Did you or Connie hurt her?”

  She opened her mouth to stop the conversation, but her father said, “Fonda did it. She cut herself.”

  She uprooted herself from her spot and walked into the kitchen, feeling heat sting her cheeks. Her father knew. “Excuse us for a minute.” She grabbed Eric’s arm and pulled him back to their bedroom.

  As soon as the door closed, she turned and jabbed her finger at his chest, which only hurt her finger. “You don’t get to ask personal questions about me! You are not my boyfriend. My scars are none of your business.”

  He leaned down into her face and in the same fierce whisper as hers said, “Yes, they are.”

  She blinked in surprise. “And what makes you think that?”

  “Because when I saw them . . .” He took her wrist and pushed up the sleeve, running his fingers over those old, faint scars. His voice changed, going hoarse and low. “All I could think about was someone cutting you, over and over. That thought made me crazy. Since you wouldn’t answer me, I had to ask someone else.” His fingers stilled against her skin, and he pinned her with his icy blue gaze. “What the f— Why would you cut yourself?”

  Everything was all tight inside her, and she yanked her arm out of his grasp. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  He ran his hand through his hair, shaking his head. “I’m trying to understand.”

  “Why? You know someone else didn’t do it, and wasn’t that your big concern? What are you going to do, beat me up for it?”

  He leaned closer, his nose almost touching hers. “My big concern was who cut you and why. I have the who. Now I want to know why.”

  “It’s none of your business.” She couldn’t stand the thought of him looking at her as though she were a freak. She walked back to the kitchen, where her father was pouring a glass of soda.

  She stared at the glass, wondering if there was liquor in it. Those were the rules when going clean: nothing addictive.

  “It’s just soda,” he said, lifting it toward her so she could smell it.

  She waved the glass away. “I trust you.” She wasn’t sure she did, but the words came out easily enough.

  “I’m sorry I told your boyfriend about the cutting. I thought he might slam me through the wall thinking I’d done it. You should have seen the crazy light in his eyes.”

  “I’ve seen it.” In the bedroom, when Eric talked about the scars.

  “You never told me why you did it.”

  “It’s personal, Dad.” She glanced into the living room. “Where’s Connie?”

  “She went over to Sam and Macy’s.”

  Bad influences, both of them. “Because of me. I’m sorry.”

  He leaned against the counter, looking at her. “No, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I let her talk to you that way. Not only this time, but all those times. Your boyfriend’s right. I was a lousy father, more interested in my own comfort than yours. I got messed up for a long time, wallowing in my misery and ignoring what was important to me.” He looked at her. “You, my daughter. But I’m clean, and I intend to stay that way. Before you got here, Connie and I were talking. I told her I want her to stay clean. She said she wanted that, too, but I could tell she wasn’t committed. You got to want it bad, badder than you want the drug. She’s not there yet. Now that she’s out, I’m not letting her back until I know she’s clean.”

  Her heart lifted. “She’s moving out for good?”

  He nodded, and she stepped forward to hug him before she could even think to stop herself. Thank you, Eric.

  “You can stay longer if you want,” he said. “Both of you.”

  “Thanks, but we have to go in the morning.” She didn’t know for sure that Westerfield couldn’t find them here, and she didn’t want to endanger him. He was her father, after all. Not by blood, maybe, but by heart. “I’ll be back. I promise.”

  “Bring Eric. I like him and respect him.”

  “Uh, we’ll see.” By the time she could come back, it would be over, and so would she and Eric. Why that stabbed at her chest, she didn’t know, didn’t want to know. “Do you have any extra blankets? Er
ic’s sleeping on the floor.”

  “You’re a grown woman. He doesn’t have to do that.”

  “I know.” She caught herself smiling. “But he was telling the truth: we’re not sleeping together.”

  Bruce went into his bedroom and returned with two folded blankets. “You have a good guy there. I can tell he cares a lot about you.”

  She felt a wash of prickles over her body, wanting to hear why he thought Eric cared but holding back. Too desperate, she told herself, and besides, Eric was just putting on an act. “Good night.”

  Her dad looked like he wanted to hug her but didn’t know how. Her body strained to lean toward him, to give him the okay. She didn’t want to get too close to him, not yet. One hug was good for now. She could come back and see where he was later.

  In the bedroom, she heard the shower running in the bathroom. Thank God. It gave her a few minutes to gather her thoughts, to steel herself against Eric. He might have saved her father. The thought made her all gushy inside. If he walked into the room at that moment she might throw herself into his arms and bawl in gratitude.

  I’ll take care of your daughter. She’s safe with me.

  The impact of those words slammed into her chest. She fell back against the door and squeezed her eyes shut. This was crazy, the way she felt about him.

  She remembered the pictures of Jerryl in her duffel bag. She’d put them there the night she went out to kill Eric. To give her strength, resolve. She looked at them now and felt a distance from the man, barely smiling because he didn’t like his picture being taken. She even saw her distance from him in photos of the two of them, her mouth smiling, but not her eyes. She’d been clinging to an illusion about what they had. It had only been sex. She’d called it making love because she didn’t like the word sex. It conjured up people screwing in the living room, mindlessly high. But she and Jerryl had not made love. No one had ever made love to her. She tore the pictures into strips as she walked to the small garbage can on the other side of the dresser.

  She was watching the pieces flutter down when Eric walked into the bedroom, wearing a pair of cotton, drawstring pants. She eyed them, pretty sure he hadn’t gotten them at the shop.