Games of the Heart

by Kristen Ashley

  Her imagination was a fuckuva lot better than his was.

  And her voice was sweet and breathy when she whispered, “That sounded nice.”

  His voice was low and growly when he whispered back, “It was.”

  “God, I’m getting excited again just thinking about doing those things to you.”

  Jesus. Dusty. She let it all hang out.

  He liked that.

  “Next chance we get of bein’ together and naked, I call first go,” he declared.

  “I’m not gonna argue with that,” she murmured.

  He grinned.

  “Mike?” she called.

  “Yeah, Angel?”

  “I missed you. I know you’re busy too and I don’t want to ask you to call around the houses to find me but, you know, you’re welcome to call any phone. That’s why I gave you all my numbers. So when you were thinking of me, you could let me know.”

  Fuck, he liked that too.

  “Got it,” he replied quietly.

  “I know you understand, having been married and all. You can catch hints. But when I’m telling you I’m busy and things are nuts, that doesn’t mean I’m too busy to hear from you. I’m never too busy to hear from you. Okay?”

  And fuck, he liked that too.

  “Okay, sweetheart.”

  “Don’t worry about Beau,” she told him.

  Impossible.

  “Right,” was all he said.

  “And Clarisse is your girl. You’re a good guy and I’m sure a good Dad. She’ll sort her shit out.”

  That he wasn’t certain of.

  “Right. You done making me feel better?” Mike asked.

  “Unless you faked it, I think so,” Dusty answered.

  Mike chuckled again.

  Then he said softly, “Right, Angel. I need to clean the proof I didn’t fake it off me and hit the sack.”

  “Okay, honey.”

  She was back to breathy.

  She liked the idea of him jacking off while she whispered dirty shit in his ear and she liked it a lot.

  Jesus, he liked that too.

  “Later, darlin’,” he whispered.

  “Later, gorgeous,” she whispered back.

  Mike hit the button to disconnect. Then he got up, went to the bathroom and cleaned up. Then he went to his bedroom, pulled on a tee over his pajama bottoms, left his room and moved down the hall.

  Clarisse’s door was closed. He opened it, shoved his head in and looked through the dark at the lumps her body caused under the covers.

  He loved his girl. Definitely. He had it perfect, one of both, a boy and a girl. He’d had suspicions early he had far from perfect from their mother but she gave him perfect with their two kids.

  But she’d also taught them to lie early on. This she did by taking them shopping with her and making it a game, keeping what she bought from their Dad.

  Since the divorce, he’d had a variety of conversations with his kids about the fact that family didn’t lie to family. They’d need to decide in their lives how they dealt with other people and situations but a lie was a last resort and with family, it was not an option.

  He knew No took this to heart. He knew this because No was a boy in high school and he’d already made a variety of fucked up decisions that got his ass in hot water. Mostly with girls and partying. But he always called his Dad, manned up and took his punishments. And Mike made certain those punishments weren’t over the top because No had come clean.

  Clarisse had always been his little informant. She’d never lied even when her mother told her to do it. She didn’t tell him about her mother’s activities because she was a tattletale or because Mike interrogated her, she just was close to her Dad. They talked and she shared not thinking she was doing anything wrong which she was right, she wasn’t. That was another frustration he had living with Audrey. He never let on that he’d learned shit from their daughter and sometimes had to go to lengths to protect Clarisse from whatever Audrey’s reaction might have been. In other words, he, too, had to lie.

  But recently, shit was going down with Reesee. She seemed lost. Uncertain. Her habits had changed. She was lazier. Her grades were dipping. She was making questionable decisions. And he’d caught her in a variety of lies.

  These latest, taking a call on his cell and not giving him a message were just the two recent.

  His eyes went from her bed to her dark walls.

  He’d noticed the night they came down that she’d lost the vampires.

  She’d be fifteen next month. Fifteen was when Dusty went off the rails. They’d skirted that when they were together because the look on her face made it pretty clear she didn’t want to go there.

  Even so, she was open and sharing about everything else. So she might not want to go there but he figured she would if she felt whatever she went through would help him deal with whatever his daughter was going through.

  He pushed through the door, walked across the room and, using the shadows as his guide, slid the thick mass of dark blonde hair away from her face and neck and kissed his daughter’s temple.

  She stirred and muttered, “Dad?”

  “Yeah, honey.”

  “You okay?”

  “Just want my girl to know I love her.”

  “Love you too,” she whispered.

  “Go back to sleep.”

  “’Kay.”

  “’Night.”

  “’Night, Daddy.”

  Daddy.

  She’d be okay.

  Eventually.

  He slid his fingers along her cheek.

  Then he moved through her room, closed the door behind him, moved across the hall, opened the door to his son’s room and Layla jerked up and shot out.

  Then Mike and his dog walked down the hall back to his room.

  * * * * *

  Saturday late afternoon…

  The kids were gone, No out in his beat up car with some girl at a movie. Clarisse out with some girlfriends at the mall which would mean she’d come back flat broke with a bunch of shit she didn’t need and ask for an advance on her allowance.

  This was a weekly occurrence. At first, he gave it to her. Now that she was eight weeks advanced on her allowance, he’d stopped. So she was borrowing from her brother who, to feed his music habit, had taken a paper route and did shit around the house beyond his chores to earn extra money so he usually always had it. She also hit up her mother who rarely gave it to her because she also rarely had any but even if she did, Audrey preferred to spend it on herself and not her kids.

  This didn’t make Mike happy. It made Clarisse less so.

  He was in track pants, a tee and a sweatshirt. He had his gym bag over his shoulder and he was trying not to trip over an always excited Layla as he walked down the stairs to get to the garage. He was three steps from the bottom when the doorbell rang.

  He went to the door, looked through the peephole and saw Rhonda Holliday.

  “Fuck me,” he whispered, dumping his bag by the door, unlocking it and opening it.

  Her eyes came direct to him. Her face was pale. Her expression was downright haunted.

  “Jesus, Rhonda, you okay?” he asked.

  “I…uh…” She stopped, stared at him, tears wet her eyes and she whispered through trembling lips, “No.”

  Fuck. Maybe Rhonda wasn’t one of those people who needed avoidance. Maybe Rhonda was one of the different kinds of people.

  He didn’t know if that was better or worse.

  Fuck.

  He stepped aside and muttered, “Come in.”

  She dropped her head and came in.

  Layla pounced.

  Mike closed the door, moved forward, grabbed his dog by her collar and guided her down the hall, inviting, “Follow me. Just gonna put her out.”

  “Oh…okay,” Rhonda whispered and he felt her following him as he went down the hall to the big living room/dining room that sprawled the entire back of the house.

  He took Layla directly t
o the backdoor, she got excited for a different reason that didn’t involve company but jumping around in snow and shot out the door the moment he opened it.

  He closed it and turned to Rhonda to see her looking around.

  “You want a cup of coffee or something?” he asked thinking she didn’t look like she needed coffee. She looked like she needed a shot of tequila.

  “I…” She looked uncertain for a moment and finished, “No, Mike. But thanks.”

  He moved to her and stopped five feet away, giving her space as she fiddled with both hands at the strap of her purse.

  “What’s up, Rhonda?” he prompted when her eyes darted everywhere but to him and she didn’t speak.

  Her eyes went to him then to his shoulder then she bit her lip. Through this she still didn’t speak and this went on awhile.

  “Rhonda –” he started and her eyes shot to his and then she spoke. Fast.

  “I shouldn’t have done it. I know I shouldn’t have. And I don’t know if I should be here. But I don’t know what else to do. Where else to go. Who else to tell. If there’s even anything that can be done.”

  This was not a good start.

  “How about you tell me what you did you shouldn’t have done first,” he suggested cautiously.

  “I found her diaries and read them,” she blurted quickly.

  Mike blinked.

  Then he asked, “Pardon?”

  “Dusty. Dusty’s diaries. I found them and read them.”

  Mike’s entire body got tight but before he could stop her, the floodgates opened and pure acid began to pour out.

  “I was…was looking through Darrin’s things. I was…was…I don’t even know how he had them but he hid them and I found them and I didn’t know what they were so I started readin’ them and then what I read, I couldn’t stop and it hurt so bad, Mike. To know. To finally know what happened to Dusty. And it hurt so bad to know Darrin knew that all these years seein’ as he had her diaries. And he bore that weight all by himself. And now I don’t know what to do ‘cause someone’s gotta know. If this is…if it’s…if she’s coping. ‘Cause if she isn’t, someone has to help her and you’re a cop. You’ll know what help people need when things like this happen.”

  He didn’t want to know mostly because he simply didn’t want to know. Partly he didn’t want to know because Rhonda clearly had no clue Mike had started a relationship with her sister-in-law and it wasn’t his right to know until Dusty told him.

  He opened his mouth to find some way to inform her of this without exposing anything when she kept talking and the acid of her word felt like it flayed away his skin.

  “Denny Lowe molested her when she was fifteen.”

  Mike stood completely still.

  Dennis Lowe had been born in that town. Dennis Lowe had grown up in that town. Dennis Lowe had found a woman in college, married her and brought her back to that town. Years later, Dennis Lowe took an axe to his wife and they had to identify her from the wedding band on a finger which was one of the only parts of her body he hadn’t hacked to goo. Dennis Lowe had then gone on a killing spree in the name of Alec Colton’s now wife February. Then Dennis Lowe had committed suicide by cop. So Dennis Lowe was known nation-wide as just what he was. A thankfully dead whacked in the head serial killer.

  And although not a dead ringer, Dusty looked like February Colton. Blonde hair, curvy figure, dark brown eyes.

  They knew of one girl he’d raped prior to his losing total control on the very tenuous hold he had on his mind and then going on to murder five people, a dog and attacking another man.

  And now he, Rhonda and, apparently, before his death, Darrin knew that Denny Lowe had molested Dusty.

  Mike swallowed the bile creeping up his throat and Rhonda went on.

  “It was…it was bad, Mike,” she whispered then jerked her head to the side, yanked open her purse and came out with two books. She looked back to Mike. “She wrote all about it.”

  She jerked the books his way.

  Mike stared at them like they were hissing snakes.

  “I…she…I don’t know!” Rhonda suddenly cried and Mike’s eyes cut to her face to see it was twisted with despair and indecision. Then she fucking kept talking. “I read them all. Cover to cover. She…Mike…she was in love with you,” she leaned forward, “totally.” She leaned back and kept right on going. “And it wasn’t…I know she was young but it wasn’t little girl love. It was very rich, Mike, and beautiful. She wrote all about it. Then it happened. Then he…Denny…” she trailed off then fucking started again. “And it all went bad.”

  “Rhonda –” Mike forced out but she talked over him.

  “You have to read these. We have to help her. I don’t know how many times Darrin talked to me about Dusty. How he was worried about her. How she kept pickin’ the wrong guys. Total jerks. And they were. I met a couple of them and they weren’t good guys. We’d…we’d,” her face flushed, “well, we’d talk in bed about it at night. Not all the time but it happened. And I knew Darrin worryin’ about Dusty was the last thing on his mind before he went to sleep. She took off right after high school when everyone in the family knew she loved that land just like her Dad, just like Darrin. Then, it wasn’t like she settled in Danville or Avon or something. She settled in Texas,” she stated like Texas was on another continent then she kept talking. “Escaping, Darrin knew. I always thought she didn’t come back a lot ‘cause the occasions she came back for, Debbie was usually here and they don’t get along too good so she tried to avoid it and only came back when Debbie wasn’t going to be here or Debbie couldn’t stay long. But now I know.”

  Now she knew.

  And now Mike knew.

  Mike’s eyes dropped to the books but his head filled with Dusty. Dusty as a little kid, her smile an easy flash, her laughter and singing filling the house, her wisecracks quick and clever. Then Dusty when he tried to talk to her, so much black makeup around her eyes, her hair a disaster, her clothes hanging on her, her face twisted with anger, her words sharp and bitchy.

  Because a psycho had put his hands on her and she clearly dealt with that alone the best way she knew how. She didn’t tell anyone. Even her brother who she was closest to had to learn from her diaries.

  And now she was with a guy who was clearly not right. Thirty-eight years old, never married and picking who she called “morons” but if this recent one was anything to go by, considering cops had to be involved to keep the asshole away from her, was far worse than that.

  “Mike?” Rhonda called and Mike’s eyes cut back to her face.

  “Rhonda that was a long time ago and Denny Lowe is dead. There’s nothing I can do,” he said quietly, his voice carefully even, his gut so tight it was a wonder he didn’t throw up.

  She stared at him then whispered, “But –”

  “Dusty’s gotta need to want help, Rhonda.”

  “Sometimes they don’t…girls like her don’t –”

  Mike cut her off. “She’s not a girl. She’s a woman and right now there’s nothing I can do.”

  There was nothing he could do.

  Nothing he could do.

  Fuck.

  Rhonda closed her mouth and stared at him again.

  Then she whispered, “Right.”

  “My advice, don’t share that with Mr. and Mrs. Holliday.” He jerked his head to the books. “Right now, you all don’t need that shit. And it’s Dusty’s to share. Yeah?”

  She nodded slowly.

  “Which means, Rhonda,” he went on, “don’t share you know with Dusty. You’ve all lost someone close to you. She’s dealing too, just like you. Now is not the time to bring that shit back up if she’s buried it.”

  She nodded again.

  Mike drew in breath then said softly, “I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help.”

  Yeah, he was sorry. Seriously fucking sorry.

  He had no fucking clue what to do with this shit.

  Then Rhonda did something Rhonda should ne
ver have done. She moved to the back of his couch, put the books on it and without looking at him, whispered, “I’ll just leave those here in case you change your mind.”

  “Rhonda –” he started but got no further.

  Quickly, she muttered, “’Bye Mike,” and took off down his hall.

  He didn’t move mostly because he couldn’t move. He just stood there staring at the books even after he heard his front door open and close. Even after he heard her car start up and pull away. And even after a long time passed.

  Dusty. Open. Sharing. One hundred percent.

  Except when they came close to talking about her teenage change. Then she made it clear without words she was not going there.

  “Fuck,” he whispered.

  We snap out of it. Promise, she’d whispered.

  She hadn’t. She picked the wrong guys, avoided her hometown, didn’t open up about it and thus deal with the fact that she’d been molested by a serial killer before he became a serial killer and thought less of her sister who defended rapists.

  He forced his body to turn and move to the backdoor. Then he let his dog in. She bounded around him as he moved through the living room.

  But he didn’t move to his gym bag. He didn’t go to the gym. He didn’t go to the phone and call Dusty.

  Because his ass was plain fucking stupid, he went to those fucking books.

  Then he leaned his stupid ass against the back of the couch and cracked one open.

  An hour and a half later, he’d long since rounded the couch, sat in it and was bent forward, elbows to his knees, the second book held open between his legs and he’d read them both.

  The first was her first. He figured, from where it started, he’d broken up with Debbie and was on his way to college. This meant he was free for her imagination to soar.

  And Rhonda was not wrong. She loved him. She was too young to know what to do with that love but she was not too young to know how to express it.

  And it was beautiful.

  But it wasn’t all about him. He skimmed through the young girl crap, studied the shit she drew so breathtakingly in corners, around words, sometimes taking both pages to draw what popped into her head. All of it, even drawn by a girl of fourteen, was better than most shit he saw on people’s walls.

  Then he turned a page in the second diary and that all changed. Gone were the gel pens of many colors she wrote with and the soft multi-colored shades of the pencils she sketched with. Suddenly, all the writing and the sketches were in heavy black. There were no flowers, butterflies or portraits of loved ones. The images were dark. Monstrous. The words were heavy, morose, angry. Her relationship with her sister who consistently confronted her, sometimes cruelly, about her change deteriorated rapidly. She couldn’t wait to get the fuck out of The ‘Burg. She couldn’t wait to be “free”.