“Internet romance.” Jen leans in like it’s the best piece of gossip. “Looks like I’ll be Laken’s roommate for a while. Not that I mind. I love Austen House.”
“So it was an internet romance.” Mom dips into Jen with her faux concern for Casper.
“Hardly took a thing with her.” Jen shrugs. “They traced her credit card all the way to Amarillo.”
Mom’s eyes widen then retract. “At least she’s logging airline miles.” It comes out genuine as if Casper was doing something right. “She’ll be back. Those things never work out.”
“Let’s hope this guy doesn’t turn out to be a pedophile or a killer.” Blaine lets out a demented laugh, and the room falls tragically silent.
His morbid attempt to add levity to the situation crashes and burns magnificently. Come to think of it, Blaine looks every bit a pedophile, every bit a killer.
“Your mother and I met through friends.” Dad nods as if the Internet somehow qualifies as a trusted acquaintance. “And look at us now.” He says it with an uncomfortable level of sarcasm, like maybe things aren’t so hot between him and his longtime bride.
“That, my dear, was a blind date,” Mom corrects. Her tone suggests a lecture might follow suit. “Falling in love with someone emotionally, under what are likely false pretenses, is incredibly dangerous.” She casts a disapproving look in my direction as though I were somehow guilty of this malfeasance. “When it comes to love, stay away from the Internet.” She looks over at Wes and Blaine seated in their uptight positions like good little schoolboys. “But I see the Paxton’s have my girls covered. I take it we’re all behaving ourselves? We have strict rules about dating in this house.” She glances at me. “No kisses that you wouldn’t give your grandmother, no heavy petting.”
Heavy petting?
I’m amused by this. The only petting I participate in is reserved for domesticated animals, and the odd occasion when I play with my ponytail. Nevertheless, a pinch of embarrassment filters through me because, God Almighty, would I like to pet Wes. In the worst way—would I like to pet him.
“I would never pet.” I give a sly smile over to the womb impersonator. I’m open to having a little fun with the powers that be, and I have a feeling the nuclear family is a great place to begin my assault. “There are so many other things I would do, but petting isn’t one of them.”
“Laken!” Her eyes spring wide.
Jen spears me with a look that assures I should have never shared the status of my vagina with her. This is a family that doesn’t even believe in kisses, and I’ve already doled them out to two different boys—four if you count Flynn and Tucker. It’s easy to deduce who’s the black sheep.
“Knew we should have opted for the chastity belt.” This contrived version of my father shakes his head.
Something in that moment solidifies my feelings for him. I like him. His light and airy sense of humor—the way he doesn’t try too hard. However, I’m not warming to this puritan version of my mother. My real mom once offered me the bizarre opportunity to bring Tucker home so we could fool around in the “safe confines of my bedroom.” She said she preferred it to the back alleys and dirt lots she assumed we were rutting in. Her idea of safe sex weirded me out more than a little, so I refused the offer. In hindsight, I wish she had a little more of a traditional reaction when she found out I was having relations with the same boy who thought it was a good idea to hack off my braids in third grade. In fact, I sort of wish she freaked the hell out and beat me senseless for ever opening up to him like a flower. I gave him everything I was saving for Wes in exchange for a couple of drunken minutes in the backseat of a Camaro.
“You look confused, Laken.” The woman, who believes she spawned me, slices the air with her hostile tone. There’s an aggressive energy filtering between us and I don’t know why. “Do you have any questions you’d like to ask about the trip?”
“What makes you want to serve?” It fumbles from me unrehearsed. “You know, the poor?”
“Poverty is the lot of many. I find it stimulating—titillating.” She turns her head into the admission as if she were relaying a secret she wasn’t very proud of.
“Titillating? That’s horrible,” I say. Who says that? Who thinks that?
Wes looks up at me as if he were sorry he didn’t muzzle me, and now, I’ve subjected everyone in the room to the foul stench from my mouth.
“You should try it sometime.” A forced smile springs to her tangerine lips. “It’s life reduced to the lowest common denominator—sometimes all they have is love and the air in their lungs.”
Love and the air in their lungs. Honest to God, that’s all I had with Wes once upon a time, and I wish with everything in me that we could go back to our normal, yet titillating impoverished lives.
Dad arouses our attention by way of an exaggerated yawn. “We’re all together and alive—under one roof again.” He leans back in his chair, comfortable with the idea. “It’s nothing short of a miracle.”
“Yes,” I say, reaching over and picking up Wesley’s hand. “Together and alive. It’s nothing short of a miracle.”
Cooper and his explosive kiss blinks through my mind.
Wes snaps his neck in my direction—spears me with a look.
30
Mr. Jones and Me
Once everyone disperses, Wesley takes me down to my uncle’s office to have a quick chat with him.
It’s lined with the same dark paneling, same rustic furniture that puts me to sleep, boring as an overeducated professor straining out a lecture—too soft to hear over the snores of the other students.
I didn’t think people like the Andersons existed. You heard about them on the news once in a while. They were privy to exotic occurrences like home invasion robberies where they had their throats slit in exchange for jewels. They had fathers that went to prison because they instigated Ponzi schemes, embezzled millions from corporations, or were found guilty of insider trading.
The only other place where the extremely wealthy resided was in the fictitious world of soaps that my mother watched religiously. They were the ones with home libraries, velvet furniture, rooms painted hunter green with oil paintings hung over the fireplace. But here, in this new reality it was all true, every last word, and then some.
“Laken,” Wes blinks when he says my name, “you know I would never hurt you.” A red flag—a flare, an entire series of blazing sirens go off in my head. No good conversation starts off that way, so, expectantly, I’m leery of his next sentence. “Last night, Jones came up and asked about the commotion.” Wes nods as if I should know where this is headed. “So I told him.”
“Oh.” I’m not exactly sure what Wes told him since he only knows half the story, and I’m not feeling too altruistic about spilling the lip lock with Cooper. It’s bad enough he saw the visual manifest in my mind earlier.
“And,” he says, making wild eyes at the carpet before looking back up at me, “I sort of filled him in about your ongoing inability to remember.”
Wow. Payback for kissing Cooper is a real bitch. He doesn’t really know that Cooper kissed me, does he? As far as Wes is concerned, he just pried into one of my warped fantasies, not some play-by-play of what actually happened.
“Thanks a lot, Wes. I’ll be in lockdown at the Flanders house of horrors before dinner. People with money always lock up their crazy relatives,” I hiss. “They’re not like the rest of society who give them free roam of the general population—the option of group therapy on the odd fucking occasion.”
Wesley’s face bleaches out at my viral expletive before his lips curve as if he suddenly found my state of panic adorable.
Jones strides in. His cologne enters the vicinity long before he swoops over to the other side of the desk. Suddenly it feels like an official visit to the counselor’s office, the Oval office, anything but a quick word with a relative about chasing prospective she-devils in the backyard.
“Laken.” His voice resonates softly. It
endears me to him without even trying. “I hear you’re seeing Dr. Flanders.” He gives a heartfelt look as if this were the worst news possible, and it very well might be. He has a soft way about him and he draws me in with his genuine concern. Something in me craves his attention, and I showboat with a tiny smile—let him know it’s welcome.
“Dr. Flanders is great,” I whisper. I leave out the part about him drawing my blood—that, perhaps, he might even believe the psychotic drivel that flies from my mouth.
“I trust you’ll be receiving the best of care.” His cheek crimps to the side. “I’m beginning to regret letting you out of my sight so soon after your accident. But if anyone can get to the bottom of your memory loss, it’s Mark. He’s the top-ranked psychiatrist in all of Connecticut.”
First named basis? Top ranked? I smell an incarceration coming a mile away.
“Look…” My heart races at the thought of meds being involuntarily shoved down my throat. “I’m really not sure about this.”
“Nobody is taking you in.” Jones holds up his hands trying to alleviate my agitation. “I promise, you can relax. I want you to feel safe with me. With all of us.” His shoulders sag as if he means it, but too much. “Wesley says he’s been helping you with whatever you need.” He gives a sober look to Wes. “And for that, Wesley, I can’t thank you enough, but, Laken, I want you to know you can come to me for anything.”
“Did you tell him about the Spectators? The Fems?” I cock my head at Wes accusingly. If he was going to throw me under the bus, I want him to know I’m more than capable of returning the favor.
“Pardon me?” Jones’s voice spikes, filling the entire room with the burden of this revelation.
Wes looks up at him from under the dark ridge of his brows. “I didn’t want to worry you.” He shoots me a look, letting me know I’ve gone someplace I shouldn’t have. “I’ve got it under control.”
“What do you have under control?” I ask. I’m shocked by his reaction. “I almost ate it twice, no thanks to those rotting corpses, and I’m pretty sure the mutant Fems wanted to eat me.”
“Laken.” Jones bullets my name out with resolute anger. “I want you to stay the hell away from the woods. Do you hear me?” He takes a measured breath. You can tell he wants to reach over and shake me—shake Wes, to drive home his point, but, instead, he kneads his open palms into the veneer of his glossy desk. “Keep clear of any remote areas, especially when alone—keep Wesley with you at all times.” He shoots a cold look to Wes as though he were purposely putting him in harm’s way as punishment.
I’m not opposed to having Wes around, but I have a feeling there’s more to the story. Something tells me that both Jones and Wes are less apt to fill in the blanks than Coop. My heart sinks like a lead brick at the thought of Wes being a party to this insanity. I’m sure this new version of Wesley is convinced he’s protecting me. Or at least I’d like to believe it.
“Why should I keep Wes with me at all times?” I don’t bother hiding my newfound intrigue. “Is he zombie repellant?” It was either anger or sarcasm, and I went for both.
“On occasion.” Jones pulls his lips into a line, leans back into the chair and glares into him. “On occasion Wes is just that.”
Something tells me he’s not.
After an awkward day of familial bonding or lack thereof, Jen insists we embark on the next torture session on her list, otherwise known as our double date.
Blaine drives us out in his gleaming black SUV that’s still clinging for dear life to the new car scent. I bet, once the expensive aroma of decomposing leather fully dissipates, he’ll simply roll into the dealership and pick up new model. Back home Wes drove an old beat-up Ford pickup with the fender cockeyed from a formal introduction with a telephone pole.
My thoughts drift back to the family—the new father in his argyle sweater over a dress shirt and tie, the gold, glittering broach on my new mother’s scarf. I’m not sure what great mind thought it was a brilliant idea to make me wealthy beyond imagination and not give me Mom or my sisters. I shake my head at the fatal oversight. Then again, if the prerequisite is to die a horrible death, I’d rather they never come, at least, not for a good long while.
“Laken’s pledging this week.” Wes glances at me with a glimmer of pride.
“Already?” Jen smirks as if I were markedly late to the demonic party.
“On Tuesday?” Blaine ticks his head toward the driver’s window as though it were a twitch.
“Tuesday’s New Moon,” Jen says. “So, it’s obviously Tuesday.”
“God help us all, adding another Anderson to the roster. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Blaine glances in the rear view mirror and narrows his eyes in on mine. There’s something there, something nefarious, dark, something a little more sinister than a girl named Jax.
“I’m looking forward to it,” I say. “I’m glad you’ll be there.” More like, thank God Wes will be there. He’d better be there. I’m adopting a new motto, no Wes, no go.
“I’ll be there.” Wes brings my hand to his lips and seals a kiss over my knuckles.
Blaine glances back and leers into Wes as he holds me. I really don’t care if Jen doesn’t allow him to kiss her hand because I plan on being on Jen’s side when the dissolution hits the fan.
“You missed the turnoff.” Jen groans for added effect.
“Wes wanted to go to the Lodge.”
“I don’t want to go to the Lodge.” Jen rolls out the words with a whine. “There’s nothing to do at the Lodge. They’re closed. And by the way, it’s freezing out there.”
“We’ll just have to get creative and find a way to keep warm.” He flirts. “And yes, they’re closed. That’s the point.”
Jen settles her arms tight cross her chest. She looks back and slits my throat with her pissed-off expression. Something tells me it’s going to be a very long night for the oversexed fox and the dove of holy virtue.
And if the Spectators and Fems have their way, it’ll be a very long night for Wes and me, too.
31
Love on the Lake
We ditch Blaine and Jen while they argue themselves into an impasse on whether to go left and break into the pool hall or go right for a hike. I can’t really picture Jen breaking and entering any more than I can picture her trotting off into the wilderness for a midnight expedition. I bet we find them embroiled in the same heated argument when we get back.
“Why is he still with her?” I ask, amazed at her ability to browbeat him at every turn. “I’ve seen girls back home dumped for far less offenses.”
Wes takes a moment before relaxing into me. “He’s irrevocably committed.”
“And she returns the favor by being irrevocably impossible,” I say, listening to the sound of oak leaves crushing beneath my feet. This sound, the crisp sound of nature bending to our will, is the music that once comprised the symphony of our love back home.
Wes pulls me in by the waist and gazes into me as though he were seeing my thoughts play out like a movie by simply looking at me.
“Laken, I hope this doesn’t offend you.” He whispers it out in a puff of velum. “But I really think you should get out of the habit of saying the words, ‘back home.’”
My mouth opens involuntarily. A twinge of grief spirals through me when he says it. It’s as though he jammed a stopper down my throat, and now Mom and Lacey, and the real Jen are trapped, pushing up against his invisible cork with a steady stream of pressure.
“Okay,” I whisper, but I’m not making any promises.
“I’m sorry. I’m afraid for you.” The reserve of moonlight filters through the pines and glazes his hair a wash of powder blue. “I don’t want you to stop talking about it.” He glances down. “And I don’t want you to stop talking about the family you believe you’ve left behind. I just think it might be healthier to come at it from a different angle. How about something along the lines of, ‘when I had that dream?’”
“Sure,” I whispe
r in defeat. I suppress all thoughts of Cooper and his hyper willingness to accept my beliefs. Trying to keep Cooper down is far more difficult than submerging my family. It’s like trying to bury a pocket of air in the deepest part of the ocean—impossible, irresponsible on some level.
“So where we going?” I take in a jagged breath that mimics a cry. “Left, right?” I try to mock Jen and Blaine, but it comes out pathetic.
“I thought maybe we’d try straight.” He points to a lake in front of us and leads us toward the edge. “The grounds keeper stores a small boat nearby just in case some poor sucker gets thrown in and doesn’t know how to swim,” he says, lifting a plastic tarp hidden behind a row of tall reeds. He turns the aluminum craft over, then pushes it into the water. Wes helps me in and steadies the boat until I’m safely seated on a wood plank near the center.
As much as I hate to admit it, Jen’s right. It’s cold enough to solidify out here.
A depressive mist stretches over the sky. It covers the hint of a barely there moon and masks a thousand stars with its precipitous sorrow. A milky haze rolls in thick and low along the waterline, leaving it impossible to see three feet out.
Wesley rows us over the glossy slick as if Olympic gold depended on him.
“How big is the lake?” My voice sounds hollow. The mist settles over my palette, buttery, thick as oil.
“Quarter mile in diameter.” He spikes an oar into the water and navigates us toward an overgrowth of brush on the north side. “How’s that for privacy?” Wes suppresses a grin, his entire face lights up with the seductive implications.
I like this side of Wes, the naughty boy emerging from years of servitude in the land of please and thank you. Wes is ready to bark out orders of the on-your-knees, and would-you-like-another variety, I can tell. Of course I’d be more than willing to oblige him. I’d start each day bowing down to him—hell, in an assortment of positions if he wanted me to.
Ephemeral (The Countenance) Page 21
