by Sandra Brown
“Fifth wheel?”
“They did nothing to make me feel that way. But their togetherness compounded my feelings of what the therapist called ‘displacement.’”
“Was the counseling helpful?”
“Some. But it’s obvious it didn’t rid me of all my issues. I won’t be rid of them until I get some answers.”
Fuck. Back to answers. Answers to questions that, if asked, would put her in danger from Rusty.
“Arden, listen, I’ll do whatever you want me to. I’ll either take this place apart or redo it. But I need to get going on it, because I’ve got other jobs waiting. Decide tonight what you want me to do, and then clear out tomorrow.”
“Clear out?”
“The earlier the better.”
“Where am I going?”
“Houston? Dallas? How the hell should I know? Choose a place.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
He squared his stance. “Whatever I do to the house, you can’t be here while I’m doing it. Especially if I tear it down.”
“I’ll wait until the last minute to move out.”
“It’ll be a mess.”
“It’s already a mess.”
“Yes, but nothing like it will be. You have to leave.”
“If I leave, people will start wondering—”
“They’re going to wonder no matter what. Besides, you won’t know what they’re wondering, because you’ll be gone.”
“You never indicated that I would have to vacate.”
“Yes, I did.”
“No you didn’t. Not once.” She came to her feet, bringing them almost eye level to each other. “This is the first I’ve heard of it.”
“Then that was an oversight on my part. Sorry. But I’m telling you now. You can’t stay. It’s my work site, I make the rules.”
She thought on it. “Well, I guess I could rent a lake cabin nearby.”
There were dozens of vacation rentals within a ten-mile radius of Penton. For his peace of mind, that was too close. “Wouldn’t your sister put you up?”
“She’s offered.”
“Well, there you go. That was easy.”
“But I don’t want to stay with Lisa. I want to be close enough to check on the progress each day.”
“My progress? On the house? No.”
“Why not?”
“Be reasonable. You can’t be popping in and out of here while walls are coming down.”
“It’s my house.”
“And my liability.”
“Don’t you have liability insurance?”
“A good question. A little late for you to be asking, though.”
“Do you?”
“Yes, but it’s for crap. It wouldn’t cover a hangnail.”
She was about to say something but stopped herself and looked at him with sudden suspicion. “You’re making this up as you go along, aren’t you?”
He just looked at her.
“You are,” she said. “You’re trying to get rid of me. Just like you did when I came to your workshop that first day. You’re throwing out bullshit and hoping I’ll accept it.”
He should have known that she would see through the ruse. He relaxed his combatant posture, swore under his breath, and gave a realigning roll of his shoulders. “Yeah, I am.”
“Why?”
“It would be better if you left town, that’s all.”
“Better for me or for you?”
“Both.”
“Why don’t you want me here?”
“Because you could get hurt.”
“How could I get hurt?”
“All kinds of ways.”
“For instance?”
“You mean besides your nightly drive-by?”
“Who so far has only driven past. Why do you fear I’ll get hurt?”
“Christ.” He lowered his head and focused on the one stair step between them. “Because I would be seeing you every day, but having to keep my hands off you.” He looked up at her from beneath his brows and spoke from the heart. “And I don’t think I can do that.”
The silence between them stretched out, and, correspondingly, the sexual yearning she felt low and deep continued to tug at her until she took the next step down. Which was all the urging he needed.
He curved his arm around her waist and pulled her against him as their mouths sought each other. Last night’s kiss had stunned her. She’d had no time to think, to react, before it was over. However, for all its brevity, it had left her shaken, breathless, and irrationally aroused.
Throughout the day, she’d caught herself analyzing that kiss, the manly spontaneity that had sparked it, the bold lustiness of it, and its startling, erotic effect on her.
But all her analyses had left her no better prepared for this kiss. She might have invited it, but he immediately took charge of it. Taking unrestricted possession of her mouth, he slid his tongue along hers. She responded with an involuntary, shivery movement of her breasts against his chest.
A low growl emanated from his throat. His hands grazed the sides of her breasts before coasting down her rib cage to bracket her hips. His fingers tensed, pressing into the curve of her bottom and holding her still as he pressed against the notch of her thighs.
But only long enough for her to respond with a subtle grinding motion against him, and then he retreated and brought his hands up to her face. He cradled it between his palms as he broke the kiss. His eyes moved over each of her features and then stayed intent on her lips. He brushed her hair off one cheek, then rested his scruffy one against it and spoke, feverishly and roughly, directly into her ear.
“I want to be skin to skin with you. So bad it’s killing me.” His kept his lips there for seconds more, his breath unsteady and hot. Then he aligned his forehead with hers. “But I can’t, Arden.” Lightly, he bumped his forehead against hers as he repeated it. “I can’t.”
He released her, turned and walked away, through the kitchen and out the back door. It was the click of that blasted lock that spurred her. She hurdled the bottom step and dashed toward the kitchen. She undid the lock and flung open the back door, then charged after him.
“Wait a minute!”
He stopped and turned. She didn’t slow down until she came to a dead stop no more than a foot in front of him. “I won’t keep doing this. No more good night kisses.”
He raised one shoulder in a negligent manner that made her want to smack the scratchy cheek that minutes ago had been nuzzling hers.
He said, “I can’t keep doing it. You won’t keep doing it. Problem solved if you would pack up and leave tomorrow.” He motioned toward the house with his chin. “But for tonight, get back inside and lock the door.”
“Go to hell and take your damn locks with you.”
“I don’t know what you’re mad about. I could’ve carried you into that nun’s cell of sleeping quarters you’ve got, and we’d be hard at it by now. Hell, I could’ve had you on the staircase. By leaving, I was trying to do the right thing. You should be thanking me.”
“Thanking you? For using me to get a cheap thrill, to cheat on your girlfriend, make her jealous, whatever? No. But I do have something to thank you for.”
She flung her hand toward the house. “You opened my eyes about the house. Build it up, tear it down, the mysteries will still be there. Like freaking ghosts. But I’m going to rid myself of them.”
She pulled herself up straighter. “Your services won’t be needed after all, Mr. Burnet. The house will stay as is, indefinitely, while I look for answers somewhere else.”
She turned.
“Arden, wait. Stop. Will you wait a goddamn minute?” he shouted. “What do you mean you’ll look for answers somewhere else?”
She kept walking, went inside, and slammed the door behind her, taking great pleasure in locking him out with the hardware he’d provided.
Chapter 19
Ledge knocked. “It’s me.”
Seconds later, Crys
tal opened her front door and greeted him with a smile. “Well, you’ve made yourself scarce lately. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”
“Where’s Marty?”
“Working the three-to-eleven shift.”
She stepped aside, and he went in, saying, “Don’t bet on it being a pleasure to see me.”
“You’re in a mood?”
“And then some.”
“Does it have to do with that gash on your face?”
“That’s the tip of the iceberg.”
“Sounds ominous.”
“It is.”
He made his way into the living room, where he plopped down in the center of the sofa, laid his head back on the cushion, and dug the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. “Jesus, what a mess.”
“Henry?” she asked with worry.
“Well, that, yeah. But not in particular tonight.”
She claimed the corner of the sofa and curled her legs up under her hips. “What’s going on?”
He lowered his hands and rolled his head to the side in order to look at her. Time and maturity had changed her features only slightly. She maintained the exotic—some called it bewitching—quality she’d had the first time he’d noticed her.
Fifth grade. Recess. She’d been standing off to one side of the playground, alone. She hadn’t been included in any of the horseplay or games. She hadn’t attempted to join any. She’d spent the entire twenty minutes of freedom looking confined, standing alongside the cyclone fence, shrinking against it any time another kid came near, as though afraid she would be noticed and challenged for taking up space.
Ledge had had his share of experience with that kind of social ostracism. He’d been the only kid in his grade who didn’t have at least one living parent. His uncle was raising him, and his “home” was the ell annex of a bar and pool hall. That had made him different, which meant he might just as well have had leprosy.
However, even at that age, he’d been tough enough, sizable enough, to pose a threat to the elementary school kingpins like Rusty Dyle.
But this girl with skinny legs and breasts just beginning to bud on her narrow chest appeared too timid to defend herself against a butterfly. His feelings of protectiveness began that day, although he hadn’t even known her name yet.
They were in different classrooms, but after that recess, he’d made it his business to find out that her name was Crystal Ivers. He’d kept an eye on her in the cafeteria and on the playground, ready to jump in if anybody bothered her.
No one did. She was ignored. Which in many ways was worse.
Then one windy day after dismissal, he’d spotted her chasing down the contents of her notebook, which she’d dropped on the sidewalk. He’d run to help. Between the two of them, they’d managed to collect all the scattered sheets of paper.
He’d walked over the ones he’d caught and handed them to her. She’d thanked him in a voice he could barely hear as she’d stuffed her schoolwork back into her notebook and, using both thin arms, secured it against her chest. Shyly, she’d met his gaze then given a furtive look around.
To begin a dialogue, he’d said, “You’re in Miss Henderson’s class.” Then he thought that was a dumb thing to say. Like she didn’t know whose class she was in. “My name’s Ledge. Ledge Burnet.”
She’d shot another quick look over her shoulder. “I’m not supposed to talk to boys.”
Then, like a flash, she’d taken off, walking hurriedly down the sidewalk still hugging her notebook. When she reached the corner, the passenger door of a parked maroon pickup swung open, and she’d climbed in.
Ledge hadn’t approached her again, although they were always aware of each other at school, never speaking but making brief eye contact any time their paths crossed.
He hadn’t been a member of the cool crowd commandeered by Rusty, but Henry had seen to it that he participated in sports and other school activities. He cultivated a small but tight circle of friends.
As he got older, he’d been much sought after by girls. His aloofness notwithstanding, and probably because of it, he’d been considered the catch of all catches. He enjoyed an enviable amount of action, but the choice of a partner was always his. No one girl had ever been able to label him “hers.”
By contrast, Crystal was a nonentity. She wasn’t a member of any school group, never attended a ball game, dance, or private party. Ledge never had understood why. Until the day he’d found out why. And on that day, he’d almost killed her stepbrother.
She always had possessed an uncanny ability to read him, and as she scrutinized him now, she said, “You’re strolling down memory lane, aren’t you?”
“How can you tell?”
“Because you’re wearing the same ferocious scowl that you were when you caught me hiding in the culvert.”
By then, they’d been sophomores in high school. During the intervening years, Crystal had turned into a beauty. She had a Native American gene somewhere in her ancestry that was manifested in her slanted hazel eyes and high cheekbones. Her breasts had filled out to a solid C. Her legs were no longer skinny, and she was no longer ignored. She had the attention of the male student population.
Ledge had overheard Rusty Dyle telling his cronies that he’d like to get his hands on the Ivers chick’s ass, which was the best one in school, bar none.
Ledge had wanted to clock him, but instead he had pretended not to have heard the remark. Any reaction from him would have been noticed and acted upon by Rusty, more than likely to Crystal’s detriment.
She had developed a reputation for being a go-to girl if you were looking to get laid or blown, but Ledge attributed the rumors to jealousy from the girls who started them, and to the wishful thinking of boys who fueled the rumor mill. How could she be giving away easy sex when she was never in the company of peers?
One day he’d seen Crystal rushing out of the cafeteria during lunch period, obviously upset. On impulse, he’d left his unfinished lunch and went after her, following her out of the building and off campus.
He’d stayed at a distance behind her, until he saw her leave the sidewalk and slip-slide down a steep ravine. He’d run to catch up and discovered her sitting in a concrete culvert, her back to the damp, curved wall, head bent over her raised knees, crying so hard her body shook.
When he spoke her name, she’d jumped and was about to scramble to her feet. He’d put out his hand in a steadying gesture. “Go ahead and cry if you need to. I’ll just sit here with you. Okay?”
Slowly, he lowered himself into a crouch in front of her. She watched him with wariness, but when he didn’t make a move to touch her, she’d replaced her head on her knees and cried herself out.
When she finally had run dry, she raised her head and wiped tears off her bloated, splotchy face. “Go away. You’ll only make it worse by being here.”
“Make what worse?”
“The things they say about me.”
“Who says?”
“Everybody.”
“Screw them.”
She gave a bitter laugh. “They say I do.” Settling her forehead on her knees again, she’d spoken softly, but stressfully. “I don’t do those things they say. Why would I want to? I hate it. It’s awful. It hurts.”
The words seeped into Ledge like a vile and oily venom. He thought about her strict isolation, and the maroon pickup truck that transported her to and from school, remembered clearly her saying with a tremor in her child’s voice, I’m not supposed to talk to boys.
“What hurts, Crystal?”
Though her head still rested on her knees, she gave a negative shake. “I can’t tell.”
“You can tell me.”
“So you can blab it to everybody else.”
“I wouldn’t do that.”
She raised her head and looked at him skeptically.
He said, “I swear I’ll never tell anything you ask me not to. Who hurts you?”
Her eyes filled to overflowing with fresh t
ears, and, in a raw voice, she whispered, “My stepbrother.”
A surge of red-hot rage consumed him. “He abuses you? Like, touches you?”
“It started out that way. Now…” She couldn’t go on, but her expression had spoken volumes.
Ledge settled back on his rump and didn’t take his eyes off her face as she’d told him the whole sordid story.
It had started when her stepfather died. His son continued to live with Crystal and her mother. Her mother was aware of his molestation, but she was too afraid of him to do anything about it. They lived in terror of him. His name was Morg Young.
Morg Young was a regular at the bar, one who Henry and Don had just as soon do his carousing someplace else. He picked fights, was generally disorderly, and, once, Henry had tossed him out for harassing a woman who had neither invited nor welcomed his attention. Ledge would never have connected that redneck lowlife to Crystal, who had a different last name.
Now, Ledge reached across to the corner of the sofa and covered her knee with his hand. “To this day, I wish I had killed him.”
“You very nearly did.”
He had been too young to serve liquor, but often, after he had finished his dinner and homework, he’d helped out in the bar by sweeping, washing glasses, unloading cases of product, anything that needed doing.
That night around ten o’clock, Morg Young had come in alone and, after getting a beer from Don, had sauntered over to the billiards area and asked those standing around the tables which one of them was ready to lose some money. He’d played several games and stayed until closing. He had been one of the last customers to leave.
Unnoticed by his uncle and Don, Ledge had gone into the stockroom, then slipped out the back door. He caught up with Crystal’s abuser just as he was about to climb into his truck.
Five minutes later, Ledge was again pushing the broom across the barroom floor. A customer who had bid everyone a good night and left rushed back inside, breathless. “Guess Morg spouted off to the wrong man tonight. He’s lying out there by his truck, beat to a pulp.”
Henry rushed outside to assess the situation. Don called 911. As in the wake of all violent emergencies, the next half hour had been eventful. In the midst of it, Don had noticed Ledge’s bloody, swollen knuckles and had looked at him with alarm.
