Something niggles at my brain. It’s a nasty little beast with gnashing teeth and sharp claws. Claws that hook into brain matter, tugging at something long forgotten, buried beneath the filth. It feels suspiciously like a conscious.
“Huh?” I muse to myself. Didn’t know I could still feel guilty about anything anymore. But I look at her, Aylee-fucking-stalker-Bennett, and I feel like I just kicked a puppy in the face.
Finding the shirt I was wearing earlier, I bring it to my nose and take a sniff. Clean enough. Slipping it on, I ask, “You hungry?” I’m starving. While I look for my keys and pocket my wallet, I note the lost and confused look on her face. Can’t blame her considering my question came out of the blue. “Look, you can talk circles around me about this shit but I’m not going to be any help to you on an empty stomach. So you either come with me to grab a bite to eat or you get the fuck out and stay the hell away from me.”
“I’ll come.” She says it without the slightest hint of irony. Jesus.
I grin crookedly, “If only,” I say, under my breath, waiting for her to grab her bag before I close and lock the door behind me. Dro’s working at the storage unit he converted into a garage, tonight. Not sure when he’ll be home. He’ll probably end up crashing at Wynn’s place anyway since it’s closer to his work place.
She takes a short lead while I purposely linger a short step behind her. The view isn’t bad. She’s a little on the thin side; the dark gray skinny jeans wrapped around the lower part of her body only shows that she needs to eat more. She’s got a cute little curve to her ass, though. There’s a white camisole shirt beneath the dark red-and-black flannel she left unbuttoned. I’m not sure if she’s aware, but I could make out the outline of her white bra through the shirt earlier. Small breasts that fit her svelte frame. If I had to guess at her bra size, I’d put her somewhere in the lower B-cup range. The black Sperrys on her feet silence her footfalls as we make our way down the concrete staircase.
“How exactly did you get here?” I ask upon exiting the apartment building.
“I rode my—” Her expression goes from calm to distress in seconds. She jogs to the Tow Zone sign near the yellow fire hydrant and stops in front of it. When I catch up to her, she whips her head from one side of the street to the other and back again. Taking off to the left, she does a combination of speed walking and running down the sidewalk.
“Jesus, I don’t need this shit.” The son of God isn’t listening. He never has. With a curse, I set out after her. When I reach her, I grab her arm to stop her progression and whip her around. “Mind telling me what the fuck is up?”
She gives me that abused puppy look again. Wide, mismatched eyes gleaming with tears, brows furrowed, bottom lip tucked between her teeth as she worries it mercilessly until it’s plump and strawberry red from the blood pumping beneath. The visual sends my own blood rushing south, my dick twitching like it knows what’s up. I have to tear my eyes away from her mouth.
“My bike…it’s gone. I rode it here. I locked it right over there.” She points back to the sign a little ways back. “Now, it’s gone. I locked it, I know I locked it.”
I let go of her arm with a scoff, “Maybe you forgot where you are, but around here, the word ‘locked’ doesn’t mean shit.” Looking damn near pitiful, I say a little gentler, “Not sure if this makes you feel better, but my place has been robbed more times than I can count. Don’t take it personally. Think of it as the neighborhood welcoming you to the shittiest part of the city. Instead of a welcome basket, you get your shit taken.”
Her shoulders rise and fall with a long sigh. “I don’t know how I’m going to get home.”
“Maybe you can convince me to give you a ride, on a full stomach. Come on.”
Chapter 10
Aylee
My bike is gone. Not a great loss, but it was my favorite mode of transportation. With it I had an excuse not to rely on either Rachel or Tim for rides. It’d been my small piece of independence. A small taste of the freedom I could one day get. One day soon. College is just around the corner.
“Drop that pussy, bitch…” Those words drag me out of my thoughts. The rap song blasting from the woofers of his truck on the drive to wherever we’re going is aggressive and misogynistic. The only upside is that it saves us from the awkward silence. Glancing to my left, I note that he’s really into the song. He’s bobbing his dark head and raping the lyrics like I’m not in the car. It’s an abrasive song lade with so much talk about sex, every time he curls his full mouth around the word ‘pussy’ a tug of something inexplicable ripples through me. He turns his head in time to catch me rudely staring.
With a cocked eyebrow, he follows with a sly grin, evoking a surge of warmth beneath my skin. I turn away, telling myself not to look at him again for the rest of the drive. It’s hard, but I manage, even when the sound of his throaty, mocking laughter glides along my skin.
Butts and Suds is a small diner located on the city line of Trenton and Dover. It’s the sort of mom-and-pop place you’d find off the side of an interstate after a long road trip. Maddox turns left and rolls his pickup in an empty space, next to another truck. The side of the restaurant, with its four long-paneled windows, faces the unpaved parking lot so that the occupants of the diner are able to look out at whoever is coming in and vice versa. It’s as small on the inside as it is on the outside, even more so considering how packed it is. We walk into a din of more than fifty patrons immerse in conversations interrupted by the occasional laughter and the clacking of silverware. There are people seated on red-cushioned stools lined beneath a long counter to the left while on the right fifteen or so booths matching the red of the stools stretch a short distance down to the kitchen area.
“Eh, Suzy, you got a table for me?”
The heavyset woman behind the counter with graying auburn hair twisted up in a bun and a greasy white apron tied over her powder blue uniform smiles big at the sight of Maddox.
“Last booth by the kitchen.”
While I slide in on one side of the booth, he walks away for a brief moment and returns with two Styrofoam cups of fountain drinks.
“The only thing good to drink here is the sweet tea,” he says, setting one of the cups in front of me and taking a seat.
“So, tell me…”
“Been a while, kiddo,” the waitress from earlier interrupts, the same warm, wide smile brightening her weathered features. She looks about fifty, with deep frown lines carved across her forehead. “How you been? Staying out of trouble?”
Maddox scoffs. “Never learned how, Suze.”
She laughs. “Don’t I know it? Always have been a real pain in the ass, even when your mom brought you around.” Her glance strays to me. “You know he used to go behind that counter right there, take our tip jar and help himself? His mom didn’t know what the hell to do with him. God bless that woman’s soul, she was such a sweetheart. I still can’t believe it happened like that. She didn’t deserve any of that. None of you guys did. Your old man was such a bastard.”
It’s remarkable how quickly his expression of casual tolerance vanishes. Nothing immediately takes its place. He just stares straight ahead, right through me, like he’s trapped in a memory. He doesn’t say anything, but he’s radiating so much hostility, it’s like sitting across from a heat lamp.
He reaches over to pick up his cup. “Here’s to hoping he’s roasting in hell,” he announces, and drinks and drinks until it’s all gone. Despite all the noise around us, there’s a cloud of tension hanging over us in that instant.
Knowing she probably said far more than she should have, Suzy clears her throat before taking out her pencil and pad. “What’ll be, kiddo, the usual?”
“Yup.” Short and concise.
Jotting it down, she turns to me. “And you, sweetheart?”
I shake my head. “I’m okay, thank you.”
“Order something,” he grumbles, his gaze boring into me.
“Uh…maybe some fries…?�
��
“You got it. Basket of fries, coming up. Hang tight. I’ll be back in a bit.”
“You follow me around school, you’re at this bullshit therapy group I’ve been forced to go to, and now you’ve come all the way down to my little shithole with some stupid-ass excuse about homework. I don’t know what the fuck you want, but I’m going to make it real easy for you and tell you I’m not…”
“I want to draw you,” I blurt out.
He looks at me like I’ve gone brain-dead. I raise a hand to sweep my hair behind my ear with a sigh. “I’m applying to the New England Institute of Art, and they need my portfolio by December. I’ve been following you around because you have this look I think would translate really well onto a canvas. I thought I could capture your likeness from far away and not have to bother you, but…” I raise my shoulders to align with my ears and let them drop with a sigh as my eyes drop down to the black-speckled tabletop.
“Look at me.”
I can’t say why his directives have such an unquestionable effect on me, or why. I can’t seem to deny them. But without even the slightest hint of hesitation, they fly to meet his brooding, pewter gaze.
“Continue what you were saying.”
Another sigh. “But I need you sitting in front of me in order to get your angles and contours exactly how I’d like them.” It’s so hard to hold his stare, especially when embarrassment warms my face like it is now. “I was hoping you’d let me draw you.”
With his razor blade stare fixing steadily on me, he raises his arms and folds them behind his head. “Why not ask Noah? We have the same face.”
“Actually, you don’t…not really.” At the intrigued cock of his left eyebrow, I look away before elaborating. “I know you’re twins, but Noah’s face is more symmetrical, his features are delicate, beautiful even. But you…you’re…”
“Uglier,” he quips, the corner of his mouth flirting with a boyish grin.
I shake my head, “Far from it.” I lick my lips as my eyes dart to his face before looking away again. “You’re…rugged. Striking. There’s a hardness about you that’s really compelling. It’s hard not to stare at you.” I bite my tongue at the unsolicited admission.
There’s a soft exhalation of a chuckle before he asks, “What’s in it for me?”
I flush, not sure the tone of his inquiry is entirely innocent. “I don’t have a lot of money…”
“Not interested in your money,” he inserts dismissively.
“Okay. I can tutor you. I’m assuming with all the class you’ve missed out on so far you probably have a lot of catching up to do. I can help.”
He gives a shake of his dark head. “That’ll just end up wasting not only your time but mine too. My time is pretty fucking valuable right now.”
It doesn’t take a genius to surmise exactly where that valuable time is spent. Without warning, my mind conjures the image of his lean, muscular body adorned with all those beautiful tattoos. It’s emblazon across my mind like a billboard pictorial off the interstate. Nine inches. Circumcised. That sudden thought is plucked from my memory bank. My eyes widen and I can feel the palpable heat in my face, mortified that I even know that. “What do you want then?” An alarming sense of dread tiptoes down my spine the instant those words leave my mouth. That sensation is made worse by the sight of the Grinch-like smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth.
I open my mouth to ask him the reason behind the grin but I’m interrupted by our waitress’ return. I’m partially grateful to her for saving me from making a complete fool out of myself. Again. Though another part of me is still somewhat curious to hear his response.
“Here you are, kiddos. A Sudsy bacon double cheeseburger with the works and a side of loaded curly fries for you.” She sets the massive burger and fries in front of him. “And here’s your basket of fries. I had Sudsy add a bit more for you, honey, you look like you need to eat more. Flag me down if you need anything else.” With that she waddles away to another table, leaving me to wonder whether I was just insulted.
“She’s a real pro in the subtlety department,” he remarks dryly, taking a big bite of his burger. In the time it takes him to polish off his food, there’s little to no conversation between us. While mindlessly nibbling on my basket of fries, I occasionally glance his way. It’s odd that I find him eating something so simple, so utterly appealing. He eats like he hasn’t eaten in days, with a strong, voracious appetite that seems insatiable. I catch his gaze while he licks his fingers of the ketchup on his fries. There’s an irreverent glint in gun-metal eyes that suddenly speaks of so much more than just his literal appetite.
In that instant, despite that we are in a crowded place, I feel every inch a prey. His prey. How quickly and how thoroughly will he subdue me? I continue to wonder. What would it feel like to be subdued by someone like him? He can very well leap over the table separating us right now to gobble me up and…and I don’t think I would mind it at all. The part of me that reigns over my inner kingdom of insanity would douse herself in a vat of ketchup if it meant being licked clean by Maddox’s tongue. That thought is accompanied by a very lurid, very graphic image that unnerves me so much that I’m not even sure how to process it.
“Why are you in group therapy?” The question comes a little while after leaving the diner. We’re once again back inside his truck. He’s at the wheel as he slowly rolls through the four-way stop sign. The blast of a horn from another driver calls attention to his reckless driving. He simply flips the other driver off before continuing.
It’s a question that comes completely out of left field. It takes me off guard, as I’m sure it’s meant to. Idly, I tug on a loose black string that’s unraveling from the black decorative button on the cuff of my long-sleeved shirt. I don’t know how to immediately answer. So instead I ask, “Why are you?”
It’s not a question I expect an answer to. Not from him. Remembering his reaction earlier when the waitress talked about his mother, I can safely assume Maddox isn’t much for sharing personal history. The unexpected blare of a car horn causes me to jump slightly as I quickly look into the side mirror to see the same car from earlier behind us at a red light. It’s a nice car. A sleek, navy blue Infiniti that looks like it just rolled out of a showroom. He’s high-beaming us, flooding the interior of the truck with overly bright bluish-white LED lights. That alone is irritating enough, but the driver kicks the annoy factor up a notch by polluting our ears with the incessant blare of his horn.
“What’s his prob—” Maddox jumping out of truck stops me from finishing my question. The next few minutes are a blurry descend into chaos. I push open the passenger door and hop out in time to see him grab a sledgehammer from the bed of the truck. He carries it with relative ease as he makes his way to the other car. A swift raise of the sledgehammer over his head is the only warning the other driver gets before the heavy metal crashes down on the navy blue hood of his Infiniti. It leaves behind a crater-sized dent. But it looks like Maddox is just beginning. As he circles to the front of the car, he swings and smashes first the right headlight and then moves to the left. This all happens in the span of a few short minutes and while he’s on this path of destruction, I stand gobsmacked at the rear side of his pickup. Eyes wide and my mouth hanging open to the asphalt, I silently bear witness to Maddox’s violence.
“You son of a bitch!” The driver finally leaps out of the car like a bat out of hell, and his rage-filled screech can be heard over the tinkling of fiberglass shattering across the ground and the crunching of aluminum every time the sledgehammer makes contact. “You’re going to pay for this, you little fucker!” He charges for Maddox; a Brahman bull looking to skewer his enemy with his horns. He’s a heavy guy, tall with enough muscle fat working for him to tackle Maddox to the ground and pulverize him. But Maddox has agility, using the other man’s own weight against him, he’s able to quickly move out of the way. He doesn’t allow the other man a second to recover as he drives the wooden handle of the
sledgehammer into his side with enough force that he instantly crumbles to his knees and falls on his side with an agonized groan. A set of headlights a short distance down the street signals the inevitable approach of another car. The immediate thought that someone could be watching this right now and calling the police prompts me to finally move. I run to Maddox’s side.
“We need to go.”
He says nothing, only stands over the driver who’s curled up on the ground in a fetal position nursing his side. He raises a booted foot, and a hard nudge brings the other man to his back. The heavy metal head of the sledgehammer descends to the other man’s throat, and though he brings his hands up to frantically remove it, Maddox only presses down more. My eyes I’m sure are just as wide as the man on the ground. He’s choking as oxygen is slowly bleeding from his wide-open mouth, his face contorting in agony, the panic and fear watering his beady, brown eyes. He flails like a fish out of water, limbs flopping around in an attempt to escape.
A look to my left reveals an image that would’ve frightened a smarter, saner girl. It’s been proven however that I possess neither of those traits. If I did, I wouldn’t be here, standing next to a guy who looks rabid enough to commit murder. What’s more disturbing is that he appears completely in his element here. Comfortable, unfazed in the act of slowly robbing a man of his life.
His cold rage is palpable. It whips out at me with all the subtlety of a typhoon. It’s a tumultuous thing that clouds his face and makes him look far too sinister. His body is drawn tight from coiled tension, like a rattlesnake waiting to strike. He keeps the weight of the sledgehammer steady and firm as he pushes further down. There’s no end in sight. He won’t stop.
Stain Page 9
