The sex had been grand.
But over the past year, something unsettling had taken place.
It happened, fittingly enough, when Mike was leaving the apartment of some skank he’d picked up. He was driving the same Chevy Yukon he’d purchased with his signing bonus—the money was almost gone by this time—and had pulled into traffic thinking the road was clear.
He got sideswiped by a Honda Civic.
Had it been any other vehicle, he would have been killed. As it was, he was left with a massive deductible and a disturbing question.
How had he not seen the Civic?
He’d looked twice before turning. As irresponsible as Mike was in his private life, he’d never been a reckless driver. The roadway had been clear before he’d turned. He was sure of it.
So he dismissed it as bad luck and went on with his life.
And had another crash.
This one had been scarier, a lane change screwup on Highway 65. He’d checked to make sure no one was in his blind spot, even craning his head around the way they taught you in driver’s ed, but when he moved into the left lane, his back bumper had clipped a black Mustang, and then he was skidding sideways and flipping three times in the grassy median.
You’re fortunate to be alive, the doctor told him that night in intensive care.
Mike had stared at him. How did it happen?
You were at fault, the doctor said. The police will need to talk to you.
Black dread lapped at Mike like polluted seawater. Is the other driver all right?
The driver is in stable condition, the doctor said.
Mike swallowed. Were there other…
There was a teenage girl.
Mike had stared at the white-haired doctor and tried to make sense of the verb tense. There was a teenage girl. There was a teenage girl. Was. Was. Was…
Not only was the girl dead, but the girl’s father was rich. Able to afford good lawyers. Which they promptly sicced on Mike.
Bonus money, gone.
Future gone too.
He only just avoided jail.
It turned out he had a degenerative eye condition that had robbed him of most of his vision in his left eye. The main eye he’d used to identify pitches. The eye he’d claimed to have had injured by the mythical hundred-mile-per-hour fastball.
The irony was so thick it smothered him.
He had returned home a couple weeks ago. It had been a few weeks shy of a decade.
His parents knew all about his failed career, knew all about his accident. He’d written them letters, but he’d never called them and had certainly never seen them. They’d gotten divorced, it turned out. His mom had decided that sleeping around beat monogamy.
Mike decided he didn’t want to see his mom anymore.
He didn’t enjoy seeing his dad either. Because everything was about baseball. You see who the Cubs called up the other day? Or, The Cubbies need a third baseman.
Trying to find ways to broach the subject with Mike.
Mike asked, Is Savannah Summers still in town?
Yep. Has a kid, his dad said. Dropping it on him just like that.
Then his dad said, much too casually, You ever go to the batting cages? You know, like the ones they have at that go-cart place in town?
The thing was, Mike didn’t want to talk about baseball with his dad. Didn’t want to talk about baseball with anybody. He’d rather have his penis snagged by a rusty fishhook than talk about how he’d failed with the Cubs.
After a time, Mike reached the bonfire. The groups of people clustered around the kegs, the grill. Several pairs and trios dotted the clearing, guys telling stories with raised voices, pairs who were clearly on the verge of hooking up.
Christ, he thought. Just like high school.
He’d made a mistake coming out here so late, everybody already buzzed or drunk.
Was Savannah here? If she was, he hoped she was good and liquored up. Not so he could have sex with her, but because he was terrified of facing her, terrified of what she’d say.
Thanks a lot for leaving me.
How dare you come back? You’ve got some nerve.
I just happened to bring this rusty fishhook.
But he knew if he stood here in the shadows, he’d lose his nerve, and then he’d spend the rest of the evening listening to his dad cook up new and increasingly more transparent ways of asking him what went wrong with his baseball career. And it was this prospect that galvanized him, that got him moving forward into the clearing, where he saw Savannah Summers for the first time in five years.
Chapter Three
When Weezer spotted Mike Freehafer, he knew there’d be trouble, but not the kind of trouble Weezer enjoyed. Not the kind where a pretty boy like Mike got his ass kicked. First off, Mike wouldn’t fight Glenn because he knew he’d get trounced. Secondly, Glenn wouldn’t do anything Savannah didn’t want him to. Such was her hold on him.
Weezer’s lip curled into an unconscious snarl. Savannah was a stuck-up bitch. She’d never given Weezer the time of day.
Now Melody Bridwell…
She’d never encouraged Weezer, but she’d never discouraged him either. And unlike Savannah, Melody had a reputation for loving dick.
Weezer crossed the clearing, met Melody at the keg.
“Hey, Mel,” he said.
“Hey, Weezer,” she said. And looked away.
Weezer felt his smile slip. “You craving another beer?”
She raised her cup. “Just got one.”
He hesitated, considering this new development.
“So I’m good,” she added.
Weezer turned away before she could see his expression change. The whore. It wasn’t like her standards were so high that she couldn’t consider having sex with him.
Weezer waited until she wasn’t looking; then he allowed his eyes to crawl over her body.
Hot damn. That was why he was willing to put up with her haughty attitude.
That ass.
The jean shorts were perfectly snug, a dark strip of midriff visible between the waistband and the bloodred tank top. He leaned to his left so he could better see her tummy, and what a tummy it was.
He bet it was a better stomach than Savannah’s, which had already spat out a kid. No matter how hot Savannah looked, under those clothes he suspected her body was wrecked beyond repair.
He had a sudden, unwelcome memory of the one and only time he’d had sex with a girl who’d had a kid. Disgusting. Shriveled belly, the damned thing looked like overripe fruit collapsing on itself, like it would split open at any moment and belch flies.
And the tits? As limp as deflated windsocks. Sure, she’d probably had big knockers while she nursed, but the moment her screeching urchin was weaned, those things flattened out like elongated pancakes. Staring at those dead, dangling dugs was like examining the pages of a National Geographic, those native African ladies with bones through their lips and tits so long they dragged in the sand.
With a jolt he realized Melody had caught him staring. “You’re making me uncomfortable,” she said.
Weezer’s mouth drooped open.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” she said slowly. “You’re going to walk away and not talk to me again tonight.” Her eyes swept him up and down. “Preferably not ever. I’m not interested in you. At all. Does that make sense?”
Weezer blinked three or four times, as though there were a stiff breeze blowing his way. Then the hurt began to seep in.
And the anger.
The flaming bitch.
Goddammit, Weezer hated her right now. Most of the time he had no feelings for Melody either way, other than harboring a long-standing affinity for her ass, but he sure despised her now.
Weezer eased down on a five-gallon bucket and stared into
the bonfire.
It had to be the ’Vette, he decided. That’s why women liked Glenn so much. The ’Vette and the hair. Glenn had hair like one of those TV cops in the seventies. Like the dudes from CHiPs or what was that other one…?
Starsky and Hutch. Yeah, that’s how Glenn looked. When you combined the hair with the cherry-red ’Vette, the muscular frame and the confident way Glenn carried himself, how could a guy like Weezer compete?
For the millionth time, Weezer made a secret wish his best friend would be disfigured in a construction accident. Not killed, but definitely messed up good. Like having his bottom jaw dislocated by an errant wrecking ball, or maybe suffering a deep gash from a snapped wire or something. But the scar would have to be a hideous one, not an embellishing one.
Weezer adjusted his position on the bucket and glanced askance at Freehafer. He and Glenn had driven by Freehafer’s dad’s house a couple days ago and had seen Mike’s beat-up Yukon parked in the driveway. The damn thing looked like it hadn’t been washed since that communist bastard Obama took office, and it probably had about two hundred thousand miles on it.
Weezer sighed. The Yukon still beat his shitbox of a truck, a rusting Ford Ranger. Goddamn thing barely got up to seventy these days, and Weezer had to get out and push to reach that speed.
And that was another thing that pissed him off.
Weezer. The hell kind of nickname was that?
With Short Pump, at least you knew where the name came from. There was a story with it, even if the tale itself was pretty dull.
But with Weezer there wasn’t even that. He’d have killed for a boring story. Because no one, not even Glenn—the first guy Weezer could remember calling him Weezer—remembered where the nickname came from.
Weezer had once asked his friends if it had something to do with the rock band. They had some decent songs.
No, it wasn’t from the band.
Did he wheeze while he talked? Or when he ran?
No, they’d never known him to wheeze.
Was it because he had an Aunt Louise? You know, sometimes Louises were called “Weezie”. Like that old show with the rich black people? The Johnsons or The Jacksons?
Nope. Had nothing to do with his aunt or that old show.
Then where in the fuck did the name come from? he’d shouted at them.
Shut up and drink your beer, Glenn had answered.
Shut up. The words echoed in Weezer’s overmedicated brain. Shut up.
Were there any two words in the English language he hated more than shut up?
He couldn’t think of any.
Except for Weezer. If that was a word. Weezer didn’t think it was, which made him even madder, because if it were an honest-to-goodness word, it would have an honest-to-goodness meaning. Like,
weezer (wee-zuhr)—noun:
1. the metal cylinder that houses a pencil eraser
2. slang for a breathing mechanism used by sufferers of chronic emphysema
3. a rare type of rectal polyp
No such luck. Weezer sipped his beer, scowled. He glanced over at a couple of girls he’d never seen before. They looked young, nubile.
Maybe he’d hit on one of them later.
Glenn introduced Duane to a couple of out-of-town girls, and of course Glenn had to call him Short Pump. Everybody laughed like usual, and like usual, Duane stood there wanting to explain to everyone that his dick wasn’t actually small. But that wasn’t the kind of thing you could easily fit into a conversation.
Hey, my name’s Duane McKidd, but they call me Short Pump. I got the name from something completely unrelated to my penis size, but that’s where everyone’s mind goes when they hear it. How can I tell? Oh, that nasty smile some guys get, all teeth and barely restrained laughter. They hold back for a few seconds and invariably end up making some stupid joke. They laugh about it like we’ve known each other forever, and it’s usually a great icebreaker for everyone. You know, mock the tall fat guy with the little penis. But the thing is, my penis isn’t that little. That’s the point. At least I don’t think it is. I’m not hung or anything—I mean, I’ve seen porn before; who hasn’t, right?—but I seriously doubt my dick’s any smaller than any other guy. I mean, any normal guy. Not those shaved, overtanned dudes in the movies who look like their moms crossbred with an Appaloosa stallion. But not tiny either. You know?
Duane sighed. At some point, the two out-of-town girls had wandered away, and Duane had gotten stuck with a group of idiots. Of course, most of the people here tonight were idiots, but this was an especially annoying group of idiots.
Led by Billy Kramer, who said, “…then the guy turns to me and yells, ‘What the hell are you lookin’ at, man?’
“I tell him,” Billy Kramer went on, flipping his light brown ponytail aside for emphasis, “‘why don’t you put the brass knuckles away, bitch?’”
Duane let the story fade into a slurry drone. He’d heard it perhaps fifteen or twenty times over the years and found it uncanny how the tale diverged further from reality with each retelling. This version sounded like a Jackie Chan movie, back when Chan moved like a cartoon superhero. Billy Kramer not only made himself the star of the fight, but he gave his best friends, Randy Murray and Colton Crane, cameos as well.
Duane let his gaze drift around the clearing, the sounds of Billy Kramer’s tall tale actually a bit soothing. He saw Weezer moving away from Melody Bridwell, a defeated cast to his downturned face. Duane hoped Melody hadn’t been too vicious with him. She had a bad reputation, but Duane had long been intrigued by her. He sensed a depth in Melody, something haunted and perhaps anguished beneath the tight clothes and the hard body. Truth be told, if he weren’t so in love with Savannah, he’d ask Melody out on a date.
Not that she’d say yes.
A few feet away, Billy Kramer was still regaling his audience—a trio of girls Duane had never seen before, likely more tourists visiting from Illinois—with his fantastical tale of bravery and martial arts. Billy’s ponytail was flipping wildly, his buddies nodding their encouragement. Duane couldn’t take it anymore, so he moved away and ambled toward another group of people. The bonfire smoke was blowing in his direction, and for a moment he had no idea what was going on around him. It was a phenomenon Duane had never understood: wherever he went, the smoke seemed to follow.
But when he emerged from the whitish, acrid cloud, he realized what he’d walked into.
Glenn. Savannah. Mike.
The lovers’ triangle from hell.
He was about to turn away when Savannah spotted him and smiled, the dimples in her cheeks showing. “Hey, Short Pump!” she called. “Come over here and talk to me.”
Duane couldn’t refuse. “Hey, Savannah.” He nodded. “Mike.”
Mike nodded stiffly. “Hey, Short Pump.”
Glenn just glowered at Mike.
This wasn’t going to be easy, Duane decided. He glanced at Savannah, noticed how her smile didn’t reach her eyes. She needed Duane to save her.
He would save her.
“You look just like you did last time I saw you,” Duane said and clapped a hand on Mike’s shoulder. The shoulder felt bony, which jived with the rest of what Duane was seeing. Mike Freehafer looked very bad indeed. Accidentally killing somebody tended to have a negative effect on a person, if he had any conscience at all. Mike apparently did. “How’s your dad doing?” Duane asked.
Something flitted across Mike’s features, and Duane knew it had been the wrong thing to ask. “He insists on talking baseball.”
Duane nodded. So Mike was putting it out there, the failed baseball career. It made him respect Mike a little more. Despite their high school friendship, Duane had actively disliked Mike for a good while—any guy who abandoned Savannah deserved to be disliked—but now Mike was making himself vulnerable, and in front of Savannah of all people. It thawed
Duane a little.
Unless Mike was using the sad sack story as an angle.
This would bear watching, he decided.
Savannah shrugged. “Well, your dad always loved baseball. It’s probably hard for him to let go.”
Glenn grinned viciously. “Especially when his son forgot how to hit.”
Savannah frowned. “Be nice, Glenn.”
“It’s fine,” Mike said, but judging from the look on his face, it wasn’t fine.
Glenn’s sharkish grin never wavered. “Sure, it’s fine, Savannah. It’s all fine. Tell me, Mike, have you met Savannah’s son?”
Jesus, Duane thought.
“No,” Mike said in a low voice.
“I guess you wouldn’t have,” Glenn said, “being gone so long.”
Duane turned to Savannah, said, “I ran into Mrs. Dooley the other day.”
“Oh yeah?” Savannah asked, but her voice was faraway and small. Like she was resigned to the fisticuffs about to explode in front of her.
“Uh-huh,” Duane said. “Mrs. Dooley said she was hoping she’d have your boy in a few years. Unless she’s retired by then, of course.”
When no one said anything to that, Duane went on, “I remember I had the biggest crush on Savannah back then. When was that…” He pretended to think. “…fourth grade, Savannah?”
“Third,” she supplied.
“That’s right,” he said. “I was so smitten with Savannah that I’d cut in the lunch line to stand next to her.”
Glenn cocked an eyebrow at him. “You sound like a stalker, Short Pump.”
Duane nodded, playing the good sport. As always. “If I could’ve, I’d have followed Savannah around all day.”
“It sounds like you did,” Mike said.
“Not really,” Duane said, and when everybody looked at him, he amended, “Okay, maybe I did.”
And everybody laughed. Not a cathartic, tension-eliminating belly laugh, but it was something. Savannah grasped his hand and said, “We really should see each other more often, Short Pump. You only live a mile from me, yet we haven’t hung out in, how long? Six months?”
Wolf Land Page 3
