Smoke: A Bad Boy Romance

by Paula Cox

  Tracey inclines her head. “Of course.” She snatches the glass from my hand. “I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.”

  Lips fixed in a rictus smile, I nod.

  Tracey goes into the kitchen, the click-click of the beaded curtain telling me she’s gone. I should run, I think. I should get the hell out of here while I have the chance.

  But I don’t. Instead, I stand up and walk on unsteady legs to the bathroom. I reason that I can search the bathroom safely enough. If she asks what I’m doing, I can tell her I need to use the toilet. I push through the beads, gritting my teeth and wishing Tracey wasn’t so damn kooky. I’d give a lot for a good old door with a good old lock right now. I look around the room, but in contrast to every other room in the apartment, the bathroom is oddly regular. Toilet, bath, mirror, etc., nothing which screams: Arsonist!

  I open the mirror cabinet and look inside. Toothpaste, makeup wipes, all the regular paraphernalia of a woman in her twenties. I look behind the toilet and I’m met with nothing more than grime and dust. I glance at the bath, nothing. My eyes move over the bath to the side panel. I’m about to turn away when I look closer and see that the side panel has been wedged on clumsily.

  “Hmm,” I mutter.

  I kneel down and press my hand against the panel. I barely have to touch it and it slides away. I push harder and the entire panel slides down the length of the tub and bumps into the wall. It moves like a secret panel.

  I reach inside and take out the equipment.

  There can be no doubt now.

  Tracey is the bomb maker; Tracey is the arsonist. Tracey has been playing everyone.

  I find Molotov cocktails, rags stuffed into bottles of whisky; a blowtorch; thick-lensed workman’s goggles; various components which look like, if they were put together, they would make a bomb; thick fireproof gloves the kind fireman wear; and finally a charred piece of wood. I take a closer look at the wood. I feel like I’m going mad, but I’m sure this blackened piece of wood is from the Coffee Joint. It looks like the corner of one of the tables. I can tell because the tables had a carved, modern design and it looks like this leftover piece of char once had the same design. Into the wood, Tracey has carved: Brody and Tracey forever.

  I need to get out of here, I think, rising to my feet and looking down at the hellish collection. All this time, it was Tracey. She knew it wasn’t me when I was taken in, but she let them take me anyway. She set fire to the Coffee Joint, she tried to kill me, and she loves Brody. Holy shit, I need to leave. Now!

  “Are you okay in there?” Tracey calls. Her voice is close. She’s standing near the bathroom, just beyond the curtains.

  “Yes,” I say.

  I fall to my knees and begin collecting the items, meaning to put them back into the bathtub and slide the panel closed. I’ve only managed to put the rag-stuffed bottle of whisky back when the curtains click-click and Tracey walks into the room.

  I turn my head up to her. She sneers down at me, her mask of kindness gone. She looks like a changed woman. A wild dog, lips peeled back over her teeth.

  “So,” she says, “you’ve found them. I thought you might want to see more after you so rudely snooped at my notebook. Tut-tut, Darla, what a bad girl you’ve turned out to be.”

  “Tracey . . .” Gripping the edge of the bathtub, I pull myself to my feet. My legs feel weak. I stumble, catch onto the wall, right myself. Tracey watches with squinting eyes, teeth bared. “I . . . What the hell is all this stuff?”

  Stupid question. I know what it is. And Tracey knows I know what it is. But I feel like I’ve just been kicked in the head. I want to lie down. I’m reeling. My mouth is so dry my lips are glued to my teeth.

  Tracey shakes her head. “You think Brody loves you, Darla? It was a simple mistake. That’s all. He would’ve fallen in love with me that day if he’d saved me as planned. I should’ve known when I heard Carl banging around in the cupboard. He must’ve barricaded the cellar door. By accident, you understand. Carl is a creep, but little more.” She sighs. “You understand, don’t you, Darla, that I can’t let you leave now?”

  I take a step back, bumping into the wall. “Tracey, this is crazy—”

  “Don’t call me crazy!” Tracey shrieks, waving her hands violently. “Never call me crazy! Do you know what crazy is? Crazy is a word people use when they don’t understand somebody!”

  I hold my hands up. “Okay, okay, fine,” I say. Sweat coats my body in a thick layer. “Just let me out of here, okay? We’re friends, remember?”

  “Friends!” Tracey giggles. “I despise you, Darla,” she goes on in a matter-of-fact tone. “You think you’re such a special little snowflake, don’ you? Ooh, look at me, a fireman wants to fuck me. Pathetic. You think you’re such a special little girl but the truth is, you’re just a whore. I’m the woman Brody deserves. Not you. Not ever. Okay?” She slaps the wall so hard bits of plaster fly into the air like dust. “You’re such a fucking whore!”

  I lick my lips, but that does nothing for my dry lips. “Tracey,” I say, keeping my voice as steady as I can, “just let me go and I won’t tell anybody—”

  Tracey giggles, louder, unhinged. “Lies, lies, lies,” she sings. “Always with the lies. No, Darla. This is the end of the road. The epilogue. Your long walk into the sunset. Bye-bye time.” She grins madly. “I will not let you leave.”

  “But—”

  Tracey lets out a scream and rushes at me.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Darla

  I have never been in a fight in my life, but when Tracey charges at me with crazed murder in her eyes, instincts take over.

  She crosses the room in less than a second and then swipes at me with her hands. Her fingernails are sharp and she aims them at my eyes like a cat. I duck low, just barely dodging them, and then shove her with all my strength in the chest. With a grunt, she falls back, crashing into the door. She giggles, springs up like a jack in the box, and launches herself at me again.

  “It should’ve been me!” she snarls, waving her hands at my face.

  I bring my hands to my face, protecting myself. Her fingernails lash against my palms, cutting into the flesh. Blood pricks and slides over my hand, dripping onto the tiles. She hits and hits until I am in the corner, sinking against the wall. All I want is to make myself small. I want the floor to eat me. I want to disappear.

  You have to fight! a voice in the back of my head screams. You have to fight, Darla! She’s insane! If you don’t fight she’ll kill you and bury your body and nobody will ever know what happened to you!

  I grit my teeth, crouch low, and then jump up and hit her as hard as I can across the face. There’s a harsh slap noise and Tracey falls back. Her legs trip on the rim of the bathtub and she falls into it. She grabs onto the shower curtain, yanks, and the railing flies loose and clatters on top of her. She looks like she’s caught in a net, writhing and cursing and fighting against the shower curtain.

  I don’t wait; I run for the curtains, crash into the living room, and rush for the front door.

  She screams from the bathroom: “It will always be me! I’ve loved him since I first saw him! I’ve loved him for years! It will never be you! You bitch! You whore! He should’ve saved me! You fucking bitch!”

  She keeps screaming, but her voice gets quieter when I run into the hallway. I take the steps two at a time, leaping, until I reach the door which leads to the street. I run into the street and suck in fresh air. I’m alive, I think in shock. I’m alive. She didn’t kill me. I try and wipe sweat from my forehead, but all I achieve is smearing my face with blood. I scramble in my pocket and take out my cellphone.

  As I call the police, I jog down the street. It’s only when I’m at the end of the street that I realize I’m running toward the fire station.

  The operator answers and asks me what’s happening. In a breathy, panicked voice, I explain that I’ve just been attacked by Tracey, that I found bomb- and fire-making equipment in her apartment, and that sh
e’s dangerously unhinged. The operator tells me they’ll send a police car to investigate my report and asks me if I’m still there.

  “No,” I pant. “I’m going to the fire station. There’s somebody I need to see.”

  Before the operator can reply, I hang up the phone.

  This is madness, I think, running through the streets. I never knew I could run so far and so fast.

  But I need to tell Brody. I need to tell him it wasn’t me. All this time he thought it was me. But it wasn’t! It was her!

  Memories flit through my mind. I remember a thousand instances of Tracey doing or saying something odd and a thousand instances where I just thought: It’s just Tracey being Tracey. She was always strange, always off, but I never dreamed she was this mad.

  “Brody,” I breathe. People glance at me as I run through the streets, but I go too fast for anybody to hassle me. After around ten minutes of frantic running, I’m almost at the fire station. My legs burn, the cuts on my hands throb, and I’m so lightheaded I feel as though I’m going to pass out. But I keep running.

  I have to get to Brody. I have to tell him the truth.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Brody

  Jonny tosses the dice and scowls when my numbers come up. He pushes a dollar bill across the table.

  “I have no luck,” he grumbles.

  “Eh?”

  “You’re not paying attention, are you?”

  I shake my head. “No,” I admit.

  Since Marco and Jonny called me out for my bullshit earlier, the only thing I’ve been able to think about is Darla, how horrible I was to her, what a prick I was to push her away like that. I think of her expression when I told her she couldn’t stay over. I think of the well-deserved slaps she aimed at my face. But most of all I think about all the good times we’ve shared. I think about the small moments in bed, the little looks, the passion. And then my mind is thrown forward to the future and I do something I haven’t done since Julia. I imagine what it would be like if Darla and I were together, truly together; I imagine a life.

  “Your head’s in the clouds,” Jonny says. “Dreaming of the girl.”

  “I want to see her,” I mutter, more to myself than to Jonny.

  “Then arrange it, you ass,” Jonny laughs. “Better that than swooning all over the goddamn station.”

  “Keep talking like that,” I growl, “I’ll break your fucking teeth.”

  Jonny grins, displaying his teeth. “Take your best shot,” he says.

  We laugh and then I scoop up the dice and toss them on the table. Jonny groans. My numbers come up again.

  “It’s your lucky day,” Jonny says, looking over my shoulder.

  “Seems like it.” I reach for the dice.

  Jonny gestures with his head to the entrance of the station. “No,” he says. “Look—it’s your lucky day.”

  I turn as Darla stumbles into the room. Her hands are bleeding and a trail of blood follows her as she walks toward me. I lurch to my feet. “Get the first-aid kit,” I snap. Jonny nods and leaves the table.

  “Darla!”

  I run across the room and catch her in my arms. She trips and falls into the embrace. I carry her to the one of the couches. When I lay her down, she reaches up and touches my face. I bring my hand to her hand and press it against my skin. Seeing her again, I forget about the anger and uncertainty I felt before. It vanishes like vapor. All I see is Darla, sweet, funny, smart, sexy, independent and hot-as-hell Darla. `

  “You’re not angry I’m here?” she whispers, stroking my face.

  I lean down, kiss her on the forehead. “No,” I say. “I’m not. I wanted to see you. Darla, I’m . . .” I force down pride and arrogance and all that shit. It’s time to be honest with her. “I’m sorry I pushed you away. I’ve been thinking a lot about it. I feel like an ass. I’m so sorry. The truth is, I’ve missed you like hell. I’ve been miserable. I haven’t stopped thinking about you. Can you forgive me?”

  “Yes,” she says. A smile slowly spreads across her face, but it’s a smile tinged with sadness.

  I look at her hands. “What happened to you?” I ask.

  Jonny appears with the first-aid kit. I clean the cuts on her hands and bandage them up. Then Jonny reappears with a bottle of water. Darla gulps it greedily until it is half empty. She lets out a groan. “That’s better,” she says. She looks at me, biting her lip. “So we’re okay, are we, Brody?”

  I kiss her on the cheek. I knew I missed her, but I didn’t know just how desperately until I lay my lips on her. My body responds to her at once, even now. Lust and passion rise in me. With an effort, I push them aside.

  “If that’s okay with you,” I say, taking her hand softly so I don’t disturb the bandage. “But what happened to you, Darla? Why do you look so tired? Why are your hands cut?”

  “You won’t believe it,” Darla says, grimacing. “It’s ridiculous.”

  “Try me,” I say, thinking: She’s back! Goddamn, it feels good to have her back!

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Darla

  I’ve had lots of time to think about what I’d say to Brody if we were ever reunited. Sometimes, I’m furious and I hurl insults at him and make him feel as awful as he made me feel that day outside his apartment. Sometimes I go so far to scream at him: “You’ll never touch me again, you fucking bastard!” Sometimes I sneer at him and tell him I hate him. Other times, I forget about the pain instantly and we fall into each other, out passion and our closeness like a gravitational force, pulling us together.

  Lying on the couch, the warm phantom of his kiss still lingering on my cheek, I know I’ve chosen the latter. As soon as I see him, the present happiness forces away the past sadness. My chest fills with warmth just at the sight of him and I can’t help but wish we were completely alone so we could have a proper reunion.

  “Try me,” he says.

  Oh, yes, I think, Tracey.

  I take a deep breath, wanting to get through the story as quickly as possible. Shock still grips me and I don’t want to think about that psychopath for one moment longer than I have to. I’m about to launch into the story when the sirens blare red from the walls and screech through the air.

  “Dammit,” Brody grunts, glancing over his shoulder. The firefighters spill from the gym and breakroom and begin pulling on their jackets. “Looks like it’s time for me to go to work. I have about a minute.”

  “A minute is long enough,” I say. I rush through the story, telling him about the notebook and the bomb components, as well as Tracey’s mad attack on me. The further I get into the story, the harder Brody clenches his jaw, until his cheeks are trembling and his skin is a bloody shade of red.

  “She was the one who said it was you who set the fire, who made the bomb,” Brody mutters. “And I believed her. Goddamn it, Darla. I believed her.”

  I chuckle darkly. “I can’t say I’m surprised,” I say. “She’s wanted you for as long as I have. I guess she wanted to turn you against me so she could claim you for herself.”

  “I can’t believe . . .” He strokes my damp hair from my forehead. “How can I make it up to you, Darla?”

  “Trust me,” I say. “Just trust me. That’s all I ask.”

  “Done,” he says.

  A pause lengthens between us, but not a silence. Men grunt and call to each other and fire engines grumble to life and the siren caterwauls. Brody winces. “I have to go,” he says. “You called the police, right? I’ll radio them from the truck and let them know what’s happening. You should go into the backroom.”

  I sit up. “Okay,” I say. “But you need to go. Now. Or they’ll leave without you.”

  “I wish they would,” he mutters.

  But he kisses me on the lips and then springs up, jogging away from me. A ginger man tosses him his coat and in a matter of minutes, the fire engines squeal out of the station and onto the street. I stand up and walk to the back room and throw myself on another couch. I touch my lips, feel
ing Brody’s kiss. I’m not angry with him, I think, surprised with myself. He pushed me away and I’m not angry with him. If any other man pushed me away like that, I’d hate him.

  But Brody isn’t any other man. Brody is different. “Brody is . . . Brody,” I mutter, rolling over and burying my face in a cushion.

  A few minutes later, sirens sound outside the station. I sit up with a groan. It seems I’m not going to be able to grab any shuteye.

  I watch as a short, broad man with a squashed-featured face, wearing a loose-fitting blue suit, waddles into the room.

  “Officer McCrary,” I nod. “I would stand, but I’ve just been assaulted by the real arsonist.”