by Stacia Kane
The top button finally slipped into its hole and she looked up. Right into his eyes.
Or what should have been his eyes. She saw only black holes, deep and empty. He looked bigger somehow, big enough to spill over the graves, over the fence. Big enough to fill the world.
“The other night?” he asked, his voice pitched so low she felt the words more than she heard them. “Ain’t what you said the other night? Tulip?”
Her mouth opened. Nothing came out. For a second she saw herself as she must look, flushed and disheveled. Filthy. Sleazy.
“How long, Chess?”
“Terrible …” Shit, was she crying?
Lex moved through the ivory-pearl moonlight and stopped halfway between them. “C’mon now, Terrible, ain’t nothin you needing to get yourself all—”
Terrible leapt forward. His fist caught the light for a second, the image imprinting itself into her eyes like a photographic negative, then swooped down so fast it whistled. The blow caught Lex at a downward angle; she heard something snap beneath the dull thud of flesh against flesh. Lex hit the ground like a hanging victim cut from the noose.
“Since Chester, aye?” His breath rasped in the air between them, fast and faster. “Tulip? Since …”
She moved before she thought about it, before she saw him lift his foot from the ground. He’d kill Lex if he could, if she didn’t stop him. Kill him here, now. She heard it in his voice like a spool of cord about to unravel.
It worked, but not the way she thought it would. The second she touched him he jumped back, almost falling in his haste to get away from her. To keep her skin from making contact with his. His hands balled into fists, his arms rotating in their sockets like machine parts that could not stop moving.
He wanted to hit her. She saw it in his eyes, in the rapid movement of his chest, and knew he was barely able to restrain himself. For the first time in months, fear of him made her throat tight and her chest cold, fear of him and what he might do to her. Hurting a man who solved all his problems with violence probably wasn’t the best idea she’d ever had in her life. She could sense his control stretched to its limit in the air between them.
She didn’t have to ask how he’d made the connection between “tulip” and Chester, either. Lex had left her a note one day, a drawing of a little tulip. Terrible had seen it. He hadn’t asked about it, hadn’t commented, but she should have known he’d keep it stored in that fucking head of his.
“Terrible,” she said again, but he shook his head. He backed away, stumbled over a headstone but righted himself.
“Terrible, please just listen. Please.” Something warm hit her bare hand and she realized it was a tear. “It’s not—I know how it looks, but I didn’t mean to—”
“Two nights past. He say two nights past, aye? Two nights—you seen him? That night you seen him, after I—you went from—”
Shame exploded in her chest. He’d heard that. He’d heard all of it. Seen all of it, knew what she’d done. She almost wished he would hit her, just hit her and get it over with. Maybe if he hit her he’d feel better. Maybe if he hit her she would too.
“For months,” he spat. The fury in his voice raked over her exposed skin. “Fuckin months, Chess. An you need time.”
“But it’s not like how—I don’t care about him, I don’t even like him that much—”
“Got a fucked-up way of not likin him, aye? Why the—aw. Aw, naw, naw, you ain’t …” His hand raised, went to his mouth, started to sneak around to the back of his neck, then stopped. “You ain’t buyin as much off Bump the last months. Since Chester. Figured you was cuttin back, we did, but you ain’t looked cut back on the other night, aye?”
She didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer. Her entire body shook; she wrapped her arms around herself to try and still it but it didn’t help. She knew what he was thinking. Knew what he would say next.
“You fuckin him for drugs? Being some fuckin spy or aught like it, fuckin him for drugs? He made you—like a fuckin—”
He lunged for Lex’s still form. Chess leapt forward, caught him and wrapped her arms around his neck, his chest. It was like trying to tackle a building. Heat radiated from him; she wanted to curl herself into it, to pretend none of this had ever happened. To beg him to take her home and forget it all. She wasn’t scared of that now, not when she was about to lose everything. Had been unutterably stupid to be scared at all, what was wrong with her?
Her hands fisted his jacket as she pressed her face to his chest. He didn’t touch her in return, stood unmoving, his body tense. “It’s not like that,” she managed. “I’m not … it’s not like I’m … I’m not a whore. I’m not. That’s not what … please, please …”
She didn’t bother to finish. She was crying too hard to finish anyway, couldn’t even bring herself to complete the lie. No, she wasn’t whoring herself to Lex for drugs. Technically.
But the drugs were payment for her false loyalty, weren’t they? For her betrayal. And she kept seeing him, kept spending the night with him, because he gave them to her. It might not have been the only reason, but it was one of them. She thought she was going to be sick. The one thing she’d sworn she would never do, the one place she’d always said she had too much self-respect to go, and here she was. She’d done it.
And she hadn’t even noticed.
More gently than she would have expected, his hands found hers and disentangled them from his jacket. He pushed her away, his gaze focused on the ground. He wouldn’t even look at her. She was glad. She didn’t want him to see her like this.
“Naw,” he said. “Naw, Chess, you ain’t a whore. A whore’s honest.”
He turned and left. She watched him scale the fence, his broad back pausing for a second on top of it before dropping over the other side, leaving only darkness in its place.
Two hours later the cold shower had numbed her body enough that she felt ready to emerge from it. She didn’t bother to towel off, trailing water across the floor and into the living room to get her pillbox.
She had an Oozer in there. That might work. Another Panda, too, although it wasn’t like the one she’d taken at the graveyard had helped that damn much. But if she combined all of them, it might be enough to kick the memories out of her head and give her some peace.
How long, Chess?
Of course, there was always the lone Valtruin. That would do the job. But it also might cheer her up too much, make her do something stupid like go look for him. That would be a mistake. He’d managed to hold himself back before—except poor Lex, whose face had swollen almost twice its size by the time she dropped him off—but now? After having a few hours to think about it, after telling Bump? Her blood ran cold.
She didn’t want to find him, no. She didn’t really want to sit here and wait for him to show up, either. The dingy ivory walls of her apartment seemed to breathe around her, getting closer with every exhalation. Her books stared at her, accusing her. She couldn’t stay here. Didn’t want to stay here.
But she had no place to go. The image of the pipe room flashed in her mind. That’s what she wanted. Wanted to descend the grubby stairs into the dim, high-ceilinged room full of couches, wanted to stake one out and suck the pipe until she couldn’t remember her own name anymore.
But she couldn’t. Bump might find out she was there. Terrible might be there, making his rounds or looking for people who owed. And she couldn’t go to Slobag’s. The thought of being even close to that part of town made her want to be sick. No pipes. Not tonight. Maybe not for weeks.
Her phone rang and she stared at it like it was a knife killer on her couch. Lex? Terrible?
Merritt Hale.
“I wondered if you wanted to get a drink? I know it’s late, but my shift just ended, so—”
“Yes,” she said, hoping he didn’t hear the urgency in her voice. That was what she needed—to go out. To be out of her apartment, out of her head, surrounded by people. “Where? I’ll come meet you.”
He told her. A bar in Northside, about twenty minutes away but far enough out of Downside that she didn’t have to worry. Perfect.
She dried her hair, threw some clean clothes on, and slapped on some makeup to try and hide the redness in her eyes, the splotchiness of her skin.
All that could be covered up. What was inside …
A whore’s honest.
She grabbed her keys and slammed the door behind her, wishing her pills would kick in faster, wishing she could slam the door on the entire night and start over. Slam the door on her entire life and start over.
As it was … she’d just have to see how drunk she could get. She had a feeling it wouldn’t be enough.
It was one of those middle-class chain bars, the kind with decorations carefully calculated to look “rustic” on the walls and an antiqued Book of Truth displayed under glass by the front to give the impression the place had been there since BT. It hadn’t. She practically smelled construction dust when she walked in the door.
What was Merritt doing in a place like this? Beneath the newness it smelled of investment banking and snobbery. She hated it. Felt totally out of place. And the music blaring from the speaker didn’t help, a steady collection of easy-listening bullshit that made her hair stand on end.
But the leather on the bar stools wasn’t ripped and rough, and they actually offered more than just one brand of beer, which was a nice change from most places in Downside. She ordered a beer anyway, with a shot of vodka on the side, and told the bartender to keep them coming. She was going to drown out that fucking voice if it was the last thing she ever did.
Maybe it would be. Wasn’t that a nice thought?
“You okay, Chess?” Merritt sipped his own drink—it looked like a whiskey and ginger—and furrowed his brow.
“I’m great.” She sucked back her third shot and upended the glass on the bar. “Why?”
“Just wondering.”
“I’m great,” she said again. A whore’s honest. Damn it! Not drunk enough yet.
They sat in silence for a minute. It might have been awkward if she’d been paying the slightest bit of attention.
“So how’s the case going? I mean, do you think you’re ready to banish the ghosts?”
Where was the fucking bartender?
“Chess?”
“What? Oh. The case. Yeah. I’m still working on it.” She glanced at him, sitting next to her with his fingers rubbing condensation off his glass. Right. She’d have to pretend she was still working the case, maybe even ask some questions, not just try and sink herself in an ocean of booze. “Have you seen anything there yet? Any ghosts? What do you think is happening?”
“Haven’t seen anything, no. But the Pyles are starting to lose it, I think. I sure hope you find an answer soon, you know? Because if they decide to move, I need to let my landlord know I’m going.”
“So you’d stay with them?”
“Yeah, absolutely. I get to go with them on their trips back to Hollywood, too, which is really cool. I’d like to live there.”
She nodded. Getting the fuck out of Triumph City was an idea she could totally get behind at that moment. “How often is Oliver Fletcher around? What do you think of him?”
His eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“Hey, you brought it up.”
“I didn’t bring up Fletcher.”
“No, but he’s their friend, right? You don’t want to tell me, don’t tell me. I just figured as long as you wanted to talk about it, maybe you could help me out and tell me a little about him.”
“He’s a good person, Chess. They’re all good people. They’re not, like, scammers or thieves or anything. I know you have a job to do, but really, you should just go do your banishing or whatever and let them have some peace.”
“Did you want to have a drink or lecture me?”
“Maybe both.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m good at my job, Merritt. I know what I’m doing.”
“I’m sure you do, I just wish this could all get settled. It’s making Arden sick, you know. And that kid has enough problems.”
Arden … She’d seen Arden, hadn’t she? The memory was fuzzy, ruined by the more overwhelming memory of pain and desperation, but she was almost sure of it. Arden throwing up, Arden’s pale, guilty face. Arden with a hickey or something on her neck.
“Like what?”
He shifted on his seat, his brow furrowing. She grabbed her cigarettes and offered him one, hoping it would loosen him up.
He took it. “She didn’t want to move here, for one thing. Bitches about it all the time. And I think she has a hard time dealing with her mother. I mean, you’ve seen Kym. It can’t be easy to be kind of a chubby kid and have that in front of you all the time. It’s just—Damn, look at the size of that guy!”
“What? Where?” Chess spun on her seat so fast she almost lost her balance. How had he found her, had he followed her or something?
Merritt looked at her strangely. “Over there, by the bathroom.”
“What—oh.” Not Terrible. Nowhere near as big, either. Terrible filled a room, the mere fact of his presence squeezing everyone else into smaller packages. The guy Merritt pointed out was just a guy.
Finally the bartender set another shot in front of her. She threw it back and motioned for another.
“Hey, you want to get out of here?”
“What?” Her throat burned, but finally it seemed to be working. She listened for Terrible’s voice in her head and didn’t hear it.
Of course, she also couldn’t feel her extremities. But life was full of tradeoffs, right?
“Do you want to get out of here? My place isn’t far. We might be able to talk better there. I want to—talk about the case. About the Pyles, I mean.”
Hmm. Something he didn’t want to discuss in public? Could be interesting, not that it mattered. At least it could be interesting if she was able to stay awake long enough. Hot on the heels of being drunk enough not to think of Terrible was being too drunk to think of anything at all, and appealing as that was, she wasn’t at home where she could just pass out.
“Yeah. Just hang on. I want to go to the bathroom first.”
The bathroom was bigger and nicer than she’d expected, but she didn’t pay much attention. One wall was entirely made of mirrors, and the last thing she wanted to do was look at herself.
Instead she ducked into a stall and cut herself a thick line on top of the toilet paper dispenser. That would be enough, she figured. Enough to keep her blessedly zoned out but still able to take notes if necessary.
Her face was already numb, but she felt the speed hit anyway. Good. Better than good. Her sluggish heart sped in her chest and the world started to sparkle, just a bit, just enough to drive her misery from her head.
For the moment, anyway.
His place was bigger than she’d expected, nicer, with a clean but bare kitchen and furniture that matched. Working for the Pyles must pay more than she’d thought.
He settled her on the couch and brought her a beer while she waited for the room to stop spinning. Fuck, she was drunk. Monumentally drunk. So drunk that her skin felt rubbery all over and her limbs heavy.
“I think it’s Kym,” he said, startling her.
“Kym Pyle? Faking a haunting?”
“If anyone’s faking it—and I’m not convinced someone is—it’s her.” He sipped his own beer. “She hates it here. She wants to go back to Hollywood. Bitches about it all the time.”
“But she was injured.” The words came out before she thought of them. Shit! Kym had been injured. She hadn’t faked those scratches on her back. And Oliver Fletcher hadn’t even been in town when that happened.
So who had been in the Pyle bedroom that night? Who had slashed at that pale skin in the dark?
Pale skin in the dark … like her own belly, as she’d fumbled with her buttons in the cemetery under Terrible’s furious gaze.
Fuck. Why couldn’t she get away from him?
> “Lots of people injure themselves, Chessie. You know that.”
Huh, he had no idea. She nodded. “So you think Kym set the whole thing up to get Roger to move?”
“It makes sense, doesn’t it?”
“I guess so.”
Merritt’s hand found her thigh. So that was it. He might want to talk about the case, but he wasn’t really interested in her thoughts. He’d brought her here for a different reason. Well, whatever.
She set her beer down and reached for him. Let him kiss her. Let his hands roam over her half-numb body. Her own movements were clumsy, indifferent, but he didn’t seem to notice or care.
Then again, his technique didn’t seem to have improved since he was seventeen. Or perhaps she’d just gotten used to more skilled hands on her body, more skilled lips against hers. His tongue probed and poked at her mouth, his head unmoving. Her chest ached.
He unbuttoned her jeans and yanked them off. His hand dug between her legs as though he was trying to reshape her, jabbing into her. It hurt, what of it she could actually feel, but she didn’t care enough to stop him.
His own jeans were next. He dragged her over him before she was anywhere near ready, braced her hip with one hand while he fiddled around with a condom with the other. His lips traveled across her chest, over her neck, too softly for it to feel like anything. Where his hand had been rough and clumsy the rest of him was too slow, passionless, so she was bored and frustrated long before anything started to happen; and when it did start to happen, her boredom was not relieved.
She started moving automatically, her head a million miles away, dissociating from her body. A trick she’d learned over the years, one she hadn’t had to use in a long time. It came back to her as naturally and easily as her magic did.
Oliver Fletcher claimed to be solely responsible for the Pyle haunting, but there was no way he could have injured Kym. So who?
