The Girl Who Wants

by Amy Vansant

  Mason lay the bike down and crept up the back stairs to push open the solid door.

  “Hello?” he called into the house.

  He’d heard about ‘hobo houses’ filled with addicts who stole little boys and sold them for drugs and sex-stuff.

  But how bad could that be?

  He’d started to notice the girls in his school, and being sold to a lady for sex didn’t sound like the worst thing that could happen to him. It would be gross if she was as old as Aunt Tildy, though. She had to be thirty.

  He decided to brave the chance of being sold to a thirty-year-old. He had to risk it. Not only did he have a plan for moving out of his aunt’s, he wanted the flowy robe his mother used to wear. It smelled like jasmine, and jasmine smelled like his mother. Though, he’d have to be careful. If Ely found a flowered orange satin robe amongst his belongings, the attacks would be merciless.

  “Hello?” He wrinkled his nose at the smell inside the kitchen.

  No druggies or child-nappers called back.

  Mason stepped inside, the wooden floorboards creaking beneath his second-best pair of sneakers. He made a fist and braced himself. Thanks to the floor, the child-stealing hobos would hear him coming from a mile away. He had to be prepared.

  He stopped and surveyed the mess. Someone had been in the kitchen. Every pot and pan had been pulled from the cabinets, every plate jerked to the ground and smashed. Even the refrigerator door hung open, the food inside fuzzy and green. A pile of dried animal droppings sat nearby. Mason guessed the scat belonged to a raccoon. Scat identification and shooting were the two skills his father had taught him during better times.

  Mason covered his nose and shut the refrigerator door with the tips of his fingers.

  He moved into the living room. It looked as if a knife-wielding tornado had swept through. Deep slashes split the flowered cushions of the couch his mother had so loved. He touched the white stuffing and studied the edges of the cuts. No animal had torn apart the couch. The gashes were deep and clean.

  Mason’s anger rose.

  Who did this?

  And more importantly, were they still in the house?

  He called down the hall.

  “Hello?”

  Moving to his parents’ room, he found their mattress crisscrossed with the same kind of slashes, stuffing strewn everywhere. The pottery lamps once flanking the bed had been smashed. The contents of the closet were piled high on the bed, including his mother’s orange robe. He pulled it from the heap and pressed it to his nose. Closing his eyes, he imagined his arms wrapped around his mother’s hips.

  The perfume made his eyes water. Slipping his backpack off his shoulder, he shoved the thin robe inside.

  As he tiptoed back through the mess, he spotted an unbroken bottle of perfume and picked it up to smell.

  Jasmine.

  He’d found the source of the robe’s scent. He added the bottle to the backpack.

  In his own room, Mason found his drawing books strewn to the four corners and tucked them into his bag. At least whoever seemed so angry at the furniture didn’t hate art enough to destroy his books.

  He found his air gun in the corner, unharmed. Someone had dumped the pellets to the ground, and he scooped them back into the box.

  Something about his room made him even more uneasy.

  “Not a thief,” he mumbled to himself.

  A thief would have taken his pellet gun. Ely, the only other person he knew angry enough to destroy a house, would have taken the gun, too.

  Who would tear apart his home and not steal anything? Why?

  He dropped the box of pellets into his backpack and slipped his arms back into the straps.

  Grabbing the gun, he surveyed his room.

  I have a lot of cleaning to do—

  Something down the hall clattered loudly enough to make him jump.

  Hobos!

  Lowering his bag to the floor, Mason removed the box of pellets and retrieved a few for his gun. The barrel clicked shut and he waited, expecting the sound of heavy boots in the hallway.

  Nothing happened.

  Mason took one slow step forward, easing his weight onto the wood. He took another and another until he reached the end of the hall, his gun raised and ready.

  Movement flashed near the back door. He swung his barrel toward it. As his finger squeezed, he jerked the gun upward to avoid hitting the mark.

  Midnight.

  The neighbor’s black cat shot through the opened back door and into the yard as the pellet embedded itself in the wall.

  That was close. The neighbor girl would have killed him if he’d shot her nasty cat.

  Mason lowered the gun and surveyed the mess.

  I have to secure the house.

  The place would be no good to anyone if animals kept walking through.

  Tucking his gun under his arm, he searched the kitchen floor for the spare house key that once lived in the back of the silverware drawer. He found it beneath a green loaf of bread.

  With a heavy sigh, he left, closing the door behind him and locking it. He could return the next day during Ely’s baseball practice. Maybe he could borrow his cousin Livvy’s Polaroid camera and take a photo of what it looked like now, so later, his aunt and the social services witch could see how much work he’d done to clean it.

  Maybe then they’d let him stay.

  Mason walked the bike to the front of the house and found himself standing in the same spot on the sidewalk where he’d been when his mother—

  He looked up. His sneakers still hung from the telephone lines.

  My favorite sneakers.

  His mother had told him not to tell his father those were his shoes. But his father was gone now. If his old man ever did come back, he might recognize the sneakers hanging there.

  It had rained a few times since he’d moved into his aunt’s house, but still, the chances of him getting new shoes any time soon were slim.

  He couldn’t leave them hanging.

  Mason laid down the bike and raised the barrel of his pellet gun. Closing one eye, he aimed for the laces.

  Steadying, he fired.

  The shoes remained hanging like fruit.

  A little to the left...

  He fired again. The laces whipped up as the shoes plummeted to the ground.

  Giddy at his own prowess, Mason ran to them.

  He shoved one into his backpack and lifted the other to do the same. As he did, a plastic bag slid from the toe to the heel, hanging there as he stared at it.

  Mason blinked at the bag, trying to remember what he’d stuffed into the toe of his shoes. Nothing came to mind.

  The contents looked like a collection of cloudy pebbles.

  He let the twist holding the bag shut unfurl and plucked out one of the rocks. It seemed unremarkable. He’d had a rock collection as a kid, and he knew what pretty rocks looked like.

  These were not pretty.

  Where’d they come from?

  He looked up at the wires.

  Could a bird have put them in the shoe? He’d read something somewhere about birds eating rocks for digestion. Crows maybe.

  A bird wouldn’t steal a whole bag of stones, though, would it?

  Had his mother put the rocks in there? Did she do it for the weight, knowing she wanted to throw the shoes over the telephone wires?

  Mason noticed a man watching him from a porch a few houses away. He couldn’t risk the man reporting him as a trespasser.

  He stuffed the shoes and the bag of rocks into his backpack and jogged back to the bike.

  Pointing away from the man, he pedaled.

  &&&

  Chapter Twenty

  Twenty-seven years ago, Navy Special Warfare Center, Coronado, California

  Shee gaped at Mason, her last bite of hamburger hovering near her lips.

  “And?”

  “And what?” he asked.

  “Did you ever find out why she put rocks in your shoes?”

  �
��I guess to give them the weight to throw them up there,” Mason shrugged to underscore his supposed confusion, but his expression suggested he was still hiding something.

  She pressed. “But why would your mother throw your shoes up there?”

  “Dunno.”

  Shee looked away, thinking. “Maybe your dad bought them for you and she wanted to piss him off?”

  “If so, it was a bad idea,” he muttered, his expression darkening.

  Shee frowned. She hadn’t meant to imply his mother was at fault for her own murder. She reached out and put her hand on his.

  “I didn’t mean—”

  He covered her hand with his own, stroking the back of it with his thumb.

  “I know. No problem.”

  Shee watched his movement.

  Even his thumb is sexy.

  They sat that way for a moment, both of them staring at their hands.

  “So, beach?” he asked, glancing at his watch. “Ah can’t dally, but ah’ve got a little time.”

  “Dally.” She giggled and pulled her hand out from under his, suddenly feeling self-conscious.

  “What’s wrong with dally?”

  “Just a funny word.” She looked away, feeling like an idiot. It was like Mason was some sort of kryptonite that made her dumb instead of weak.

  Mason pointed to a balding, potbellied man Shee guessed to be in his forties, waddling by in red shorts one size too small. “Maybe we should skip trace that guy. He looks suspicious.”

  “You can’t skip trace someone if you already know where they are.” Shee squelched a grin, doing her best to scowl with great portent. He does look like he’s up to no good, though.”

  Mason nodded. “Definitely. Looks like the type who puts ketchup on a hot dog to me.”

  Shee lost her fight to remain serious and giggled.

  Giggled.

  Again.

  &&&

  They had their first kiss on that beach.

  By then, Shee had realized Mason caused the strange heat wave engulfing her body whenever he was near.

  It wasn’t the flu.

  She almost forgot about skip tracing. She had other things to think about, like how the lines of Mason’s neck led to the v-notch at the base of his throat and the way the rippling muscles of his stomach felt beneath her fingertips.

  “Isn’t being in love amazing?” he’d asked one day as they perched on the rocks south of Avda De Las Arenas.

  He’d leaned his forehead against hers, their noses touching.

  “It’s pretty great,” she’d answered.

  One day rolled into the next, her mind trapped in a fog that only cleared when he appeared.

  All her investigative skills turned to Mason. She knew his schedule before he did. She’d uncovered the meaning of every micro-expression on his face.

  The look he had now was new, but she had a feeling what it meant.

  Lying beside him, she traced a finger from his hairline, down his nose to his chin. He didn’t try to playfully bite her finger as she bumped over his lips like he usually did.

  No, this serious expression was different.

  It wasn’t good.

  She pulled closer to his naked body and scanned the room around her.

  This is it.

  Everything she saw would be burned into her memory forever. The ugly lamp. Her wooden jewelry box. The pile of clothes with the damp blue bikini on top.

  “Say it,” she said, her voice a whisper. His chest rose and fell beneath her palm and she closed her eyes, listening to the beat of his heart.

  “I got my assignment.”

  She’d known this news was coming today, but her stomach still twisted. The end had come. She’d taken an allergy pill to dull her nerves and make what she needed to do easier.

  “When do you ship out?”

  She already knew that, too.

  Two days.

  Monday. Every morning she awoke to the color red. Monday was red. Monday was the end. Monday was the day that haunted her sleep and colored the world around her.

  Not even the NSA could have kept her from finding out when Mason got his orders. He’d known for weeks. He’d started acting differently around that time, more distant one second, more needy the next. She’d caught him watching her, staring, as if he were trying to capture her image in a bottle in his mind.

  “Two days,” he said.

  He turned on his side to stare into her eyes.

  “I’ll write you. We—”

  Shee shook her head. “No. Don’t.”

  “I’m serious, Shee. I will.” He reached for his shorts that lay on the ground beside the bed.

  He’s running. You’re doing the right thing.

  “No. I’m saying don’t,” she said.

  Shorts in hand, he sat up and touched her cheek with the back of his knuckles.

  “Don’t what?”

  She pulled away.

  Great. Now, I’ll remember that touch, too. The feel of him tucking my hair behind my ear, every time I do it myself...

  “Shee—”

  She slipped out of bed and got dressed.

  “Don’t write me. You need to be frosty.”

  “What?” He laughed.

  “You heard me.”

  “You’re worried ah won’t be sharp if ah write you?”

  She busied herself plucking her damp towel from the floor and dropping it in her hamper. “I don’t want you thinking about me. I want you thinking about whatever it is you need to do to stay alive.”

  Mason pulled his shorts on. “You’re being ridiculous.”

  “I’m not. You better go. My dad will be back soon.”

  She stole a glimpse at him to find his bemused smile gone, replaced by something that looked like building anger.

  “But—” he began.

  “Go.”

  “Go? Just like that?”

  His volume rose. She nearly lost her resolve and heard herself flounder.

  “Look, I—”

  “Thinking about you gives me an extra reason to stay alive.”

  She shook her head. “Dad and I are getting back on the road soon anyway. He hates being a professor.”

  “You didn’t tell me—”

  “There was no point. I knew you’d be gone by the time we left.”

  Mason stood, dipping to snatch his shirt from the ground. Something about the way he kept his left hand in his shorts pocket seemed odd.

  “So all this meant nothing to you?” He removed his hand from his pocket to pull on his shirt.

  She eyed his hip. Nothing unusual. No lump.

  So weird.

  She sniffed. “I didn’t say it didn’t mean anything. But this is for the best. A clean break.”

  He moved to her and put a hand on each of her arms. Angry heat radiated from his body. She held his gaze, her jaw clenched to keep her lip from quivering.

  Don’t give in now. Let him go.

  “I love you,” he said. His eyes looked glassy, his sapphire irises stormier than usual.

  A dull gray blanket of allergy medicine made it possible to keep her face expressionless.

  “You’ll get over it.”

  She looked away. She’d found the words but couldn’t look at him.

  He glared. She could feel his thoughts—one word repeated over and over, as clearly as if he’d spat them at her.

  Traitor.

  “Go,” she whispered.

  He released her and strode from the room without another word.

  She heard the front screen door bang and counted down from ten.

  Two...One...

  The ticking of the clock in the kitchen sounded like a hammer in the silence.

  He isn’t coming back.

  She sobbed one loud hiccup and slapped her hand across her mouth. Her chest felt as if it would crack open to spill her heart to the ground.

  I can’t do it. I can’t live—

  The screen door banged again and she gasped beneath her pa
lm.

  “Shee?”

  Not Mason.

  Dad.

  Home early.

  She ran into her bathroom and shut the door.

  “I’m in the bathroom,” she called.

  Hands over her face, she sat on the edge of the tub willing herself to stop crying. Through her fingers she stared at the unfeeling objects around her. They looked the same as they had a day earlier, but they weren’t. Everything had changed.

  Her toothbrush.

  Her hair dryer.

  Her trash can, and in it, the white tip of the pregnancy test poking from beneath the wad of tissues she’d used to hide it.

  &&&

  Chapter Twenty One

  Present Day

  Shee stared into the bathroom mirror, her arms braced on either side of The Loggerhead Inn’s guest bathroom sink, her breathing heavy. The taste of bile encased her tongue.

  What’s wrong with me?

  Twice in twenty-four hours?

  I haven’t thrown up since that syrupy batch of hurricanes in New Orleans ten years ago.

  She plucked a tissue from a shell-covered box and blew her nose.

  I know they heard me heaving.

  At least she’d made it to the bathroom. For a second she thought she’d spew croissant across Mason’s loafers.

  She scowled.

  They were really nice loafers.

  What SEAL wears Italian loafers? Was he deployed in Italy?

  She shook her head.

  Stop it. Who cares.

  She didn’t need to get all skip tracer on his ass.

  She had bigger problems.

  Is he really here?

  This scene had played out so many times in her dreams, though he’d never been at The Loggerhead. She didn’t remember ever throwing up in her dreams. But she’d pictured seeing him again in so many different configurations...

  He’s older.

  That was her proof.

  She’d aged, but Peanut Butter had remained trapped, forever twenty years old, flying around her memories like the world’s hottest Peter Pan.

  There was something else...

  Could he actually be better looking?

  The general shape of his body had remained the same. Tall, muscular, trim, as if he’d never received the memo about how age makes you soft. The lines that Time had etched on his face had somehow enhanced his masculinity. A bumpy scar peeked from beneath the polo sleeve on his right arm, evidence of a horrific wound... and yet somehow sexy. The crow’s feet beside his piercing blue eyes, accentuating as he’d grinned at her, only made him look more adorable.