Back to the martial arts place, where the women were beating the hell out of the guys. Or pretending to, because Clay knew from experience that big guys like himself, like the giant inside, could take a woman down with one hand tied behind their backs. It wasn’t some half-assed fist block that would make a difference.
Cynical. So fucking cynical.
Farther along, he spotted the sign for the town’s one and only bar. It looked kind of old-fashioned, with lettering that should read Ye Olde Pub. Instead, it read The Nook, which made him think of dim lights and knitting. He watched as a group of people pulled open the door and went inside, laughing.
Minutes passed, and Clay’s pulse slowed to normal. As he watched the self-defense women, they wrapped up their class and started spilling out onto the sidewalk, which felt like his cue to leave—best not to be accused of being some kind of creep. Surefire way to get his ass kicked out of town.
Just as he turned the ignition, the clinic lights went out, the door opened, and Dr. Hadley stepped outside. She locked the door without looking up once—Jesus, even after the other night, the woman had no sense of self-preservation, which drove him completely nuts. Didn’t she know she was a sitting duck for all kinds of predators?
She needed to take that class. Because, although the moves were pretty Mickey Mouse, they’d at least teach her to look before heading out into this fucked-up world. He’d seen the shit people did to women. He knew.
Clay watched as she stepped off the sidewalk, not appearing to even notice the women walking out next door, moved to her car—unlocked, which sent his blood pressure through the roof—and finally drove off.
From somewhere close by, an engine fired up, and Clay almost jumped out of his skin.
Breathing too hard, he waited a few seconds for his anxiety to dissipate and, when it didn’t appear to abate at all, put his truck into drive and followed the doctor at a respectful distance.
Too many women had suffered because he’d given them space or looked the other way. He was done looking the other way. He didn’t care how small a town this was—there was evil everywhere, around every street corner. He’d seen it in guys he’d taken down; he’d seen it in the smiling eyes of psychopaths; he’d seen it in the eyes of men he’d called brother.
God, he knew how fucking weird this was, following the doctor home. He couldn’t stand to see another woman get hurt on his watch. Especially one this soft, this caring.
Creeped out was better than dead.
* * *
George wasn’t generally one to partake in excessive alcohol. Not that she hadn’t back in her wild days, when she’d let herself get coerced into situations by bad boys, done wild things, and gotten pregnant in the process. She regretted those times, the manic fun, the stupid decisions made out of sadness and desperation. Bad boys, tattoos, and all the rest of it, she reminded herself, were nothing compared to adult decisions and everything else that had eventually made partying seem not quite so fun anymore.
Bad boys were a bad idea.
Andrew Blane was a very bad idea.
And so was stopping by the fancy country store on the way home to buy herself a bottle of something. Anything would have satisfied her, but she wound up getting a six-pack of cider, because beer felt too casual and champagne too expensive, but she wanted a drink, something to cap off this strange, strange night.
What she really wanted was to call someone—a friend would be nice—and tell them what was going on. She wanted to spill everything. Her need to have a baby—a family. Someone to call her own. Her fears that she was doing something very wrong here. That this wasn’t how these things were meant to happen. And D-Day just a week away. It was all too much, this last-chance pressure.
Added to that, the entire weird story about the big, broken man who had suddenly encroached on her every waking thought, his rough hands holding her so tightly, leaving her afraid for rather than of him. And she wanted that friend to understand. That was the toughest part, beyond obvious things like ethics and HIPAA violations. More than anything, she wanted to be told that she wasn’t absolutely out of her mind for feeling the way she did about him, which was…unclear.
Pulling into her driveway, she glanced at the house next door—it had been empty for the past six months, but Jessie and her son appeared to have moved in yesterday, which was good. Neighbors were good. Someone she could count on when she ran out of sugar. Or whatever.
She smiled at that. Sugar? No. She wouldn’t run out anytime soon. George didn’t run out of things.
On her way inside, she cast another glance at the cottage and thought about the six-pack of cider she held. She wouldn’t mind sharing…
Down the relative coolness of the long hall, into the kitchen, six-pack in the fridge, then straight through the back door and out into the hot, hot humidity of a Virginia summer evening.
The usual sounds of home greeted her: calm clucking, which meant her patching job on the fence had worked; lazy birdsong, gaining in intensity at this time of day—like children at bedtime, the creatures got worked up before the bats took over as kings of the night sky. Beyond that, she heard the far-off drone of a mower. Always mowing in Virginia. Lord, with the in-laws’ grass to do every weekend, she had enough mowing to last her a lifetime. George preferred livelier plants, their bursts of color and meandering stalks much more her speed than flat, boring plains of green. And here was the sound of crickets. Loud and intense, but somehow always in the background. Although…no. She cocked her head.
Not crickets. These were cicadas.
She remembered a discussion she’d overheard that day in the office. Cindy and Purnima had come in from lunch talking about the insects’ seventeen-year cycle and the noise they’d make this year—not to mention the empty exoskeletons they’d leave behind. George hadn’t lived in the area for the last cicada visit, and she didn’t seem to have any around her place, so she could only guess how loud it would get.
Someone had left a copy of the Gazette in the waiting room, and George had read through the feature, headlined CICADAS: SEVENTEEN-YEAR ITCH. She was fascinated. To live for such a short time, only to plant your seed for the next generation and die off…
A wave of sadness overcame her, heavy and familiar. A glance at her watch showed it was too late to call the in-laws.
Somewhere close by, a car door slammed, and she heard voices. Jessie and her son. It must be, since nobody else lived that close by.
Behind her, Leonard announced his arrival with a trilling meow before butting his head against George’s leg. She bent to pick him up just as the cottage screen door squealed open, then slammed shut, only to open again before someone went barreling out into the yard next door.
A second later, the door opened, and a woman’s voice called out. “Gabe! Put your shoes back on! The yard’s a mess!” George craned her neck to see past her landscaping and the tall wooden fence. There was no response. “Gabe Shifflett, you get in here right now, or I’ll… Oh, whatever.” The woman’s voice trailed off, and as she turned to go inside, she glanced at George’s place. Their eyes met with recognition. “George?”
“Jessie!” George called. “You all moved in?”
“Hey, yeah! Wait, this is your house? I thought you were farther down. I thought this place was—” The woman interrupted herself, and George wondered what she’d been about to say.
“This is me.”
“What’re you up to? Wanna come over for pizza? We can sit on the porch and watch it not rain.”
“Well, I…” George searched for something to say, some reason to refuse. And then, suddenly, it occurred to her that she didn’t have to. Jessie was nice. This could be good. A friend. A wish come true. “Why don’t you come over here, instead? I imagine you’re not all unpacked and… Oh, hey, I’ve got cider!”
“Cider?”
“Hard cider. Like beer, only�
�—George shrugged—“for lightweights.”
“Can I bring my monster?” Jessie asked.
“Of course!” George said through a bubble of excitement.
Inside, her eyes took in her house, wondering what someone like Jessie would think of the bright-colored, barely controlled chaos. It’s fine, she decided, ignoring the self-doubt. Her house was hers, and if people didn’t like it, they didn’t have to come over. On that thought, she pulled out a cider, searched frantically for a good minute and a half for something with which to open it before realizing that her can opener had the right attachment, and took a calming swig.
Okay. You can do this. You can have someone in your house. You can be friendly. It doesn’t have to be a big deal.
No big deal, she thought, throwing seed packs into drawers, straightening up random piles of catalogues and medical journals, in a frenzy of last-minute activity. No big deal having actual friends and an actual life after so many years without. Only it was a big deal.
Having a life—being alive, in fact—was a very big deal when you’d put a husband in the ground and had assumed you’d live the rest of your days alone.
* * *
The liquor store was still open. Clay breathed a sigh of relief.
“Can I help you?” the cashier asked when he made his way inside, and Clay tried his hardest to appear innocent.
“Vodka?”
“Sure. Back corner,” she said in a voice that was friendlier than he’d expected.
He grabbed the biggest, midgrade bottle he could find—just one bottle, he decided; he’d stop after this one—and headed back up front, head low and cap down to shield him from the cameras above the register.
“That it, baby?”
Baby? Clay glanced up in surprise. Nothing, just mild friendliness. Christ, he’d never get used to the South.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Thirteen oh seven.”
He handed her a twenty and watched her chubby hands deftly handle the change, despite the half-inch false nails tipping her fingers. He’d never understand stuff like that—why someone would purposely handicap themselves. His eyes flicked to her face, round and bland-looking, then up to sprayed-up blond bangs, then back down over a lumpy body. So, decoration. Harmless peacocking from a woman who hadn’t been dealt the best hand. With a mental shrug, he took his change and gave her a smile.
Making the most of what you had. Yeah, he could relate.
“Night, baby.”
“Good night, ma’am,” he responded, waving in response to her bright “Take care” before pushing back out into the night.
Back at the motel, his room stank of mold, despite the frigid temperature. He checked the A/C, which he’d left on low but which appeared to have a mind of its own and had taken the room to glacial. Damned thing.
Hit by a sudden wave of uncontrollable…something…he punched it, hard, his knuckles still suffering from Friday’s laser removal. It didn’t dent the machine, of course, which looked like a throwback to those prehistoric units he remembered from elementary school, but it felt good to hurt.
Am I fuckin’ crazy? he wondered as the burn all over his front throbbed in time with his knuckles. Not to mention the rest—his thigh, his back. Those hurt pretty much all the time. Especially with this humidity, although it was nothing compared to the way he ached before a storm.
“Goddamn weather vane,” he muttered as he grabbed the vodka on his way to the bathroom. Shit, he should have bought bleach. This place was gross, the grout black with fuzzy mold. He glanced at the booze, considered using that to clean with, and decided he was better off using it for its God-given purpose. Fuck all that Valium crap the shrink had given him. Vodka worked just fine.
It didn’t matter what the shit tasted like anyway, did it? As long as it did the trick. In fact, he’d taken to drinking the clear stuff because it didn’t hide behind smoke and caramel or any of those other cushioning screens. No, he drank the closest thing to rubbing alcohol that he could find—it wasn’t about pleasure, after all. Far from it.
Take your meds, Clay.
Girding himself for what he’d see, Clay unbuttoned his shirt before pulling it off and peeling away the T-shirt beneath. Oh fuck, it hurt as the cotton unstuck. Not at all like a fresh tattoo. Hot and raw. More like a burn. Which was pretty appropriate, considering what that friggin’ laser had done to him. He stretched his hand at the ache there, ignoring the pain on his eyelid, and stared at himself, hard. He’d put another coat of Vaseline on in a second.
Every fucking inch of the man before him was ruined—by experience, by life, by choice. Yeah, I chose this.
He’d chosen some of the ink, at least. The arms, the story they told of his family tree, stunted by the early death of his baby sister. There was the Santa Muerte, symbol of a vengeance he was close to reaping. Farther along was the Inca death mask, in honor of his dad’s people in Peru, whom he’d never get to meet, and their ancestors. Then there was the first tattoo he’d gotten—the one he’d never let anybody touch. Mercy, it said, and he stared at it to hold on to the good parts of his life. Carly—whose spirit had kept him going all these years. After a couple of seconds, he had to look away from it and return to the shit he’d done to avenge her.
He’d have done anything. Anything. To get her back? Fuck, he’d sell his soul.
* * *
“Oh my God, I can’t believe you punched him!”
“Punched him? Are you kidding me, George? I bitch-slap—” Jessie broke off, hand to her mouth, before noticing her son’s closed eyes, where he lay in the corner of the wicker sofa.
“He’s down,” said George. She sat back with a sigh, reached for her bottle, and was surprised to find it empty. “Oh my God, I never drink. This is…”
“Fun?” finished Jessie. “This is fun. Thank you for having us over. And…I don’t think he’s fallen asleep that easily in ages. Not to mention the fact that he ate carrots and salad without argument, which is a minor miracle. We’re coming over every night.”
“I wish you would.”
“Once a week, at least, just to get his veggies in. The pediatrician said that’s all you need, really. I’ll be golden.” They smiled at each other for a second or two, a little dorky, a little embarrassed, until Jessie went on. “No, but seriously. He’d be lucky to have someone more like you for a mother,” she said, her face losing all trace of humor.
“He’s a wonderful kid, but you’re a good mom.”
“Nope. Can’t take credit for that. That’s all him.”
It was loud where they sat out on the porch, night creatures chirping from the dark garden beyond the screens. In here, they were enveloped in a warm, orange candle glow, with the occasional tap of insects trying to get in. Funny. George must have had those candles for years, and this was the first time she’d lit more than one or two—the first occasion special enough to warrant a larger glow. Geez. It felt almost ceremonial and was most decidedly silly.
“Of course you can, Jessie. You’re his mother.”
Jessie sighed loudly, unapologetically, dramatically.
“You’ve built a life for the two of you. I’m impressed by how together you are, after…everything.”
“So, you’ve heard my story?”
“Not really. Uma admires you. She told me you’d had it rough. I remember she said you were a fighter.” George giggled, lifted her empty bottle, and reached across the coffee table to clank it against Jessie’s. “Which appears to be true.”
“Yeah, literally!”
George stood. “One more for the road?”
“What the hell. Why not?”
George walked inside to the kitchen for another pair of ciders, her bare feet avoiding the squeaky boards out of habit, but the rest of her floating on an unfamiliar cloud of happiness.
She opened the bottles a
nd stepped back out, handing one to Jessie—her new friend.
“You wanna know what she said about you, George?”
“I don’t know. Do I?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Go on, then.”
“She said you’re a…vampire.”
“Wh—”
“Just kidding.” Jessie lost her smile and caught George’s eye, held it. “She said you saved her life. Ive was there for her too, I know, but she says you’re like this rock, and she couldn’t have done it without you.” George lost a bit of her breath on a dry huff of air. “She said you’re the kindest, most selfless person she’s ever met and—”
Jessie stopped herself, and George waited before prompting. “And?”
“And she’s worried.”
That hit George in the gut. A hard weight in her middle that tried to fold her in half. “W-worried?”
“She wants you to be happy and doesn’t think you are.”
Something occurred to George. “Is that why you came to get me at the party?”
“No! Jesus, George. You’re delightful. It’s been awesome hanging out with you.” She looked around. “But this place…man.”
“What about it?”
“It’s…” Jessie opened her arms to encompass the house behind them, the dark garden beyond the screen door. “I guess… Don’t take this the wrong way, but I figured some old lady lived here, you know? The chickens and all the furniture and the garden and the cats and… Geez, how do you even have time to do all this with your job?”
George shrugged, feeling the truth of it—the weight of her existence. Add to it the baby she was going to make and—
Overwhelming. It was overwhelming.
Jessie leaned forward but turned to look at the snoring boy beside her. “I don’t get out much, either, you know. Nine-year-olds aren’t exactly conducive to active socializing.”
“Yeah. So what’s my excuse?”
Jessie lowered her brows at her and leaned even farther. “Uma said you switched to dermatology halfway through med school. She also mentioned why.”
By Her Touch Page 10
