Clay sucked in a lungful of thick, heavy air, which didn’t even begin to clear the booze from his head.
“Blane, right?”
“S’ right, Sheriff.”
“You hidin’ out in Blackwood, Mr. Blane, or you come to make trouble?” Clay opened his mouth, and Sheriff Mullen shushed him. “Nah. Don’t say it. Don’t need to hear whatever story you’ve cooked up. I’m in charge here, though, and I’d rather you keep your brand of trouble outside of my town.”
Clay nodded, with a quick look around. Where were the TV cameras filming this ridiculous cowboy banter? “Not looking for trouble…sir.”
“Good.”
He sucked in a few breaths and felt his back loosen when the other man stood up and turned to walk away. Clay watched him go a few steps, then swing back around.
“Noticed you doing that limping jog around town.” He indicated the gym behind him with a thumb. “If you’re looking for a workout, you should check out the gym. Wouldn’t be so hard on that bum leg as all that running.”
Clay’s brows rose. His eyes flicked to the glow of lights coming from the gym.
“Don’t think you’d like my kind of fighting in there.”
The sheriff did a scoffing laugh, managing to come off as both wise and condescending, which was really a pretty good trick.
“Don’t worry. We’ve got our share of assholes who think they’re tougher than they are. You sober up and come on in tomorrow, son. We’ll see what kinda fighter you are. Tell whoever’s at the door you’re my guest.”
“Why?”
“Hmm?”
“Why are you inviting me?”
“It’s like I tell the parents around here: know where your kids are. They’re gonna get shit-faced no matter what you do, so you might as well keep them at home.” He smirked. “Or at least in the field out back. And, I mean, look at you.” He waved at Clay’s face, taking in the rest of him with a lazy move. “Don’t know when you got out, no idea why you’ve got 5–0 inked onto your face, but I’d say you belong where someone can keep an eye on you.” The man’s smile widened again, revealing a perfect, artificial-looking line of bright-white teeth. “’Course, a little birdie told me two of my favorite local meth heads showed up in the hospital Saturday night all broken to bits, tripping their asses off and spouting some bull about how a tattooed giant tore ’em apart.”
Clay felt a wave of respect for this small, tough-looking man. “Better the devil you know.”
“Exactly. You clean us out of weekend entertainment, and there won’t be a damn thing left for the sheriff’s office to do anymore. So, you see I might be a little confused as to just who the hell you are, with your prison tattoos and that death sentence on your face. And I’m curious as to what you might be doing in my town. But I’m not entirely sure I want you gone just yet.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
The sheriff’s eyes flicked up to the clinic sign and back down to Clay; his smile turned smaller, sly. “Figured as much. Anyway, you come on in and show us some of those fancy moves you might or might not have used on our local cranksters, and I’ll give you something to occupy yourself with while you squat in my town—keep you from breaking a nail trying to hold off my other local troublemakers. Mutually beneficial.”
Jesus, the man had attitude. Old and small, but showing absolutely no fear. Clay smiled, his first one of the day—or was it year?—and, surprising even himself, nodded. “What time?”
“Come in at noon,” the old dude said before starting off. “You can kick my ass for lunch.”
* * *
On her way to Jessie’s, George grabbed a jar of homemade strawberry jam, some brown paper, and raffia, then ran outside to pick a few zinnias from the back of the garden.
You didn’t go anywhere empty-handed. That was something her mother had taught her early on. Hastily wrapped gifts in hand, she rounded the house from the side and headed over.
Inside, the place was sparsely furnished—short, brown coffee table, its veneer cracked; a fat, tan sofa, with worn patches on the arms and stains on the cushions. The floor was covered with carpeting, which she wouldn’t have guessed before coming inside, and the fireplace appeared to be sealed shut. Too bad. Pull up the rug and open up the chimney, and the place could actually be quite picturesque.
“Happy new house!” George said, handing the jam and bouquet to Jessie.
“Oh. Wow. You didn’t have to do this. Thank you!”
“Don’t be ridiculous. So, you’re all moved in!”
“Yeah.” Jessie looked around, lips compressed. “We don’t have all that much.”
“Better clean and neat than a hoarder like me.”
“You’re not a hoarder.”
George raised a brow at Jessie.
“Seriously, your place is awesome. It’s got character.”
“Yeah!” Gabe chimed in. “Candles and cushions and rocking chairs and stuff. You’ve got all those blankets and those owl statues and the lamp of the Chinese woman and those paintings and—”
“Okay, G. Let’s get you in pj’s.”
“But George just got here.”
“Yes, well, remember our deal? Pj’s first, then dinner, then teeth.”
“And a game?”
“I don’t believe video games were ever mentioned.”
“Aww, Mom!”
“Look,” Jessie said with a sigh. “I’ll read you a story, okay?”
“George can read to me tonight.” The child looked at George, and she could do nothing but smile. He was adorable. Really, truly adorable, with his sprinkling of freckles and amber eyes, just like his mom’s. He may be manipulating her, but she loved it.
I want what they have, she thought, pushing back a rogue wave of envy. “I’ll read to you.”
“No. No, actually, I want you to tell me a story.”
“Tell you one?”
“Yeah, like from your head, not from a book.”
George blinked. She didn’t think she had any stories in her. Did she?
“Um.” She cleared her throat, caught Jessie’s eye roll, and went on with a laugh. “Sure.”
Dinner was an odd assortment of appetizers, all thrown together on a platter, with a bottle of cheap white wine. Unfamiliar though it all was, George loved it—every second of it.
“All right, G, you gotta get those teeth brushed.”
“Come on, Mom. You said I could stay up and—”
“No way! Brush your teeth and—”
“Fine. But I want that story.”
George smiled. “Just come get me when you’re ready.”
She watched mother and son traipse off down the hall, her heart a little tight in her chest as she listened to the arguments, brushing, and splashing. Finally, a door opened, and Jessie came back up the hall to whisper, “Not sure what’s going on. Usually, he reads to himself, but…maybe it’s the new house? Anyway, you don’t have to do this.”
“It’s fine,” said George, meaning it. “I want to.”
Gabe’s room was the only fully furnished room in the house. This was where money had been spent. Kid stuff all over, bright colors, comic book characters. Spider-Man sheets and Pixar posters.
George hesitated in the doorway, unsure where she was supposed to sit, until Gabe patted the spot next to him on his bed. She walked over and settled carefully beside him. Little boys were not something she knew much about, but this one seemed to like her, which was strange in and of itself.
“Okay. I’m ready,” he said.
George had no idea what she was going to say. Crap. She hadn’t planned for this. “Um, so what kind of story do you want?”
“A monster.”
“A monster?”
“Yeah, you know. Maybe a monster nobody wants.”
“Oh. Okay.�
�
She thought about it for a few seconds, ignoring the image that rose up out of nowhere—Andrew Blane, haunting her mind’s eye, again.
“So, um…Bob. Bob is a monster. And he arrives one day in a small monster town.” She paused, cleared her throat.
“Wait. They’re all monsters?”
“Yeah. And nobody wants to be friends with him. He’s just another monster, but he looks different. He looks scarier.”
“How? What does he look like?”
Oh. God, George wasn’t good at this. No imagination. At all. “He has paint all over him.”
“Paint.”
“You know, like…tattoos. His paint tells bad monster stories.” She groaned inwardly.
“Ooh,” said the child, apparently understanding something that George didn’t quite get herself.
“Yes. He’s got these marks all over his skin. They tell a story about him, where he’s been, who he is, what he’s lived through. And Bob wants those marks gone.”
“Why?”
“Because he doesn’t want anybody to know his story. He wants them to think he’s just like them.”
She paused, waiting for another question, and when none came, she went on. “The thing is, monsters like other monsters who look like them. They don’t always accept different-looking monsters.”
“Yeah,” Gabe whispered, his warm, little body curled up into George’s. “Sometimes monsters are alone. With no friends.”
“So, Bob came to Monsterton, looked around, and then found one monster who knew how to take the monster paint off.”
“The monster-toos.”
“Yes. And slowly, Bob’s monster paint starts to disappear, leaving him with perfect, clear-blue monster skin.”
“Do the other monsters like Bob now?”
George sighed, snuggled deeper into the bed, despite the heat, and wondered, Do they? Good, good question.
“I mean.” Gabe turned onto his side and looked up at her. “Does Bob have friends now?”
“No. No friends. Because they all saw him before, and they don’t trust Bob,” George said. But then her forehead wrinkled with worry. What kind of story was she telling this child? This wasn’t a lesson she should be teaching. “But then something happened.”
He sucked in a breath. “What?”
“One day, one of the monsters from Monsterton falls into the lake, and she can’t swim.”
“Monsters can’t swim?”
“Only some.”
“And Bob? Can Bob swim?”
“Yes. So he dives in after the monster and saves her.” George paused, waiting for Gabe to interject. Nothing. “And they throw him a party.”
“To thank him.”
“Yes.”
“Bob’s a hero.”
“Yes. He’s a hero.”
Gabe yawned, his mouth creaking. “Bob’s gonna be like a superhero now, isn’t he?”
With a smile, George reached out and turned off the lamp. “Pretty much.”
“Yeah, superheroes are always different from everyone else, like freaks. But they save people, and then everyone loves them.”
“Right.” She put a hand on Gabe’s soft hair, looked up, and saw Jessie silhouetted in the doorway. “Good night, Gabe.”
“Night, George. That was a pretty good story.”
“Glad you liked it.”
“Superheroes always look like bad guys first,” he said, turned over, and snuggled into his pillow, leaving George in a sort of dull shock. What on earth was she doing, telling a story like that? She’d had no idea where it was going, no idea that she was, in fact, giving her version of someone else’s true story.
And good Lord, what was wrong with her that she couldn’t, even for a minute, stop thinking about Andrew Blane?
* * *
Funny how Clay had assumed he was just randomly walking. He’d started off with the idea that he needed to clear the booze from his brain—especially after that run-in with the law. It had taken maybe two hundred feet of blind walking before he’d started noticing things like the night sky above, with its wide scattering of stars, interrupted by the craggy dark peaks to the west. It shouldn’t be so clear, this sky, not with the clogged feel of the air—it was hot, stiflingly heavy, although nothing like the motel walls. He had the urge to open his mouth the way you might in a rainstorm and drink it. A rainstorm. Fuck, that would be good. So good. It would clear the atmosphere, and maybe his brain too.
More steps, more distance from the lights of Main Street, his feet crunching the dry road in a gritty, lopsided counterpoint to the moist, alive chorus of the Virginia night. Crunch, scrape, crunch, scrape, his limp all too apparent.
Crunch, scrape, crunch, scrape. Not a car in sight as he trudged on, stars above, bug noise all around him, almost electric in its continuity. Crickets. Goddamned crickets. Every once in a while, one of the creatures would surprise him, its voice popping out from the wall of sound, separating itself from this unholy hum.
How the hell did they know to sing that same damned note? Maybe it was the only one they could sing. One-hit wonders, all of them.
Crunch, scrape, crunch scrape.
Clay made it a game, to even out his steps against the pavement, drawing his knee as close to the other as possible, ignoring the sharper ache and shortening his stride until he made a crunch-crunch, crunch-crunch. Never quite perfect, but almost. Almost.
He focused on the road ahead of him, devoid of buildings and houses now, and blinked when he realized where he was, where he’d been going this whole time. Her street—the doctor’s—a tunnel of wilderness on both sides, with her place at the end, the glow of her windows already there.
A light at the end of the tunnel.
He almost turned around. Almost, but not really.
The rhythm of his soles changed, faltered, as he approached. He hesitated for a moment, nearly tripped. Should he knock? What would she do? She’d call the goddamned cops if she had any sense.
His steps stopped right across the street from her house, where the woods were thick and dark and loud as hell. As soon as he stilled there, the bugs took over, mosquitoes feasting on his skin, others buzzing around his ears. He ignored them, fixing his eyes on the lamp lit in her front window, the curtains drawn back, inviting his gaze farther inside. Didn’t she know? Didn’t she get how vulnerable she was alone in that house? Anyone could walk up and watch her, stalk her and—
Fuck. I’m the sick bastard doing it. I’m the person she should worry about.
But he knew that wasn’t true. Because he’d seen exactly how bad the world could be—for men, certainly—but even worse for women like her. For girls like his sister, Carly, who’d trusted the wrong guys, for the club hangers-on, those women who had no choice but to align themselves with fucked-up assholes who’d end up hurting them. And even for women like George Hadley, who saw the good in people, who worked so hard to spread her special brand of warmth. The world beyond the fuzzy, golden glow she’d surrounded herself with was a treacherous, stinking, dangerous place.
Clay was the last line of resistance between her and the hell that lay out there in the wilderness of real life. He’d be damned if he’d leave her to its mercy.
At least that’s what he told himself as he took raw comfort—comfort he needed more than anything right now—just knowing she was nearby.
* * *
Back in the living room, George made as if to go, but Jessie threw a you’ve gotta be kidding me look and held up the half-full bottle of wine. “Please don’t leave me to kill this by myself. I’m pathetic enough as it is.”
“You’re not pathetic.”
“Wanna bet?” One brow raised, Jessie poured out two full glasses and held hers up in a toast. “I just realized that I haven’t gotten laid in two years. How’s that for pathetic?”
> George’s giggle stopped short. “Oh. I…” Her eyes lost focus as she tried to latch on to a memory.
“What?”
“I’ve got you beat,” George admitted.
“What? No way.”
“Yes, way.” Her eyes blurred over with tears. It was the wine. She really wasn’t used to drinking. “Haven’t in…” Another gulp, another swallow, a memory of the last time she’d done it. Done it wasn’t even the right word. It had been…a good-bye. “Almost a decade.”
Jessie spat out a mouthful of wine at that. “What the effing hell? Are you kidding me?”
George shook her head, embarrassed, teary-eyed, but laughing nonetheless.
“You, George, are a born-again virgin. You realize that?”
“What?”
“Yeah. Oh man.” With a conspiratorial look over her shoulder, Jessie asked, “Should we, like, hire a pro or something? Just to get us out of our dry spells?”
After a fit of giggling that nearly ended in actual sobs, George leaned back, wiped her eyes, and hiccupped. Her breathing was shaky, and she tried hard to get it back. It was hilarious, really. Wasn’t it? Not having sex in that long and the born-again virgin thing—it was funny. But, for a few seconds, it was all too unbearably sad to laugh at. So sad that she had to fight back the tears and force a tight smile.
“We really have to do something about this, though. You do get that, right, George? Find you a man and…” She sat up straight and wiped the grin off her face. “Are you, like, a lesbian or something?” One hand out. “That’s okay too. I mean—”
“No. Not a lesbian. I’m just… I was married once. To a man. A long time ago and…” George sucked in a big breath of air, forcing the tears back. Funny how the laughter and the crying were so close, so wrapped up inside her, so intertwined and interchangeable. When had she so lost control of herself that she couldn’t talk about her past without opening the floodgates to an emotional deluge?
Never. She’d never talked about it. Any of it. To anyone. She couldn’t start now.
Rather than go on, she cut it short, nipped it in the bud, clammed right up. “I don’t like to talk about it.”
“Oh.” Jessie looked taken aback, and George’s skin heated with embarrassment.
By Her Touch Page 12
