“I was only sixteen when we first hooked up,” Shayla mumbled. “Ricky was twenty-six. I was just this dumb kid. I couldn’t believe that a cool guy like Ricky would—”
“You were sixteen? That makes him a pedophile.”
“He was not!” Shayla flung herself away from the window, stomped over to the far side of the room, and threw herself to the floor, obviously fuming.
Ricky Lee Tatum had been a bullying child predator, but trying to convince Shayla of that wouldn’t serve any purpose, Mazie realized. She had to concentrate on keeping the girl’s spirits up. “I’m sorry,” Mazie said. “I just—”
“Ricky Lee said our ages weren’t important because we loved each other.” Shayla’s tone was sullen and defensive. “So it didn’t matter whether we were legal or not.”
“Okay,” Mazie said in a neutral tone, not wanting to further alienate Shayla because, if they were going to escape, they needed to work together.
“Ricky Lee never hurt me unless I had it coming.” Shayla sounded as though she were trying to convince herself. “He had to explain stuff to me because I didn’t know anything. He had to teach me not to talk back to him because if you wanted to be one of the Skulls’ women, you had to learn to keep your mouth shut.”
“And that was okay with you?”
Shayla bit a ragged nail. “No, not really. But Ricky Lee never hurt me bad. Like some of the Skulls, they knocked out their old ladies’ teeth. Ricky just dislocated my finger one time.”
Mazie kept on scraping paint, her back to Shayla. Poor girl—still enough of a child to believe that a boyfriend who hit her was sexy and manly.
“Maybe I didn’t deserve getting hit all the time,” Shayla said slowly. “I thought it was Ricky’s way of showing he cared for me, but … I suppose your boyfriend never hits you.”
“No, never.”
“But what does he do when he gets mad at you?”
“Yells. Then I yell back and I’m better at yelling than he is, so I win.”
“I heard you two fighting while I was hiding outside your apartment. Then I saw your boyfriend stomp out. He’s pretty cute.”
“A lot of women think so,” Mazie said drily.
“You mean he was, like, running around on you?”
“Not exactly. But he was getting a lot of attention from women.” Okay, one good confession deserved another. “It made me insecure. And I went a little crazy.”
Shayla went over to the window and resumed scraping, running the pointed end of the punch against the window frame where it intersected the molding. “You don’t mind me asking you this stuff?”
“No, I like talking about it.” Because it was making things clear in her own mind.
“Are you in love with him?” Shayla asked.
“Yes,” Mazie said, sighing. “I’ve tried not to be, but God help me, I am.”
“When did you first know you loved him?”
“His name is Ben, okay? First I admired him because he was brave and resourceful. Then I started liking him because he was the kind of person you can talk to—”
“So you started off as, like, friends.”
“We were more enemies at first. Long story. But then we discovered that we couldn’t keep our hands off each other.”
Shayla laughed. “You made it with him? That’s so hot. Did he tell you he loved you?”
“Once. I guess that was my lifetime ration because I haven’t heard it since.
“But you knew you loved him?” Shayla prodded.
“No question in my mind.”
“A girl can’t say the L-word until the guy says it,” Shayla said confidently. “It’s like an unwritten rule.”
“That’s one of the rules?” Mazie was really tired of the rules that pretty much allowed men to behave any way they wanted while forcing women to do the hard work in a relationship.
“Yeah,” Shayla said sincerely, “because if the girl says it first, the guy feels trapped, like she’s no challenge anymore.”
Mazie blew her bangs out of her eyes. “That is so incredibly stupid. If a guy gets scared off by hearing a woman say she loves him, he’s not worth it.”
“Getting back to my question, though, how did you know you loved Ben?”
Mazie dug in with her scraper and an enormous chunk of paint flaked off the window. She slid out of her shoes—they were still the make-your-legs-longer platforms she’d had on for her date with Sphincter Man. Grasping the shoe by the sole, she used the heel to hammer around the edges of the window. Chunks of paint rained down. Seizing the window handle, she pulled with all her strength. The window resisted, but she felt a tremor beneath her hands. It was nearly there.
“My brother’s wife had a baby,” Mazie said. “Ben came to her hospital room—this was right after we’d had a blowup and we’d each gone off steaming mad. Emily—my sister-in-law—handed Ben the baby and he walked around the room with this tiny newborn, talking to her under his breath. Annie Laurie—that’s the baby—kicked off her socks and Ben kissed her toes and cooed, ‘Does this widdle giwl have teeny, weeny piggies?’ ”
Shayla snorted with laughter. “I don’t know this guy,” she burst out, “but I really like him.”
“Then she yawned this hu-u-ge yawn and Ben said she had tonsils just as pretty as Aunt Mazie’s and that I usually yawned when he was talking to me, too.”
“He teases you a lot?”
“Yeah. And I just—that was the moment.” Mazie discovered that she was crying and wiped her nose. “It was like something had melted inside my chest. Like there was this candle inside me and Ben had lit it and it was starting to glow and I was all golden inside. I know that’s crazy and mixed metaphors and stuff, but I don’t know how else to describe it. I just knew he was the one man for me, that whatever happened in my life, whoever I met, no matter how mad I got at him, Ben Labeck would always be—” Come on, Maguire, have the guts to admit it. Mazie wiped fresh tears out of her eyes, swallowed hard. “—my only true love.”
Then she turned back to the window and yanked on it. It flew up with such force, it nearly took her with it. A breeze fluttered into the stifling room. She and Shayla stood side by side, inhaling the fresh air, letting it stir their hair and cool their faces. The breeze brought with it the scent of sweet clover, of wild grapevine, and of hope.
Chapter Thirty-Two
“I wonder what would have happened with me and Ricky Lee,” Shayla mused, biting into a chocolate chip cookie. Having succeeded in opening three windows, she and Mazie were taking a break, sitting against a wall, eating their smuggled-in snacks. “I thought he’d ask me to marry him. First you fall in love, then you get married—that’s the way it’s supposed to be. Pretty corny, huh?”
“Yeah, it is—but all girls believe in that stuff,” Mazie said. “I had my whole wedding planned out when I was fourteen years old. My dress, my bridesmaids, the church, the flowers, the reception hall.” She laughed. “There was only one little thing missing.”
Shayla giggled. “The groom?”
“Yeah. He was always kind of hazy, but I knew you had to have one.”
“This one time I was looking through a bridal magazine,” Shayla said. “I pointed to a picture and asked Ricky Lee if he thought I’d look good in that dress. He laughed in a mean way and said no way did I deserve a white wedding and did I really think he was going to get dressed up in a monkey suit and stand up in front of a church with me? Because the other Skulls would have laughed their asses off. He snatched the magazine out of my hands and slapped me across the face with it.”
“God, Shayla—that’s awful.”
“Sometimes Ricky could be so sweet and I’d love him so much that I’d forget the nasty stuff—like how he was high most of the time or how he’d take it out on me when Sonny or one of the higher-ups disrespected him.”
Mazie patted her shoulder.
“But now, talking with you, I think maybe I just convinced myself I loved Ricky Lee because I didn’t hav
e anyone to compare him with.” Shayla’s hair hid her face and she looked down at Muffin, avoiding Mazie’s eyes. “I never even went out on a date with a boy before I met Ricky. I didn’t know much about guys.”
“Never dated? A pretty girl like you?”
“I thought Ricky Lee was a man, but I—I think I started to grow up the last couple of months before … before all the bad stuff. I started to see what a cheater Ricky was. Dishonest. He’d lie about every little thing, even when he didn’t have to lie. It wouldn’t have been so bad, but then he tried to cheat the Yatts. See, Ricky Lee was a runner—he delivered coke and pills and doobie to dealers and they’d pay him. Then he’d take the money back to the Yatts. But he started holding back, making up excuses for why he was coming up short. Ricky thought he could get away with it, but one of his buds ratted him out.”
“Reaper?”
“Probably. Or maybe Sonny. Or it could have been any of the others. You know that saying about honor among thieves, Mazie? Well, there isn’t any, not with these guys. Someone sees how it’ll work to his advantage, he’ll stab his best friend in the back.”
Shayla stood and began to pace around the room. “It seems like it was a long time ago, but it’s only been about three weeks, hasn’t it? The night it happened, Ricky Lee got a call from Papa Yatt to come to the old cannery. That was where they cut up the drugs. He told Ricky he was being bumped up in the operation, getting a bigger territory. I rode over there with Ricky on the back of his bike. When we got there I had to go pee—I’d got a urinary infection from Ricky—so I went out in the woods behind the building because the cannery’s toilets were all wrecked. When I came back, the whole tribe was gathered around in this big room. Ricky Lee and this other guy, Cody—I think he was a Yatt grandson—were kneeling on the floor in front of Papa. They were both crying, pleading, saying they were sorry they’d taken money and they’d never do anything bad again. I just stood there shocked, trying to figure out what was going on. I thought they were trying to throw a scare into Ricky and the other guy. Then Papa Yatt—he had this big hand gun—he walked around behind Ricky …”
Shayla’s voice trailed off. She walked over to the open window and stared out. Outside, it was clouding over and looked like rain. A few fat drops fell on the dusty windowsill.
“The old man shot them in the backs of their heads,” Shayla said finally. “They fell over and blood was pouring out. One of the Skulls looked up and saw me—they hadn’t even known I was there—and they came after me. I ran out and hid in the woods. I had my phone with me. I thought maybe Ricky wasn’t really dead, just hurt bad, and if he got to a hospital on time, they could save him—people recover from gunshot wounds all the time, don’t they? So I called 911, keeping my voice to a whisper, told them about Ricky’s being shot, and begged them to send an ambulance. The gang was stomping all over the place, trying to find me, but I got away.”
Shayla was quiet for a long time. Rain pattered down, making a sound like snapping fingers.
“I walked back to Quail Hollow. I hid in the ditches every time I heard a chopper coming along the road. I saw all the cop cars and emergency vehicles roaring over to the cannery. Then a while later I saw the ambulance coming back from that direction, but it didn’t have its lights on and it was going slow, so I just knew then that Ricky was dead. I took his car—this old rusted-out piece of shit, but it at least ran and it had a little gas in it. I didn’t know where to go, but I finally thought of my cousin Brandi in Milwaukee. I called her up and she said I could stay with her for a few days.”
Shayla leaned her forehead against the window, suddenly looking very young and very tired. “I guess you know the rest.”
Mazie handed her the water bottle and Shayla took a deep drink, finishing off the water.
“I always knew the Yatts would find me, sooner or later. I’m the only witness to what happened. It wouldn’t do any good telling them I wouldn’t rat out them out. They’ll kill me anyway. I’m sorry I got you mixed up in this whole thing.”
“We’re not dead yet. And I bet the police are looking for us.”
“You think?”
“Sure,” Mazie lied. It was only late afternoon and it was possible nobody had even noticed yet that Mazie was missing. Magenta was supposed to return from Vegas today, but he might not look for Mazie until Saturday night. She and Juju usually phoned each other a couple of times a day, but with Mazie’s phone out of service, Juju might not think it odd when Mazie didn’t call her. It could be Sunday before anyone thought to call the police.
But Ben Labeck would come for her.
She didn’t know how she knew it, but she did. She knew it with the same certainty that she knew she loved him.
The few drops of rain increased to a downpour. “The paint cans,” Mazie cried, jumping to her feet, getting a puzzled look from Shayla.
“For water,” Mazie explained. They launched into frenzied activity, snatching up old paint cans, dumping out debris, and setting them on the sills of the opened windows. Even though the paint cans weren’t the cleanest, the captured rainwater would at least be wet. Depending on how long they were locked up here, there might be a time when water of any kind was precious.
They stuck their heads out of the window and let the cool rain fall on their tongues and bathe their faces. Mazie held Muffin out so he could snap at the raindrops.
“We should have taken in your shirt,” Shayla said. “Now it’s all soaked.”
Shayla had stripped off the T-shirt Mazie had lent her. They’d strung it on a length of old wire and hung it from a window that faced away from the sentries below and toward the road. A long shot—after all, the road was a half mile away—but you could never underestimate the power of a nosy neighbor.
The rain turned from gentle sprinkle to heavy downpour and they ducked back inside. “Those pigs will all be indoors now,” Shayla said gloomily. “Drinking, gambling, fighting. Sooner or later one of ’em is going to remember they’ve got two girls locked up and helpless.”
“We’re not helpless by a long shot,” Mazie said. “Now where’d I put my pantyhose?”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Daryl Johnson lived in the upstairs flat of a duplex on South Thirteenth Street, in a working-class neighborhood that was holding on to respectability by the skin of its teeth. The house had dark brown shingle siding, a sagging front porch, and a one-car detached garage so ancient-looking it might once have housed a horse and buggy. Chemical-smelling smoke wafted from the backyard, where someone was grilling.
Ben parked at the crumbling curb, got out of his car, and walked toward the house. He opened the gate in a chain-link fence and entered a back lawn that was mostly close-cropped weeds and crabgrass. A man was bent over a small grill set atop a picnic table, poking at coals that were reluctant to light. He looked up, scowling, as Ben approached. He was around six feet, heavyset, but with muscle under the flab. He was in his mid-thirties, Ben guessed, with wavy, sand-colored hair beneath a Cubs baseball cap.
Never trust a Cubs fan: it was one of the guiding principles of Ben’s life. “Are you Daryl Johnson?” he said.
The man shrugged. “Depends on if you’re trying to sell something.” He sprayed lighter fluid on the coals, making the fire blaze up and filling the air with an acrid stench.
Ben took that as a yes. Already disliking the man, he said. “I’m not selling anything. But I think I found something that belongs to you.”
“What’re you talkin’ about?”
“A Triumph motorcycle. Orange and black, model ATJ.”
“Hey, you found my bike? You a cop?”
“No. I’m looking for the person who borrowed the bike.”
“Borrowed it my ass! The chick stole it!”
“When?”
“Couple of days ago. Took my damn jacket and boots, too.”
“Did you report it?”
Daryl Johnson’s eyes flicked away and he concentrated on the coals. “No, I didn’t file a r
eport. Figured she’d return the bike sooner or later—she didn’t have anyone else to turn to.”
“What’s the girl’s name?”
“Her name?” Johnson’s eyes narrowed. He pointed the barbecue tongs at Ben. “Her name is None of your goddamn business and get the hell out of here, that’s what it is.”
Ben’s temper, already on a short fuse, exploded. He took two strides, knocked the tongs out of the man’s hand, gripped him by the shoulders, spun him around, and slammed him up against the side of his house. “Know what I think, Daryl? I don’t think that was her name at all, but I bet if you think hard, you’ll remember.”
“You—you better stop it—I’ll call the cops on you.”
“No you won’t, Daryl. Because we both know you’re a slimeball and want to stay as far away from the cops as you can.”
Ben didn’t know this at all, but his instincts were telling him it was true and he trusted his instincts. There was something sleazy about this guy, something he was trying to hide. He wanted to shove Daryl’s head right through the walls of his ugly house, but he contented himself with just a couple of light bangs, which jarred loose Daryl’s brain cells. He started babbling.
“Sharla. Or Shayla, something like that—that was her name.”
“How do you know her?”
“I was over at The Hog—this bar. She comes on to me and I give her my phone number. That’s all, I swear.”
Ben bounced his head against the siding again. “What else?”
“Ow—jeez, stop it! She phoned me. She was in some kind of trouble—sounded like every cop in the city was down in Piggsville. I brung her back here and let her sleep on the sofa. I was real nice to her. And how does she pay me back? She steals my sled.”
“You did something to her, didn’t you?”
“Nothing—Christ—you’re breaking my arm.”
“Labeck. Let him go.”
The Sexiest Man Alive: Life and Love on the Lam (A Loveswept Contemporary Romance) Page 21
