Confessed

by Nicola Rendell

  I close my eyes. Wouldn’t you?

  Watching her in bed, I could fucking imagine it all with her. Raising hell every day and having sex twice a night. Making her nervous in bed and keeping her safe everywhere else. Fucking old-school thoughts besides. Providing for her. Watching out for her. Kids. Fucking kids. Jesus.

  She’s so full of hope and spunk, it’s like it’s contagious.

  She makes me feel like anything is possible. Like fucking everything is possible. The old guy nods at me as he chews. The silence, it says it all. “You know what I say?” He takes another cracker slowly from the pack. “I say go for it.”

  I feel the bricks, cold on my shoulders. “I lost her.”

  “Then go find her.”

  Maybe. But right now, the question I’m asking myself is why? Why do I give a shit? Why does she have me dreaming? Why is this time different? Why is Lucy different?

  The corn is starting to thaw, so I flip it over to put the frozen side to my face.

  The answer, it’s simple. I was different. That’s why. She makes me different. She looks at me differently. She doesn’t look at me like I’m going to rob her, even when I have. Which either makes her really stupid or fucking amazing. And stupid she most definitely is not.

  She’s one in a million. And she’s gone.

  But that’s when I hear talking at the front end of the jail. Slightly raised voices. Someone demanding something. I’m pretty sure I hear someone, a woman, saying, “Do you think I don’t understand the law, sir? Because let me tell you!”

  I freeze. Is it? It can’t be…

  The old guy next to me, he just keeps chewing and staring off at some graffiti on the mint-green walls.

  “Try and stop me! Just try! I’m stronger than I look!”

  Holy. Shit.

  Then I hear the noise of sandals clicking on the concrete. The jailer is saying, “Ma’am! We’ve got rules!”

  “Screw your rules!”

  Flip-flop, flip-flop. My nose starts bleeding as my heart starts thumping harder. I catch the drips of blood with my hand and just like that, she’s standing on the other side of the bars. She’s got a smug smile on her face. But then she sees the blood, and she puts her hand to her own nose. Like she’s in agony for me.

  “Oh, Vince,” she whispers.

  “Hey there, beautiful.”

  She gives me a KEEP CALM AND CARRY ON tissue. And then reaches through the bars to hold my hand.

  “I want to get him out of here,” she says. “Right now.”

  “Sorry, ma’am,” says the jailer. “Drunk tank is a no-bail zone.”

  “Drunk? Drunk?” Lucy says. Her hand is still in mine, and she’s squeezing hard. “This isn’t drunk. I watched him deplete the net reserves of the entire Tennessee whiskey industry and even then he could read posted signage.” A half smile crimps her skin. But she drops it. “I’m calling my attorney,” she says, setting her teeth. “I'll have the ACLU on your asses so fast…”

  The woman can do bossy. Lucy Burchett, she knows how to be heard.

  “Hang on now, ma’am,” says the jailer. He looks scared shitless. Good.

  She’s so close that I can smell her. All I want to do is reach down and tuck that little piece of hair back behind her ear. But as a rule, it’s pretty frowned upon to reach out of jail cells to touch someone, so I’ve got to settle for what I’ve got. I rub my thumb back and forth over the back of her hand on the crossbar, right above the lock.

  Her eyes meet mine, shining.

  “She’s right,” I say. “I’m not drunk. I’ve just got some anger problems.”

  Her eyebrows go up, Oh you do?

  “They’re under control. Usually.”

  Sheriff Amos isn’t having it. “Sorry, son. That’s the rule. We’ll let you out at 9 am sharp.”

  I groan. A whole fucking night in the mint-green purgatory when I could be with her, her. The jailer says to Lucy, “I’ll give you one minute with him.” He raises a finger. “Just one.” And then he strolls off towards the front desk.

  As soon as his back is turned I pull her to the bars. Her face lines up perfectly with one of the openings in the grid. “I’m so fucking glad to see you.”

  Her eyes trace their way around my face. “Is it broken?”

  I shake my head. “Don’t think so.”

  Those eyes are so sweet and sincere. “I’ve got Advil.” She starts rummaging around in her purse. I grab her hand. “I’m good. Just…” I bring my hand to the back of her head. “Just be here with me. Just for a minute.”

  She stops digging in her purse and holds still. I hear the sound of her breath and watch her breasts rise and fall. Then she gets up on her tiptoes. I bend down towards her. Now we’re touching foreheads, through the bars. “I can’t believe you came back.” My voice is all thick and heavy.

  “Whatever this is,” she whispers, running her eyes over my face and squeezing my hand, “I don’t want to run from it. I want to know what happens. I want to know about you and me. Because I like you. A lot.”

  “I know.” My voice actually cracks a little. She purses her lips into a smile, and so like a pubescent boy, I go ahead and squeak out. “I do too. So fucking much.”

  “It’s crazy,” she says. But her tone, it’s confident. “Crazy to feel like this so soon.”

  “We gotta take the chances as they come,” I say. “Because when the levee breaks, it’s either sink or swim.”

  Her cheeks push against mine in a smile. “Swim. I want to swim. Just you and me.”

  Yeah. Now we’re talking. I touch her cheek with my thumb. “To the edge of the fucking ocean.”

  And then she lets out this little moan, pushing against the bars to get closer to me. I might have a broken nose and be otherwise fucked, but right now, I’m the happiest man in the world.

  “Time’s up, miss!” yells the jailer. “Closing down for the night.”

  When she adjusts her purse, I see that little red line digging into her skin at her shoulder. I don’t like it. At all. I don’t want her hurting, even by accident. “I’ll be back tomorrow to pick you up. I’m paying your bail.”

  “Lucy…”

  “Ahp!” she says, putting one finger to my lips. “Nope. No arguing. Sleep it off.”

  “Paying bail, Lucy…” I run my hand through my hair. That’s what right-hand men are for, partners in crime.”

  She lifts her pretty dark eyebrows, and her forehead wrinkles. “And who says I don’t want to be your partner in crime?”

  Fuuuuuck. I press my face to the bars. I stare back at her. I put my palm to her cheek. “Get the motel key from my stuff. But don’t stay there.”

  “Oh, I can’t imagine why. I was so looking forward to sleeping in imminent threat of the guy from To Russia With Love stopping by to strangle me with a piano wire.”

  Behind me, the old guy snorts.

  Her eyes slide down the hall, all mischief, and she gets up higher on her tiptoes. It’s a desperate, frenzied kiss. I breathe her in as hard as I can, pressing my nose to her cheek. My face hurts like fucking crazy, but I don’t care. I’d bust myself into a million pieces for the love she’s giving me.

  “No touching!” hollers the jailer. I can hear the smile in his voice, though.

  Lucy steps back. She wipes her lips with the back of her hand and smooths her little dress. I don’t know what is happening or what it’s called or why it’s got shorts attached to the top, but she’s perfect in it. “See you tomorrow,” she says.

  “Wait,” I say, under my breath. “You need to be armed. In case… you know.” I don’t finish that sentence. She can see she gets it.

  She grips her purse strap, straightens up and grins. “I’ve got a plan. Don’t you worry, handsome. Don’t you worry at all. Me at the Russian Mob, we’re on the level.”

  Mother. Fuck. Now this is a woman.

  As she walks away, I slide back down on the bench. I am worried. But I’m also so fucking happy I kind of want to cry.
I pick up the corn from the bench and hold it to my nose again.

  Next to me, the old man raises one gray eyebrow and smiles.

  16

  Before returning to the Super 18, I take a small detour to Walmart, where I go directly to GUNS AND SPORTING GOODS. The guy at the counter gives me the old elevator look and then smiles. His nametag says he’s called Todd.

  “Well hello. How are you, honey?”

  “Fine, Todd,” I say. “How are you?” “Better now.”

  Oh please! “I don’t have time to flirt. Sorry, Todd. I need something for self-defense.”

  Underneath him in a locked case is an assortment of terrifying-looking guns, all of them with orange zip ties running through the barrel and around the handle. I drum my fingers on the glass. “…Like one of those.”

  “Well, sure.” Todd looks a bit put down by my no flirting mandate, but not particularly startled by my desire to buy a semi-automatic handgun. Such is the logic in Guns and Sporting Goods. “We have an array of nice weaponry for a lady like yourself. Do you have a concealed carry permit?”

  “God, no. Where I come from, squirt guns are considered a little too aggressive,” I tell him. “I think I’ll take one of those,” I point at something that looks like a prop gun from True Detective. “And I need to buy it without using my ID,” I whisper, “But I’ll make it worth your while.”

  He brings his chin into his chest. “This isn’t that kind of operation.”

  “What is that kind of operation?” I have visions of some gun show where a guy named Big Harry sells me a gun with the ID thingy scratched off. That’d be just fine. I’m plunging into this thing with both feet.

  “No place that’s open at this hour. There’s a gun show in Knoxville tomorrow. I know a guy who knows a guy. He’s called Little Frankie.”

  Tomorrow isn’t going to cut it. It won’t matter at all when That Russian has dumped me in a drainage ditch with the Communist Manifesto stuffed in my mouth. “Tonight, Todd, tonight,” I tap on the glass. “Help me out here.” I glance around. My eyes fall on a crossbow and a rack of Bowie knives. Not really recommended in Self Defense 101. But I’m not in any position to be picky.

  “You’ll need ID for pretty well everything here, except for this…”

  He produces a box from under the counter. I hold it in my hands. It wasn’t exactly what I had in mind. It’s not the stuff of Bonnie and Clyde. I don’t see it featuring heavily in the Lifetime television movie about my life.

  But it’ll have to do.

  I let myself into the motel room, lock the door behind me, and start packing up Vince’s stuff. I fold his pants carefully and then his T-shirt. He doesn’t have much, but it’s all got the look of being well worn and cared for. Which I like. Very, very much.

  I go into the bathroom and put his toothbrush into his travel kit, which is a simple leather bag. Like Macy’s gives as a freebie with a cologne purchase, maybe. Toothbrush, toothpaste, mouthwash. There’s an electric razor in there, and some floss. A bar of Zest 3000. I double-check the drawers for anything that might be his, but there’s nothing. He doesn’t have much, but if he’s in as much trouble as he seems to be, it feels imperative that we don’t leave a great big string of evidence behind us. Us? Is there an us? I tighten the lid on his toothpaste.

  I think there’s an us.

  Oh boy. I absolutely love the idea of us.

  On the bed, I fold up a pair of boxers and put them in the duffel. Before I zip it shut, I take out a T-shirt, press it to my nose and inhale. I love the way he smells. So musky and dark. His duffel is tidy and only half full, but inside I’m surprised to see what looks like a diary. Black leather, cream paper. With one finger, I trace the corner, thinking I shouldn’t open this.

  I run my fingers up and down the binding. I once kept a diary. I found it last summer when my parents’ house flooded. It was full of daily changing crushes from when I was in 8th grade. Not exactly the kind of thing I want anybody seeing.

  On the other hand, I can’t imagine Vince would be writing down his daily goings on. God knows what he’d write down. Poetry maybe. I can see him writing poetry. The man is a walking contradiction.

  So I just lift the cover, promising myself that if it’s a diary, I’ll slap it shut.

  Only it’s not a diary. It’s a sketchbook.

  Inside is an absolutely stunning pencil drawing of an old woman. Rich, heavy pencil, or is that charcoal? Gorgeous, perfect eyes, precise detail, not a feature too big or too small. She’s looking off to the left and down like she’s thinking or worried. The next page, a younger man. Third page, a middle-aged woman, with a background of washing on the line. Page after page of absolutely gorgeous artwork. All of it signed with the initials V.R.

  He could have talked to me about art for a hundred years and I would never have understood him like I do right now. His care, attention, eye for detail. He looks like a fighter, but that heart inside is softer than I ever imagined.

  There are children, there are animals, there’s even the occasional landscape. The last portrait, though, it’s a surprise. My heart begins a steady thumping against my chest. It’s me, asleep.

  I hold the book closer.

  I touch my finger to the lines, and I can feel the depth of the marks, little depressions under my finger where my shoulder pressed into the sheets. He must have gotten up before I did, drawn me, and then gone back to sleep. The idea of that, it’s so sweet, so romantic, I can’t even believe it. Do I look like that? I wonder. So blissful, so calm, so beautiful? The wave of warmth starts deep inside me and spills up hot into my cheeks.

  The whole picture of him begins to come together. Deeper, bigger, and more complex than I had imagined. Art like this, it isn’t a hobby. It’s a gift. And no wonder he knows his Hopper from his Escher. No wonder this is his dream. If I could draw like this, it would be everything.

  Footsteps outside the room stop me cold. The steps stop advancing, and I stare at the picture window. Through the thin sheers, I see a shadow on the ground. Someone is standing in front of the door but not wanting to be seen. Uh oh.

  I hold my breath and just pray whoever it is will go away if I don’t answer. Housekeeping? Maybe? But it’s not, and they don’t. Pound, pound, pound goes a fist on the door. And then, “Open up, Vincent Russo.”

  That voice, it’s the same one from earlier tonight. Definitely Russian. I once took an entire semester on The Idiot, and my professor sounded just like that. I place the notebook in the duffel, and creep towards the front door.

  All I can see through the peephole are shirt buttons, white chest hair, and a neck tattoo.

  My heart leaps up into my mouth, and I make a tiny squeak.

  “I know you are here, Vincent Russo. I see car. I just wait until you come out. I learned patience in work camp.”

  I glance around, hoping to make some heroic escape. A downspout shimmy? But I’ve got no options. There’s no window in the bathroom. Stalin here is standing in front of my only way out.

  Now, I’m gutsy. I’m even, one might say, ballsy. But I’m not stupid. So I press myself against the corner, far from the window, behind the door. He might’ve learned patience in the work camp, but I’m pretty patient myself. When I need to be.

  That’s when there’s a clicking and a clacking and I notice the door knob moving. I watch the lock move clockwise and click open.

  Oh my God. I’m in a horror film. That doorknob is moving. The doorknob. Is. Moving. Oh holy shit. He’s breaking in. What do I do? Re-lock it? Jam a chair against it?

  The deadbolt comes open. My hand shoots out for the knob, but it’s too late.

  I’m face to face with the Russian.

  I stare at him. My mouth falls open. “Boris Yeltsin?”

  “Fuck Yeltsin, motherbitch.” He takes one step towards me and cracks his neck. I pivot and back up towards the bed.

  His neck is the circumference of a telephone pole. He’s got one hand in a cast, but that’s not slowing h
im down.

  “I don’t know any Vince,” I say. I try to put the mattress between us, but he grabs my arms, squeezing plenty hard enough to bruise me.

  “Let me go. Please,” I say, struggling to get away.

  “It is not Vince I want now,” he says. He actually licks his lips as he looks me up and down. “Is better to have you. Leverage, ya? And a little fun?”

  LUNCHMEAT HEIRESS VICTIM OF RUSSIAN MAFIA.

  I keep looking him right in the eye. I feel my lips tremble, and I press them together hard to keep him from seeing how afraid I am.

  Okay, Lucy. Time to put your money where your mouth is. You think you’re gutsy? Think you’re ballsy? Prove it.

  I grab my keys from my purse, scream, “Rapist!” at the top of my lungs and depress the button on the canister. Instantaneously, pepper spray shoots through the air in a focused squirt and splatters all over his face. As the Russian drops to the ground, I put my hand to my mouth and nose. I get a whiff of it, and it’s horrible. Like a tiki torch met a bottle of cayenne pepper.

  “Leave Vince alone,” I say. I squint and blink back tears. I put my foot on two of the fat fingers sticking out from the cast.

  The Russian roars in pain. “Bitch! He owes me money, you little whore.” He paws furiously at his eyes. They’ve turned bright red, and he’s streaming snot from his nose.

  I’m not sure if foaming mouth was part of the deal with the pepper spray, but that’s definitely happening. I grab the duffel from the bed.

  “How much does he owe you?” I bear down in his fingers a little more, making sure to put my weight on my toes.

  “Little American bitch!”

  “I know I am. But how much?”

  “725,345.50 rubles!”

  “Oh for God’s sake.” I grind into his fingers harder. “Dollars. Give me dollars.”

  “Is approximately 11,000!”

  I stare down at the heap at my feet. He’s got sweat stains that look mostly permanent on his golf shirt. He looks like a dangerously down-on-his-luck golf pro. “If you get your money, will you leave him the hell alone?”