IDLE: Book Four of The Seven Deadly Series

by Fisher Amelie

  “Stop,” I said, my heart pounding. I looped around him and placed both my hands on his shoulders, pushing him back. “Get inside.”

  We loped up the steps, back into the house, and I went straight for our ’50s refrigerator, searching for an ice pack for what I suspected was a fast bruising back.

  “You must be so tired of my shit,” I whispered into the quiet.

  Salinger had closed the front door and was leaning on it, watching out the window. “What does that mean?” he asked, still staring into the yard.

  I tied the bottom of my shirt right below my ribs and hissed when I placed the ice pack against my lower back. Salinger’s face turned my way.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” I lied.

  He stomped around the filling rain buckets to reach me. He led me back into the kitchen light and examined my back.

  “Jesus, what is this from?”

  “Why are you friends with me?” I asked him.

  “Is this from falling back onto the steps?” he asked, examining me closer.

  He went to the bathroom and rummaged through its little closet. He came back with a handful of bandages and a towel.

  “Come here,” he said, quiet.

  He leaned me over the countertop and tucked the towel he’d brought into the back waist of my shorts then ran the faucet and brought a dry rag under the running water. He wrung out the water and carefully pressed it against my back.

  “It’s bleeding,” he said. “Not bad, but still.”

  He pulled the cloth back and leaned close to me. He blew the skin there. I closed my eyes, trying to ignore the butterflies that simple act gave me. He affected me and I had started to wake back up to it. I didn’t want that. Didn’t deserve that. Couldn’t think about that right then. My breaths came heavy and quick.

  His index finger found a loop of my waistband. “You okay?” he whispered against the skin there.

  Oh my God. “Yes,” I answered, letting out a shaky breath.

  He stood upright and pulled out three small Band-Aids. Each time his warm skin grazed mine, I had to swallow. The butterflies grew more and more frenzied with every move he made, and I found myself silently begging him to finish before I fainted. He was sensory overload. I glanced at him over my shoulder, noticed how careful he worked, noticed his hands. He was everything overload.

  When he was done, he stood and carefully slipped the towel from the inside of my waistband. He threw one end of the towel over his shoulder then held both ends; the veins in his forearms popped out. I stood as well and faced him. He was six inches from me and my heart raced harder. I looked up at him.

  “There you go,” he whispered over the tinkling rain. It had slowed to a drizzle.

  I swallowed once more. “Thank you.”

  His hair was still wet, so he brought the towel up and absorbed some of the water from his neck.

  He smiled something crooked at me and I had to look away from him.

  “Why are you my friend?” I asked him again.

  “I don’t know,” he answered, but it didn’t confuse me.

  I didn’t understand it either. Salinger’s waters ran deep. Depths I could never reach. I’d never be able to hold my breath that long. He inhabited those depths. I could see him down there, peaceful, placid, quiescent, idle in the sand there. I trod above him, desperate to be near him. He would wave for me but my hands were too busy for him, too busy trying not to drown.

  He was a perfect person. I’d have never believed that if you’d told me people like him existed, but he was. He was perfect. He was selfless. He helped me, was a friend to me. He let me do things but sort of shoved me up when I would start to falter. He didn’t do drugs. He went to school. He was smart. He read. He studied. He worked hard. A jack of all trades. A chess master. He was interesting. He had values. I’d never met anyone like him.

  He was careful around me, though. He trod carefully. Never went too far. Always controlled himself.

  I knew what that meant. Men were only careful around you if they weren’t interested. Men were consistent in that, I thought. At least that’s what I’d experienced, and that fact killed me a little inside.

  “Why are you friends with me?” he asked me.

  He’d volleyed it back, but there was something else there. His eyes begged me for something, but I didn’t know what.

  “Because you are here for me.”

  “That’s it?” he asked, staring at the tops of his boots.

  “No,” I whispered, “because—”

  I like you. I like you because you push me, because you pointed me in the direction I should be going and gave me a little push. I like you because you were intolerant of the things no one should tolerate, because you speak your sharp mind, because you constantly strive for improvement. I like you because you are gorgeous, more than gorgeous, actually, because your skin on my back felt like heaven, because you are exactly my type, because you smell incredible. I like you because you are kind and compassionate. I like you because you treat other people’s problems like they’re your own. Nobody does that anymore. Nobody helps others for no reason anymore. I like you. More than I should. More than I deserve.

  I stared at him.

  “Because?” he asked.

  I swallowed. “Because you’re the best person.” I answered him, but only partially.

  If I’d said how I’d really felt, he’d run for sure. I think he thought me a novelty. Me with my chess ability. Me with my out-of-this-world problems. Whatever he’d felt for me romantically before was, for sure, gone the night he’d seen me at the store. The thought of that night made my cheeks warm, my eyes sting. I shook the emotion clear.

  Like sand through my hand, he’d slipped through, but that was okay with me. As long as I could have this version of him, I’d be happy.

  Any version of Salinger was a good version. I had to learn to accept that.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “TOMORROW’S OUR DAY OFF,” Salinger mentioned toward the end of one of our shifts the following week.

  “Yeah, I can’t wait to sleep in.”

  He smiled at me and my heart stopped a little. “What’s so funny?”

  “You won’t be sleeping in,” he said, ripping up a box.

  I knew he didn’t mean anything by it, but my heart began to beat erratically. “What do you mean?”

  “I have this friend,” he began. Oh, God, please don’t try to set me up with someone. You’re killing me, I thought. “He’s a little eccentric, but he’s the most brilliant player, beside yourself, that I’ve ever met. I think he could prep you for tournament.” I breathed a sigh of relief.

  “What’s his name?” I asked him.

  “Bernard Calvin.”

  “Cool.”

  He studied me, trying to gauge something. “Never heard that name?” he asked.

  “Never,” I admitted, already feeling embarrassed. “Should I know him?”

  Salinger laughed, chucking boxes of cereal onto shelves five at a time. “Maybe a little, Lily. He’s only the best living chess player in the world.”

  “Oh, shit, really?” I was right to feel embarrassed.

  He stopped and looked at me. “Just a lover of the game, I think. You just like to play.”

  “Yes,” I confirmed, filling in boxes next to him.

  “I like that,” he told the shelves. He looked down toward me. “I’m not that much fun for you to play, I suspect.” My cheeks tinged hot. Yes, you are. He misinterpreted the blush, though. “I knew it.”

  “No!” I insisted.

  “It’s okay,” he said, brushing it off with a wide smile. “I can’t tell you what an ego check you are for me sometimes. There I am, trying my absolute damnedest and you’re half-watching television then take three seconds to decide your move when I’m taking five minutes.”

  “That’s not true!” I sobered my panic. “Seriously, I’ve never had so much fun as when I play with you, Salinger.”
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  His eyes widened briefly then he turned and grabbed another cardboard box full of cereals. I hid my face behind my hair, feeling a little vulnerable.

  He cleared his throat.

  “Me too, Little.”

  “Little?”

  “Yeah, it’s my nickname for you. Do you hate it?”

  “No,” I told him.

  “That’s what you are to me, you know. A little mystery. A little unpredictable. A little hard to read. A little storm. A little Lily who packs a great, big clash.”

  My stomach clenched. “Are those good things?”

  “A little.” He smiled.

  My blood ran hot throughout my entire body and I avoided eye contact.

  “Where is this Bernard Calvin?” I asked him, desperate to distract myself from him.

  “He lives in New Orleans. He’s a little eccentric. There’s only a few people who know where he lives, and I’m one of those he trusts. Keep that info quiet, though?”

  “Of course,” I promised.

  He trusts me.

  “He was unseated as world champion twenty years ago, but it was proved the opposing team cheated. He never came back after that.”

  “Unreal.”

  “What do you think? Wanna take a little road trip?” he asked me.

  “Um, I don’t know.”

  “Come on,” he encouraged, “it’s only three hours away. We’ll be back the same night. He and I have been talking tournaments you should enter to set up your rating.”

  I was scared; I won’t lie. I’d never really left Bottle County, save for the museum trips as a kid for school. For all the talk my group rambled on about in our promises to one another, there was the comfort that none of us were actually serious. I thought on the buckets of rainwater on the floor at home, the floor itself, and the girls.

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Good,” he offered, another crooked smile on his glorious face.

  After work, Salinger showed up at my house at four in the morning. I had a little bag packed, just in case, as did he.

  “You ready?” he asked me, his voice deep from the early morning hour.

  “As I’ll ever be,” I said.

  I allowed a smile, a real smile, and he looked shocked. The expression fell into a smile of his own.

  “You’re smiling,” he whispered.

  I bit my bottom lip, trying not to cry. “I know,” I whispered back.

  “You’re thinking you don’t deserve to smile. You’re thinking you have no right?”

  I bit my bottom lip harder to stave the tears and nodded.

  “Don’t.”

  A few tears slipped despite my effort. “I can’t help it.”

  “Lily,” he said. He put his hand on my shoulder briefly and squeezed, “if you can’t help it, then we’ll just navigate it until you can.”

  I nodded and wiped away the tears.

  “Let’s hit the road,” he said, throwing his Jeep in reverse. He brought his arm around the back of my seat to check behind us.

  The clean smell of his shampoo and his soap assailed me, made my eyes roll back a little. It brought me back to the present and I felt a little blindsided. My hands dug into my seat’s armrests.

  “You hungry?” he asked.

  “No,” I told him truthfully, “not used to eating this early, I guess.”

  “Neither am I. Not really, anyway,” he agreed. “Let’s see how far we can get then.”

  We headed down the highway. It took us fifteen minutes to leave Bottle County, I’d counted, and Salinger pointed at the sign as we left it behind us. I leaned out of my window, letting the warm, crisp air drift across my skin and hair. The early morning sky was still blanketed with stars, and they shone so bright, so clear above us.

  I giggled a little, took off my belt, and stood through his moonroof. The wind was loud. Its song whipped around me, promising me a future unknown.

  “I’m alive!” I shouted into that wind and let it carry my words behind me, informing my past what it didn’t seem to remember anymore.

  After a moment, I sat back in my seat, my hair a tangled mess around my face and shoulders. I buckled back in and attempted to tame it down.

  Salinger looked at me, his mouth wide with a smile. “Let it be!” he yelled over the wind still enveloping his car from the open windows and roof. “Let it live.”

  I laughed then remembered myself and my smile fell abruptly, a new tear slipped past without my permission.

  “No!” he said, glancing at the road then back at me. He brought his hand up and brushed it away with his thumb.

  I sucked them back and took a deep breath. “Take me to the ends of the earth,” I shouted at him.

  “I promise,” he called back.

  He signaled for me to roll up my window so I did. He did the same then shut the moonroof. The entire car fell insanely quiet.

  “I realized I don’t know what music you listen to,” he said, breaking up the calm.

  “I have eclectic tastes,” I told him. “What about you?”

  “Same,” he said, handing me his phone. “Just not a fan of country.”

  “Same,” I agreed.

  We had old cars and hardware was a necessity, so I plugged his phone in for him and scrolled through his music.

  “Which playlist?”

  “There should be one in there called Lily.”

  I melted in my seat for a moment. “Y-you have a playlist named after me?”

  He smiled at me and I melted further. “Yeah, it’s music I just wanted you to know I liked. It felt important that you knew.”

  I felt my skin grow hot but couldn’t say anything.

  “Hit play,” he prodded, so I did. He let it go for a minute. “What do you think?”

  “I love it,” I told him.

  “Is that the truth?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said and meant it.

  We spent the whole time trading music back and forth, peppering the conversation with tactics and endgame strategies for good measure. By the time we’d met city limits, I was disappointed we hadn’t had more time to talk. We were always so busy with work or fixing up my house or his schoolwork that we never got to dig much deeper than survival. I really liked him, liked what he was into.

  We’d arrived in the sleepy French Quarter in New Orleans in a little more than four hours. It was quiet but the state of the streets indicated it hadn’t been that way for long. It looked like it’d barely survived but it liked it that way.

  “It’s so pretty,” I whispered, leaning out the window, admiring the architecture.

  We pulled in front of a period home with mint siding and cream, elaborate trim. It was one story but truly ornate with a green stoop and mustard-yellow door. Salinger pulled around into the back alley and sidled into its very narrow driveway in front of a closed garage door. He put the car in park.

  “You ready?” he asked.

  A belly full of nerves, I nodded my answer.

  “Listen, so Bernard is, um, he’s a character, a pistol, if you will.”

  “Is this, like, an eggshell situation?” I asked.

  He smiled. “Yes, but as long as we play it cool, catch him in a good mood, he’ll be fine.”

  “This isn’t helping me.”

  “You’ll be fine. You need this. You need to play someone stronger than me. Play the best so you can follow their footsteps.”

  He got out of the car before I could respond to him. He grabbed both our bags, not wanting to leave them in the car, I guessed. I followed him through a pretty wooden gate into the most gorgeous garden I had ever seen in my life. Small paths wound throughout the entire yard around small pockets of reaching flowers and led to the garden center where a small table and set of chairs sat on top of flat stone underneath an iron canopy full of vine.

  We climbed the small set of concrete steps. I stood on a step behind Salinger as there was only room for one at a time. He knocked and I pressed a hand to my throat from nerves. We he
ard shuffling behind the door. It opened and there stood a small man, thin in most areas but his middle, hair sticking up at strange angles. He wore brown leather slippers, a plain white T-shirt, a pair of navy Bermuda shorts, and a navy-blue-and-maroon-striped robe draped over his shoulders that met him mid-calf.

  “You’re early!” he grumbled, turned away and started walking, but left the door open.

  We scrambled in behind him, down a very narrow hall, past a tiny laundry room with ancient-looking machines, a small half bath covered in what appeared to be marble original to the home, and through a pair of dark wood French doors into a cozy sitting room, complete with plaster ceilings.

  Bernard Calvin had stacks and stacks of newspapers lining the walls that rose to the chair railing. He didn’t own a proper sofa, just several old single chairs scattered throughout the room but all facing a small television tucked into a corner of a wall. In the center laid a chessboard on a marble table, with a game already set up. There was pipe smoke everywhere from a burning pipe nearby on an ashtray that sat on a little table next to a comfortable-looking chair pulled up to the chess table.

  “I wasn’t expecting you this early,” he complained, lifting up random bits of paper on tables and searching underneath each one.

  “What do you need, Bernie?” Salinger asked him.

  “My damn glasses!” he fussed.

  Salinger leaned forward and picked up a chain dangling around Bernard’s neck. On it was a pair of thick reading glasses. He looked at Salinger like he blamed him for not realizing they were there. Salinger hid a laugh with a poorly constructed cough.

  “Come with me,” Bernard rumbled and made for the front door that sat at the end of the hall connected to the back door we’d entered from.

  “Bernie, aren’t you going to put on some shoes? Take off your robe?”

  “Why would I do that?” he squawked.

  “Never mind then,” Salinger replied. “Where are we going?”

  Bernard stopped so suddenly I didn’t react fast enough and ran into Salinger’s back. He reached his hands back to steady me.

  “To get something to eat. What else?” Bernard explained with impatience in his tone. He leaned around Salinger’s shoulder. “You must be the girl. Are you hungry?”