by Ragan, T. R.
The funny thing was...as much as she despised Peter, he was a mere squid in a shark-infested sea. Squid or not, he deserved to rot in hell. Peter just happened to be the first one on her list: Peter, Randy, and Brian. After those three were taken care of, maybe she could breathe easier and sleep through the night again. Maybe her mom could get her life back in order.
The first apartment on the ground floor had curtains that had been pushed open. Inside, an old lady sat in her big cushiony chair and watched television, her face inches from the screen.
“Hey baby,” came a voice from the shadowy depths of a tall hedge of poisonous oleander.
She ignored the voice and kept on walking. The apartment she was looking for was at the far end of the complex. Although Lizzy’s sister had been nice enough to buy her a new pair of jeans and a few shirts, Hayley had opted to wear the outfit her mother had given her a few years ago, back when Mom had been trying so hard to get sober. Her mom had been drug free for a few months and during that time they had gone shopping.
Best day of Hayley’s life. Not because her mom bought her an outfit, but because they had never done anything like that before. The two of them spent the entire day window shopping and then they ate Chinese food at the food court. Mother and daughter—just out shopping for the day—an honest to goodness fairy tale come true. Neither of them particularly loved sweets, but they stopped at the candy store that day too. Twenty minutes later they exited the sweet shop with a bag of sour gummy worms and black licorice shaped like tarantulas. They had laughed about that for days.
Hayley didn’t want to hurt anyone, she thought as she continued on beneath the moon-lit night. Causing people pain wasn’t her thing. The therapist lady she’d been talking to up until a few weeks ago was nice and patient and she kept telling Hayley that the hatred she felt for most of mankind would subside over time. If that ever happened, that would be great. But for now, Hayley decided to take matters into her own hands. Contrary to popular belief, she didn’t hate everyone—just a few disgusting, narcissistic souls.
Hayley knew she could go out every night for the rest of her life and she wouldn’t be able to make a dent in the drug-dealing population. She was smart enough to know that there might even be a few misguided drug dealers out there who really wanted to turn their lives around, and that was all wonderfully great. All those people were safe tonight, at least from her.
But not Peter.
Peter Peter Pumpkin Eater needed to pay for what he’d done.
“Honey sweets. You can’t just walk by me without saying hello.”
The guy had come out from the shadows and he was on her heels. She could practically feel his breath on the back of her neck.
Reaching into her hip pocket, she whipped around fast. She was wearing a wig and the ends of her long red hair hit her chin. The blade of her knife gleamed in the moonlight as she held the sharp tip to his face.
He took a few steps back and nearly tripped on his own feet.
“Come on back here, baby,” she said. “I think we should talk about this.”
When he realized she wasn’t going to lunge at him with her knife, he straightened the collar of his jacket, and then turned and walked off with a big man strut in his step. “Don’t be sticking no knife in my face, bitch,” he said as he walked off.
She continued on her way, shadow man forgotten.
The moon was bright. It wouldn’t surprise her to hear the howl of a wolf. Instead she heard a door slam shut. There were a lot of angry people living in this shithole.
Her shoes, an old pair of Converses, hardly made any noise against the cement walkway as she moved along. She’d found the shoes at Goodwill for seventy-five cents. They would have cost a lot more if the right shoe didn’t have a big-ass hole in it.
There it was...apartment 103B.
Half hidden behind a planter filled with dried dead weeds, she took off her sneaks and her pants. If shadow man was watching, she didn’t care. She removed the pills from the pants pocket, and then pulled out a stretchy mini-skirt and a pair of gaudy three-inch heels.
Eleven dollars for the entire outfit, including the wig she was wearing. She’d been royally ripped off.
Dressed appropriately now, she carefully tucked the pills into her bra, inhaled the night air, and looked up at the moon through thick false eye-lashes. There was something about the moon that appealed to her like nothing else did...something reassuring. Maybe she liked knowing she could look upward on any given night and the moon would almost always be there, no matter where she was. Maybe it was the face on the moon, always smiling down at her, never annoyed or upset: familiar and nonjudgmental.
She forced herself to look back at the cheap brass colored numbers: 103B.
Peter lived here. Tonight was just the beginning.
Although she’d been keeping tabs on Peter for a while now, she really had no idea if Peter had a mother, sister, brother, or aunt. She never actually came to his door before. Hell, maybe he was married with kids. If he had kids, she might have to figure out a different way to dish out his punishment.
Hayley shrugged. Whatever. She’d just have to wing it. She knocked on the door and waited.
She didn’t have to wait long.
Peter looked the same as always: like shit on a stick. His hair was poking out every which way as if he’d just rubbed a balloon on his head and the electrons and protons were going crazy.
“Christina,” he said, his voice slurred, his breath reeking of alcohol. “Is that you?”
“Yeah.” She had no idea who Christina was, but that name was as good as any.
He stuck his head out the door to see if anyone was with her. “Where’s your ol’ man?”
“Don’t know.”
“Who brought you?”
“I walked.” At least that much was the truth.
His hand rose higher on the door frame as if he was trying to look cool or something, an impossible feat on his best day. He had on a dirty white T-shirt and a pair of pants at least a size too big. Apparently, he slept in his clothes. “You’re lookin’ good,” he told her.
“You think so?”
“I always knew you liked me.”
“Are you going to let me in, Peter, or should I go back to the ol’ man and tell him you wouldn’t let me inside?”
A crooked smile appeared. He moved aside to give her enough room to get by. He smelled like Scotch, beer, and road kill all mixed together. Funny how certain smells brought back memories, bad and good. Too bad the recollections running through her mind at the moment were all repulsive.
She stepped inside and held her breath to stop from gagging. The greenish brown shag carpet looked moldy. A stale plastic milk carton sat on the floor next to the couch. Empty beer bottles decorated the room. Her mother’s house looked like the Ritz compared to this apartment.
“Nice place,” she said.
“Can I get you a shot of whiskey?”
Before she could answer he curled a calloused hand around the nape of her neck and pulled her lips against his. She hadn’t thought anything he could do would surprise her. She was wrong.
Every part of her filled with rage, popping and sizzling like hot oil in her veins. It took restraint she didn’t know she had not to bite off his fucking tongue. She used both hands flat against his bony chest to push him away. “Only if you do a shot with me,” she managed.
He didn’t have to go far, which was unfortunate. A bottle of whiskey sat on a coffee table in front of the couch. He did have to get a couple of glasses though.
She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
The second he disappeared in the kitchen, she retrieved the pills from her bra and slipped them into the quarter full bottle of whiskey. She put her thumb into the opening and shook it up. When lover boy walked back into the room, she pretended she’d just taken a sip and even wiped her lips with the back of her hand. Then she set the bottle back on the table with a loud thump.
He look
ed from the bottle to her face. “You look different.”
“Thanks.”
“It’s the hair. I like it.” He poured about a shot’s worth into each of two plastic cups and handed her one. He drank his in one gulp.
She took a sip and gagged. “This tastes like shit.”
His expression changed, reminding her of how easily he angered. “Why are you here?” he asked.
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“No,” he said, as if someone whispered her plans into his ear.
Outside in the moonlight she’d felt as if she could take on an army of hoodlums, but everything had changed the moment she entered Peter’s apartment.
She hated him, hated him with every fiber of her being. And that was the problem. Hate was an emotion and emotions fucked with your mind. She tried not to let him see the anxiety she felt merely by looking at him. “Why don’t you take me to your bedroom so I can show you how much I’ve been looking forward to this?”
He realized the front door was still open.
With the bottle clutched in his right hand, he used his left to push straggly hair out of his eyes as he went to shut the door. She heard the click of the lock before he led her to his room down the hallway.
A king-sized mattress on the floor took up most of the bedroom. A dingy maroon-colored coverlet hung off the edge. His bedroom was much darker than the living area. She stood at the end of the bed and noticed that he was still standing beneath the door frame leading into the room.
“What are you waiting for?” she asked.
“I’m trying to figure out the real reason why you’re here.”
“Curiosity.”
He grinned, showing two rows of tobacco stained teeth. “You think I’m stupid?”
She was counting on it.
He took a long swallow from the bottle. “I always knew you liked me, but I could never get you into my bed. So why now?”
“The ol’ man strayed, so I figured I would do the same.”
“I could frisk you,” he said, “but I think it’ll be a lot more fun if you just strip down to nothin’ instead. One piece at a time. Go ahead. Take something off.”
“Well, maybe I’ve changed my mind about this whole little tryst.”
“Tryst? You been reading a dictionary or something?”
“Merriam-Webster’s, Eleventh Edition. It’s a best-seller.”
“Cute. Now take it off. Take it all off, honey.”
He took another long swig from the bottle. She removed her T-shirt and then took her time sliding the mini-skirt down and over her legs before finally stepping out of it.
While she stripped, he drank.
Wearing nothing but a thong, a skimpy bra and a cheap pair of high heels, she left her clothes in a heap. “I must say my feelings are hurt. Peter doesn’t trust me.”
He set the bottle on the floor, and then straightened and pulled his shirt over his head. He wobbled slightly.
Thank God.
“Where did you get that scar?” she asked, her lips pouty as if she gave a rat’s ass.
His chin dropped to his chest as he took a look. “This,” he said, trying to touch the scar but missing by a few inches, “is an old war wound.”
Seeing the scar made her want to smile, maybe even throw back her head and laugh, but she didn’t. She had made that mark with her teeth years ago and she was proud of it. The dumb asshole probably thought that was bad.
He hadn’t seen anything yet.
Hayley turned slightly, her gaze on her backpack. She wanted to make sure everything she needed was close by.
“What’s that on your back...a tattoo?”
Shit.
He stumbled forward and pointed a finger at her. “You’re not Christina.”
No, she thought as she watched him collapse...finally.
Using the pointy toe of her right shoe, she nudged him in the stomach. He was out cold. “And lucky for you,” she said, “you’re not Brian.”
She grabbed her backpack, kicked off her heels, and then quickly changed back into her comfortable clothes. Years ago, when her mom had first dated Brian, she had thought Brian was different. Trusting her mom’s judgment, she had been fooled into believing Brian was an okay guy. But it wasn’t long before she saw Brian for what he truly was—a monster.
Peter was what she considered to be practice before the big game. If Peter knew what she had planned for his friend Brian, he would have been kissing her three-inch heels in gratitude before he passed out.
Brian would not be nearly so lucky.
No sirree. She was saving the best for last.
Once her shoes were on, she pulled out an assortment of knives and a soldering iron, everything she would need to make sure Peter Peter Pumpkin Eater never pierced a person with his pickled-peppered prick again.
Chapter 8
Never Talk To Strangers
California, 1989
Carol wondered how long she’d been walking. She already had a blister on her left foot.
No watch. No water. No idea where she was.
And she didn’t really care. For the last ten minutes she’d been watching the sky as she walked, transfixed. The sunset was amazing. It was hard to believe she’d never once watched a sunset from beginning to end. It was single-handedly the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen in her life.
Her parents were strict and they always expected her to be inside the house before the sun went down. That was Rule Number One. She had a love-hate relationship with her mom. Frank was another story altogether. Just thinking about him left a bitter taste in her mouth.
She inhaled a deep breath of warm pine-scented air, and extended her arms above her head, keeping her arms slightly forward while maintaining a gently curved line. Fifth position: one of many positions she’d learned during her years of ballet. She gracefully dropped her arms to her side and continued walking, one foot in front of the other.
Exhilarated. That’s what she felt at the moment. Liberty and justice for one, she thought with a smile. As she watched the sun dip closer toward the horizon, the rich hues of pinks and reds signaled freedom. Yes, she was free. Free at last, free at last.
A car pulled to the side of the highway a few feet ahead of her.
She stopped, looked, and waited.
A man climbed out of the car. He shut the door and came to stand near the back tire, lazily resting his hip against the trunk. From where she stood, he looked like a young man. Cute. Wavy sandy-colored hair framed a nicely shaped face that was golden brown from a day or two in the sun. He wore flip-flops and light colored denim pants with a hole in the knee, revealing more golden skin. His shirt was a long-sleeved button down with hardly any buttons being used. He waved. “Need a ride?”
Rule Number Two: never talk to strangers. Rule Number Three: choose your friends wisely. Rule Number Four: look both ways before crossing the street. She exhaled and continued walking while thinking about what she should do once she was next to him.
“Cat got your tongue?” he asked as she approached.
“What?” she asked even though she’d heard him.
“Want a ride?”
She didn’t think she did. And she wasn’t sure if she was nervous because he was a stranger or because he was cute. “Do you know how far we are from the national park?” she asked.
“Meeting someone?”
“No.”
“It’s a good ten minutes from here,” he told her. “I could take you there if you want.”
She was close enough now to see that he hadn’t shaved in a while. He didn’t have a beard or anything, but he looked as if he could grow one easily enough if he wanted to. She wondered how old he was...twenty-two, twenty-three?
He smiled, revealing beautiful white teeth.
Butterfly wings flittered about deep inside her belly. Never talk to strangers. Never EVER get into a stranger’s car. She looked ahead at the long stretch of lonely highway and wondered why no one ever told her to lock
her bedroom door at night. Now that little tidbit of information might have come in handy. If she ever had kids, that would be Rule Number One, Two, Three, and Four.
The car he drove was an old dusty Buick with a missing tail light. The windows were rolled down. The back seat was strewn with clothes, a half-eaten bag of pretzels, and an empty Coke can or two.
He came around to where she stood on the side of the road and opened the passenger door. He made a grand gesture of bowing as if allowing the princess to enter his carriage. It was such a crazy thing for him to do that she found it oddly romantic.
Don’t drink and drive. The thought came out of nowhere. Well, that wasn’t exactly true. A crumpled can of Coors was sticking out from under one of the seats.
Carol took a good look at the guy stooped over before her. His hair was a little long and stringy, but clean. She could even smell some kind of cologne, something citrusy like lemons and limes combined.
Tired of the fanfare, he straightened and said, “I hate to leave a damsel in distress, especially on this God forsaken deserted highway, but I have places to go and people to see. I saw your car a few miles back, at least I figured it was your car since it wasn’t there this morning when I passed by. Anyhow, my name’s Dean.” He held out his hand.
She shook his hand. His fingers were long and lean and warm enough to send shivers up her arm. “Carol,” she replied.
“Don’t mean to be rude, darling, but if you need a ride, it’s now or never.”
Never, never, never take a ride from a stranger. That was probably the rule Frank repeated the most. That thought alone was the decision maker, the deal breaker, the thing that allowed her to push any and all concern aside and get into Dean’s car—a stranger’s car—an act that could and would be life altering.
The springs under the worn leather sank beneath her as she took the offered seat. Dean shut the door. She looked to the west to watch the sun flash its last brilliant rays and light up the sky in deep purples and ripe oranges, taking her breath away.
Dean climbed in behind the wheel, and she smiled at him as she thought of her favorite quote by Robert Frost: “Freedom lies in being bold.”
