by Joe Clifford
She snagged a beer, laughing. “You took one hit.”
“What can I say? I’m a lightweight.”
“Not that first night at the Fireside. You were pounding them back.”
“I told you. That was because—”
“You liked me.” Alex pulled her legs underneath, sitting on her heels. “Poor Nick. So sensitive.” She reached out, brushing his hair behind his ear. He flinched. She laughed.
“Why do you have to be like that?”
“What?” Her fingertips lingered on the back of his neck. “The other night you said you didn’t want to because I was too wasted. I’m not wasted now.”
“That’s not what I mean. You treat everyone like a game. Looking for leverage, some play. You’re playing me now. People have feelings.”
Alex returned to her side of the couch. “Jesus, Nick. Lighten up.” She grabbed her beer, bracelets jangling with the faraway sound of a lone car racing up the boulevard.
“You’re not helping yourself acting like that.”
“Thanks, Dr. Phil.”
“I think you pretend you don’t care because it’s safer. I think you push people away because it’s easier than taking a chance. I think you want what you can’t have because then there’s no way you get rejected and feel the hurt. I think you run so fast and so hard so you won’t get caught—because if you did, if you stopped moving, even for a second, let your guard down, allowed someone in, they’d glimpse the real you, and the thought of that terrifies you.”
Alex stared off into space, killing time till the sting abated. Those initial seconds after the tip pierces the flesh? Sure, you feel it. After that? No big deal. Numbs over quick. Nothing but tiny white crosses buried among scar tissue.
“That was precious.” She patted his knee. “I’m going to bed.”
That’s when he made his move. The kiss caught her by surprise. What surprised her more was how much she wanted it, someone to take charge, call her on her bullshit. She was tired of running. She wanted to stop. No one had bothered trying to catch her. He pulled her lower on the couch, crawling on top. She liked feeling his bulk pressing down on her. His hands cradled her face. He kissed her, urgent but without desperation, tender without hesitation. There were no games this time. Alex wasn’t fucking around, killing time because she was bored on a random weeknight. She wanted him.
Nick traced her collarbone, lifting her hair, kissing her neck, eliciting chills, inciting heat. Hands up the backs of shirts, hips rising off the cushions, body against body. He wasn’t frantic and he didn’t rush. His hands stayed right where they belonged. He didn’t try to speed through this part, making out as a pretense to get on to the fucking. His patience forced her to be present, exist in the moment, feel the now. Too often Alex tried to escape the present. Regret yesterday. Dread tomorrow. Never have to be here and deal with today. The way he kissed her, slow, impassioned, possessed, full of yearning, she felt connected, which thwarted her usual defense mechanism of checking out, taking no risk. When their eyes opened and they stared at one another there was none of the usual awkwardness. No one stifled giggles or felt overtly self-consciousness. The way he touched her, exploring every inch of her body, like he could do it all night long. And she wanted him to do it all night long.
Alex’s cell buzzed in her pocket. She tried ignoring it at first, but the ringing was nonstop; as soon as one call ended, another started back up. Whoever it was wasn’t giving up.
“Seriously?”
“Sorry,” she said, slipping out from beneath him, pulling the phone from her jeans. She turned it over but didn’t answer, staring at the name on the screen.
“Who is it?”
“Riley.”
Nick sat up, snaring his beer and cracking the tab. Whether or not she took the call, the moment was gone.
She took the call. “Yeah.” Pause. “How do you even know where I am?” Pause. “Okay.” She clicked off.
She grabbed her hoodie and bomber. “He wants to talk.”
“What? When?”
“Now. He’s downstairs. He sounded different.”
“Different.”
“I don’t know. Not himself? Something’s wrong.”
“I’m coming with.” Nick started to stand.
“I don’t think you’re invited.”
“Right. Got it.”
“Nick—”
But he was already up, headed for the bathroom, slamming the door.
When Alex slipped in the passenger’s seat, she knew what was different about Riley. He was drunk. And not a couple-beers buzzed but six-sheets-to-the-wind hammered. She could smell the booze on him three feet away.
He didn’t look at her when she climbed in, didn’t acknowledge her at all. Which didn’t make her feel all that talkative. They hit 90 North toward Albany, Riley pushing the needle, threatening triple digits. Alex gripped the Jesus bar. He was daring her to tell him to slow down. Of course Alex wasn’t doing that.
Exiting the freeway like an afterthought, Riley ran a pair of red lights, swinging a hard left into the hotel parking lot, finding a spot far enough away where no one needed to respect lines, which was good since the forty-five-degree angle he ended up at would’ve banged the hell out of any vehicle in the vicinity.
At a fourth-floor room, Riley slapped his key card and splayed open the door. Alex stopped in the entranceway and peered inside. Men’s clothes and complimentary USA Today sections lay strewn across tangled sheets. The TV was on, sound off. The view out the window overlooked the dirty Hudson, downtown lights twinkling without promise. Empty liquor bottles littered the floor.
“Get in here,” Riley said, finally speaking. “I don’t want to have this conversation with you in the hallway.”
Alex stepped inside. The rank room overpowered with the ripe tang of body odor and takeout Italian food left too long in tin beds. She could almost taste the acid reflux.
Riley bent at the little fridge. “Want a beer?” Alex shook her head. He closed the door, taking nothing, opting instead for whatever was in the paper bag on the dresser. He cracked the seal, poured a couple fingers in a ceramic mug, then abandoned all pretense and brought the bottle with him to the small, round table, loosening his top button, kicking his feet out.
“What are we doing here?”
“What? You don’t like my new place? Make yourself at home.”
“You want to tell me what happened?”
Riley dug in his pants’ pocket, retrieving a metallic token, a poker chip. The bronze coin gleamed in the overhead lights. Riley tossed the chip on the dresser. Or tried to. The chip missed its mark and clinked off the edge, falling to the floor, which prompted manufactured laughter. “How funny is that?”
Not funny at all, she wanted to say. Alex felt sorry for Riley. And not because of what he said, this being his new address, or the years of sobriety he’d apparently wasted. She felt sorry for him because he didn’t know what wrong steps he’d taken to end up here, which meant he couldn’t find his way back home.
“Meg threw me out,” he said, addressing the elephant. Although Alex had figured that out by now. This was why he’d brought her up here. He wanted her raked over coals, ass planted in the front row to bear witness to his shame. “Found out you were in town, and then the last ten years of couples therapy, nodding yes like a naughty pup that had crapped the bed, the nonstop apology tour, all of her shit I had to take, out the window.” He took a long swig from the bottle, rage coursing off him in waves, the indignant, self-righteous kind of the wrongly victimized, a proud captain only too happy to go down with his ship if it meant drowning the rest of his ungrateful crew too.
How had she missed this? He must’ve already been on the wagon when they met. Now that she thought about it, she couldn’t remember his ever drinking when they were together. He didn’t talk about AA. Then again, she was underage and he was a cop.
“You going to say anything?”
“What would you like me to say?”
Riley closed his eyes tight. “Why did you have to come back here?”
Alex stepped closer, standing over, looking down on him. She reached out and put her hand on his head, stroking his hair. He grabbed her hand, but not to stop her.
“Oh, Riley,” she said.
He staggered to his feet, pulling her close by the waist, grappling, pushing her back to the wall, trying to shove his tongue down her throat.
She ducked his stranglehold. Riley stumbled, laughed, swiped his bottle, keeping his back to her. “I thought that was what you wanted.”
“So did I.”
“Fuck you, Alex.”
“No, I don’t think so. Not tonight.”
Riley returned to his drink and liar’s throne.
“Whatever you got going on in there,” she said, “it isn’t about me. Or your wife. You were waiting for this excuse.”
“What the hell would you know about it?”
“I grew up with an alcoholic, remember? Alcoholics always have a tragedy on hold, ready to dial up disappointment whenever they need license to run their life into the ground.”
“That’s funny coming from you. I deal with burnouts and addicts all day long. I know the look.”
“You’re right. I drink too much. And, yeah, I might lean too hard on pills sometimes. Maybe I need to take a hard look at my life and make some changes. But I’m not the one feeling sorry for myself in a fucking Extended Stay in downtown Albany, blaming the high school girl because I couldn’t keep my dick in my pants.”
“Why don’t you get out of here? Call a taxi. Need some money?” He pulled his wallet, fingered a pair of twenties, flinging them with a violent gesture. The paper bills fluttered to the floor. “That should cover your time.”
Alex wasn’t offended, and she wasn’t scared, and she wasn’t leaving.
“I talked to Wren Brudzienski yesterday.”
“No shit. What do you think started all this? I’ve known everything you’ve done the minute you got back into town, every move you’ve made. How’d you think I knew you were at your boyfriend’s?”
“You’re investigating me now?”
“I tried to play nice. All it’s gotten me is a pain in my ass and a thankless fuck you.”
“I’m sorry Meg threw you out—”
“I bet you are.”
“But it’s got nothing to do with me.”
“Not now.”
“Not then either. I was seventeen years old.”
“Yeah, well you aren’t seventeen anymore.”
“No. I’m not.” She paused, slowed down, made sure she had his complete attention. “But I was. You were almost thirty years old. As old as I am now.”
“And?”
“And if I slept with a seventeen-year-old boy, they’d call it rape.”
“Don’t! Don’t!” Riley jammed a finger under her nose. “You wanted that!”
“I did. And so did you. That’s why it happened. I don’t regret it, and I’m glad it happened. But here’s the thing, Sean. You were the grown-up. You’re the one who should’ve known better. If your marriage is still feeling the effects, if you’re still dealing with the fallout, that’s on you, man.” God, it felt good to say that. Riley made for the bottle. She stopped him, moving it out of reach. “Why aren’t you convinced Benny Brudzienski is guilty?”
He slumped back in his chair. “Why can’t you let this go?”
“I told you. I’m getting paid.”
“A few hundred dollars? Christ, Alex, I’ll pay you that much to leave. Go back to New York. I have enough problems. I don’t need you adding to the shit pile.”
“It’s two thousand dollars.”
“Two thousand dollars? Fuck, that’s my monthly mortgage payment.”
“I’m sure. But it’s mine. I’m earning it.”
“Doesn’t matter. I told you I’m going to call that reporter, pull the rug out—”
“Except you haven’t.”
Riley spread an arm over his new hotel home. “Sorry. Got a little distracted.”
“It’s not about the money anymore.”
“Whenever someone says it’s not about the money, it’s about the money.”
“The day I met Noah Lee up at Uniondale for the interview, he was trying to get under my skin, shooting in the dark, talking out his ass, trying to rile me. He asked if I thought I started something. Me and all those other girls. Because of Parsons.”
“Started something? Like what?”
“Like a curse on this town. A hex.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“That’s what I said. Except I’ve been wondering if maybe he wasn’t right. Not the way he meant it, not exactly. I don’t believe in curses or voodoo. But I don’t think I was supposed to escape that basement. I think I was meant to stay there. Maybe if I had, the circle would’ve closed, been complete. No one else would’ve had to die.”
“That is the dumbest thing I have ever heard.”
She took his hand, patting it, soothing. “You were like a superman to me. Because you got to me in time. That’s what I thought. But you didn’t. It’s not your fault. No one could’ve. Something happened to me down there.”
“And you think, what? Learning Benny Brudzienski didn’t act alone is going to cure you? That if you discover Kira Shanks alive and well, living under an assumed name in Binghamton, you’re gonna be fixed, whole, happy?”
“I don’t know if I’m ever getting that,” Alex said. “But I know I can’t keep living this way.”
Riley leaned back, sobered by the conversation. “You’re right. I should’ve known better. And I have to live with that. My daughter Sam will turn seventeen someday. You don’t think I know what I did? I could send you a thousand more emails and letters telling you I’m sorry, that I overstepped my bounds, abused my authority, but it wouldn’t make a difference. We live with our mistakes, and if you live long enough, all you have is the regret. But you weren’t some shining example of well-adjusted when I found you. You were seventeen going on thirty.” He tried to laugh. “You were like you are now. But it played a lot better back then.”
“Why are you partnering with Wren?”
“I’m not ‘partnering’ with Wren, except to keep Benny from getting killed. Wren Brudzienski doesn’t want his brother down south because then he’d be on the hook for a lot of money. If the DA brings official murder charges, Wren could get stuck with the bill from Galloway, all the cash the state has invested in Benny’s care. And New York would come after him for every red cent. You better believe it.”
“Yoan Lee said Benny needs to go somewhere with better long-term care.”
“Yoan Lee is full of shit. He’s got his own agenda. Everyone does. His lawmaker buddies up in Albany want their puff piece. He’s tossing them softballs. The guy used to be a real journalist. Now he’s another corporate shill.”
“And charges automatically put Benny in Jacob’s Island?”
“There’s always a chance Benny gets assigned to another hospital. I doubt it. Either way, Wren would still be the one writing the check, and he doesn’t want to roll the dice. Neither do I.”
“Guess Wren is lucky Benny can’t say what really happened.”
“I know what you are thinking, and, no, Wren had nothing to do with Benny’s accident. Wren was a hundred and fifty miles south coaching football when Benny was attacked. I’ve spent a lot of time with the man. Wren can be an abrasive prick but he wouldn’t hurt his brother, and he wouldn’t dishonor his parents’ memory by letting Benny live on the streets.”
“What aren’t you telling me? Come on, Riley. There’s a reason you are trying to give Benny a break beyond concern for Wren’s financial wellbeing. You’ve never been a bleeding heart. I know they found Benny’s DNA at the motel.”
Riley scratched his ornery beard, reclining further, kicking his feet out. Superma
n status on permanent hiatus, he accepted he couldn’t put her off any longer. “That college reporter’s right about one thing. After Parsons, Reine couldn’t survive another tragedy. The politicians and powers that be up here—including your new pal Yoan—wanted someone held responsible. You don’t get rezoning ordinances passed and new shopping centers built with murderers on the loose. Benny’s blood was found in the room. Benny was found speechless in a ditch. Same end. Different means. Crime, punishment. Deal done.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying semen was found on the sheets. More blood. DNA not belonging to Benny. But no one wanted to explore those avenues. Those streets were too goddamn dirty. A rumor leaked the semen belonged to Benny, and that was good enough for the higher-ups. They leaked that detail to the press, whipped the masses into a frenzy, let them do their jobs for them. Fuck the jury, screw the judge, bring on the execution. They wanted the mess cleaned and off the books. I went along with it because that was my job. Might as well have joined the lynch mob myself. The least I can do now is let the guy have a nice view, some fucking trees and birds to look at while he craps himself. That’s not bleeding heart. That’s basic human dignity.”
“How many other people’s DNA?”
“The Idlewild’s not the cleanliest of places. Truckers, transients, hookers. People fucked there on their lunch breaks. Bring in a UV flashlight, you’re looking at the goddamn Milky Way. Who the hell knows what went on in that room?”
“Did you get a sample from Cole Denning? Because I met that guy, and he’s hiding something—”
“Yes. We did. Stop playing cop.”
“And?”
“And wasn’t a match.”
“Dude’s sketchy. He’s drinking himself to death—” Alex stopped, glancing at the bottle a few inches from Riley’s hand. Who knew what drove a person to destroy himself like that? Denise ran her liver in to the ground. So had her aunt, Diane. Linda was well on her way. Alex had always considered herself better because she switched it up, never stayed with any one drink or drug too long, was always on the move. Like her life. Nick was right. Can’t get attached to anything if you’re always running. She was tired of the race. “Don’t you find it a little weird, Cole Denning working as a handyman at the same motel?”
