And I needed a hit of her again.
We questioned a guy at the old lumber mill in West Franklin today. He was a guy from the basement days. It was a miracle we tracked him down. We felt sure he knew who engineered the frame-up of Grayson, that he could give us something we could use.
The motherfucker wouldn’t talk. I told him I’d run him through the wood chipper if he wouldn’t give me something.
He didn’t believe me, of course. Kept saying he didn’t know who was behind it. So I made my guys hoist him up. I started feeding him in, hand first. He blurted out a few nicknames and then shut up. Done talking. I suppose he knew he was dead either way.
So I put him through.
They didn’t want me to do it like that. Too messy. And with all the safety features wood chippers have these days, it’s also a real pain in the ass compared to just shooting him in the head, but when I say something, I follow through. That’s important to me.
Let them have the high ground. I can be the psycho they need me to be. I left them back at the Bradford to bitch about me. Too angry. Out of control. You have to let people bitch about you when you’re the leader.
Doesn’t matter.
They’re safe. That’s what matters.
Then I found myself driving to her. I told myself I’d just watch her from the car. She gets done with her last class at three fifteen on Wednesdays, and I thought I’d drive by her fancy girls’ school.
They hang banners from the roof to show the world what the girls are up to, and this month the banners say prom season. Prom is a kind of dance, according to Wikipedia.
Then I followed her to the museum. I wanted to know what she was doing in there, and I thought to slip in, but I don’t know how the fuck you blend in at a museum—you have to know something about a place to blend into it.
So I hung around in the garage until she got back. I told myself all I’d do was make sure she got out of there okay. Wouldn’t want any predators to get at her.
Yeah. Too late for that now.
Even her hate feels good. I’ll never be yours. I replay it in my head. That glare as she said it. Her fear, her hate, her friction. I shouldn’t get off on it, I know. That’s how twisted up I am.
“So did Detective Rivera follow up? Is he giving you any more trouble?”
Her eyes snap to mine. “How do you know about him?”
“I’m a bad guy. It’s my job to know about the cops.”
She fishes through her bag of fries, taking out a slim, crispy one. Maybe she likes crispy ones. “He didn’t believe me.”
“But he didn’t go at you again?”
“No. My mom kind of ran him off.”
“Your parents protecting you. That’s good.”
She nods, seeming sad.
“So they’re leaving it?”
“Is that why you wanted to see me?” she asks. “To make sure you’re home free?”
I can see the hope in her eyes. She wants that to be the reason I’ve grabbed her up and not something bad. She doesn’t get it; everything with me is bad. “I’m asking the questions. Are they leaving it?”
“I have to go to a shrink. But she doesn’t ask me about it directly.”
“And you won’t tell her.”
“I said I wouldn’t,” she snaps. “I’m good for my word.”
I nod. I like that. Keeping our word is something we have in common, but I don’t say it.
“I never tell her anything.”
“You should tell her how you feel, if you feel upset.”
“Just leave it,” she says, echoing me.
“What else? Everything back to normal otherwise?”
She drags another burnt french fry through the blob of ketchup she squeezed out into the side of her fries bag. If I’d known she likes them crispy, I would’ve ordered them like that and taken a look to make sure they did it right. “Pretty much. Except for self-defense classes.”
“You’re taking self-defense?”
She shrugs. “The shrink thinks it would be good.”
“Is it?”
She eats the fry. “It’s exercise, I guess.”
“Show me. Can you hit? Did they teach you to hit?”
She pushes a fry into her mouth and looks at me suspiciously.
“I’ll give you pointers,” I add.
“No, thanks.”
“It’s not like you can hurt me.”
“You want me to hit you? So you can give me pointers? Practice self-defense with the person who’s the whole reason…” She doesn’t have to finish the sentence.
“The whole reason you need to defend yourself? Who the fuck better to practice against, right?”
“I just want to go home.”
“C’mon.” I stand. “Give me your best move.”
She just gazes up at me. The new highlights in her hair catch the setting sun, and there’s a light dusting of freckles on her nose. She looks like an angel.
“Come on. Up.” I want to see this. More than that, I want her to touch me. Doesn’t matter whether that touch comes with pleasure. I’m more used to pain anyway.
“I can go home if I hit you? That’s what you’re saying?”
“If you knock me down.”
I wait. I can tell she’s considering it. She knows I mean what I say. She wipes her fingers on her napkin, tucks the napkin into the greasy bag, and stands, eyes wary. She’s suspicious.
“Let’s see whatcha got.”
I’m expecting something half-assed, but she comes out with a big roundhouse. I slap it away.
“That’s what they’re teaching you? To try something like that?” I grin. “I don’t know about these classes.”
She looks wild and angry and kind of beautiful. “You think it’s funny? Go to hell. You made me lie to everyone.” She kicks me, hitting my knee.
“Ow,” I say, laughing.
Suddenly she’s like a little windmill, a flurry of hits and kicks. “I could barely sleep! And he knew!” Hit, kick, hit, kick. She’s landing them. I’m laughing, surprised more than anything. “Everyone looks at me like I’m…” She hits again.
“Fuck!” I say, holding her off. “Okay!”
She doesn’t stop. She’s dead serious, going at me like a wild banshee. She actually connects a few times.
“Okay, okay.” I grab her, get her under control. She’s crying by the time I pin her to a tree. I have her arms trapped against her shoulders. She’s breathing hard, frightened.
I dig in my fingers, just to let her know who’s in charge. Having her under my control again, let’s just say it’s a good feeling.
Her breathing changes. Tears in her eyes. “They know I was lying.”
“Okay,” I say, “you’re okay.” I use my calming voice, a little trick I perfected down in that basement all those years, calming my guys down when things got rough, which was pretty much always. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay.” She kicks, and I move my leg to pin hers, getting real close to her. This level of control feels a little too good. A little dangerous. “I hate you.”
“I know, little bird.”