122 Rules (9 page)

He laughed, low and mucousy, reminding her of the way her grandfather sounded in the weeks before the throat cancer claimed him. “That dried-up cunt can’t hear you. She’s passed out, so
you’re
going to have to play hostess. I was thinking we could be friends.” Pausing, he pounded his chest with his fist and belched.

The stench of half-digested gut-rot alcohol hit her full in the face. “Real classy,” Monica said. She dared to make eye contact. “Now, why don’t you get the hell out?”

“You’re a feisty little bitch. It’s gonna be fun teaching you to respect your elders,” he said, grabbing her blanket.

Nope, not Disneyland.

She reached into the narrow gap between her bed and the wall, bringing out a baseball bat with
Louisville Slugger
written in blue script along its sleek, oak-colored length. She hopped up on her mattress, eye level with the drunk. Cocking the bat over her shoulder, she said, “One last warning, asshole. Time for you to leave.” Icy resilience had replaced the blood flowing in her veins.

He paused as his alcohol-addled brain processed the change. Then he shook his head and laughed again. “I just thought we could play, princess, but you’re turning out to be a fun little tease. I knew it. Deep inside, you’re just a whore.” He seemed to sober for a moment. She could see the predator that lurked just beneath the surface when he locked eyes with her and said, “Just. Like. Mom. Now why don’t you be a good girl and put the bat down? We both know how this ends.” He reached for her.

Before her dad became a permanent resident of Alabaster Cove Cemetery and her mom a drunken slut, Monica had been something of a softball prodigy. With superb hand-eye coordination, uncanny reflexes, and a natural athletic ability, she almost always put the ball over the fence no matter what the opposing team threw at her.

This swing would have left her old coach breathless. Nothing had been lost in the year since she’d last stepped up to home plate.

For a split second, she stood back on the diamond, cleats on her feet, dirt-streaked uniform, the smell of fresh cut grass. Her lean muscles remembered the familiar movement—the same pull and coordination, the same wicked swoosh as the thick end of the bat arched gracefully through the air.

But the similarities ended there.

The satisfying crack of wood on leather was replaced with a blunted, branch-snapping
thwack
.

Her swing caught the 250-pound drunk just north of his left ear. He paused as if in quiet contemplation then dropped like a sack of wet cement, blood immediately pooling beneath his ruined head.

She stared wide-eyed at the small clump of scalp with a few bloody hairs sticking out that clung to the end of the bat, then dropped the vile chunk of wood, and started screaming.

10

Susan woke with a start and sat up. The cry that had started in the nightmare pierced the night.

“Are you okay?” Peter asked, placing his hand on her lower back. She had to force herself to not shrink away from his touch.

Wake up, girl. You are with Peter and safe. He won’t hurt you.
Her sweat and tears had soaked them both, and the blankets beneath.

“Nightmare,” she replied and reached for the cigarettes and lighter on the nightstand. Her hands shook with such fierceness that she dropped several before Peter took them from her.

He pulled one out, placed it between her lips, and lit it. “It sounded like hell,” he said. “You were talking in your sleep. I couldn’t tell what you were saying, but the longer it went on, the worse it got. I thought you were angry, but then you started crying. I was about to wake you up, but you screamed and about scared the crap out of me.”

“I hate that dream. I have it all the time.”

“What happens in it?”

The lunar light spilled in through the window, casting shadows around the small room. In the darkness, his skin glistened with her sweat. She could tell him she couldn’t remember the details or that she didn’t want to talk about it. But then again, there were people listening.

The night before, Peter had taken her out on his motorcycle, driving way beyond the city limits into the desert. Her first taste of freedom had been sweet as they sailed past cacti and armadillos. She’d pounded on his jacket, yelling, “Faster, damn it, faster!” He had indulged her, until the wind and the vibrating engine were the only things that existed in the universe.

After they’d come back to her place, she’d put on a good show, laughing and chatting, then later she’d been very vocal in her passions. Not that all of it had been for display. She felt better, freer than she had in years. Plus, Peter had certain skills and talents that she appreciated.

She’d imagined Crew Cut listening to their antics, jotting down notes in a large yellow legal pad, which he would then turn over to Jon. The little prick would file a report full of her moans and gasps of pleasure. But she’d been doing that for months; if they really wanted something to talk about, she’d give it to them.

“I killed a man,” she said.

“Ummm, what? Really?” Peter appeared startled. “What happened?”

“That’s what the dream is about.” The sadness still haunted her. After all these years, it still gnawed on her bones as if it had happened the day before. “After my dad died, mom decided to drink the county dry and screw every lowlife on the western seaboard. One night, she passed out, and the bastard she’d brought home decided to pay me a little visit.”

“Oh shit.”

“Yeah. I was only twelve, but the perv wanted some more action. I disagreed and sent him to the big bar in the sky.”

“How’d you do that?” Peter asked.

“He was drunk, and I had gotten a Louisville Slugger for my eleventh birthday. He came at me, and I nailed him instead of the other way around.” Did Crew Cut already know all of this? He had access to her files, so probably. Still, it might sound a little different coming from her instead of the pages of a police report.

“So the dream isn’t a dream at all, but memories of that night.”

“Yes. I spent a bit of time in Juvie. I was found innocent of any wrongdoing, and they released me after my mom kinda got her shit together, but I never forgave her. After that, she did her thing, I did mine. You know how it is when you can be together but not really.”

Peter nodded. Something in his eyes—a sadness—told her he might understand.

“She didn’t show up when I graduated high school, top of my class, I might add.” She spat the words as if that could remove their bitter tang.

“Congrats. That’s not easy in the best of circumstances. Sorry about your mom, though.”

“Yeah, I wasn’t surprised or really disappointed. My best friend, Angel, her mom more or less adopted me. They were the only ones that I cared were there.”

“Still, it had to sting.”

“Well, that’s life, isn’t it? Things don’t always work out the way you want.” Monica traced the deep pattern of scars on Peter’s leg with her fingertip. “What about you? Why are you here?”

“Since my wife left me, I’ve been a bit lost. I’d planned out my life with her: kids, a house, a dog, the whole American dream. But plans are just that, and it turned out she had something different in mind...with someone different. So after she left, I finished my stint in the military with a small vacation over in sand land. I dedicated my future to the Marines, but my career got cut short when I got that parting gift from the grateful people of the Afghanistan nation.”

She frowned. “That’s not really an answer.”

“Fair enough, counselor. After I recovered, I got lost. I don’t have any family. My folks are gone, and most of the people I knew that were my friends before the divorce, sort of drifted away. When you split up, it gets a bit awkward for them. They have to choose sides, and I guess I was the less popular option. I’ve only had a few people in my life I truly cared about; the first was my wife.”

“And the second?” she prompted.

“My brother. He was my absolute best friend.”

“Was? What happened? Can you go stay with him?”

“He’s dead.”

She knew loss and longing better than anyone, so she didn’t say anything, letting him gather his thoughts.

“So anyway, after I finished physical therapy, I tried to figure out where I was going and what I wanted to do with my life. I got a little money because of my injury, not a lot, just enough to get by for a while. Started traveling the country—Chicago, D.C., New York, California, all the big exciting places everyone always says they want to see—but so far, no place has struck me as home. So, here I am, trying the opposite of everything else.”

“The opposite being small, remote, and decrepit, with no hope of a job or future?”

He laughed. “Suppose so. I actually didn’t know anything about the town before I got here. I was driving and found this wide patch in the road. My bike took the off ramp, and here I am. My life has been turned upside down so many times I don’t know which way is which. So, I thought, ‘why the hell not?’” He fell silent for a while, then asked, “So you graduated top of your high school class, then followed your dreams to be a lawyer?”

A stab of anger pierced her heart. Not at Peter, who also seemed to be one of life’s misfits, but at Crew Cut, Granite, Driver, Jon, Bad Facelift, Laven—all of the bastards that had taken her life from her. She’d told them the truth and cooperated, but they had presumed her guilty and given her no chance to prove otherwise. The FBI had locked her up and treated her like a criminal trying to skirt her punishment, while they got their witness. They always seemed to be one step ahead… Only, perhaps not. Maybe she could finally get a leg up, make them pay and hurt, if only a little. Crew Cut needed something to put in his report, so she’d give him something that would really make his life interesting. “Well, that was the plan.”

Peter hesitated. “But it didn’t work out? Looks to me like you’re living the dream.”

“Well, looks can be deceiving. I went to NYU on a full scholarship and was all set to be a big shot lawyer. But then I overheard a conversation I wasn’t supposed to.” She envisioned Crew Cut sitting up straight, frantic to call his boss. The image gave her a glimmer of glee, and she just managed to contain the laughter threatening to burst from her lips.

“What kind of conversation? Who was it?”

“It was between a drug lord and his hitman. Maybe you’ve heard of the Laven Michaels case?”

“Oh yeah. Who hasn’t? It’s all over the headlines and on every news channel. They have some star witness though that doesn’t seem to be enough because, by all accounts, the case seems to be falling apart.” He looked closer at her in the weak light. “Wait. Is that you? You’re the witness?”

“One and the same. They wanted to ‘protect’ me, so here I am in witness protection, though I think witness prison is a better name for it. They locked me away, using me when they wanted and forgetting about me the rest of the time.”

“So what happens when the case is over?”

“Well, they promised me an education and that I could continue with my life. Instead they gave me a certificate of paralegal, stole my identity, and sent me away to this little shithole of a town.”

She turned towards the hidden microphone so that it would pick up her words clearly. “There’s this bastard, Hale Lenski, who is supposed to be protecting me, but basically he’s a demented dictator with all the charm of asparagus. I call him Crew Cut, because he looks like he has his hair done at a lawn and garden store. He’s locked me up, and jumps on my ass the second I do anything, so I’m more prisoner than the guy they’re trying to convict. Other than Crew’s remarkable lack of personality and snow-shovel good looks, there isn’t anything attractive about him.”

“No love lost there,” Peter remarked. “So, they stole your identity?”

She turned back to him. “Witness Protection, baby.”

“Wait, so you’re saying your name isn’t Susan?”

“Nope. Monica Sable, star witness and slave to the system.” She held out her hand. Peter looked stunned as he took it, and they did an awkward lying-in-bed-naked shake. “Pleased to re-meet you.” Pleasure rippled through her body at the thought of Crew Cut and the galley shitting monkeys and making angry phone calls.

“Wow. I don’t know what to say to that,” Peter said.

She laughed. “You don’t
say
anything.” She rolled over on top of him. She kissed him, the smoke in her lungs passing to his. She took another hit off of her cigarette then stamped it out in the tray. They shared this last breath from a dead cancer stick as Monica ground her hips against his. She adjusted her pelvis, and he slid inside of her. She lay down flat against his chest as she continued to rotate her hips, setting a slow and deliberate tempo.

As they moved together, their rhythm and intensity increasing, she let out little moans and gasps. As she neared orgasm, she sat up, leaned back, and put her hands on his chest, riding him harder. A cry emanated from deep in her throat as her release went on and on, and she felt him push up as he followed her.

She lay down on top on top of him, not releasing him but instead holding tight. She drifted off to sleep with a smile in the stuffy little room.