Darkling I Listen (34 page)

"Yeah?" He grinned past his Fu Manchu mustache and pulled her closer. He smelled like the cotton candy he'd eaten earlier. There was still a tiny pink fiber of it on the tip of his mustache. "How much?"

"I don't know how much. It's immeasurable, I think."

"Enough to marry me?"

There it was. She'd known it was coming and until that
moment had dreaded it, had done everything she could to avoid it—then gone and thrown open the door and rolled out the red carpet for it. "You don't even know me, Carlyle. You know nothing about me."

"Yes or no."

That simple. Yes or no. How could it be that simple?

Even before the answer was out of her mouth, her entire body seemed to expand with something just short of raw shock and fear—fear of the idiocy of her decision, fear of the outcome. "Yes," she replied. That simple.

A smile touched his mouth, and for a moment the music and bells and whistles faded into a drone. His eyes were a cavalcade of colors: red, blue, and gold of the Ferris wheel. Then he looked beyond her, to where Henry sat on a bench holding her camera, Bernie at his side. "She said yes!"
Brandon
shouted, and Henry's face lit like a beacon as he raised both fists in the air in a gesture of triumph.

"Tickets!" the carny cried, momentarily diverting Alyson's thoughts from the fact that she had just committed her life to Brandon Carlyle.

The carny plucked the tickets from their hands, and Brandon and Alyson shuffled toward the sprawling ride with shell-shaped capsules extended on octopus arms that were flashing with red and green lights. By the time the carny came around to lock the security bar across their laps, Alyson was already regretting her decision to climb aboard the intimidating machine. Her life suddenly seemed as out of control as the ride she was about to take. She needed time to regroup and think. How could she think as
Brandon
slid his arm around her shoulder and pulled her as close to him as possible?

With the first sway and tilt of the car, music blasted from surrounding speakers. Mick Jagger shrieked that he couldn't get
no
satisfaction loudly enough to make Alyson's eardrums throb. As the slow rotation began, she braced herself and glanced out at Henry, who continued to beam and chatter to Bernie.

What made her lift her eyes a degree in that split second before the hot pink shell they were in suddenly, whipped around, she would never know, but as if she were looking down a rifle barrel through crosshairs, her vision centered on the man standing a few feet directly behind Henry. He wore one of those idiotic Groucho partial masks: bushy black eyebrows, black-framed lenseless glasses attached to a honker nose attached to a caterpillar mustache that completely hid his lips. He was stocky. And bald. The streetlight reflected in a flash of fire off the gold stud in his ear. He looked straight into Alyson's eyes, lifted one finger, and pointed it at her like a gun.

The world tipped and spun out of control, slinging her against
Brandon
so forcefully she could hardly lift her head. The music cranked up a few decibels more as their car flung them faster and harder, until she could only close her eyes and pray that their outrageously gaudy shell didn't come unhinged—because if it did, they were going to rocket straight to Mars.

After what felt like an eternity, the ride slowed. With great effort she sat up straight while the world continued to careen.
Brandon
was laughing in her ear—laughing at her, she realized. If she looked as bad as she felt, she must have been a spectacle, but that wasn't what concerned her. As she furiously rattled the bar on her lap, she craned her head around to find Henry. He was gone, he and Bernie, and so was the bald man—
"I saw him," she announced, aware her voice sounded full of sickness. "The bald man with the ear stud. Standing near Henry." She looked around, into
Brandon
's amused eyes. "He pointed
at
me. Like this." She made a gun with her fingers.

The Octopus began to move again, this time backward. "We have to get off," she shouted, knowing, even as she did, that her attempt to communicate was useless with the music blaring.
Brandon
shook his head, laughing again, obviously unable to hear her. Sinking against him and closing her eyes, she began to count back from one thousand, focusing on the numbers in her head and not on the fact that it felt as if every meal she had eaten since she was thirteen was about to spew out her nose.

She didn't even notice when the ride finally stopped. Her eyes were clamped shut and her hands felt fused to the security bar.
Brandon
shook her, only this time he wasn't laughing.

"You okay? Hey, look at me. You still in there, Cupcake?" He took her face in his hands. She opened one eye, then the other. "Fine," she finally managed. Not fine at all, but she was hardly going to admit that she felt like roadkill.

Brandon
jumped to the ground, helped her down,
offered
her an arm to cling to as she swayed like a boat on choppy water. As they were ushered through the exit, she tried to breathe evenly. Her face felt cold as ice, and her stomach resided someplace between her ears.

With tremendous relief, she saw Henry on the bench. She hurried to him, her still unsettled vision sliding over the masses of people moving around them. She dropped onto the bench beside him, mustering up a smile as he grabbed her in a bear hug and held on tightly.

"By God, Al, I can't tell you how happy you've made us. I knew the first time I saw you that you were meant for my boy.
Brandon
did, too. I saw it on his face—thunderstruck he was, like the first time I saw Bernie. Boom! Like a fist to the gut. My greatest dream is to see him happy, and here you are. This is the grandest anniversary present Bernie and I could have gotten."

Henry bubbled on with enthusiasm as
Brandon
walked to the nearest concessionaire and ordered colas.

As her stomach settled, Alyson's panic returned. While she did her best to listen, nod, and smile at Henry's chatter about wedding dates and plans, her gaze leaped from one stranger's face to another, her exasperation and chagrin mounting as she found no less than half a dozen bald men wandering the grounds. Two were stocky; both were wearing Groucho masks, and on closer inspection, she realized they were brandishing print advertisements for American Savings and Loan of Ticky Creek. With a weary sigh, she sank against the bench back and briefly closed her eyes.

*

Now he was angry. Not just miffed or aggravated or put out.
He was teeth-grindin', fist-pumpin' P.O.'d. Ever'one in the five surroundin' counties knew life could, would, become exceedingly miserable if Jack Dillman got angry, so why didn't Mitsy? Why the devil with horns couldn't she respect him?

She'd promised him she'd do whatever was necessary to straighten out the mess with Carlyle's bimbo before it got completely out of hand—which it was on the verge of doing. Had she actually done a face-to-face with Carlyle's bimbo? He didn't know. And really, it wasn't the issue. The issue was
,
she was supposed to walk her saggy ass into the station house and turn herself in by
six o'clock
sharp.

But Mitsy hadn't turned herself in, and Tommy Greene and some cheesy, butt-faced, wet-behind-the-ears Meskin rookie had showed up on his doorstep at seven-thirty sharp, looking like the Lone Ranger and Tonto.

Mitsy Mitsy Mitsy, what am I gonna do with you?

There was only one thing to do. The only thing to do. After an intense, brow-sweatin' discussion with the Ranger and Tonto, he had convinced them not to put an APB on her yet. Let him bring her in himself. And bring her in he would, by God, if he had to drag her by her hair.

No Mitsy at the Dairy Queen. No Mitsy at the Piggly Wiggly, where she occasionally hung out in the produce department and read the latest
National Enquirer
or
Galaxy Gazette
without having paid for it. No Mitsy at the Wal-Mart. Although it was a long shot that she'd show her face at the
River Road
after what happened, Jack Dillman drove out there anyway, only to remember as he pulled into the vast, empty parking lot that
Clyde
closed for business on Yamboree night.

He pulled into the quarry on his way back to town. He wouldn't put it past the local punks to throw an impromptu beer bash—God, he loved to bust the smart-mouthed, cocky young freak heads. No luck tonight, however, but it was early yet. He'd try back around midnight, just pull the Caprice in with the lights off, like he had the night of Carlyle and Charlotte's date, just pull on in there, roll up real close, hit the lights and siren at the same time, and watch them scatter like cockroaches. If he was real lucky, he'd catch a few nekkid. That was pure icing on the cake.

He made the rounds of the pay-for-parking lots surrounding the town square festivities. No Mitsy, but that didn't surprise him. The carnival was heavily patrolled. She'd take no chance of one of the officers seeing her.

Next he drove to the Pine Lodge. The parking lot was packed with cars, thanks to the out-of-towners who were in for the Yamboree, but Mitsy's old Impala wasn't among them. Options depleted, his patience eroding, he swung the Caprice into the Chevron
at
59 and
Randall Mill Road
. Inside he bought another six-pack of
Corona
, a bag of hot and spicy pork skins, a giant peanut patty.

At
ten forty-five
he parked the cruiser just off
59
under a low-growing oak tree. The carnival would be closing soon, and the traffic along this stretch of highway would heat up pretty good. If Mitsy had taken a hike to
Tyler
for some reason, she'd be coming home this direction. Settling back in his car seat, he opened a
Corona
and ripped open the bag of pork skins, flipped on his trusty Sure Fire flashlight, and thumbed through the
Hustler
he kept under the car seat.

«
^
»

L
ike a haunting, the front edge of the weather system crept
through the empty, brick-paved streets; cold fingers of wind scattered paper cups along the deserted sidewalks.

By eleven the food booths had shut down, the rides were
silent,
the arcade hawkers were packing up their stuffed animals and ready to call it a night. The trick-or-treaters had long since been hauled home by their weary parents.

Brandon and Alyson sat on a park bench on the courthouse lawn, just beyond the floodlights that turned the town square as bright as daylight. He held her close. Her head rested on his shoulder, and occasionally she gave a sniff and shudder as she attempted to control her emotions.

It had been one hell of a night. Experiencing the Yamboree again after so many years had brought back an avalanche of memories—all of Henry and Bernie—their enjoyment in hauling him, in his exuberant youth, through the carnival, stuffing him with corn dogs and cotton candy, laughing among themselves as they thought of Cara's horror if she discovered her golden child moaning with a bellyache within hours.

Tonight, however,
Brandon
had been forced, along with Henry, to face the heartbreaking reality that there would be no more Yamborees for Bernie. Together, Henry and Bernie had sat in these very shadows, Henry holding her hand as they gazed out on the twinkling, flashing lights of a bustling, youthful world, a world with hope and dreams and a future, a world that once embraced them. Reluctantly,
Brandon
realized that tonight was the beginning of many goodbyes. But when the hurt rose to close off his throat, he looked into Alyson's eyes and held on to the exhilarating truth that it was also a night of beginnings.

He thought of long, languorous days and nights in Alyson's arms. He thought of children, many of them, some with her sparkling eyes and wonderful lips, some with a burning desire to play baseball. The best thing was that he would be there to play with them. He thought of the years of Yamborees to come, of watching their children wave at them from the top of the Ferris wheel. He thought of sitting here on this bench with Alyson forty years from now, recalling this night when she said she'd marry him.

She nestled closer and turned her face to the curve of his throat. Her cheek felt wet, and the idea that she understood his pain, and Henry's, made him love her all the more.

"I'd like to get married as soon as possible."

She sniffed and nuzzled, wrapped her fingers around his hand.

"We'll have to get blood tests, of course. We'll drive-up to
Longview
on Monday morning and get a copy of your birth certificate. You'll need a ring. I'll call Cartier. I have an account there—"

"I want to wear Dessie Anne's ring," she interrupted. "It's all I need. We'll sign a pre-nup if you want." Lifting her head, she looked hard into his eyes. "I'm not interested in your money. I may be a great many things,
Brandon
, but I'm not a parasite."

He kissed her, just a soft brush and light molding of her lips with his.

She gently placed her fingertips on his lips and took a shuddering breath. "We have to talk. There are things I have to tell you, I should have told you days ago, the moment I realized or suspected where this relationship was headed—"

"There's time for that."

"But—"

"Are you still married?" He raised his eyebrows.

She lowered hers. "No."

"Are you an escaped convict, mass murderer, drug dealer, or into white slavery as a lucrative sideline?"

"No." She grinned and tugged on the end of his Fu Manchu mustache, making him wince as it peeled painfully off the sensitive skin above his lip. She pressed it to his forehead and began to snicker. Then she yanked off his goatee and stuck it on her own chin. "This is what I'll look like after I go through menopause. Will you still love me?"

"Wasn't it written someplace that I have a fetish for goats?"

"Sugar, I'm fishing for sweet nothings, and you're insinuating that I look like a farm animal."

"A very sexy farm animal."

They smiled at one another.

"Really," she said, pulling the mustache off his forehead and tossing it to the ground, along with the goatee. "It's time to be serious. There's something you should know about me—"

"No." He looked away, not sure why, but feeling unsettled by her insistence on confessing something that was serious enough to make her eyes look fearful. "Not tonight. Hey, I've never asked a woman to marry me before, so don't go and spoil it for me, Cupcake." Catching her hand, he stood up. "Besides, I have a surprise for you."

"Here?" She glanced around. "But everything's closed."

"Not everything. Slip a guy a couple of C notes, and the sky's the limit. Hell, in Ticky Creek, two hundred bucks will buy someone's firstborn."

Tugging her along behind him, he walked toward the ancient redbrick, multistory building, circa 1905, directly across the street from the courthouse. The upper windows were boarded, the facade decorated with garish cartoon faces howling in laughter. JOSE'S HOUSE OF MIRRORS. Jose loitered out front, cigarette drooping from his
mouth,
hands shoved in his pants pockets as he bounced up and down in an attempt to keep warm. He grinned as they approached, gave an approving nod of his head that scattered cigarette ashes in the breeze, and said, "Go for it, amigo. The coast is clear."

Brandon
glanced over his shoulder at Alyson. Her eyes were big and suspicious, her mouth just beginning to curve with amused comprehension. He could feel himself already hard, but then he'd been in a perpetual state of rut all night. The dress she was wearing was enough to make him ache to mount the nearest parking meter, and when he'd allowed his mind to contemplate the stockings and panties she wore underneath the short, tight, black dress, he'd been hard-pressed not to undress her on the Ferris wheel.

The first floor of the building was cold and cavernous, and smelled of old timber and mildewing Sheetrock. Jose had transformed the soon-to-be-demolished eyesore into a maze of high mirrors and red lights that turned the atmosphere hellish. Artificial cobwebs hung from the rafters, brushing their faces as they moved down the narrow passage, feeling their way along the walls in search of the next glass corridor.

Music suddenly blasted from hidden
speakers,
and with it the disembodied shrieks and tortured screams of Halloween ghouls. The backbeat of the tune rapped sensually against their bodies. The lights dimmed and pulsated. Finally, they stepped into the heart of the maze, a circular room of red reflective glass around them and above them. Suddenly the two of them became a hundred, a thousand, dizzying with their numbers.

Brandon
turned to Alyson, slid his arm around her waist, and pulled her to him, roughly. He definitely felt like rough tonight. Not much room for tender foreplay. Wanted her too badly. Couldn't get enough of her if he loved her twenty-four hours a day. She slid her hand between them, down his erection, knowing what he needed and wanted. Her eyes became slumberous in that way that made him crazy. Her lips parted and lifted to his.

Their tongues danced, breath mingled, sighs shuddered with arousal and the frantic need that filled them. His hands fumbled with the buttons on his shirt—tossed it to the floor as he went on kissing her, as she went on stroking him, making him grow, and groan. He caught the skirt of her dress and yanked it up her hips, her ribs, dragged it off over her head and threw it on top of his shirt. She stood before him in her black French bra, thong panties, and thigh-high stockings and heels, her dark hair windblown, her pale skin glowing under the throbbing lights.

He lost his breath at the sight of her multiplied by a thousand surrounding him. The overwhelming pain between his legs made him grit his teeth.

He moved around her, behind her, looked over her shoulder at their reflections bathed in red light. She stood nearly as tall as him with her heels on. Nice. It was going to make what he was about to do to her a whole lot easier. Catching her hand in his, he slid them both into her panties. Her eyes flew wide briefly, and he whispered, "Relax, Baby. You're going to enjoy this almost as much as I am."

He guided her hand deeper, between her legs, stroked her with her fingers and his until she was wet and quivering and her breathing quickened. As her eyes drifted closed, he whispered in a tight voice in her ear, "Open your eyes. I want you to watch."

Slowly, slowly her eyes opened, her lips parted. He felt the heat rise off her skin that became slick and fragrant. The scent of her arousal filled his head and sluiced through his body until the swelling between his legs became both heaven and hell, a sublime pain that beat inside him as red as the bathing lights, as distinct and crashing as the drumbeats pulsing from the stereo speakers. As if sensing his ache, she leaned her butt into him, rubbing up and down so the friction made him groan and grit his teeth and mutter soft curse words in her ear. She liked that, he could tell. She enjoyed dirty talk, just as she enjoyed watching—she was comfortable with her sexuality. Good, very good. He'd take her places that would amaze her.

Her head turned slightly, and she looked at him over her shoulder, her mouth turning up as she said, "Someone might be watching."

He slid their hands deeper, stroked harder,
smiled
into her eyes. "Hope they enjoy the show."

She laughed, a husky sound, yet the reflection that looked back at him from the glass once again held that shy, little girl innocence that made him feel mad with need. Not just need, but possessiveness. Crazy that he'd never felt possessive over a woman before.

Her body trembled, and a sound like a shudder of pain escaped her lips. He slid his finger, and hers, into the wet, slick folds of her body. The unbearable pleasure and excitement of it made her throb, until the crotch of her panties was heavily damp, until the wetness shimmered down the insides of her thighs, just above the lacy edge of her stockings.

With his free hand he unsnapped his jeans, carefully unzipped them—allowed the tips of his fingers to slide over the taut flesh of her firm round buttocks as he did so—he groaned with the relief of pressure against his cock, allowed the jeans to slide down his hips, to the tops of his thighs, nudged down his underwear so his hard, heavy rod fell against the small of her back. She gasped in anticipation. Her hand beneath his began to tremble.

"Easy, easy," he murmured in her ear,
then
kissed the moist, soft skin just below it. She smelled of Pleasures cologne—sweetly floral. "Nice," he murmured. "I'm imagining pouring that scent into my palm and slowly rubbing it up the insides of your thighs, filling my nostrils with it, of drowning my senses in your female floral scent. And when I taste you, it'll be like dipping my tongue in a flower, only much sweeter, and hotter. Like thick clover honey heated by summer sunlight."

With a shift of his body, he slid his penis between her legs. It rubbed against the wet silk of her panty crotch. He grew harder, longer; the primitive hunger pumped like a heartbeat inside him.

She swelled around their fingers.

The music beat louder.

The red lights pulsated like blood in his veins, like the mounting pressure in his penis. He was forced to close his eyes in order to avoid the thousand reflected images of her with her head fallen back, lifting the arch of her pale breasts captured within the cups of her black lace bra.

"Your panties." He withdrew their hands from the thong. "Pull them down to your ankles. Hurry."

Almost drowsily she slid her fingers into the airy underwear and eased it down slowly, knees bending only slightly as she bent over, allowing it to slide like a feather down her calves to rest in a dark pool around her ankles. And when she started to straighten, he laid one hand upon the small of her back, stationing her in place, the globes of her buttocks slightly raised toward his crotch. Her head lifted, and she met his gaze in the mirrors. The vision was erotic, and for a moment he couldn't breathe, couldn't move. It seemed his entire existence centered between his legs.

"Don't move," he told her in a hoarse, tight voice, his eyes still locked on hers in the mirror. Then, with a slight shift of his body, he eased inside her, probed, prodded, inched, the slick heat of her reluctantly giving way as he pushed harder and deeper, knowing that soon there would be no more control, not with this madness for her expanding. Curling his hands around her hips, he drew her back onto him; her mouth fell open, her eyes closed. Deeper, then easing away, deeper—the beat of the music drove him.

Their image scattered like refracted light, bouncing from one sheet of glass to the other, every angle of their bodies glowing back at him.

His fingers curved more tightly into her skin, holding her steady as he began the rhythm, pumping and withdrawing, her body shaking slightly with each thrust, her buttocks contracting with each slide, her exquisite face tensing as he pushed her toward the climax. Her hands flailed for something to hold, then lifted back to him, fingers splayed as if she were about to tumble off a precipice and desperate for a lifeline. He offered his hands. She gripped them as she pushed her body harder into him, taking all of him with a low moan of pleasure that rippled like waves of light through his body.