That Boy From Trash Town (13 page)

Chapter 9

W
hen Whitney spotted a limb in her path, she didn't miss a beat. She jumped over it and kept on jogging.

It was after six and the sun was dipping low in the west. It was a hot day in May, but a slight breeze helped cool the perspiration that dampened her tank top and the waistband of her running shorts.

Thank heaven for sweat, she thought as she glanced at her watch to see how long she had been jogging.

Whitney wanted to wonder where Dean was this evening, but she had already wondered about that twice since she started jogging, and her new rule was that she could only think about him twice in any given hour.

Not thinking about him was only one of the new rules she had written for her life, most of them concerning Dean. On the nights she didn't go to Rick's or get together with Lloyd, Whitney stayed at home. Instead of calling Dean or knocking oh his apartment door, she watched television or read or washed clothes, telling herself that, someday, not depending on him wouldn't require as much self-restraint Someday she wouldn't feel the urgent need to share every minute of her day with him. Someday she wouldn't feel only partially complete when she wasn't with him.

But someday felt a long way away, especially when Dean began dropping by her apartment unannounced, to borrow paper towels, or to tell her about a new development in one of the cases he was working on, or simply to ask how many little tires she had stuck on little trucks at the factory that day. More often than not he would stay to watch television or talk, and before Whitney knew what was happening, they had spent the whole evening together.

Occasionally Whitney managed to think of an excuse for being alone—she was tired or had a headache or was in a tearing PMS rage. But most of the time she wasn't that strong. Just being in the same room with him added more to her life than she was willing to admit.

And sometimes dreams simply refused to die.

Give it a rest, for heaven's sake, she told herself as she negotiated an S-curve in the path.

She had been coming to the little park for a couple of weeks now and her time was getting steadily better.

Every time she ran she managed to cover the three-mile course in a little less time.

Me and Zola Budd, she thought with a grin.

Whitney wasn't trying to run off an excess of energy; she wasn't running in an attempt to deal with sexual frustration, although heaven knew she would take any help she could get in that department. She was running because, after a month of standing in one spot at the factory, she was afraid that everything she ate was going to slide to her ankles. And since none of her new friends kept horses or belonged to a gym, she had sought out this little park two mites from Garden Court.

She was concentrating on keeping her breathing regular when another runner reached her. Barely noticing, she waited for him to pass, but instead he began to keep pace with her. When she dropped back, he dropped back. When she picked up her speed, he followed suit.

Seconds later she stopped abruptly and bent over, her head hanging loosely, her hands on her knees to support her upper body as she drew in short, painful breaths of air.

After a moment she raised her head to look at Dean, her hands still on her knees. He wore his ratty old cutoffs, track shoes and nothing else.

Whitney dropped her head again. Looking at him was a bad move. She definitely wasn't going to cool off or catch her breath that way.

"Are you following me?" she asked finally, her voice rough from exertion.

"I am," he admitted readily as he jogged in place. "But so is that thin guy and the one with the Regis Philbin hair. They're waiting for you to notice them. I, on the other hand, have never believed in being subtle."

She gave a breathless little laugh. "You're an idiot. I had my best time going until you came along." Eyeing him enviously as he continued to jog in place, she muttered, "Show-off."

Spotting runners behind them, she moved off the trail so that the two men could pass. One of them, a thin man, shot a look at Dean before they moved out of sight.

"Eat your heart out," Dean said with an evil grin, then moved over to lean against a tree. "They're obviously not Gilbert and Sullivan fans." At her inquisitive look, he added, "The Yeomen of the Guard. You know, 'faint heart never won fair lady' and 'none but the brave deserve the fair.' I think they threw every cliche" known to man into that song."

She shook her head. "That's incredible. No, really, it is. I don't think I know another man who goes to Gilbert and Sullivan for advice on how to meet women. And I certainly don't know any men who would admit to it, even if they did. Is this how you got Barbara hooked? Serenading her with 'Titwillow' and 'Three Little Maids'?"

He examined her with a cool look. "You keep this up and you won't have to worry about your running time."

"Why's that?"

"Because I'll be behind you chunking rocks."

Her laugh was slightly stiff. She wanted to ask him if he saw Barbara on his trips back home—he had flown to San Antonio four times in the past three weeks—but she firmly quashed the urge.

Turning her head, she stared at the path ahead. "Only half a mile more. I can make that. Easy. Sure I can. Okay, not easy, but I can still make it. I've got fortitude. Strength of purpose. True grit."

With a little moan, she drew in a deep breath and was about to start out again when he caught her arm. "Are you going to Rick's tonight?"

She shook her head. "No, Lloyd has a cold, sol thought I would stay home. There's a slasher movie on television that I missed when it was in the theaters. You know how I love snuggling up on soft cushions, cocoa and popcorn in hand, white I watch innocent people being disemboweled."

He chuckled. "You're still trying to get back at your mother for not letting you see Poltergeist all those years ago."

She glanced away from him. "I don't think I'm ready to think about Mother yet," she said slowly.

With a determined effort, she shook away the feelings. "Gotta run. See ya," she called over her shoulder as she started down the trail again.

Dean didn't catch up with her this time. Whitney knew he could have easily enough. But he didn't. She should have felt some small satisfaction for having successfully put him off. She should have, but she didn't.

After returning to her apartment, Whitney showered and changed into a striped silk caftan, then she ate the salad she had picked up at a local cafe—she still wasn't much good in a kitchen. It was almost eight when she began arranging her nest. Cushions and afghan on the floor in front of the television. Cocoa on the right, popcorn on the left.

The movie had just been announced when there was a knock on her door.

Stop it, she told herself as her heart jumped in response to the sound. Her heart jumped because even before she opened the door, she knew that it was Dean.

He grinned as he leaned against the doorjamb. "I had a sudden craving for cocoa, popcorn and horror movies. I can't figure it out. It came over me all of a sudden." He moved past her into the room. "Besides, you know you always watch these things with your hands over your eyes. You need someone to tell you when the gory parts are over."

Whitney wasn't going to say a word. She was too lazy, too comfortable to fight him tonight. And after all, he was right. She needed him.

When he reached the couch he stopped to take off his shoes, then, without consulting her, he rearranged the cushions on the floor to accommodate two.

"This movie we're watching," he said as he patted the floor beside him in an invitation for her to sit down, "is it the one where every time the hero stumbles across a bloody body he gazes up at the moon and says, 'He is evil and he must be destroyed'?"

With only the smallest of hesitations, Whitney joined him on the floor. "How should I know? I told you I haven't seen it. So don't even think about spoiling the ending for me."

He snorted. "How can you spoil a slasher movie? They're all exactly the same. This really ugly, really unimaginative dude systematically splatters the blood of a bunch of really cute, really stupid teenagers, and everybody dies except for the girl with the best looking body and the guy with the best looking hair."

She threw a handful of popcorn at him. "You are evil and you must be destroyed."

"Where's my cocoa?" he asked, calmly picking popcorn out of his hair. "Is this how you treat all your guests?" Then, as she walked into the kitchen, be called, "How come I haven't heard you talking about the company picnic? Lloyd says everyone's looking forward to it."

Lloyd says too damn much, she thought with a slight frown. Dean and her father had taken to each other immediately and now it seemed like every time Whitney saw one of them, she saw the other, as well.

"It's no big deal," she called to Dean. "The big shots at the factory are springing for some fried chicken and potato salad, then we all get together at the lake and build goodwill and company camaraderie by trying to annihilate each other at baseball and volleyball and horseshoes... that kind of tiling."

"Baseball?" he said when she handed him a cup of cocoa. "You're pretty good at that. You might just be able to redeem your reputation. You know, let them all know that there are certain kinds of balls that you can manage to send in the right direction."

"Somebody's been talking," she said grimly. "Is it my fault you never took me bowling?''

He laughed. "Don't worry. You can show them your stuff when you get a bat in your hand.''

Whitney took a sip of cocoa, watching him from the corners of her eyes. It almost sounded as though he were hinting for an invitation to the picnic. It would certainly make the day more interesting for her. And really, it was only a picnic. What would it hurt if—

She broke off the thought with a little shake of her head. She couldn't keep doing this. For her sake, and for his, she had to show him that she could make it on her own.

"It'll probably rain," she said with an indifferent shrug. "And to tell you the truth, it wouldn't disappoint me all that much if it did. The only reason I'm going is so I can spend more time with Lloyd."

She could feel his eyes on her, but she didn't look up. Staring at the television, she said, "There's that music. It must be time for the first murder. You'd think these people would catch on. If I were there, as soon as I heard that music, I'd run." '

Accepting the change of subject with a slight smile, Dean settled back against the couch and began to watch the movie with her.

He was right: the movie was a cheap copy of a dozen other horror movies. But that didn't make it any less bloody, any less terrifying.

Half an hour later Whitney said from behind her hands, "Tell me when he gets through killing her."

Dean laughed. "He hasn't even started yet. She's still walking up the stairs. Now she's turning onto the landing. Now she's— Oops, there he goes. Again. And again. And again. And—"

Whitney doubled up her fist and hit him twice, her eyes still closed. "Stop it. You know I can't stand it when— What's happening now?"

"She's dragging herself toward the telephone, showing a little bit of shapely thigh there. Titillation in the midst of destruction. Okay, you can Open your eyes now. I think she's gasped her last."

Shuddering, Whitney stood up and walked into the kitchen to put the empty popcorn bowl in the sink. "How can you be so callous? The woman died."

"It's only a movie. And it wasn't even particularly well-done. I don't have any practical experience, but I'm pretty sure you wouldn't say 'Ooh...ooh...aah' while some maniac is hacking at you with a meat cleaver. She didn't even gurgle when he got her in the throat."

"Will you cut it out?" she said in exasperation as she glanced over her shoulder into the living room.

An hour later the movie was over at last. Whitney had been sitting with her back resting against the couch, the afghan pulled up to her nose so that she could hide under it if the need arose.

Now, throwing the afghan aside in disgust, she said, "What a rip-off. There is no way you can kill an adult male by tying a plastic garbage bag over his head... because no matter what they say on the commercials, those things are not that strong. For heaven's sake, his teeth were a foot long. We saw him rip through a Boy Scout tent with them. And he can't get out of a little plastic bag? Well, I ask you."

Dean stopped laughing long enough to say, "Maybe it was suicide."

"Right," she said with heavy sarcasm as she glanced at her watch. "I have to go to bed so I can get up and go to work tomorrow. Now I'll be up all night listening to every noise, every creak and groan this place makes. Why did you make me watch that stupid movie?"

"Me? You're the one who wanted to prove you could take it." He rose to his feet. "I suppose this is your cute way of telling me to vacate the premises. You want me to check under the bed for you?"

She gave him an indignant look. "I'm perfectly capable of looking under my own bed.. .and in the closet and the bathroom and on the window ledge and..."

He turned toward the bedroom. ''I think we'll both feel better if I check."

"Dean...Dean." She trailed after him. "This isn't necessary. I was just teasing. Dean, would you listen? I'm not worried."

In the process of opening the closet door, he paused and looked over his shoulder, one brow raised in skepticism.