Darkling I Listen (11 page)

She gave him a shove,
then
planted one hand against his chest to keep him at bay. She felt his heart beating fast and hard against her palm, the hot dampness through his shirt that seemed to seep into her flesh and ooze through her bloodstream like steaming molasses. Damn, if he kissed her again, she'd be helpless to stop him. She wished she hadn't stopped him in the first place, and that made her mad. She'd convinced herself before she ever crawled into that tree with her trusty Nikon that she wouldn't allow herself to be influenced emotionally or physically by
Hollywood
's beloved bad boy, yet here she stood in the dark with the taste of him in her mouth and her legs feeling as if they would give out at any minute.

Drawing herself up, she gave him a sarcastic grin and shook her head. "What's wrong? Couldn't take a punch at Dillman, so drilling me with a kiss that's rough enough to remove the vinyl from siding makes you feel better? Or maybe you've just lost your touch, lover boy. Either way, I'm not much impressed."

The heat of the night and moment weighed down on them as they stared into one another's eyes, breathing hard, sweating
…
aching.

Gradually, the sexual intensity on Carlyle's face metamorphosed into something else—just a flash of pain, perhaps regret, certainly a vulnerability that was gone as quickly as it had appeared, then shaping into a look that was sharper and almost cruel. His mouth curled up on one end as he planted a hand on each side of her and leaned in close, almost as if he intended to kiss her again, lips parting, eyes narrowing. His voice a razor-edged whisper, he asked, "Just how badly do you want that autobiography, Miz James?"

She frowned, confused and wary.

With one finger, he traced the curve of her cheekbone down to the corner of her mouth. "What, exactly, are you willing to do to convince me I shouldn't call up Andrew Morton to write my story?"

His meaning struck her, and new anger flared. "Are you suggesting that I prostitute myself to you? And if I don't, you'll take my proposal to Morton?"

"What do you think?"

Raising her chin, she did her best to ignore the sudden sting of tears in her eyes. "I'm sure you're well acquainted with prostituting yourself to get what you want in Hollywood, Bubba, but my name on your book isn't worth a pile of fresh horse manure compared to my self-respect—of which you must have little, or you wouldn't have to bully women and blackmail them into having sex with you." She shoved both hands against his chest, knocking him back, then dropped into the dryer's seat and slammed the door, locked it, and rolled up the window as he bent to look at her through the glass.

"Hey," he said, and tapped on the window, his expression no longer angry or mean, maybe chagrined. She couldn't tell, exactly, because her eyes were so blurry that the world had turned into hot, salty water. "Alyson, I didn't mean—"

"Get stuffed, Carlyle!" She shifted into Drive and stomped the accelerator. He jumped back as the car leaped forward, tires squealing, rear end fishtailing as she sped toward town.

*

Charlotte Minger watched the red taillights on the sheriff's
cruiser disappear beyond the distant pine trees, leaving her standing in the yellow pool of illumination that spilled out her open car door. "Creep," she said aloud as she shoved three sticks of chewing gum into her mouth and looked around her, into the pitch-black beyond the car light. Night creatures whirred and croaked. Something splashed, causing her to focus hard on the green water where she had swum half an hour before.

If Dillman hadn't interfered with her plans tonight, she would have spent a pleasant time with Carlyle at the Dairy Queen, showing him off to her friends, all of whom had hinted that she didn't stand an ice cube's chance in hell with Ticky Creek's resident movie star hunk. Right about now she would be dropping casual hints that she might like to try her hand at acting: she'd won the lead in her sophomore play, and her drama coach had gushed over
Charlotte
's potential.

Now Dillman was ticked off with her, as if she'd been the one to spill the beans that he wanted to nail Carlyle. Well, she was glad his plans had been blown to smithereens. While she wouldn't have minded locking her legs around Carlyle, she didn't want him to go back to jail, even if she might have gotten her picture in the
Galaxy
Gazette.

"
Charlotte
?"

Charlotte
looked around, into the dark near the water. "Is somebody there?" she called.

Nothing.

She eased nearer to the car, focused on the black shapes of trees and brush, a prickle of uneasiness forming goose bumps on her arms. No doubt she had just imagined someone calling her name; frogs, probably.

"You've been a naughty girl, Charlotte."

Her heart slammed against her chest wall. She backed toward the car seat, turned her foot on a rock as she tried harder to see in the dark. "Who's there?" She gave a nervous laugh. "Cy Ricky, is that you
? '
Cause if it is, I am really gonna be pissed."

Her gaze swept the black perimeter around the car. She couldn't even be sure where the voice had come from. It seemed to float, first near the water, then near the rear of the car.

A noise, like a stone clattering.

The intensity of the night sounds magnified, pulsed in a singsong rhythm, growing louder so they seemed to press in on her.

"This isn't funny," she said in a dry voice as her legs started to shake and her entire body began to seize up with fear. Stupid time for her grandmother's old spook tale of the Baygall Bogeyman to come crawling out of her subconscious: story about a young girl left home all alone in a house buried deep in a forest not far from here. As she lay in her bed in the dark, she asked herself aloud, "Who will stay with me this long, lonesome night?"

And a voice from under her bed whispered, "I will."

*

Humphrey Bogart, looking like a hungover derelict, snarled
an insult to prim and proper Kate Hepburn as they trudged through swamp water and swatted at mosquitoes. With the volume muted and her arms wrapped around a pillow, Alyson fixed her gaze on
The African Queen
and tried to block out the rain and wind driving hard against the window. She didn't want to think that because of her immature temper tantrum, Brandon Carlyle might be out in the tempest.

She had driven down Highway
59
a second time, after her phone conversation with Alan's message machine. The night beyond the two-lane, twisting highway had been black as tar, the forest lining the shoulder so dense a coyote would be hard-pressed to weave its way between the towering pine trees. She'd slowed once, seeing a car pulled over, but the owner, changing a tire and not too happy about it, had glared like a hoot owl into her headlights and shot her the bird.

She'd even thought of returning to the quarry, which was the likeliest place for Carlyle to have gone—back to catch a ride with Miss Yamboree. She'd driven right up to the entrance of the gravel road and stopped, sat there with the engine running, Trisha Yearwood warbling about a heart in armor on the radio, and convinced herself that Miss Yamboree would be the last person Carlyle would go to if he valued his freedom. So she'd returned to the motel, finished packing, and crawled between the sheets, hoping to fall asleep so the morning would arrive quicker and she could bid Ticky Creek a relieved fare-thee-well.

But she hadn't slept.

At twelve-thirty-five the predicted front had moved through, dropping the temperature by thirty degrees in a matter of half an hour. She'd stood at the window and watched the wind drive dust and leaves and paper cups across the parking lot that was empty except for her rented Escort and an old Volkswagen Beetle straddling two spaces near the office. Lightning had danced in yellow streaks across the black sky.

At one-fifteen the rain hit. Gray sheets rattled the window and turned the parking lot into a lake. Sudden memories had come knocking: of green, turbulent skies and whipping winds; of curling up under her bed with a lot of dust bunnies, her eyes squeezed closed, feeling the old building sway; and of thinking that at any minute a tornado would suck up her and the Three Forks Café, the way it had Dorothy and Toto, and plopped them down in Oz.

Bogart and Hepburn exchanged droll banter. The sexual chemistry between them contradicted their sarcasm and dislike for one another. The relationship between the two had always left her wound up and aching a little by the time
The End
materialized across the screen. Maybe it was from watching the evolution of unlikely love transform two stubborn people into compassionate and trusting equals. Who didn't leak a few wistful tears over happily ever after? Or maybe it simply left her frustrated that the few times she had allowed herself to become involved beyond the fringes of infatuation, the relationships had stopped short of maturing into anything closely resembling fulfillment.

She pointed the remote at the screen and hit the
Off
button. The light from the neon Pine Lodge Motel sign filtered through the unlined drapes and painted the walls in a pink and green haze, despite the rain. The room that had seemed so comfortable and functional earlier now felt shabby and bleak.

As a teenager, she and her friends had nicknamed such establishments Ram-it Inns, for obvious reasons. To that very day she couldn't pass one without torrid, clandestine fantasies burning as brightly in her imagination as the flickering neon sign in the distance. Lying in the bed with her arms wrapped around a pillow, she really didn't care to think about all the others who had burned up the mattress before her. The
idea only made her feel
all the more isolated.

Alyson tried to think back to the last time she had spent an intimate night with a man. There had been only one since her divorce from Farrington. David something
…
a reporter for the
Los Angeles
Times.
Athletic. Witty. Not particularly good-looking but with a line of schmooze that could charm the buttons off a rattlesnake. He had not called her again; she had not expected him to. The sex had been mildly enjoyable, like drinking Coke after it had sat open a bit too long. A little fizz but mostly flat.

No one had flipped her switch in a long, long time … until tonight. Damn Carlyle in his tight, faded jeans and chambray shirt. Damn him for tasting like smoke and smelling like raw, sweaty sex. Damn him for his smoldering eyes and his mouth that made her ache even now. Damn him for being better-looking in person than he did standing twenty feet tall on a movie screen. And damn damn damn him for occasionally looking like a lost, vulnerable little boy who needed someone to protect him.

Throwing back the blanket, Alyson sat on the edge of the bed and focused on the dark shape of her suitcase on the floor by the door. She tried to think of her life as it had been before Sally called, informing her that the missing-in-action Brandon Carlyle was hidden away in
Ticky Creek
,
Texas
. Had she actually been content with her life? No. Not content. The stirring of career frustration and steely ambition had been there, scratching at her subconscious for some time. The Carlyle opportunity had only kick-started her into action.

This whole idea was stupid, now that she allowed herself to think about it. Brandon Carlyle was about as likely to spill his guts to her as 0. J. Simpson was to admit that he liked to play with knives.

Running one hand through her hair, Alyson reached with the other for her watch, squinted to see the fluorescent hands.
Two o'clock
. If she took off now, she could be at DEW by eight. There was a flight leaving for
San Francisco
at nine-thirty. That would give her time to turn in her car and grab breakfast—she was starving, all of a sudden.

Wearing black leggings and a Forty-Niners jersey, she pulled on her socks and Ropers, grabbed a Twinkie from the bedside table, and scooped up her purse and camera bag, hefting both onto her right shoulder as she bent for her suitcase.

The phone rang.

She jumped and turned, stared at the phone as if she must have imagined it rang at two in the morning.

It rang again.

Alan. The dork finally got in and got her message.

Wincing from the weight of the camera and purse, she grabbed the phone as it rang a third time. "Alan!" She laughed into the phone. "What timing! I was just on my way out the door, and was going to call you…
"
Her voice faded as silence echoed back at her. "Alan? Is that you?"

Again silence. Then, "Alyson James?"

The voice was deep and husky, a touch of smoky drawl that was familiar and yet unfamiliar. It made her heart squeeze a little. She frowned and held her breath.

"Alyson James?" he repeated.

"Yes." She nodded, and her frown deepened. "Brandon Carlyle."

*

He sat in the dark on the bench swing on Henry's front
porch, his hair and clothes dripping water, his shoes covered in mud. Shivering, he held the cell phone to his ear as rain ran in sheets off the eaves and formed large puddles at the base of the house. He listened to the sudden silence and waited, teeth clenched to keep them from chattering. In his other hand he held Alyson's red thong panties twisted around his fingers.