In the Blood (8 page)

Chapter Twenty-six

“Jed. Jed. Where are you?”

What the fuck’s with all the visits? First Summer, now Dawson. What am I, a drop-in center?

“Here,” I say, emphasizing the frustration in my voice.

He pokes his head around the Buick, looking all serious.

“Mom doesn’t know I’m here,” he says anxiously, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “I told her I was going to Mark’s.”

“Why?”

“I’m not allowed over anymore because of what’s happened with your dad. Mom’s seen it on the TV and said she doesn’t want me to get caught up in it.”

Yeah, well, can’t say I’m surprised by that.

Turning and leaning against the workbench, I look down at him. Although he looks older than nine, he’s not very mature. That’s probably why he’s okay about hanging out with Amy sometimes. I think it’s because his mom still treats him like a baby, not letting him do things on his own.

“What if she checks up on you?” I pick up a rag from the bench and start polishing one of my spanners.

I keep the garage spotless. Small tools in the toolbox, cleaning materials in a cupboard under the bench. Gardening equipment in the top right-hand corner. Chain saw, handsaw and electric drill hanging on the back wall. It’s the only part of my life where there’s some sort of order and I’m in control.

“She won’t, will she?” he asks, a slight tremor in his voice.

I shrug, and his face falls. But really the last thing I need is Dawson’s mom in here. Actually, after what she said in front of Amy, she’d better watch out because I’ll tell her what I think. No way will Mom do anything about it. She seems to think we’re fair game for all the neighbors.

“So why
are
you here?” I arch an eyebrow.

I wish he’d hurry up and leave, especially because, if Amy finds out he’s here, she’ll want to come in, and then I’ll never get back to having the drink I need. And deserve.

“I want to go to the Monster Truck Racing Festival in Prescott tomorrow. Today it’s the prelims and tomorrow is the finals.” He gazes at me, his eyes eager and full of anticipation. “It’s gonna be awesome.”

“And what do you expect me to do about it?” I lay my spanner down on the bench and pick up another one and start polishing.

“Will
you
take me?” Dawson pleads. “Pleeease.”

What planet is this kid on? Does he seriously think his mom’s gonna let me take him to the truck racing festival? Not that I want to go. Actually, come to think of it, it would be kinda cool. I could lose myself in the roar of the engines, the smell of the diesel, and watching the huge trucks pit themselves against each other. I’ve seen them on TV before. The unstoppable power of Denver Demon, or King Crusher.

“Ask your mom.”

“I can’t. She doesn’t know about it. I used to go with Dad. Please will you take me?”

Dawson’s dad left them before they moved in across the street. He doesn’t talk about him much, though, from what little he’s said, I get the feeling it got really nasty, both of them fighting over custody. Dawson hardly ever sees his dad now because he moved across state.

“Sorry, no,” I say firmly.

He drops his head dejectedly, and I feel a pang of remorse for being so mean. But even though I don’t have those type of feelings for him, now that I know what might happen, do you think I’d even consider taking a child somewhere on my own? Do I look like I have shit for brains?

Hell, even if nothing happened, I’d probably be accused of something anyway, because of who my dad is.

“Pleeease. I’ll pay for your ticket; I’ve got some money saved from my birthday. You can take us in your car and you did say the other day you like big trucks. Please, Jed. Please.”

My fists clench around the spanner and rag. Why can’t I be a normal guy, so I can take a kid like Dawson out and not worry that some primeval destructive desire will suddenly take me over and destroy his life forever? It’s not fair. It’s not fucking fair.

“Which part of the word
no
don’t you understand?” I snap.

I don’t want to scare him away permanently because Amy likes him so much, but equally I can’t risk him being here if something ever snaps inside of me and… and… Yeah, there’s no need to spell it out.

“B-but,” he stammers, his bottom lip jutting out and trembling, as though he’s gonna burst in tears.

“Stop acting like a baby. I’m not going to take you. I don’t want to go, especially not with a kid like you. Got it?”

He nods his head and starts to turn when we hear a noise.

“Dawson, are you in here?” The sound of his mom’s voice echoes around the garage, and as the blood drains from Dawson’s face a look of panic follows close behind. “Dawson, I said are you in here?”

I put my finger to my lips to warn him not to make a sound and point to under the workbench. Dawson quickly slides underneath it, which is fucking great as I’m trying to keep well away from everyone, especially young boys. I head toward his mom.

“Mrs. Williams,” I say, leaning against the Buick and blocking her view.

“Have you seen Dawson?” She asks, her eyes darting from side to side as she scrutinizes the garage.

“No.” It’s so tempting to challenge her about gossiping within Amy’s earshot, but I don’t want her hanging around, and I don’t want Dawson to hear me go at her, either.

“Are you sure?” she asks, narrowing her eyes. “He told me he was going to Mark’s but he didn’t. I thought he might have come here instead, even though he’s not allowed.”

So she’s admitting it. Okay, so I sort of understand. It’s what mothers do. Well, some mothers.

“Why not?”

Crap. The question’s out my mouth before I have time to check myself. I really don’t want to get into a conversation with her. I want her out of here, now.

“I’m not prepared to discuss it,” she replies, her cheeks coloring. “If you do see him, send him home immediately. I’ll try Sam’s house.”

She turns and walks out of the garage. Once she’s out of earshot, I beckon for Dawson to come out of hiding.

“That was close,” Dawson says, a giggle escaping his lips, which I suspect is more a sense of relief than him thinking it’s funny. “Thanks, Jed. I know you said no, but—”

“I haven’t changed my mind, and I won’t. So go home.”

My gut wrenches as I see the look of misery on his face. But I have no choice. Crushing the hopes of a nine-year-old boy doesn’t even register on the scale when you think of what might happen in the future. And I don’t want to put Dawson in the position where he could be involved.

Chapter Twenty-seven

After Dawson leaves, I lean against the wall, dragging my fingers through my hair. It’s so oppressive in here; everything’s closing in on me. I have to get away.

“Jed.”

No. Not now, Mom. Not now.

We haven’t spoken since we got back from visiting Dad. She was silent on the ride home, leaving me to answer the occasional question the detective asked. And there’s no way I want to face her at the moment. I slip my arms into my hoodie, take the remains of the vodka from under the car seat and put it in my backpack, which I throw over my shoulder, and head out of the garage. The car keys are in the kitchen, and I’m not going to get them in case Mom’s still there. So, keeping my head low and my eyes focused on the ground, I walk down the street to the bus stop and hop on the first one that arrives. I don’t care where it’s heading as long as it’s miles away.

Clutching my backpack on my lap, I can feel the outline of the bottle, and it’s tempting to slink down in the seat and take a quick slug. Until I glance to the side and see a woman staring at me. Or should that be looking down her nose at me. Resisting the urge to flip her off, I turn my head and stare out the window. The bus is pulling into Roseland’s, a small mall, so I yank the bell, head to the front, and jump off.

It’s only four but already the mall’s deserted, apart from two women who are talking outside the Dollar Store, totally oblivious to the fact that their young children are running in and out of Wal-Mart. Crazy women. More concerned with gossiping than with their kids’ safety. How easy would it be for someone to steal them? Not me. Christ, no. I’m just saying.

Could I have a more jaundiced view of the world? Not that I’ve always been this way. Just another byproduct of the fucking crazy way my life has changed.

I keep walking through the mall, passing the benches covered in graffiti, and the indoor plant garden which looks like it’s seen better days as the only things still living are a couple of cactus and some geraniums, when suddenly the men’s bathroom is in front of me. Deciding it’s as good a place as any for a drink, I push open the swing door and go in. For the first time today, luck’s on my side because there’s no one in here, so I head for the cubicle in the far corner and sit down. Despite the stench of stale urine and crap, at last I feel able to relax, knowing that no one’s gonna find me and start demanding anything.

With eager anticipation, I pull the vodka from my backpack. Fleetingly, something in the back of my mind tells me that drinking isn’t the answer. I shake my head. It’s just a hangover from Summer’s visit earlier. How does that girl manage to get into my head so easily? I guess that’s why I was into her for so long. And why I still am.

It’s funny how we didn’t always like each other. When we met at kindergarten, she scared me because she was so bossy (she still if is you let her get away with it). Mom had to force me to go sometimes because I was frightened of what Summer would make me do. But it changed and, from age eight, we’ve hung out all the time. Or should that be
used to hang out,
seeing as we won’t any more.

I don’t know how I’ll bear it. I’ll never forget Summer for as long as I live.

Won’t forget her
rah-rah
attitude and the way she loses her temper, being anything but
rah-rah,
when people get too negative.

Won’t forget the way she laughs at things, like they’re no match for her.

Won’t forget that, if all this shit with my dad hadn’t happened, maybe Summer and I would be dating right now, like normal teenagers.

I wish I could really know what she thinks of me. I don’t mean as a friend. I mean
really
thinks of me. Whether she’s ever had feelings for me like I have for her. Or whether it’s just friendship and nothing more. Well, not even a friend now, I’ve made sure of that. Not that I regret it, because it’s the only way.
In a parallel universe, though…

I thump the side of a stall in frustration.

Anyway, it’s all in the past. Nothing can happen now. Or anytime in the future. Thanks to Dad. The bastard.

I punch the stall harder this time, hoping the pain will do something to eradicate the crazy, crazy feelings I have which are gnawing at my insides. Except it doesn’t work. I’m still as mixed up as before.

I open the vodka, and the top slips from my hand and drops onto the floor. Kicking it under the door, I listen as it hits the wall and skids off in a different direction. I don’t need it. The drink will be gone before anyone has time to blink.

Tipping my head back, I lift up the bottle and allow the vodka to pour into my mouth, and when it hits the back of my throat and slides down toward my stomach, my whole body clenches in anticipation. Only a few more seconds until that delicious fuzzy feeling envelopes my mind, numbing my senses and banishing the disgusting reality that is my life.

Suddenly, it feels like I’m choking, and I start to cough and wheeze real bad. Scrambling to my feet, I unlock the stall door and head for the sink to get some water, standing the bottle beside the sink as I do so.

As I’m drinking from the tap, the bathroom door opens and the security guard walks in and stands behind me. I can see his reflection as he looks at me and then scans the room, the expression on his face changing when he notices the vodka.
Shit.

“Is that yours?” He nods toward the bottle.

I glance at the vodka, back to his reflection, and then to the door, trying to gauge if I’ve enough time to grab the bottle and make it out of here before he can catch me. It could be worth a try. He doesn’t look that fit, the gold buttons on his jacket are straining to within an inch of their life as his huge belly fights to be released.

“I said is that yours?” He growls.

I shrug. ”Why?”

“Because if it is, I’ll call the cops. You’re underage, and it’s an offense to drink in here.”

I lean to the side in an attempt to reach the bottle, but he takes hold of my arm and twists it around my back, stopping me from moving. Using all my strength, I swing around, yank my arm from his grip, and then push him hard. He stumbles backward, and I take the chance to race out of there.

Without the bottle.

Crap.

Chapter Twenty-eight

I gingerly open one eye, then quickly snap it shut as the sun’s rays penetrate my skull and my head pounds even more than it was before (if that’s possible).

Where am I?

What the hell’s that awful smell?

And WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?

My eyes shoot open, and I’m eyeball to eyeball with a big brown dog, whose tongue is hanging out and is just about to lick my nose…again.

“Fuck off, dog,” I shout, waving my arm in its face. Well, I try to shout, but my voice is hoarse and barely above a whisper.

“Benji, here boy,” I hear a woman call urgently.

The dog bares its teeth, momentarily looking undecided whether to bite or not, then runs off, leaving me able to release the breath I’ve been holding. With him out of the way, I’ve also got a better view of my surroundings. Which look like a park, judging by the grass and play equipment about ten yards to my right. Though apart from Benji and his owner, no one else seems to be around.

Don’t ask me which park, because I’ve no idea from this angle. I’m lying on my stomach on a wooden bench with my face turned outward. No wonder my back feels like it’s been trampled by a herd of elephants.

Slowly, I roll onto my side then sit up and swing my legs around until they are on the ground. I run my fingers down the side of my cheek and feel the welts caused by the bench’s wooden slats, then close my eyes as all this movement is making everything spin and I feel like hurling. Speaking of which, I suddenly realize that’s what the smell is. Forcing my eyes open again, I glance at my shirt and see a huge stain splattered down the front. It’s gotta be vomit. And so’s that pile on the ground in front of me. Gross.

I lean back against the bench, wishing the ground would swallow me up. What the hell happened? Why am I here? And why do I feel like I’ve just gone ten rounds in the ring?

I force myself to think back, but everything’s so fuzzy. I can sort of remember Summer coming to see me in the garage, which didn’t go well. Then… Then Dawson came in. Crap, and his mom. He hid from his mom. After that, I’m not sure. Hold on… I went on the bus to the mall, and then…

Shit.

The bathroom.

The security guard.

My vodka.

Then…then…nothing.

Letting out a long sigh, which sends pain ricocheting through my whole body, I suddenly notice in my peripheral vision a bottle on its side perched precariously at the end of the bench. And not just any bottle. It’s Jack Daniel’s.

Reaching over and picking it up, I peer in and see a small amount of liquid in the bottom. Without thinking, I draw the bottle up to my lips and am just about to tip the remaining few drops into my mouth when something bubbles in the pit of my stomach and vomit spews out of me and onto my shoes and the surrounding grass.

The bottle falls from my hand and shatters on the concrete under the bench, but I can’t bring myself to bend over and pick up the glass. Instead, I lean against the back of the bench and take some deep breaths.

Where did I get the JD from? And did I drink the whole bottle myself? I can’t believe I’ve had a total blackout. It’s never happened before. Then again, I’ve never drunk a whole bottle of anything before. Not counting beer or wine. I mean hard liquor. This is like when you read about alcoholics who lose whole days, or weeks, even, from drinking. But that’s not me. I’m not an alcoholic.

You’d think losing a few hours would be a welcome release for me after all that’s happened, but it’s freaking me out because I’ve no idea what I did.

I force myself to take some more deep breaths. Anything that might help me remember what happened these last… I glance down at my watch to work out how long I’ve been out of it and get a huge shock. It’s eight. As in eight in the morning. For some reason, I thought it was still yesterday. Which is crazy when you think about it, but I’m not thinking straight at the moment.

So, I’ve been out all night, doing fuck knows what, and how the hell am I going to explain it to Mom? She’s bound to want an explanation. It’s not like I stay out all night regularly. Unless she didn’t notice I was gone. That’s always a possibility. She might think I’m in my room. It’s not like she’ll go in there to check.

If it wasn’t for the fact that I’d never see Amy again, it would be tempting not to bother going home at all. But I can’t leave. Not yet. Then again, if I stay and Amy finds out the truth about Dad and then finds out that I could end up just like him, well that would be my worst nightmare ever.

The smell of vomit invades my nostrils and drags me from my thoughts. While holding my breath to avoid the urge to chuck again, I take off my shoes (touching only the heels, which are vomit-free) and wipe them on the grass beside me. When they’re as clean as they’re gonna be, I put them back on then think about standing up. The trouble is
thinking
is as far I get, because my legs feel like cotton wool and aren’t ready to have any weight on them.

Instead, I lie back down on the bench and close my eyes. I’m so late, another half hour or so won’t make any difference. I guess I could call Mom. Actually, that’s a point, how come she didn’t call or text? I reach into the pocket of my pants, but it’s empty. I try the other pocket and then my hoodie. Nothing. Apart from my wallet. I check all the pockets again, just in case. Still nothing. I peer through the slats of the bench to see if it’s fallen on the ground, but it’s not there, either. So, I must have dropped it or left it somewhere. Or it’s been stolen or I didn’t take it with me when I left home yesterday.

Whatever.

This day couldn’t get any worse if it tried.