Jolie Blonde (Vigilare Book 3) (2 page)

Brianna pulls the t-shirt away, inspecting. The crimson red blood dribbling down her hand exudes a luminous emerald green glow. Surely seeing things, she shakes her head and closes her eyes momentarily. Wiping her hand across her dress, the crimson color disappears into the shade of the cloth.

“What the hell was that?” she hears Lon’s bewildered tone.

“I don’t know.” Her eyes, as big as flying saucers, question his. “Did you see it, too?”

He examines her hand, now free of blood, appearing normal and unscathed. Eyeing his own palm contemplatively, he grits his teeth, scraping it across the oblong skull.

Brianna winces, witnessing the acute pain in his expression. Kneeling there across from him, she waits impatiently for him to bear his palm.

The sun now completely fallen behind the trees, the night has grown dark. Lon turns his hand over. A scar residing in its center, similar to one kids may endure in becoming
blood brothers,
begins to bead with crimson red blood. Along the top of the gelatinous substance, an emerald green glow simmers, lighting up the darkness.

The two youthful souls glancing at each other through the cascading ray, their labored breathing audible, share the same sentiment—
What in the world have we done?

Lon clenches his palm shut. Brianna hastily wraps his t-shirt around his fist, tying it securely. Together they bolt to Lon’s board, freeing it from Brianna’s, upon which the skull still remains. Each with a paddle in hand, they work vigorously in tandem, scuttling through the water downstream.

Hours later, Lon nervously glances at his wristwatch, navigating his 1973 fixer-upper Scout SUV at a highly unrecommended speed through the swanky residential neighborhood Brianna calls home. At ten-thirty in the evening, she is thirty minutes past curfew, an unacceptable fact where her prudently punctual father is concerned.

“Come on. Come on,” Lon chastises the red traffic light stalling his momentum, only a quarter of a mile from her doorstep.

Brianna puts her hand over his, which is wrapped aggressively around his gear shift. “It’s okay. Just calm down.”

His leg jitters, prepped to jump on the clutch as soon as the light turns green. “Calm down?” he protests.

“We’re already late. Doesn’t matter if we’re one minute late or hours late, it’s all the same to my father.”

He glances at her, her hair still partially damp, her red sundress matted, her body shivering with the top off the sports vehicle. “I should’ve brought a blanket. I’m sorry, Brie,” he laments. “Look at you.” His hand strokes her hair. “Your father is going to kill me.”

“It was my bright idea,” she defends, attempting to let him off the hook. Grabbing for the door handle, she releases herself from her seat belt, concocting a plan. “I can walk home from here.”

“Are you crazy?” He leans over her, pulling the ajar door closed.

“It’s a safe neighborhood.”

“I picked you up. I’m taking you home.” The light turns green. He mashes on the clutch, alternately feeding the throttle, his tires squealing against the pavement. “How good would that look to your father? You, showing up all a mess. Me, nowhere to be found.”

“I can tell him I ventured off alone. Caught a ride with someone else.”

“You’re not lying to your father.” He lays on the horn at the
Sunday driver
in his path. Whipping out around the vehicle, he floors past them, only to come to a screeching halt, pulling up in front of the Bentley residence.

The perimeter light to the lavish Victorian-style home flicks on as Brianna’s father, a tall, stately man, storms out through the front door. His wife, petite and proper, chases after him. “Edward,” she yells, attempting to rein him in.

“Oh shit,” Lon mutters, freeing himself from his seat belt. He jumps out of the vehicle prepared to accept and receive his tongue-lashing.

The
Sunday drivers,
now having caught up to them, stop alongside Lon’s Scout. Mrs. Sunday Driver rides in the passenger seat. Her window rolled down, she points a reprimanding finger at Lon. “Young man, I got your license plate number. I’m reporting you first thing in the morning.”

“You aren’t fit to drive,” Mr. Sunday Driver chimes in.

“Sorry.” Lon spins in their direction, his head pivoting to and fro, between them and Edward Bentley.

Edward throws Lon a counseling glance before approaching Mr. and Mrs. Sunday Driver. “My deepest apologies, folks. It will not happen again.” Edward looks to Lon. “I can assure you, Mr. Castille will have no further business in our neighborhood.”

“I swear, kids these days,” Mrs. Sunday Driver scolds.

“Riffraff,” Mr. Sunday Driver adds before pulling away, slowly and cautiously.

“Mr. Bentley,” Lon begins, his steel blues pressed and apologetic.

Edward dismisses his sentiment, turning away from him and around to the other side of the Scout, joining his wife who already stands at Brianna’s door.

“Oh my,” Evelyn Bentley expels, inspecting her daughter’s haphazard appearance.

“It’s my fault, Daddy,” Brianna defends.

Edward’s eyes quickly assess that she is without her seat belt. Opening the door to the Scout, he firmly persuades her from the vehicle. “What happened to you?” he asks of her
drowned rat
presence. “And where’s your seat belt?” He pivots toward Lon, who maintains his station on the other side of the vehicle.

“Mr. Bentley, please, let me explain,” Lon continues.

Edward interrupts him, “You pick up my daughter in one tidy beautiful package, and you deliver her back to me as such? You drive like a raged lunatic, the whole time she is without a seat belt?” His questions teeter between interrogation and accusation.

“I had it on,” Brianna defends. “I took it off just right down the street.” She looks at her mother pleadingly.

“There is nothing to explain, Mr. Castille,” Edward snaps. “I entrusted my daughter to you. We had an agreement. You were to return her to me, in the same condition,” he emphasizes, “at
ten
o’clock.” Glancing at his wristwatch, he forges ahead, “It is now ten-thirty-five and nine seconds.”

Brianna huffs at his exactness, rolling her eyes and pulling away from her mother’s primping hands.

“Anything beyond ten-thirty may as well be eleven o’clock,” Edward clarifies.

“Yes, sir,” Lon agrees. “I take full responsibility. I promise, it will not happen again.” He remains hopeful of securing future outings with Brianna.

Edward’s eyes widen with angst. “You’re darn right, it will
not
happen again. There will not
be
an ‘again’!” his voice on the rise.

“Edward,” Evelyn quiets him with her soothing tone, her hand locking around the crook of his elbow, “you’ll wake the neighbors.”

“I’m the one who insisted we go to the river,” Brianna contends through chattering teeth. “That’s why we’re late. It’s my fault.”

Edward breathes deeply attempting to calm himself. Brianna’s jittery voice draws attention to the fact she is shivering and disheveled. His suspicious mind working overtime, he looks back at Lon, taking note of his bare torso.

“The river? I know what kids do at the river.” He breaks free of Evelyn’s grasp, heading around the Scout toward Lon. “What did you do to my little girl!”

“It’s not what you think, Mr. Bentley.” Lon stands his ground, his hands palm side out and retreating at his shoulders.

“Daddy!” Brianna calls, outpacing him, thrusting herself between him and Lon. “Mama, do something,” she pleads.

“I should have known better than to let you hang out with
bayou trash,”
Edward vents.

“Edward Bentley,” Evelyn scolds, mortified at his discriminatory sentiment. “You stop this right now.” She steps to him, again taking hold of his elbow.

“We were at the river, paddleboarding, sir,” Lon explains. “That’s all. I swear.” He slaps his hands off his bare chest. “It was hot. Excruciating. That’s the
only
reason I’m not wearing a shirt. I would never do anything to your daughter, that she didn’t want me to do,” he digs himself further into a rut with his honesty.

“Not helping,” Brianna quips, her escalated high-pitched voice cracking. She stands in front of Lon, her back to him while facing her father, her arms perched out to her sides in the same fashion a basketball player would
box out
an opponent.

“I see,” Edward’s jaw clenches, his hands forming fists at his hips. “Evelyn, go fetch my gun.”

“Have you gone mad?” She inspects her usually rational and gentle husband.

“I have to do something,” Edward argues. “I can’t fight the boy. He’s a minor.”

“So you propose to shoot him?” Evelyn guffs at the absurdity of the notion.

“No need for guns,” Lon’s unsteady voice chimes. “I’ll leave. I just wanted to make sure Brie got home safe.”

“Brie?”
Edward challenges. “You hear that, Evelyn? The boy has graduated to pet names. What else have you been
petting?”
The jugular vein on Edward’s neck throbs, pronounced.

“Nobody’s doing anything with a gun.” Evelyn shakes her head, beside herself with the scene.

“Alright then, you leave me no choice.” Edward rolls up the sleeves of his neatly pressed button-down dress shirt. Cocking his arms, displaying bound-up fists, he alternates them in an old-school boxing motion, causing Evelyn to crow with humiliation. “Brianna, remove yourself from in front of that boy this instant,” her father orders.

“Sir, I’m not going to fight you,” Lon protests.

“That’s it, I’m paging Dr. Yemen,” Evelyn threatens, her disbelieving eyes obscurely examining her husband. “Surely you need to be medicated.” She marches toward the house.

“Daddy, we saw something at the river,” Brianna begins, her mind working quickly toward a distraction.

“Brie. No,” Lon whispers, convinced what they witnessed is better left to the two of them.

“What do you mean, ‘No’?” Edward challenges. “You’re insisting my daughter keep something from me? I knew you were a bad influence. You hear that, Evelyn? The boy is teaching our daughter to lie,” he calls to his wife who agitatedly waves him off, halfway to the front door.

“A skull,” Brianna continues.

“Brie,” Lon warns.

“It was coned at the top with huge eye sockets, Daddy,” her eyes wide and bulging, a physical interpretation.

Edward drops his fists to his sides with his daughter’s testimony, the Astrobiologist in him intrigued.

“It glowed…emerald green. Not the skull, but my hand where I cut it…on the skull. Lon’s hand, too,” she fully divulges, noticing her diversion is working.

Without question, her father asks, “Where is it? The skull?”

“At the river. We left it there…on my paddleboard,” Brianna answers. “It was crazy, Daddy.” She looks to him, noting the gears of his mind are now fully engaged, the same captivated expression he displays when elbow deep in his research.

“Can you take me to it?” Edward questions.

“Well, yeah…” Brianna begins.

“Not you.” He points to Lon. “You.”

Lon shrugs. Brianna nudges him with her elbow, pushing him along. “Ah, yeah. Sure. Whatever you’d like, Mr. Bentley, sir.”

“Dr. Yemen is on his way, Edward,” Evelyn returns from the house.

“Give Dr. Yemen my apologies,” Edward says. “Mr. Castille and I are going for a ride.” He heads to the passenger side of Lon’s Scout.

“Yes, sir.” Lon happily agrees, taking advantage of the opportunity to slip back into Mr. Bentley’s good graces.

“I’m going, too,” Brianna pipes, her curiosity piqued as well as her innate nature to protect Lon from further tongue-lashings from her father.

“Nonsense,” Evelyn interjects, lacing her arm through her husband’s, leading him to their Town Car. “You are not going to heckle that boy anymore.” Turning to Brianna, she speaks in her most commanding tone, still laced with a motherly endearment, “You go inside. Get cleaned up. Then it’s straight to bed with you.”

“But, Mama,” Brianna protests, trying her at least once.

“No ifs, ands or buts, young lady. Breaking curfew is not to be rewarded. Now go.” Evelyn stands firm.

Brianna slouches her shoulders, looking apologetically at Lon.

“It’s okay,” Lon affirms, nodding his head toward her house.

Dragging her feet, Brianna walks the long sidewalk to the front door as Lon climbs in, firing up his Scout. Edward opens the driver side door to the Town Car, preparing to climb in.

“I’ll drive, thank you very much,” Evelyn secures her place, shooing him to the passenger side. Calling to Lon, she warns, “No speeding. Not even one mile per hour over the limit.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Lon concurs with his most charming grin, making a show of employing his seat belt and locking it snugly around his frame.

In the wee hours of the morning, Lon shifts his souped-up Scout into neutral, purposely attempting to avoid waking the neighbors as it rolls into the drive in front of the large Victorian-style home he was previously shooed away from.

He looks to the picture window upstairs, the one he has grown accustomed to pinging pebbles off of in beckoning Brianna’s attention for the sporadic
sneak out
session. Such outings required to witness lunar eclipses or the occasional stargazing while awaiting the chance to wish upon one of the fallen luminous balls of plasma.

After several attempts, his lobbed stones yield no response. Traipsing to the front door, he mashes his finger against the doorbell. Still no answer. Shrugging his shoulders, he turns the knob, his momentum as expected is stalled by a deadbolt.

He eyes the fastidiously trimmed bushes surrounding the perimeter of the estate. With keen agility, he whirls his body up and over into the gated backyard. Maintaining a crouched posture, he lingers in the shadows of the strategically lit border. Rounding the corner, his expression turns dismal.

“What the hell?” he expels at the open backdoor, evidence of an unwarranted entry.