No Strings Attached (21 page)

“To help you, baby, of course. You want a career, don't you? You think porn stars are born? Course not. They have to work hard for the money. You like working hard—I know that from experience,” he snickered.

The color, what was left of it, drained from Mandy's face. A voice played in her head: Mitch's. “You're an actress: so
act
.”
She might not get an Oscar, but if she succeeded, she might get away unharmed.

Game on.

Mandy forced herself to laugh. “Um, well, okay, I guess I do understand now. I mean”—she faced Joe—“Now that Timmy's here, I guess it's all right. He's my man. …” She nearly vomited, saying that. “And he knows what's best for me.”

She must've been better than she thought. Joe and Skeever let her go. And Mandy shimmied into Tim's arms. Pressing herself against him, she whispered in his ear, “You should have told me, baby. This whole thing took me by surprise.”

“You never were the brightest,” he said testily. “Now go be a good girl, pick up your Victoria's Secret special, and put it on.”

At that moment, Mandy knew that if she ever got the chance, she would kill him. And it would not be a pretty, or easy, death. She retrieved the teddy, fetched her tote bag, and flounced—practice made perfect, after all—toward the ladies'. “Be right back, gentlemen.”

“Not so fast.” Joe's voice. “You won't be needing your bag in there. Hand it over.”

Fear washed over her, but she shook it off. “My makeup's in there, I need to freshen up.”

Joe rolled his eyes. “No, your cell phone's in there. Like I said, hand it over.”

Mandy's legs turned to jelly. As she closed the bathroom
door behind her, she struggled to breathe. There were no windows in here. How could she escape?

Then, she spied the sink where she'd been standing when Beverly Considine had called. She'd left the cell phone on the basin top. With a silent, yet fervent, prayer of thanks to the Considine clan, she punched in the number eight: the one Mitch had programmed in for her, to reach him in an emergency. There wouldn't be much time—seconds, at most—and no question, they'd be listening outside the door. She had to be smart: she text-messaged the address of World Photos, and this: “There's three of them. Hurry!”

And then she prayed. Hard.

When Mandy emerged from the ladies' room, she did the finest bit of acting in her limited career so far. She focused, and pictured the three thugs as her audience instead of her captors. In the mirror of her mind,
they
were naked and cowering. Lowlife Joe, all pale and concave, unequipped to please a woman, no doubt. Fatty-rat Skeever wasn't hard to imagine: all blubbery, hairy, and quivering. And then there was Tim—well, she knew him well enough. He'd already exposed himself for what he was: a small-time, no-talent, double-crossing hustler.

What a trio! What a joke. If she weren't in so far over her head, it'd almost be funny. Mandy had one goal right now: distract them, keep them busy, keep them at bay. She had to
give Mitch time to get there. If it meant nude pictures, it'd be shameful, but nothing to compare to the hurt they could inflict on her.

In her lace teddy Mandy went to work, not only taking the directions Joe gave her, but playfully suggesting a few poses of her own. She had to make them believe she was down with this. That she could simply adjust all her red-carpet dreams to the sleaze-fest they had in mind. It seemed to be working. Jim snapped away exultantly, and Tim and Skeever played bookend voyeurs. Each moment that passed brought Mitch one moment closer. Mandy absolutely trusted that to be true.

Finally, Joe stopped clicking away.

“Reloading?” she asked, hoping to engage him in some stalling chitchat.

“You could put it that way,” he said, motioning to Skeever. “Why don't you help the little lady into her next … costume?”

“Or,” Tim chortled, “out of it.”

The thug lunged toward her, and Mandy lost it. Lost her actorly concentration, lost her cool. Just as Skeever clamped a sweaty paw over her mouth, she extended her forefinger and middle finger and thrust them harshly into his eyes—a disabling motion that allowed her to scream at the top of her healthy set of lungs.

When the door burst open, the three stooges were taken completely by surprise, and by an enraged Mitch coming at
Skeever, just like in the old days, fists first, and furiously flying.

Joss, right behind him, took on Joe with a well-placed left hook. And in a scene more surreal than when she'd been stoned and watched
2001: A Space Odyssey
, Harper, Ali, and Katie went for Tim.

“No, he's mine,” Mandy cried. “Let me at the bastard.”

Ali was all over it—all over Tim, that is. She sat on the skinny, squirming worm while Harper held his legs down and Katie pinned his arms.

And with all the pent-up rage of an accumulated nineteen years of feeling shafted, Mandy whaled on her betraying rat-bastard of a “boyfriend.” She punched, and she kicked, and she clawed, and she cursed, and she never once let him see her cry.

And later, when the police had come and gone, when the toxic trio had been hauled off to the clinker, the housemates of 345 Cranberry Lane piled into Mitch's car and went home. After they'd pulled into the gravel driveway, Mitch asked the others, would they mind? He needed a private moment with Mandy. He folded her in his arms and allowed his childhood friend to finally break down. “Mitch,” she croaked, “I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't been there.”

Mandy had been humiliated in every way a girl could be, exploited, shamed, and pawed—but thanks to pluck, luck, and
mostly Mitch Considine, the worst had not happened. Still, Mitch fretted over her like a mother hen. She almost laughed when he pleaded, “Will you talk to the girls, at least?” He thought she might confide in them. Right.

It was the only way Mandy could get him to agree to get some sleep—it was nearly two in the morning! So after a long, hot, cleansing shower, she sat on the floor of her room, gratefully wrapped in Ali's large terry-cloth robe, and surrounded by the other girls. Ali toted mugs of decaf tea, and a basket of what she called “comfort munchies.”

Mandy searched each one of their faces: cocoa-colored Harper with the clear blue-gray eyes; compact Katie, with the little girl bow lips and mind like a steel trap; and round, dark, easy-does-it, motherly Alefiya. At various times during the summer, she'd sneered at all of them. She'd been contemptuous, she'd been downright mean. Yet when she got into trouble, every one had come to her aid. No one had said, “Screw her, she deserves whatever happens.”

Had the tables been turned? If Katie, or Harper, or especially Ali, needed to be rescued, would Mandy have bothered? A lump formed in her throat. She was not about to let it stop the words from coming. “I owe you guys, big time. I screwed up.”

“What happened?” Katie asked. “I don't understand how you got into that … situation.”

Harper shushed her. “You don't owe
us
an explanation.
We're just relieved you're okay—and …” She paused to chuckle. “And not for nothing? You gave that asshole what he had coming. Righteous kick to the groin, dude.”

The others laughed, which made Mandy tear up. “It was my fault.”

“No way,” Harper countered hotly. “Just because you were gullible enough to believe the photo session was on the level doesn't give anyone the right to exploit you.”

Mandy focused on the threadbare carpet. “It was my fault the house was robbed.”

Silence.

Finally, Ali said, “But you didn't plan it. I got there the same time as you, remember? You were completely freaked out.”

“I made Tim a key,” she confessed. “That slimeball. He tricked me, used me, and even left me a clue—taking my lingerie? And my scrapbook? I should have realized it was him, making fun of me all the time.”

More silence.

She turned a tear-stained face to Alefiya. “I let them blame you.”

Ali shrugged. “It's okay.”

Mandy shook her head furiously. “It is
far
from okay. The whole summer I treated you like shit. I was such an asshole. And I'm so, so sorry.”

Katie was curious. “Can I just ask, maybe this is a stupid question. But I wondered why you picked on Ali. What'd she ever do to you?”

“Simple.” Ali surprised everyone by answering for Mandy. “Every time she saw me, she saw herself—the way she used to be.”

Mandy's jaw dropped. “You … you knew that all along?”

“I knew you weren't a racist. And your body language, the way you hold yourself, the way you—”

“Preen?” Harper put in.

Katie giggled.

Mandy flushed. “I was a fat kid, a really fat kid. ‘Six-ton Sarah,' they called me. Sarah—that's my actual given name,” she confessed. “Or ‘Fatty Fat, the Gutter Rat.' I was this little flabalanche with big dreams of being slinky, of being gorgeous, of being admired. No one took me seriously. Except—” She paused.

“Mitch,” Harper finished. “You guys grew up together, didn't you?”

Mandy nodded. “Only we hadn't seen each other for years. His sister—you know he has a twin, Beverly?—ran into me at McDonald's, and told me Mitch was looking for renters for the share house.”

“You didn't want any of us to know you grew up together?” Ali said.

“Force of habit. Neither of us really wants to be reminded of the circumstances,” Mandy conceded. “We were raggedy housing project kids. Mitch had brains, he studied his way out. Me? Not so much.”

Harper said gravely, “I have to ask you guys a question. It's really serious. It's like, if you know something that will hurt someone else, really rip their guts out, do you tell them? You know it's for their own good. If they like, live through it.”

Mandy eyed her, nervous suddenly.

Ali said, “Sounds like this is about someone we know.”

“It's about Mitch.”

Harper inhaled sharply and unloaded. The housemates reacted predictably. Katie was shocked, stunned, disbelieving. Ali was near tears.

It was Mandy whose slow burn exploded like an earthquake. It was Mandy who went, to put it mildly, bat shit. It occurred to each of them, independently, that a restraining order—to keep Mandy away from Leonora—might not be a bad thing.

“Seriously, mom, I'm
fine
.” Harper let her mother babble on,
all the while keeping her legs moving, eyes on the narrow trail ahead of her.

“No, I don't want to come home early. I'm gonna finish out the summer. There's only a week left, and I'm not just leaving the kids at camp,” Harper reminded her mother.

She was thinking of Grace Hannigan, the camper whose dad had the affair with Leonora. Her family had been ripped apart after that, and these days, Grace clung to her counselor for dear life. No way Harper could abandon the kid, no matter what. Not that she wouldn't have liked to come home, she was so over the reason she'd left. A Luke sighting would be as meaningful as a cockroach sighting.

Sometimes? She saw the benefits of not being so close
with your mom. Susan always intuited if something was wrong—and did her best to console and comfort her, which in Susan-world translated to: talking about it. Lots of talking about it.

No matter that Harper was hundreds of miles away, and could handle things on her own. Or that Harper'd had, like, enough yapping this summer to last a lifetime.

Her hair was up in a scrunchie, and the last rays of the day's sun tickled her neck. She pedaled eastward, back toward the share house. “Okay, Mom. Yeah, I really gotta go now. Bye. Yeah, love you too.”

Harper pulled the hands-free earphone out and flipped the phone shut.

In the days following the stealth Luke attack, and the whole Mandy-goes-confessional-drama, Harper had taken frequent bike rides after work along the old railroad tracks, now converted to a bike trail. With each upward pedal-push, she'd chastise herself for being such a stupid little fool, falling in love with someone like Luke. With each downward push, she'd strengthen her resolve to not let it happen again. She ought to have known better. Shit, she did know better! “Won't Get Fooled Again”—wasn't that the classic Who song? Right on, bro.

As for Joss Wanderman? He'd arrived in her life bearing gifts of music, gifts of the soul. Sucks for you, dude, she thought. You're not getting in.

Cutting out after work served a purpose beyond a mind-rewind. Harper got to keep her distance from Katie, who was like an annoying Chihuahua chasing the bottom of Harper's pants. Katie just kept tugging at her, trying to “explain things.”

Explain my tush! Like she cared to hear why Katie had really lashed out at her, why she'd allowed the backstabbing Lily to visit. She and Katie had coexisted all summer, even pulled together to help Mandy. They'd return to Trinity, and Katie would probably go back to treating her like she didn't exist. That'd be fine.

By the time she returned to 345 Cranberry Lane, the sun had set. Neither Mitch's nor Joss's rental car was in the driveway. She hoped Katie, still dating Natey, might be gone for the evening too.

No such luck. Instead, she found her roommate the only one home. Perfect time to pounce, which the platinum princess took full advantage of; woeful doe eyes included, free of charge. “Please, can we talk now? You have to believe me, Harper. I had no clue Lily would show up—let alone bring Luke!”

“Whatever.” Harper wheeled her bike through the kitchen toward the basement door.

Katie followed, even as Harper guided the bumping two-wheeler down the steps. “You have to understand,” she whined, “Lily wasn't supposed to even know where I was! I've
been ignoring her phone calls and texts all summer. I didn't want her, or anyone, to find me
here
.”