Run (4 page)

       We tripped our way down the street, giggling like school girls. I wanted every night to be like this. Carefree and wonderful, full of life and easy conversations where I didn’t worry about what I could say and what I couldn’t.

       And I wanted a tall, shaggy haired, broad shouldered man next to me, calling me “darlin’”.

       I shook my head and squinted at Celia. Clearly, I needed more alcohol.

Chapter Four

       Sometimes, to torment myself, I’d read the articles. This usually happened when I’d fallen so far down into the pit of Bad Things I wasn’t sure it was worth it to get up. I saw the glaring mistakes I made, found a million different things I could have done differently, imagined scenarios that left Deirdra alive and me with my job. The most prominent was reporting her behavior to the school guidance counselor.

       I stared at the cracked ceiling, the late afternoon sun sliding in around the edges of the blinds. I already knew what I was going to do that evening; I didn’t need to make it worse. But I’d gone to the library to get a library card and the computer terminals were just…
taunting.
Why not? Why not loop full circle and drag myself into the pit again?

       So I had, and the articles were as bad as they’d been the first time I’d read them. Worse, even. Worse because in the three weeks since the bar, the night out with Celia and Charlie, there’d been no reprieve.

       I ached.
Everywhere
. Even my teeth. I wanted my little house, my friends, the brewery we’d spent hours at, the random visits from my parents and the phone calls from my mother threatening to move down from Bellingham. Homesickness washed over me and settled into every possible crevice and wouldn’t float away, no matter how many times I scrubbed my skin raw. The only time it dissipated was the few hours I spent with Celia. And it was because it felt like home. Felt like I belonged.

       So tonight I was going to try and regain that peace I’d had after I’d left Mister Nice to Look At in his bed. Because I wasn’t stupid—I knew I was getting worse. I also wasn’t ready to go home yet. I wasn’t strong enough.

       But I would be. Or I’d kill myself trying.

       I rolled off the bed, stripped, and walked into the bathroom, avoiding the mirror. Looking in it would only be a deterrent. The best I could hope for was my concealer would cover the dark circles without looking like pancake makeup.

       The shower helped, mostly because the water was freezing for the first five minutes. I shivered my way through shampooing, goosebumps soothed as the water warmed. By the time I stepped out and wrapped a towel around me, I felt marginally more alert.

       And when I dried off and pulled on jeans and a tank, the butterflies stormed the keep and set up camp. I pressed a hand to my stomach, like pushing on it would calm it.

       I wiped off the steam and stared at the mirror. I’d re-dyed my hair, changing from purple to blood red. The color suited the mood I’d been in the last few days. The water-darkened strands stood out against my pale skin, highlighting the rings under my eyes.

       My hands shook as I tried to cover the dark circles, leading me to forgo any other sort of makeup. I’d end up looking like a kid playing dress up or poking myself in the eye with my mascara wand. I found my sandals, slipped some cash and my ID in my pocket, and headed for the door.

       It was too early.

       The last time, the only time, I’d gone to the bar, the sun had just given up the ghost and twilight was making way for the dark. As I stepped outside, the sun was low on the horizon. A normal person would be eating dinner at this hour. The thought of trying to swallow food had my stomach crawling up my throat. Food was out of the question. Besides, with any luck, I wouldn’t be drinking much. I got in my car and drove to the bar.

       In the fading light, the place was even sadder, the front having been scrubbed clean of graffiti a little too often. There were more cars in the lot than last time. I scanned them for a hulking truck and found way too many that fit that description.

       There were more people tonight, too, to go with the influx of cars. The stool I’d occupied before was empty, though, and I wandered over, keeping an eye out for shaggy hair and broad shoulders.

       He wasn’t here.

       My heart sank along with my stomach, and the butterflies fled in a wave. It had been a long shot at best. I climbed up on the stool, my constant companions of guilt and sadness settling about my shoulders like a heavy mantel, and got the bartender’s attention.

       No beer tonight. I was getting good and wasted, hangover be fucked, because I couldn’t take this anymore. I’d sleep in my car. If I was lucky, I’d get a full night’s sleep. It was the best I could ask for.

       “What can I get you?” The bartender swiped a cloth over the bar in front of me and set the ubiquitous basket of pretzels in front of me.

       “Whiskey. Neat.” The liquor of the blues. All I needed was some BB King on the jukebox to complete my pity party.

       The bartender poured a double and slid it in front of me. “Seven bucks.” I dug out some bills and dropped them into his waiting hand. The golden liquid gleamed in the glass, and I slammed it down, wincing at the burn. I’d never much liked whiskey. But it went with my mood.

       The last few weeks had been hard. Every week was, but the last few had been the worst since leaving Bend. After giving Gwen my reason for staying away, it was like everything I’d worked so hard to push back had burst past the locks, and there was no hope I’d be able to contain it. The slick, oily funk of every bad thing I felt slithered around and over me, and it was all I could do to maintain a charade of normalcy. When Celia had asked me the first time to grab a burrito after we’d finished the lunch shift together, I’d lunged at the opportunity, hoping to dam up the flow. It was like packing a hole with a towel. It worked for a brief time, but all too soon it started leaking around the edges.

       Yesterday I’d almost done it. I’d almost broken down, called home, burning to hear Kerry’s voice on the other end. Someone who stood by me through it all and never judged, and that added another layer of guilt.

       Thousands of people disappeared every year in this country. Some had no choice. Others walked away from loved ones, jobs, lives. All because they thought it would be easier. They were cowards.

       I was a coward. And I couldn’t bring myself to care enough to stop the pain I knew they were feeling.

       I signaled to the bartender for another round, draining this one as quickly as the first. The whiskey still burned, which was not a good sign. It meant I wasn’t getting drunk fast enough. I stared at the glass, then lifted my head and turned my attention to the rest of the room. Maybe I could talk myself into doing this with someone else. Someone who didn’t have blue eyes and sexy mouth creases, who would ask me a hundred times if I wanted to stop.

       Stevie Ray Vaughn gave way to the Doors. “Whiskey Bar.” How appropriate. I lifted a hand for the bartender and pointed at my glass. I’d be sick as two dogs when I was done. I figured I had a while longer to decide if it would be worth it.

       I would give anything,
anything
, for the
what ifs
to stop. What if I’d talked to Hooper and asked for advice. What if I’d gone back to Elise after that single disastrous attempt and tried again. What if, that first time Deirdra had shown up, wild-eyed and desperate, I’d told Nilsson.

       The
what ifs
were the worst part of the whole debacle. I rubbed a hand along the back of my neck, then picked up my once-again full glass and drained it. They never shut up, not really, though the alcohol was finally starting to do its job and drown them out. Watching people blur around the edges was fun.

       But the biggest question wasn’t a
what if
, but a
why
. Why was this happening now, undoing everything I’d built, just when I thought I
could
rebuild. That I could beat this sickness creeping inside, that I could live with the consequences of my actions and accept that while I’d done my job too late, I wasn’t to blame for Deirdra’s death. That I wasn’t the only one who had watched her spin farther out of control. Her parents. Her brother. Her friends. They blamed me and themselves in equal measure.

       I stared at the empty glass. Wow. Maudlin thoughts made for excellent drinking partners.

       This time I didn’t have to point, the bartender simply tipped the bottle over and refilled me. I gave him a thumbs up and a goofy smile I couldn’t feel. The numbness of overindulgence had taken over, and taken over quick. Or maybe I’d been here longer than I’d thought. I peered blurrily at the clock over the bar. Blinked, tried again. The numbers crossed and tracked back.

       “Hey.”

       Slow, slow enough a turtle could have beaten me, I turned toward the voice coming from my left. Some guy with fuzzy features was glaring at me. “Hi?”

       The glare left his face bit by bit the longer he studied me, until it was completely gone. “Shit.” He ran a hand through his hair, disordering it more, and I had an uncontrollable urge to reach up and brush it back into place. I must have misjudged the distance, because he caught my wrist as my hand drew closer. “Careful there. Don’t go pokin’ my eye out.”

       “Oops.” His thumb rubbed in a soft circle on the thin skin of my inner wrist, and it sparked a memory, of that same thumb, doing that exact same thing, in the same spot. I blinked at him. My brain cleared, just for a moment. Nice To Look At guy. He was here. “I was looking for you,” I slurred. And immediately slapped my hand over my mouth.

       His mouth quirked in a half-smile, and I sighed like some love-sick fool, propping my head on my hand. “Were you now?” He nodded at the glass. “How many those you had?”

       I stared at the glass like I’d never seen it before. “Dunno. Three? Four?”

       He ran a hand down my arm, and I shivered, skin hypersensitive. “Maybe you should stop.”

       “Maybe,” I agreed. Then I lifted a hand to the bartender to signal for another round.

       “Okay there.” He grabbed my hand and pulled it down, and I swayed on the stool, my shoulder coming into contact with his chest. “Can’t stay mad at the drunk woman,” he muttered. He slid an arm around my shoulders to steady me. “I think there might be one thing this alcoholic stupor’s good for.”

       I tipped my head back and grinned at him. He was here, finally, and he was holding me. The night was better already. “Whas dat?”

       “You can tell me your name.”

       I frowned. I’d had a reason for not telling him before, hadn’t I? I pulled my lower lip into my mouth. “Kenny. Mos’ people call me Kenny. Or Ken.”

       He rubbed his thumb over my lip, and I couldn’t breathe. “Short for Kendra? Or Kendall?”

       I shook my head and immediately regretted it. The room kept moving. “Uh uh. McKenna.” I snuggled back into his embrace, because it made the room stop wobbling. “You gon tell me yours?”

       “Trevor.” His hand roamed over my back, sliding up my neck, his fingers threading through my hair. “Darlin’, you eaten anything this evening? Maybe we oughtta get something in you to soak up some of the whiskey?”

       I perked up. “There’s more whiskey?” I hated whiskey. Didn’t I? Why’d I want more?

       He chuckled and helped me off the stool, his arms around my waist all that was holding me up. “No more whiskey for you. Think you had your quota and mine. How ’bout a burger or something instead?”

       “Kay.” The alcohol and Trevor’s presence had given me the calm I’d been after, and I floated alongside him, vaguely aware I was being led out into the warm night. “Mmm. Where we goin’?”

       His hold tightened on my waist as I stumbled. “Restaurant across the parking lot. Then I’m going to take you home for the night.”

       Oh, goody. Maybe this time I’d get to have an orgasm. After all, it wasn’t a one night stand anymore. I frowned. What was it, then? A two night stand?

       The restaurant was as dimly lit as the bar, which was good. I was having enough trouble seeing as it was. Bright lights would have made it worse. Trevor helped me into a booth, and I tilted my head onto his shoulder, my eyelids drooping while we waited for the waitress to come by. Shitty service. I was drunk, but even I could tell the place was empty and the waitress should have been right over. I said as much to Trevor. “Makes us other waitresses look bad,” I muttered.

       “Is that right? You a waitress then?”

       “Yeah. Used to be a teacher until one of my students decided to stalk me and then kill herself.”

       Oh. Shit.

Chapter Five

       If I could just open my eyes, I knew I’d see William Wallace standing on a ridge, surrounded by warriors in kilts, beating on drums.

       Excruciating. An apt description of trying to pry my lids apart. It amplified the pounding in my head. I gave up and snuggled deeper into the pillow under my cheek.

       The pillow didn’t smell like mine. The detergent was different, mixed with the scent of Old Spice. It beckoned me toward sleep, that deep, deep dark place where nothing bad happened and I was cradled in warmth.

       I slipped toward it, only to be pulled out when the bed shifted and dipped next to my hip. A warm hand settled on my shoulder. “McKenna.”

       I liked that voice. I just wanted it to shut up.

       “C’mon. Up. Unless you don’t want a ride back to your car.”

       Car? Car. A thing with wheels and a combustion engine. I managed to crack open an eye and peered out at the room. What little I could see was unfamiliar—shadowed, the wall across from the bed blank and and boringly white, like the sheets on the bed. “Mmph?”

       The voice chuckled, and my abused head cleared a bit. Whiskey. Burgers. Shaggy hair and broad shoulders, a low, soothing voice calling me “darlin’.” Gathering what little strength I had, I pushed at the bed. The hand slid from my shoulder and helped me onto my side, where I stopped and waited for my stomach to catch up. “Fuck,” I whispered. “Water?”