Still Waters (11 page)

O
n the way out, I stood by the door, waiting for Cyndra to finish her good-byes. Partiers eddied around me, yelling boasts and knocking plastic cups together in toasts.

Someone stumbled into me.

“Oh. Sorry,” Nico slurred, then smiled when he saw who it was he’d fallen against. “Jason! The man we’re looking for!”

He turned and waved Spud over. We clasped hands briefly. I wanted to ask my stoner friends if they were in the habit of attending King-of-the-Mountain parties.

They seemed comfortable enough.

Nico tipped his head. We eased back toward the door. He leaned in close, dropping his voice.

“We want some. For later. You holding?”

Anger match-struck in my chest. It flared out fast, though. They were wasted, and it wasn’t like we were really close to begin with.

I thought they knew me better than that, though.

At least they knew me well enough not to mention, or perhaps even notice, my jaw.

“You’re barking up the wrong tree, Nico.”

Nico leaned back. Squinted up at me. Shifted the knitted beanie he wore with a quizzical scratch.

Spud gave him an assist. “Dude, it’s cool. We’ve got money.” He fumbled in a pocket.

“Listen to me.” My eyes speared their attention. Spud quit digging for the money. “I don’t have any of that crap.”

“Dude,” Spud breathed. He could give the word a hundred different meanings. This time it was filled with not-cool betrayal.

Nico shook his head, still scratching at his beanie. “Then what the hell are you doing here?”

It fell in my mind like a missing puzzle piece. And then I really did feel stupid.

Of course it would look to all the world that I was dealing drugs to the rich kids. The new clothes. The mysterious and sudden elevation to their social strata.

And Michael had to know it. Had to want that puzzle taking shape.

So if
I
wasn’t dealing to them . . . who was?

“It’s not me.” I looked between them.

Nico nodded.

“Dude.” Spud held out a fist. I bumped it.

“I need a favor,” I told them. Spud crossed his arms and took a wide stance, like a badass bouncer, ready for anything the crowd could throw at him. Nico nodded and fiddled with his beanie again.

“When you find out who it is, tell me.”

Nico nodded.

“Ready to go?” Cyndra asked. She curled a hand around my bicep.

Spud’s eyes slid over her spangled dress. Pinballed between her legs and chest. I slapped hands with Nico and Spud. Cyndra and I left.

In the car, I leaned my throbbing head against the seat. Let my thoughts slow. It didn’t matter what anyone thought. Including Michael. It didn’t matter who was dealing drugs or that Michael wanted everyone to think it was me.

I’d worry about it later. I’d figure it out.

Back at Michael’s house, Cyndra led me to the downstairs bar, where Michael had first hired me.

Hard to believe it was only three days ago.

“Guess Michael’s parents are at a party, too, right?” I asked. It was obvious no one was home. “Wonder if they’ll play One Hit?”

Cyndra laughed. “Who knows. Travel and work, that’s them. They’re never home. I swear, I think they only have a house because it’s what people do.”

I looked around the empty room, trying to imagine what kind of problems come from being alone in so much space.

I couldn’t think of any.

“Have a drink?” Cyndra was already fixing herself one.

My head throbbed. I still felt a little fuzzy—like everything was happening apart from me.

“No thanks.” I sat down.

“Not here. Follow me.” Cyndra turned and carried her drink into another room. She disappeared, and a light switched on. She came back and stood in the doorway. The dim light glinted off her short dress.

“In here.” Her fingers toyed with the edge of the dress.

I walked to her. “I feel like hell. Do you know where an aspirin or something is?”

Cyndra stuck out her lip. “Poor Jason.” Her fingers brushed the hair off my face. My hand twitched—wanting to knock her hand away, or catch it and pull her closer.

“Seriously,” I said. “Do you have something?”

Cyndra took a step closer. So close I could feel her breath. She turned around, brushing against me.

The dress lifted.

“‘No fun tonight, dear,’” she singsonged, “‘I have a headache.’”

My pulse anviled in my temples. My jaw felt swollen and wet.

Anger burst like a flare. I caught her arm and twisted it behind her back. She gasped as I propelled her into the room and pushed her down onto the giant bed.

She arched back into me.

My head splintered. Part of me wanted to give her what she wanted.

The other part hated her.

I let go and stood. “It was a mistake coming here.” I made it to the door before she caught up.

“Jason, stop.”

My arm whipped out of her grasp. “I. Feel. Like. Hell.” Each word gritted in my teeth.

“I’m sorry!” Her hands opened. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—I mean—I thought you’d like—” She held up a hand. “Wait. Okay? Wait. I know where some medicine is.” She turned and went to a bathroom attached to the bedroom. The sounds of opening drawers and cabinets crashed in my ears.

“Don’t go, okay? I didn’t mean to make you mad.” She came back—holding out a red-capped bottle. “See? Extra strength.” Her eyes were wide, glistening in the dim light. A wisp of hair dangled near her mouth and puffed with her breath.

I grabbed the bottle.

“I’ll get you some water,” she said.

I popped open the cap and shook a couple of capsules into my hand. “Don’t bother.” I tipped my head and dry swallowed them.

I felt the heat of her arm as she moved to stand by my side again. Her hand slid into mine, a butterfly landing on a cactus.

“Why don’t you lie down?” she asked.

I opened my eyes, not trusting her for a second.

“Just lie down. That’s all.”

I looked at her, studying. The sexy pose was gone, just a believe-me look in her eyes.

The bed was huge—covered in a black puffy comforter. Cyndra pushed the covers back. I took off my shoes and lay down in the middle. The bed was bigger than my side of the room I shared with Janie.

Cyndra lay down with her head on my shoulder. She carefully draped her arm over my stomach, rather than have it press against my side. I kissed the top of her head.

“Sorry,” she breathed.

“Me too.”

We fell asleep.

The house was so quiet it woke me up about an hour or so later. Cyndra’s head was a warm weight. Her quiet breathing and the soft shush of the air-conditioning were the only sounds.

From the dim light of the adjoining bathroom, I took my first real look around the room. It was stark and impersonal. The walls were a sandy color, and thick carpet covered the floor. There was a TV and stereo—but no DVDs or music or books anywhere. No posters, no knickknacks, nothing lying around. A room that no one lived in, empty like a shell and less homey-feeling than a motel room.

There was a single picture, a large painting—it looked old. In it, some fruit, some cheese, a bowl, and a dead dove were draped and painted with meticulous detail. The dove’s still eye, glistening but vacant, shone into the room. Its sinuous, limp neck dangled off the table. A blood-matted cluster of feathers pressed up against the firm curve of an apple.

I looked away.

A practically empty room. A guest room rarely used—in a house full of rooms. All rooms and no people.

I could get used to this.

My fingers brushed over Cyndra’s hair. Was Michael upstairs in his room, or was he still at the party?

I rolled a lock of silky hair between my thumb and forefinger, rubbing gently, feeling the strands cling to and slide over each other.

We should get out of this bed. I should wake her up.

I remembered the robe coming off. Her tan skin—her body, soft under me. The taste of strawberry lip gloss.

My arms closed back around her.

• • •

Someone was shaking my shoulder.

A splintering headache stabbed behind my right ear. I groaned and opened my eyes.

Michael stood beside the bed. He let go of my shoulder, and the corners of his mouth twitched up.

“You make yourself right at home, don’t you?”

My hand reached out before I could stop it. The sheets were still warm, but Cyndra was gone.

I sat up and immediately regretted it. Nausea coiled in my stomach. I leaned back against the headboard.

“Didn’t think you’d mind,” I said. My jaw ached.

Michael sat in a leather chair. “I don’t mind. I’m just surprised.”

I cautiously tented my fingers over my side and probed. It wasn’t that tender, so no broken or cracked ribs, at least.

I glanced around—trying to hide the search for my shirt. Michael picked it off the floor and threw it to me.

“And now you’re ready once again to shroud the fabled abs. Poor Monique. Too bad she isn’t here.”

I slid the shirt on.

“And no embarrassing chest tattoo. So, still a mystery why all the modesty.”

I changed the subject. “You knew I was crashing here. Why the surprise?”

Michael’s eyes glowed with that weird light—a power-mad glint. The look that told you something was wrong, and he was happy about it. It felt predatory. It made me think of my father right before a blowup.

My fists clenched. Tensed shoulders dropped and squared. I stayed leaning against the headboard.

“It’s surprising, that’s all.” He leaned his elbows on his knees and rolled his head, like his neck was stiff. “Surprising, the way you make free with my things.”

I froze. Of course he knew about Cyndra.

Had he walked in and found us? Watched us sleeping? Where was she?

At least my pants weren’t on the floor by the bed.

But he wasn’t stupid. Even so, pretense was maybe the best defense.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

Michael laughed—the eerie look intensified. If he were my dad, I’d be running.

Or dead.

He relaxed, suddenly throwing out a hand like he was a game-show host showing off a car. “Look at you. In my bed! All the places to sleep in this house, and Iceman picks my room, my bed. Please tell me you’re not commando under my sheets.”

His smile wasn’t real.

Neither was my laugh. “You’re safe.”

He sighed and mimed wiping sweat off his brow.

Was he gaming me? This empty room was his? Why had Cyndra brought me to
this
bed?

I remembered Michael, murmuring in her ear at the party. Shoving her away.

“There you both are.” Cyndra leaned in the doorway.

The black comforter puffed as I threw back the covers and planted my feet on the carpet. I leaned over, shoved my feet into my boots, and worked the stiff laces. My head pounded so hard I thought blood might pool in my ears if I didn’t sit up soon.

Cyndra padded over and sat on Michael’s lap. She kissed him.

I ignored her. This wasn’t the girl who’d spent the night with me.

Don’t feel it.

I told myself I wasn’t stupid.

Michael grabbed Cyndra by the back of the neck. “Give us a kiss.”

For a second it looked like she’d refuse. For a moment, I thought,
Here it comes. Let it come.

She kissed him. He pressed his face so hard against hers, she whimpered. It didn’t sound sexy.

I walked out.

“All right, let’s go.” He stood in the doorway behind me. Cyndra bit her lip. Michael waved a hand. “Let’s go, Ice.”

We walked outside to his car. I could see Cyndra standing by the pool when Michael started the engine. The sunrise was bruise-purple. Low clouds glinted like gunmetal.

Cyndra stared out at the horizon, hugging herself.

M
ichael stopped and got us breakfast at a drive-through. He drove to a lookout and handed over the bag.

“What are we doing here?” I asked.

“Just a talk,” he said. “Why, you wanna make out?” He got out of the car. He jogged over to the other car parked at the lookout and thumped on the window.

“Screw you!” The man inside yelled.

“Cops are coming. Passed them on the way up. Trying to help.” He walked away with his hands out like
kill a guy for trying.

After a moment, the car started and pulled out.

“Sucka.”

We walked toward the wall at the lookout point. The sun edged farther into the sky. I ate.

“So here it is. Advice for you,” Michael said. “Don’t trust her.”

“Who are we talking about?”

Michael’s lips twitched, and he glanced away from me, squinting out over the city. “We’re talking about Cyn, Ice. Little Miss Temptation.” He glared into my eyes, that small smile hovering around his lips. “Temp-ta-tion,” he sang. “Temp-ta-tion, I can’t resist.”

I took another bite.

“She’ll use you. I’ve seen it happen. Use her first. Put her in her place.”

“Whatever.”

“Listen, cut the bull.” Michael caught my eyes with his. “I know. You know I know. So let’s just talk.”

“Then talk.” The food was a lump in my stomach.

“I don’t care, okay? Cyn and I—we’re open.”

I couldn’t tell if it was true or if he had another goal he wanted more than her. “You’re lying. You care.”

“No, that’s you. Not me.”

“That scene in your room. You care.”

“Not about that.”

“She’s your girlfriend. You control her,” I said.

“That’s like controlling the tide, Iceman. You don’t control it. You use it.”

“Okay.” I squinted at the rising sun, hanging low like a stranger at a party.

“You don’t get it. It’s cool. You’ll see.” He threw a rock over the wall.

“Listen, you don’t have to worry about me,” I said. This was maybe the most surreal conversation I’d ever had—reassuring a guy that I was fine after sleeping with his girlfriend. “Just keep the money coming, all right?”

“It’s a business thing.”

“Right.” I shrugged.

“And screwing Cyndra, that’s just perks.”

I kept my mouth shut. If he wanted to convince me he really didn’t care, he’d have to stop laying traps like that.

Michael whistled and shook his hand like he’d just punched something and it hurt.

“Wooo. She’s got you. My girl has gone and got you!” He jumped off the wall and started pacing. “Stay cold, Ice. Don’t let her melt you away.”

I just watched him and didn’t say anything.

Michael got serious. “Listen, I only want to give you the key. The lever that will move her little world. Do what you want with her, but don’t go getting any delusions.”

“You’re trying to protect me?” It was so ridiculous I couldn’t stop a real smile from coming. “I don’t have any delusions, believe me.”

“Yes, you do.”

“All right, Prom King, what am I deluded about?”

“About her. True love. Knight in shining armor. Saving the damsel in distress,” Michael said.

“Saving her from what?”

A faint smile hovered on his lips. “Come on. You know. She took you home, didn’t she? Let you watch the creep show live and in person? Don’t let her play that tired old card.”

My stomach felt like I was in a dropping elevator. I kept my mouth shut and watched as the streetlights in the valley below us started winking out.

He chuckled. “She’s good. Got to give her that.”

“What are you saying?”

“Given your background”—he waved a hand—“you reached certain . . . conclusions.”

My mouth snapped shut so fast my teeth clicked. My eyes dared him to say it.

“She’s got him right where she wants him.”

My jaw ached with the words I held back. Typical abuser justification. Excuses. She-wanted-it rationale.

Michael kept talking. I imagined breaking his nose.

“It’s what she gets off on. Power. It’s how she gets everything she wants. I’m telling you so you can stay in control. You work for me—not her. If you want out, just say so. But don’t expect any freebies, from either of us.”

My head hurt.

“You can’t blame her,” he said. “For setting you up to ‘save’ her. It’s her favorite game.”

I stood—fighting the urge to argue.

“So tell me now. You want to quit?” Michael asked.

My heart pounded, but I was still on the outside.

“Didn’t think so,” he said. He was back in control, and he knew it. “Let’s go.”

We walked back to the car. He opened his door, grinning. “I’m glad we had this little talk, son.”

On the drive down, he drummed the wheel and took the corners so fast I thought we’d go up on two wheels.

“Where to?” he asked.

“The school.”

He didn’t ask why, just took me there and cut the engine once we were in the deserted lot.

“Postponing the inevitable, huh?” he asked.

I was tired of trying to understand him. I stared blankly.

He gestured at my jaw. “You’re in no rush to go home.”

I made an effort not to look away.

“It’s not a mystery, you know,” he said. “Once you start paying attention, it all comes together.”

I shook out a cigarette. “You got my money?”

It was his turn to ignore me. “For example—all the fights. The legend of the ass-kicker. What better way to learn to kick ass than to have yours handed to you at home?”

I blew smoke in the car.

“And punching that teacher. That was for your little girlfriend, but she was trash. So what was that really about?”

I unlocked the door and held out my hand.

“Your sister. Janie, right?”

“Keep her name out of your mouth unless you want it wired shut.” Inside my head there was a buzz-saw whine and the calm that comes before I start throwing fists.

He fished in his pocket and brought out a fat roll of cash. “You know you had twenty-five absences last year?”

“Are you going to pay me, or do I grind this out on your dashboard?”

He handed over a twenty.

“That business with the shirt. That’s about your back. What was it, a belt buckle? Extension cord?”

He peeled off another twenty.

“You know what gets me?” he asked, handing the second bill over. “According to your file”—waving the wad of bills toward the school—“your home has been reported to DHR three times since you’ve been at Mercer. That means it’s been investigated, and you’re having to lie to them. You’re having to
work
to stay where you are.”

I felt like a fish in the open air.

“My file?” I’d never even thought of one—at least, not one that reported more than my absences and discipline referrals.

Michael smiled. “I got LaShonda to make a few copies. She’s an office aide. Future Business Leader of America, my ass. I told her to think of it as corporate espionage. Then she went for it. Sick, right?”

He handed over another twenty.

“Yeah.
Congratulations.
You’re real good at manipulating people.”

“It’s a gift.”

He unrolled the wad of cash and fanned it.

“What I can’t figure out, and no file will ever tell me, is why you’re still there.” He held out a bill, a lure to talk.

I took it. “Foster care is worse. Group homes, too.”

“Not for you, though. For her.” Walking the line. He peeled off another bill. “Okay, no foster care. And also no running away. Janie again. I get it.”

My hands clenched.

He held out the bill. “Why don’t you just kill him?”

The air went out of my lungs. I imagined my plan—a few years from now—the barrel of the gun pressed into his temple or jammed into his mouth.

Pulling the trigger.

“It’s not that easy.”

Michael pulled the bill away. “If that’s your answer . . .”

I scrubbed my hands on my legs. Hating him. Wanting the money.

“Look, so I kill him. Then what? He’s dead. I go to prison. Janie—”

My mouth snapped shut.

Michael slid off another bill and held it out.

“Who said anything about getting caught?”

I took the money. “He’s strong. And he’s not stupid. He’s paranoid. I’d have to shoot him. My record? They’d put me away.”

“Make it self-defense.”

“How exactly do I do that?”

“Well, shoot him, like you said—”

I interrupted him. “With what?”

“His gun.”

I shook my head. “Impossible. He keeps it on him.”

“You could use mine.”

My head spun. “Okay—so I use
your
gun. How is it self-defense?”

“The DHR referrals. Your record.”

“My record shows a kid who got sent to juvie for decking a teacher. Among other things.”

“Make it airtight. Make him go for you. In front of witnesses. And then, shoot him.”

“What if a judge thinks I need counseling or a residential care center or a group home? You can’t just shoot somebody and get away with it.”

“I could.”

He changed like a fast-moving storm, intensity lighting his eyes. I laughed but felt like running.

“Sure, Prom King.” I put my hand on the door.

He handed me another twenty. “I did it, officer. It was me.” His voice shook with nerves and adrenaline. “I was worried about my friend. You know his dad beat him? Damn useless social workers. I was getting worried. It was escalating. I tried to get him and his little sister to run away.” His voice was panicked. A good kid caught in a bad situation. “They finally agreed. I went over to get them—was gonna take them to the bus station. I walked right into it. It was the worst thing I’ve ever seen.”

I sat, transfixed.

A tear slid down his cheek.

“I didn’t know what to do!” His voice broke. “His dad was
killing
him. I found the gun—”

“What gun?”

He dropped the act. “The one you had.”

“Mine?”

“Weren’t you listening? I gave you mine. We don’t say that, though.”

I shook my head. “What are we talking about here? You’re going to kill him?”

“I could get away with it.”

He could, too. And I could stay out of juvie and maybe even get appointed as Janie’s legal guardian.

“You’d have to get the crap kicked out of you, but that’s no big deal. Is it?”

He talked about it so easily.

“Sorry,” he said. “I just mean that’s happening already, right?”

“Why would
you
do it?” Not asking about his alibi—asking the real question.

He shrugged. His lips pursed. “I’ve never killed anybody.”

He said it like it was an experience he should have. Something on a bucket list. He didn’t give a damn about me. My situation was his opportunity. Nothing more. Chills marched over my skin.

“It’s too risky,” I said. “It wouldn’t go down like that.”

“You’re wrong. It’s perfect.”

“It’s messed up.” What I was thinking: that he’s never watched someone getting killed, either. That he might go for the double header. Watch me get killed, then shoot him after.

“You don’t trust me.”

Which was so obvious it didn’t warrant a response.

“My dad’s not stupid. He might smell it and not go for it. And that’d leave me worse off than before.”

“The same.”

“Worse.”

He put his window down and propped an arm there. “You don’t trust me.” Repeated, like he could fix it.

“I don’t trust anybody.”

He sighed. “Maybe there’s another way we could do it. Some way you’d trust.” He made it sound like we were a team.

“Sure,” I said, but my tone was fat-fucking-chance. I opened the door. “You have your own problems to worry about.”

Michael smiled. “Don’t you see? This would help with that. It’s perfect. Cesare would leave me alone for sure once he heard I’d killed someone and gotten away with it.”

I shook my head, put my foot out.

He held out a bill. “What’s going to happen when you get home?”

I ignored the bill and stood. “I’m not going home.” I slammed the door and waited for him to drive away.

He got out and leaned on the roof. He waved the money. “How much would it take to get you to try it?”

“More than you have.”

“All right, give me something else, then.” He counted out a hundred. Held it out to me. “You can have this if you let me see your back.”

My blood turned to ice. “Go to hell.”

He added another bill to the stack. “Now?”

I stood.

He added another. “Now?”

I couldn’t take my eyes off the money.

He put another twenty on top. “Now?”

I watched him. Would he keep going? What would I do when he stopped?

He must have sensed me waiting, driving the price up. He pocketed the rest of the bills, leaving the big stack fanned in his hand.

“And that’s my final offer.” He dragged the bills under his nose. “Don’t you love the smell of it?”

A hundred and sixty dollars, and all I had to do was turn around and show my back.

My hand twitched. I walked around the car and stood next to him. He smiled, that pedophile-on-a-church-picnic look in his eyes.

A coil of nausea burned in my stomach and threaded up into my throat. I told myself the money was compensation, because who paid to see a scar?

It didn’t mean anything.

It was just too much money to walk away from.

I took off my shirt. Turned around. Accepted the use.

I stared at cigarette butts flattened on the pavement and thought about Janie.

I put my shirt back on and faced him.

Michael handed the money over. “Interesting. Not quite what I’d expected.” A doctor at the freak show.

I glared at him. My voice wouldn’t come. I didn’t look for it.

“See you tomorrow,” he said, getting into his car.

I watched him peel out, feeling the lump of cash in my hand. The parking lot was empty. A gang of crows wheeled overhead—diving and falling, chasing a lone outcast across the sky.