The Dark Light of Day (8 page)

Movement in the corner of my eye brought my attentions to where Owen stood by his truck. His friend Andy was talking to him
excitedly, making wild gestures with his hands, obviously telling
Owen a story of some sort, but Owen didn’t seem to be paying
attention. Instead, he was looking right over Andy’s shoulders in my direction. It wasn’t me he was looking at this time. It was Jake. And he wasn’t
just looking at him. He was
glaring
at him. Owen raised his
shoulders as if to ask me if I was okay. I figured he hadn’t seen what had gone down with Alissa. I nodded to him, and he focused his attention back on Andy. “You with him?” Jake asked.

“He invited me. You know Owen?”

“Sort of.” He took another hit from the joint and slowly released the smoke in little rings.

“Impressive.”

He laughed. “So Abby, is not turning into a whore the real
reason you wear sweatshirts in the summer?” It was none of his business,
but he wasn’t asking in a way that was making fun of me. He
seemed curious.

“Not really. I’m also deathly afraid of herpes and the clap. Stand too close to some of these girls, and that shit’ll just jump off them and on to you,” I joked.

Jake flashed a smile that reached all the way to his eyes. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“So you with that crazy bitch that just tried to undress me in public?” I asked. Why was I asking? Why did I care?

“Alissa,” he said. “Nah. I went to high school with her, is all.”

“You guys are
friends
, then?”

“Something like that.” Jake smiled.

Bingo.

And gross.

Alissa had probably been the girl on her knees for him in the
junkyard. I tried not to think about it: the choking, the spitting. It
was too fucking repulsive. I shivered.

“You’re in my seat, Dunn.” Owen seethed as he approached us. His forehead was lined, his brows knitted together.

“Free country, Fletcher,” Jake said, taking another hit of his joint. “Find your own fucking seat.”

“You know him, Abby?” Owen asked me.

“Not really,” I said. “We’re just sort of chatting.”

“You don’t want to
chat
with the likes of him,” Owen said. “He may be from around here, but he ain’t like us.”

“That makes two of us,” I said quietly, as I downed the last of my beer.

“What was that?” Owen asked.

“Nothing.” I stood up. “Nothing at all.” I swayed. It took me a second or two to find my footing. Again, I hiccupped.

Oh, great.

Jake stood and turned to me like he was going to help me steady
myself. I made sure to put distance between us. Owen held out
another red cup.

“I think she had enough, man,” Jake said. Their gazes locked. I swore I could see a heat wave of anger rising between them.

Owen put the cup in my hand despite Jake’s warning.

The two men stared down each one another like cage fighters preparing for a match. They were both about the same height, but
Jake was blonde with light features and dressed like a member of
Hell’s Angels, while Owen’s dark hair and green eyes stood in contrast to his All-American jeans-and-white t-shirt style.

Just as I thought they would pummel each other, another
wayward
hiccup escaped my mouth. I suddenly felt as if I would be sick. I leaned over the log and almost fell, but I steadied myself before
anyone tried to help me. “I see those drinks are working,” Owen said.

“Nope. Not working.”

“How are they not working?” Owen asked. Jake wasn’t touching me, but I could almost feel his presence beside me.

“I still remember how much my life sucks.” It was an honest
answer, but one I wouldn’t have given nine beers or so earlier.

“Then, let’s get you some more,” Owen offered, gesturing to his truck. The lightness was back in his voice. The tension from a second ago was gone.

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough, Abby?” Jake chimed in. Alissa appeared from behind him and wrapped her arms around his
waist. She peeked out past his shoulder. She looked scared, as she
should have been. I had half a mind to throw her into the fire. Jake
unwrapped her arms, separating himself from her. She looked
offended, but he didn’t seem to care. He took a step toward me.

Owen started to say something, but I interrupted him. I didn’t
need him to answer my questions for me. “Nope. Not nearly enough,” I answered. I tried not to slur, but I was pretty sure I had.

The look on Jake’s face looked a lot like concern. For me? I
chalked
that one up to the alcohol. There was no way the same man—the
stranger
—who’d pulled a gun on me less than 24 hours ago was in any way concerned for my well-being. “You and
Alissa
have fun, okay?” I may have placed too much emphasis on her name, as if it tasted bitter in my mouth. He paused to look into my eyes for what felt like hours before looking from me to Owen. Finally, he shrugged
and started walking away. Alissa trailed behind him like a lost puppy. “And Jake?” I called out. He stopped in his tracks and
looked over his
shoulder. “Give the girl a warning next time, okay?” I didn’t stay for his reaction but laughed myself silly all the way back to Owen’s
truck.

“What was that all about?” Owen asked. I pretended not to hear him. I decided I’d actually had enough to drink after all, so instead I took my last joint from my back pocket and asked Owen to borrow his lighter. As soon as the smoke filled my lungs, I started to feel better. I held it there good and long before offering Owen a hit. We sat in the cab of the truck for a while with the windows rolled up, letting the high take over, and becoming mesmerized by the lyrics of the Tyler Farr song on the radio. When the joint was spent and the
crowd had thinned to only a few people, Owen turned on the
engine, and we headed down the trail that led out of the woods.

I was drunk, I was high, and I was pretty sure I couldn’t
remember my own name.

Mission accomplished.

I MUST HAVE FALLEN ASLEEP
in the truck because the next thing I knew, we were pulling into the driveway at Owen’s house. At first, I was stunned. I’d made it a rule that I’d never fall asleep
unless I was alone. It was a little after three in the morning. I was
becoming quite the night owl.

“Thanks for tonight, Owen. It was…interesting.”

“How do you know Jake?” Owen asked, cutting the engine, his mouth set in a hard line, his eyes accusing and cold. He rolled down the window and lit a cigarette.

“I don’t.” It was the truth. I had no idea who Jake really was.

“Then, how did he know your name, Abby?” His voice was
getting louder. His eyes were red and blood shot. An open bottle of Jameson sat in the cup holder of the center console; his fist was wrapped around the neck. He took a swig and set it back down, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“I don’t like your tone, Owen. I don’t fucking know him. I saw
him ride into town and he almost blew me off the road. That’s all.
Alissa must have told him my name or called me by it in front of him.” I didn’t mention sleeping in his junkyard. I don’t know why I was lying, but Owen’s current state and attitude didn’t warrant the truth. “Does it fucking matter?”

“Yes, it fucking matters! I don’t want you talking to him!”

I didn’t need his shit. I reached for the handle and pulled the
door open. I hopped down from the truck and started toward the street.

“Abby! Abby!” Owen yelled. He jumped out of the truck, too, catching up to me in just a few strides. He made a move like he was going to hug me or restrain me somehow, but I stepped back before he could.

“Don’t touch me, Owen. I’m fucking serious.”

We were standing under the only street light on that side of the bridge, positioned right in front of the Fletchers’ house, which goes to show how much pull Owen’s family had in Coral Pines. “I am so sorry, Abby. I’m an idiot. I know I shouldn’t have told you what to do. Will you please, please forgive me?” His voice sounded strained, like it was difficult for him to apologize. “I just see the way he looks at you, and I don’t want other guys looking at you that way.”

“What are you talking about, Owen? I don’t even know Jake,
and you and I are just friends. That’s all.” If even that, I thought. “So, you shouldn’t care who looks at me, because I’m not into that kind of shit—not with you, not with anyone.”

“Okay, okay. I get it. I’m sorry. It’s just that…he’s not a good
person, and the way he looked at you was making me crazy.”

How was he looking at me?

“You’re forgiven, Owen.” I turned to leave again. “But, I gotta
go.”

“Where you gonna go, Abby?”

I opened my mouth to give an answer, but nothing came out.

“Stay here tonight. I have my own part of the house with my
own
entrance and everything. No one will even know you’re here. I’ll
even sleep on the couch and give you the bed. Please?” Owen made sad eyes and stuck out a pouty lower lip.

I laughed.

What did he want with me anyway? I wasn’t from his side of the tracks. I was a girl who couldn’t even tell you what city my side of the tracks ran through. The Fletchers’ garage was bigger than any house I’d ever lived in.

I really didn’t want to sleep in Owen’s room with him, just feet
away from his family. But I had nowhere else to go. Jake had caught me in the junkyard, so sleeping in Nan’s old truck was no longer an
option.

I sighed, defeated.

“Okay, but just tonight,” I said. He grinned like a Cheshire cat.

Owen really did have his own separate entrance. His room was more like a studio apartment, complete with its own mini-kitchen and living area. His house was huge, and it wasn’t even the only one on the property. His entire family lived in four separate homes, on ten acres. The one that held his apartment was the main house, and the largest. It was three stories with white siding and red shutters. It was like
Little House on the Prairie
on steroids, more plantation than house. I was curious how it felt to be so close to family all the time, especially since I had none.

I pulled a pair of running shorts from my backpack and a lighter long sleeved t-shirt and changed in Owens bathroom. When I came
out Owen was laying on his bed, wearing only his boxers, flipping
channels on the TV, a bottle of beer at his lips. “Want one?” He lifted the bottle to me.

I ignored his offer. “I thought I got the bed?”

“I thought we could watch some TV first. I’m not really tired yet
and the view from the couch is lousy.” The goofy grin on his face
made
me hesitate for a second before giving in. There was no trace of the
anger he displayed in the truck, just good ol’ happy Owen. The
Owen I had started to like. And I really needed some time to just sit and watch a little mindless TV.

“Fine, but no funny business,” I said sternly, “and I get to pick the show.”

“Yes ma’am.” Owen saluted me. “Scouts honor.”

I jumped in his big comfy bed and scooted under the covers. Just as I was about to put my head on the pillow, Owen lifted his elbow
and gestured to the crook of his arm. “Snuggling is always nice
while watching TV,” he said. I looked up at him with a crooked eyebrow and he crossed his eyes at me.

“You really are goofy, you know that?” I said. “I’ll take a pass on the snuggling.” We were just sort-of friends, after all, and friends watch TV in bed, I figured. I really didn’t know what the guideline was when you were friends with a boy, but before I could finish my thoughts—and before Owen had a chance to argue with me about what show to watch—I had already fallen asleep.

***

I am nine years old and it’s the middle of the night. I am lying on my mattress on the floor of my old room. My window sounds like it’s about to shatter under the heavy pounding of the wind and rain. My pillow is
smashed against my ear so I can’t hear the thunder crashing or see the
lightning that lights up my room every few seconds. It must be why I don’t hear the squeal of my bedroom door when he enters.

I am holding on tightly to the only toy I’ve ever had, my stuffed
squirrel
Ziggy. Ziggy is a dog’s chew toy left at our house by one of my many
“uncles”.

“Are you a virgin?” a voice asks from above me, hot breath in my ear. “If you are, I’ll try to go slow at first. But, if you’re not, I’m not gonna lie: I don’t want to be gentle with you at all.” The mattress dips deep as the weight of someone heavy lays down behind me on the tiny twin bed. I feel
his sharp chest hair poking at the skin on my neck and his enormous
protruding belly smashing up against my back. I squeeze my eyes shut as hard as I can, hoping he will leave if he thinks I am asleep.

I know he won’t.

I clutch the doll in one arm. I feel around under my pillow for the shard of mirror that just hours ago was used by my mother to chop up white powder before she sniffed it into her nose through a rolled-up dollar bill.

This man, the one with the hairy chest and protruding belly, had been introduced to me as “Uncle Sal” earlier in the day. He is the one who had brought my mom the bag of white powder.

Mom had no money. She screamed about it all the time, and my father was in prison. I am nine, not stupid.

I am payment.

The man reaches out and runs his swollen hairy knuckles down my arm from my bare shoulder to my elbow and back again. My stomach just
about bubbles over. I resist the urge to purge what little dinner I had
managed
to find. I have to hold on for just a few more minutes. I have to bide my
time.