The Pact (23 page)

The lights, actually, never went out. They dimmed considerably, but then again it was so dreary in the maximum security section that it took just as much time to get adjusted to seeing during the daytime as it did to sleeping in shadows. Chris listened for that wind, imagining that he was outside in the middle of a field so big that he couldn't see any of its boundaries. The rain would run over him, and he'd lift his face into it and all he would see was sky.

There was a whimper, and then another.

Chris smacked the flat of his hand against the upper bunk; he'd done that once or twice before when Steve was snoring. But instead of hearing the other man roll over and settle into sleep, there was a sharp, keening cry.

He got out of bed and stood up as Steve began thrashing back and forth on his bunk, chest convulsing with sobs. Stunned into immobility for a moment, Chris watched him. Steve's eyes were closed, his breathing labored. He was clearly upset, and he was just as clearly still asleep. At the second cry, Chris clamped his hand on Steve's shoulder. He shook a little harder, and in the dim night light of the jail he saw the silver slits of Steve's eyes. Steve shrugged off Chris's hand, and he felt himself flush with embarrassment. The cardinal rule of jail was that you did not touch someone unless you were expressly asked to do so.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “You were having a nightmare.”

At that, Steve blinked. “I was?”

“You were crying out and everything,” Chris said, hesitating. “I didn't think you wanted to wake up the whole place.”

Steve slipped out of the upper bunk. He walked around Chris and sat down on the closed toilet, cradling his head in his hands. “Shit,” he said.

Chris sank onto his bunk. In the distance, he could still hear the whistle of the wind. “You should go back to sleep.”

Steve lifted his gaze. “Did you know that sometimes you yell out at night, too?”

“I do not,” Chris automatically countered.

“You do,” Steve said. “I hear you.”

Chris shrugged. “Whatever,” he said, picking at a cuticle.

“Do you see her? Em?”

“How the hell do you know about Em?” Chris asked.

“That's the name you say. At night.” Steve stood up, his back against the metal bars of the cell. “I just wondered if you see her, like I see ... him.”

Chris thought about Jordan McAfee's warning, about rats that the cops put in your cell just to feel out your confessions. If he questioned, he would be questioned, and he was not sure that he wanted that sort of connection forged. But all the same, Chris heard himself whisper, “What happened?”

“I was home alone with him,” Steve whispered. “Me and Liza had a big fight, and she stormed off to the hairdresser's where she worked. She wasn't even speaking to me by the time she left, but she told me to take care of the baby. I got pissed off, and I started drinking whatever was left in the fridge. And then he woke up, crying so loud that it was giving me a headache.” Steve turned around, his forehead pressed against the bars. “I tried to give him his bottle and I changed his diaper, but he kept screaming. So I carried him, with him yelling all the time in my ear, and my head about to split. Before I know it I'm shaking him, telling him to just stop crying already.” He took a deep, wet breath. “And then I was shaking him, trying to get him to start crying.” Steve spun around, his eyes gray and glazed. “Do you know what it's like, to hold this ... this little person in your arms ... afterward ... and to know that you were supposed to be the one to protect it?” Chris swallowed past the constriction of his throat. “What was his name?”

“Benjamin,” Steve said. “Benjamin Tyler Vernon.”

“Em,” Chris answered softly, a perfectly appropriate response. “Emily Gold.” His breath is so close I can taste him. His hands come to my waist, then slide up and up and pinch at me. I want to tell him it hurts, but I can't speak. I want to tell him 1 don't like this anymore. He pushes me back and then his hand is down there and I start to scream.

THE SCREAM OF THE alarm clock made Emily bolt upright in her bed. The sheets were tangled around her feet; she had sweated through her nightgown. Swinging her legs over the edge, she stretched. She walked to the bathroom and turned on the shower, waiting until steam clouded about her head before stepping into the stall. As she passed the mirror, she turned away. There was something about seeing herself naked that didn't seem quite right.

She leaned back her head and let the water soothe her scalp. Then she picked up the soap and scrubbed at her skin until some spots were bleeding, but she still could not make herself feel clean. For once, History was interesting. Gross, but completely riveting. Mr. Waterstone had taken a break from the dry unit on taxation without representation and was detailing life in colonial America. They'd spent the past week learning the going prices for a bolt of calico, a crop of cotton, a healthy slave. Today, they were studying the Indians.

Oops. Native Americans. The whole point of this diversion from the standard textbook was to give students an appreciation for what the life of a colonist was like. Which included not only interference from the English crown, but also studious lack of contact with the natives. Emily's eyes were glued to the screen at the front of the class. As far as she could see, not even the biggest skanks in the class-total druggies-were passing notes now. Everyone was watching the remarkable, reenacted footage of a Mohawk warrior cutting open the chest of a captured FrenchCanadian Jesuit priest, and eating his heart before his eyes. There was a thump in the rear of the class, and Emily tore her eyes away long enough to notice Adrienne Whalley, a cheerleader, sprawled in a dead faint on the floor. “Oh, shit,” Mr. Waterstone said under his breath, but a curse all the same. He stopped the movie, flipped on the lights, and dispatched a student to run down to the nurse's office. Mr. Waterstone himself crouched over Adrienne, rubbing her hand, and Em wondered if that wasn't Adrienne's intention to begin with. Young Mr. Waterstone, with his shoulder-length jet hair and bright green eyes, was the most attractive male teacher in the school.

The bell rang just as the nurse waddled into the classroom with a bottle of ammonia that Adrienne, now awake, didn't need. Emily gathered up her books and headed for the classroom door, where Chris was already waiting. Her hand slid neatly into his as they began moving in tandem. “How's Waterstone's class?” he asked; Chris had History seventh period.

Emily squeezed closer to him as a crowd passed by, and then stayed at his side. “Oh,” she said.

“You'll like it.”

She liked the kissing.

In fact, if she could have gone back to just that, she would have. She liked opening her mouth against Chris's and having him fill it with his tongue, as if he was slipping her secrets. She liked feeling his moan roll, candy-round and warm, into her own mouth. She especially liked the way his big hands cradled her head, as if he could hold her thoughts together even when they started running off in directions she didn't want to explore.

But lately, it seemed like they kissed less and spent more time fighting over where Chris's hands should stay.

They were in the back of the Jeep now-how many times had Emily wondered if Chris had picked this car because of the way the seats folded down?-with the windows all steamed up. On one, Emily had drawn a heart with their initials. She watched now as Chris's back rubbed against it, erasing.

“I want you so bad, Em,” Chris whispered against her neck, and she nodded. She wanted Chris too. Just not quite in the same way.

In the abstract, the idea of making love with Chris was intriguing. Why wouldn't she, when she loved him more than anyone else in the world? It was just that the actual physical part of it-the way that he touched her body-made her feel sick. She was afraid that by the time she got up the nerve to have sex, she'd be too busy throwing up to actually finish what she'd started. The problem was that she'd look down at Chris's hand on her breast and she'd picture that same hand, albeit smaller, stealing a half dozen cookies from a fresh baked bunch before Chris's mom could see. Or she'd imagine the long fingers crossed in a game of Scissors, Paper, Stone while they sat side-by-side in the backseat on the way to some family vacation.

Sometimes she felt like she was rolling around in the back of the Jeep with this incredibly gorgeous, sexy guy. And sometimes she felt like she was wrestling with her own brother. Try as she might, she couldn't untangle one from the other.

She gently pushed on Chris's chest, trying to get him to sit up. When he lifted his head with a frown on his face, she smiled at him. His lips were still shiny and wet, and she felt a cooling ring around her nipple. She twisted her fingers with his. “Do you feel, you know, close to me?” Chris's eyes burned. “God, yeah.”

Emily faltered. “I don't mean it... like that,” she corrected. “I guess, well, it's just that you know me better than my own brother.”

“You don't have a brother.”

“I know,” Emily said. “But if I did, you'd be it.”

Chris grinned wickedly. “Well, let's all thank God I'm not,” he said, bending his head again. She tugged at his hair. “Do you ever think about me like that?” she asked shyly. “Like a sister?”

“Not right now,” he said in a strangled voice, and he touched his lips to hers. “I can promise you that I never,” he kissed her again, “ever,” and again, “have wanted to do this with Kate.” He rolled away of his own volition, the thick ridge beneath his jeans going soft. “God,” he said, shuddering.

“Now you've got me all freaked out.”

Emily placed a hand on his chest. She loved his chest, with its light dusting of hair and long muscles. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to.” She moved into Chris's arms and felt them close around her.

“Let's not talk,” she suggested, and buried her face in the heat of his skin. His BREATH FALLS into my mouth, the only air I have. His hands start at my ankles and slide up my shins, pulling them apart like a vise, and 1 know what is coming as his fingers stab into me. He won't let me close my legs, he won't let me curl away. There is blood on his hand. He pushes against my shoulders and draws a red line down the middle of my chest. It cracks open and 1 feel him reaching deep inside me, tight and uncomfortable; then something snakes out like jelly and when I lift my eyes 1 see Chris's teeth sinking into my heart.

“No.”

Emily tugged at the collar of Chris's shirt. “No,” she repeated, and when his hands held her tighter, she pinched his neck. “No!” she yelled, rolling him off her with an unholy shove. “I said no,” she panted.

Chris swallowed hard, his erection pink over the edge of his unzipped jeans. “I didn't think you meant it,” he said.

“Jesus, Chris,” she said. She rubbed her arms, covered with goose-bumps, and turned away. The problem was, in a Jeep, there was not all that far to go.

She waited for his hands to close over her shoulders, like they always did once they came to this point. It was like a play, coming to the same end of the act, every night. The curtain would come down, and they'd do it all over again tomorrow. But Emily didn't feel Chris coming toward her this time. She heard the rasp of his zipper as he dressed himself, the creak of the Jeep's flatbed as he came to his knees, maneuvering around her. “Move,” he ordered tersely, and when she did he snapped the rear seat back up into place.

It was not until the overhead light went on as Chris opened the front door to slide into the driver's seat that Emily realized he meant to leave. Scrambling over the steering console, she managed to lock herself into her seat belt as Chris roared out of the empty parking lot. He was driving fast and frenzied, very unlike Chris's natural caution. When he took a turn in the road on two wheels, Emily put her hand on his arm. “What is the matter with you?” He stared at her, his face so tight in the glare of the streetlights that for a moment Em did not recognize him at all. “What's the matter with me?” he parroted. “What's the matter with me?” Without warning, he swung the car down a dead-end street off to the right and slammed the stick shift into Park. “You want to know what's the matter with me, Em?” He grabbed her hand and shoved it hard against his groin. “That's what's the matter with me.” He released her wrist, letting her hand crawl beneath her thigh in hiding. “It's the only thing I can think of, the only thing that keeps me going. And night after night you say no, and I'm supposed to sit back and deal with it my own way, but the thing is I can't deal with it. Not anymore.” Emily's face reddened and she stared at her lap, hearing Chris sigh after a moment. He rubbed his hand through his hair, making it stand on end. “Do you have any idea,” he said, his voice soft, “any idea at all, how much I want you?” She bit her lip. “Wanting isn't the same as loving.”

He laughed, startled. “Are you joking? I've loved you for-well, Christ, for my whole life. It's the wanting part that's new to me.” He stroked Emily's temple with his thumb. “Wanting isn't the same thing as loving,” he agreed. “But they might as well be, at least for me.”

“Why?” Emily managed.

Chris smiled at her, melting her strongest defenses. “Because wanting you, Em,” he said, “has only made me love you that much more.”

EVERYTHING WAS SHARPER. She could smell his black breath, feel the coarse hairs on the back of his hand, see her own face staring back at her. She was wearing something with elastic at the waist; it snapped back against her hips. There were the familiar sensations of his fingernails scratching at her, his palms grinding up against her nipples, the burning between her legs. But this time there was more. The droning whirr of-what?-bees? The tang of disinfectant. And the unmistakable scent of a kitchen, of something being fried in grease.

RATTLED, EMILY WOKE UP, unable to remember what it was that had left her so alert and tense that going back to sleep was an impossibility. Prob' ably, she'd been dreaming of what would happen the next night. The night she and Chris had reserved to have sex for the first time. Make love, she reminded herself, as if the euphemism might change it into something easier to accept.

She squinted in the dark, trying to locate her sneakers. She dragged them out from beneath the desk and slipped her feet inside, leaving them untied. Then she pulled Chris's swimming sweatshirt over her nightgown and tip-toed downstairs and out of the house.