Wild Child (24 page)

“You have got to be kidding me,” Monica breathed.

“It’s not what you think.”

“No? It’s not you and the—” She stopped. Shook her head. “Never mind. It’s not my business.”

Shelby wanted to die. She wanted to burn to cinders with mortification and let the wind blow her to the sea. But instead she had to mutter, vaguely pleadingly, to Monica Appleby, “Don’t tell anyone.”

Monica nearly laughed, Shelby could tell. But in the end she said, “I won’t,” and walked away.

Taking the last of Shelby’s pride with her.

Chapter 15

Later that day, Monica watched Jerome Hennings push his coffee cup back and forth between his hands. The white porcelain mug covered the five inches of Formica with a whirr and a click and then it hit his palm with a fleshy smack.

Monica, notes forgotten, couldn’t look away. It was as if Cora’s, the sinking sun outside the window—all of it was gone. Just gone. And her life was reduced to that coffee cup, the five inches of Formica, and Jerome, who had been the first officer to arrive the night Simone shot JJ.

A young officer, fresh out of training. Up until then, he said, he’d mostly been handing out speeding tickets. Breaking up the odd fight. Nothing to prepare him for the murder scene.

“I had to follow Simone to the hospital,” he said. “I mean, it was obvious what happened … what JJ tried to do, but she needed care and I had …” He cleared his throat. “I had to question her.”

“Of course,” Monica said, because the guy seemed to be asking forgiveness for doing his job.

The mug stopped its cross-table journey and Monica looked up at Jerome’s dark eyes. Dark and sympathetic. The sympathy made her want to rear up, tell him to fuck himself, and walk out of there. Maybe smack that cup against the wall, just to be awful.

To just be awful was the first instinct of the hurt and angry kid she’d been.

You are not that kid anymore
, she reminded herself.
She was rebuilding herself from the ashes of Jenna’s death and this was a test.

“She wouldn’t let go of you,” he said. “She was all beat up, bruised … it was nuts … She was like an animal fighting to keep you close. You were crying, she was screaming and trying to kick anyone that got close. She bit the paramedic.
Bit
him. Broke the skin on his hand. Anyway, I didn’t want to hurt her more so we put both of you in the ambulance. But once they got her to the ER down in Masonville, they had to separate you.” Jerome blinked. “I’ve never heard anyone scream like that.”

“Me?”

“Your mother.”

Oh
.

“One of the nurses smacked your mom across the face. Swear to God, we all just about tackled her, but … your mom stopped screaming. The nurse got right into your mom’s face, looked right into her eyes and told her to be quiet. That she was scaring you.” Jerome ran a hand over his head; the dark curls sprinkled with gray didn’t move. His wedding band flashed in the light.

You’re a good man
, she thought.
I’m sorry I’m making you remember this. I’m sorry
.

“She shut right up. Closed right down. Never seen anything like it. Bruised, bloody, broken, and then … just not there. Just—” He shook his head. “I can’t explain it.”

“Inside herself?” she asked, remembering her mother on that bed in Greece, her open unseeing eyes.

“Yeah. That works. Inside herself. Like as far away as she could get.” Jerome took a deep sigh and gave the coffee cup one last nudge. “You get enough? Because I’m running late for the parade meeting over at The Pour House.”

“Yes. Of course. Thank you.” Monica made a good
show of stacking her notes, turning off her recorder.
Look at me, I’m a professional writer, totally okay with everything you just said
.

Jerome laid one big black hand over hers. “This is a weird job you got.”

She laughed. “Tell me about it.”

“You know, you should come to the parade meeting. Have some fun, forget these terrible things for a while.”

“Parade meetings are fun?”

“Ours are. It’s in the big garage beside The Pour House. Come. It would be good for you.”

Jerome tapped the table once and headed out the door, making the bell ring as he went.

Monica looked around, surprised to see an empty restaurant. Cora stood behind the cash machine, counting money.

“Oh my gosh, Cora, I’m sorry,” Monica said, shoving her stuff in her bag. “I didn’t realize you’d closed.”

“Well, you were talking pretty good there. I didn’t want to interrupt you.”

Clearly, talking about her mother had put her way off balance, and she suddenly found herself blinking back tears. Grief was a tourniquet around her throat and she could barely breathe.

“But if you’re done,” Cora said, “I’d like to get going to that parade meeting too.”

“Of course.” Monica managed to smile while she stood. She took a twenty-dollar bill over to Cora, who only stared at it.

“For our pie,” she said.

Cora shook her head.

“No, Cora, come on.” She pushed the twenty a little closer. Cora ignored it.

“I heard some of what you were talking about with Jerome,” she said, in that utter no-nonsense way she had. “And we got something in common.”

Monica’s hand fell to her side. No, she thought, with grief for this woman who put so much love into her food, who’d created such an enviable business. Monica didn’t want Cora to have any experience with the conversation at the table.

“Abusive asshole fathers,” Cora clarified.

“My …” Monica cleared her throat. “My father never touched me. Not once.”
Always my mom
, she thought.
Every single time
.

Cora stacked her twenties, then put a rubber band around them. “Then you’re lucky,” she said.

And never looked up.

Monica walked back to the Peabody on leaden legs. She let herself into her room and Reba stood up from the corner of the bed, shaking herself so hard she fell over.

“You are ridiculous,” she told the dog for about the thousandth time.

Reba barked, once. A succinct “screw you.”

Monica put down her bag and picked up the leash from the doorknob. There was no way she could sit in this room, not with the ghosts and the memories having a party in her head. She recognized this feeling from her misspent youth—this anxiety, this impatience, this anger mixed with grief—it had driven her to awful places. Dangerous men, stupid decisions. It was a hole in her that could not be filled. Could never be filled with the junk she’d tried to fill it with.

I have to find a new way to cope
, she realized, staring at Reba, who only stared back.
I can’t pretend it isn’t there. I can’t ignore it or wish it away
.

“Let’s go for a walk,” Monica said.

*   *   *

Jackson dropped the plastic spoon back in the bowl of red meat that Sean was calling chili. “This is awful,” he said.

Cora, next to him, nodded. “Really bad.”

“No, it’s not!” Sean tried in vain to defend his concoction. He took a bite from his own bowl and made a big show of chewing it and swallowing it down. But his eyes were watering.

Jackson wiped his mouth, wishing he could use the napkin to wipe off his tongue.

“You know I’m entering the cook-off,” Cora said.

“So what?” Sean demanded, red-faced. “We should all just not enter? Just crown you the winner?”

Jackson was aware of the cameras rolling behind him and he walked away from the arguing duo, hoping the cameras would follow.

They didn’t.
Damn it
.

More than the usual suspects had shown up to the parade meeting because the camera crew was there. Sean, always looking to make a buck, was selling beer alongside his terrible chili and since people were nervous around the cameras, they were drinking it. A lot of it.

Jackson was doing his best to steer Dean, Vanessa, and Matt away from the crowds who were just there to gawk and drink, and so far he’d been pretty successful, but he had doubts about his ability to keep up the show for long.

And frankly, looking around the room, he realized that no one seemed to be actually working.

Including his sister. After dragging her to the meeting, she sat in the far corner near the old Chamber of Commerce float that had been stored here since last year.

Alone.

After the scene at the art camp, he’d dragged her to pageant rehearsal and confiscated her phone. All of which she’d accepted silently. Contrite and belligerent at the same time.

And now she sat alone and he felt … bad.

He’d taken three steps toward Gwen when the side door to the old garage creaked open and Reba the mutant dog made an entrance, followed by Monica.

Her eyes immediately found him, as if she were a compass and he was True North.

And all that shit they didn’t talk about, those big black spaces they kept secret from each other, from the world—none of it mattered. Seeing her, it wasn’t just that the night got brighter, or the room warmer, or any of that. It was that finally inside the building filled with people he’d known since he was a child there was someone who
knew
him.

She was more than a friend, really. A comrade. A kindred spirit.

Nearly thirty years old and that had never happened to him before. He scratched his chest, suddenly uncomfortable with the feeling; it was like being handed one too many things to carry.

“Hi,” she said, almost shy. “I’m crashing your party.”

“It needs crashing.”

“I can see that.” She glanced around. “Are you actually making the floats tonight?”

“The Chamber of Commerce one, yes. Vanessa’s request.”

“Vanessa has a lot of those.”

“Can I tell you a secret?”

“Please do.”

“I’ll be happy when Vanessa is gone.”

She smiled and her purple eyes danced, and he was taken aback by how they seemed to be in accord with each other. Her smile and her eyes told the same story about Monica this evening and it was a good one, as happy as he’d seen her outside of her hotel room. Entranced, he stepped a little closer. Reba danced around his feet. “We still on for tonight?”

Her lips parted and a breathy gasp escaped. God, he loved that. He really did. Lust roared through him, a wave obliterating everything but her. Everything but how she made him feel.

“Yes.”

“I need you to do exactly what I say,” he whispered, his eyes never leaving hers. She nodded. Spellbound. He knew if he touched her, she’d be hot. Growing damp. Cautious and careful in her desire, she didn’t fling herself into it, didn’t rush into sex. It felt like such a goddamn privilege to turn her on.

He wanted to roar, throw her over his shoulder, and run away with her back to her hotel room.

“When you go back to your hotel room, leave your door open.”

She nodded.

“Have a drink.”

She blinked.

“Turn off the lights.”

“Now you’re getting pushy.”

“Take off your clothes and touch yourself.”

She gasped. A soft small sound that turned him on so hard and fast he got dizzy for a moment. Lost in her eyes.

“Can you do that?”

She nodded, her pupils dilated. The purple nearly all swallowed up by the black.

“Can you do that and think of me? Of what I’m going to do to you?”

“Yes,” she whispered, her lips curving into a sly smile.
Just for me
, he thought.
That smile is just for me
. And it was so much better than her frowns.

He stepped back from the cocoon they had managed to make between the wall and the door and his back to the room. They weren’t alone. No one was listening, but they weren’t alone.

He took a deep breath, to center himself, to pull himself
together, and turned only to see Vanessa halfway across the room, holding a camera on them. She held up a thumb, her eyes alight with excitement.

“I’ll … I’ll be right back,” Jackson told Monica.

“I don’t need a babysitter, Jackson.”

“Okay, but don’t try Sean’s chili.” He fought the urge to kiss her, to press his lips right to that place on her forehead revealed by the black sweep of her hair. He ignored the urge, unsure of what to do with it, and walked over to Vanessa.

“Now
that’s
a twist,” Vanessa said. “The mayor and the Wild Child?”

“It’s … it’s not what you think. There’s nothing between us.”

“Well.” Vanessa grinned knowingly. “The important thing is that on tape, it looks like there is. And that stuff plays, my friend. It will be eaten up—viewers will be breaking their thumbs to vote for Bishop.”

Here he stood once more at a divide in the road. What exactly would a better man do? He didn’t want to use his relationship with Monica for votes. But he needed to win this contest.

In the end, he did nothing. Vanessa walked away knowingly and Jackson told himself he was just trying to take care of the town.

She won’t care
, he told himself, but knew it was a lie.

As a rule, in Bishop, Monica had encountered only kindness and some mild celebrity worship. Shelby had been the only one ready with her judgment and her upturned nose. And walking around the garage, she got a few more nods and careful smiles, as if people were unsure how to approach her. A few men watched her with something altogether different in their eyes. Those were the men who had reread the sex parts in her book. And
how odd, after years of becoming inured to men thinking the worst of her, that now she wanted to shrink away from it.

Her armor was dented. Rusted. Full of battle wounds. She could no longer pretend to be a version of what they expected.

But Jay waved when he saw her, using his whole arm to do it. Ania brought over her parents to meet her, and they were both very kind, if slightly embarrassed. The younger kids who recognized her from the art camp made her a part of an elaborate obstacle course they were running around the adults.

She wasn’t alone, and her soul, though barbed and over-sharp, was … quiet.

Reba drew a crowd of people, for whom she twitched and preened. Monica found herself no longer annoyed telling people about the breed.