Текст книги "My Life Next Door"

Автор книги: Хантли Фитцпатрик

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

Damn Daniel. Couldn’t he even be gallant and shield her? Tim was right. He’s a putz.

“What a coward.” Oops, will that make Nan mad? I brace myself. But she just nods her head and says, “I know, right? Steve McQueen would never have done that. He would have beaten him up like he does to the bad doctor in Love With the Proper Stranger.”

“So then what?”

“So then the uncle and Daniel start fighting. Daniel’s begging him not to tell his parents and his uncle keeps screaming at him. Finally, he agreed not to tell if we ‘Left the Premises at Once.’”

I can see where Daniel gets his diction. “So you came home then?”

“No, it was really late. We used my emergency American Express card to stay at the Doubletree Midtown. Daniel tried to pick up where we left off, but the mood was gone. We just watched a Star Trek marathon and fell asleep.”

I reach out my arms and this time she slides into them, her drooping head on my shoulder, her own shoulders shaking.

“Why can’t things ever work for me? I just wanted to be irresistible and adventurous. Now I’m a Scarlet Woman and I didn’t even get the sex. I’m a Faux Scarlet Woman.” Her hot tears soak my collarbone.

“I think you were awesome. Ripping off his shirt, taking charge. You’re a Scarlet Woman in all the best ways, Nan Mason.”

“It was really hard to rip off, actually.” She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. “Brooks Brothers must sew those buttons on with wire.”

“He said you were beautiful and brave,” I tell her. “And you were.”

“Don’t tell anybody what happened. I didn’t even tell Tim. I told him Daniel rocked my world. Ugh.”

Seems to me Tim would understand things not turning out as planned.

I rub her back gently and say, “Pinkie swear.”

She sits up suddenly. “No matter what you do, don’t tell that Garrett boy. I can’t stand the thought of you guys laughing at us.”

I wince. Knowing how protective Jase is of his sisters, how he tried to nudge Tim into having more compassion for Nan, I know he would never laugh. That Nan would think he would hurts, almost as much as it hurts that she thinks I would. But all I say is, “I won’t tell anybody.”

“I need more ice cream.” She says. Her face is so red and swollen that her eyes are squinted. “Want to split that Doane’s Dynamo thing that has ten scoops and comes in a Frisbee?”

Chapter Thirty-three

“Wish me luck at Chuck E. Cheese.” Mrs. Garrett sighs as she drops Jase and me off at the hardware store. “Hell on earth, with pizza and a giant talking mouse.”

It’s Jase and Tim’s shift today. Except that Tim didn’t show up to give us a ride. Mrs. Garrett, saying she didn’t need me to babysit because of a birthday party George is invited to at Chuck E. Cheese, drove us. My early afternoon free from Breakfast Ahoy, I’m thumbing idly through the SAT test prep guide Nan gave me.

Jase begins unpacking a shipment of nails. We say nothing about Tim’s absence, but I notice Jase’s eyes, under their thick dark lashes, flicking to the clock over the door, just as mine do. I don’t want Tim to screw up. But ten minutes go by, then twenty, then half an hour.

Mr. Garrett comes out of the back room to say hello. He claps Jase on the back and kisses me on the cheek, telling us there’s plenty of coffee in his office. He’s holed up back there, he says, doing the quarterly books. Jase whistles under his breath, sorting nails, scribbling amounts down on a pad. I hear a little repetitive sound coming from Mr. Garrett’s office. I flip pages in the prep guide, trying to identify the sound.

Click-click-click-click-click.

I look over at Jase inquiringly.

“Pen cap,” he explains. “My dad says clicking it always helps him add—or, in our case, subtract.” He opens a bag of bullet-head nails, letting them clatter into the clear plastic drawer in front of him.

“No better—the finances?” I come up to stretch my arms around his back, resting my cheek against his shoulder blade. He’s wearing a gray sweatshirt today and I inhale the Jase smell.

“But no worse,” he responds with a grin, turning to face me, cupping the heel of his hand to the back of my neck, smiling as he pulls me closer.

“You look beat.” I trace the dark bluish shadow under his eye with a slow finger.

“Yup. I am. That feels good, Sam.”

“Are you burning the midnight oil? Doing what?”

“I guess I’m burning the daylight oil, but it sure doesn’t feel like daylight at four in the morning.”

His eyes are still shut. I smooth my finger down his cheek, then slide it back up to the other eye.

“You’re getting up at four in the morning? Why?”

“Don’t laugh.”

Why does that phrase always bring out a smile? He opens his eyes and grins back at me.

I school my face into a somber expression. “I won’t.”

“I’m a paperboy now.”

“What?”

“I’m delivering papers for the Stony Bay Sentinel. Starting at four, six days a week.”

“How long have you been doing this?”

“Two weeks. I didn’t think it would be quite this bad. You never see paperboys in movies chugging down Red Bull and No-Doz.”

“Probably because they’re usually ten. Couldn’t Duff do it?” His hand slides up to tangle in my hair, to pull out my elastic, because that’s what he always does.

“Duff doesn’t hope to go to college next year. I do. Even though it’s damn unlikely, the way things are going. Hell, I shouldn’t have bought that car. I just wanted it…so badly. And it’s nearly running now. With more money poured in, that is.” I bite my lip. I never have to worry about money. “Don’t look so sad, Sam. It’ll be okay. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“I brought it up,” I remind him. “I’m your girlfriend. You’re supposed to be able to talk about this stuff with me. It’s not just about me making free with your hot body, you know.”

“Though that completely works for me,” Jase says, twisting his fingers in my hair and pulling me closer.

“Oh hell. Not more of this PDA crap.”

We turn toward the door as Tim stalks in, wearing his gray Impress Grace Reed suit and looking crumpled and extremely pissed off.

“Mason,” Jase greets, not letting go of me. “You okay?” He indicates the clock with a hitch of his shoulder.

“That would depend on what ‘okay’ is.” Tim yanks off his jacket and shoves it onto a coat hook. He untwines his tie as though it’s a boa constrictor with a chokehold around his neck. “Which I wouldn’t frickin’ know, would I?” Stalking over, he takes his place beside Jase, who surreptitiously checks his pupils and sniffs his breath. I can’t smell anything. I hope Jase doesn’t. Tim doesn’t look high…just furious.

“What’s up?” Jase hands him his time card.

Tim bends over to scribble the time in black marker. “Samantha? How the fuck much do you know about that Clay Tucker?”

“Tim, come on. Stop swearing.” I put a hand on his arm. He’s been easing up on the four-letter words lately, sometimes getting through an entire conversation without one.

“Why, Samantha? Why the fuck should I?” He gives me his fake-charming smile. “I get to say it. You guys get to do it. The way I figure it, you come out ahead.”

“Knock it off, Tim. This isn’t Samantha’s fault. What’s going on with Clay Tucker?” Jase leans his hip against the side of the counter, crossing his arms.

“I dunno. I mean, I’m not one to criticize manipulative bastards, being one myself and all. But this guy…new levels. And your mom, Samantha…right there with him.” Tim rubs his forehead.

“What do you mean?” I say at the same time Mr. Garrett asks, “You going back there to work tonight?” He must have come into the room without any of us hearing.

Tim shakes his head, but a flush climbs up his neck. He’s never been late before, not here.

“Good, then. You’ll stay on after closing and finish that inventory of the stockroom you started the other day.”

Tim nods, swallowing. Mr. Garrett puts a hand on his shoulder. “Never again, Timothy. Ya hear?” He walks off down the hall to his office, his broad shoulders looking a little slumped.

Jase pulls a package of Trident gum out of his jeans pocket and offers it to Tim. “So go on.”

“So old Clay…” Tim takes six sticks of gum, half the package. Jase raises his eyebrows but says nothing. “He’s freaking everywhere. You lift a rock in this campaign and he crawls out from under it. Grace has this entire staff and Clay’s in charge of fuckin’ all of it. He says something and everybody jumps. Even me. The guy never sleeps. Even that little dude, your mom’s suck-up campaign manager, Malcolm, is looking bushed, but Clay’s going along like the friggin’ Energizer Bunny of Connecticut politics. He’s even got this babe…this hot brunette from Ben Christopher’s office…being like a double agent for him. She shows up every morning to give him the goods on what Christopher’s doing. So Grace can get a jump on it, show it up, look better.”

Realization smacks me hard, but I barely have time to process because Tim keeps going.

“He’s all about the photo ops too. Yesterday it was some poor bastard who lost both legs in Afghanistan coming stateside. Clay was on the spot, makin’ sure Gracie got a half-page spread in the Stony Bay Bugle kissing him hello.” Tim jams his hands into his pockets, pacing around the room as he talks. “Then we go to some day-care center where he gets Grace’s photo taken with six cute blond kids piled around her. He practically shoved this girl with one of those big red birthmarks on her face outta the way. I mean, he’s good at what he does. It’s amazing watching him work. But somehow, frickin’ scary too. And your Mom…she just says nothin’, Samantha. She snaps to attention like she’s working for him. What the fuck’s up with that?”

It’s not as though I haven’t thought all these things. But when Tim says them, I feel defensive. Besides, who is Tim to talk?

“Look,” I say. “It may seem like he’s the boss, but Mom would never back off completely like that. She loves this job and she’s totally committed to winning and this is a tough race…” I trail off. I sound like her.

“Yeah, and she’s ahead in all our internal polling. Even with the margin of error. Close, but ahead. But of course, that’s not enough for Clay. Clay has to hedge his bets. Clay has to have his little November surprise in the works, so he makes abso-friggin’-lutely sure that not only does she win, but her opponent fucking loses. Big. Not just the race. His whole career.”

Jase is absently sliding the palm of his left hand up and down my side, while still pulling plastic packs of nails out of the cardboard box. “And he’s doing this by…?”

“Digging up dirt that doesn’t matter. Making sure it matters. And sticks.”

We both stare at Tim.

“Ben Christopher, who’s running against Grace? He has two DUIs,” he says. “The first was from thirty years ago, high school. The second was twenty-six years ago. He did his service, paid his fines. I see the dude in meetings. He’s seriously decent. He’s done everything he can to make up for it. But old Clay’s already got it lined up to make sure you can never keep your past in the past. He knows from his little pet spy that the Christopher campaign is shitting bricks about it coming out. And he’s gonna have old Gracie do a rally with some asshole there who’s going to let it all slip. Three days before the election.”

“Where are you in all this?” Jase asks.

Tim looks at us pleadingly. “I don’t know. Clay Tucker thinks I walk on water. For some reason, every damn thing I do impresses this jerk-off. Today he complimented me on how I collated papers, for Christ’s sake. No one has ever been this impressed with me. Not even when I was faking my ass off. I’m not now. I’m actually good at this crap. Plus, I need the recommendation.” His voice rises a few octaves. “‘The hardware store is all very well, Timothy, but it’s your campaign experience, and what the state senator says about you that’ll go a long way toward repairing the damage you’ve done yourself.’”

“Your mom?” I ask.

“Natch. There’s not a person on the planet who would say as many nice things about me as Clay Tucker. And of course, my luck, he has to ruin a good man along the way.”

At this point the store gets a sudden run of customers. A hassled-looking woman with her teenage daughter chooses paint chips. An elderly woman wants a leaf blower that doesn’t take any muscle to run. A clueless-looking bearded guy tells Tim he wants “One of those things you fix stuff with, like on TV.” After five minutes of Tim offering him everything from spackle to a DustBuster to a Ginzu knife, Jase finally figures out it’s a tool kit. The guy trots off, looking satisfied.

“So, what are you going to do?” I ask.

“Hell, hell, hell,” Tim responds, reaching for his shirt pocket where his cigarettes still reside, then letting his hand drop away, empty. No smoking in the building. He closes his eyes, looking as though someone’s pounding a nail through his temple, then opens them and looks no better. He smacks his fist against the counter, sending a plastic container of pens jumping. “I just can’t make myself quit. I’ve screwed up so much already. This will look like more of the same…even though it’s not.” He bends forward over the cash register, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes. Is he crying?

“You could tell him what you think of his tactics,” Jase points out. “Tell him they’re wrong.”

“Like he’ll care. I hate this. I hate knowing the right thing to do and not having the balls to do it. This sucks. This is payback, isn’t it? You wouldn’t believe the things I’ve done, the tests I’ve cheated on, the rules I’ve broken, the times I’ve fucked up, the people I’ve screwed over.”

“Oh knock it off already, man, with the ‘nobody knows the horrors I’ve seen’ routine. It’s getting really old,” Jase snaps.

I take a deep breath like I’m going to say something—what, I have no idea—but he continues before I can. “It’s not like you murdered newborns and drank their blood. You screwed up at prep school. Don’t overrate yourself.”

Tim’s eyebrows have shot to his hairline. Neither Tim nor I have ever seen Jase lose his temper.

“It’s not the moral dilemma of the century.” Jase runs his fingers through his hair. “It’s not whether to develop the atom bomb. It’s just whether you’re going to do a decent thing or keep doing shitty things. So choose. Just stop whining about it.”

Tim gives a little nod, an upward jerk of his chin, then turns his attention to the register as though the numbers and symbols on it are the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen. His face has been so much more expressive lately than usual, but now he’s assumed that bland mask that I had come to think of as his real face. “I should go to the stockroom,” he mutters, and heads down the hallway.

Jase pours the last plastic bag full of nails into the plastic container. The clatter breaks the silence.

“That didn’t sound like you,” I offer quietly, still standing beside him.

Jase looks embarrassed. “Kinda just came out. It’s…it makes me feel…I get tired of…” His hand rubs the back of his neck, then slides all the way across his face to cover his eyes. “I like Tim. He’s a good guy…” He pulls his hand down to smile at me. “But I can’t say I wouldn’t appreciate a crack at all those choices—chances—Tim had. And when he acts like he’s under this curse or something…” He shakes his head, as though brushing the thought off, turns and looks at me, then nods at the clock. “I told Dad I’d stay late tonight and make out some reorder forms.” He reaches for a few strands of my hair, twining them around his finger. “You busy later?”

“I was supposed to go to a meet-and-greet in Fairport with Mom, but I told her I needed to study for SATs.”

“She believed this? It’s summer, Sam.”

“Nan’s got me signed up for this crazy prep simulation. And…I might have told Mom when she was a little distracted.”

“But not intentionally, of course.”

“Of course not,” I say.

“So if I were to come see you after eight, you’d be studying.”

“Absolutely. But I might want a…study buddy. Because I might be grappling with some really tough problems.”

“Grappling, huh?”

“Tussling with,” I say. “Wrestling. Handling.”

“Gotcha. Sounds like I should bring protective gear to study with you.” Jase grins at me.

“You’re pretty tough. You’ll be fine.”

Chapter Thirty-four

I’ve just gotten in the door when my cell phone starts up.

“So, because we have to get such an early start in the morning…The factory opens at five, can you imagine…really makes more sense…see you when you get back from school.” My cell gets perfect reception, but the tinny voice spilling out of it seems to come and go, as though I’m having problems tuning in to a certain radio frequency. Because this voice saying she’ll be gone all night because she has an early-morning meet-and-greet at a factory way up in the western corner of the state…this just can’t be Station Grace Reed. I must have tuned in to an alternative program. Or universe. But she concludes, “We’re halfway there already and it doesn’t make sense to drive all the way home. Clay’s found us a gorgeous hotel room. You’ll be fine, right?”

I’m so taken aback that I nod before remembering she can’t see me. “No problem, Mom. I’ll be fine. Enjoy the hotel.” I almost add that she could stay another night if she wanted before deciding that might sound suspiciously overeager.

She’ll be gone. All night. With Clay—and his confusing agenda—in a gorgeous hotel room. But I won’t think about that. What I do think about, what I immediately think about, is the all night part. Which is why I’m hitting Jase’s number on my cell instantly.

“Sam.” I can hear the smile in his voice. I just left the store ten minutes ago. “You having a study crisis already?”

“My mom won’t be home tonight. At all.”

There’s a pause, during which I feel flustered. Do I have to spell things out more? How do I even do that? “Want to have a sleepover?” We’re not six.

“Your mom won’t be home at all?” he repeats.

“That’s right.”

“So maybe you’d like company, since you’re grappling with all those study problems.”

“That’s what I’d like.”

“Door or window?” he asks.

“I’m unlocking the window right now.”

I pull my hair out of its braid, brush it loose. I’ve really got to cut it one of these days. It’s down to the small of my back now, takes forever to dry after a swim. Why am I even thinking about this now? I guess I’m a little nervous. I didn’t want to overthink, but unless we just pounce on each other in the heat of the moment—hard to do, logistically speaking, there has to be a little planning. A little time for overthinking. I hear a tapping and go over to the window to fit my hand against Jase’s before I nudge the glass open.

He’s brought a sleeping bag, one of those big green bulky L.L. Bean ones. I look at it questioningly.

Following my gaze, he turns red. “I told my parents I was going to help you study, then we might watch a movie, and if it got late enough, I’d crash on your living room floor.”

“And they said?”

“Mom said, ‘Have a nice time, dear.’ Dad just looked at me.”

“Embarrassing much?”

“Worth it.”

He walks slowly over, his eyes locked on mine, then puts his hands around my waist.

“Um. So…are we going to study?” My tone’s deliberately casual.

Jase slides his thumbs behind my ears, rubbing the hollow at their base. He’s only inches from my face, still looking into my eyes. “You bet. I’m studying you.” He scans over me, slowly, then returns to my eyes. “You have little flecks of gold in the middle of the blue.” He bends forward and touches his lips to one eyelid, then the other, then moves back. “And your eyelashes aren’t blond at all, they’re brown. And…” He steps back a little, smiling slowly at me. “You’re already blushing—here”—his lips touch the pulse at the hollow of my throat—“and probably here…” The thumb that brushes against my breast feels warm even through my T-shirt.

In the movies, clothes just melt away when the couple is ready to make love. They’re all golden and backlit with the soundtrack soaring. In real life, it just isn’t like that. Jase has to take off his shirt and fumbles with his belt buckle and I hop around the room pulling off my socks, wondering just how unsexy that is. People in movies don’t even have socks. When Jase pulls off his jeans, change he has in his pocket slips out and clatters and rolls across the floor.

“Sorry!” he says, and we both freeze, even though no one’s home to hear the sound.

In movies, no one ever gets self-conscious at this point, thinking they should have brushed their teeth. In movies, it’s all beautifully choreographed, set to an increasingly dramatic soundtrack.

In movies, when the boy pulls the girl to him when they are both finally undressed, they never bump their teeth together and get embarrassed and have to laugh and try again.

But here’s the truth: In movies, it’s never half so lovely as it is here and now with Jase.

I take a deep breath as his hand skims down, down, to the back of my thigh. The feeling of his skin, all his skin, against mine gives me goose bumps. Then he pulls me closer and we plunge into a kiss that is like deep, deep water. When we finally stop for air, I wrap both legs around his hips. The corners of his eyes crinkle. His hands tighten on my bottom as he walks over to the bed. I slide off and am lying on my side, looking up at him. Jase bends down, crouching beside the bed, and stretches out his hand to put it on my heart. I do the same, feel his heart pounding, fast, fast.

“Are you nervous?” I whisper. “You don’t seem it.”

“I’m worried it’ll hurt for you, at first. I’m thinking it’s not fair that it’s like that.”

“It’s okay. I’m not worried about that. Come closer.”

Jase straightens up, slowly, then goes over to his jeans to pull out one of the condoms we bought together. He holds his palm out, flat. “Not nervous at all.” He ducks his head to indicate his fingers, which are trembling, slightly.

“What’s that one called?” I ask.

“I don’t even know. I just grabbed a bunch before I came over.” We lean over the little square of foil. “Ramses.”

“What’s with these names?” I inquire as Jase gently begins to open the packet. “I mean, were the Egyptians known for their effective birth control or what? And why Trojans? Aren’t they mostly remembered as the guys who lost? You’d think they’d use Macedonians, weren’t they the winners? I mean, I know it doesn’t sound as manly, but—”

Jase puts two fingers on my lips. “Samantha? It’s okay. Shhh. We don’t have to…We can just…”

“But I want to,” I whisper. “I want to.” I take a deep breath and reach out for the condom. “Do you want me to help, um, put it on?”

Jase blushes. “Yeah, okay.”

When we’re both lying on the bed, entirely naked, for the first time, just looking at him in the moonlight makes my throat ache. “Wow,” I say.

“I think that’s my line,” Jase whispers back. He puts his hand against my cheek and looks at me intently. My hand moves to cover his and I nod. Then his body is moving over me, and mine is opening to welcome him.

Okay. It does, after all, hurt a bit. I thought it might not, just because it’s Jase. There’s pain, but not wrenching or stabbing, more like a sting as something gives way, then aches a little as he fills me.

I bite down hard on my lower lip, opening my eyes to find Jase biting his, looking at me so anxiously that something in my heart yields even more completely.

“You okay? This okay?”

I nod, pulling his hips more tightly to my own.

“Now we’ll make it better,” Jase vows, and begins to kiss me again as he starts to move in a rhythm. My body follows, unwilling to let him go, already glad to have him come back.