Текст книги "Beautiful Addictions"
Автор книги: Season Vining
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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 17 страниц)
5. Satellite
Any object that orbits another celestial body.
Monica Templeton, all five feet nothing of her, approached the dilapidated redbrick building without hesitation. Though she didn’t live in the neighborhood, she was here often. Being a social worker took her to every nook and cranny of this city. There were no boundaries set by race, religion, or social status. Her job included everyone. It’s what had brought her into the field in the first place. Monica truly believed that everyone deserved a fair chance at a happy and healthy life.
Home visits were usually unpleasant, but they were a necessary part of the job. It was imperative to visit the children in their homes, making sure they were taken care of and provided for. In her many years on the job, and through trials that tested her moral strength, she had learned to take nothing for granted. Monica became an expert at seeing things that were not meant to be seen, at assessing visual clues and behaviors. In short, she’d learned a great deal from her mistakes.
She smiled at three girls jumping rope on the sidewalk, their plastic snap barrettes dancing at the end of their braids. Together their sweet voices serenaded the street corner.
“Cinderella dressed in yella went upstairs to kiss her fella. Made a mistake and kissed a snake. How many doctors did it take? 1, 2, 3, 4, 5—awwww!”
The girls laughed as they tripped on the rope. In seconds, they were set up to try again. Two women watched from a balcony on the second floor, smoking their cigarettes and talking animatedly with their hands. Though engrossed in their conversation, one of them always had an eye on the girls. On the stoop sat four large men, looking comfortable and uninterested in Monica’s arrival.
“Excuse me,” she said, looking each one of them in the eye. No one moved. “I said excuse me,” she repeated a bit louder, popping her gum to get their attention.
One man stood, his ribbed shirt clinging to his muscles. He wore three gold chains and pristine sneakers. Monica knew his type.
“Yeah, we heard you,” he answered, stepping closer, towering over the tiny woman. “What you want here?”
“That is my business. I suggest that you and your friends move aside. While I appreciate the whole thug look you’ve got going on here,” Monica said, waving her hand across his body like a game show host, “I don’t have time for it. Take your disrespectful attitude, mooching off of some hardworking single mom, deadbeat ass out of my way before I perforate your skull with the heel of my imitation Jimmy Choos.”
A chorus of “oohs” rang out from his friends as he glared at her. Monica refused to back down, her neck aching from returning his gaze.
“I got shit to do anyway,” he said.
A few seconds later, he stepped away and let her pass. So did the others.
A light tapping at Josie’s door pulled her inside from her place on the fire escape. She knew, just from the patience of the knock, that it wasn’t Alex. She approached the door and spoke through the solid wood.
“Who is it?”
“Your friend Monica,” her high-spirited voice sang.
Josie rolled her eyes, unlocked the door, and motioned for her to come inside. She suddenly wished for a strong drink and a joint, some sort of chemical buffer between them. Monica immediately took a seat at the small kitchen table. She blew a bubble of her pink gum and sucked it back in. Josie didn’t like how Monica looked in her apartment, a perfect little package among motley furniture and chipping paint. If it weren’t for manners, she knew Monica might be tempted to clean her chair with an antibacterial wipe before sitting. Josie was almost positive the woman had them in her purse.
“I don’t have any friends,” Josie reminded her, taking a seat in the opposite chair and crossing her arms defensively.
Josie considered herself a solitary soul, always avoiding relationships and the human race in general. The interaction, attention, and conversation it took to maintain relationships required too much exertion. Most often, people’s true intentions were buried beneath fake smiles and how-are-you handshakes. Josie was unhappy that her worth was determined by the number of friends she had—or, in this case, didn’t have. Friendship was a commodity to be bought and sold, and she was not interested.
“You may not be my friend, but I’m yours. You have Alex too.”
Josie hated the way Monica always looked at her with pity and self-loathing guilt. The woman’s face, though usually smiling, always held this contrite intensity. Josie wondered if she always had that look or if it appeared only when they were within six feet of each other. They sat in a customary standoff, each trying to guess the intention of the other. Monica knew this visit wouldn’t end well; she could feel the hostility rolling off of Josie in battering waves. She could practically see the confrontation written across the girl’s face.
Josie stared out the window, hoping that when she turned back, Monica would be gone. No such luck. She could see all the pity that fueled her own anger. Monica’s face was masked in casual interest, but Josie saw right through it.
“Did you need something?” Josie finally asked.
“I was in the neighborhood.”
“I’m fine,” Josie answered.
“Well, I had a cancellation and thought I’d check in on you. These people have no consideration. I drove all the way over here for our prearranged appointment time only to find out they are in Anaheim for the day. I mean, really.”
“Sorry you had to slum it for nothing. You better run along before someone steals your car.”
While Josie didn’t have ill feelings toward Monica, she wasn’t exactly a fan. As a state-appointed social worker, Monica had been free and clear of her obligation to Josie for four years now. Josie had always assumed that Monica’s feelings of failure would eventually wane and the woman would disappear from her life like everyone else. Yet here she was, still keeping watch over Josie.
“You always say you are fine. How are you really? Are you working? Going to school?”
“No and no.”
Monica leaned back in the rickety chair and crossed her legs. The toe of her shoe tapped anxiously against the table leg while she pondered how far to push today.
“Josie, you really should consider getting a job or at least decide what to do with the rest of your life. It’s great that you sit around drawing pictures and getting high all day. Hell, if it were up to me, I’d spend my time reading romance novels in front of the Home Shopping Network while munching on Oreos. But I live in the real world. It’s just not possible.”
Josie stood and grabbed a glass from her kitchen counter. She filled it with tap water and swallowed the whole lot down at once. She felt smothered by Monica, held down and accountable. But she wasn’t quite sure what she should be accountable for. The water didn’t cool her insides like she’d hoped, so she turned and faced Monica.
“Why isn’t it possible? If that’s what you want to do, I say do it! Your ass would be the size of a house, but you’d be happy. Go buy some stretch pants and Oreos. Dare to dream.”
Josie again turned her back on Monica. She focused on the pristine empty space of tile behind her sink. She pictured ink and paint in lines of fury covering the surface and seeping into the old grout.
“I know you have plenty of money from your inheritance, but one cannot live on sex and drugs alone. It’s going to kill you one day,” Monica said, ignoring Josie’s rant.
“I’m counting on it.”
“You don’t mean that,” Monica insisted. Josie sighed at Monica calling her out. “And I don’t understand why you live in this place when you can afford more. Get out and do something. Be productive. You should start contributing to society.”
Josie spun around and threw her arms in the air.
“Like they contributed to me?”
Her words seemed dipped in a guilty poison that would certainly hit their mark. Monica flinched at the verbal jab while trying to hide the sympathy that Josie detested. She could still remember their introduction. Monica was all smiles and hugs while shy Josie wrapped her arms around her middle protectively. Her eyes had stayed fixed on the speckled linoleum floor when they spoke. She was soft-spoken and placid back then.
“Hi, Josie. I’m Monica. I’ve been assigned your case. I’m so glad to be working with you,” Monica had said to the mute girl. Josie looked around the office and back to the floor. “Let’s see, your file says you lost your mother a year ago and recently your father passed away too?”
Josie looked up at her and shrugged. “If that’s what it says,” she’d answered.
“Wow. I’m so sorry, honey. I know we could never replace them, but I promise I’ll try my hardest to get you into a nice foster home soon. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“What can you tell me about yourself?”
“My name is Josie Banks,” she said, as if she’d been practicing.
“And do you have any hobbies? What kind of music do you listen to? How about boys? Any celebrity crushes? I just love Matthew Fox from the show Lost.”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, Josie Banks.” Monica flipped through some papers and smiled up at Josie. “You’ll be placed in an all-girls home until we find somewhere more permanent for you. There you’ll have access to grief counselors and lots of people who can help if you need anything. Maybe they can get you to open up and talk about your past a bit. It won’t hurt. I promise.”
The sweet, confused girl that Monica met eight years ago had grown into this cynical woman. While it saddened her, it wasn’t a surprise in the least. With the horrific things Josie had endured, Monica couldn’t fault her for any of it. Still, in the depths of her heart, hope hadn’t died for Monica Templeton. She still held firm to the belief that good things could happen for Josie.
Monica dug through her bag and placed a stack of papers on the table.
“Here,” she said. “I brought you some art school applications. It’s worth looking into, Josie. You’re so talented. You deserve to see where it could take you. Of course, you’d have to sober up first.”
Josie took the applications but did not look at them.
“I don’t think I’m cut out for formal education. I’ve been told I have a problem with authority.”
“Well, that’s true. If you keep tagging the entire city with graffiti, that could land you in jail. Now that is real authority and tacky orange jumpsuits.” Monica shuddered at the thought. “Did you have anything to do with that piece up on Fifth Avenue?”
Josie smiled.
“It’s beautiful, Josie. But that’s illegal. If they can nail you for enough damage, it becomes a felony.”
“I know.”
“Then why don’t you take that energy and dedicate it to something legit?”
“What I do is fucking legit,” Josie growled, stomping across the small space and curling up into a ball on the end of her sofa.
The silence that followed was uncomfortable. Her loud declaration followed by nothing left an enormous weight of silence pressing down on them. It was a burden Josie would gladly endure. Monica, however, could not.
“How about the support group down at the community center? Have you been there lately? I hear the director’s quite a dreamboat. Oh, and he’s an art major at SDSU. I bet you two would have a lot in common.”
“No, Monica, I haven’t been down to the community center. I don’t want to listen to people talk about their terrible childhoods and compare it to mine. I don’t want their looks of pity. I get enough of that from you. And who the fuck uses the word ‘dreamboat’ anymore?” Josie said.
“Also, I don’t eat three meals a day. I get high whenever possible. I have sex with strangers, many strangers. I don’t exercise and I pick fights with drug dealers.” She paused, catching her breath before delivering the final blow. “Don’t you have an abused kid somewhere to save?”
Monica averted her watery eyes, picked up her purse, and left without waiting for an apology. She knew not to expect feelings of regret from the stone-cold girl. The words were wounding and her buttons were pressed. As much as she had tried to atone for her mistakes, Monica always suffered at the hands of Josie. She took it because she deserved it. Holding back tears as she ran down the steps, Monica fled from the first and last kid she had ever let down.
* * *
After such a long and gruesome day on the job, Monica found herself parked on a barstool, sipping a strong vodka tonic. Mellow music drifted through the room, adding to the ambient noise of conversation and clinking glass. The whole place was deep mahogany, as if it had grown out of the earth or had been carved out of one giant tree. With the wall sconces and pendant lighting, the top of the room glowed a rich, golden honey before fading into a chocolate floor. Monica felt warmed and at ease here.
She blew out a breath and pushed the negative energy from her lungs. For once, she was glad to be alone. She enjoyed the feeling of alcohol seeping into her blood, creating detachment from her job. It was days like this that had begun to wear on her positive attitude. No form of meditation could prepare or repair the angst she faced in Josie Banks. Josie had a way of draining the fight from Monica. Monica had a way of letting her.
A prickling chill ran down her spine as she felt another’s gaze upon her. In the stagnant air of the room, it felt as though a breeze had drifted across her skin, rousing her defeated spirit. Monica looked up from her melting ice cubes and found two stunning blue eyes looking back.
He was handsome with his wavy blond hair and broad shoulders. His tanned skin seemed to glow beneath the lights. His jeans looked soft and worn, in a natural way. In a prowling and unapologetic stride, he approached her, taking a seat on the next stool.
“Hi,” Monica said.
“Hello. Looks like you need another drink.”
His declarative statement and deep voice stirred a flutter in her stomach.
“Well, I don’t usually accept drinks from strangers.”
“My name’s Robin Nettles, but my friends call me Rob.”
“I’m Monica.”
“Well, darlin’, it seems we’re no longer strangers.”
Monica smiled and shook her head. His charming introduction and smooth Southern drawl left her feeling like an inexperienced schoolgirl with a crush. They fell into conversation easily, discussing sports allegiances and Rob’s recent move to the city, but never work. It was refreshing.
“Recap,” Rob said.
It was a game Monica had started to make sure he’d been listening to her rambling. She’d gone out with so many men who had perfected the smile-and-nod technique to deal with her incessant talking. Not one of them had ever really listened to her. After so much information, she would call for a recap. It was declared a test of attention spans and soberness. Rob passed every time and even took to testing her.
“You don’t know who Michael Kors is, you’ve never heard of sexting, and your favorite movie is The Getaway. Not the remake, the original 1972 film with Steve McQueen.”
“You’ve been paying attention.”
“Of course I have. I’m a woman. We are famous multitaskers. I’m probably better at it than most. It may even be in my job description. Your turn.”
“Okay, let’s see. You’ve never been to Mississippi,” he said, frowning as he placed a hand over his heart as if wounded by the idea. “You love the smell of fingernail polish, your mother is an accountant, and your favorite place in the city is a tie between Sunset Cliffs and the Horton Plaza Mall.”
“I do declare, sir, you are correct,” Monica said using her best Southern accent.
“Well, ma’am, it’s a good thing you’re beautiful, because that accent was terrible.”
“What? It couldn’t be that bad. I’ve seen Gone with the Wind like a hundred times.”
“I believe the entire Confederate infantry just turned over in their graves.”
Monica laughed before emptying her glass. It felt amazing to have the attention of such a handsome man, and she wondered how she’d gotten so lucky. She flirted as best she could, touching his forearm to keep his attention and adjusting her cleavage discreetly. She’d been out of the dating game for a while, swearing off awkward meetings and cheap bastards for the past year. Somehow she knew coming out of retirement for this man would be worth it.
When he excused himself to use the restroom, she pulled out her compact and reapplied her vanilla-flavored gloss. She barely recognized her tired eyes as they stared back at her. While she still felt youthful, the tiny lines around her mouth and at the corners of her eyes gave her away. Perhaps if she didn’t worry so much, Monica thought, pulling taut the soft skin to smooth it out.
“Want to get out of here, darlin’?” he whispered from behind her, while his hands came to rest on her hips.
Monica could feel his body against her back, his warm breath sliding down her neck and settling over her skin. Every touch felt undeniably right.
Without another word, she nodded and signaled to the bartender to close her tab. There was no uncomfortable air as they shared a cab in silence. Within the confines of her modest yet impeccably decorated apartment, they discussed her passion for changing the world and his passion for burning it.
Monica delighted in Rob’s daredevil approach to life and his lilting drawl. Among hours of conversation, they kissed until breathless and held each other tight. By the time the morning sun’s rays filtered through her curtains, Monica Templeton had fallen in love. She never knew it would be so easy.
* * *
On the other side of the city, Tristan stirred from his sleep. He rolled over and found a book pressed into his back. He reached beneath him, pulled it out, and marked the page. He wondered if its sharp dialogue and methodical plot had spurred the fantastic dreams of sexual banter and foreplay in a sleek limousine with Josie. He could still picture her straddling his lap with her hands braced on the roof. Soft lighting highlighted her face while the black windows blocked out the bustling world. He could almost hear her voice chanting his name in pleasure. Tristan groaned at the memory and willed away his morning wood.
He worked the early shift today, and that meant that he’d see Josie soon. He ran his fingers through his hair, a nervous habit developed years ago, but his hair was gone. A couple weeks ago, he’d needed a change, so he’d shaved it off. While liberating, it had left him with nothing to calm his anxiety. His hand passed over the fuzz, but it didn’t have the same effect.
Tristan’s theory was that this new coif would make him less recognizable to his former associates. Those people were tainted by Fiona and her father’s manipulations, not to mention they held all his secrets. When he left the business, Tristan assumed they would come for him, but apparently he’d overestimated his worth. Still, he slept with his cold steel piece tucked safely beneath his pillow each night.
Smirking up at his ceiling, Tristan considered what his pompous father’s reaction would be to the black oxide Desert Eagle pistol that had saved his life too many times to count. He pictured rolling up to the Fallbrook estate in his 1967 Impala and mowing down a few of the perfectly manicured hedges. Parading his branded skin, he would shove bars through his flesh, filling each pierced hole just for the reunion. His poor, docile mother would have a stroke and his father would call the authorities before he even recognized his own son. Tristan laughed at the absurdity of it all.
Some days, he missed them. He missed his mother’s hugs and the way she sang church hymns as she cooked that evening’s dinner. Even though he’d read them all, he missed his father’s library and their afternoons of “man time” spent fishing or watching football. The country singer Kinky Friedman had said, “A happy childhood is the worst possible preparation for life.” Tristan couldn’t agree more. He hadn’t been prepared for any of this.
He found his nerves frayed and anxious for Josie again. His chest seemed to vibrate with the need to see her, touch her. Soon, the need to move, to fly took over, and he flung himself from the bed.
Tristan threw on some shorts and a T-shirt while trying not to glimpse his pathetic face in the mirror. He laced his running shoes and stretched his hands toward the ceiling before heading outside. Mornings on the California coast were so different from back home. The air was cool and welcoming. His steps sounded off left, then right, left, right. He emptied his head and pushed himself harder, sprinting up every hill until his lungs screamed for more air.
Every piece of graffiti caught his eye. Every colorful scene, every line of illegible text brought him back to her. He wondered if any of them had been done by Josie. By the time he made it back to his block, he was exhausted. He felt emptied and exorcised.
A young couple passed him on the sidewalk. Their joined hands swinging between them as if love could not nail them down. They barely noticed Tristan there, huffing and puffing.
It was easy to imagine a different life, playing out in an alternate universe. He would be graduating from college about now, then moving on to law school. Nothing but pride would reflect back at him from his family.
Dreams were something his parents encouraged. For a long time, Tristan had dreamed of McKenzi. In all the times he’d imagined a bright, shining future, he’d pictured her by his side.
Tristan had always been the most accomplished student, the shining example. He’d won science fair ribbons, academic awards, and scholarships to the nation’s most prestigious universities. Through all his accomplishments, Tristan never disclosed, not to his jealous classmates or his adoring teachers, the secret behind his success. It was his ace in the hole, the one thing that guaranteed a future. However, when it had come time to cash in his chips, he’d thrown it all away for the love of a girl. Perhaps if McKenzi hadn’t left him with an expansive pit of sadness and hurt, he would have never sought out the company of Fiona Moloney. He wouldn’t have been dragged into Fiona’s world and her crooked family. He wouldn’t be a shadow of his former self.
Though he may have been misguided and misled, he’d made every bad decision on his own. He didn’t blame McKenzi or her father, Earl. Tristan understood now what he never could as a child. McKenzi was taken from him by a father who wanted only to provide a new beginning for his little girl. After suffering the loss of his wife, he was hurting and wrecked and needed to distance himself from everything familiar. He doomed them by trying to save them.
Tristan took the stairs to his apartment two at a time. He thought of a cold shower, then falling back into bed and more dreams of Josie. But the thought of seeing her in the flesh kept him motivated. Today, he’d be a half hour early for his shift.
* * *
Josie approached the Darkroom knowing that Tristan would already be a couple of hours into his shift. She walked down the sidewalk, flitting between other pedestrians. She slid down the urban hill, watching the sun disappear into the bay. The orange hues looked like flames on the water. Soon the night would come, that purple-blue polka-dotted sky that embraced her like nothing else. Josie turned the corner and sighed at what she found there.
Tristan was leaning against the brick, smoking a cigarette like it was his last before execution. She watched as his eyes squinted when he inhaled and the long fingers of his free hand tapped against his thigh. When finished, he threw the cigarette into the street, letting it roll downhill and out of sight. She stepped closer, finally gaining his attention.
His lips volleyed between a half smile and nervous frown as he took in her appearance. Every curve of her body called to him, every nerve ending felt frayed and drawn to her. Free from the oversize hoodie, she looked amazing, and he instantly felt the familiar stirring of lust.
Silently, Josie made her way over, grabbing his hand to tow him along. She didn’t shy away from his shocked expression. They ducked into the alley and she pushed him against the wall. Her small, frenzied hands ran from his belt buckle, up the hard planes of his chest, and around his neck. His eyes flicked back and forth between her mouth and her cleavage, while he denied the temptation to return her touch.
Her slight pucker hovered just below his, her heels giving her the perfect height to reach him. Their ragged breaths washed over each other while the heat radiating between their bodies created an almost visual aura of need. She had always taken her conquests with no apologies, but with Tristan it was different. More than she wanted him, she wanted him to want her too. Josie hung there, just out of reach, waiting to make sure he would not reject her. She wasn’t sure if he gave in or gave up, but she moved forward when his eyes fluttered closed.
Josie crushed her mouth to his, finding purchase on his delicious bottom lip. He moaned against her mouth, only fueling the hunger that grew inside.
Unable to resist any longer, Tristan pulled her flush against his body. The way she molded to him, a perfect puzzle piece, told him this was right. They were a mess of roaming hands and lips, a dance of lust and claim-staking kisses. They were reunited after what seemed like a lifetime of purgatory, though the moment would be short-lived.
Tristan reluctantly pulled himself from her lips, willing his physical and emotional need to dissipate. Josie attempted to pull him closer, but he found the strength to resist.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, annoyed with his resistance.
“I mourned you,” he said.
“I’m not dead.”
“I didn’t believe you were dead at first. I begged my mom to take me to New York so that I could look for you. Well, until I found out there’re eight million people there.”
“You were a kid.”
Tristan shook his head.
“I was pissed at your dad. So mad that he took you away from me just for a better job. Now I wonder if that’s really why you left, if there wasn’t more to it. You broke my heart, McKenzi, and here you are. It’s just too much.”
She didn’t correct her name. Instead, Josie was silent as she tried to work out his declaration. Was she too much? She’d never been too much for anyone. She’d never even been enough.
“I loved you from the first time I saw you,” he whispered, placing a soft kiss against her neck. “We were seven years old. Your hair was in braids. You were new to school and had nowhere to sit at lunch. You marched over and offered me your pudding if I’d let you sit down.”
Josie blinked, trying to visualize the scene through his words. She’d never wished for her memory to come back, scared to tap into the darkness locked away. Now that she knew there was more than pain, she wished for the ability to reminisce.
“Did you let me sit down?” she asked.
“Hell, yes. It was chocolate pudding.”
He smiled at Josie, his green eyes bright as he tried to push the images from his head into hers. She started to return his smile before she caught herself and corrected it. Was this guy for real?
“No one falls in love when they’re seven,” she stated, dropping her hands from his body and taking a step away.
“‘The magic of first love is our ignorance that it can ever end,’” Tristan quoted. “Of all the things I’ve ever been unsure of, my feelings for you were never questioned. It wasn’t puppy love or teenage infatuation, it was real. You loved me too, Mac.”
“My name is Josie.”
She took another step back, fearing the sudden shift in direction. She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him. Lust, greed, hurt, pain, fear—these things she knew. She knew nothing of love.
Tristan had romantically loved only two people in all of his twenty-two years, and each of them had broken him in her own way. McKenzi had provided him an innocent beginning, paving the way for many of his firsts. Their relationship had been exciting and fun, built around a solid friendship. With her gone, he’d lost so much more than just a girlfriend. Fiona had destroyed him to the very core, crippling his trust and his future. Every rational fiber screamed at him to use caution, remain distant. Still, here he was professing his faith in love, surprising even himself.
Josie thought about what a contradiction Tristan was. His exterior was industrial-strength steel, designed to keep intruders out, but beneath that lay a kind and honest soul. She squeezed her arms tighter around her body, wondering if he could save her. Did she want to be saved?
“I’m not McKenzi. She’s dead.”
Josie needed to make this clear. She felt his curiosity, his adoration, for who she used to be. McKenzi once had him. Josie would never deserve him.
Tristan stepped toward her, cautiously closing the distance between them. He felt the warning in her words. He understood the significance of her arms wrapped tightly around herself, her fingers clawing at her ribs.
“But Josie’s not dead.” He spoke softly, placing his large palm over the left side of her chest. “Every second, your heart valves push blood through here and snap shut, creating a thump, thump.” He paused. “Thump, thump. You can hear it. It’s proof that you’re still alive.”
Josie sucked in a deep breath, her brain reeling from his words. Her eyes looked everywhere but at his face. She knew his sympathetic gaze would unravel every bit of her protective housing. After a few breaths of silence, she looked anyway.
The blue neon light from the bar’s sign reflected down the alley and across his face. His embellished skin glowed sapphire every other second, the blinking rhythm casting him as a saint, then a sinner. He was a beautiful stranger, fucking up her world.
“I can’t do this,” she said firmly, stepping back so that Tristan’s hand fell away. “My past is not even mine. I don’t want it.”
“That’s not true,” he challenged. “You sought me out, Josie. You found me. You followed me and watched me. You’re drawn to me just like I am to you. That’s why you’re here.”
She winced, feeling his words cut her with truth.
“No, I’m here because I want to fuck you.”
Tristan felt the weight of her audacious statement sitting heavy on his chest. If he had been a lesser man, she would have crushed him with those words. He recognized a defensive maneuver when he saw one.
