On the Night She Died: A Quarry Street Story Page 8

  "Shit," Allie said, stepping back. "What happened to you?"

  "Nothing." It was no use resisting. Jenni sat up, clutching the blankets to her chest.

  There were leaves in her hair. Shit. How did she get leaves in her hair? They’d been in his truck the whole night. Hadn’t they?

  A vague memory of laughing and stumbling through the dark with trees slapping at her face rose. She’d gone out to the old shed in the woods, the one that had once been used to store equipment when the quarry had been in use. That was where she and Barry met up to exchange pills for dollar bills. She could only remember swallowing a few from the supply she’d brought with her to work. Had Steve urged her to go get more? Another memory swam up from the depths of her mind, even less firm, of Steve driving them to the end of Quarry Street farthest away from her house, of her feet dangling from the high cab as she dropped to the asphalt. He must have sent her to get them more drugs. Damn it, Jenni thought. He’d scammed her.

  “You look like crap," Allie said. "What happened to you? Jenni, what happened to your neck?"

  Jenni touched her throat and felt a small but angry red scratch just below her chin. She pulled the blankets up higher, hiding herself from view. "It's just a hickey or two."

  "Gross. Mom will kill you --"

  At the words, Jenni let out a low, snorting laugh that cut off, strangled. "She won't. Kill me. She wouldn't actually kill me."

  I could kill you, and nobody would figure it out.

  The pressure of fingers around her throat, squeezing. Pleasure, rising along with the pain. The haze of drugs and alcohol, his voice in her ear, his hands on her.

  I could kill you, if I wanted to, and you’d love it the entire time.

  Allie grabbed panties and a bra from the dresser and slipped into them with her back turned, self-conscious in front of her sister, in a way that Jenni had never understood. They had the same parts. They were sisters. But Allie had always been shy about showing her body. It was good though, for her to turn away. It meant she wasn’t staring at Jenni anymore.

  "It's just a saying.” Allie pulled on a pair of jeans and one of her favorite t-shirts. "And if she or Dad see those hickies all over your neck, you'll be in such bad trouble you'll maybe wish they'd kill you, instead."

  "I would never wish to be dead."

  It was a lie. Jenni wished to be dead almost all the time. It used to be she’d wonder what people would say about her. How they’d gather for a funeral. How’d they all talk about her, so sad, missing her.

  She didn’t care about any of that anymore. Now, she thought about the long quiet darkness that would accompany death. She imagined it was like sleeping without dreams, not having to wake up, ever again.

  Allie whirled around, frowning. “What?"

  "Nothing. Never mind. Forget it, you're right, I'm hungover. Shit, maybe still drunk." Jenni mumbled her answer, words slurring a little, and cut her gaze from her sister’s. It was the truth. The room was starting to spin again. She dove beneath the blankets again. "Leave me alone now. Tell Mom I'm sick, please? She'll believe you."

  Allie was quiet for a second. "Where were you last night?"

  "Out in the woods." Also the truth, although nowhere close to all of it.

  "Yeah. I can tell. With who. A boyfriend?"

  God. That word again, that thing, that stupid term that meant nothing. Jenni was eighteen. Steve was an adult. He probably had “girlfriends” all along his route. She didn’t care. What they did wasn’t about dating or love. Still, there’d been those times in the darkness of his cab’s bed section that he’d buried himself against her and whispered sweet words she’d almost let herself believe, if only because he sounded like he did. If nothing else, he might be the one to give her a ride when she was ready to get out of here. What might happen beyond that wasn’t anything she could think about, especially not right now.

  Jenni giggled, surprising herself with the humor. "What if I was?"

  "Since when do you have a boyfriend?" Allie asked.

  "I didn't say he was a boyfriend."

  Alicia turned, a pair of knee-socks in hand. "You're out with him often enough, whoever it is. Just tell me, Jenni, who is it? Is it someone I know?"

  Jenni was silent beneath the blankets for a moment, before she mumbled the lie, “yes. You know him."

  It was possible Allie would recognize him. He was at the diner a lot. But Jenni knew for a fact her sister didn’t know anything about him. Hell, Jenni didn’t even know Steve’s last name, herself. Jenni lied because she wanted her sister to think she’d been sneaking out to fool around in the woods with a boy from school.

  "Ilya."

  "Who? What about Ilya?" Jenni flipped the blanket back, startled and disgruntled that Allie could even say such a thing.

  "He's your boyfriend?"

  "Why? Did he say he was?" Jenni felt weirdly hopeful, but it lasted only a couple seconds. She and Ilya had gone around and around. He was never going to be what she needed. She would only ever be something he wanted. She pulled the blanket back over her face. "Was he talking about me?"

  "I haven't asked him. I asked you. If it's not Ilya...who is it?"

  Jenni faked a soft snore. Allie didn’t ask again. After a moment, Jenni heard the click of the door closing behind her sister. She waited for her mother to come up and demand she get out of bed, but Allie must have done Jenni a solid and told their mom she really was sick. Jenni would owe her, she supposed. That was okay.

  She slept restlessly and woke feeling like shit. She stumbled to the bathroom and ran the shower. She bent over the sink, meaning to brush her teeth while she waited for the water to heat. The sight of her face in the mirror startled a low cry out of her.

  Bruises, small but distinct, ringed her throat. Allie was right. They did look gross. They did not look like hickies…because they weren’t. Jenni’s knees sagged, and she gripped the edges of the sink to keep herself from falling.

  She should go to her parents, to the police. She should never let him touch her again. What was wrong with her? Why did she let him do these things to her, over and over, getting worse and worse?

  Why did she like it?

  Jenni climbed into the shower and tipped up her face into the water. It stung the scratches on her neck. More bruises dotted her body. Her knees, one hip. Those had been from stumbling, high and drunk, through the trees. But there was another pattern of bruises on her breasts, and one nipple had been abraded. She didn’t remember what had happened.

  She pushed a hand between her legs, unsure what she was feeling for. She found only her own body, no pain, no evidence of anything bad. That meant nothing, but the chances they’d used a rubber were pretty fucking small. She put both her hands flat on her belly, imagining it getting round with a trucker’s bastard. Shit, shit, shit.

  No. She wasn’t pregnant. She couldn’t be. She had too much to do, too many places to go and see. She wasn’t knocked up. She was fine.

  Shaking, she washed herself. By the time the water had started running cold, Jenni felt a little better, at least until she got back into her room and looked again at her naked body in the mirror. Why the hell had they been in the woods last night? Why had she taken him to the old equipment shed?

  Another wave of sickness washed over her. Vaguely, she remembered the pressure of Steve’s fingers on her throat. She’d given him all the money she had saved. He promised to keep it safer for her than it would be buried in a jar in the dirt floor of the shed. At the time, it had seemed like that made sense. Now, sober, she realized she’d been the stupid bitch who’d given up everything she had to a man who got his rocks off by threatening to kill her.

  It would be okay, she soothed herself. It would be all right. Maybe not all the money was gone. They’d been beyond wasted. Maybe she really hadn’t given it to him. Chances were they wouldn’t even have been able to find it, right? The jar, buried under rocks and leaves and dirt? Just because her hands were dirty didn’t mean they’d found
the jar.

  Even if she had given him the money, it would be okay. Steve had promised to take her her away with him, out of town. Far away. Even if he had the money, all of it, her escape plan, even if he did…he was going to take her out of here.

  It would be okay.

  It would.

  Chapter 17

  Tristan

  Then

  “Where the fuck’ve you been?”

  At the sound of his father’s growl, Tristan jumped back, knocking against the empty beer bottles on the edge of the kitchen counter. One fell onto the linoleum and bounced, without breaking, off his foot. He muttered a curse and hopped on the other foot.

  “Watch your mouth,” his father said from his seat at the table.

  “What are you doing here?” Tristan demanded.

  Steve, sitting at the kitchen table with a bottle of beer in front of him, looked like seven kinds of hammered shit. His dark hair, lank with filth, pushed off his forehead to show red-rimmed eyes and a bleary gaze. White froth had curdled and dried in the corners of his mouth. His fingernails, black with grime, drummed the tabletop.

  “I live here. I asked you a question.”

  Tristan kept a wary distance from his father. Steve had never hit him, but there was always a first time. Tristan was sure he could take his dad in a fight, but he didn’t want to find out. “I was out.”

  “You fucking little smart-ass.” Steve’s lip twitched. “Getting some, huh?”

  “Something like that.” Tristan was not about to tell his father the truth about anything.

  He opened the fridge and pulled out a carton of orange juice and a loaf of bread. He had just enough time to shower and have something to eat before it was time to head to school, where he and Rebecca would pretend they hadn’t spent the night together in her bed. He’d been sneaking into her room for weeks.

  Thinking of it now, a slow, rolling surge of desire filled him. Not just for the fooling around, all the things they did that were not actual sex but might as well have been. But for all of it. The way she sounded when she slept, the touch of her feet to his under the covers. Shaking it off, Tristan put two slices of cheap white bread in the toaster and punched down the lever.

  “I didn’t think you’d be home,” he said over his shoulder, then glanced at his father when Steve didn’t answer right away.

  Steve’s head was drooping. Jesus, he was sloshed. Or stoned, Tristan realized after a second. The guy was fucking wasted.

  “What happened to you?” Tristan asked.

  His father blinked and managed to look up at him. “Huh?”

  “Your hands are filthy. Were you…gardening, or some shit?”

  Of course Steve hadn’t been gardening. He couldn’t be bothered to mow the lawn or anything like that. The dirt on his hands bothered Tristan because it was so out of place. Grease and oil from working on the engine of his car and sometimes, the big rig? Sure. But soil? Earth? That was shady.

  Steve mumbled something that Tristan couldn’t quite catch. His head bobbed again. The beer bottle tipped, but it was empty and nothing spilled out. The toast popped up, and Tristan put it on a plate. He crunched it dry, since they were out of butter, jelly or anything else. He watched his father sleep. Steve was going to wake up with a stiff neck, if he didn’t fall off the chair entirely and end up on the floor.

  Tristan sighed and put the plate of toast on the counter. He crossed to his father and tried lifting him. “C’mon, Dad. Let’s get you to bed.”

  There was no way he was going to get his father up the stairs to bed. The couch would have to do. Tristan didn’t bother trying to shove a pillow under Steve’s head or anything, but he did take the old man’s shoes off. As he stood, Steve shifted and a wad of bills that had been peeking out of his pocket fell out and scattered on the floor.

  Tristan paused. He looked to see if Steve was awake. Nope. Tristan picked up the money, tucking it all together. A quick count showed it was nearly all in twenties. A little over a thousand dollars. Why the hell was his dad carrying around a wad of cash?

  It took Tristan only a few seconds to run upstairs and pull out the loose board in the back of his closet. He tucked the money away there with the rest of his scant savings, earned from odd jobs and the occasional pilfering he did from Steve’s wallet when the guy was drunk. He’d never found so much money before. Steve would probably accuse him of taking it when he got sober, but there was no way he could ever prove it, and Tristan had zero problems lying to his father about anything, especially cash he’d stolen from him. Dereece would have been disappointed in him, Tristan thought with a pang of guilt that passed quickly as he shoved away the following surge of concern about the old man. Dereece would be home from the hospital soon, Tristan told himself. He’d be fine.

  Fifteen minutes later he was showered and out of the house, leaving his dad still snoring on the couch. He made it to school a few minutes before the homeroom bell rang. Tristan went to his locker to grab his trig book, the money still on his mind. A brief fantasy of using it to impress Rebecca by taking her out for a fancy dinner, flowers, a movie, the works, crossed his mind. He shoved that thought away fast, the way he did whenever his stupid-ass brain tried to get him thinking of her that way. He needed that money to save in case he ever did decide to leave town.

  “…I don’t know where she was, so stop fucking asking me!”

  The angry voice perked Tristan’s ears. It was Ilya Stern, who had the locker a few down from his. Without making it too obvious, Tristan glanced toward the other guy. He was deep in furious conversation with Allie Harrison.

  “She looked like someone had beaten her up.” Allie said this in a low, miserable voice as she swiped at her eyes. “She wasn’t with you? Are you sure?”

  Ilya slammed his locker shut. “You think if I’d been with her, I wouldn’t tell you? She was out with whoever she’s fucking around with, Allie. And whoever that is, it ain’t me.”

  “She was filthy. Like she’d been grubbing around in the dirt! Something’s going on with her!”

  Tristan twitched, thinking of the dirt grimed under Steve’s nails, and involuntarily turned. Ilya caught sight of his staring. The other guy made a threatening gesture.

  “The fuck you looking at?”

  “Nothing,” Tristan said and closed his locker.

  It wasn’t any of his business, had nothing to do with him, and probably had nothing to do with Steve, either. He looked carefully away from Ilya, not wanting to goad the bigger guy into a fight. He’d never had a problem with Ilya, but that didn’t mean he wanted to start one today.

  Ilya stormed off, leaving Allie behind. She slumped against the lockers. She didn’t weep outright, but she looked miserable.

  “Hey, are you okay?” Tristan didn’t want to get involved, but it seemed shitty of him to be standing right there and not even ask.

  She was in his arms a second after that, her face buried against him. He put his arms around her instinctively, if awkwardly. The embrace lasted only a few seconds before they both pulled away. She looked mortified.

  “Sorry, oh my God, I’m sorry.”

  “It’s fine,” he said.

  Shaking her head, Allie pushed away from him and headed for the girl’s bathroom, leaving Tristan to stare after her in confusion. With a shrug, he turned to go to homeroom before the bell rang. The crowd had thinned with kids rushing to get into class before the bell, and there she was, on the other side of the hall.

  Rebecca.

  Her stare lingered, her expression blank except for the faintest hint of surprise and something else in her gaze. Anger, disappointment, sadness. It was gone in a blink, and she turned and went through the door behind her.

  Chapter 18

  Jenni

  Then

  Jenni hadn’t said more than a couple words to Ilya in two weeks. He tried to act like he didn’t give a shit and a half about what she did or who she did it with, but she knew he'd been going crazy from the silent treat
ment. Good, she thought with some bitterness. Let him go fucking crazy about it. Let him see he wasn’t her only option. Let him suffer.

  That she was suffering too, and from her own choices, sent more self-loathing through her that she shoved away. Ilya Stern was not the love of her life. He was the boy across the street, and she wasn’t going to stick around this shitty little town just to see if they ended up getting married and making babies and living a shitty little small town life together. She was getting out of here, leaving everyone and everything behind. Yeah, it hurt, but nothing good came without sacrifice.

  Right?

  Jenni moved from table to table, refreshing coffee and taking orders. Ilya was sitting in a back booth, acting like he didn’t see her. She ignored him. If he really thought she didn’t know he was there, he was more of a dumbass than she’d ever thought. For a moment she let herself stare across the room at him but looked away before he could catch her.

  Love was nothing but a prison sentence. She loved Ilya because they’d known each other for so long that loving him seemed like her only choice. She loved him because he was there. Because he was cute. Because, because, because.

  Because he knew her, and he loved her anyway.

  Jenni bit down hard on the inside of her cheek to stop herself from thinking about this. Chin up. Shoulders straight. Ignore the pain inside, ignore everything but her single-focused desire to finish her shift and distribute all the product Barry had given her. Get the money. Get enough.

  And then…she’d be gone.

  “You have a table that’s been waiting,” Marie, one of the older waitresses who’d been here forever, said with a gesture toward Ilya’s booth. “I asked if I could help him, but he said he’d wait for you. Boyfriend?”

  “Not even.”

  “I could take it over, if you want.”

  “I’ll do it,” Jenni said.