Lifers

  His head hung down, but when he looked up again, his icy expression was back and I shivered. This time it wasn’t because of the temperature.

  “Why do you even care, Torrey?” he sneered. “I’m not your problem. I’m just another in a long list of guys that you’ve screwed.”

  Ouch. I wasn’t expecting that. I let my arms drop away from him and leaned back on my hands.

  “Well, good to know what you think of me. Guess my blunt talking rubbed off on you after all.”

  Suddenly, his mood shifted again, and he looked remorseful.

  “Fuck, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. That came out all wrong.”

  “No shit, Sherlock! You know, you don’t have to be a jerk about it. I just happen to like sex, and I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that. But people can be awfully judgmental. Frankly, I didn’t think you’d be one of them.”

  “Oh, right, I’ve got it now,” he said, angrily. “You thought the ex-con would have lower standards—a no-questions-asked fuck.”

  “You can be a real asshole. Fuck you, Jordan!”

  I pulled on my shorts and tank top, not caring that my bra was buried somewhere in the sand.

  Jordan watched me without moving. I resisted the urge to kick sand in his face. I knew he was lashing out at me because he was hurting and scared, but that didn’t mean I had to stick around and be his patsy.

  Damn, I wished I’d come in my own car. The jerk-off asshole looked like he was going to let me walk home. And I still couldn’t find my flip-flops. Hot tears pricked behind my eyes. Oh, no way! I was not going to let that asswipe make me cry. I promised myself a long time ago that I would not be shedding tears over some guy again.

  I started walking, and when he realized I was walking straight past his stupid truck, he finally got the picture.

  “Torrey, wait!”

  “Go fuck yourself!”

  I heard him scrabbling around behind me, so I guessed he was pulling on his pants. I stomped up the dirt road, cursing when a sharp stone dug into the soft pad of my foot. Damn, this was going to be a long walk.

  I heard Jordan’s voice again, begging for me to wait.

  I went maybe a hundred yards across the dunes and up the dirt road, when I heard the truck’s engine roar to life, and yellow headlights flooded the route ahead of me.

  I briefly considered hiding behind a bush, but the thought of what creepy-crawlies and wild critters might be hiding with me nixed that idea.

  The truck pulled alongside me, the engine idling.

  “Get in,” he snapped.

  I carried on walking as the truck crept along next to me.

  “Torrey, get in the damn truck, or I’ll have to come down there and throw yo’ ass in!” he yelled.

  Without a word, I yanked the door open and sat down, refusing to look at him.

  The truck didn’t move.

  “What now?” I bellowed. “I’m in the damn truck!”

  “Put your seatbelt on,” he said quietly, his voice tight with tension.

  For a second, I thought about arguing with him, but then I remembered that Mikey had died when he’d been flung through the windshield of the car Jordan was driving. He hadn’t been wearing a seatbelt.

  I clipped it into place, and a relieved expression crossed Jordan’s face, before it settled back into the more familiar impassive coolness.

  We drove the couple of miles to the Rectory in silence, each too upset and angry to find words that would heal instead of hurt.

  When we arrived, I unclipped the seatbelt and hurled the door open.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice soft and tender.

  “Yeah, you and the rest of the world. You know what, Jordan? I didn’t fuck you out of some warped sense of pity. I did it because I liked you. But I guess you really are an asshole after all. Have a nice life.”

  And I slammed the door shut before he could say another word.

  Jordan

  Wow. I screwed that up big time. If I’d planned how to end our non-date in the worst possible way, that would have been it.

  Could I have been more of an asshole? Well, I guess I could have let her walk home—that would have been high up on the scale of assholish behavior. But the way she looked at me, I think she would have preferred to walk home barefoot on a gravel road covered with hot coals rather than ride with me. I couldn’t blame her.

  I’d driven the whole way under 25, going deliberately slow just to try and give myself time to think of something to say to her while I still had the chance. It had just been such a fucking shock when she’d said all that heart-warming shit to me. She’d said I had a good heart. Obviously she was wrong about that, but I couldn’t help liking the fact that she thought so.

  And fuck! Touching her, feeling her hands on me, being inside her. I couldn’t remember it ever being that good. I know it had been a long time, but I thought my black heart would explode from the raw passion rushing through me.

  God! Why was I such a dumb fuck? I knew I didn’t deserve her, but to go out and deliberately shoot down any chance with her. Shit.

  I just couldn’t find the words to tell her what the last two nights had meant to me. I tried, but I kept choking on them. After she slammed out of the truck, I drove home, using every cuss word I could think of and yelling them out as loud as I could. Ironic, huh?

  I was less than three miles from home when I saw the lights of a police cruiser in my rearview mirror. He followed me for a half a mile, and I thought I might be okay, but then the siren went on and I pulled over to the side of the road.

  I watched him approach me slowly, his hand on the gun at his hip. I dug my ID out of my wallet and kept my hands on the steering wheel where he could see them.

  His uniform and weapon were giving me flashbacks. I could feel sweat breaking out over my entire body and my legs were trembling with the effort of not running.

  “License and registration,” he said.

  I already had them in my hand, but I had a feeling it wouldn’t be enough to placate him.

  He gave them the shortest scan ever. At that point I was certain that he already knew who I was.

  “Step out of the vehicle, please, Mr. Kane.”

  I didn’t even bother to ask why I’d been stopped, although strictly speaking, he should have given me a reason.

  “Have you been drinking alcohol?”

  “No, sir.”

  He made me walk in a straight line, touch my finger to my nose, stand on one leg—all that shit—and he still breathalyzed me anyway.

  When it came up negative, the other questions started: where did I live; where had I been; what had I been doing; how often did I have to report to the police station; when was the last time I got tested for drugs and alcohol; when was the last time my parole officer had visited my place of residence. On and on.

  It was all designed to let me know that he was the one in control, the one with the power—and that he was watching me.

  He kept me there half an hour, almost up until my curfew, then finally let me go home.

  Dad and Momma were waiting up for me. Wow, this evening really had no chance of improving.

  “Where have you been?” Dad started immediately.

  “Out. With a friend.”

  “The preacher’s trashy daughter?”

  My temper started to fray. I held it in tightly.

  “She’s not trashy.” Isn’t that exactly what I just called her?

  “You stay away from her,” he went on. “She’s no good.”

  “Jesus Christ, Dad!” I exploded at him. “She’s the only person around here who talks to me! How is that ‘no good’?”

  He pressed his lips together but didn’t answer.

  “Oh, I get it. Anyone who talks to me is automatically bad, is that it?”

  Yep, I reckoned I’d hit the nail on the head there.

  “While you’re under our roof, you’ll abide by our rules.”

  Un-fucking-believabl
e!

  “What fuckin’ rules? I’m on parole! I get tested for alcohol and drugs every week. We have to have my parole officer do random searches on the damn house! I cain’t go to the city to get a decent job! I have curfew! What other rules do y’all want to add to that? Y’all already said I’m bein’ kicked out—well hoo-fuckin’-ray! Go for it, Dad, because this place is just another jail!”

  “Don’t you bring your foul prison language into this house!” he roared.

  I gave up and headed to my room, throwing myself down onto the bed. I pressed my face into the pillow, feeling the sting on my cheek where Torrey had hit me. Fuck, I deserved more than that for the way I’d treated her.

  I lay there in silence. I thought Dad might follow me, but he didn’t. I heard him talking to Momma, his voice angry, but I couldn’t catch the words. Probably just as well.

  Then I heard the telephone ring, which was unusual this late. Whoever it was, I could tell from his tone that dad was annoyed but trying to be polite. The call ended pretty soon after and the house sank into silence.

  I lay awake, listening to the night time noises, alert for any sound that meant the bastards had come back for my truck.

  I thought about Torrey and what she’d said, what she’d done. And I thought about what I’d said, and what I’d done. And I thought about what I shouldn’t have said, and shouldn’t have done.

  I didn’t sleep that night either. But this time it was different. Torrey hadn’t freaked when I’d told her what had happened to Mikey, or even about the attempted murder rap. No, somehow she’d accepted that. Right now I was losing sleep for being the regular kind of asshole, and treating a decent person like shit. I was pretty darn certain the irony wouldn’t be lost on Torrey either.

  When my old fashioned alarm clock rang the next morning, I sat up immediately and swung my legs to the edge of the bed. I felt like shit, but at least I’d decided what to say to Torrey. Well, mostly just a whole shit load of groveling. I hoped that would do it.

  If I could have afforded flowers, I would have bought her some. I even considered picking some wild ones that grew at the side of the road on the way to her house, but that seemed kind of lame and a bit pathetic. Which I was.

  I took a quick shower and pulled on another of Mikey’s t-shirts. I knew it half killed Momma when I wore his clothes, but I didn’t have a whole lot of choice. She’d gotten me a couple of t-shirts from Goodwill, but they’d both been too small. I think she’d have preferred it if I’d stayed in prison uniform, like a visible mark of what I was. Jeez, I think she’d have brought back branding if she could, she hated me that much.

  The kitchen was empty and the house was still silent. I thought if I hurried, I could avoid bumping into either of my parents again. I was starting to lose weight from the meals I was missing lately. Leastways, my borrowed shorts seemed even baggier.

  I squished a slab of cheese between two pieces of bread and stuffed a couple of apples into my pants pockets, which left me looking deformed. It sort of matched how I felt inside.

  I heard someone in the shower and knew that I didn’t have time to make a thermos again. I really hoped Torrey would forgive me—again—and make me some of her damn fine coffee. But the way I’d left things last night, she’d probably toss it in my face. I wouldn’t blame her.

  When I reached the Rectory, I was wrong on all counts, because her car wasn’t there. My first thought was that she’d found another guy to hook up with. The idea hurt so bad I thought I’d lose the small amount of breakfast I’d been able to force down.

  I tapped on the door and waited, almost holding my breath.

  “Good morning, Jordan,” said the Reverend, opening the screen door and peering out. “If you could start by emptying out the old shed today. A second dumpster is arriving at noon, so toss anything broken. Stack the good stuff to the side and I’ll take a look at it later.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She started to close the door.

  “Uh, excuse me, ma’am. Is Torrey home?”

  Her lips thinned and I thought she’d just shut the door in my face like most people, but I guess she had her ‘good guy’ rep to protect.

  “No, she’ll be gone for a few days now.” I think she must have taken pity on me because she quickly added, “She has two days’ training for her new job so she’s staying in the city.”

  I thought she was dismissing me and I turned to go. But then she spoke again.

  “How are things at home, Jordan?”

  “Fine, thank you, ma’am,” I replied, automatically.

  “Good … that’s good. Will your mother be home this morning?”

  “Uh, I guess. I’m not really sure.”

  She nodded, offered a slight smile, then the door closed and I was alone. Again.

  Shit. Torrey had really gone. If she didn’t come back … the thought was too painful to contemplate. I tried to tell myself it was just a couple of days, and then she’d be back. Then I could apologize in person. Again. If she’d let me.

  I got to work in the backyard, wearing the work-gloves Torrey had bought for me. I missed her coffee. Hell, that was just so much crap—I missed her. I missed her smile and her sarcasm. I missed the way her hair hung in tangles around her face, and that she didn’t care whether it had seen a brush or not. I missed those long legs stretched out in front of her as she sat on the step and closed her eyes, enjoying the early morning sunshine. I missed hearing her talk about her plans for the day, or the music she’d listened to, the book she’d just read. I hated to think that she was in the city where I couldn’t go, and maybe meeting some slick city type, maybe going to his room.

  God, that thought tortured me.

  I was glad I had to throw some heavy shit around cleaning out the Rev’s shed, because it was a way of venting the anger and anxiety that coursed through me. But who was I kidding? I was just an easy lay to her, and not even a particularly good one. I felt my skin flush with humiliation at the way I’d not been able to control myself with her, blowing my load like some fuckin’ adolescent—again.

  Ever since I’d taken an interest in girls as a kid, I’d gotten a lot of action. I was tall and considered good-looking, so even some older chicks had been interested in giving Mikey Kane’s little brother a ride. Yeah, I’d been a bit of a player. Life sure had a sick sense of humor because I really wasn’t anymore, and the one woman that I wanted probably hated my guts.

  At lunchtime, I heard the second dumpster arrive, and the one full of garden waste was taken away. Stupidly, I kind of missed it. Seeing it getting filled, it was a way of measuring how much crap I’d cleared out of the wilderness.

  I sat on the porch step and ate my sandwich. I hadn’t brought anything to drink, but the Reverend had an outdoor tap in the backyard. A hose was corroded onto it, but using a wrench from Mikey’s toolbox, I was able to rip it off. The first gush of water was brown with rust, but after I let it run for a minute or two, it tasted okay. A bit tangy, like when you get punched in the face and it splits your lip so you taste your own blood. It was okay.

  At 4:30 PM I packed up and drove home slowly, dreading the dead hours before it was time to go to bed. Even though my body ached from the laboring I’d done, and my brain was foggy from lack of sleep, going to my parents’ house was the last place I wanted to be. I’d have liked to go for a long drive, but I wasn’t allowed more than ten miles from the town limits, and I couldn’t afford the gas anyway.

  But when I got home, I saw the cans of paint that Torrey had found at Hulk’s junkyard, and I had an idea.

  I dug out some old paintbrushes from the garage and set to work. I didn’t need a sketch to know what I was going to paint. I did it for Mikey, for me and for Torrey. I hoped that if I used her gift, she’d see that I was grateful, and sorry for the cruel things I’d said.

  First of all, I turned the ugly red smear that covered up the word ‘murderer’ into a boiling blood-red sea—the way it can look when the setting sun sinks
into the ocean. Then I painted a large Celtic cross onto the door, the same image I had on my shoulder blade, the same image I had seared into my brain. Then I added the bleeding heart and Mikey’s name in a looping script across the whole design.

  I’d probably been kneeling down for a couple of hours when I straightened up suddenly, aware that Momma was watching me. How long had she been standing there?

  “Reverend Williams came to see me this mornin’,” she said. “What have you been sayin’ to her?”

  I blinked in surprise.

  “Nothin’. I’ve hardly spoken to her. Why? What did she say?”

  “You must have said somethin’.”

  “She asked me how I was getting’ on at home. I said it was fine. That’s it.”

  “And what about that girl of hers?”

  My eyes dropped to the ground. “Yeah, I talk to Torrey.”

  Momma’s eyes narrowed and her lips curved in a sneer.

  “I knew it: that girl’s trouble.”

  My heart started pounding. What had Torrey told her momma? Surely nothing about us? Please God, not that!

  “I haven’t done anythin’,” I said, my voice entirely lacking in conviction.

  “Well, the Reverend has been around here again, pokin’ her nose in where it don’t belong.”

  I didn’t know what to say, but I got the impression that Momma didn’t need me to speak either.

  “Looks like we’ll have to keep you,” she spat out.

  “What?”

  “The Reverend said it was our Christian duty to keep you the whole time you’re on parole. So we will. We’ll do what’s right, but then I want you gone. Understand?”

  “Yeah, I understand.”

  “I don’t think you do!” she said, her voice shaking with fury. “Every time I look at you it sickens me! All I can see is your brother’s cold, dead body rottin’ in that grave, and you’re walkin’ around wearin’ his clothes, breathin’ God’s good air. It’s not fair. It’s just plain wrong!”