Atone (7 page)

“Just a nip to take the edge off. Nothing a cup of coffee wouldn't cure. What do you say?”

Behind me, Mom cries. Her muffled sobs fill the silence. Dad looks at the door as though he can see through it to where my mom stands with her face in her hands. I don't know what to do. Like everybody else, I look to Cora for some kind of direction here. She knows them better than I do. What's going to make this right? I know it's not my fault what happened to my family. I know it and yet the guilt is there, laying low in my belly. I'd take off if it didn't mean leaving Cora alone to deal with them.

Cora shakes her head. “No, Dad.”

I hook an arm around her and pull her behind me. Before Dad can react or say anything else, I slam the door and lock it. Cora gasps. Mom turns her tear-streaked face toward me. For a moment it looks like she'll say something, then she ducks her head and goes down the hall. A few seconds later a door crashes shut. There's nothing from the other side of the front door. No knocking, no more pleading. Just silence. Cora dives for me, wrapping her arms around me and burying her face in my shirt. It takes me some time to react, and then I'm hugging her back just as hard as she hugs me.

“I'm sorry,” I tell her, my voice choked and hoarse. “I'm
so
sorry.”

“It's my fault. I thought he'd be okay.” She pulls away and makes a helpless gesture toward where Mom disappeared. “And her too. I was hoping they'd be…better.”

“Let's get the fuck out of here.”

“Wait.” She gathers up the glasses of undrunk soda and heads for the kitchen.

“What are you doing?”

“Mom'll have a fit if I leave these out.”

Fixing. Cora's always fixing and protecting and preventing. Another way in which my conviction irrevocably altered our family. I can't go back. I can only go forward, but with the future so uncertain, I wonder what we're moving toward. More days like this?

I hook a finger in the curtain to make sure Dad's gone. He is. I open the door for Cora, giving the hall where my mom disappeared a final glance before heading out after her. Maybe all at once was too much to ask, too forced. If our family is going to find our way back to one another, we're going to have to do it in tinier, easier-to-manage steps. Maybe I'll give those Al-Anon meetings another try. There's no way I can wrap my head around the changes in my parents without some kind of road map showing us how we got here. And how we can get back.

I spent the weekend mostly holed up in my motel room, finalizing projects for a couple clients. I'm running low on money and could use the payday that finishing them will bring. I tried not to be drawn to that house. All of Friday and most of Saturday I resisted driving over there. Saturday evening I found myself climbing in my car, then driving down that street. I didn't know what I expected to find or even why I put myself through going back to that time and place. Maybe it was just to prove to myself I could do it. That I could face the demons and walk away.

Of course, I went there armed. I'm not stupid. Masochistic, yes. Dumb, no.

The house looked pretty much the same. It was me—I realized—who had changed. Everyone I knew back then was long gone. Javier is smart enough to have moved the operation. My escape was a huge breach in his security, and as far as I know the only time anyone got the better of him. He'd want payback for that. He'd want Marie. She wasn't his usual taste, but she was young and so obviously vulnerable it would be like picking low-hanging fruit. According to her Tumblr posts, he has her fooled, as he once fooled me.

I want to say I made him work harder than Marie did, but that's not true. I wanted what he was offering. I didn't realize what lay hidden just beneath or that I'd be trapped in a lower level of hell for nearly four years. I don't think about that first time. Or the next or the next. The last time…now that I remember. It's that last time Javier wishes he could forget.

I sat in my car across from the house for almost an hour, the memories rushing at me in crashing waves. So many times I wondered how the neighbors didn't know what was happening in the middle of their neighborhood as they walked their dogs and took their kids to soccer practice. At first I held out the hope that I'd be rescued. As the days turned to weeks, then months, then years, those hopes faded and died. I remember the day I finally gave up and the song that was playing on the radio.

I shake myself out of those thoughts. They don't serve me. They won't get Marie back. Beau thinks he might have a lead on Javier's new residence. Or it could be another dead end like the three before it. Javier is smart. He hasn't lasted this long doing what he does without knowing exactly what moves to make and when.

I'm jittery and tired from too much caffeine and not enough food. I haven't slept a whole night since I read Marie's Tumblr. The clock is ticking. Once she gets the tattoo, that will be it. No going back. I go to the crooked mirror hanging over the scarred dresser and take off my robe. I make myself look at my body, turning so I can see the tattoo on my right shoulder blade. I thought Javier designed it just for me, so I was proud to sit for it.

It's pretty if you don't know its meaning. A scrollwork heart with a keyhole at the center and a chain attached to the top of the heart with a J-shaped key dangling just below. In the flourishes around the heart—if you know where to look—are three numbers. I didn't know the significance of them at the time until I met another girl with the same tattoo. She gloated over hers being a lower number.

I cringe at how high the numbers could be now. What number would Marie's be?

My phone pings with a message from Beau. Since we kissed and talked, things have settled into something more comfortable for both of us.

Beau: (panda emoji)

I smile.

Me: (bamboo emoji)

Beau: What are you doing?

Me: Nothing.

Beau: Can I come in?

He's here?
I look down at my plain bra and underwear.

Me: Hold on a sec
.

I shimmy into my robe and tie the sash tight. I check the peephole, and sure enough, there he is. My heart stutters and I put a hand over it, clutching the top of my robe tightly as I open the door. He takes me in from my bare feet to my makeup-free face. He doesn't look good. Something happened. Something's wrong. I motion for him to come in, nervous for a whole new reason.

“Is it about Marie?”

“No.” He closes and locks the door behind him, then just stands there, staring.

“Did something happen?”

He leans back against the door with a sigh. The paper bag in his hand clanks against the door.

“What's wrong?”

“What are you wearing under that?”

“Excuse me?” Tightening my grip on my robe, I wrap my arm around myself in a defensive gesture.

“I'm an asshole.” He shakes his head. “Never mind. None of my business.”

“I should put some clothes on.”

He puts a hand up. “I'm sorry. You're fine. I'm the one who's fucked up. Can I sit down? I brought a present.” He holds up the bag and I can clearly see there's a bottle inside. “Whiskey.”

“I don't know.”

“You're right. I should go. I'm not fit company right now, anyway. I don't know why I came here. It's just that Cora's with Leo and I didn't want to be there with them…you know, together. I'm gonna go.” He unlocks the door.

“Wait. Sit down. I could use a drink.”

“I promise to be on my best behavior.”

“You pour and I'll go throw some clothes on.”

He does that slow-blink thing, then nods and sits at the table, jamming his big frame into a rickety chair. By the time I get back he's refilling his glass. I take the seat across from him and stare down into the dark liquid. Closing my eyes, I shoot the whole thing down and hold my glass out for a refill. He obliges me. We drink the second glass together and he fills them again. The booze hits me in a warm wave. It's been a long time since I've had anything to drink, and with how little I've eaten today, I'm instantly buzzed. I sip at the third glass, floating on a gentle sea of
I don't give a fuck.

I wait for Beau to talk, enjoying the company and the silence. I've been alone so long I forgot how comforting it can be to just hang out with someone you're comfortable with.

“I'm sorry about earlier. I wasn't expecting you to answer the door dressed like that. My head's a mess. I don't…” He finishes off his drink and sets the glass down with a thunk. “I shouldn't think those thoughts about you.”

I refill his glass. “What were you thinking?”

“You don't want to know. I'm fucked up, and so are my thoughts.”

“You're not fucked up.”

He raises his glass. “Not yet.” The liquid disappears down his throat.

This time I leave his glass empty. “What happened?”

“We should order a pizza.” He pulls out his phone. “What do you like?”

“I'm fine.”

“Bullshit. You're already drunk. I can tell. I'm feeding you before you pass out on me.”

“Order whatever you want. I don't want any.”

He calls a local pizzeria and orders a large pepperoni and a large with everything and some soda.
That's too much food,
I mouth. He shakes his head at me. I pour each of us another glass. Getting fucked up is suddenly sounding like a really, really good idea.

I hold up my glass and he clinks his to mine. “To getting fucked up.” I shoot the whole thing back and set my glass down with a giggle. “I
am
drunk.”

He slides the bottle out of reach. “No more for you until you eat something.”

“I love pepperoni pizza. How'd you know?”

He shrugs. “Doesn't everybody?” Twisting his glass in his fingers, he stretches his legs out. “Why do
you
want to get drunk?”

Propping my chin in my hand, I lean across the table toward him. “I asked you first.”

He shoves his drink away in disgust. “My dad's an alcoholic. I shouldn't be drinking.”

I push it back toward him. “Fuck that. Getting drunk once doesn't make you an alcoholic. When was the last time you got drunk?”

“Never.”

“Never?”

“Nope.”

“I don't know why I'm judging. I've never been drunk before either. I guess I thought maybe you would've led a more exciting life than me.”

“I was always a rule follower. No underage drinking for me. Never even stole anything. Which is pretty fucking ironic, isn't it? Me, the convicted murderer, never even jaywalked.”

I clap a hand over my mouth to keep in a chuckle.

“Go ahead and laugh,” he says, gesturing with his glass. “It's fucking funny.”

Pressing my lips together, I shake my head. “It's really not.” The giggle gets away from me and I grip my stomach, tipping over.

Beau laughs too. “No, it's not. It fucking
sucked.
”

We double over in hysterics. I've never seen him laugh like this before. He does it with his whole body, slapping the table and making our glasses jump. The more he laughs, the more I laugh, until I have to wave at him to stop. My stomach and face hurt. I suck in air, trying to calm down.

“You're beautiful when you laugh,” he blurts out, startling us both with his compliment. “I mean, you're always beautiful, just more so when you laugh. Never mind.” He grabs the bottle and drinks from it. “Forget I said that.”

I put my hand over his on the bottle. “Thank you.” I focus on the way my hand looks with his. “No one's ever said that to me before. Not the way you just did, anyway.” I slide the bottle out of his grasp and take a swig, setting it down between us. “Your laugh makes me want to take my clothes off.” I look away, clamping my eyes shut, shocked at myself.

His hand covers mine on the bottle. “That's the greatest fucking thing anyone's ever said to me.” He slips the bottle from my grip and I hear the liquid slosh as he drinks, then a thunk when he sets it back on the table. “I can't stop thinking about you.”

I don't let my gaze go any higher than my hand over his hand around the bottle. “I can't stop thinking about you.” It's my turn to drink. I tilt my head back and take a big, long gulp. I wipe the back of my hand over my mouth and set the bottle between us again. I still can't meet his gaze. “I wish I was enough for you.”

There's a knock at the door. Beau jumps up from the table and answers it. He sets the pizza and soda on the table, pays, and closes the door. When he doesn't take his seat right away, I turn to look up at him. He's studying the carpet in the corner, his hands shoved deep into the front pockets of his jeans. I went too far with a game we never should've started.

Opening the pizza, I try to change the mood and make him forget the stupid thing I said. “Mmm, this looks good. Come and eat.” I busy myself with dividing up the napkins and pouring the soda.

He eases into the seat across from me. His serious face is back, the one heavy with regret. I hate that face.

“Don't say anything,” I tell him. “Just eat.”

He grabs a slice with everything and bites into it. The only sounds are the traffic outside and us eating. The booze is wearing off too soon. I eye the bottle and then decide
what the hell
and take a drink to keep the buzz going. Beau takes it up when I set it down and does the same. By the time we finish eating, most of the bottle is gone, but the awkwardness stayed.

“You have it wrong,” he finally says. “
I'm
not enough for
you.
”

“That's bullshit.” The alcohol makes me bold. “That's such fucking bullshit and you know it. I thought you were brave.”

“What made you think that?”

“You are about everything else.”

“No, I'm not. I'm just a good actor.”

“And a good liar.”

“I don't lie.”

I shake my head at him. “And an idiot.”

“What do you want me to say? That I don't see her when I look at you?”

“Do you?”

“Sometimes.”

“That's because you look for her. Stop torturing yourself.”

His head jerks back and his lips part. He looks at me like he doesn't know me or doesn't
want
to know me.

I hate myself for being mean to him. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. You don't owe me anything. Just forget it. This getting drunk was a bad, bad idea.”

I reach for the bottle and try to stand, but my legs won't hold me, and before I know it everything goes sideways. I put out a hand to catch myself and hit a hard chest. The world whooshes and rolls and we land on the bed with a bounce. He ends up on top of me, his hips between my legs. His mouth comes down hard on mine, hard enough to hurt, but I don't care. Fisting his hair, I hold him to me. His tongue clashes with mine and it's an all-out war. There's no softness no finesse. Only need. Hot, hungry, angry need. His hands claw at my clothes. I shove his shirt up so I can get to his zipper.

His mouth clamps down on my breast and I let out a demented moan. Everything is frenzied and hot and aching. Need rises up and overtakes me. I'm wild, pushing down his pants to free him. My first feel of him makes us both groan. He's hard and heavy in my hand as I stroke him. He shoves one finger, then two, inside me. My hips buck off the bed, driving his hand to the rhythm I desperately need. He picks up on my pace and before I know it I throw my head back and cry out.

He replaces his hand with his cock and pushes into me. I twist under him, my hands clamped to his backside. He's all the way inside me and it's making me crazy. He drives into me, pistoning his hips in brutal, punishing thrusts. I can't get enough. Hooking my legs around his hips is all the encouragement he needs. I'm screaming, and he keeps coming at me, plunging deeper and deeper. I hold on to him as I come, digging my nails into his ass. He makes a final thrust and buries his face in my neck on a growl.

He's heavy on top of me, but I don't care. That was the single greatest thing to ever happen to me. His breath blows hot on the side of my face. I turn to look at him. His eyes are closed, clamped tight. He ducks his head so I can't see him or try to read his reaction. Maybe I don't want to know, because if he regrets this I might just shoot him.