Deep Fried and Pickled (Book One - The Rachael O'Brien Chronicles) (21 page)

I waved my hand at the smoky air that stung my eyes. “I hope you know Apache. In here the only signals you’ll be sending are smoking ones.”

Before I stepped into the bedroom, Mitch handed me a clambake plate of assorted seafood. I would’ve stayed to chat, but Macy wouldn’t let go. In passing, I told him, “Thanks.”

A maroon sheet secured with duct tape hung over the only window. In addition to the budget conscious window-treatment, the bedroom also featured three pieces of furniture: an unmade corner mattress, a wooden stool, and a foosball table.

Since when had Bridget become interested in Stewart Hayes? If she had targeted a spot for him on her “to do” list, she wasn’t going to get far. Macy knew what she wanted, and her moussaka was a force bigger than anything I’d ever cross. I wasn’t a betting girl but would double my odds on Macy any day.

Macy twirled a wisp of dark hair around her finger and transformed herself. “Stewart, can we play?”

Palming a white ball Bridget said, “Foosy is a two-person game. You and Rachael can have a turn when we’re finished.”

Stewart pulled a wad of cash from his pocket. Selecting a twenty, he suggested a wager. “Macy and me against Bridget and Rachael.”

“Perfect,” I said, and moved next to a soured Bridget who pouted her lips at Stewart.

“How do we play?” Macy asked.

Stewart reviewed the game rules and demonstrated everything from the proper stance to a wrist rotation technique for moving the rods that held the plastic blue and red players.

As I set the plate of clams on a wooden bar stool, my brain did a cartwheel. Stewart’s team idea was brilliant since I wanted to have a word with Bridget.

Stewart personally attended to Macy, helping her get a feel for their blue men. While they practiced toggling, I finished my beer, and whispered, “Did you confess?”

She picked at a corner of toasted bread from the plate I’d set down. “Confess what?”

I took a long hard look at Bridget, gritted my teeth, and unintentionally added squeak to my voice. “You screwed Nash.”

Bridget cleared her face of expression. She handed me an extra beer cup that she’d brought in. “I’d never do that.”

Stewart stood at the end of the foosball. “Which of you ladies is first?”

“I am,” Bridget said. She took her time, challenging Stewart’s toggle rods as she knocked the little white ball around his plastic players.

To settle my fury, I drank half the beer I held even though it tasted like a bitter microbrew. When Bridget finished her turn, I turned my back on the foozy game. “If you don’t tell Katie Lee,” I threatened, “I will.”

Bridget poked at the clams with a dull edged knife that rested on the plate. “What are you going to tell? How you stakeout bedrooms at parties.”

Flames leapt inside of me. Her daggered threat immobilized my reflexes. “Pry the closed shells apart,” I slurred. “They’re fresher.”

“Your turn, Rach,” Macy said.

Motioning to move forward, my feet stumbled backward, and I knocked into a stool. Bridget laughed. Pointing my finger at her like a gun, I clucked my tongue, puffed air in her face before snaking out of the room to clear my dizzy head.

I didn’t go far. Weaving through a crowd, I leaned against a wall in the hallway, and closed my eyes. My insides were in motion, and I concentrated to find quiet. Spider legs brushed against my cheek. When I opened my eyes, Billy Ray’s finger nail drew an imaginary line to my forehead. “Your cheeks are the color of a rose petal and your eyetooth makes an endearing smile. Has anyone ever painted a portrait of you?”

I made a raspberry. “I’m no masterpiece.”

“Let me paint you before you decide.”

My brain was fuzzy, and my responses slow. Billy Ray’s face took on a striking resemblance to Elmer Fudd, and I jeered, “You paint?”

Billy Ray sipped a beer and looked across the crowded room. Nash stood behind Katie Lee and stared in my direction.

“I been paintin’ since before I walked.”

“All kids finger paint?”

Billy ray finished his beer and reached across the hallway. Sliding a closet door open, he motioned me toward him. “Wanna see my work?”

I tripped on my feet, and Billy Ray caught my arm. “Did you paint Jackson’s place?” I giggled.

Billy Ray steadied me, looked right then left and reached into the back of the closet. He slid a canvas out of a cardboard sleeve and held the edges in his palms.”

“Damn,” I shouted.

Billy Ray shushed me.

“You paint folk-art?”

“I’m in business with my cousin in New Orleans. If you’re good to me, I’ll paint anything you want.”

My ears stretched his words, and they muffled in my head. Someone opened the deck slider-doors. Thick smoke began to fill the apartment, and I heard screams. Billy Ray handed me the painting. “Put this back,” he said and ran toward the front door.

I dropped to the floor and fixated at something familiar in the painting, until someone from behind took it from my hands.

I’ll take care of that, a southerner I’d never seen said.

“What are you doin’ down there?” Mitch asked.

A red life vest and an oar caught my attention, and I crawled into the closet. “Just hanging out.”

“Who is she?” the man holding the painting asked.

“That’s Rachael, Katie Lee’s roommate,” Mitch said.

“She’s toast.” The stranger said. 

“I’ll keep an eye on her while you call the fire department.”

“Why would I call the fire department?” The southerner asked.

“Jackson, your deck’s on fire.” 

NOTE TO SELF

Bridget is an uberbitch with a short memory.

Tell or don’t tell? Neither option is going to earn friendship points.

21

C
learing
C
obwebs

Hazy
gray cluttered my brain, and I’d have sworn cat whiskers sprouted in my dehydrated throat. I had no recollection of how I landed under the covers with Mitch. His soft arm hair wrapped around my shoulder, and he smelled of sweet cologne. His wristwatch glowed, three forty, a.m. Outside the room, someone hacked, and liquid splattered. Beyond Mitch waves of breath pulsed. Crimping the eyelet comforter tight under my chin, I found the courage to roll out from under his arm and sit up on my elbows. Beyond Mitch, a woman wearing a stain eye-mask lay motionless. Waves of her hair fanned across a pillowcase. Macy! 

Processing the three of us in bed, I drew a blank. Had I launched into a hidden stratosphere with these two? I whispered, “Macy.”

She slid her mask onto her forehead, and yawned. “Hey Rach,” she said as if we’d bumped into one another on campus. 

I sunk back into the pillow, pinched my eyes shut, and concentrated on making this delusion disappear. I could hear breathing. The two didn’t vaporize, and now Mitch was awake. He stretched his arms above his wispy blond head. “Hey y’all.”

This was no dream, but an unsettling reality and I wasn’t sure if I wanted to know how I ended up in a threesome. Digging deep, I asked, “What happened last night?”

“I knocked Stewart’s ball across the table after you left. He was surprised at how quickly I toggled all the sticks.”

“Macy, I don’t need to know what happened to you, I need to know what happened to me. The last thing I remember is foozball.”

Mitch sat up. He leaned into me and ran his finger under a strand of my hair that covered my eye. “You remember leaving with me. Right?”

Debating the legitimacy of ignorance is bliss, I cleared my throat and opened a packet of bravery. “That part is a bit fuzzy.”

Mitch smiled. “Are your underpants on? That’s usually a tell tale sign.”

I’m a dot the i’s, cross the t’s kind of girl. So naturally, I peeked under the covers. “Very funny. They’re on.”

Hesitantly I asked Macy, “Are yours?”

Macy rolled onto her side, slid a hand across Mitch’s chest, and whispered, “Unfortunately.”

I breathed relief. Mitch McCoy was a treasure that made me sizzle on the inside. Because he was still in high school, I wasn’t prepared to have sex with him. But I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I liked having his attention for myself.

The three of us listened to convulsing, and consecutive toilet flushing. Mitch said, “Someone’s going to break the handle.”

Even though I knew, I asked, “Who is that?”

“Bridget,” Macy said. “She said she felt sick at Jackson’s.”

Darkness veiled the satisfaction that I’m sure showed on my face. Burying my head in my hands, I pushed my fingertips against my eye sockets. “Jackson’s party is a blur. I think someone drugged me.”

Mitch checked his watch. “Don’t look at me.”

“Come on, Raz. What fucker would do that?”

Climbing over me, Mitch made apologies. “I hope y’all don’t think I’m rude, but my mom‘ll skin me if I’m not back before sunrise.”

“That’s it?” Macy asked. “Love us, and leave us in the dark of night?”

He pulled on a worn shirt-jacket with a coast guard patch and slipped on his shoes. “Ladies, it was a pleasure.” Squeezing my toes from the foot of the bed, he whispered, “See ya around.”

I scoured through the parts of the evening I found in my head. The only one who could’ve drugged me was Bridget. She must’ve slipped something she got from Nash into my beer. I remembered confronting her, catching an incredible buzz, and getting trapped by Billy Ray.

With Mitch gone, Macy, not exactly sober herself, filled me in on portions of the evening. “Rach,” she told me, “you walked out midway through the foosy tournament.”

“Did you follow me?”

Macy shook her head. “Bridget said you went to the bathroom, but you didn’t come back.”

“Where was I?”

Macy giggled.

“Oh God, was I naked?”

Gripping my arm she regained herself, “Rach, your clothes were on. On my way to get a beer, I noticed a glowing light in the hallway closet. Behind sliding doors, I heard clunking. You came out wearing a red life vest and gripping an oar. Mumbled some shit about the oil on the hunter being wet. Before I knew it, you stormed off. You said you needed to collect squirrels. Mitch followed you.

“Macy, I was blitzed out of my mind. Weren’t you worried that I’d do something I shouldn’t?”

“Mitch said he’d handle you. He’s a good guy. I didn’t see any harm in letting him.”

She wasn’t responsible for me, and I didn’t see a point in holding a grudge. “Did you and Stewart finish what started in the bedroom Friday night?”

In the dark room, a spark shot from her eyes. “The water was calm, but we managed to rock an empty boat. Stewart dropped me off at the Brown’s house on his way home.”

“How did you, Mitch and I end up in bed?”

Macy lowered her eye mask, and stretched into the space where Mitch had been. “I didn’t want to sleep alone, so I joined you two.”

So Mitch babysat me and put me to bed.
Nice.
I wondered if he’d tell his friends that he’d slept with two college girls. It was the truth, although I doubted anyone would believe him.

I LATHERED DISH SOAP on my hands and used a Brillo pad to clean paint off my fingers. In front of the kitchen sink, I stared out at rain that danced on the Brown’s garden path. The water turned the wintered Bermuda grass and garden perennials a  brighter tone. Last night I’d blacked out, which was beyond unsettling since I didn’t drink excessive amounts or smoke anything from a pipe, at least that I remember. Forgetting chunks of an evening had never happened before. Not being able to recall what I’d done and said, scared the crap out of me. I didn’t ever want a repeat experience.

Bridget slumped in a kitchen chair with her head tucked in her arms. She was out of control, and I was onto her sick games. She’d be sorry for handing me that laced beer. Trusting her to be true to her word wasn’t working. To deal with her, I needed to summon some inner-crafty-kick-ass.

The dark sky rumbled and the wind redirected rain droplets to ping the glass on the box window. Macy hadn’t made an appearance in the kitchen. When I checked on her that morning the only part I saw was a strand of hair peeking out of the comforter. I felt her vitals. She took in oxygen and had a pulse.

Katie Lee came in from the garage. She’d showered, blown her hair dry and was dressed. “Bridget, I found the 7up.”

Bridget was in a trance and didn’t acknowledge me, Katie Lee or the surroundings with any real words. I have to admit I liked the look of her as a motionless blob. When she spent all her energy breathing, she couldn’t hurt anyone.

Katie Lee poured the soda in a glass. “Bridget got sick from something. Mama always gives me clear soda when I’m not feelin’ well.”

Bridget lifted her head. Her wet hair looked more mousey than blonde. The ends dripped, leaving dark spots on the mustard colored sweatshirt she wore. Normally her porcelain cheeks carried a healthy glow. The morning storm cast a shadow in the house. Her face had lost its effervescence, and carried a gloomy hue that complemented her sweatshirt. I guessed she had a weakness for closed clamshells.

Waiting for the toaster, I listened to Katie Lee recap the party highlights. “I can’t believe y’all missed The Smokey Joe grills that someone tipped over. At first, no one paid much attention to the fire. Then some idiot doused them with vodka. Jackson’s deck combusted like a torched crème brulee.”

Bridget sipped on the clear soda. “I didn’t see any of that. I must’ve been on shore, getting sick.”

Slathering margarine on my toast, I locked eyes with Bridget. “I didn’t see it either. How’d they put it out? Dump water, or cover it with a blanket?”

“Are you kidding? Flames shot up to the roof. Jackson called the fire department.”

“His apartment is on the end of the pier,” I said. “A fire truck couldn’t get to the Marina Supply Store.”

“It was funny as hell,” Katie Lee said. “A fire brigade tugboat showed up, and shot harbor water onto the back of the building before anyone bothered to shut the windows and doors. Jackson flipped out. He started yelling, ‘the art, the art,’ like he owns any.”