Deep Fried and Pickled (Book One - The Rachael O'Brien Chronicles) (38 page)

“What?” I asked under closed eyes.

She rolled onto her side and faced me. “Clay may have friends and God knows we all could use some cute guys to help get us through what’s left of the semester.” Tipping her sunglasses down her nose, she professed, “The dry spell on campus could be broken.”

“Listen, you sex-crazed lunatic, do I look like a professional madam? I can’t even find action for myself. The last thing I need is the responsibility of finding a selection of guys for you to invite into your cave for some rumpity-bumpity. If you’re in need, you know perfectly well that Hugh is a walk across the quad.”

Macy pushed her sunglasses back on her eyes. “I don’t want to talk about him.”

“Why not?”

She elevated onto her elbows. “He’s seeing someone.”

“I saw him yesterday. He didn’t mention anything.”

“I knew I shouldn’t have told you.”

I sat up on my elbows. “How do you know?”

Macy laid back down. “The last time I was in his room, I found a pair of woman’s tortoise-shell frame sunglasses on his bedside shelf.”

“Wait a minute. I thought you only slept with him once.”

Macy lifted up her new sunglasses and tucked them onto her head. She looked across the manicured lawn. “We’ve hooked-up on occasion.”

“You vixen.”

“Rach, come on. A relationship with Hugh isn’t in the cards.”

I suspiciously eyed the tortoise-shell frame sunglasses on top of her head. “So you stole the sunglasses?”

“I didn’t steal them. I’m wearing them to find the owner.”

“Wait a minute, isn’t this what you wanted. Not to be tied to one person.”

“After spring break, I changed my mind.”

“I’m sorry, Macy.”

“I am too.”

THE BASEMENT WAS THE BEST smelling place in the dorm. My wet clothes tumbled in warm-air with a powdery-scented, dryer-sheet that promised to float me into the white, puffy clouds when I wore them. I set the timer for forty minutes and climbed the stairs to the lobby. I waited by the elevator key pad, and watched Clay Sorenson stride through the glass doors, toward me. His eyes creased in the corners, and his playful smile melted my insides. I didn’t notice anyone else in the lobby when he waved and in his drawl sang, “Rachael O’Brien.”

I choked on my breath and began to cough.

“Thought I’d see if you were in.” He took the laundry basket out of my arms. “Let me help you with that.”

Clearing my throat, I asked, “How was your break?”

“Low key. I fished off a buddy’s boat for a few days.”

My hair fell out of a ponytail, and I wore a frayed T-shirt and shorts with flip-flops. Cursing myself for not looking more pulled together, I squeaked out, “Yeah.”

“How’s your shoulder?”

I pursed my lips. I’d wished he’d forgotten about that. I still didn’t recall exactly what I’d said in my Jack-Daniels-state. There was a high probability that I’d rambled about how I wanted him to father my children. This was my chance to redeem myself; if I could remember how to speak in complete sentences, maybe I had a chance.

“It’s a lot better. Only twitches when it rains.”

“Are you busy? I mean is it okay if we hang out awhile?”

Breathe, breath. That’s it. Now think of something witty. Okay, forget witty and concentrate on something that’s not stupid and more than one syllable.
“Um-sure.”

Inside the elevator, we soared up seven floors, and I started to think that the dryer-sheet promise of landing me in the clouds was true. Walking next to Clay made my feet feel airy. As we neared the end of the hallway, I willed Macy’s door to be shut. My Karma was off. Making matters worse, she blasted the B52’s, which provoked Francine to shout out, “Whiney white music,” and slam her door.

It was easy to talk about Clay and lust him from afar. In a dorm room, his close proximity made me nervous. I didn’t have the practice to seduce him. Instead, I concentrated on not frightening him away.

My work was cut out for me. In under a minute, Macy barged in, a wicked smile plastered across her face as she greeted Clay. I met her gaze and held it. We both knew she couldn’t help herself. She was a mischief addict, unfamiliar with the word--imposition. Settling into an armchair, she asked, “Where’s Katie Lee?”

I reminded her, “Lifeguard Certification with Bridget.”

She pinched a grin. “Oh yeah. When do they get back?”

“Nine-ish,” I said while mentally transmitting a different message, in case she tuned into my, “Exit your ass immediately,” radio wave.

Right out of the gate, she asked Clay, “Why did you date that redhead?”

A wave of fret pinched my stomach, and I wanted to strangle her. She was like a puppet master; as quickly as she’d orchestrated our meeting she was going to annihilate my chances with him. “Macy!”

“You know Sheila?” Clay asked.

Macy strummed her fingers on the chair arm. “Is that the psycho-bitch’s name?”

“That’s harsh,” Clay said.

“Soda?” I asked, hoping to change the discussion to Coke versus Pepsi.

Macy glided the clasp of her gold rope necklace to the back of her neck. “She and a flight of demons ambushed us at the Holiday Inn and during the snowstorm, she threatened Rachael with bodily harm for being near you.”

Clay’s mouth gaped. “Get out.”

I searched for words to make the awkwardness go away. Before I thought of anything, Clay spoke. “I met Sheila last year. We stayed in touch over the summer and started seeing each other in August. It didn’t go very far. She’s on the controlling side.”

A throaty gawf slipped out of my mouth.

Macy scoffed, “Really.”

“I tried to stay friendly when it ended, but Sheila wouldn’t stop calling. That kind of flattery has a short lifespan. She’s been stalking me most of the year.”

“Get a restraining order,” Macy said.

“Maybe I should’ve. It got to the point where I avoided going out. She’d turn up wherever I went.”

“Is she still stalking you?” I asked.

“Haven’t seen her for a month. Either she got the message or met someone else.”

Macy stood. “I should get back to studying. See you around.”

“You will,” he said.

Clay and I talked about classes, who we hung out with and his job at the infirmary. Over an hour had passed and I realized I’d left my laundry in the dryer. Sharing the dorm with five hundred girls taught me, never leave clothes in the machines. There wasn’t a freshman manual, so I’d learned the hard way. Laundry, wet or dry, can end up in a pile on the dirty basement floor. Select items can go missing from repeat offenders. If someone is vengeful, an entire load can end up on the front lawn, in a stairwell or might ride the elevator until it’s discovered. I grabbed my empty basket. “I need to check the dryer.”

He put a mint in his mouth. “I’ll walk you down.”

On the lobby floor, the elevator doors opened, and I was face-to-face with Francine. She her head tilted sideways, scanning her eyes past me; she preferred to drink in Clay.

“Hey Francine,” I said. “This is Clay.”

“Um hum,” she said, before meandering into the elevator.

Clay trekked down the flight of stairs to the basement behind me. When I shouted, “Still in the dryer,” he creased the corner of his eyes.

“Does some laundry elf rustle through your wet clothes and huck ‘em into the bushes?”

“Weird things happen in this dorm.”

The washing machines and electric dryers clicked and hummed. Clay lingered in the laundry room and sat on top of a dryer next to the one I opened and dug into. Electrodes sizzled inside of me, and one combusted when my arm brushed his. Straightening upright, I held a crumpled sheet and Clay helped me fold. “Rachael O’Brien,” he said, and paused. The sheet folds drew us inches in front of me. Draping his arm around my neck, Clay delivered a kiss. He had an uncanny talent to turn my brain off. It’s one thing to be infatuated with someone from afar. Clay’s lips were no fantasy. They changed the game and he had me flustered.

A dryer buzzed and voices came down the stairs. Clay asked, “Do you have plans this weekend?”

“Not yet.”

“Let’s do something Friday night.”

“What do you have in mind?”

He pushed his hair out of his eyes. “Dinner, maybe a movie.”

I diagnosed myself with a serious case of infatuation flu. I knew the cure. Clay Sorenson was the medicine I’d been waiting for.

I BOUNCED INTO MY DORM ROOM and put the laundry basket down. I couldn’t believe what had just happened. I didn’t know if I should tell anyone for fear of jinxing good juju, but couldn’t help myself.

Katie Lee smelled like pool chlorine and stood with a wet towel knotted around her waist. I blurted, “Clay asked me on a date!” Ten seconds passed, before Macy and Francine invited themselves in.

Macy offered me a cigarette. Francine and Katie Lee stood staring at me.

“O’Brien,” Macy said. “We’re here for a debriefing.”

Francine settled onto a desk chair. “Speak girl.”

I started at the beginning. “Clay walked in the lobby unannounced.”

“Nice.” Katie Lee said.

“Nice? I nearly crapped my pants. He caught me off-guard.” I motioned a hand around my face. “I’m dressed in end-of-the-day tattered. Being polite, I invited him to our room.”

“Of course you did,” Francine said.

“Everything would have gone smoothly if Macy hadn’t felt obliged to grill him about his relationship with She-Devil.”

“Someone has to look out for you,” Macy said. “In case you were wondering, I approve.”

“Where’s he from?” Francine asked.

“When are you going to see him again?” Macy asked.

“After he kissed me, he asked if I had plans this weekend.”

“Wait a minute. Back up. Back up,” Macy said. “He kissed you? Hello! Details!”

Francine stood, synchronizing a hand n’ hip shimmy. “Girl, you spent two hours with that boy. If all you got was a kiss, you need to work on your technique.”

“When are you going to sleep with him?” Macy asked.

Katie Lee pointed a hairbrush at me. “Make sure you protect yourself.”

I flopped to Katie Lee’s bed. “You people are gonna hex me.”

Macy moved next to me. “He’ll call.”

Since I’d returned from New Orleans, I kept the eye of Horus talisman in my pocket. I’d escaped Jack Ray, freaked-out, but unharmed and considered the trinket a good-luck charm. I traced over the etching, “Even if he calls, there’s the chance that things will go wrong.”

Katie Lee grabbed her shower bucket. “Who are you kidding? Nothing is going wrong here. It’s all going right.”

Our phone rang and I answered. “Hey Dad.” He normally called me on Sunday afternoons, and I wondered if he’d heard something from Mom or about the fakes.

Macy lowered her voice, and asked Katie Lee, “Did you give any mouth to mouth?”

“Not tonight. You would be interested to know that Bridget and I are the only girls in lifeguard certification.”

“Can I still sign up?” Macy asked.

“You could, but all the guys are in high school.”

Macy crinkled her nose and whispered, “That’s more up Raz’s alley.”

“Out,” I mouthed and motioned to the door.

Macy flashed a toothy smile, like a kid who didn’t want to obey before leaving with Francine and Katie Lee.

“Rachael,” Dad said. “We need to talk.”

“Is it Mom?”

“No, it’s not your mother, it’s Clementine Hunter. The curator of folk-art at the New Orleans Museum called me. One of the Clementine Hunters hanging on the wall is a fake.

“Which one?”

“
Baptism
. Someone from the FBI is going to contact you.”

NOTE TO SELF

Macy’s direct approach is wicked. She’s got nerve and her strikes are accurate. God, she makes me nervous.

At least my hunch about the Clementine Hunter was right. If I’d been wrong, I would’ve looked dufus and tattled in vain about New Orleans when I should’ve kept the lip zipped. Glad to be miles away from both the Rays.

37

M
issing
M
asterpiece

Funny
how when you’re a kid, holidays and birthdays take forever to roll around. I’d just gotten back from spring break and now Good Friday was weeks away. I met Clay on campus on Tuesdays and Thursdays after lunch for an hour. He worked at the infirmary nights and weekends, and it was the only time our schedules crossed paths. My plan to loose my virginity in a meet and greet kind of encounter had become complicated. I liked Clay a lot, and wanted him to like me too.

Midweek, my art history professor ended class early. Outside the lecture hall, the sun was shining brightly, and the temperature sweltered as if someone had left an oven door open. Student traffic on campus was sparse, and I glanced at my Swatch. Twenty til one. Bodies would surge out of buildings on the hour. I stopped at a vending machine near the bench where I’d meet Clay, and pondered Mr. Pibb versus Mountain Dew. I decided on Mr. Pibb, heavier on the cola flavor and less lollipop sweet. The can rattled down the chute. Before making a final clunk, a tall gentleman in jeans, a navy Polo and tweed jacket asked, “Rachael O’Brien?”

“Yes.”

Reaching his hand, he said, “Storm Cauldwell, FBI.”

“Jesus. Do you always show up unannounced?”

His sunburnt face gave him more of a ski enthusiast appearance than FBI. He flashed me his badge and asked, “Can you walk with me?”

“I’m meeting someone.”

Smiling, he indented a dimple on his chin. “It’ll just take a minute. Your friend can wait.”

Since he said it would be quick, I agreed. “How did you find me?”

“Against policy to tell you.”

“Really?”

He chortled. “I looked up your schedule and student Identification.”

Snapping my soda tab-top open, a fine mist spritzed out of the can. “They keep black and white copies of student I.D.’s?”
Shit, the FBI had to know I carried a fake.