Games of the Heart (15 page)

Now she knew.

And now Mike knew.

Mike’s eyes dropped to the books but his head filled with Dusty. Dusty as a little kid, her smile an easy flash, her laughter and singing filling the house, her wisecracks quick and clever. Then Dusty when he tried to talk to her, so much black makeup around her eyes, her hair a disaster, her clothes hanging on her, her face twisted with anger, her words sharp and bitchy.

Because a psycho had put his hands on her and she clearly dealt with that alone the best way she knew how. She didn’t tell anyone. Even her brother who she was closest to had to learn from her diaries.

And now she was with a guy who was clearly not right. Thirty-eight years old, never married and picking who she called “morons” but if this recent one was anything to go by, considering cops had to be involved to keep the asshole away from her, was far worse than that.

“Mike?” Rhonda called and Mike’s eyes cut back to her face.

“Rhonda that was a long time ago and Denny Lowe is dead. There’s nothing I can do,” he said quietly, his voice carefully even, his gut so tight it was a wonder he didn’t throw up.

She stared at him then whispered, “But –”

“Dusty’s gotta need to want help, Rhonda.”

“Sometimes they don’t…girls like her don’t –”

Mike cut her off. “She’s not a girl. She’s a woman and right now there’s nothing I can do.”

There was nothing he could do.

Nothing he could do.

Fuck.

Rhonda closed her mouth and stared at him again.

Then she whispered, “Right.”

“My advice, don’t share that with Mr. and Mrs. Holliday.” He jerked his head to the books. “Right now, you all don’t need that shit. And it’s Dusty’s to share. Yeah?”

She nodded slowly.

“Which means, Rhonda,” he went on, “don’t share you know with Dusty. You’ve all lost someone close to you. She’s dealing too, just like you. Now is not the time to bring that shit back up if she’s buried it.”

She nodded again.

Mike drew in breath then said softly, “I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help.”

Yeah, he was sorry. Seriously fucking sorry.

He had no fucking clue what to do with this shit.

Then Rhonda did something Rhonda should never have done. She moved to the back of his couch, put the books on it and without looking at him, whispered, “I’ll just leave those here in case you change your mind.”

“Rhonda –” he started but got no further.

Quickly, she muttered, “’Bye Mike,” and took off down his hall.

He didn’t move mostly because he couldn’t move. He just stood there staring at the books even after he heard his front door open and close. Even after he heard her car start up and pull away. And even after a long time passed.

Dusty. Open. Sharing. One hundred percent.

Except when they came close to talking about her teenage change. Then she made it clear without words she was not going there.

“Fuck,” he whispered.

We snap out of it. Promise,
she’d whispered.

She hadn’t. She picked the wrong guys, avoided her hometown, didn’t open up about it and thus deal with the fact that she’d been molested by a serial killer before he became a serial killer and thought less of her sister who defended rapists.

He forced his body to turn and move to the backdoor. Then he let his dog in. She bounded around him as he moved through the living room.

But he didn’t move to his gym bag. He didn’t go to the gym. He didn’t go to the phone and call Dusty.

Because his ass was plain fucking stupid, he went to those fucking books.

Then he leaned his stupid ass against the back of the couch and cracked one open.

An hour and a half later, he’d long since rounded the couch, sat in it and was bent forward, elbows to his knees, the second book held open between his legs and he’d read them both.

The first was her first. He figured, from where it started, he’d broken up with Debbie and was on his way to college. This meant he was free for her imagination to soar.

And Rhonda was not wrong. She loved him. She was too young to know what to do with that love but she was not too young to know how to express it.

And it was beautiful.

But it wasn’t all about him. He skimmed through the young girl crap, studied the shit she drew so breathtakingly in corners, around words, sometimes taking both pages to draw what popped into her head. All of it, even drawn by a girl of fourteen, was better than most shit he saw on people’s walls.

Then he turned a page in the second diary and that all changed. Gone were the gel pens of many colors she wrote with and the soft multi-colored shades of the pencils she sketched with. Suddenly, all the writing and the sketches were in heavy black. There were no flowers, butterflies or portraits of loved ones. The images were dark. Monstrous. The words were heavy, morose, angry. Her relationship with her sister who consistently confronted her, sometimes cruelly, about her change deteriorated rapidly. She couldn’t wait to get the fuck out of The ‘Burg. She couldn’t wait to be “free”.

And the encounter with Denny was surprisingly detailed.

He’d got her separated from her girl pack with some lame excuse that she dropped something. He’d then engaged her in conversation. And finally, he’d manhandled her until he got her away from the crowd and to the back of the high school. All of this during a football game. She’d kept her peace because he’d threatened her viciously. And he’d got his hand up her shirt, her bra down and his hand between her legs over her jeans. She’d managed to bite him at the same time kicking his shin, got free, ran and succeeded in getting away. At that time, Lowe had to be years older than her seeing as he was older than Mike.

It had to have been terrifying.

Then again, the evidence was in his hands that it clearly was.

The description of the event was all there was. She didn’t write anything else about it. Not her feelings, not if she was coping, not if she told anyone about it. Nothing. Just the event then a lot of angst in black ink.

The last entry of the second book was a bleak,
Fuck this shit. Doesn’t help. Nothing helps. Nothing ever will.

Done, Mike closed the book, bowed his head and closed his eyes.

Audrey was broken, he spent fifteen years trying to fix her and failed.

Vi, whose husband had been murdered, was also broken and he volunteered for the job but she picked another man to help her find happiness.

Denny Lowe had got Dusty against the back of high school with his hand between her legs.

His head came up, his eyes opening to stare unseeing at the blank TV.

He was not a moron. He was not a loser. He was not a psycho. He could be a dick but this occasion was rare. And he did not need a woman who was drawn to that finding out he was not that and getting quit of him when she felt the need to find that again so she could live out the bullshit Denny Lowe planted in her head that that was all she was good for.

He wanted his kids happy and well-educated. He wanted a woman in his bed who wanted to be there, who made him want to be there and who, more than occasionally, made him laugh.

He did not want more children.

He did not want to deal with a long distance relationship, missed calls, voicemails, emails and night after night of phone sex that was good but nowhere near as good as the real thing. Lives lived apart and days, weeks, months never really connecting. And at the end of all that shit, decisions could be made where he gave something time that was precious and he eventually ended up alone in his bed.

He did not want to be sitting at a Thanksgiving table next to the woman he was currently fucking and opposite a woman whose virginity he’d taken and deal with the discord that was already creating. He also didn’t want to expose his children to that shit.

He did not want a woman who had to be fixed.

Because he’d tried that twice and he’d failed once, miserably, and lost out the second time around.

Clearly this was one of those occasions where he could be a dick. But he was forty-three. He knew himself. He knew what he wanted. And he knew he did not need this shit in his life.

His decision made, his gut heavy, a sharp pain piercing through his chest, he stood.

Then suddenly and uncharacteristically his arm sliced back then cut forward and Dusty’s teenage girl journal tore through the air then thumped hard against the wall before falling to the floor.

Layla jumped up from where she was lying by his feet and barked.

Mike ignored his dog and stared at that fucking book lying on his carpet.

He was glad Denny Lowe was dead not just because he was a complete whackjob who murdered people. Because he took the Dusty everyone knew away from her family and he took Dusty away from Mike.

Twice.

“Fuck,” he whispered, lifting a hand and tearing it through his hair. “Fuck,” he repeated, continuing to stare at the book on the floor. “
Fuck,
” he clipped then bent, tagged the book on the couch, walked to the book across the room with Layla following and then sauntered to the stairs with Layla still following, jogged up them and hid them in one of his drawers.

Then he went back downstairs with Layla following and grabbed his gym bag.

Because one thing he did need was to go to the fucking gym.

* * * * *

Sunday evening…

“Hey,” Mike greeted in my ear after two rings went by when I called him.

“Hey,” I replied. “Everything cool? You didn’t call yesterday. I left a couple voicemails. Did you get them?”

“No, everything isn’t cool.”

His voice was weird in a way I didn’t like.

“What is it? Clarisse?” I asked.

“No, it’s not Reesee,” Mike answered.

I waited for him to share.

He didn’t speak.

“Mike, honey,” I started softly. “What is it?”

He didn’t answer for a few seconds then he asked, “You comin’ back soon?”

That made me feel better and I smiled.

“Yeah, that’s my good news for today. Got my tickets. I’m coming next weekend.”

“Right, we’ll talk then,” he said tersely and I blinked.

Then, cautiously and slowly, I asked, “Just…then?”

“Pardon?”

“I mean, between now and then we’re not talking? We’re just talking then?”

“That’s probably a good way to do it.”

I felt my chest get heavy. I knew where this was going. I’d lived this before too many times.

Even so, I whispered, “Mike, what’s wrong?”

“Face-to-face, Dusty. Text me. We’ll sort a time. The kids are gone next weekend. You can come to my house. We’ll have privacy.”

“Are you going to break up with me?” I asked and felt like an idiot. We hadn’t even been on a date. We’d had sex, conversation and some phone calls that, incidentally, included more sex but of the phone variety.

Still, there was something to break.

Or at least I thought so.

“Just…” he started then finished, “We’ll talk next weekend. Face-to-face.”

I was beginning to get angry. “I’m not sure I want to come over just so you can tell me to my face you don’t want to hear from me again, Mike.”

This was met with silence.

Then, soft, sweet, “Angel, straight up, the conversation is not gonna be good. But trust me when I say I’m lookin’ out for you and you’ll wanna hear what I have to say face-to-face. Yeah?”

My voice was soft and not sweet when I replied, “Suffice it to say this is scaring me.”

“Dusty, face-to-face, honey,” he repeated.

“And nothing in between?” I asked.

“I need time,” he told me.

For what?
I thought but didn’t ask.

Instead, I whispered, “Right.”

“Text me,” he ordered.

“Right,” I repeated.

More silence then from Mike, “One way or another, honey, you’ll be okay.”

One way or another, I’d be okay?

It was good he sounded sure.

I, however, was not.

“Right,” I said again.

“Take care, Dusty.”

The brush off, God. The brush off from Mike Haines. God!

“You too, Mike.”

“See you next weekend.”

“Right.”

“Later.”

I just disconnected.

Then I stared at my living room wall.

Times like these, I called my brother because he was my best friend but also because he was a man and he knew how men thought and was happy to provide insight.

But my brother wasn’t there to call.

“Welp, one way or another, I’ll be okay,” I muttered.

Then I burst out crying.