Games of the Heart (3 page)

It didn’t work.

He hit the fourth floor, moved through the door and followed the signs to her room number.

Without delay, he knocked.

Then he waited.

It couldn’t have taken more than a minute but that minute was too fucking long and he was about to knock again when the door was open.

And there she was right in front of him.

Her hair was no longer down but in a messy knot with thick, spiky locks shooting out of it everywhere at the top back of her head. She was no longer dripping silver and wearing black but wearing very faded jeans and an equally faded and beat up once burgundy now washed out tee. The deteriorating white decal on front had a cowboy in chaps and spurs being thrown from a bronco with western-style words that demanded you, “Eat it, cowboy!” underneath and in an arch over it, it said, “Schub’s Texas Saloon and Hoedown”. Her feet were bare, toes tipped in the same wine as her fingernails and he registered she couldn’t be more than five foot seven but was probably closer to five foot six. He knew this because, at six one, he had quite a ways to look down at her.

She still had on her makeup and silver bracelets on both wrists.

And she was staring up at him, eyes wide, lips parted, visibly shocked.

“Mike,” she whispered.

And that, again irrationally and again he didn’t give a fuck, pissed him off.

Dusty, comfortable, removed, sitting in her hotel room relaxing.

Yeah, it pissed him off.

So he pushed past her and walked in her room.

It was nice, clean, well-decorated. He’d been in one of these rooms once when someone had OD’ed in one two years ago. Other than that, never.

There was a beat up but stylish tan leather satchel on the luggage stand. A scattering of her jewelry with a cell phone and a keycard were on the nightstand. Her blazer, skirt and turtleneck were tossed, clearly without thought, on the chair. Her cowboy boots both on their sides were in front of the chair where they’d been dropped and forgotten. Her big, fringed, black suede purse looked like it had exploded on the desk. There was an MP3 player on the bed, the covers not smooth, the pillows piled against the headboard and depressed. She’d been lying there, enjoying music.

This, he saw, hadn’t changed. Not ever. She’d shared a room with Debbie who was obsessively tidy. Dusty had always been…
not.
In any way. She did her chores as given to her by her mother but her side of the room always looked like a tornado had been through it. Mrs. Holliday used to nag her about it but had given up. Debbie fought with her all the time about it. Dusty never gave a shit. Dusty had better things to do and she made this point clear when she found a plaque in a gift shop, bought it with her allowance and put it on her side of the room. It stated, “Boring women have immaculate homes.” It was a daily “fuck you” to her sister. Mike had always secretly thought it was hilarious. Debbie hated that fucking plaque, it drove her insane. And no matter how many times Mike explained that her getting angry about it was feeding Dusty’s glee, she just kept right on getting angry about it.

“What are you doing here?”

He heard her voice, soft, musical and he turned to face her.

She’d sung in the children’s choir at church in addition to both the junior high and high school choirs. She’d had a lot of solos. Her voice was pure and sweet, reminiscent of Karen Carpenter. Even when she had her turn, she never quit singing. She went to competitions with the choir all over the state, won ribbons and trophies and led the choir to county, sectional, regional and, in her senior year, state victories. She cleaned away the grunge for that, he’d heard since Darrin had told him about it, again proudly. She loved singing so much she gave up the grunge to do it. Her speaking voice, even when she was younger, was nearly as beautiful as her singing voice. He’d always thought so.

And it hadn’t changed.

And, fuck him, with maturity, it was also a lot fucking better.

“Your Mom and Dad, sisters, nephews, they’re all at the farm,” he informed her.

“I know,” she replied quietly.

“They could use your help,” he went on.

“I –” she started but, pissed, Mike talked over her.

“Rhonda’s a fuckin’ mess. Your Mom looks like she’s been hit by a freight train. Your nephews have both closed down. Your Dad’s usin’ so much energy not to unman himself in front of company, it’s a wonder he doesn’t collapse and you? You’re kickin’ back in jeans and a tee, listenin’ to tunes and maybe contemplating what to get from room service.”

Her face changed, he saw it and he understood the change. Even if he wasn’t a cop and his ex-wife hadn’t made an art of deceit to hide her overspending, both these giving him years of experience reading people, he would have understood the change.

She looked like he’d struck her.

Mike didn’t care. She needed to snap out of it.

So he held her eyes and kept going.

“I don’t get you, Dusty. I didn’t get your bullshit twenty years ago. I don’t get it now. No, strike that, I
definitely
don’t get it now. This is your family. These people love you and they just put your brother in the ground. Seriously, I wanna know and you’re gonna fuckin’ tell me. What in
the
fuck is the matter with you?”

“You’re joking,” she whispered.

“I’m not,” he returned.

“You’re joking,” she repeated immediately on another whisper.

“I’m not,” he repeated too.

Then, instantly, she leaned in, her eyes narrowed and she shrieked, “
You’re joking!
”

Mike opened his mouth to retort but Dusty wasn’t done.

“I don’t
see
you for twenty years, Darrin’s fucking
dead
, you walk up to my hotel room and give me
Debbie’s shit?
Have you
lost your mind?
” She threw her hands up, took the three steps that separated them and poked him hard in the chest. “
You
know her. You know her
and
her shit.” She threw both hands up again and asked, “Honest to God, Mike, honest to God? You think I’m kicking back?” She didn’t wait for him to answer. She leaned in and shouted in his face,
“
Well, I’m not!
”

She took two steps away then pivoted and started pacing.

And, at the same time, she let it all hang out.

“Fucking Debbie.
Debbie!
God, if I didn’t know it would kill my mother, I’d get in a bitch-slapping, hair-pulling, rolling around the house, smackdown sister catfight with that bitch.
God!
”
she cried, stopped and whirled on him. “Rhonda’s a goddamned mess but even as a mess, she knew what Darrin wanted. Does Debbie listen?” She leaned into him again and shouted, “
No!
Rhonda said Darrin wanted only family, a small service, no big thing, no one at the house. He
knew
Rhonda couldn’t deal with that shit. He
knew
, fuck, everyone knows Rhonda’s sensitive. He knew bad shit went down with him if he was forty-four or ninety-four, she wouldn’t be able to cope. So he wanted it easy on her. He wanted to give us the closure we all needed then get us to a place where she could help his wife move on. But not Debbie, no,” she drew out the “no” sarcastically. “It’s not seemly, Debbie says. The town will want to say their good-byes, Debbie says. Darrin is the fourth generation to work that farm, Debbie says, so we’ve got to keep up appearances, Debbie
freaking
says. Has Debbie been
sleeping
with my brother for the last twenty years?” she asked, leaning in then jerking back and shouting, “
No!
Has she given him two sons?
No!
Does she give a shit what
he
wanted? Does she give a shit about what would be easier on Rhonda, my boys and, frankly, Mom?
No!
She wants what she wants and fuck anyone else. So guess what, Mike? She pushed and she pushed and she bitched and she wheedled and she played games and we were all so fucking over her shit, she got what she fucking wanted.”

She stopped shouting and did it breathing hard, the pain stark in her eyes right alongside the fury.

But Mike had long since realized his mistake. He knew it. He saw it all over her at the funeral home, his instincts screamed it but he ignored it and now he felt like a dick. And he felt this because he’d acted like one.

So he instigated damage control.

“Sweetheart –” he started but she shook her head, stepped back and kept talking.

“That’s not the worst of it, Mike. He wanted to be cremated. Debbie said no. And Rhonda wanted a closed casket. And Debbie…said…” she leaned in, “
no.
”

“Jesus,” he whispered.

“Yeah,” she snapped back immediately. “Jesus. And Rhonda is sensitive but she isn’t stupid. My brother died and she called me right away. She knew she didn’t have the strength to deal with arrangements. She knew Debbie would be Debbie. She knew what Darrin wanted, told me and I sorted it all out. Every last fucking detail. Then Mom, being Mom and never able to keep her mouth shut, tells Debbie and Debbie loses her mind. Then she’s all up in my shit and wandering DC with that stupid thing attached to her ear calling me, Mom, Rhonda, Dad, George Markham, everybody. Now me, this is my brother, this is Darrin,” her voice cracked, the sorrow clogging her throat. Mike prepared to move to her but she pressed on and he stopped, “I wanted what he wanted. I wanted to look out for his woman, his family.”

Her voice was thick, her words were taking effort but she kept going, needing to say them so Mike stood where he was and let her.

“So I was ready to do what I had to do to make certain he got what he wanted and I had their backs. But Mom, being Mom, wanted peace and Debbie, being Debbie, would not shut the fuck up about it. And since I could fucking remember, the best way for Mom to make that peace was give Debbie what she wanted. So she talked Rhonda into that shit and she told me to lay off. Rhonda knew I was pissed way the fuck off and so did Dad. But me digging my heels in wasn’t helping anyone, it was just making a bunch of shit shittier. So I backed off. But I wasn’t going to be a party to that, Mike. It was enough to walk into that fucking,
fucking,
” her voice cracked again but she pushed right through it, “funeral parlor and see my brother fucking dead and laid out for everyone to see the same. And I wasn’t going to be a party to the rest of that shit Debbie orchestrated for whatever reasons Debbie does whatever the fuck she wants to do. And I know and so did Dad and Rhonda, that if I had to spend even a minute with that bitch, I’d lose my mind. So they told me to stay away. So I’m staying away. I saw them this morning when Debbie was at the funeral parlor doing what Debbie does best, bossing everyone around. When everyone’s gone, including my bitch of a sister who has some stupid-ass
conference call
she has to take on a
Sunday
, I’ll see them tomorrow. But now, so I don’t rip all her goddamned hair out and make a really,
really
fucking bad day worse, I’m here, kicking back and listening to music.”

She stopped talking and Mike gave her time. When it was clear she was done talking, he stopped giving her time.

“I was out of line,” Mike admitted gently.

“Yeah, you were,” Dusty returned immediately.

He held her eyes and she returned the gesture.

They did this for a long time.

Then Mike, already having jumped to conclusions, unusually followed a knee-jerk reaction and commenced acting like a dick, went right on making the wrong choices and stupidly whispered, “Hey, Angel.”

He hadn’t called her that in over two decades. He used to call her that all the time. He thought it would be familiar and welcome. But, bottom line, that was who she was to him. Always.

She instantly dissolved into tears.

Then he was across the room and had her in his arms. She held on, up on her toes, shoving her face in his neck, her arms closing tight around his shoulders and she sobbed. He bent his head so his lips were close to the skin of her neck. He could smell her unusual perfume, hints of musk, lesser hints of floral, vaguely outdoorsy but undeniably feminine and he listened to her quiet weeping as he felt her body move against his, bucking uncontrollably with her tears.

“For…for…forty-four,” she stammered softly in his ear.

“I know, honey,” he whispered against her neck, her arms going tighter.

“He…he…he won’t ee…even see the boys graduate high school.”

Mike didn’t respond, just kept holding her close.

“He wanted to be in the fields,” she whispered then clarified, “his ashes.”

Jesus. Fucking, Debbie. Bullshitting him. Skating toward coming onto him. And doing that to Darrin.

“Now, he’s just rotting,” she went on.

“He isn’t doing that, darlin’,” Mike replied, she fell to the soles of her feet, her head went back, his went up and he caught her watery eyes.

“He is, Mike,” she told him quietly.

“No he isn’t, honey. He’s gone.” His arms gave her a squeeze. “It sucks, I know, it really fucking sucks but he’s gone. It doesn’t matter where his body is because he’s no longer in it.”

Her eyes held his for long moments. Then she nodded.

“You’re right,” she whispered.

“I am,” he agreed and when he did, the clouds in her eyes parted and her lips quirked.