Quick Fix (20 page)

Auntie Mo was herself again when I found her, having dropped the Mae West aura completely. Which reminded me to drop good ol’ Clint—I wasn’t in the mood to play anymore.

“I’m going upstairs to change. Molly’s getting tired. I’ll take her back to James’s apartment with me and tuck her in there for the night so you won’t have to worry about her. You’ll have to find somebody else to ride herd on this one,” I said, nudging Jordan toward her.

“Thank you, sweetie! It’s too loud around here for her to get to sleep upstairs. You have money for a cab, yes? I appreciate it.” She pulled Brian-Molly up into a huge hug. “You behave for Ciel. I’ll see you both tomorrow. Not too early, mind…” She winked at me and grabbed Jordan by his elbow as he was trying to slip away. “Oh, no you don’t, bucko. Your parents have been unveiled, and I believe they are suffering from a burning desire to spend some quality time with you.”

On the way upstairs, I grabbed another Manhattan from the tray of a passing server. Downed it in one, and handed it back to the carefully unsurprised young member of the catering staff, not bothering with the cherry. I wasn’t hungry.

Once I’d changed, I slipped out the front door while Auntie Mo and Mom were too busy in the kitchen to notice I didn’t have Molly with me (Brian had already changed back to himself), absently grabbing my great-grandfather’s walking stick from its place of honor in the umbrella stand by the front door. Great-Granddad was no longer with us, except in spirit, which the whole family was convinced now occupied the ancient, darkly gnarled cane. I felt the need of a steadying presence, both mentally and physically.

On purpose, I did
not
think about Billy and Monica. Instead, I thought about clowns.

Clowns are supposed to make you happy, but really they scare the shit out of you. Why would any grown-up subject a poor child to clowns, anyway? I thought about the first time Mom and Dad had taken me to the circus, and how I’d loved every second of it right up until they took me behind the scenes after the show and a clown had loomed over me with his grotesquely painted face. When he reached for me, I screamed and threw up all over his elongated shoes.

That’s what I felt like, even
not
thinking about Billy and Monica. Like I needed to scream and throw up. My brain might have been willing to cooperate with me by ignoring what I saw, but my stomach definitely wasn’t.

I stumbled down the porch steps to the sidewalk. Turned right and headed for … well, that was a good question. Couldn’t go to Billy’s place, for obvious reasons, not the least of which because it was probably still blocked by crime-scene tape. Couldn’t go back to James’s, because that was where—no, could
not
go back there, not now. Brian’s maybe? But Suze wouldn’t be expecting me. She hadn’t been with Bri long enough to take kindly to unexpected drop-ins by his family members.

So where?

The second Manhattan (or was it the third? fourth? I was a little woozy on the numbers) hit my brain. I kept walking, steadying myself with Great-Granddad’s stick. So what if I didn’t know where I was going? I was
going;
that was what mattered.

Why?
I asked myself. Why had this happened? I
finally
got rid of my annoying half-virginity, and I had to get walloped with
this
? (Yeah, I might have still been a little sensitive about the virginity thing. Sue me.)

I stumbled over an uneven patch of sidewalk, shanghaied by a new thought, gripping the stick to keep from toppling over. When we were little, Mom always said, “God punishes right away,” if we got hurt while doing something we shouldn’t have been. Was this punishment for letting Mark kiss me? It
was
pretty “right away” in the grand scheme of relationship things.

And it sure as hell hurt.

I started walking again. No. It couldn’t be. That was a leftover-crush kiss, and besides, I’d never told Billy he was my one and only. Had I? No, definitely not.

But
he
had told
me
that.
Damn it all to fucking hell!
He
said
I was the only one he wanted. And I’d believed him.

What happened next was entirely Carrie Underwood’s fault. And the bourbon’s. Or maybe Mom’s fault, since she had been in charge of the playlist for the evening. Possibly even Auntie Mo’s … No, I couldn’t blame her. Billy’s cheating genes couldn’t have come from her. And Uncle Liam had never seemed inclined to stray, that I could see anyway. Ha. Like any man would dare cheat on Auntie Mo. She’d show him.
She’d
put him in his place.
She’d
hit him where it would hurt.

Just like Carrie.

Yup, good ol’ Carrie was one country singer who knew how to hit a man where it
really
hurt—right in his internal combustion engine.

But all that would never have come to my mind if I hadn’t happened upon Billy’s car.

There it was, on this little side street that actually had a tree, occupying Billy’s favorite on-street parking place in the neighborhood. Amazing how it was almost always free when he needed it. Or, more likely, how it became free when he called ahead and informed his paid placeholder he was on his way.

Had I subconsciously walked this way, knowing it would be here? Maybe, maybe not. Maybe it was a coincidence. All I knew for sure was, I was here and it was there, and just looking at it made me ache until I felt like I had to hit something or my heart would explode.

And I had a big fucking stick in my hands.

Fighting angry tears, growling along to the strains of “Before He Cheats” still echoing in my head, I set to work on the Chevy. Pulled the key to my parents’ house from my jeans pocket and dug it into the driver’s side door, leaving a two-foot-long groove. Smashed the window with the head of the cane. It took three tries—car windows are tougher than you’d think—and felt a thrill when I made it through.

I switched the key for the penknife in my other pocket, careful not to cut myself when I opened it, and carved up his seat (not with my name—I was drunk, not an idiot). Sadly, it was vinyl, not leather. Still, it wouldn’t be cheap to replace. Not that money was any object to my scoundrel of a fake cousin, I thought, and then carved up the passenger side for good measure.

Next, I staggered to the front of the car. I might not have had a Louisville Slugger, but Granddad’s walking stick would do just fine. I gripped it tightly (imagining it was Billy’s neck helped), warmed up with a few practice swings, and took out both headlights.

Feeling pretty cocky, I played out the rest of the lyrics and slashed a hole in all four tires. Okay, more stabbed than slashed. Slashing isn’t quite as easy as it sounds. Vandalism takes a certain amount of strength. I was breathing hard by the time I was done but feeling pretty pleased with myself.

Ha.
Imagine that. Even an interlude with Billy’s
car
could leave me breathless and satisfied. I walked away, still humming.
Maybe next time he’ll think before he cheats.…

*   *   *

My sense of supreme satisfaction lasted, oh, about a block. Now that I’d vented my shock and anger, the reality of what I’d done washed over me like a cold rain down the back of my neck. No, wait—that
was
cold rain. Perfect. I ran back toward my parents’ house, eager not only because it was dry there, but also figuring I better put the walking stick back where it belonged before I got caught with the evidence.

I was having a hard time remembering precisely if Billy’s lips had connected to Monica’s there at the end. Maybe he’d just been leaning down to tell her, quietly, that he was off the market.
Gaaah.
Maybe I had just demolished Billy’s baby for no good reason.

Hold on. What was I doing? Was I turning into one of those pathetic women who make excuses for their asshole boyfriends? When had Billy’s lips ever
not
connected to a willing woman? No, he deserved what I did to his car, all right. I was (almost) sure of it.

Almost.

I stopped in front of my parents’ house. Stood in the middle of the sidewalk, each raindrop that pelted me driving home the message:
hypocrite.
Oh. My. God. I was a great big fucking hypocrite. If anybody had a right to be upset, it was Billy. If he’d seen me kissing Mark, would he have gone medieval on
my
beloved car? If I’d had a car, which I didn’t, but that wasn’t the point.

No, I really didn’t think he would have.

I ducked behind a tall potted shrub as the door opened and Aunt Helen emerged, supported by Uncle Foster, who looked in need of a prop of his own. Mom and Dad said their good-byes as they walked my wobbly relatives to a waiting cab. Once my parents were back inside, I crept up onto the stoop and peeked in one of the sidelights. The hall was clear, so I slipped in and put the walking stick back in its usual spot, hoping the additional nicks and dings would go unnoticed.

From the library-slash-music room, Uncle Liam’s beautiful tenor voice filled a lull in the playlist, a sharp reminder that the car I’d just trashed had been his pride and joy before he’d passed it along to Billy. My breath stopped, waylaid by the lump of shame in my throat.
Shit.
What had I been
thinking
?

I had to get out of the house. Right then. As in
immediately
.

I turned back to the front door, but more guests had emerged from the living room, blocking the way. I didn’t want to get caught in the undertow, so I slipped through the dining room and continued out the French doors to the backyard. The rain was coming down harder, but I didn’t care. I didn’t deserve to be dry and warm. I was a stupid, jealous idiot. All I wanted to do was crawl into a cave and wallow in my shame. The grotto would be the perfect place, if it weren’t likely to be occupied by the very person I was running from.

Damn it
. Running? Running was the act of a coward. I might have been a stupid, jealous idiot, but I refused to add coward to the list of my shortcomings. I
would
go to the cave, and if Billy and Monica were still there, I would deal.

Stumbling down the path, past the shrub-outlined koi pond, I forced myself to the grotto, determined to tell Billy what had happened to his car. I wouldn’t sugarcoat it, either. I’d flat out tell him that I … that I …

I swallowed hard, holding back the bile that filled my throat. I’d tell him I caught somebody vandalizing it as I walked by. Because, Jesus, he would
kill
me if he ever found out the truth, and remorseful or not, I had no wish to die.

Billy wasn’t there.

But Monica was.

Lying on the ground, she was half-in, half-out of the grotto, her head hidden in the shadow. I knew it was her by the dress she was wearing. The lovely ivory silk dress I’d last seen pressed up against Billy now had a large bloodstain right in the middle of it.

Crap.
I dropped to my knees beside her. “Monica? Monica, are you all right?” I bit my lip.
Are you all right? Jesus, Ciel, what kind of idiot are you?

She didn’t respond. Long, wavy hair the color of licorice, adorned by a single lavender orchid, lay scattered over her shoulders, encroached upon by the growing stain on her chest. An image of Laura superimposed itself over the woman in front of me. Had Monica been shot, like Laura? It sure looked like it to me, blurry though my vision was. Not surprising that no one heard a shot, with all the noise from the party.

“Ciel? Is that you?”

I jumped up and twirled. Found myself caught in Billy’s strong grip, so my body stopped midspin, but my brain didn’t. It kept going … and going … and going. Until I was dizzy-sick with the horror, and the booze, and the blood. I did the only logical thing I could, under the circumstances.

I hurled.

Billy jumped back a step, for all the good it did him. There’s a reason they call it projectile vomiting.

To his credit, he hadn’t let me go. “My God, cuz, are you all right?”

“N-n-no-o-o,” I wailed. “I feel sick.”

“Obviously. Drinking sick, or has somebody poisoned you? I only ask because it will have a bearing on what I do next.”

“Dri-drinking. I think,” I said, mentally doing a Manhattan tally. When my brain couldn’t keep up, I tried counting on my fingers. But there appeared to be more of them than usual, so I gave up. “I’m pretty sure.”

“Never mind. Come with me,” Billy said, and hurried me down the path back toward the house. He sat me on a crescent-shaped cement bench my father had lovingly placed next to his favorite crab apple tree. “You stay right here. I have to take care of things. Got that? Right
here
.”

“Okily-dokily,” I said, and started to giggle, only then I remembered Monica and grabbed Billy by his puked-spattered dress. “Oh, God. Monica is
dead.
”

“Looks that way. Now, let me go so I can get help.”

“But you … why did you … hey, why did you put the dress back on?” Because he was, I belatedly noticed, wearing Meryl’s dress. And he most definitely had
not
been when he’d been in the lip-lock with Monica that had precipitated my ill-advised walk.

“I haven’t had a chance to change yet—Ciel, I have to go.” He peeled my hand from his arm and put it beside me on the bench. “You hold on right here, okay? Don’t go anywhere.”

I swayed. He steadied me.

“Sh-sure you have. You had on pants when you were kissing Monica in the cave. And my shirt. I mean, your shirt—”

“When I was
what
?”

“When you were kissing Monica. Are you even listening to me?”

“Ciel, I haven’t taken this dress off all evening.”

“But I saw you— Oh, shit!” I looked at his face. “That wasn’t you?” The implications did nothing to settle my stomach. Or my conscience.

It was totally stupid to be worried about what I’d done to Billy’s car—apparently for no reason at all—when Monica was in the cave. Dead. But frankly, I kinda wanted to crawl in and join her. That would be easier than explaining to Billy. God, Monica was
dead
. Why could I not focus on that?