Split (14 page)

Oh dear.

“Dr Harris. Hello…”

This looks bad.

“Makedde,” he said. He seemed suitably surprised to see her in the hotel lobby. “Well. Good evening.”

Dr Harris was smartly dressed in a pressed shirt and slacks. She took in his appearance more thoroughly on this occasion than she had when they first met, distracted as she was by Andy and then Roy. Bob Harris was in his fifties and appeared to take pretty good care of himself, but his face told a thousand tales. He had a mass of crow’s-feet, and two deep worry lines between his hazel eyes. His eyelids were hooded and drooped. Makedde thought that he had a kind face, but a weary one.

She smiled at him, hoping she didn’t look too red-faced.

“Are you looking for Andy?” Dr Harris asked her.

“Andy? Yeah. Kind of…”

“I just left him at the Sports Bar around the corner.” He paused, and seemed to take a quick mental snapshot of her face, her body language, her words. Perhaps the intense scrutiny was only in her imagination. “Is he expecting you?” he asked. “Because I can’t imagine him standing you up to hang out at a bar.”

“No, no. It was a surprise visit actually. I was just in the area and I thought I’d drop by…”

Oh, what an absolutely moronic thing to say, Mak
.

But at least she knew where Andy was. He was less than a block away, slugging back beers with his mates. What mates? She wondered who else he might know in Vancouver.

“Would you like me to go and get him for you?” Dr Harris offered.

“Oh no. No, that’s okay. Thanks anyway. I might swing by, but I really ought to be getting home soon. It’s late.”

He nodded. He looked like he needed a good night’s sleep as much as she did.

“I enjoyed your presentation, by the way. It was fascinating.”

“Thank you.”

“Have a good evening,” she said, finishing with a polite smile. She walked away, leaving the newspaper on a chair as she passed.

Makedde had seen the Sports Bar when she drove past—the neon beer signs and mirrors bearing nostalgic Coca-Cola advertisements through the large panes of glass. It was the kind of distinctly North American establishment where you were asked if you wanted curly fries or coleslaw with your slab of steak. There were several enormous television screens broadcasting a football game, and the place was full of boisterous men, high on sports and alcohol.

She couldn’t see Andy, but went inside anyway and took a seat in a quiet corner.

A waitress came over. “What can I getcha?”

“Just mineral water, thanks.”

The waitress frowned, then followed it up with an artificial service-smile when she remembered her occupational requirements.

Don’t be so uptight, Makedde. You’re here to sneak up on an ex-lover, after all…
“Actually, uh, make it a Slippery Nipple.”

The waitress smiled. “Now you’re talking.”

Okay, the plan: Slug back drink. Feel relaxed. Find Andy. Talk. Go home. Sleep.

Fine.

She tried watching the television, but she still couldn’t calm the churning in her guts. She needed that drink.

She tried to put herself in Andy’s shoes. He did call her, right? So what was she nervous about? Perhaps her arriving unannounced was a bit strange but that only mattered if she actually decided to make contact. She could still walk away.

By the time she’d finished her second Slippery Nipple, Mak had well and truly graduated from the initial, mellow bliss, and sunk deep into a tipsy melancholy.

Where is he anyway? The men’s room?

The waitress drifted past and suggested a Screaming Orgasm.

“Love those,” Mak blurted. When she realised her faux pas, she giggled and covered her mouth, then it occurred to her that she might look silly in that position, and she promptly placed her hands in her lap. She nodded and smiled and the waitress disappeared.

Oh, my God, I’ve lost it.

Mak stared at the TV screen closest to her. Big men in small pants. Everyone grunting and slapping each other’s butts. Curious men’s business.

The waitress returned and placed two small glasses on the table.

Two?

Mak didn’t really know what she was looking at. It must have showed, because the waitress began instructing her on how to drink the cocktail with the wildly pleasurable name. “Take the lime cordial into your mouth but don’t swallow it. Pour the Baileys in next. Let it sit in there, then shake your head vigorously from side to side. Then swallow.”

She must be having me on
.

Mak tried to pay her.

“This one’s on the house. Enjoy.”

Mak blinked and stared at the little glasses, which responded by swirling around in her vision for a moment. She blinked again and they were still. The waitress was gone. Mak was sure that everyone was watching. Was this an actual drink that people ordered?

Ah, what the hell.

She took the neon-green drink and poured it into her mouth. Straight cordial. Wham. Then the Baileys. She looked up and the waitress nodded at her from across the bar. Oh, yes, mustn’t forget to
shake
. She grinned at her with her mouth full and made a show of shaking her head around. She tried desperately not to laugh, but choked on a giggle and dribbled some of it down her chin.

Gulp.

Oh, good God!

Her head did a three-sixty. Every muscle in her body went to putty.

Mak suddenly felt much less self-conscious.

She gave the girl a thumbs up, and then slunk down in her seat.

She must have stared at her lap for a long time, because when she looked up, she found that someone was sitting next to her.

“…all by yourself,” the stranger was saying. He was smiling at her and shifting closer. “Lemme buy you a drink.”

Her mouth took forever to respond. Her tongue felt funny. “No, thanks. No more.”

He was still speaking. She concentrated on the movements his mouth was making, but still couldn’t make out the words. She leaned forward and squinted.

“…company. Come on, lemme getcha ’nother drink.”

Mak recoiled and said, “No. Fuff off.”

She blinked slowly, finally comprehending how horrendously drunk she had become, and when she opened her eyes again, he was gone.

She had to get out of there. She wasn’t just relaxed—she was off her face, and that was definitely not how she wanted to see Andy Flynn.

Somehow she made it to the exit. The sounds of football and top-forty music faded as she stepped out to the street and raised her hand for a cab. But there were none to be found.

Someone put a hand on her shoulder. She spun around, expecting the stranger with the confusing speech patterns who had approached her inside. Her head spun long after the one hundred and eighty degrees were up, and when her senses finally returned, she found herself nose to nose with Detective Andrew Flynn.

Her jaw fell slack and she stared. Her arm, which had come dangerously close to swatting him when she turned, still dangled high in the air.

No, it can’t be Andy. Not now…

Her nervous system performed the inebriated version of snap-alert panic and simultaneously displaced the entire repertoire of her motor skills. She was struck speechless and inert.

“Makedde! I thought it was you,” declared the man who was either Andy, or the most convincing hallucination she had ever seen.

She stared.

“I thought I saw you in the corner, but I wasn’t sure. I thought you didn’t drink?” He paused when she didn’t respond. She was frozen in embarrassed horror. “What? Have you joined the SS or something?” He gently brought her arm down to her side. “Hey, are you okay?”

Mortified. Absolutely mortified.

So much for spotting him first. So much for being calm, cool and collected.

He was the same as she remembered, his scent, his presence. The same chiselled jaw and compellingly imperfect nose. The same little scar on his chin, the same dark, short-cropped hair. And his eyes. His gorgeous green eyes. She really wished she was sober.

“I think I need to sit down,” she managed to say. She felt ill. Andy stopped asking questions and mercifully led her away from the big glass windows of the Sports Bar.

Hours later, Makedde woke up on stiff hotel sheets. There was stucco on the ceiling above her, and the weak smell of old cigarettes and deodoriser.

She felt absolutely awful. Horrible. Her throat felt sore and her head felt like it was trapped in an airtight bubble. Instinctively, she opened her jaw as wide as she could so her ears would pop. She was depressingly sober, and plagued with a deep, gnawing, unnamed
dread. There was something she was unhappy about, but she wasn’t awake enough to remember what.

Where am I? What time is it?

An empty glass and the crust off a piece of toast sat on a room service platter on a nearby bench. She’d eaten a bit to make herself feel better after drinking way too much. Someone had suggested it. That someone had been the man she’d come to this hotel to see.

Andy. Oh no…

He was sitting on the lounge a few feet away. He flashed her a lazy smile when their eyes met. Her first instinct was to look down at herself. She was relieved to find she was still dressed. The feeling of dread decreased a fraction.

“How are you feeling now?” he asked her.

Bloody hell. This wasn’t how I planned it.

“Um, how am I feeling? Been better,” she admitted, and laughed.

“Would you like some more toast? Some water?”

“No, really, I’m okay.”

The hotel room was quiet for a while. She looked around for the digital alarm clock. There was one on the far bedside table, declaring the late hour in neon-red.

Three am.

“It’s late,” he said.

She nodded.

“Definitely late, and a school night.”

Was it too late for them? She couldn’t decide
whether he felt like a stranger, or like a man who had kept her company every night in her dreams for the past year. Dreams and nightmares, of course.

She studied his face in silence.

“May I come over?” he asked, and she responded by nodding.

He stood up from the lounge and walked over to sit on the corner of the bed where she was tucked in, fully dressed in her now wrinkled shirt and pants. She noticed her shoes and socks lying a few feet away. She imagined him pulling them off while she was in God knows what kind of state.

“It’s good to see you. I was surprised,” Andy said.

“So was I. I was in the area and I thought…” She trailed off and then shook her head. “No, that’s crap. I wanted to see how you were. You sounded a bit funny on the phone. All that business about needing to talk to me, and then I thought I’d drop in and say hello, you know, nothing major, just say hi and that kinda thing…”

“You’re even more beautiful than I remember.”

Oh no.

“You don’t have to say that.”
Please don’t say that.

He shifted closer. “I’ve missed you.”

She wanted to kiss him. Damn, she wanted to kiss him. He was close, his lips so close.

“Can I borrow your toothpaste?” He sat up straight. “Yeah, sure. Whatever you like. Use my toothbrush if you want.”

Makedde nodded and struggled out of the bed. She found herself wondering why hotels tuck their sheets in so tightly. She likened it to being shoved into a little envelope that you have to rip open to get out of, and wondered how Andy even managed to get her into the bed like that.

Mak managed to get both feet on the floor and push herself up. She stood, but her brain didn’t cooperate. A head-rush caught her and she stayed perfectly still waiting for it to pass. “I’m fine, I’m fine,” she mumbled, sensing Andy’s attention as she walked over to the bathroom with her shirt somehow tucked up under her bra strap.

The mirror wasn’t kind.

Makedde’s hair was a mess. Her mascara had held up pretty well, though. A bit smudgy on the lower lids. She brushed her teeth.

Ah, that’s better.

She performed what little grooming she could manage, annoyed that she should care what he thought. When she’d checked herself over—no drool, no streaks of make-up—she came out to join Andy on the corner of the bed.

She hadn’t been anywhere near a bed with a man in a year, and the last time it had been with a murderer. The man now sitting beside her had saved her that night. She couldn’t stand that thought, it made her feel vulnerable and weak. She felt like she owed him something. She hated that more than anything.

She looked Andy in the eye. “I didn’t know if I wanted to see you.”

He said nothing, just took the comment.

“It’s a bit…” She didn’t complete her sentence, and he didn’t urge her to.

It’s a bit what? A bit awkward? A bit spooky? A bit of both?

They sat close to each other, unmoving.

“We’d better get you to sleep,” he said, and stood up.

He was avoiding intimacy with her.
A good policy,
she thought.

“I’ll take the couch,” he went on. “You can borrow one of my T-shirts to sleep in if you’d be more comfortable.”

“Oh no. I should probably get back. I can hardly sleep in my own bed, much less here, knowing I’m making you sleep on the couch. No way.”

“What do you mean, you can’t sleep in your own bed? Is anything wrong? Why aren’t you sleeping?”

Mak closed her eyes. He wasn’t really supposed to pick up on that. It was just an off-hand remark. “I’m fine, honestly.”

“Are you going to be okay?” Those green eyes were staring directly into hers now, and the intensity made her uncomfortable.

“Yes, of course. I’m always okay, remember?”

“That’s
not
how I remember it.”

Fuck you, Andy.
That comment stung. She felt like he was holding it over her…he had saved her life.
Makedde felt a wall go up around her. She crossed her arms. “Okay, so what was it that you wanted to talk to me about?” she asked. “I’m right here, so what is it?”

He smirked and then looked down. When his face was turned away like that she couldn’t read his features. What was the smirk about?

When he raised his head again he looked genuinely distressed, and Makedde felt herself panic.
I can’t read him right now…why can’t I read him?
“What on earth is it?”