I stare out at the yard, shrugging my shoulder just enough to hurt. The wound is sore, but I think it’s healing okay. I raise my arm, enjoying the pain as I take another gulp of my screwdriver. It makes my head feel cottony and warm, makes my chest feel full and heavy. Not so empty like it has been.
Yesterday Suri gave me back my jacket. Told me she got it from an off-duty nurse who was around when I came in.
“What’d she look like?” I asked.
Red hair. Had my blood all over her.
Yeah. Bet I know who that was.
Merri left. Got scared and fucking left.
I don’t blame her, but it hurts.
I finish off the screwdriver. Make my way inside to get another one. Only when I’m at the bar, I hear myself ask for a vodka on the rocks. I drink it on my way back to my chair. Shit, this shit is strong. I kinda forgot. This must be why I used to drink so much. Have sex, too. Isn’t that what I used to do? Fuck around?
I liked that, right?
I did.
Maybe I should go find someone to fuck.
I picture her green eyes and her long, wavy hair. I can’t stop thinking of those huge tits. Her hands were always really soft. I liked her hands.
I look down at my hands. I should use them to beat the shit out of my father. One of them. But then he’d know. He would know I went to Mexico.
I think I need a refill. I stand up, and I see a fucking mirage, following Marchant toward the pond.
32
Merri
I WAS LOOKING for Rachelle when I ran into Marchant. Well, when I saw him. He didn’t see me. He was walking away from the bar downstairs with a brown box underneath his arm. I kind of wondered if he might have taken to taking jobs himself, or maybe having sex with one of the girls, because he was wearing a black robe and black sleep pants. No shoes.
Weird, right?
Well then it gets weirder. I catch up to him maybe fifty feet behind the largest of the three mansions—the one where all the work happens and also the one where I’m staying in his suite. Because I’m feeling bold and a little desperate, and also because I’m super curious about why he’s crossing the lawn dressed like Hugh Heffner, I call his name.
He spins around and strides to me, looking so intense that for a second I think he might hit me. Instead he grabs my forearm and snatches me closer. I try to twist my arm away, but his grip is tight.
“W-what are you doing?” My voice wobbles, and I try to make myself relax. If I relax, there’s a good chance he will, too, and then I’ll snatch my arm away and run.
I look him over, noting the stubble on his cheeks, around his thicker goatee; also the way his red-blond-brown hair sticks up, like he’s been running his fingers through it all day.
“What am I doing?” he asks. “I think the question is, what are you doing?”
I frown, and he lets go of my arm. It’s a gentle release, as if he just forgot to keep holding it. “What do you mean, what am I—”
“You were following me,” he interrupts. His grey eyes widen. “Don’t tell me you’re a fucking spy.”
“A spy?” I shake my head. “A spy for who?” I look into his eyes, and they seem…ungrounded. Like Sean’s used to get when he’d get really paranoid. But Sean was on drugs. Is Marchant Radcliffe doing drugs?
“You know who,” he murmurs.
And then, without another word, he turns and stalks away. I stand there for a minute, trying to decide if I should follow him toward the pond or turn around. In the end, I decide to follow. If he’s on drugs or drunk or something, I can probably get more information about Cross—and that’s the reason I’m following him, after all. I don’t know him, but I’m sure Loveless would have warned me if he was dangerous. Surely she would have, right? I pump my arms and feel grateful that I’ve got on leggings, sandals, and a flowing shirt.
I might be five-foot-three, but I’m a good sprinter. There’s only a few feet of grass between us when I hear footfall behind me.
Now that has my heart pounding. Unlike one isolated incident of weirdness with Marchant, who is in all likelihood drunk or high or coked up, everything’s going to get a lot weirder if that’s someone running after me. It’s the middle of a sunny day, in a semi-public place.
But still, my heart is hammering. That’s definitely someone’s footsteps. I work up the nerve to turn around, feeling a ridiculously powerful rush of déjà vu, a flash back to when I ran away from Jesus’s place almost nine months ago.