Slow Burn (4 page)

“He’s seriously so cute,” said another.

I sighed. “He’s Griffin. My dad hired me a bodyguard.” The lie seemed to work as well as anything else.

“You lucky slut,” said the first of my art class friends.

“Oh yeah, he can guard my body any day.”

They all giggled. I seethed. He was everywhere, all the time. It was annoying.

By the end of the week, I’d had enough. He’d followed me to every class, chased off any of my friends who happened to come by the apartment, and insisted on going everywhere I went. I mentioned off hand that there was a band at The Purple Fiddle that night and that I wanted to go.

“What’s The Purple Fiddle?”

“It’s a restaurant. They serve beer and stuff. And sometimes they have bands,” I said. It was the most charming little pub I’d ever been to in my entire life. It was the best thing about Thomas, in my opinion.

“So, it’s a bar.”

“Kind of,” I said. They didn’t actually have a bar. They sort of had a counter.

“Bad idea.”

“Not a bad idea. A good idea. I need a night out to relax.”

“There will be too many people. I’ll lose track of you. I won’t be able to see if someone tries to hurt you. The crowd will work against me. You’ll be drunk, and you won’t be thinking properly. Overall, just a really bad idea.”

“Great,” I said. “And how long am I going to be banned from bars?”

“Until you’re safe.”

“I might never be safe.”

He took a deep breath. “Listen, doll, what’s more important? Having a few beers or staying alive?”

I glared at him. “I hate you.”

He shrugged.

But he took a shower later, and I left without him.

The Purple Fiddle was eclectic and warm and kooky. The chairs and tables inside were mismatched. There were different kinds of salt and pepper shakers on each of them. On one table, the shakers were shaped like little teapots. On another, they were black and white cats. On yet another table, they were two peas in a pea pod. They were really adorable. When I walked in, I could see a row of shelves to my right, with everything from old instruments to antique typewriters sitting in them. Behind the counter, the beer specials were written in flowing chalky handwriting on a chalk board. The guy working had a scraggly beard and a paisley shirt.

I grinned. Being here always made me feel happy.

The Purple Fiddle wasn’t a place to get fall-down drunk. They prided themselves on their family-friendly atmosphere. Generally, for a crazy Friday night, this was a good starting point. I’d get a few beers, chat with friends, maybe do a few lines together in someone’s car or in the stalls of one of the bathrooms (which were closed in with old screen doors with colorful fabric draped over them so that no one could see through them). Sometimes, we’d go up to the brewery, but they usually closed around midnight, which meant leaving when the Fiddle was still kicking. Once in a while, I went to a bar in Davis, which was a five-minute drive away.

But usually, if I wanted to get crazy, I went to someone’s house afterwards.

Someone would throw an impromptu party after the Fiddle. I’d done it myself.

Even though the college I went to was only fifteen miles from Thomas, very few of the people who went there hung out in town. Lots of them lived on campus. They didn’t seem to want to leave.

I didn’t get it. I’d lived in a dorm in Boston. It had sucked.

Even as a freshman, before I could get into bars, I’d spent most of my time not on campus. It was way cooler to hang out in an actual town.

Of course, I wasn’t sure Thomas quite qualified. It was very, very small. A far cry from Boston. Still, I liked it here. There was something warm about the town, something inviting. I felt like I belonged.

There was a small group of people in town who didn’t live on campus and went to school and a group of people who’d never seemed to make it out of Thomas after either graduating from the college or from dropping out. Those were the people I hung out with.

I got a beer at the counter, and I spied Clint dancing to the band. They were some bluegrass band that I hadn’t seen before. Sometimes, there was some repeat action with bands at The Fiddle. But not these guys.

I actually liked bluegrass. I didn’t think I was going to at first. I thought it would be like that country western stuff you hear on the radio, with all the whooping and talk about cowboys and stuff. But bluegrass was high energy and fast. It sounded more like Celtic music than country. And most of the songs were about falling in love or killing your girlfriend. Seriously. They were called murder ballads. Anyway, I dug it. Who knew?

He waved at me. I went across the place to join him.

He stopped dancing. “Hey, did you bring anything with you?”

Anything meant any coke. I shook my head. “Griffin washed it down the drain.”

Clint clutched his heart. “You’re kidding me.”

“No, I’m not. He’s taking this ‘protecting me’ thing way too seriously.”

“Where is he?” asked Clint.

“I snuck away,” I said. “I’m free, and I want to stay that way. Is anyone doing anything at their houses tonight?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “But, hey, if you want to, we could go back to my place. I’ve got Red Bull and vodka.”

“Marshmallow vodka?” I asked.

He grinned. “You know it.”

“Sold,” I said.

Clint lived outside of town, so we’d have to drive there. Together, the two of us left The Purple Fiddle.

We bumped into Griffin on the street as soon as we walked out. He folded his arms over his chest and glared at me. “I told you no.”

I grabbed Clint’s hand. “Run!” I said, giggling. I took off down the street in the opposite direction of Griffin, dragging Clint with me.

We ran all the way to Clint’s car.

“Get in,” said Clint.

I wheezed, looking around for Griffin, who I couldn’t see. It seemed weird that he wouldn’t have run after me. “No, I want my own car to get home.” If not, I’d have to wait until Clint decided to drive me home, and I didn’t like feeling trapped.

“I’ll give you a ride back later,” said Clint. “Come on. Your bodyguard could show up at any minute.”

Where was he? Had we really outrun him? “Okay,” I said. “But you promise you’ll take me home when I ask?”

“Yeah, yeah, I promise,” he said. “Get in.”

Casting one last look around for Griffin, I got in the car with Clint. We drove back to his house.

I met Clint months ago when I first got to Thomas. We’d immediately bonded over our shared love for various substances, but we also had similar tastes in movies and stuff. (We both loved Quentin Tarantino and 1980s monster movies.) Clint was also one of the few guys who I’d managed to stay friends with after I broke my two-night rule. The only other guy was my friend Axel in Boston.

Generally, I couldn’t be friends with a guy if I’d had sex with him more than once. If it was only one time, I could brush it off as a passing craze. More than once meant that there was something else going on, and it usually meant that one or both people were developing
feelings
for the other. And that meant someone—probably me—was going to get hurt. I wanted to avoid that at all costs.

But Clint and I had slept together a few times, and it had never mattered. He didn’t get jealous of me sleeping with other guys. I never cared whether he gave me the time of day or not. I would have thought that made him the perfect man if I didn’t suspect that he only used me for cocaine.

“Whoa,” I said as we walked into his apartment. Clint lived in a two-bedroom that was the upstairs of an old house that had been cut up into four apartments. Usually, his place was messy. Tonight, it was straightened and clean. “What happened?”

Clint plopped down on the couch. “I got a roommate. He’s anal about everything staying clean, and he’s sort of bigger than me, so I’m afraid he’ll beat me up if I’m my usual messy self.”

I giggled. “That would suck.” I made my way through the living room into the kitchen. Clint and I hung out so much that I felt comfortable helping myself in his house. “You want a Red Bull and vodka?”

“Totally,” he said from the couch.

I opened his refrigerator. “You have Monster, not Red Bull.”

“Same difference.”

It really wasn’t the same difference, but there was no changing it now. I mixed us some drinks and brought them back out to the sofa.

“You’re so cool, you know that, Leigh?” said Clint, accepting his drink.

I settled down next to him. “Why thank you.”

“No,” he said. “I mean it. You’re a girl, and you’re really hot, but... you’re like a guy.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Excuse me?” Okay, maybe I had a tomboy phase before I grew breasts. What ten-year-old girl didn’t climb trees and go to karate class? (Not that I got past being a white belt.) But these days, there was not a shred of butch in me. I hated football, I cared about personal grooming, and I so did not belch audibly.

“I mean because you aren’t clingy,” he said. “You just take what you want. You’re like a player, but a girl.”

I took a drink of Monster and vodka. The marshmallow flavor wasn’t quite as complimentary. “Is that cool, though?” Didn’t they have a word for girls like that? It wasn’t as nice as “player,” either. It was “slut,” wasn’t it?

“Totally,” said Clint. “Because it’s awesome to know where I stand with you.” He leaned over and kissed me.

I kissed back for a second, and then I pulled back. “I don’t always just take what I want.”

He laughed. “Of course you do. You don’t think about stupid stuff like how a guy feels or whether he might want more than sex. You just go for it, and if he doesn’t like it, he has to deal with it. It’s really great.”

It didn’t sound great to me. It sounded like I was kind of a bitch, like the guy had called me the morning my dad...

I gulped at my drink. I wished I had someone to talk to about my dad’s passing. But I couldn’t tell anyone that it had happened. It would open up too many questions. Was I going to his funeral? Where was it? And I couldn’t afford to draw attention, because I wasn’t even here under my real last name. If people went looking for a Mr. Dunn, they wouldn’t find him, because he didn’t exist.

And it made it worse to know that there wouldn’t be a funeral, that I wouldn’t ever see his body and get to properly say goodbye. I felt like I might start crying. I didn’t want to do that in front of Clint. “I wish we had some blow.”

“Your bodyguard is an ass,” said Clint. “That was premium stuff he got rid of.”

“You don’t have anything?” I said.

“Completely out,” he said.

I set my drink down. “I have money. Let’s drive to Morgantown and get some.”

“That’s like a three-hour round trip,” he said. “I’ve got a better idea. I know where my roommate hides his stash.”

“No,” I said. “That’s a bad idea.”

“We won’t do all of it,” said Clint. “Just a little. He won’t notice.”

I chewed on my lip. What Clint was proposing here was an impossibility. There was no doing a little coke. Once anyone started, she’d keep going until it was all gone. It was a law of nature or something. “I really don’t think...”

He was already getting up from the couch. “Don’t worry, Leigh. It’s cool.”

I couldn’t stop laughing. “You’re an idiot!”

“I am not,” said Clint. “I’m a fucking superhero. Everyone knows it, so just shut the hell up.”

“With like a cape?” I said. “A red cape?”

“A big, flowy red cape.”

“I want to be a superhero too,” I said. I looked around. “Is there any more blow?”

“Yes,” said Clint. “He has a crap load. I’ll be right back.” He got up.

“Oh my God,” I called after him. “We’re going to do too much of it. I knew this would happen. Because once you start snorting cocaine, you can’t stop. It calls to you. It says, ‘Leigh, if you want to be a superhero, snort me.’”

He laughed. “Getting amped is the way to be a superhero. You are so right.”

“When I’m a superhero,” I said, lying back on Clint’s couch, “I’m not going to have a cape. I’m going to have super great boots though. Red boots.”

“What’s up with you and red?”

“It’s a great color, that’s what.”

“Shit.”

I sat up on the couch. “Shit? What’s wrong? We did all the coke, didn’t we?”

“Not all of it,” he said, coming back into the room, holding up the bag. “But way more than half. There’s no way he won’t notice.”

“Shit,” I said. “But I want more.”

“I know. Me too.”

“He’s already going to be pissed, right?”

“Yeah,” said Clint.

“Well, let’s just do the rest of it, and I’ll pay him back.”

“I don’t know,” said Clint. “He’s going to be really mad.”

The door opened. “Mad about what?”

I jumped to my feet. “Rough Hands?”

Rough Hands looked at me. “Leigh? What are you doing here?”

“What did you call him?” said Clint.

“This is that bitch I was telling you about,” said Rough Hands, pointing at me. “She kicked me out at the ass crack of dawn.”

“Whatever,” I said. “It was like 9:30.”

“He’s my roommate,” said Clint. “His name’s Rusty. But I guess you guys already met, huh?”

Rusty seemed to register what Clint was holding for the first time. “Dude. Is that my stash?”

Clint set it down on the coffee table in front of the couch. “Look, Rusty, I’m really sorry and—”

“It is, isn’t it?” Rusty balled his hands into fists.

I got between Rusty and Clint. “Hey, Rusty, look, I’ve got money. I’ll pay you back. Whatever you think it’s worth.”

He pushed me out of the way. “I don’t want money. I want my stash.”

I landed on the couch, twisted a little, so that my weight fell on my arm. I cried out in pain.

Rusty stepped around the coffee table, got in Clint’s face, and pulled back his fist.

“Hey, man,” said Clint. “I’m really sorry.” He tried to back away, but the coffee table was in the way.

Rusty punched Clint.

Clint howled, doubling in on himself.

Rusty grabbed him by the front of his shirt and pulled him upright. He punched him again.

Clint’s nose started bleeding. Gushing really. Maybe it was already screwed up from all the coke he’d been snorting.