The Betrayal of Natalie Hargrove (15 page)

We always tried to hook up under the bleachers for our own version of a pep rally. Usually, I let him score a touchdown before practice because, on the field, he had to play defense. But today, after I ducked under the third rusty bleacher and navigated over the puddles to our little grassy knoll, I was surprised to find that for once, Mike hadn’t beaten me there.

We didn’t like to go to class angry, and we never stayed mad past the last bell. I just assumed that both of us would be racing from eighth period toward the bleachers to make up. Now I wondered whether our argument in the halls still hadn’t blown over for him. I reached for my phone to text him, but something made me hesitate. He’d either show up, or he wouldn’t. And if he didn’t, I thought, spitting out my gum in the grass, at least I’d know that he was really mad. Which had never happened in the whole history of Nat and Mike.

I waited, peeping out at the field from under the bleachers, and remembered a couple times this year when Mike and I had been mid-makeout, and I’d opened my eyes and strained my head to catch a glimpse of J.B. running laps around the track.

I know it was a weird thing to do, but it had always made me feel good—to know that finally, I was with the right guy. But now, the memory just made me feel sick and alone. I’d never get that same feeling again, never see the pulsing sinew of J.B.’s calves or the blond flop of his hair rustle in the wind as he ran. More than ever, I wanted Mike in my arms to take some of that pain away. I couldn’t let him slip through my fingers, too.

Then, there he was, jogging out of the locker room with the rest of the guys. I felt a sharp sting in my chest. He’d ditched me. Hadn’t even tried to call. And when the team made their first lap around the track, Mike looked the other way when he passed our hiding spot beneath the bleachers.

My cheeks flushed with anger. Part of me wanted to run out there and let him know that he couldn’t just make an executive decision to blow me off like that. We were a team—even when things got tough, the bond we shared still had to remain sacred.

But this wasn’t the time or place to bring that up, and I still had the big project of Tracy’s prophecy to unfold—on my own.

I couldn’t shake the memory of the vile O.P. running his hand along my leg, but it wasn’t only him I needed revenge against. Baxter and O.P. were connected for me now; neither one would fall without the other. And what had Tracy meant by an “old friend” who knew Officer Parker? I scrolled through my cell phone rolodex for answers, hovered over Kate Richards’ name . . . but kept scrolling. I didn’t stop until almost at the end of the alphabet.

Sarah Lutsky. My old best friend from Cawdor. I was surprised that I even still had her number. Well, she
had
always had a thing for men in uniforms. But could Tracy have meant
that
old of a friend?

There was only one place to find Sarah Lutsky—that is, assuming some fundamentals of the planet hadn’t changed. Within minutes, I was starting up my car and driving east. I drove across the train tracks and soon found myself back in a part of town I’d once thought I’d never set foot in again.

Other kids from Palmetto went over to Cawdor occasionally when they needed a dive-bar fix. Whenever my friends decided to go slumming, I’d always make up some emergency family excuse. The thought of those particular two worlds colliding was more than I could stand.

Today, I went in search of one old friend, in the place where I’d likely find another: my old BFF, cheap booze. Mike, of course, hated when I drank before the country-club-approved cocktail hour, but by abandoning me under the bleachers, he wasn’t really leaving me much choice.

I drove past the strip of bars on Cawdor Street, recalling the years when I’d definitely patronized them a few too many times. Slowing down to find a parking spot was quite a trip down black-out lane. There was the old brothel-turned-dive-bar that probably had a few of my lacier training bras still hanging from the chandelier. There was the Mexican taco stand where I’d turned twenty-one at least twenty-one times because on your birthday, the tequila flowed freely for free. There was my favorite punk rock club—wait, where was my favorite punk rock club?

My ex-favorite haunt had a new sign, new paint job . . . and a new name.

A shiver went down my spine as I parked my car in front of the club that was now called . . . Sweet Revenge. Perhaps there was more to Tracy’s prophecy than I’d guessed.

I pushed my way through the old Western-style doors and entered the bar. It was smoky inside, but when my eyes adjusted to the dimness, I could tell not much had changed. Suddenly, I was thirteen again, standing in the back corner by the pay phone, teasing guys two times my age, and taking charity Jagerbombs from my friends. You know you’re too young to be drinking when a place like
this
won’t even serve you. Back then, I’d had the kind of friends who’d give any rational mother an ulcer—that is, if said mother wasn’t too busy being passed out on the couch.

This time, I took a seat at the bar, feeling bold from all that I’d been through in the four years since I’d set foot in this place—first the big house, then the fast car, the hot boyfriend, the sparkling crown, oh, and that one freak homicide. . . .

I shivered and pulled my jacket tighter around me.

“What can I get for you?” the bartender asked, scooting a cocktail napkin in front of me.

“SoCo and lime,” I said. “Make it a double.”

The drink arrived and I swallowed it down, forgetting that it was bad luck in the South not to toast to anything, even when you were alone. It just tasted so good to drink it fast. Slamming the glass down, I winced and shook my head.

“Keep them coming,” I called to the bartender.

“I had a feeling you’d be back,” a high, tinny voice called out.

There she was. I figured I’d have time for at least one round before Sarah got off her shift at the bowling alley. But when I looked down the bar, she was perched on the corner stool. From the looks of the row of empties in front of her, she had been sitting there since I walked through the door. Her wavy strawberry-blonde hair hung down over her tank top, and her hazel eyes were smudged with charcoal liner. Her long, narrow fingers peeled at the label on her beer, and when she smiled at me, I saw the tiniest gap between her two front teeth.

“Sarah,” I said, more and more amazed by Tracy’s prescience. “I can’t believe it.”

“Believe it,” she said, standing up to slide closer to me. “People don’t disappear completely just because you cut them off, Tal.”

The old nickname rattled me. No one had called me that in years, not since Sarah and I had been inseparable, not since I was a Cawdor Kid, instead of a Palmetto Princess.

“And, yes,” she nodded. “I heard what happened to him.” She put her drink down and scooped her hair into a low ponytail. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” I said quickly. “How’d you hear?”

She looked around the empty bar and cupped my elbow. “Maybe we should grab a booth in the back,” she said. “To talk.”

I followed Sarah to the back of the bar, a walk we’d done many times. For a second, it felt like I was still Tal and she was still Slutsky, with her tight jeans casing her stick-straight legs and her thin tank top showing goose bumps on her arms. Slutsky was always freezing, which is why we used to joke that she needed so much warming up from the guys who hung around us.

“Hey, Slutsky,” a rakish guy called from the pool table.

“Not now,” she said with her same old snap. She nudged me into a dark corner booth, slid out her flask, and took a swig.

“So, I’m seeing someone new,” she said.

“That’s . . . good,” I stammered. If she went on to say what I was hoping she’d go on to say, I was going to have to take out stock in Tracy Lampert.

“I mention it because the person I’m seeing might be of interest to you.”

“I’m all ears.”

“Derek Parker,” she said, smirking suddenly. “You might know him by his uniform?”

“You’re dating Officer Parker?” I chuckled, trying to sound as shocked as I felt excited.

“Dating? You could call it that,” she said, waving her hand dismissively. “He’s married, so that might not be the exact term.”

In the old days, I’d say, “Slutsky, EW!” and we’d fall over ourselves, laughing about how it was kind of nasty but also kind of hot. And she’d go into more graphic detail than I even understood. But now . . .

“I can see you judging me even though your mouth is shut.” She sighed and lit a cigarette, offering me the pack. I shook my head. She shrugged again.

“The point is,” she continued, “I’ve moved on from the old days just like you. Maybe now we can be friends again.”

“How do you know I’ve moved on?” It wasn’t exactly easy to keep up with the news from the other side of town.

“Ahh.” Slutsky rubbed her hands together and smirked. “Now we’re getting to the good stuff,” she said. “Let’s just say there are certain advantages to sucking off the law. Like . . . official police evidence?”

My mouth dropped open. “You watched that DVD?”

Slutsky nodded. “I have to say, Tal, I’m impressed. Usually when people cross over to nouveau riche, they get even more uptight, but this new guy—what’s his name? He’s really loosened you right up.”

“You’re lying.” My hands gripped my glass to keep still. “Why would you, why would he—”

“Mostly for research purposes,” she said. “Derek and I dabble in film a little bit ourselves. He thought we might get inspired—”

“That is so illegal and so sick.”

“Chill out,” she said. “You weren’t half bad to watch. Nothing I haven’t tried before but—”

“Slutsky,” I said slowly, “do you still have the DVD? I mean—”

“Yeah, right.” She shook her head. “That thing’s on lock-down at the station.” She blew a ring of smoke, raised her flask again, and took another long swig.

That was the thing about Sarah: She was always up for a good time, but when push came to shove, you could never really trust her to bail you out. There was no way she could understand why my reputation at Palmetto depended on that tape NOT getting out.

Maybe Tracy Lampert had been wrong, and this whole cross to Cawdor had been a waste of time. Why force me back in contact with this “old friend” if it was just going to be the same old shit? And why was Slutsky rooting through my purse? She used to do that all the time, but now, it felt really invasive.

“What are you doing?”

“Your phone’s ringing,” she said, fishing it out. “Ooooh.” She looked at the caller ID. “Who’s Mike?” she sang. “Is he the boy?”

I grabbed the phone from her and stared at Mike’s number on the screen, waiting for the call to go to voice mail. I was relieved to see him calling, but there’d be no way to explain to him what I was doing in Cawdor right now.

“What was that all about?” Slutsky asked. “Trouble in paradise?”

I squinted at her, shocked to realize that it had been so long since we’d spoken, she didn’t know anything about who I was anymore. There was no way and no reason to catch her up. The last time I’d talked to Slutsky, the biggest guy issue in my life had been my newly incarcerated father. I remembered the final fight we’d had, when Sarah had the nerve to take my father’s side, like she was his friend over mine.

Wait a minute. Maybe I was barking up the wrong tree altogether. Was it possible that the old friend Tracy had suggested was . . . my father? On a good day, Dad had always been more of an old buddy-type than any sort of authority figure. On a bad day, well, those were the scars keeping me from getting back in touch with him. Until now.

The thing was, my father did have his connections—ethical or not. Maybe he was the only one who could help me now.

Or maybe I was crazy to believe anything Tracy Lampert said. Maybe I was really losing it.

“Hey,” I said to Slutsky, making a show of looking at my watch. “I should probably take off.”

Sarah looked around the bar. “Too many old ghosts for you here, huh?” she asked. “Okay, I’ll walk you out.”

I downed the rest of my SoCo and followed Slutsky’s lead out the creaky back door of the bar. We walked through the gravel parking lot, both taking in the difference in pitch between the bustling bar and the quiet night outside. In the darkest corner of the back lot, Slutsky pointed toward a camper van with a dim kerosene lamp hanging from it.

“I’m just going to make a quick stop by the trading post,” Slutsky said. “You want to come?”

“Trading post?” I asked, confused. It didn’t look like the kind of place where I’d want to trade anything.

“Oh, Tal,” she said, shaking her head, “you’ve been away too long. They’ve got everything, speed, Oxy—what’s your poison these days?”

One of the guys was leaning up against the camper, watching us. He had a braided beard and a spiked choker. His arms were tattooed from his shoulders to his fingers.

“I think I’m just going to go,” I said quietly. “Be careful, okay?”

Slutsky nodded, as if she’d already read a script of my lines. “Of course,” she shrugged, leaning in to kiss my cheek. “I’ll call you?”

From my car, I could see her silhouette climbing into the back of the trading post camper. I was glad to be out of there, but unsettled by the fact that I knew my next stop had to be my father’s.

I decided to sleep on it before I made any impulsive moves and put the car in drive. Suddenly, I was very aware of the leather interior, surround-sound stereo system, and blinging hubcaps. Here I was, stuck in my past, sticking out because of my present.

And speaking of my present, I still hadn’t listened to Mike’s message:

“Don’t know if you were waiting in our spot today, but if you were, I’m sorry. I just needed a little bit of time to clear my head. Don’t be mad, okay? Just call me. I love you.”

I sighed and tossed the phone back in my bag—but when I did, I noticed something conspicuously missing. The rattle of the bottle of pills. I quickly sifted through my backpack. Where were they?