Then Kiss Me (20 page)

“Yeah.”
 
M
ore than ready.

We said goodbye to Jim and
Julie
, and it lasted longer than I’d wanted it to. 
Julie
was giving me some weird look…Jesus.  Had she been in on it too?  Was I just some stupid little mouse in a game these three played?  I was starting to freak out.  I needed a breath of fresh air.  I needed a cigarette.  I needed to get the hell out of there.

Finally, we wove our way through the place and we didn’t say a word the whole way through.  Scott hadn’t taken my hand but he had placed one on my back to guide me through.  Once outside, my thoughts were still too consumed by the hallway incident, and I didn’t know that I was ready to verbalize what had happened to me.  I knew, though, that we’d need to talk.  Scott opened the passenger door and turned to me. 
He said,
“Okay…what
really
happened back there?”

I tried to act innocent.  Obviously, it wasn’t working, but I wanted to try just the same.  “What do you mean?”

“I saw your arm, Casey.”  He just drilled into m
y eyes until I couldn’t
maintain
eye contact anymore.  Fuck.  I just wanted a cigarette and then I wanted to go home.
  I wasn’t ready to talk about it.

And then a strange feeling washed over me.  For some reason, I almost felt ashamed.  But, I reasoned, that whole thing had
not
been my fault.  I hadn’t asked for it, hadn’t invited it,
certainly
didn’t want it.  Scott stood there and I could feel his question grow heavier between us.  I swallowed.  My voice was quieter than I’d intended when I said, “Jim did it.”

Scott sighed but said nothing.

I couldn’t contain myself
, now that I’d opened the floodgates
.  This time my voice was a little louder, even though it sounded strained.  “He figures I’m your whore, and he can fuck me too.”

Scott drew in a deep breath.  Finally, he muttered, “That son of a bitch.”  He paused, lost in thought,
then
turned around.  “Wait here.”

I grabbed his arm, feeling his hard muscles strain against my small hand.  I didn’t want to be the cause of any sort of violence.  Whatever stupid ass guilt I was feeling would only be exacerbated by something physical and out of control.  I still wasn’t sure how I felt about any of it.  And what if I’d made a bigger deal out of it than I should have?  So I said, “Don’t do anything, Scott.  You guys are friends, and he’s just drunk.  I took care of it.”

Had I really?  No, not really.  I’d just gotten lucky that a guy had
had
to drain his bladder at the right time.

Scott paused again, but the muscles in his arm didn’t relax.  He was quiet when he said, “I need to take care of this.”

“With
Julie
in there?
  Besi
des, you’d be arrested if you did
anything…violent.”  I lowered my voice.  “Please don’t.”  I didn’t need to feel worse about the whole thing.  “Why don’t you talk to him when he’s sober?”

Scott let out a frustrated sigh.  Finally, he said, “Okay, Casey, but only because you asked me not to.”  He looked at me, worry clouding his eyes.  “Hop in.”  He lifted me up into the truck and got in on the other side.

“Can I smoke in here?”

He nodded and slid the key in the ignition. 
He just stared at his hand, without saying a word.  In the space of that silence,
my mind had started racing and my tongue was going to try to keep up.  “Let me pay you for my share of tonight, okay?”

“What the fuck, Casey?  You sound like
a broken record.  We already ta
lked about this.  I said I’
ve
got
it.”

I was afraid, humiliated, and—
okay,
I’ll give you this one—
stupid
.  But I hadn’t had a chance to fully process everything, and I should have just kept my fucking mouth shut.  Instead, I said, “Look, I’m
not
you
r
whore,
and I don’t want you to think you can just buy me dinner for an easy lay, okay?  Jim said you’ve done this before.”  I almost gasped as soon as the words came out of my mouth.  I couldn’t believe I’d said that.  But life does not have a rewind button—it was too late.

Scott sucked in air as though he’d been punched in the stomach.  I could hear the incredulity in his voice when he asked, “What?  And you believed him?”

Now I felt the need to defend my position, to explain it, even though another part of me knew I should just bite down hard on my fucking tongue.  Not one more word.  But there they came anyway.  “Well, Wendy said—”

“Wendy?”

He turned on the ignition and started to back up.  I could sense, rather than
see
, just how angry he was, even though he hadn’t raised his voice enough to
seem
angry.  But I felt uneasy, just sensing the vibes, and I said, “Let me out.”

He stop
ped
the truck by the side of the road.  He was calm when he said, “Let me at least drive you to your car.”

I don’t know why, but I still trusted him.  I nodded and
agreed.
  On the ride back, it was so quiet, I could’ve heard a mouse squeak.  But I was lost in my thoughts.  Was any of what Jim had said true?  And, even more than that, I thought, had I lost a good thing even before it
had a chance to get started?  Leave it to me—my first real date in years, and I’d blown it.  Or had I?  Was it better to let it end now, this way, before I found out all about Scott and Jim’s twisted friendship?  I didn’t know.  I was confused, hurt, afraid, embarrassed.  But I felt like deep down inside, I could trust and believe Scott.  Part of me was sure he’d been telling the truth.  And yet, something inside me told me to be cautious.

It felt like it took a lot longer
than it really ha
d, but when we got to his house, he stopped his truck beside my car.  He said, “Are you okay to drive?”  I nodded, afraid to open my big mouth again.  He put the truck into
park
and said, “I can help you out.”

But I shook my head and slid out, careful not to fall, and shut the door.  No way was I going to chide him and then ask for his help.  No fucking way.
  I wasted no time getting in my car where I lit a cigarette, buckled up, and then turned the key.  I saw Scott drive away.  I wondered where he was going, but it was none of my business.  I pulled out onto the street and drove home, taking my time.

When I got there, I took a shower and went straight to bed.  I thought I would fall right asleep, but instead I kept playing the night’s events over and over in my mind.  I’d screwed it all up.

Jesus…earlier today I was certain I was going to experience a night of awesome sex. 
Now, just a pillow full of upset and worry.

I’d had su
ch a hard time getting to sleep that
I woke up late the next morning. 
That wouldn’t have been a problem if
just
sleeping
in general
had helped me put a buffer between last
night and today, but it
didn’t ease the memories of what had happened.
  I remembered in fresh, raw detail, and it was ugly.  If everything Jim had said was true, it meant Scott was the kind of guy I needed to drop right this moment.  If it wasn’t true, then I’d just made a monumental mistake.
  Either way…it sucked.

With those thoughts thick in my head, I moped around the house the rest of the morning, drinking too much coffee and smoking too many cigarettes, doing nothing, feeling sorry for myself.  I finally grew tired of it, though, and decided, since it was my day off, I’d pack up my sketch pad, pencils, and charcoals and look around town to get inspired.  Drawing rarely let me down, almost never left me feeling empty.

So I pulled my hair back, put on shorts and a sleeveless top, and grabbed my supplies, placing them in a tote bag.  I walked a few blocks to a park n
earby and sat at a picnic table
.  I smoked a cigarette, just resting in the shade, and then got out my large sketch pad and pencil.  I turned around on the bench with my back to the table itself and looked around.  There were kids all over the park.  Two of them were playing on the swing set.  I started sketching them (well, obviously, they wouldn’t pose or hold still, so the kids were more from memory once I got started) and had a decent drawing after a while.  Yes, it’s much harder to draw your subjects when they won’t stand still.  But now I was on a roll.  So I walked around the park, drawing different flowers, trees, a fountain…whatever captured my imagination.  And it was therapeutic, just like I’d known it would be.  These drawings were similar to dozens of other sketchbooks I had—nothing would ever come of them, but they’d been good practice, and they’d helped me take my mind off a problem.

Finally, though, I got so hot and thirsty, I walked back home.  Once there, I drank a couple of glasses of water and decided to take a nap.  When I woke up, I checked my cell phone, hoping to find forgiveness on it.  But then I realized Scott didn’t have my number.  Of course, if he’d really wanted it, he could have gotten it from David.  Well…I would maybe have to apologize, but I wasn’t ready yet.  I needed more time.

And there might not have been a message from Scott, but there was one from Barry.  What the hell? 
Was he really having that hard a time adjusting to being single again?  I listened to the message.  “Case,
it’s
Barry.  Call me.”  That was it.  Not a request but an order.  Ah, so warm and endearing.  I saved the message, planning to call him sometime, but it would be when I felt like it, not when he decided for me.  I couldn’t stand that he still wanted to control me even now.

That’s when it hit me…the probable cause of the failure of my marriage.  Barry had been a control freak, and much of the friction between us had been because I wouldn’t just roll over and do whatever he’d asked.  I tend to be stubborn and opinionated…and independent (you’ve probably figured that all out by now), and Barry wanted a
yes
wife, someone who’d just agree with whatever he had in mind.

Yes.  I was definitely happier without him.

I walked to the kitchen and made some fresh coffee, eager to do more artwork.  It had become distracting in the most pleasant way, and I thought the distraction was allowing my subconscious to deal with my emotional problems.  At least, that’s what I told myself.  I went in the studio and taped some of my sketches to the wall opposite my easel.  I decided that instead of just letting my drawings become meaningless, I’d do something different.  So, with my inspiration all around me, I set to work.  I started working on a large oil painting of the pink and lavender pansies I’d sketched, wondering if I’d be able to capture the colors I remembered in my mind.  I also decided I wanted to do a couple of watercolors, but the pansies first.

I’d been working for an hour or so, spending way too much time blending colors, looking for just the right hues.  In frustration, though, I let my surreal self take over and changed those goddamn flowers to colors not seen in nature…I made some black with tiny lines of pink; the others, originally lavender, became gray with lavender lines.  Then the background became a navy blue with lightning streaks.  I changed the entire painting, not realizing it was mirroring the pain in my heart.

It was something the art gallery would fucking eat up, but I hadn’t been thinking that at the time.

I finished up the painting, my eyes and hands weary from the work, my neck stiff.  I felt better inside, though.  I got up and stretched, then grabbed another cup of coffee.  I decided to draw a warm bubble bath and lit a couple of scented candles.  I’d released a demon or two and was feeling better, even though it wasn’t
something I could put into words
yet.  I felt like I was ready to deal with things now.

So I lay down in the tub, resting my head on the back, and closed my eyes, breathing in the cherry scent of the bathwater.  I began thinking about last night again, but this time I felt okay.  I didn’t know what I’d say to Scott or where we’d go from here, but I was Casey,
goddammit
.  As long as I had myself, my mind intact, my health solid, I’d survive.  So when the water started cooling off, I got out and toweled off.  I put on a pink-and-white striped cotton button-up night shirt that fell down to mid-thigh and headed to the kitchen.  I turned the coffeepot off and shut off the light in the kitchen.  Then I heard the doorbell ring.

I wondered who might be at the door.  I really didn’t have visitors, at least not since I’d moved to Winchester.
 
They were rare. 
I was grateful after all the people who constantly came in and out of our apartment in Denver, often people I didn’t know.  Tall, skinny coked-up bitches, slick yuppie
douchebags
,
basically anyone Barry considered a friend or valuable to himself in some way.  But even the people I liked…the revolving door had grown tiresome.  I’d been enjoying my home being a haven here.  I felt relaxed at home, and I hadn’t felt that way in a long time.