Fade In:
SLIP BACK INTO RAND’S SKIN
You wake to the raucous crowing of the goddamn alarm. All you want is to turn over and go back to sleep, and you would except you’re supposed to be at work in less than an hour. It’s going to be a long, butt-kicking Saturday. Last night went late, later than you’re accustomed to. It was awesome. It was awful.
It was so representative
of your life, Rand.
Before you fade
into white space.
Truthfully, you’ve never been much of a partyer. “Too serious,” that’s what people have called you since you were a little kid. That’s probably true, but when evil shit happens to a child, somberness tends to be the result.
Going out dancing might be Cami’s idea of a great Friday night, but for you it’s about as much fun as a root canal, at least usually. You have to admit, though, you enjoyed the music if not, as the world’s worst dancer, the activity. If you’re ever going to try that band thing, you should probably learn how to do it better.
Regardless, you enjoyed getting out of the house for a few hours, and spending time with Grace and Daniel, who you took aside at one point. “You’d better be good to my sister. She means a lot to me.”
“Yeah, well, no worries,” he answered. “She means everything to me.”
Warning, danger level yellow. High atop a pedestal is a precarious place to be lifted.
On the surface, Grace is all self-possessed, but her spirit is fragile. Whether that was true before the accident you can’t say, but you recognized it the first time your lives connected. That gave you something vital in common and forged an abiding bond. When she hurts, so do you.
Grace came into your life during one of those dark, despairing episodes you sometimes wander into. She was your lifeline out of the cesspool. The love you feel for her is innocent enough, but apparently it seemed like something else to Cami last night. And that led to one of the awful parts of the evening—a huge blowup between the two girls.
Looking back, you can see Cami was spoiling for the fight when she walked through the door with Daniel. You and Grace had already located an open table, convinced another group to give up a spare chair, which you occupied. Cami strutted straight up to you, grabbed your hand, and pulled you out onto the dance floor, without so much as a single word.
“Showing off” would be an understatement when it came to the way she shimmied and twisted, and it was all you could do to fake keeping up. You weren’t the only guy there who admired her maneuvers.
She’s an attention whore.
Better keep her in line.
“Everything okay?” you shouted into her ear.
“Perfect!” she yelled back.
But when Grace and Daniel joined you in front of the band, Cami made it clear she was the only girl to be looked at. Grace watched the obvious challenge with increasing consternation. She is so not the type to play juvenile games. Too bad you can’t say that about your wife. In fact, observing the pair of them, Cami’s immaturity was striking.
Still, despite the tension, the four of you acted as if you were just two couples celebrating a birthday. It worked out fine while the music was blaring, too loud for conversation. But when the band took a break, things went south when the subject of the Pulse gay nightclub massacre came up.
Cami made the mistake of saying, “Too bad people weren’t armed.”
Grace’s eyes flashed incredulity. “You mean with guns?”
“Well, yeah. What else would I mean? Hammers?”
You couldn’t believe she’d go there, advocating for more guns in a public place, knowing how Grace feels about the fact that they even exist. But Cami doubled down. “Of course. What if some lunatic came barging in here, shooting up the place? I’d hope lots of people could return fire.”
Grace lost it, started yelling about cross fire and collateral damage and drunken assholes’ aim. Cami could barely play defense, but honestly you were damn surprised she’d even try. Finally, Grace excused herself for a trip to the restroom and Daniel confided they’d discussed the details of her father’s demise on the way over.
When Grace returned to the table, calm but still visibly upset, Cami apologized. Not that she meant a word; she just didn’t want to stir things up again. The evening collapsed after that. Before you let Grace and Daniel leave, you insisted on scanning the parking lot, to make sure that punk Silas wasn’t outside. But there was no sign of him.
You thought that would be that, but then on the way home Cami lit into you. “Why didn’t you stand up for me?”
“Whoa, now, wait—”
“No! You should be on my side, not hers.”
“I wasn’t on anybody’s side. I didn’t feel the need to get involved in a catfight.”
“Catfight? You thought that’s what it was?”
There was no way to win, so you backed all the way off. “Sorry, baby. You were right, of course.”
“Next time, say so!”
Tell her she’s full of it.
She was silent the rest of the way home. And you didn’t get laid. Not last night. Not this morning.
Cami is already up, and so is Waylon. As you slip into clean work clothes, you listen to your son, who’s in the living room, warbling along to a favorite cartoon theme song.
You noogie him gently as you pass by, on your way to the kitchen. “Morning, slugger.”
“Don’t bug me, Daddy.” Still, he offers a snotty kiss.
You take a chance on his germs. “Have a good day, okay?”
“Yep.”
“Love you, buddy.”
He ignores that, returns to cartoons, and you go into the next room, praying for coffee and your wife’s forgiveness for . . . whatever. Apparently she’s not totally pissed. There’s a fresh-brewed pot of java waiting.
“I suppose you’re looking for breakfast.” The tone of her voice informs you she’s cooled off. All the way to dry ice.
You want to hug her, but are afraid to touch her, in case you get burned. “If you don’t mind. I have to leave in fifteen minutes, though. Did you make me a lunch?”
She rolls her eyes. “I make you lunch every morning, don’t I?”
That is a straight-up lie.
Call her out.
Instead, you back off. “So you’re not mad at me?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Try to forgive me before tonight, please?”
She actually cracks a smile. But she says, “Don’t bet on it.”
You go over to the stove, chance scooting your arms around her waist. At first she tenses, but then you lift her hair, draw your lips softly across the back of her neck, and she shivers in just the right way.
“Oatmeal?” you ask, noting the bubbling mess in the saucepan.
“Sorry. Waylon wanted to help. Breaking eggs is his favorite thing, and he managed to break every last one,” she says, bumping you backward. “Pour yourself some coffee and sit. Fifteen minutes isn’t very long.”
It takes ten to finish your protein-free breakfast, and as you carry your bowl to the sink, you tell Cami, “I promise to always take your side in the future.”
“You’d better.”
You brush your teeth and put on your work boots, kiss Waylon goodbye. “See you later,” you call to Cami, who does not respond.
As you head out the door you hear her in the kitchen. “Not a problem. Around two.”
That girl is on her phone again.
She’s always on her damn phone,
No time for queries now, but you fret the entire drive. You can’t tolerate Cami sneaking around, and though she always seems to have legit excuses, you’re intuiting deception. Then again, you haven’t been totally honest with her, either.
You told her you’d always take her side. But you’re not sure that’s true. As per last night’s argument, you have to agree with Grace. Not that you have a problem with private gun ownership or concealed carry options, at least for those capable of real responsibility. People like you, who have a valid reason to want one. But alcohol and bullets can be a deadly combination, and hopefully not one you’ll have to deal with often as a cop.
You reach the job site, park, and lift your tool belt from the box in back, thinking about the bastard who gave you a reason to want a gun. As far as you knew, he was still in prison. But a few weeks ago, you were on a different job at an apartment complex and there he was, crossing the street. Older, scruffier, but no question it was him. You’ll never be able to scrub him from your memory.
When you got home, you investigated the sex offender registry, and sure enough, there he was. He was released last year, having served only eight years of the fifteen he’d been sentenced to for sexual misconduct with a minor. Not you, because you told no one, but another boy, abused by his scoutmaster.
You were nine when it happened to you. Your parents were divorced, your father still in the air force and stationed overseas. Your mother had plunged into alcoholism and revolving-door relationships with a series of shitty men, none of whom wanted to serve as your male role model, something you hungered for.
Scouting served a certain purpose, allowing you camaraderie and camping, an activity you’d never have experienced otherwise. Dean taught you the ropes, literally and figuratively, and allowed you a much-needed ear. He was a well-practiced predator, cozying up like he was your very best friend. Sadly, he was, which made you overripe for the picking.
He played the game for months before going all-in for the win on a weekend campout. It was just the two of you in the wilderness, which might have seemed strange to a parent who was looking, but your mother was happy to have you out of the house. As for you, you trusted Dean.
The prelude was seduction—an arm around your shoulder in front of the campfire while he told you stories—dark fairy tales that made you shudder. He held you tighter. “You’re not afraid, are you?”
“No!” you lied.
“Not even a little?” he taunted.
You shook your head, but both of you knew that wasn’t true. You were scared, but not for the proper reason. Yet. He rolled you into the danger zone quickly, however.
“Has anyone ever showed you how to feel good?”
“What do you mean?” You really didn’t know.
“Has anyone ever touched you like this?”
He pulled you into his lap. One arm remained possessively in control, while his spare hand dropped to stroke the crotch of your jeans. That part didn’t hurt and, in fact, you were surprised that your wiener responded positively. Still, you knew it was wrong, so wrong, and you tried to get away.
The hand holding you gripped tighter while the other unzipped your pants and yanked them off in one swift, well-practiced motion. You struggled, but couldn’t come near to matching his physical strength. He unbuttoned his own fly, freeing his sorry erection to worm its way between your butt cheeks. He slapped a hand over your mouth. “This might hurt a little if it’s really your first time. Let’s see if it is.”
If there was one small saving grace, it was that he possessed a pencil dick. Still, when he drove it inside you, the pain was exquisite and you screamed into his filthy palm.
But your pleas carried no weight. The wind blew cinder-heavy ashes into your face, and he grunted like a hungry pig, over and over, until he was finished.
When he shriveled out of you, he let you go and you crawled away, bare knees and hands through the dirt. You would’ve run, except there was no place to go but farther into the wilds, and it grew colder and colder as the distance between you and the campfire lengthened. Once you evacuated what you could, washed with frigid stream water, you wandered back to camp, claimed your jeans, and crept into a sleeping bag.
“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Dean asked from within the warmth of the adjacent bag. “Here’s the deal. If you tell anyone what happened, I will come after you,” he vowed. “I will hurt your mother. Oh, and I’ll kill your ugly dog, too.”
Hurting your mother didn’t bother you so much, but you loved Robo with all your heart. Losing him would have done you in, so you never said a word to anyone. Except Robo. That mutt carried your secret with him to his grave.
Your mom asked once why you gave up scouting after that weekend. You told her wood smoke and dirt clogged your lungs and made your eyes water. That wasn’t exactly a lie. You still have a hard time going camping today, ten years later. But it’s more about the shame that bloats every single cell whenever you remember that night. Shame, and rage.
Between you and the boy they sent Dean away for, there must have been others. It’s doubtful prison quelled his disgusting appetite, so there will be more now he’s out. Unless somebody stops him, and you’re thinking that someone might have to be you.
No doubt about it.
That person is you.
“Hey, Rand! Is that your wife?” calls one of the crew.
Another guy whistles, and not show tunes. It’s the whistle of the wolf.
Yanked out of your nightmarish reverie, you find you’ve been driving nails for over an hour with barely a thought to your work. You look around and, yes, Cami has just pulled in next to your pickup and exited the car, wearing short shorts and a halter top. Both expose a fair amount of skin.
You put down your nail gun, storm across the lot to meet her. “What are you doing here?” All that bottled-up anger is evident in your voice.
Cami looks at you with puzzled eyes. “Um. You forgot your lunch?”
She offers it now, and you remember leaving it on the counter when you went to brush your teeth. Nice of her to deliver it, but still . . .
She’s dressed like a slut.
“Why are you dressed like that?”
“Like what?” She glances down at herself, ascertaining what you’re pissed about. “Because it’s warm today?”
It is warm, and normally this wouldn’t bother you, so what’s going on inside your head?
“Sorry. It’s just the guys are checking you out.”
“Are they? Well, that’s not such a bad thing, is it? Considering I’m yours, maybe you should be proud.”
Attention slut.
You yank open the car door, demanding her departure, notice Waylon, asleep in his car seat, and some small measure of wrath falls away. “You should take him home. His nose is all runny.”
“Fresh air is good for him, and I’ve got to buy groceries unless you want oatmeal for dinner.”
“Had oatmeal for breakfast. You trying to kill me with fiber?” At least you’re grinning.
“Totally up to you, but tell me now. Waylon and I can always get McD’s.” She’s funny when she wants to be. “Otherwise, I’m thinking chicken chili.”
Which happens to be one of your favorites. “Okay. Get groceries. I’ll see you tonight.”
You go ahead and kiss her long and hard and deep, reminding her—and the crew—that she does, indeed, belong to you. As she motors off, you realize how important that is. She brings meaning to your life, and so does your son.
“Yo, Bingham. Damn, dude, your woman is one hot bitch. You ever get bored, I’ll take her.”
You spin, anger rising again, look right, left. “Who said that?”
A couple of guys point toward Levon, who joined the crew just a week or so ago. He shrugs. “Guess I did.”
That was a loogy in your face.
Don’t let him get away with it.
You reach him in five long strides. He’s ready for you, hands raised, so you go in low, take him out with a head butt to the gut. He goes down with a whff, lies chuffing on the ground. Half of you wants to apologize. The other, the beast half, stands gloating.
The beast is your better half.
Fade Out