Бекка Фицпатрик: Hush, Hush

CHAPTER 17

THERE WAS COLD RAIN ALL SATURDAY, AND I SAT NEAR the window watching it pepper down on the growing puddles in the lawn. I had a dog-eared copy of Hamlet in my lap, a pen tucked behind my ear, and an empty mug of hot chocolate at my feet. The sheet of reading comprehension questions on the side table was just as white as it had been when Mrs. Lemon passed it out two days ago. Always a bad thing. My mom had left for yoga class almost thirty minutes ago, and while I’d practiced a few different ways of breaking the news of my date with Patch to her, in the end I’d let her walk out the door without vocalizing any of them. I told myself it was no big deal, I was sixteen and could decide when and why I left the house, but the truth was, I should have told her I was going out. Perfect. Now I was going to be carting around my guilt all night. When the grandfather clock in the hall chimed to announce 4:30, I gladly tossed aside the book and jogged upstairs to my bedroom. I’d burned through most of the day with homework and chores, and that had kept my mind off tonight’s date. But now that I was down to the final minutes, nervous anticipation overruled all. Whether or not I wanted to think about it, Patch and I had unfinished business. Our last kiss got cut short. Sooner or later, the kiss would need resolving. I had no doubt I wanted resolution, I just wasn’t sure I was ready for it tonight. On top of all this, it didn’t help that Vee’s warning kept popping up like a red flag at the back of my mind. Stay away from Patch . I positioned myself in front of the bureau mirror and took inventory. Makeup was minimal, reserved to a sweep of mascara. Too much tumbleweed hair, but what else was new? Lips could use some gloss. I licked my bottom lip, giving it a wet shine. That got me thinking more about my almost-kiss with Patch, and I got an involuntary rush of heat. If an almost-kiss could do that, I wondered what a full-on kiss could do. My reflection smiled. “No big deal,” I told myself while trying on earrings. The first pair was big, loopy, and turquoise … and tried too hard. I put them aside and tried again with topaz teardrops. Better. I wondered what Patch had in mind. Dinner? A movie? “It’s a lot like a biology study date,” I told my reflection nonchalantly. “Only … without the biology and studying.” I tugged on matchstick jeans and ballet flats. I wrapped a Hally-blue silk scarf around my waist, up over my torso, then tied the ends behind my neck to fashion a halter-style blouse. I fluffed my hair, and there was a knock at the door. “Coming!” I hollered down the stairs. I did one final check in the hall mirror, then opened the front door and found two men in dark trench coats standing on the porch. “Nora Grey,” said Detective Basso, holding up his police badge. “We meet again.” It took a moment to find my voice. “What are you doing here?” He tipped his head sideways. “You remember my partner, Detective Holstijic. Mind if we step inside and ask you a few questions?” It didn’t sound like he was asking permission. In fact, it sounded just this side of a threat. “What’s wrong?” I asked, dividing a glance between them. “Is your mom home?” Detective Basso asked. “She’s at yoga. Why? What’s going on?” They wiped their feet and stepped inside. “Can you tell us what happened between you and Marcie Millar at the library Wednesday evening?” Detective Holstijic asked, plunking down on the sofa. Detective Basso remained standing, scrutinizing the family pictures arranged on the mantel. His words took a moment to register. The library. Wednesday evening. Marcie Millar. “Is Marcie okay?” I asked. It was no secret I didn’t hold a warm, affectionate place in my heart for Marcie. But that didn’t mean I wanted her in trouble, or worse, in danger. I especially didn’t want her in trouble if it appeared to involve me. Detective Basso put his hands on his hips. “What makes you think she’s not okay?” “I didn’t do anything to Marcie.” “What were the two of you arguing about?” Detective Holstijic asked. “Library security told us things were getting heated.” “It wasn’t like that.” “What was it like?” “We called each other a few names,” I said, hoping we could leave it at that. “What kind of names?” “Stupid names,” I said in retrospect. “I’m going to need to hear those names, Nora.” “I called her an anorexic pig.” My cheeks stung and my voice was humiliated. If the situation hadn’t been so serious, I might have wished I’d invented something a lot more cruel and demeaning. Not to mention something that made a little more sense. The detectives exchanged a look. “Did you threaten her?” asked Detective Holstijic. “No.” “Where did you go after the library?” “Home.” “Did you follow Marcie?” “No. Like I said, I came home. Are you going to tell me what happened to Marcie?” “Can anyone vouch for that?” Detective Basso asked. “My biology partner. He saw me at the library and offered me a ride.” I had a shoulder propped against one side of the French doors leading into the room, and Detective Basso walked over and took up a post on the opposite side, across from me. “Let’s hear about this biology partner.” “What kind of question is that?” He spread his hands. “It’s a pretty basic question. But if you want me to get more specific, I can. When I was in high school, I only offered rides to girls I was interested in. Let’s carry that a step further. What’s your relationship with your bio partner … outside the classroom?” “You’re joking, right?” One side of Detective Basso’s mouth hitched up. “That’s what I thought. Did you have your boyfriend beat up Marcie Millar?” “Marcie was beat up?” He pushed up from the doorway and positioned himself directly in front of me, sharp eyes boring into me. “Did you want to show her what happens when girls like her don’t keep their mouths shut? Did you think she deserved to get a little roughed up? I knew girls like Marcie when I went to school. They ask for it, don’t they? Was Marcie asking for it, Nora? Someone beat her up pretty bad Wednesday night, and I think you know more than you’re saying.” I was working hard to suppress my thoughts, afraid they might somehow show on my face. Maybe it was a coincidence that on the same night I complained to Patch about Marcie, she took a beating. Then again, maybe it wasn’t. “We’re going to need to talk to your boyfriend,” Detective Holstijic said. “He’s not my boyfriend. He’s my biology partner.” “Is he on his way here now?” I knew I should be up-front. But on further reflection, I could not accept that Patch would hurt Marcie. Marcie wasn’t the nicest person, and she’d acquired more than a handful of enemies. A few of those enemies might be capable of brutality, but Patch wasn’t one of them. Senseless beating wasn’t his style. “No,” I said. Detective Basso gave a stiff smile. “All dressed up for a Saturday night in?” “Something like that,” I said in the coldest tone I dared. Detective Holstijic pulled a small notepad out of his coat pocket, flipped it open, and clicked his pen. “We’re going to need his name and number.” Ten minutes after the detectives left, a black Jeep Commander rolled to the curb. Patch jogged through the rain to the porch, wearing dark jeans, boots, and a thermal gray T-shirt. “New car?” I asked after I opened the door. He gave me a mysterious smile. “I won it a couple nights ago off a game of pool.” “Someone bet their car ?” “He wasn’t happy about it. I’m trying to stay clear of dark alleys for the next little while.” “Did you hear about Marcie Millar?” I threw it out there, hoping the question would take him by surprise. “No. What’s up?” His answer came easily, and I decided it probably meant he was telling the truth. Unfortunately, when it came to telling lies, Patch didn’t strike me as an amateur. “Someone beat her up.” “A shame.” “Any idea who might have done it?” If Patch heard the concern in my voice, he didn’t show it. He leaned back against the porch railing and rubbed a hand thoughtfully across his jaw. “Nope.” I asked myself if I thought he was hiding something. But reading lies wasn’t a strong point of mine. I didn’t have a lot of experience. Typically I hung around people I trusted … typically. Patch parked the Jeep behind Bo’s Arcade. When we got to the front of the line, the cashier laid eyes first on Patch, then on me. Back and forth they went, trying to make a connection. “What’s up?” Patch said, and put three tens on the counter. The cashier trained his watchful stare on me. He’d noticed that I couldn’t stop staring at the moldy-green tattoos covering every available inch of skin on his forearms. He moved a wad of gum? tobacco? to the other side of his bottom lip and said, “You looking at something?” “I like your tat—,” I began. He bared pointed dog teeth. “I don’t think he likes me,” I whispered to Patch when we were a safe distance away. “Bo doesn’t like anybody.” “That’s Bo of Bo’s Arcade?” “That’s Bo Junior of Bo’s Arcade. Bo Senior died a few years ago.” “How?” I asked. “Bar brawl. Downstairs.” I felt an overwhelming desire to run back to the Jeep and peel out of the lot. “Are we safe?” I asked. Patch slanted a look sideways. “Angel.” “Just asking.” Downstairs, the pool hall looked exactly like it had the first night I’d come. Cinder-block walls painted black. Red felt pool tables at the center of the room. Poker tables scattered around the fringe. Low track lighting curving across the ceiling. The congested smell of cigar smoke clogging the air. Patch chose the table farthest from the stairs. He retrieved two 7UPs from the bar and popped their caps on the edge of the counter. “I’ve never played pool before,” I confessed. “Choose a cue.” He motioned to the rack of pool sticks mounted on the wall. I lifted one down and carried it back to the pool table. Patch wiped a hand down his mouth to erase a smile. “What?” I said. “Can’t hit a home run in pool.” I nodded. “No home runs. Got it.” His smiled stretched. “You’re holding your cue like a bat.” I looked down at my hands. He was right. I was holding it like a bat. “It feels comfortable this way.” He moved behind me, put his hands on my hips, and positioned me in front of the table. He slid his arms around me and took hold of the pool stick. “Like this,” he said, repositioning my right hand up several inches. “And … this,” he went on, taking my left hand and forming a circle with my thumb and index finger. Then he planted my left hand on the pool table, like a tripod. He pushed the tip of the pool stick through the circle and over the knuckle of my middle finger. “Bend at the waist.” I leaned into the pool table, with Patch’s breath warming my neck. He pulled back on the pool stick, and it glided through the circle. “Which ball do you want to hit?” he asked, referring to the triangle of balls arranged at the far end of the table. “The yellow one in front’s a good choice.” “Red’s my favorite color.” “Red it is.” Patch drew the stick back and forth through the circle, aiming at the cue ball, practicing my stroke. I squinted at the cue ball, then at the triangle of balls farther down the table. “You’re a tiny bit off,” I said. I felt him smile. “How much you want to bet?” “Five dollars.” I felt him give a soft shake of his head. “Your jacket.” “You want my jacket?” “I want it off.” My arm jerked forward, and the pool stick shot through my fingers, ramming the cue ball. In turn, the cue ball shot forward, impacted with the solid red, and shattered the triangle, balls ricocheting in all directions. “Okay,” I said, shucking off my jean jacket, “maybe I’m a little bit impressed.” Patch examined my silk-scarf-slash-halter. His eyes were as black as a midnight ocean, his expression contemplative. “Nice,” he said. Then he moved around the table, scrutinizing the layout of balls. “Five dollars says you can’t sink the blue striped one,” I said, selecting it purposely; it was shielded from the white cue ball by a mass of colorful balls. “I don’t want your money,” Patch said. Our eyes locked, and the tiniest dimple surfaced in his cheek. My internal temperature rose another degree. “What do you want?” I asked. Patch lowered his pool stick to the table, took one practice stroke, and drilled the cue ball. The momentum of the cue ball transferred to the solid green, then to the eight ball, and punched the striped blue into a pocket. I gave a nervous laugh and tried to cover it up by cracking my knuckles, a bad habit I never succumbed to. “Okay, maybe I’m more than a little impressed.” Patch was still bent over the table, and he looked up at me. The look warmed my skin. “We never agreed on a bet,” I said, resisting the urge to shift my weight. The pool stick felt a little slick in my hands, and I discreetly wiped a hand on my thigh. As if I wasn’t already sweating enough, Patch said, “You owe me. Someday I’ll come to collect.” I laughed, but it wasn’t quite on pitch. “You wish.” Footsteps barreled down the stairs across the room. A tall, stringy guy with a hawk nose and shaggy blue-black hair appeared at the bottom. He looked at Patch first, then shifted his gaze to me. A slow grin appeared, and he strode over and tipped back my 7UP, which I’d left on the rim of the pool table. “Excuse me, I believe that’s—,” I began. “You didn’t tell me she was so soft on the eyes,” he said to Patch, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He spoke with a heavy Irish accent. “I didn’t tell her how hard you are on them either,” Patch returned, his mouth at the relaxed stage just before a grin. The guy backed up against the pool table beside me and stuck his hand out sideways. “The name’s Rixon, love,” he told me. I reluctantly slid my hand into his. “Nora.” “Am I interrupting something here?” Rixon said, dividing an inquiring look between me and Patch. “No,” I said at the same time Patch said, “Yes.” Suddenly Rixon lunged playfully at Patch, and the two dropped to the floor, rolling and throwing punches. There was the sound of husky laughter, fists laying into flesh, and fabric tearing, and Patch’s bare back came into view. Two thick gashes ran the length of it. They started near his kidneys and ended at his shoulder blades, widening to form an upside-down V. The gashes were so grotesque I almost gasped in horror. “Aye, get off me!” Rixon bellowed. Patch swung off him, and as he got to his feet, his torn shirt fluttered open. He sloughed it off and tossed it into the trash can in the corner. “Give me your shirt,” he told Rixon. Rixon directed a wicked wink at me. “What do you think, Nora? Should we give him a shirt?” Patch made a playful lunge forward, and Rixon’s hands flew up to his shoulders. “Easy now,” he said, backing up. He peeled off his sweatshirt and tossed it at Patch, revealing a fitted white tee underneath. As Patch rolled the sweatshirt down over abs hard enough to put a flutter in my stomach, Rixon turned to me. “He told you how he got his nickname, didn’t he?” “Sorry?” “Before our good friend Patch here got mixed up in pool, the lad favored Irish bare-knuckle boxing. Wasn’t very good at it.” Rixon wagged his head. “Truth be told, he was downright pathetic. I spent most nights patching him up, and soon after, everyone started calling him Patch. Told him to give up boxing, but he wouldn’t listen.” Patch caught my eye and passed me a gold-medal bar-fight grin. The grin alone was scary enough, but under the rough exterior, it held a note of desire. More than a note, actually. A whole symphony of desire. Patch tipped his head at the stairs and held his hand out to me. “Let’s get out of here,” he said. “Where are we going?” I asked, my stomach tumbling to my knees. “You’ll see.” As we ascended the stairs, Rixon called out to me, “Good luck with that one, love!”