In Autumn's Wake Page 5

  She shrugs.

  “Who is that guy, and why did you lead me here at gunpoint? Crying out loud, you could’ve just asked!”

  “Lighten up.”

  “What?” I turn my entire body toward her. “What’s your deal?”

  “Lower your voice, please.” She glares. “Men have no right to yell at me.”

  “Oh, yeah? Well, women have no right to kidnap me!” I pull the truck away from the curb and head back to the bar, fingers and toes tingling as they start to thaw. She gets a steady side-eye for the first mile, the city lights igniting her young face. I should apologize.

  I should.

  It’s best to stay on the good side of an underhanded woman.

  “I didn’t mean to lose my cool.” I break the silence. “I’m … you know, I’m all worked up. I got adrenaline shooting out of my head, my heart’s hammering, half my body is a block of ice, and the other half is on fire. Plus I think I have to piss; only I can’t feel my dick.” My voice climbs as I make excuses. “I’ve got a cop on my back, blood on my hands, dead men in my dreams, my past eating me alive, and now some girl is screwing with my head. So, I’m sorry to sound like such a maniac all of a sudden. All right?”

  She reaches into the back to get my undershirt and flannel and asks me to lean forward, helping me into them. She buttons my shirt with no cares about being this close to me without her gun.

  “I know what you’re thinking, and I’m not afraid of you.” She looks into my eyes then down at the buttons, the air thick with her strawberry scent. “Saying that may sound crazy, seeing that you killed a man.” She puts her finger to my lips before I can object to her comment. “I’m not brushing that off, but you shouldn’t feel bad. That animal didn’t deserve to live.” She leans back in her seat. “For a few months I’ve thought of all the ways I could kill him myself, like a hit and run, a crack with a baseball bat, shooting him, and of course, poisoning, but I couldn’t find the right time or place. You beat me to it, so I owe you one.”

  “Poisoning? Hold on. What type of poison—”

  “You stepped in,” she cuts me off, “tried to stop him in the bar. I saw you sock him for what he said to your friend. Then you lost control over his comment about wanting to rape your other friend. You defended three people tonight.” She repositions the heater vents, one on my chest, the other on my thighs. “When he forced me outside, I thought it was finally going to happen. Tonight was my best shot at taking him out. A high-crime neighborhood, dark alley, plenty of drunks and homeless in the area, and by the marks on his face, he’d been a fight. Perfect. It could’ve been anyone.”

  I gaze straight ahead at the wintery road. Snow atop my dark hair melts, dripping down the side of my face. She wipes it away and whisks the rest off my head before it drips.

  “He stole a woman’s car, and I got it back. That’s why he came after me. Now please, don’t ask any more questions.”

  “Nuh-uh, there has to be more to it than that. You don’t think about poisoning a guy for stealing a car.”

  “No more questions.” She takes her cell out of her coat pocket, quickly snapping my photo.

  “Erase that.”

  She starts to type. A text? Twitter? Facebook? I don’t know what.

  “I still think this is a setup. Are you sending that to the cops? Don’t do it. I swear it won’t end well for you if you rat me out.”

  “It’s masturbation material,” she says in her pretty voice, still typing away.

  “Masturba—What? Be serious, don’t send that photo to anyone.”

  “How tall are you?”

  “Six one … wait. Stop it.”

  “Dylan Marzniak: black hair, ‘to die for’ gray eyes, and pulpy-pudding lips.”

  “What kind of lips?”

  “Foghorn voice.”

  “Foghorn? I smoke a lot, but … oh, screw you.” I pull my coat off the floor and dig for my cigarettes, lighting one up to relax. The smoke floats away and hangs low like a storm cloud over my face. “This is crap.” I point the cigarette at her. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Two identical tats on his back.”

  I knock the cell out of her hand. It bounces off the glove compartment and lands back in her lap. She picks it up and continues. “Anger issues, possibly suffering from depression.”

  “You’re wrong. Erase that.” I wave my hand. “Erase all of it.”

  “Full dark eyebrows. Scar above the one on the left. Nice clothes. Brawny. Enormous brain.”

  “That”—I tap her phone—“that you can keep. I know I’m smart.”

  “Doesn’t understand brain means penis.” She tips her head to the side as she types. “Oversized feet. Broad shoulders. Naïve about women.”

  “Funny. Real funny.” I can’t hide the scorn in my voice, but deep down I’m also enjoying this. My enormous brain is on her list.

  Her petite fingers run up my leg and squeeze my thigh. She rolls the bottom edge of my boxers between her thumb and forefinger, netting a rare smile from me. Wicked thoughts of turning the tables and making her strip at gunpoint race through my head. Bad timing? Is it sick to discard a body and desire a girl on the same night? I don’t know. I’m a guy. It doesn’t take long for my brain to switch from angst at the bar, to anxiety about a gun pointed at my head, to wanting to get laid.

  “Who are Jake and Heather?” she asks, putting her cell away.

  “Aaaaand thank you, thanks for bringing me back to reality.”

  “What? Bad question?”

  “What’s the list for?” I change the subject.

  “It’s good to have profiles of the men I meet, just in case.” She crosses her legs and swings her foot.

  “In case what, you wanna frame me? If that’s what you mean, then go ahead and give the info to Officer Ed Dorazio. He’s up in District D.”

  “The cop from the alley? He was outside his district tonight.”

  “No, he wasn’t. What do you know about the district boundaries? Who are you? And how do you know about that house in Lakeside? You don’t dress like you’re from there. Bet you’re a cop. I should’ve asked you that earlier, a dirty cop like Ed.”

  She laughs and pats my leg.

  “Are you? Are you a cop?”

  “Nope.” She shakes her head.

  “Better not be.” I ease into the brakes, creeping to a stop at a red light.

  She lifts her foot onto the edge of the seat, untying and retying her tall winter boot. “I’m not a cop,” she says. She looks at the light, waiting for it to change, rubbing the “A” ring on her pinkie finger. I’m more confused about her now than when we left the bar. Fascinated, too.

  “You want a ride home?” I ask.

  “No, it’s over. Drive me back to the bar. I can get home from there.”

  “What’s over?”

  She looks out her window, her long hair flowing down her back, turning green with the changing light. I pull forward and make the final turn toward the bar, parking a block away to give us some time to talk.

  She applies a fresh coat of lipstick as I finish my smoke and get dressed.

  “You can’t keep my gun. I gave it to you only so you could grow your balls back.” She puts the lipstick away and holds out her hand. “Give it back, please.” I pass it to her, and she hides it in her coat pocket.

  She puts on her leather gloves and grips her collar to prepare for the cold. We step out and walk side by side, the unkind wind blowing pieces of trash down the sidewalk. I button up my coat, having so many questions, but incapable of asking even one. She’s by far the most interesting and the most puzzling girl I’ve met this year. Since Heather, I haven’t been this drawn to anyone. I can’t just let her slip away.

  “What’s your name?” I ask.

  “I don’t give my name out to strangers.”

  I laugh. “But you have my name, you saw me ditch a body, and you had me strip down to practical
ly nothing so you could molest me with your gun. I wouldn’t necessarily call us strangers.”

  “You haven’t earned it.”

  I catch her arm and bring her close to my chest. She entices me with a quick flutter of her long eyelashes, but her words deny that she wants anything more. “That grip is an awful lot like the grip of a man who died tonight. And if what you think you saw is true, he died by my hands, not yours. Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

  I lick my lips, and she copies the action. “My grip will make you ache in very different ways than his.” I move her bangs to the side of her pale face, trailing a finger down her cheek to her narrow jawline. We gaze at one another under the flashing Marzniak’s Bar sign, our lips tight, bodies swaying, her knees falling into me—clear signs that we both want this.

  Her hands settle on my chest. I hook my hand behind her slender neck and lean in to meet her lips. The first light touch parts her mouth, the second trace is gentle and breathy, and when I advance to give her a solid kiss, she’s gone.

  I open my eyes and watch her shuffle away on the icy sidewalk. “I didn’t say you could kiss me,” she says.

  “You didn’t have to. I felt it.”

  “Thanks for almost giving me your germs,” she calls out.

  “I’ll give you a lot more than my germs. Come back anytime. I’m always here.”

  I place my hands in my pockets and rock on the balls of my feet, catching Sean and Riley gawking shamelessly out the front window of the bar.

  The girl looks over her shoulder and stops. “You’re not following me?” she asks.

  “Nope.”

  “Okay.” She walks slower, looking back one last time before I head inside.

  “What the hell happened?” Sean catches me at the door. “Are you all right?”

  “It was surreal, Sean. I swear someone slipped drugs in my beer earlier. I can’t even begin to explain it.” I unzip my coat but remember the bloody shirt. I zip back up and take a seat at the table where our night first began, now glad that it’s Riley by Sean’s side and not some random girl I can’t talk in front of.

  “Did she kill you?” Riley asks, immediately laughing at her stupidity.

  “Are you drunk? Does it look like I’m dead?”

  “Tipsy, not drunk,” she says. “Hey, look, that girl’s back.”

  I turn my head toward the door. “No shit.”

  Riley brushes her hands together. “It’s so exciting to have someone new to talk to. Call her over here.”

  I spot her staring at me from the doorway. She snaps another photo, using a flash in the dark bar.

  “What the hell?” Sean blinks repeatedly.

  “It’s masturbation material,” I tell him.

  He grins and pours me a drink from their pitcher, clinks my glass and chugs. “To masturbation.” He wipes his mouth and checks her out. “Why isn’t she coming in?”

  Riley pats my hand. “Dylan, go invite her to our table.”

  “She’ll come over when she’s ready.”

  The mystery girl and I hold our stares. She smoothes a hand over her hair. I slide my finger up and down my mug.

  She’s not carrying a purse or even a small bag. Everything on her, including the pistol, is in her coat. She takes a pen and mini notepad from her pocket and starts to write while examining me from head to toe, stopping every so often to think. She taps her lips with the pen, moving out of the doorway only when a customer enters.

  “Is she drawing a picture?” Riley asks.

  “At this point, that wouldn’t surprise me.” I recline and rest my foot on my thigh, cradling my beer. “She’s odd. But cool.”

  She tears the paper out of the notepad and makes a beeline for our table. I try to entice her, rubbing my finger across my lips. She doesn’t notice. I try again, kicking out the chair next to me in a gesture to join us.

  “I’ve never met an intelligent man,” she says with a dry smile, placing a folded slip of paper in front of me. “Most of you have pea-sized brains.”

  “Earlier you said my brain was enormous.”

  Sean and Riley laugh.

  “See, that’s what I mean. Hopefully, you’re smarter than the rest.” She disregards Sean and smiles at Riley. “Your hair is fabulous. I wish I had spiral curls like yours.”

  “Thanks!” Riley beams.

  She turns away and hurries through the door to the city streets, leaving without saying goodbye.

  Riley swings her hair, flaunting her dark locks. “I like her.”

  “Why am I not surprised? You like anyone who pays attention to you.” I tuck the paper into my pocket. “I’ll be back.”

  “Wait. What does that say?” Sean asks.

  “I’ll tell you later.” I take a swig of beer and head into the men’s room, opening the note straightaway. My eyes snap shut before I can read the first line, hearing that one ominous song that follows me everywhere, playing in the background of the bar.

  “It’s not December,” I whisper. “Why are you hounding me?” I pull the door open and stick my head out. “Tim!” My bartender turns around. “Take that off.”

  “What?”

  “That ‘Long December’ song!”

  He looks up at the television and grabs the remote, clicking the channel button. He tries again, but the video keeps playing. “Batteries must be dead.”

  “Why is it on?” I walk out. “Why? Why is that song playing?”

  “90s Nation is on MTV Classic,” he says.

  I walk behind the bar and yank the plug out of the wall.

  “Dude, what’s up?” he asks. “I got some weed if you wanna unwind.”

  I snap my wrist at him on the way back to the men’s room, slam the door and throw the lock for privacy. That one lyric that was coming up is unbearable to listen to, the one about not remembering the last thing that someone said before leaving. It takes me back to when Heather got out of my truck that night. I can’t remember what she said. I can’t remember if I told her that I loved her. I can’t remember.

  I take a deep breath and stare at the note in my shaky hand, a film over my eyes, the world smothered in a gray haze.

  I’m just about as tall as he

  I must tell the world

  That I’ve found my tree

  Branches stark in winter’s night

  Roots embrace my body tight

  Evaded kiss outside the bar

  Left amid the glittering stars

  * * *

  This is my number, babe.

  Call me if you figure it out.

  7

  After an hour in the bar trying to decipher her note, I came up with nothing. It’s a goofy poem about me, and trees, and stars, and ditching my kiss. Women are impossible to figure out, always complicating life with cryptic messages. I’m baffled by it because I’m drunk, or more likely because I’m not a poet. What stars? It’s been cloudy for months. And what does she mean that she found her tree? That line is a trigger as much as the December song by Counting Crows. Trees, trees, trees.

  She doesn’t know an old maple once stood in Heather’s yard where we’d kiss on sticky summer nights. The image of Heather under its outstretched limbs is still clear as day, blonde hair flat from the humidity, sun-tanned cheeks full of life. I’d run my finger down her low-cut tank and wipe droplets of sweat from her cleavage. Remembering those moments has turned me soft, into less of a man. But should I be ashamed of my weak heart? Or embarrassed that I loved her?

  I’m not.

  This crazy night has made me ache to see Heather’s suicide note. I should laugh at the whole scenario. Heather left a note I can’t read, and this mystery girl gave me one I can’t figure out how to read. I’m antsy and losing my mind over the dueling aspects of the two letters. They’ve led me here, leaning against my truck across the street from Heather’s parents’ house at two in the morning—a cig in one hand, the girl’s note in the other, with S
ean and Riley making out in my passenger seat.

  I didn’t pick up a distraction for the night to keep me from coming here, to silence the thoughts running through my head about Heather. Like how beautiful she was, how intelligent and kind, and whether the new girl even stands a chance after what I’ve been through.

  I should toss the note, go home and get some sleep. I thought one cigarette, just one and I’d leave, then two cigarettes, just two. Now number three is between my lips. The longer I’m here, the closer I am to making my second mistake of the night—breaking in. And it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve crept inside their house in the middle of the night to search for the note, or long ago, to be with Heather.

  Her college friends used to tease her for living at home with mommy and daddy, wanting her to get an apartment with them. Heather said it was a total waste of money, considering campus is only a few blocks away, a five-minute walk. Her practical side is another reason why I loved her.

  “Right here? Now?” Riley giggles.

  “You know how long this takes him.” Sean’s breathless and desperate. “Slip off your panties and move over so I can get out of my jeans.”

  They’re drunk, too, but I’m in better shape than them, which makes me the designated driver. It’s not a good combination—the alcohol, the truck, the icy conditions—I know it’s dumb, but my excuse is that it’s a short drive, only two miles from the bar to my place on the West Side. Three miles if you count the fact that I was sidetracked and ended up here in Roosevelt Park.

  I knock on the window and hold up my keys, certain Sean’s hands are under Riley’s sweater by now.

  The door swings open. “You really doing this again?” He snatches the rattling keys.

  “Text me if you see any lights come on. And drive my truck home if I get arrested,” I whisper.

  “If you get caught you’ll be dead, not arrested. Her mom will shoot you if she finds you in her house.”

  “Can you help me out, or not?”

  “Yeah, fine.” He sounds disappointed. “Where you headed?”

  I drop my cigarette and smother it under my boot, exhaling a smoky breath toward him. “Her dad’s office.”